Taking the book, he opened it at random, mechanically sinking at her feet.Taking the book, he opened it at random,mechanically sinking at her feet.
Taking the book, he opened it at random, mechanically sinking at her feet.Taking the book, he opened it at random,mechanically sinking at her feet.
Lower fell the princess' hand until it touched the reader's head; touched and lingered. Before the fool's eyes the letters of the book became blurred and then faded away. Doubt, misgiving, fear, vanished on the moment. The flower she had given him seemed to burn on his heart. He forgot the decree of the king; her equivocation; the unanswered question. Passionately he thrust his hand into his doublet.
"The rose and love are one," he cried. "The rose is—"
"Pardon me, Madam," said a voice, and Jacqueline, clear-eyed, calm, stood before them; "the fan was not in the king's ante-chamber, or I should have been here sooner. I trust you have not been put out for want of it?"
"Not at all, Jacqueline," returned her mistress, with a natural, tranquil movement, "although"—sharply—"you were gone longer than you should have been!"
Proficient as a poet, bold as a soldier, adroit as a statesman, the king was, nevertheless, most fitted for the convivial role of host, and no part that he played in his varied repertoire afforded such opportunity for the nice display of his unusual talents. History hath sneered at his rhymes as flat, stale and unprofitable; upon the bloody field he had been defeated and subsequently imprisoned; clever in diplomacy, the sagacity of his opponent, Charles, had in truth overmatched him; yet as the ostentatious Boniface, in grand bib and tucker, prodigal in joviality and good-fellowship, his reputation rests without a flaw.
In anticipation of the arrival of the duke and his suite, the monarch had ordered a series of festivities and entertainments such as would gratify his desire for pageantry and display, and at the same time do honor to a guest who was to espouse one of France's fairest wards. To the castle repaired tailors, embroiderers and goldsmiths to make and devise garments for knights, ladies, lords and esquires and for the trapping, decking and adorning of coursers, jennets and palfries. Bales of silks and satins had been long since conveyed thither from distant Paris, in anticipation of the coming marriage; and the old Norman castle that had once resounded with the clashing of arms, the snap of the cross-bow and the clang of the catapult now echoed with the merry stir and flurry of peace; a bee-hive of activity wherein were no drones; marshal, grand master, chancellor and grand chamberlain preparing for mysteries and hunting parties; dowagers, matrons and maids making ready for balls and other pastimes.
With this new influx of population to the pleasure palace came a plentiful sprinkling of wayside minstrels, jugglers, mountebanks, dulcimer and lute players, street poets who sang the praises of some fair cobbleress or pretty sausage girl; scamps of students from the Paris haunts of vice, loose fellows who conned the classical poets by day and took a purse by night; dancers, dwarfs, and merry men all, not averse to—
"Haunch and ham, and cheek and chineWhile they gurgled their throats with right good wine."
Here sauntered a wit-cracker, a peacock feather in his hand, arm-in-arm with an impoverished "banquet beagle," or "feast hound;" there passed a jack in green, a bladder under his arm and a tankard at his belt, with which latter he begged that sort of alms that flows from a spigot. As vagrant followers hover on the verge of a camp, or watchful vultures circle around their prey, so these lower parasites (distinct from the other well-born, more aristocratic genus of smell-feast) prowled vigilantly without the castle walls and beyond the limits of the royal pleasure grounds, finding occasional employment from lackey, valet or equerry, who, imitating their betters, amused themselves betimes with some low buffoon or vulgar clown and rewarded him for his gross stories and antics with a crust and a cup.
Faith, in those thrice happy days, every henchman could whistle to him his shabby poet, and every ostler hold court in the stable, with avisdase, or ass face, to keep the audience in a roar, and a nimble-footed trull to set them into ecstasies. But woe betide the honest wayfarer who strolled beyond the orderly precincts of the king's walls after dusk; for if some street coxcomb was too drunk to rob him, or a ribald Latin scholar saw him not, he surely ran into a nest of pavement tumblers or cellar poets who forthwith stripped him and turned him loose in the all-insufficient garb of nature.
A fantastic, waggish crew—yet Francis minded them not, so long as they observed sufficient etiquette to keep their distance from his royal person and immediate following. This nice decorum, however, be it said, was an unwritten law with these waifs and scatterlings, knowing the merry monarch who tolerated them afar would feel no compunction at hanging them severally, or in squads, from the convenient branches of the trees surrounding the castle, should the humor seize him that such summary chastisement were best for their morals and the welfare of the community. Thus, though bold, were they also shy, drinking humbly from a black-jack quart in the kitchen and vanishing docilely enough when the sovereign cook bid them be gone with warm words or by flinging over them ladles of hot soup.
One bright morning, like rabbits peeping from their holes when they hear the footfall of the hunter, these field ramblers and wayside peregrinators were all agog, emerging from grassy cover and thicket retreat, to gaze open-mouthed after a gay cavalcade that issued from the castle gate, and rode southward with waving banner and piercing trumpet note.
"The king, knaves!" cried a grimy estray with bells upon his person that jingled like those of a Jewish high priest, to a group of players and gamesters. "Already my mouth waters at the thoughts of the wedding feast, and the scraps and bones that will be thrown away. There I warrant you we'll all find hearty cheer."
"Why are fools ever welcome at a wedding?" asked a singing scholar.
"Because there are two in the ceremony, and the rest make the chorus," answered a philandering mime.
"And our merry monarch goeth down the road to meet one of the two," said a close-cropped rogue.
"Well, he's a brave knight to come so far to yield himself captive—to a woman," returned the student. "As Horace saith—"
"Thou calumniator! shrimp of a man!" exclaimed a dark-browed drab dressed like a gipsy, seizing the scholar's short doublet. "An I get at you—"
"Take the garment, you harridan, not the man," he retorted, slipping deftly out of the jerkin and dancing away to a safe distance.
"Ha! there's wedded bliss for you!" laughed a man in Franciscan attire, a rough rascal disguised as one of those priests called "God's fools" or "Christ's fools." "A week ago, when I married them, they were billing and cooing. But to your holes, children! When the king returns he would not have his guest gaze upon such scarecrows and trollops. Disperse, and Beelzebub take you!" And as the group scattered the sound of beating horses' hoofs died away in the distance.
Francis was unusually good-humored that day. Apprised by a herald that the duke and his followers were nearing the castle, he had sent the messenger back announcing a trysting-place, and now rode forth to meet his guest and escort him with honor to the castle. Upon a noble steed, black as night, the monarch sat; the saddle and trappings crimson in color; the stirrup and bit, of gold; a jaunty plume of white ostrich feathers waving above the jetty mane. The costume of the king's stalwart figure displayed a splendid suit of plate armor, enriched with chased work and ornament in gold, his appearance in keeping with his character of monarch and knight who sought to revive the spirit of chivalry at a period when the practical modern tendencies seriously threatened to undermine the practices and traditions of a once-exalted, but now fast-failing, institution for the regulation of morals and conduct.
By his side, less radiant only in comparison with the august monarch, rode the rank and quality of the realm, with silver and spangles, and fluttering plumes, scabbards gleaming with jewels, and girdles adorned with rich settings. Furiously galloping behind came an attenuated snow-white charger, bearing the hunchback. A bladder dangling over his shoulder, his bagpipe hanging from his waist, Triboulet bobbed frantically up and down, clinging desperately to the saddle or winding his legs about the charger's neck to preserve his equilibrium.
"You would better jog along more quietly, fool," observed a courtier, warningly, "or you will suffer for it."
"Alas, sir," replied Triboulet, "I stick my spurs into my horse to keep him quiet, but the more I prick him the more unruly I find the obstinate beast."
The king, who heard, laughed, and the dwarf's heart immediately expanded, auguring he should soon be restored to the monarch's favor; for since the night the buffoon had failed to answer the duke's jester in Fools' hall Francis had received Triboulet's advances and small pleasantries with terrifying coldness. In fact, the dwarf had never passed such an uncomfortable period during his career, save on one memorable occasion when a band of mischievous pages had set upon him, carried him to the scaffold and nailed his enormous ears to the beam. Now, reassured, burning with delight, the jester spurred presumptuously forward, no longer feeling bound to lag in the rear.
"Go back!" cried an angry knight. "I can not bear a fool on my right."
Triboulet reined in his horse, but pushed ahead on the other side of the rider who had spoken.
"I can bear it very well," he retorted and found his proud reward in the company's laughter. The remark, moreover, passed from lip to lip to the king, and the misshapen jester felt his little cup of happiness filled once more to the brim; his old prestige seemed coming back to him; holding his position in the road, he gazed disdainfully at the disgruntled knight, and the other returned the look with one of hearty ill-will, muttering an imprecation and warning just above his breath.
"Sire," called out Triboulet, loudly, now above fearing courtier, knight or any high official of the realm, "the Count de Piseione says he will beat me to death."
"If he does," good-naturedly answered the king, "I will hang him quarter of an hour afterward."
"Please, your Majesty, hang him quarter of an hour before."
Thus right pleasantly, with quip and jest, and many a smart sally, did the monarch and his retinue draw near the meeting spot, where at a fork of the road, beneath the shade of overhanging branches, were already assembled a goodly group of soldiers. Beyond them, at a respectful distance, stood many beasts of burden, heavily laden, the great packs promising stores of rare and costly gifts. At the head of the troopers was a thick-set man, with broad shoulders and brawny frame, mounted on a powerful gray horse. This leader, whom the approaching company surmised to be the duke, sat motionless as a statue, gazing steadfastly at the shining armor and gallant figure of the king who spurred to him, a friendly greeting on his lips. Then, lightly springing to earth and throwing his bridle to one of his troop, the foreign noble approached the royal horseman on foot, and, bending his head, knelt before him, respectfully kissing his hand.
Grim, silent, with hardened faces, the duke's men regarded the scene, their dusty attire (albeit rich enough beneath the marks of travel), sun-burned visages and stolid manner in marked contrast with the bearing and aspect of the king's gay following. One of the alien troop pulled a red mustachio fiercely and eyed a blithe popinjay of the court with quizzical superiority; the others remained, stock-still, but observant.
"I see you are punctual and waiting, noble sir!" said the monarch gaily when the initial formalities had been complied with. "But that is no more than should be expected from—an impatient bridegroom." Then, gazing curiously, yet with penetrating look, on the features of his guest, who now had arisen: "You appear slightly older than I expected from the letter of our dear friend and brother, the emperor."
And truly the duke's appearance was that of a man more nearly five and thirty than five and twenty; his face was brown from exposure and upon his brow the scar of an old sword wound; yet a fearless, dashing countenance; an eye that could kindle to headlong passion, and a thick-set neck and heavy jaw that bespoke the foeman who would battle to the last breath.
"Older, Sire?" he replied with composure. "That must needs be, since living in the saddle ages a man."
"Truly," returned the monarch, instinctively laying his hand upon his sword. "The clash of arms, the thunder of hoofs, the waving banners—yes, Glory is a seductive mistress who robs us of our youth. Have I not wooed her and found—gray hairs? Who shall give me back those days?"
"History, your Majesty, shall give them to posterity," answered the duke.
"Even those we lost to Charles?" muttered the king, a shadow passing over his countenance.
"Glory, Sire, is a mistress sometimes fickle in her favors."
"And yet we live but for—" He broke off abruptly, and with the eye of a trained commander surveyed the duke's men. "Daredevils; daredevils, all!" he muttered.
"Rough-looking fellows, Sire!" apologized the duke, "but tried and faithful soldiers. Somewhat dusty and road-worn." And his eyes turned meaningly to the king's suite; the flashing girdles of silver, the shining hilts, the gorgeous cloaks and even the adornment of ribbons.
"Nay," said Francis meditatively, "on a rough journey I would fain have these fire-eaters at my back. They look as though they could cut and hew."
"Moderately well, your Majesty," answered the duke with modesty.
"Will you mount, noble sir, and ride with me? Yonder is the castle, and in the castle is a certain fair lady whom you, no doubt, fain would see."
Long gazed the Duke of Friedwald at the distant venerable pile of stone; the majestic turrets and towers softly floating in a dreamy mist; the setting, fresh, woody, green. Long he looked at this inviting picture and then breathed deeply.
"Ah, Sire, I would the meeting were over," he remarked in a low voice.
"Why so, sir?" asked the king in surprise. "Do you fear you will not fancy the lady?"
"I fear she may not fancy me," retorted the nobleman, soberly. "Your own remark, Sire; that I appear older than you had expected?" he continued, gravely, significantly.
"A recommendation in your favor," laughed the monarch. "I ever prefer sober manhood to callow youth about me. The one is a prop, stanch, tried; the other a reed that bends this way and that, or breaks when you press it too hard."
"I should be lacking in gratitude were I not deeply appreciative of your Majesty's singular kindness," replied the duke, his face flushing with pleasure. "But your Majesty knows womankind—"
"Nay; I've studied them a little, but know them not," retorted Francis, dryly.
"And it is unlikely the lady may find me all her imagination has depicted," went on the nobleman, with palpable embarrassment. "My noble master, the emperor, hath—regarding me still as but a stripling from his own vantage point of age and wisdom—represented me a young man in his proposals. But though I'm younger than I look, and feel no older than I am, how young, or how old, shall I seem to the princess?"
"Young enough to be her husband; old enough for her to look up to," answered the monarch, reassuringly.
"Again," objected the duke, meditatively regarding the castle, "she may be expecting a handsome, debonair bridegroom, and when she sees me"—ruefully surveying himself—"what will she say?"
"What will she say? 'Yes' at the altar. Is it not enough?" Leaning back in his saddle, the king's face expressed the enjoyment he derived from the conversation with the backward and too conscientious soldier. Here was a groom whose wedding promised the court much amusement and satisfaction in those jovial days of jesting and merry-making.
"Come," resumed the king, encouragingly, "I'll warrant you more forward in battle."
"Battle!" said the duke. "That's another matter. To see your foeman's gleaming eyes!—but hers!— Should they express anger, disdain—"
"Let yours show but the greater wrath," advised the king, complaisantly. "In love, like cures like! Let me be your physician; I'll warrant you'll find me proficient."
"I've heard your Majesty hath practised deeply," returned the noble, readily, in spite of his perplexity.
"Deeply?" Francis lifted his brow. "I am but a superficial student; master only of the rudiments; no graduate of the college of love. Moreover, I've heard the letters you exchanged were—ahem!—well-enough writ. You pressed your suit warmly for one unlearned, a mere novice."
"Because I had seen her face, your Majesty; had it ever before me in the painted miniature. Any man"—with a rough eloquence and fervor that impressed the king with the depth of his passion—"could well worship at that fair shrine, but that she—"
"Forward, I beg you!" interrupted the king. "Womankind are but frail flesh, sir; easily molded; easily won. She is a woman; therefore, soft, yielding; yours for the asking. You are over valorous at a distance; too timorous near her. Approach her boldly, and, though she were Diana's self, I'll answer for your victory! Eh, Triboulet, are our ladies cold-hearted, callous, indifferent to merit?"
"Cold-hearted?" answered the dwarf, with a ludicrous expression of feigned rapture. "Were I to relate—but, no, my tongue is silent—discretion—your Majesty will understand—"
"Well," said the duke, "with encouragement from the best-favored scholar in the kingdom and the—ugliest, I should proceed with more confidence."
"Best-favored!" smirked the little monster. "Really, you flatter me."
"A whimsical fellow, Sire," vouchsafed the nobleman.
"When he is not tiresome," answered the monarch. "On, gentlemen!" And the cavalcade swept down the road toward the castle. Far behind, with cracking of whip, followed the mules and their drivers.
The rough Norman banqueting hall, with its massive rafters, frayed tapestries and rude adornment of bristling heads of savage boars, wide-spreading antlers and other trophies of the chase, had long since been replaced under the king's directions by an apartment more to the satisfaction of a monarch who was a zealous and lavish patron of the brilliant Italian school of painting, sculpture and architecture. Those barbarous decorations, celebrating the hunt, had been relegated to subterranean regions, the walls dismantled, and the room turned over to a corps of artists of such renown as Da Vinci, François Clouet, Jean Cousin and the half-mad Benvenuto Cellini.
Where formerly wild boars had snarled with wicked display of yellow tusks from the blackened plaster, now Cleopatra, in the full bloom of her mature charms, reclined with her stalwart Roman hero in tender dalliance. Where once the proud and stately head of the majestic stag had hung over door and panel, now classic nymphs bathed in a pellucid pool, and the only horns were those which adorned the head of him who, according to the story, dared gaze through the foliage, and was rewarded for his too curious interest by—that then common form of punishment—metamorphosis.
Overhead, vast transformation from the great ribbed beams of oak and barren interspaces, graceful Peri floated on snow-white clouds and roguish Cupids swam through the azure depths, to the edification of nondescript prodigies, who constituted the massive molding, or frame, to the decorative scene. The ancient fireplace, broad and deep, had given way to an ornate mantel of marble; the capacious tankard and rotund pewter pot of olden times, suggestive of mighty butts of honest beer, had been supplanted by goblets of silver and gold, covered with scroll work, arabesques or chiseled figures.
In this spacious hall, begilt, bemirrored, assembled, on the evening of the duke's arrival, Francis, his court and the guest of the occasion. From wide-spreading chandeliers, with their pendent, pear-shaped crystals, a thousand candles threw a flood of light upon the scene, as 'mid trumpet blast and softer strains of harmony, King Francis and good Queen Eleanor led the way to the royal table; and thereat, shortly after, at a signal from the monarch, the company seated themselves.
At the head of the board was the king; on his right, his lawful consort, pale, composed, saintly; on his left, the Countess d'Etampes, rosy, animated, free. Next to the favorite sat the "fairest among the learned and most learned among the fair," Marguerite, beloved sister of Francis, and her second husband, Henry d'Albret, King of Navarre; opposite, Henry the dauphin and his spouse, Catharine de Medici; not far removed, Diane de Poitiers, whose dark eyes Henry ever openly sought, while Catharine complacently talked affairs of state with the chancellor.
In the midst of this illustrious company, and further surrounded by a plentiful sprinkling of ruddy cardinals, fat bishops, constables, governors, marshals and ladies, more or less distinguished through birth or beauty, the Duke of Friedwald and the Princess Louise were a center of attraction for the wits whose somewhat free jests the license of the times permitted. At the foot of the royal table places had been provided for Marot, Caillette, Triboulet, Jacqueline and the duke's fool.
The heads and figures of the ladies of the court were for the most part fearfully and wonderfully bedecked. In some instances the horned-shaped head-dress had been followed by yet loftier steeples, "battlements to combat God with gold, silver and pearls; wherein the lances were great forked pins, and the arrows the little pins." With more simplicity, the Princess Louise wore her hair cased in a network of gold and jewels, and the austere French moralist who assailed the higher bristling ramparts of vanity would, perhaps, have borne in silence this more modest bastion of the flesh and the devil.
But the face beneath was a greater danger to those who hold that beauty is a menace to salvation; on her cheek hung the rosy banner of youth; in her eyes shone the bright arrows of conquest. And the duke, discarding his backwardness, as a soldier his cloak before battle, watched the hue that mantled her face, proffered his open breast to the shining lances of her gaze, and capitulated unconditionally before the smile of victory on her blood-red lips. With his great shoulders, his massive neck and broad, virile face, he seemed a Cyclops among pygmies in that gathering of slender courtiers and she but a flower by his side.
"I thought, Sire, your duke was timorous, bashful as a boy?" murmured the Countess d'Etampes to the king.
"He was—on the road!" answered the king thoughtfully.
"Then has he marvelously recovered his assurance."
"In love, Madam, as in battle, the zest grows with the fray," said Francis with meaning.
"And the duke is reputed a brave soldier. He looks very strong, as if—almost—he might succeed with any woman he were minded to carry off."
"To carry off!" laughed the monarch. "'Tis he, Madam, who will be bound in tethers! At heart he's shame-faced as a callow younker."
She wilfully shook her head. "No woman could keep him in leading-strings, your Majesty. There is something domineering, savage, crushing, in his hand. Look at it, on the table there. Is it not mighty as an iron gauntlet? What other man at the board has such a brutal hand? The strength in it makes me shudder. Will she not bend to it; kiss it?"
With amused superiority Francis regarded his fair neighbor on the left. "Women, Madam, are but hasty judges of men," he said, dryly, "and then 'tis fancy more than reason which governs their verdict. If the duke should seem over-confident, 'tis to hide a certain modesty, and not to appear out of confidence in so large a company."
"And yet, Sire, at their first meeting he did not comport himself like one easily put out," persisted the favorite. "''Tis with a cold hand you welcome me, Princess,' he said, noticing her insensibility of manner. Then rising he gazed upon her long and deep, as a soldier might survey a battlefield. 'And yet,' said he, still holding her fingers, 'I'll warrant me warm blood could course through this little hand.' At that the color rose in her cheek; behold! the statue was touched with life and she looked at him as drawn against her will. 'If my hand be cold, my Lord,' she answered, courteously, 'it belies the character of your welcome.' Whereupon he laughed like one who has had a victory."
"Beshrew me," said the king, modifying his last observation, "if women are not all eyes and ears! I neither heard nor saw all that. A little constraint—a natural blush to punctuate their talk—the meeting seemed conventional enough. 'Tis through your own romantic heart you looked, Anne!"
Quicker circulated the goblets of silver, gold and crystal; faster babbled the pretty lips; brighter grew the eyes beneath the stupendous towers that crowned the heads of the court ladies. All talked at once without disturbing the king, who now whispered soft nothings in the ear of the countess. From the other tables in the hall arose a varying cadence of clatter and laughter, which increased with the noise and din of the king's own board; a clamor always just subservient to the deeper chorus of the royal party; an accompaniment, as it were, full yet unobtrusive, to the hubbub from the more exalted company. But the princely uproar growing louder, the grand-masters, grand-chamberlain, gentlemen of the chamber and lesser lights of the church were enabled to carol and make merry with less restraint. The pungent smell of roses permeated the hall, arising from a screen of shrubbery at one end of the room wherein sang a hundred silver-toned birds.
At the king's table Caillette recited a merry roundelay, and Triboulet roared out tale after tale, each more full-flavored than the one that went before it, flinging smart sayings at marriage, and drawing a ludicrous picture of the betrayed husband. Villot, a lily in his hand, which he regarded ever sentimentally, caroled the boisterous espousals of a yokel and a cinder-wench, while Marot and a bishop contended in a heated argument regarding the translation of a certain passage of Ovid's "Art of Love."
Singularly pale, unusually tranquil, the duke's fool furtively watched his master and the princess. In contrast to his composure, Jacqueline's merriment seemed the more unrestrained; she laughed like a witch; her hands flashed with pretty gestures, and she had so tossed her head, her hair floated around her, wild and disordered.
"Why are you so quiet?" she whispered to the duke's fool.
"Is there not enough merriment, mistress?" he answered, gravely.
"There can never be any to spare," she said. "And you would do well to remember your office."
"What do you mean?" he asked, absently.
"That you have many enemies; that you can not live at court with a jaundiced countenance. Heigh-ho! Alackaday! You should hie yourself back to the woods and barren wastes of Friedwald, Master Fool."
Her sparkling glance returned to the exhilarating scene. Well had the assemblage been called a court of love. Now soft eyes invited burning glances, and graceful heads swayed alluringly toward the handsome cavaliers who momentarily had found lodgment in hearts which, like palaces, had many ante-chambers. From hidden recesses, strains of music filled the room with tinkling passages of sensuous, but illusive, harmony; a dream of ardor, masked in the daintiness of a minuet.
Upon the back of the princess' chair rested one of the duke's hands; with the other he lifted his glass—a frail thing in fingers better adapted for a sword-hilt or massive battle mace.
"Drink, Princess," he said, bending over her, "to—our meeting!"
Her eyelids fluttered before his look; her breast rose a little. The scar on his brow held her gaze, as one fascinated, but she drew away slightly and mechanically sought the tiny golden goblet at her elbow. Dreamily, dreamily, sounded the rhythmical music; heavily, so heavily hung the perfume in the air! Full of mist seemed the hall; the king, the queen, the countess, all of the party, unreal, fanciful. The touch of the goblet chilled her lips and she put it down quickly.
"Is not the wine to your liking?" he asked, his hand tightening on her chair. "Perhaps it is too sour for your taste?"
"Nay; I thought it rather sweet," she answered. "Oh, I meant not that—"
"Itissweet wine, Princess," he said, setting down an empty glass. "Sweeter than our Austrian vintage. Not white and thin and watery, but red—red as blood—red as your heart's blood—or mine—"
Crash! from the hand of the duke's jester had fallen a goblet to the floor. The princess started, turned; for a moment their glances bridged the distance from where she sat, to the fools' end of the table; then hers slowly fell; slowly, and she passed a hand, whereon shone the king's ring, across her brow; looked up, as though once more to span infinity with her gaze, when her eyes fell short and met the duke's. Deliberately he lifted his filled glass.
"Red as your heart's blood—and mine—my love!" he repeated; and then stared sharply across the table at his jester.
Triboulet, swaggering in his chair, so high his feet could not touch the floor, surveyed the broken glass, the duke and the duke's fool. For some time his vigilant eyes had been covertly studying the unconscious foreign jester, noting sundry signs and symptoms. Nor had the princess' look when the goblet had fallen, been lost upon the misshapen buffoon; alert, wide-awake, his mind, quick to suspect, reached a sudden conclusion; a conclusion which by rapid process of reasoning became a conviction. Privileged to speak where others must need be silent, his profession that of prying subtlety, which spared neither rank nor power so that it raised a laugh, he felt no hesitation in publishing the information he had gleaned by his superior mental nimbleness.
"Ho! ho!" he bellowed, the better to attract attention to himself. "The duke sent his fool to amuse his betrothed and the fool hath lost his heart to his mistress."
The king left off his whispering, Catharine turned from the chancellor, Diane ceased furtively to regard Caillette, while the Queen of Navarre laughed nervously and murmured:
"Princess and jester! It will make another tale."
But Henry of Navarre looked gravely down. He, and Francis' queen—a passive spectator at the feast—and a bishop, whose interest lay in a truffled capon, alone followed not the direction of the duke's eyes. The fair favorite of the king clapped her hands, but the monarch frowned, not having forgotten that night in Fools' hall when the jester had appointed rogues to offices.
"What is this? A fool in love with the princess?" said the king, ominously.
"Even so, your Majesty," cried Triboulet. "But a moment ago Duke Robert did whisper to his bride-to-be, and the fool's hand trembled like a leaf and dropped his glass. Tra! la! la! What a situation! Holy Saint-Bagpipe! Here's a comedy in high life!"
"A comedy!" repeated the duke, and half-rose from his chair, regarding his fool with surprise and anger.
Now Triboulet roared. Had he not in the past attained his high position of favorite jester to the king by his very foolhardihood? And were not trusting lovers and all too-confiding husbands the legitimate butt of all jesting?
"Look at the fool," he went on exultantly. "Does any one doubt his guilt? He is silent; he can not speak!"
And, indeed, the foreign jester seemed momentarily disconcerted, although he strove to appear indifferent.
"A presumptuous knave!" muttered Francis, darkly. "He saved his neck once only by a trick."
"Oh, the duke would not mind, now, if you were to hang him, Sire," answered Triboulet, blithely.
"True!" smiled the king. "The question of breach of hospitality might not occur. What have you to say, fool?" he continued, turning to the object of the buffoon's insidious and malicious attack.
"Laugh!" whispered Jacqueline, furtively pressing the arm of the duke's fool. "Laugh, or—"
The touch and her words appeared to arouse him from his lethargy and the jester arose, but not before the princess, with flaming cheeks, but proud bearing, had cast a quick glance in his direction; a glance half-appealing, half-resentful. Idly the joculatrix regarded him, her hands upon the table playing with the glasses, her lips faintly repeating the words of a roundelay:
"For love is madness;While madness rules,Fools in loveRemain but fools!Sing hoddy-doddy,Noddy!Remain but fools!"
With the eyes of the company upon him, the duke's fool impassively studied the carven figure on his stick. If he felt fear of the king's anger, the resentment of his master, or the malice of the dwarf, his countenance now did not betray it. He had seemed about to speak, but did not.
"Well, rascal, well?" called out the king. "Do you think your wand will save you, sirrah?" he added impatiently.
"Why not, Sire?" tranquilly answered the jester.
The duke's face grew more and more ominous. Still the fool, looking up, did not quail, but met his master's glance freely, and those who observed noted it was the duke who first turned away, although his jaw was set and his great fist clenched. Swiftly the jester's gaze again sought the princess, but she had plucked a spray of blossoms from the table and was holding it to her lips, mindlessly biting the fragrant leaves; and those who followed the fool's glance saw in her but a picture of languid unconcern such as became a kinswoman of the king.
Almost imperceptibly the brow of theplaisantclouded, but recovering himself, he confronted the king with an enigmatic smile.
"Why not?" he repeated. "In the Court of Love is not the fool's wand greater than a king's miter or the pastoral staff of the Abbé de Lys? Besides, Sire," he added quickly, "as a fool takes it, in the Court of Love, not to love—is treason!"
"Good!" murmured the bishop, still eating. "Not to love is treason!"
"Who alone is the culprit? Whose heart alone is filled with umbrage, hatred, pique?"
"Triboulet! Triboulet, the traitor!" suddenly cried the countess, sprightly as a child.
"Yes; Triboulet, the traitor!" exclaimed the fool, pointing the wand of folly at the hunchback.
Even Francis' offended face relaxed. "Positively, I shall never hang this fellow," he said grimly to Marguerite.
"Before this tribunal of ladies whose beauty and learning he has outraged by his disaffection and spleen, I summon him for trial," continued the duke's jester. "Triboulet, arise! Illustrious ladies of the Court of Love, the offender is in your hands."
"A little monster!" spoke up Diane with a gesture of aversion, real or affected.
"He is certainly somewhat reprehensible," added the Queen of Navarre, whose tender heart ever inclined to the weaker side.
"An unconscionable rogue," murmured the bishop, complacently clasping his fat fingers before him.
"So he is already tried by the Church and the tribunal," went on theplaisantof the duke. "The Church hath excommunicated him and the Court of Love—"
"Will banish him!" exclaimed the countess mirthfully, regarding the captious monarch with mock defiance.
"Yes, banish him; turn him out," echoed Catharine, carelessly.
"But, your Majesty!" remonstrated the alarmed Triboulet, turning to the monarch whose favor he had that day enjoyed.
"Appeal not to me!" returned Francis, sternly. "Here Venus rules!" And he gallantly inclined to the countess.
"Venus at whom he scoffs!" broke in Jacqueline, shrilly, leaning back in her chair with her hands on her hips.
"You witch!—you sorceress!—it was you who"—he hissed with venomous glance.
"Hear him!" exclaimed the girl, lightly. "He calls me witch—sorceress—because, forsooth, I am a woman!"
"A woman—a devil"—muttered Triboulet between his closed teeth.
"And now," she cried, rising, impetuously, "he says that women are devils! What shall we do with him?"
"Pelt him out!" answered the countess. "Pelt him out!"
With peals of merriment and triumphant shouts, the court, of one accord, directed a fusillade of fruits, nuts and other viands at the head and person of the raging and hapless buffoon, the countess herself, apple in hand—Eve bent upon vengeance—leading in the assault. The other tables responded with a cross-fire, and heavier articles succeeded lighter, until after having endured the continuous attack for a few moments as best he might, the unlucky dwarf raised his arms above his head and fairly fled from the hall, leaving behind in his haste a bagpipe and his wooden sword.
"So may all traitors be punished!" said the bishop unctuously, as he reached for a dish of confections that had escaped the fair hands in search of ammunition.
"Well," laughed the Countess d'Etampes, "if we have the support of the Church—"
"I will confess you, myself, Madam," gallantly retorted the bishop.
"And all the Court of Love?" asked Marguerite.
"Ah, your Highness—all?—I am old—in need of rest—but with an assistant or two—"
"Assistant or two!" interrupted Catharine, imperiously. "Would the task then be so great?"
"Nay"—with gentle expostulation—"but you—members of the court—are many; not your sins."
"I suppose," whispered Jacqueline to the duke's fool, when the attention of the company was thus withdrawn from the jester's end of the table, "you think yourself in fine favor now?"
"Yes," he answered, absently; "thanks to your suggestion."
"My suggestion!" she repeated, scornfully. "I gave you none."
"Well, then, your crossing Triboulet."
"Oh, that," she replied, picking at a bunch of grapes, "was to defend my sex, not you."
"But your warning for me to laugh?"
"Why," she returned, demurely, "'twas to see you go more gallantly to your execution. And"—eating a grape—"that is reasonably certain to be your fate. You've only made a few more enemies to-night—the duke—the—"
"Name them not, fair Jacqueline," he retorted, indifferent.
"True; you'll soon learn for yourself," she answered sharply. "I think I should prefer to be in Triboulet's place to yours at present."
"Why," he said, with a strange laugh, "there's a day for the duke and a day for the fool."
Deliberately she turned from him and sang very softly:
"For love is madness;(A dunce on a stool!)A king in love,A king and a fool!Sing hoddy-doddy,Noddy!A king and a fool!"
The monarch bent over the countess; Diane and the dauphin exchanged messages with their eyes; Catharine smiled on Villot; the princess listened to her betrothed; and the jestress alone of all the ladies leaned back and sang, heart-free. But suddenly she again broke off and looked curiously at the duke'splaisant.
"Why did you not answer them with what was first in your mind?" she asked.
"What was that?" he said, starting.
"How can I tell?" she returned, studying him.
"You can tell a great deal," he replied.
"Sing hoddy-doddy,Noddy!The duke and the fool"—
she hummed, deigning no further words.
"Turn out these torch-bearers, human candlesticks, andvalets de chambre, and I'll get me to bed," commanded the duke, standing in the center of his room, and the trooper with the fierce red mustaches waved a swarm of pages, cup-bearers and attendants from the door and closed it. "How are the men quartered, Johann?"
"With all the creature comforts, my Lord," answered the soldier. "The king hath dressed them like popinjays; they drink overmuch, dice, and run after the maids, but otherwise are well-behaved."
"Drink; dice; run after the maids!" said the noble, gazing thoughtfully downward. "Hold them in check, Johann, as though we were in a campaign."
"Yes, my Lord," returned the man, staring impassively before him.
"And especially keep them from the kitchen wenches. There's more danger in thesefemmes de chambre, laundresses and scullery Cinderellas than in a column of glittering steel. Remember, no Court of Love in the scullery. Now go! Yet stay, Johann!" he added, suddenly. "This fool of ours is a bold fellow. Look to him well!"
Saluting respectfully, an expression of quick intelligence on his florid features, the trooper backed out of the room. With his hands behind him, his shoulders bent forward, the duke long pondered, his look, keen and discerning; his perspicacity clear, in spite of Francis' wine, or the intoxication of the princess' eyes. Although the noble's glance seemed bent on vacancy, it was himself as well as others he was studying; weighing the memorable events of the evening; recalling to mind every word with the princess; reviewing her features, the softening of her cold disdain; now, mentally distrustful, because she was a woman; again, confident he already dominated the citadel of her heart.
But a new element had entered into the field; an element unforeseen—the jester!—and, although not attaching great importance to this possible source of hazard in his plans for the future, the duke was too good a soldier to disregard any risk, however slight. In love and battle, every peril should be avoided; every vulnerable point made impregnable. Besides, the fool was audacious, foolhardy; his language of covert mockery and quick wit proved him an intelligent antagonist, who might become a desperate one.
"A woman and a fool," muttered the duke, striding with quick step across his chamber, "are two uncertain quantities. The one should be subjected; the other removed!"
Museful, he stood before the niche, wherein shone a cross of silver, set with amethysts and turquoise, his rugged face lighted by the uncertain flickering of the candles.
"Removed!" he repeated, contemplatively. "And she—"
The clear tinkling of a bell broke in upon his cogitation; a faint, musical sound that seemed at his very elbow. He wheeled about abruptly, saw nothing save the mysterious shadows of the curtains, the flickering lamps, the dark outline of the canopy of the great bed. Instinctively he knew he was not alone, and yet his gaze, rapidly sweeping the apartment, failed to perceive an intruder.
Again the tinkling, a low laugh, and, turning sharply toward an alcove from whence the sounds came, the duke, through the half-light and trailing, sombrous shadows of its entrance, perceived a figure in a chair. From a candle set in a spiked, enameled stick, a yellow glimmering, that came and went with the sputtering flame, rested upon an ironical face, a graceful figure in motley and a wand with the jester's head and the bell. Without rising, theplaisantquizzically regarded the surprised nobleman, who in spite of his self-control had stepped back involuntarily at the suddenness of the encounter.
"Good evening, my Lord," said the fool. "I am like the genii of the tale. You think of me, and I appear."
Regaining his composure at once, the king's guest bent his heavy brows over his deep-set eyes, and deliberately surveyed the fool.
"And now," went on the jester, gaily, "it is in your mind I am like as suddenly to—disappear! Am I at fault?"
"On the contrary, you are unusually clear-witted," was the answer.
"Oh, my Lord, you over-estimate my poor capacity!" returned the nobleman's unasked caller with a deprecatory gesture.
The hands of the other worked impatiently; his herculean figure blocked the doorway. "You are a merry fellow!" he observed. "It is to be regretted, but—confess you have brought it upon yourself?"
"What? My fate? Oh, yes!" And he indifferently regarded the wand and the wooden figure upon it, without moving from the chair.
"You have no fear?" questioned the duke, quietly.
"Fear? Why should I?"
Yawning, the fool stretched his arms, looking not at the nobleman, but beyond him, and, instinctively, the princess' betrothed peered over his shoulder in the semi-darkness behind, while his hand quickly sought his sword.
"Fie, most noble Duke!" exclaimed the jester. "We have no eavesdroppers or interlopers, believe me! We are entirely alone, you and I—master and fool. There; come no nearer, I beg!" As the nobleman menacingly moved toward him.
"Have you any argument to advance, Sir Fool, why I should not?" said the other, grimly, a gleam of amusement depicted on his broad face as he paused the while.
"An argument, sharp as a needle, somewhat longer!" replied the jester, touching his breast and drawing from between the folds of his doublet a shining hilt.
Harsh and loud laughed the king's guest. "You fool," he said, "you had your opportunity below there in the hall and missed it. You hesitated, went blindly another course, and now"—with ominous meaning—"you are here!"
Upon the stick a candle dripped, sputtered and went out; the jester bent forward and with the copper snuffer on the table near by deftly trimmed the remaining light.
"Only fools fight in darkness," he remarked, quietly, "and here is but one of them."
"You pit yourself and that—plaything!—against me?" asked the burly soldier, derisively.
"Have you hunted the wild boar, my Lord?" lightly answered the other. "How mighty it is! How savage! What tusks! You know the pastime? A quick step, a sure arm, an eye like lightning—presto! your boar lies on his back, with his feet in the air! You, my Lord, are the boar; big, clumsy, brutal! Shall we begin the sport? I promise to prick you with every rush."
The prospective bridegroom paused thoughtfully.
"There is some justice in what you say," he returned, his manner that of a man who has carefully weighed and considered a matter. "I confess to partiality for the thick of the fray, the brunt of the fight, where men press all around you."
"Assuredly, my Lord; for then the boar is in his element; no matter how he rushes, his tusks strike yielding flesh."
"Why should we fight at all—at present?" cautiously ventured the noble, with further hesitation. "Not that I doubt I could easily crush you"—extending his muscular arms—"but youmightprick me, and, just now, discretion may be the better part of valor. I—a duke, engaged to wed a princess, have much to lose; you, nothing! A fool's stroke might kill a king."
"Or a knave, my Lord!" added theplaisant.
"Or a knave, sirrah!" thundered the duke, the veins starting out on his forehead.
The jester half drew his dagger; his quiet confidence and glittering eye impressed even his antagonist, inured to scenes of violence and strife.
"Is it a truce, most noble Lord?" said the fool, significantly. "A truce wherein we may call black, black; and white, white! A truce which may be broken by either of us, with due warning to the other?"
Knitting his brow, the noble stood motionless, deeply pondering, his headlong passion evidently at combat with his judgment; then his face cleared, a hard, brusque laugh burst from his lips and he brought his fist violently down on the massive oak table near the door.
"So be it!" he assented, with a more open look.
"A truce—without any rushes from the boar?"
"Fool! Does not my word suffice?" contemptuously retorted the duke.
"Yes; for although you are—what you are—you have been a soldier, and would not break a truce."
"Such commendation from—my jester is, indeed, flattering!" satirically remarked the king's guest, seating himself in a great chair which brought him face to face with the fool and yet commanded the door, the intruder's only means of retreat.
"Pardon me, the duke's jester, you mean?"
"Yes; mine!"
"A distinction with a difference!" retorted the fool. "It is quite true I am the duke's jester; it is equally untrue I am yours. Therefore, we reach the conclusion that you and the duke are two different persons. Plainly, not being the duke, you are an impostor. Have you any fault to find with my reasoning?"
"On the contrary," answered the other, with no sign of anger or surprise, "your reasoning is all that could be desired. Why should I deny what you already know? I was aware, of course, that you knew, when I first learned his jester was in the castle. Frankly, I am not the duke—to you!"
"But with Francis and the court?" suggested the fool, uplifting his brows.
"I am the duke—and such remain! You understand?"
"Perfectly, my Lord," replied the jester, shrugging his shoulders. "But since I am not the king, nor one of the courtiers, whom, for the time being, have I the honor of addressing? But, perhaps, I am over-inquisitive."
"Not at all," said the other, with mocking ceremony. "You are a whimsical fellow; besides, I am taken with a man who stands near death without flinching. To tell you the truth, our truce is somewhat to my liking. There are few men who would have dared what you have to-night. And although you're only a fool—will you drink with me from this bottle on the table here? I'm tired of ceremonies of rank and would clink a glass in private with a merry fellow. What say you?"
And leaning over, he filled two large goblets with the rich beverage from a great flask placed on the stand for his convenience. His face lighted with gross conviviality, but behind his jovial, free manner, that of a trooper in his cups, gleamed a furtive, guarded look, as though he were studying and testing his man.
"I'm for a free life; some fighting; but snug walls around for companionship," he continued. "Look at my soldiers now; roistering, love-making! Charles? Francis? Not one of the troop would leave me for emperor or king! Not one but would follow me—where ambition leads!" Holding up the glass, he looked into the depths of the thick burgundy. "Why, a likely fellow like you should carry a gleaming blade, not a wooden sword. I know your duke—a man of lineage—a string of titles long as my arm—an underling of the emperor, while I"—closing his great jaw firmly—"owe allegiance to no man, or monarch, which is the same thing. Drink, lad; I'm pleased I did not kill you."
"And I," laughed theplaisant, "congratulate myself you are still alive—for the wine is excellent!"
"Still alive!" exclaimed the king's guest, boisterously, although a dark shadow crossed his glance.
"I'm scarred from head to foot, and my hide is as tough as—"
"A boar's?" tapping his chin with the fool's head on his wand.
"Ah, you will have your jest," retorted the host of the occasion, good-naturedly. "It's bred in the bone. A quality for a soldier. Next to courage is that fine sense of humor which makes a man abon camarade. Put down your graven image, lad; you were made to carry arms, not baubles. Put it down, I say, and touch glasses with Louis, of Pfalz-Urfeld."
"The bastard of Hochfels!" exclaimed the jester, fixedly regarding the man whose name was known throughout Europe for his reckless bravery, his personal resources and his indomitable pride or love of freedom and independence, which held him aloof from emperor or monarch, and made him peer and leader among the many intractable spirits of the Austrian country who had not yet bowed their necks to conquest; a soldier of many battles, whose thick-walled fortress, perched picturesquely in mid-air on a steep mountain top, established his security on all sides.
"The same, my friend of the motley," continued the other, not without complacency, observing the effect of his announcement on the jester.
"He who calls himself the free baron of Hochfels?" observed the fool, setting down the glass from which he had moderately partaken.
"Aye; a man of royal and peasant blood," harshly answered the free-booter. "Ambition, arrogance, are the kingly inheritance; strength, a constitution of iron, the low-born legacy. What think you of such an endowment?"
"You are far from your castle, my Lord of Hochfels," commented the jester, absently, unmindful of a question he felt not called upon to answer.
"And yet as safe as in my own mountain nest," retorted the free baron, or free-booter, indifferently. "Who would betray me? There is not a trooper of mine but would die for his master. You would not denounce me, because—but why enumerate the reasons? I hold you in the palm of my hand, and, when I close my fingers, there's the end of you."
"But where—allow me; the wine has a rare flavor," and he reached for the flask.
"Drink freely," returned the pretender; "it is the king's own, and you are my guest. You were about to ask—"
"Whence came the idea for this mad adventure?" said the jester, his eyes seemingly bent in admiration on the goblet he held; a half globe of crystal sustained by a golden Bacchus.
"Idea!" repeated the self-called baron, with a gesture of satisfaction. "It was more than an idea. It was an inspiration, born of that chance which points the way to greatness. The feat accomplished, all Europe will wonder at the wanton exploit. At first Francis will rage; then seeing me impregnably intrenched, will make the best of the marriage, especially as the groom is of royal blood. Next, an alliance with the French king against the emperor. Why not; was not Francis once ready to treat even with Solyman to defeat Charles, an overture which shocked Christendom? And while Charles' energies are bent to the task of protecting his country from the Turks, a new leader appears; a devil-may-care fellow—and then—and then—"
He broke off abruptly; stared before him, as though the fumes of wine were at last beginning to rise to his head; toyed with his glass and drank it quickly at a draft. "What an alluring will-o'-the-wisp is—to-morrow!" he muttered.
"An illusive hope that reconciles us with to-day," answered theplaisant.
"Illusive!" cried the other. "Only for poets, dreamers, fools!"
"And you, Sir Baron, are neither one nor the other," remarked the jester. "No philosopher, but a plain soldier, who chops heads—not logic. But the inspiration that caused you to embark upon this hot-brained, pretty enterprise?"
"Upon a spur of rock that overlooks the road through the mountain is set the Vulture's Nest, Sir Fool," began the adventurer in a voice at once confident and arrogant. "At least, so the time-honored fortress of Hochfels is disparagingly designated by the people. As the road is the only pass through the mountains, naturally we come more or less in contact with the people who go by our doors. Being thus forced, through the situation of our fortress, into the proximity of the traveling public, we have, from time to time, made such sorties as are practised by a beleaguered garrison, and have, in consequence, taken prisoners many traffickers and traders, whose goods and chattels were worthy of our attention as spoils of war. Generally, we have confined our operations to migratory merchants, who carry more of value and cause less trouble than the emperor's soldiers or the king's troopers, but occasionally we brush against one of the latter bands so that we may keep in practice in laying our blades to the grindstone, and also to show we are soldiers, not robbers."
"Which remains to be proved," murmured the attentive jester. "Your pardon, noble Lord"—as the other half-started from his chair—"let me fill your glass. 'Tis a pity to neglect such royal wine. Proceed with your story. Come we presently to the inspiration?"
"At once," answered the apparently appeased master of the fortress, wiping his lips. "One day our western outpost brought in a messenger, and, when we had stripped the knave, upon him we found a miniature and a letter from the princess to the duke. The latter was prettily writ, with here and there a rhyme, and moved me mightily. The eagle hath its mate, I thought, but the vulture of Hochfels is single, and this reflection, with the sight of the picture and that right, fair script, saddened me.
"And then, on a sudden, came the inspiration. Why not play a hand in this international marriage Charles and Francis were bringing about? I commanded the only road across the mountain; therefore, did command the situation. The emperor and the king should be but the wooden figures, and I would pull the strings to make them dance. The duke, your master, why should he be more than a name? The princess' letter told me she had never seen her betrothed. What easier than to redouble the sentries in the valley, make prisoners of the messengers, clap them in the fortress dungeons, read the missives, and then despatch them to their respective destinations by men of my own?"
"Then that was the reason why on my way through the mountains your knaves attacked me?" said the listener quickly.
"Exactly; to search you. How you slipped through their hands I know not." And he glanced at the other curiously.
"They were but poor rogues," answered the jester quickly.
"Certainly are you not one!" exclaimed the free baron, with a glance of approval at the slender figure of his antagonist. "Two of them paid for their carelessness. The others were so shamed, they told me some great knight had attacked them. A fool in motley!" he laughed. "No wonder the rogues hung their heads! But in deceiving me," he added thoughtfully, "they permitted their master to run into an unknown peril—his ignorance that a fool of the duke, or a fool wearing the emblem of the emperor, had gone to Francis' court."
"You were saying, Sir Free Baron, you intended to read the messages between the princess and the duke, and afterward to despatch them by messengers of your own?" interrupted theplaisant.
"Such were my plans. Moreover, I possessed a clerk—a knave who had killed an abbot and fled from the monastery—a man of poetry, wit and sentiment. Whenever the letters lacked for ardor, and the lovers had grown too timid, him I set to forge a postscript, or indite new missives, which the rogue did most prettily, having studied love-making under the monks. And thus, Sir Fool, I courted and won the princess—by proxy!"
"Of a certainty, your wooing was at least novel, Sir Knight of the Vulture's Nest," dryly observed the jester. "Although, had my master known the deception, you would, perhaps, have paid dearly for it."
"Your master, forsooth!" laughed the outlaw lord. "A puny scion of a worn-out ancestry! Such a woman as the princess wants a man of brawn and muscle; no weakling of the nursery."
"Well," said the fool, slowly, "you became intermediary between the princess and the duke, and the king and the emperor. But to come into the heart of France; to the king's very palace—did you not fear detection?"
"How?" retorted the other, raising his head and resting his eyes, bloodshot and heavy, on the fool's impassive features. "The road between the two monarchs is mine; no message can now pass. The emperor and the duke may wonder, but the way here is long, and"—with a smile—"I have ample time for the enterprise ere the alarm can be given."
"And you paved the way for your coming by altering the letters of the duke, or forging new ones?" suggested the listener.
"How else? A word added here and there; a post-script, or even a page! As for their highnesses' seals, any fool can break and mend a seal. In a week the duke will wonder at the princess' silence; in a fortnight he will become uneasy; in a month he will learn the cage has been left open and the bird hath flown. Then, too, shall the gates of the dungeon be set ajar, and the true, but tardy, messengers permitted to go their respective ways. Is it not a nice adventure? Am I not a fitter leader than your duke?"
"Undoubtedly," returned the jester. "He sits at home, while you are here in his stead. But what will the princess say when she learns?"
"Nothing. She loves me already."
The fool turned pale; the hand that held his glass, however, was firm, and he set the goblet down without a tremor.
"She may weep a little, but it will pass like a summer shower. Women are weak; women are yielding. Have I not reason to know?" he burst out. "I, a—"
Brusquely he arose from his chair, leaving the sentence uncompleted. Sternly he surveyed the jester.
"Why not take service with me?" he continued, abruptly. "Austria is ripe to revolt against the tyranny of the emperor. With the discontent in the Netherlands, the dissensions in Spain, Europe is like a field, cut up, awaiting new-comers."
He paused to allow the force of his words to appeal to the other's imagination. "What say you?" he continued. "Will you serve me?"
"The matter's worth thinking over," answered the fool, evasively.
"Well, take your time," said the king's guest, regarding him more sharply. "And now, as the candles are low and the flask is empty, you had better take your leave."
At this intimation that the other considered the interview ended, the fool started to his feet and deliberately made his way to the door opening into the corridor.
"Good-night!" he said, and was about to depart when the free baron held him with a word.
"Hold! Why have you not attempted to unmask me—before?"
Steadily the two looked at each other; the eyes of the elder man, cruel, deep, all-observing; those of the younger, steady, fearless, undismayed. Few of his troopers could withstand the sinister penetration of Louis of Hochfels' gaze, but on the jester it seemed to have no more effect than the casual glance of one of Francis' courtiers.
"You knew—and yet you made no sign?" continued the master of the fortress.
"Because I like a strong play and did not wish to spoil it—too soon!"
The questioner's brow fell; the lids half-veiled the dark, savage eyes, but the mouth relaxed. "Ah, you always have your answer," he returned with apparent cordiality. "Good-night—and, by the by, our truce is at an end."
"The truce—and the wine," said the jester, as with a ceremonious bow, he vanished amid the shadows in the hall.
Slowly the free baron closed the door and locked it; looked at the cross and at the bed, but made no motion toward either.
"He has already rejected my proposal," thought the self-styled duke. "Does he seek for higher rewards by betraying me? Or is it, then, Triboulet told the truth? Is he an aspiring lover of the princess? Or is he only faithful to his master? Why have I failed to read him? As though a film lay across his eyes, that index to a man's soul!"
Motionless the free baron stood, long pondering deeply, until upon the mantel the richly-chased clock began to strike musically, yet admonishingly. Whereupon he glanced at the cross; hesitated; then, noting the lateness of the hour, and with, perhaps, a mental reservation to retrieve his negligence on the morrow, he turned from the silver, bejeweled symbol and immediately sought the sensuous bodily enjoyment of a couch fit for a king or the pope himself.