Robert Louis Stevenson. The Night Of François Villon (№ 398101)

In Paris with the endless, tireless persistence, it was snowing. At times, the streets came the wind and then kicked up a tornado of snow; at times there came a lull, and then out of the darkness of the night sky in a silent circling felled countless major cereals. The poor folk poglyadyvaem from under wet brows, could only wonder, where does all this snow. Maitre Francois Villon, standing in the afternoon at the window of the tavern, has put forward such an assumption: whether it is pagan Jupiter sting geese on Olympus, whether it is shedding the Holy angels.