The dim rays of a candle glimmered within a cubical space, whereof the sides consisted of four stone walls, and a ceiling and floor of the same substantial material. For furnishings were provided a three-legged stool, a bundle of straw and—the tallow dip. One of the walls was pierced by a window, placed almost beyond the range of vision; the outlook limited by day to a bit of blue sky or a patch of verdant field, with the depressing suggestion of a barrier to this outer world, three feet in thickness, massively built of stone and mortar, hardened through the centuries. At night these pictures faded and the Egyptian darkness within became partly dispelled through the brave efforts of the small wick; or when this half-light failed, a far star without, struggling in the depths of the palpable obscure, appeared the sole relief.
But now the few inches of candle had only begun to eke out its brief period of transition and the solitary occupant of the cell could for some time find such poor solace as lay in the companionship of the tiny yellow flame. With his arms behind him, the duke's fool moved as best he might to and fro within the narrow confines of his jail; the events which had led to his incarceration were so recent he had hardly yet brought himself to realize their full significance. Neither Francis' anger nor the free baron's covert satisfaction during the scene following their abrupt appearance in the bower of roses had greatly weighed upon him; but not so the attitude of the princess.
How vividly all the details stood out in his brain! The sudden transitions of her manner; her seeming interest in his passionate words; her eyes, friendly, tender, as he had once known them; then portentous silence, frozen disdain. What latent energy in the free baron's look had invested her words with his spirit? Had the adduction of his mind compelled hers to his bidding, or had she but spoken from herself? Into the marble-like pallor of her face a faint flush had seemed to insinuate itself, but the words had dropped easily from her lips: "Are all the fools of your country so presumptuous, my Lord?"
Above the other distinctive features of that tragic night, to theplaisantthis question had reiterated itself persistently in the solitude of his cell. True, he had forgotten he was only a jester; but had it not been the memory of her soft glances that had hurried him on to the avowal? She had no fault to be condoned; the fool was the sole culprit. From her height, could she not have spared him the scorn and contempt of her question? Over and over, through the long hours he had asked himself that, and, as he brooded, the idealization with which he had adorned her fell like an enshrouding drapery to the dust; of the vestment of fancy nothing but tatters remained.
A voice without, harsh, abrupt, broke in upon the jester's thoughts. The prisoner started, listened intently, a gleam of fierce satisfaction momentarily creeping into his eyes. If love was dead, a less exalted feeling still remained.
"How does the fool take his imprisonment?" asked the arrogant voice.
"Quietly, my Lord," was the jailer's reply.
"He is inclined to talk over much?"
"Not at all," answered the man.
A brief command followed; a key was inserted in the lock, and, with a creaking of bolts and groaning of hinges, the warder swung back the iron barrier. Upon the threshold stood the commanding figure of the free baron. A moment he remained thus, and then, with an authoritative gesture to the man, stepped inside. The turnkey withdrew to a discreet distance, where he remained within call, yet beyond the range of ordinary conversation. Immovably the king's guest gazed upon the jester, who, unabashed, calmly endured the scrutiny.
"Well, fool," began the free baron, bluntly, "how like you your quarters? You fought me well; in truth very well. But you labored under a disadvantage, for one thing is certain: a jester in love is doubly—a fool."
"Is that what you have come to say?" asked the plaisant, his bright glance fastened on the other's confident face.
"I came—to return the visit you once made me," easily retorted the master of Hochfels. "By this time you have probably learned I am an opponent to be feared."
"As one fears the assassin's knife, or a treacherous onslaught," said the fool.
"Did I not say, when you left that night, the truce was over?" returned the king's guest, frowning.
"True," was the ironical answer. "Forewarned; forearmed. And that sort of warfare was to be expected from the bastard of Pfalz-Urfeld."
"Well," unreservedly replied the free baron, who for reasons of his own chose not to challenge the affront, "in those two instances you were not worsted. And as for the trooper who attacked you—I know not whether your lance or the doctor's lancet is responsible for his taking off. But you met him with true attaint. You would have made a good soldier. It is to be regretted you did not place your fortune with mine—but it is too late now."
"Yes," answered theplaisant, "it is too late."
Louis of Hochfels gave him a sharp look. "You cling yet to some forlorn hope?"
To the fool came the vision of a brother jester speeding southward, ever southward. The free baron smiled.
"Caillette, perhaps?" he suggested. For a moment he enjoyed his triumph, watching the expression of the fool's countenance, whereon he fancied he read dismay and astonishment.
"You know then?" said theplaisantfinally.
"That you sent him to the emperor? Yes."
In the fool's countenance, or his manner, the king's guest sought confirmation of the dying trooper's words. Also, was he fencing for such additional information as he might glean, and for this purpose had he come. Had the emperor really gone to Spain? The soldier's assurance had been so faint, sometimes the free baron wondered if he had heard aright, or if he had correctly interpreted the meager message.
"And you—of course—detained Caillette?" remarked the prisoner, with an effort at indifference, his heart beating violently the while.
"No," slowly returned the other. "He got away."
Into his eyes the fool gazed closely, as if to read and test this unexpected statement.
"Got away!" he repeated. "How, since you knew?"
"Because I learned too late," quietly replied the free baron. "He was four-and-twenty hours gone when I found out. Too great a start to be overcome."
"Why should you tell me this—unless it is a lie?" coolly asked the jester.
"A lie!" exclaimed the visitor, frowning.
"Yes, like your very presence in Francis' court," added the fool, fearlessly.
In the silence ensuing the passion slowly faded from the countenance of the king's guest. He remembered he had not yet ascertained what he wished to know.
"Such recriminations from you remind me of a bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage," at length came the unruffled response. "Why should I lie? There is no need for it. You sent Caillette; he is on his way now, for all of me. For"—leading to the thread of what he sought—"why should I have stopped him? He embarked on a hopeless chase. How can he reach Austria and the emperor in time to prevent the marriage?"
The jester's swift questioning glance was not lost upon the speaker, who, after a pause, continued. "Had I known, I am not sure I would have prevented his departure. What better way to dispose of him than to let him go on a mad-cap journey? Besides, you must have forgotten about the passes. How could you expect him to get by my sentinels? It will attract less attention to have him stopped there than here."
All this, spoken brusquely, was accompanied by frank, insolent looks which beneath their seeming openness concealed an intentness of purpose and a shrewd penetration. Only the first abrupt change in the fool's look, a slight one though it was, betrayed the jester to his caller. In that swiftly passing gleam, as the free baron spoke of Austria, and not of Spain, the other read full confirmation of what he desired to know.
"He will do his best," commented the jester, carelessly.
"And man can do no more," retorted the king's guest. "Many a battle has been thus bravely lost."
He had hoped to provoke from theplaisantsome further expression of self-content in his plans for the future, but the other had become guarded.
What if he offered the fool clemency? asked the princess' betrothed of himself. If the jester had confidence in the future he would naturally rather remain in the narrow confines of his dark chamber than consider proposals from one whom he believed he would yet overcome. The free baron began to enjoy this strategic duplicity of language; the environing dangers lent zest to equivocation; the seduction of finding himself more potent than forces antagonistic became intoxicating to his egotism.
"Why," he said, patronizingly, surveying the slender figure of the fool, "a good man should die by the sword rather than go to the scaffold. What if I were to overlook Caillette and the rest? He is harmless,"—more shrewdly; "let him go. As for the princess—well, you're young; in the heyday for such nonsense. I have never yet quarreled seriously with man for woman's sake. There are many graver causes for contention—a purse, or a few acres of land; right royal warfare. If I get the king to forgive you, and the princess to overlook your offense, will you well and truthfully serve me?"
"Never!" answered the fool, promptly.
"He is sure the message will reach Charles in Spain," mentally concluded the king's guest. "Yet," he continued aloud in a tone of mockery, "you did not hesitate to betray your master yourself. Why, then, will you not betray him to me?"
"To him I will answer, not to you," returned the jester, calmly.
A contemptuous smile crossed the free baron's face.
"And tell him how you dared look up to his mistress? That you sought to save her from another, while you yourself poured your own burning tale into her ear? Two things I most admire in nature," went on the free baron, with emphasis. "A dare-devil who stops not for man or Satan, and—an honest man. You take but a compromising middle course; and will hang, a hybrid, from some convenient limb."
"But not without first knowing that you, too, in all likelihood, will adorn an equally suitable branch, my Lord of the thieves' rookery," said the jester, smiling.
Louis of Hochfels responded with an ugly look. His bloodshot eyes took fire beneath the provocation.
"Fool, you expect your duke will intervene!" he exclaimed. "Not when he has been told all by the king, or the princess," he sneered. "Do you think she cares? You, a motley fool; a theme for jest between us."
"But when she learns about you?" retorted the plaisant, significantly.
"She will e'en be mistress of my castle."
"Castle?" laughed the Jester. "A robber's aery! a footpad's retreat! A rifler of the roads become a great lord? You of royal blood! Then was your father a king of thieves!"
The free baron's face worked fearfully; the kingly part of him had been a matter of fanatical pride; through it did he believe he was destined to power and honors. But before the cutting irony of theplaisant, that which is heaven-born—self-control—dropped from him; the mad, brutal rage of the peasant surged in his veins.
Infuriate his hand sought his sword, but before he could draw it the fool, anticipating his purpose, had rushed upon him with such impetuosity and suddenness that the king's guest, in spite of his bulk and strength, was thrust against the wall. Like a grip of iron, the jester's fingers were buried in his opponent's throat. For one so youthful and slender in build, his power was remarkable, and, strive as he might, the princess' betrothed could not shake him off. Although his arms pressed with crushing force about the figure of the fool, the hand at his throat never relaxed. He endeavored to thrust theplaisantfrom him, but, like a tiger, the jester clung; to and fro they swayed; to the free baron, suffocated by that gauntlet of steel, the room was already going around; black spots danced before his eyes. He strove to reach for the dagger that hung from his girdle, but it was held between them. Perhaps the muscles of the king's guest had been weakened by the excesses of Francis' court, yet was he still a mighty tower of strength, and, mad with rage, by a last supreme effort he finally managed to tear himself loose, hurling the fool violently from him into the arms of the jailer, who, attracted by the sound of the struggle, at that moment rushed into the cell. This keeper, himself a burly, herculean soldier, promptly closed with the prisoner.
Breathless, exhausted, the free baron marked the conflict now transferred to the turnkey and the jester. The former held the fool at a decided disadvantage, as he had sprung upon the back of the jester and was also unweakened by previous efforts. But still the fool contended fiercely, striving to turn so as to grapple with his assailant, and wonderingly the free baron for a moment watched that exhibition of virility and endurance. During the wrestling the jester's doublet had been torn open and suddenly the gaze of the king's guest fell, as if fascinated, upon an object which hung from his neck.
Bending forward, he scrutinized more closely that which had attracted his attention and then started back. Harshly he laughed, as though a new train of thought had suddenly assailed him, and looked earnestly into the now pale face of the nearly helpless fool.
"Why," he cried, "here's a different complication!"
And stooping suddenly, he grasped the stool from the floor and brought it down with crushing force upon theplaisant'shead. A cowardly, brutal blow; and at once the prisoner's grasp relaxed, and he lay motionless in the arms of the warder, who placed him on the straw.
"I think the knave's dead, my Lord," remarked the man, panting from his exertion.
"That makes the comedy only the stronger," replied the free baron curtly, as he knelt by the side of the prostrate figure and thrust his hand under the torn doublet. Having procured possession of the object which chance had revealed to him, he arose and, without further word, left the cell.
When Brusquet, the jester, fled from the camp at Avignon, where he had presumed to practise medicine, to the detriment of the army, some one said: "Fools and cats have nine lives," and the revised proverb had been accepted at court. It was this saying the turnkey muttered when he bent over the prostrate figure of the duke'splaisantafter the free baron had departed. Thus one of the fabled sources of existence was left the fool, and again it seemed the proverb would be realized.
Day after day passed, and still the vital spark burned; perhaps it wavered, but in this extremity the jester had not been entirely neglected; but who had befriended him, assisting the spirit and the flesh to maintain their unification, he did not learn until some time later. Youth and a strong constitution were also a shield against the final change, and when he began to mend, and his heart-beats grew stronger, even the jailer, his erstwhile assailant, the most callous of his several keepers, exhibited a stony interest in this unusual convalescence.
The touch of a hand was theplaisant'sfirst impression of returning consciousness, and then into his throbbing brain crept the outlines of the prison walls and the small window that grudgingly admitted the light. To his confused thoughts these surroundings recalled the struggle with the free baron and the jailer. As across a dark chasm, he saw the face of the false duke, whereon wonder and conviction had given way to brutal rage, and, with the memory of that treacherous blow, the fool half-started from his couch.
A low voice carried him back from the past to a vague cognizance of a woman's form, standing at the head of the bed, and two grave, dark eyes looking down upon him which he strove in vain to interrogate with his own. He would have spoken, but the soothing pressure of the hand upon his forehead restrained him, and, turning to the wall, sleep overcame him; a slumber long, sound and restorative. Motionless the figure remained, listening for some time to his deep breathing and then stole away as silently as she had come.
Amid a solitude like that of a catacomb the hours ran their course; the day grew old, and eventide replaced the waning flush in the west. The shadows deepened into night, and the first kisses of morn again merged into the brighter prime. Near the cell the only sound had been the footstep of the warder, or the scampering of a rat, but now from afar seemed to come a faint whispering, like the murmur of the ocean. It was the voice of awakened nature; the wind and the trees; the whir of birds' wings, or the sound of other living creatures in the forest hard by. A song of life and buoyancy, it breathed just audibly its cheering intonation about the prison bars, when the captive once more stirred and gazed around him. As he did so, the figure of the woman, who had again noiselessly entered the cell, stepped forward and stood near the couch.
"Are you better?" she asked.
He raised himself on his elbow, surprised at the unexpected appearance of his visitor.
"Jacqueline!" he said, wonderingly, recognizing the features of the joculatrix. "I must have been unconscious all night." And he stared from her toward the window.
"Yes," she returned with a peculiar smile; "all night." And bending over him, she held a receptacle to his lips from which he mechanically drank a broth, warm and refreshing, the while he endeavored to account for the strangeness of her presence in the cell. She placed the bowl on the floor and then, straightening her slim figure, again regarded him.
"You are improving fast," she commented, reflectively.
"Thanks to your sovereign mixture," he answered, lifting a hand to his bandaged head, and striving to collect his scattered ideas which already seemed to flow more consecutively. The pain which had racked his brow had grown perceptibly less since his last deep slumber, and a grateful warmth diffused itself in his veins with a growing assurance of physical relief. "But may I ask how you came here?" he continued, perplexity mingling with the sense of temporary languor that stole over him.
"I heard the duke tell the king you had attacked him and he had struck you down," she replied, after a pause.
His face darkened; his head throbbed once more; with his fingers he idly picked at the straw.
"And the king, of course, believed," he said. "Oh, credulous king!" he added scornfully. "Was ever a monarch so easily befooled? A judge of men? No; a ruler who trusts rather to fortune and blind destiny. Unlike Charles, he looks not through men, but at them."
"Think no more of it," she broke in, hastily, seeing the effect of her words.
"Nay, good Jacqueline," quickly retorted the jester; "the truth, I pray you. Believe me, I shall mend the sooner for it. What said the duke—as he calls himself?"
"Why, he shook his head ruefully," answered the girl, not noticing his reservation. "'Your Majesty,' he said, 'for the memory of bygone quibbles I sought him, but found him not—alack!—on the stool of repentance.'"
About the fool's mouth quivered the grim suggestion of a half-smile.
"He is the best jester of us all," he muttered. "And then?" fastening his eyes upon hers.
"'No sooner, Sire,' went on the duke, 'had I entered the cell than he rushed upon me, and, it grieves me, I used the wit-snapper roughly.' So"—folding her hands before her and gazing at theplaisant—"I e'en came to see if you were killed."
"You came," he said. "Yes; but how?"
"What matters it?" she answered. "Perhaps it was magic, and the cell-doors flew open at my touch."
"I can almost believe it," he returned.
And his glance fell thoughtfully from her to the couch. Before the assault he had lain at night upon the straw on the floor, and this unhoped-for immunity from the dampness of the stones or the scampering of occasional rats suggested another starting point for mental inquiry. She smiled, reading the interrogation on his face.
"One of the turnkeys furnished the bed," she remarked, shrewdly. "Do you like it?"
"It is a better couch than I have been accustomed to," he replied, in no wise misled by her response, and surmising that her solicitation had procured him this luxury. "Nevertheless, the night has seemed strangely long."
"It has been long," she returned, moving toward the window. "A week and more."
Surprise, incredulity, were now written upon his features. That such an interval should have elapsed since the evening of the free baron's visit appeared incredible. He could not see her countenance as she spoke; only her figure; the upper portion bright, the lower fading into the deep shadows beneath the aperture in the wall.
"You tell me I have lain here a week?" he asked finally, recalling obscure memories of faintly-seen faces and voices heard as from afar.
"And more," she repeated.
For some moments he remained silent, passing from introspection to a current of thought of which she could know nothing; the means he had taken to thwart the ambitious projects of the king's guest.
"Has Caillette returned?" he continued, with ill-disguised eagerness.
"Caillette?" she answered, lifting her brows at the abruptness of the inquiry. "Has he been away? I had not noticed. I do not know."
"Then is he still absent," said the jester, decisively. "Had he come back, you would have heard."
Quickly she looked at him. Caillette!—Spain!—these were the words he had often uttered in his delirium. Although he seemed much better and the hot flush had left his cheeks, his fantasy evidently remained.
"A week and over!" resumed the fool, more to himself than to his companion. "But he still may return before the duke is wedded."
"And if he did return?" she asked, wishing to humor him.
"Then the duke is not like to marry the princess," he burst out.
"Not like—to marry!" she replied, suddenly, and moved toward him. Her clear eyes were full upon him; closely she studied his worn features. "Not like—but he has married her!"
The jester strove to spring to his feet, but his legs seemed as relaxed as his brain was dazed.
"Has married!—impossible!" he exclaimed fiercely.
"They were wedded two days since," she went on quietly, possibly regretting that surprise, or she knew not what, had made her speak.
"Wedded two days since!"
He repeated it to himself, striving to realize what it meant. Did it mean anything? He remembered how mockingly the jestress' face had shone before him in the past; how derisive was her irony. From Fools' hall to the pavilion of the tournament had she flouted him.
"Wedded two days since!"
"You must have your drollery," he said, unsteadily, at length.
She did not reply, and he continued to question her with his eyes. Quite still she remained, save for an almost imperceptible movement of breathing. Against the dull beams from the aperture above, her hair darkly framed her face, pale, dim with half-lights, illusory. When he again spoke his voice sounded new to his own ears.
"How could the princess have been married? Even if I have lain here as long as you say, the day for the wedding was set for at least a week from now."
"But changed!" she responded, unexpectedly.
"Changed!" he cried, sitting on the edge of the couch, and regarding her as though he doubted he had heard aright. "Why should it have been changed?"
"Because the duke became a most impatient suitor," she answered. "Daily he grew more eager. Finally, to attain his end, he importuned the countess. She laughed, but good-naturedly acceded to his request, and, in turn importuned the king—who generously yielded. It has been a rare laughing matter at court—that the duke, who appeared the least passionate adorer, should really have been such a restless one."
"Dolt that I have been!" exclaimed the jester, with more anger, it seemed to the girl, than jealousy. "He knew about Caillette, but professed to be ignorant that the emperor was in Spain. And I believed his words; thought I was holding something from him; let myself imagine he could not penetrate my designs. While all the time he was intriguing with the king's favorite and felt the sense of his own security. What a cat's paw he made of me! And so he—they are gone, Jacqueline?"
"Yes," she returned, surprised at his language, and, for the first time, wondering if the duke's wooing admitted of other complications than she had suspected. "They are on their way to the duke's kingdom."
"His kingdom!" said the fool, with derision. "But go on. Tell me about it, Jacqueline. Their parting with the court? How they set out on their journey. All, Jacqueline; all!"
"They were married in the Chapelle de la Trinité," responded the girl, hesitating. Then with an odd side look, she went on rapidly: "The bridal party made an imposing cavalcade: the princess in her litter, behind a number of maids on horseback. At the castle gates several pages, dressed as Cupids, sent silver arrows after the bridal train. 'Hymen; Io Hymen!' cried the throng. 'Godspeed!' exclaimed Queen Marguerite, and threw a parchment, tied with a golden ribbon, into the princess' litter; an epithalamium, in verse, written in her own fair hand. 'Esto perpetua!' murmured the red cardinal. Besides the groom's own men, the king sent a strong escort to the border, and thus it was a numerous company that rode from the castle, with colors flying and the princess' handkerchief fluttering from her litter a last farewell."
"A last farewell!" repeated the fool. "A splendent picture, Jacqueline. They all shoutedTe Deum, and none stood there to warn her."
"To warn!" retorted the jestress. "Not a maid but envied her that spectacle; the magnificence and splendor!"
"But not what will follow," he said, and, lying back on his couch, closed his eyes.
Rapidly the scene passed before him; the false duke at the head of the cavalcade, elate, triumphant; the princess in her litter, brilliant, dazzling; the laughter, the hurried adieus; tears and smiles; the smart sayings of the jesters, a bride their legitimate prey, her blushes the delight of the facetious nobles; the complacency of the pleasure-loving king—all floated before his eyes like the figment of a dream. How mocking the pomp and glitter! For the princess, what an awakening was to ensue! The free baron must have known the emperor was in Spain, and had met the fool's stratagem with a final masterly manoeuver. The bout was over; the first great bout; but in the next—would there be a next? Jacqueline's words now implied a doubt.
"You are soon to leave here," she said. "For Paris."
Seated on the stool, her hands crossed over her knees, Jacqueline seemed no longer a creature of indefinite or ambiguous purpose. On the contrary, her profile was rimmed in light, and very matter-of-fact and serious it seemed.
"Why am I to leave for Paris?" he remarked, absently.
"Because they are going to take you there," she returned, "to be tried as a heretic." He started and again sat up. "In your room was found a book by Calvin. Of course," she went on, "you will deny it belonged to you?"
"What would that avail?" he said, indifferently. "But have the followers of Luther, or Calvin, no friends in Francis' court?"
"Have they in Charles' domains?" she asked quickly.
"The Protestants in Germany are a powerful body; the emperor is forced to bear with them."
"Here they have no friends—openly," she went on. "Secretly—Marguerite, Marot; others perhaps. But these will not serve you; could not, if they would. Besides, this heresy of which you are accused is but a pretext to get rid of you."
"And how, good Jacqueline, has the king treated the new sect?"
She held her hand suddenly to her throat; her face went paler, as from some tragic recollection.
"Oh," she answered, "do not speak of it!"
"They burned them?" he persisted.
"Before Notre Dame!"
Her voice was low; her eyes shone deep and gleaming.
"You are sorry, then, for those vile heretics?" asked the fool, curiously.
She raised her head, half-resentfully. "Their souls need no one's pity," she retorted, proudly.
"And you think mine is soon like to be beyond earthly caring?"
Her glance became impatient. "Most like," she returned, curtly.
"But what excuse does the king give for his cruelty?" he continued, musingly.
"They threw down the sacred images in one of the churches. Now a heretic need expect no mercy. They are placed in cages—hung from beams—over the fire. The court was commanded to witness the spectacle—the king jested—the countess laughed, but her features were white—" Here the girl buried her face in her hands. Soon, however, she looked up, brushing back the hair from her brow. "Marguerite has interposed, but she is only a feather in the balance." Abruptly she arose. "Would you escape such a fate?" she said.
He remained silent, thinking that if the mission to the emperor miscarried, his own position might, indeed, be past mending. If the exposure of the free baron were long delayed, the fool's assurance in his own ultimate release might prove but vain expectation. In Paris the trial would doubtless not be protracted. From the swift tribunal to the slow fire constituted no complicated legal process, and appeal there was none, save to the king, from whom might be expected little mercy, less justice.
"Escape!" the jester answered, dwelling on these matters. "But how?"
"By leaving this prison," she answered, lowering her voice.
He glanced significantly at the walls, the windows and the door, beyond which could be heard the tread of the jailer and the clanking of the keys hanging from his girdle.
"I would have done that long since, Jacqueline, if I had had my will," he replied.
"Are you strong enough to attempt it?" she remarked, doubtfully, scanning the thin face before her.
"Your words shall make me so," he retorted, and looking into his glittering eyes, she almost believed him.
"Not to-day, but to-morrow," the girl added, thoughtfully. "Perhaps then—"
"I shall be ready," he broke in impatiently. "What must I do?"
"Not drink this wine I have brought, but give it to the turnkey in the morning. Invite him to share it, but take none yourself, feigning sudden illness. He will not refuse, being always sharp-set for a cup. Nothing can be done with the other jailers, but this one is a thirsty soul, ever ready to bargain for a dram. Your couch cost I know not how many flagons. Although he drinks many tankards and pitchers every day, yet will this small bottle make him drowsy. You will leave while he is sleeping."
"In the daylight, mistress?" he asked, eagerly. "Why not wait—"
"No," she said, decisively; "there is no other way. This turnkey is only a day watchman. It is dangerous, but the best plan that suggested itself. I know many unfrequented corridors and passages through the old part of the castle the king has not rebuilt, and a road at the back, now little used, that runs through the wood and thicket down the hill. It is a desperate chance, but—"
"The danger of remaining is more desperate," he interrupted, quickly. "Besides, we shall not fail. It is in the book of fate." His expression changed; became fierce, eager. "Are you, indeed, the arbiter of that fate; the sorceress Triboulet feared?"
"You are thinking of the duke," she answered, with a frown, "and that if you escape—"
"Truly, you are a sorceress," he replied, with a smile. "I confess life has grown sweet."
She moved abruptly toward the door. "Nay, I meant not to offend you," he spoke up, more gently.
"It is your own fortunes you ever injure," she retorted, gazing coldly back at him.
"One moment, sweet Jacqueline. Why did you not go with the princess?"
Her face changed; grew dark; from eyes, deep and gloomy, she shot a quick glance upon him.
"Perhaps—because I like the court too well to leave it," she answered mockingly, and, vouchsafing no further word, quickly vanished. It was only when she had gone the jester suddenly remembered he had forgotten to thank her for what she had done in the past or what she proposed doing on the morrow.
"Truly, are you a right proper fool; for a man, merry in adversity, is as wise as Master Rabelais. Many the time have I heard him say a fit of laughter drives away the devil, while the groans of flagellating saints seem as music to Beelzebub's ears. Thus, a wit-cracker is the demon's enemy, and the band of Pantagruel, an evangelical brotherhood, that with tankard and pot sends the arch-fiend back to the bottomless pit."
And the fool's jailer, seated on the stool within the cell, stretched out his legs and uplifted the bottle to his lips, while, judging from the draft he took and assuming the verity of the theory he advanced, the prince of darkness at that moment must have fled a considerable distance into his chosen realms.
"Ah, you know the great philosopher, then?" commented the jester from the couch, closely watching the sottish, intemperate face of his keeper, and running his glance over the unwieldy form which bade fair to outrival one of the wine butts in the castle cellar.
"Know him!" exclaimed this lowly votary. "I have e'en been admitted to his table—at the foot, 'tis true—when the brave fellows of Pantagruel were at it. Not for my wit was I thus honored"—theplaisantmade a dissenting gesture, the irony of which passed over the head of the speaker—"but because a giant flagon appeared but a child's toy in my hands. The followers of Pantagruel fell on both sides, like wheat before the blade of the reaper, until Doctor Rabelais and myself only were left. From the head to the foot of the table the great man looked. How my heart swelled with pride! 'Swine of Epicurus, are you still there?' he said. And then—and then—"
With a crash the bottle fell from the hand of the keeper to the stone floor. The massive body swayed on the small stool; his eyes stupidly shut and opened.
"Swine of Epicurus," he repeated. "Swine—" and followed the bottle, rolling gently from the stool. He made but one motion, to extend his huge bulk more comfortably, and then was still.
"Why," thought the fool, "if Jacqueline fails me not, all may yet be well."
But even as he thus reflected the door of the cell opened, and a face white as a lily, looked in. Her glance passed hastily to the motionless figure and an expression of satisfaction crossed her features.
"The keys!" she said, and the jester, bending over the prostrate jailer, detached them from his girdle.
"Lock the door when we leave," she continued. "The other keeper does not come to relieve him for six hours."
"It would be an offset for the many times he has locked me in," answered the fool. "A scurvy trick; yet, as Master Rabelais says, Pantagruelians select not their bed."
"Is this a time for jesting?" exclaimed the girl, impatiently.
"He has been treating me to Gargantuan discourse, Jacqueline," said the fool, humbly. "I was but answering him in kind."
"And by delay increasing our danger!"
"Our danger!" He started.
Since she had first broached the subject of escape but one sweet and all-absorbing idea had possessed him—retaliation. Liberty was the means to that end, and every other thought and consideration had given way to this desire. He had fallen asleep with the free baron's dark features imaged on his fevered brain; when he had awakened the morbid fantasy had not left him. But now, at her words, in her presence, a new light was suddenly shed upon the enterprise, and he paused abruptly, even as he turned to leave the cell. With growing wonder she watched his altered features.
"Well," she exclaimed, impatiently, "why do you stand there?"
"Should I escape, you, Jacqueline, would remain to bear the brunt," he said, reflectively. "The jailer, when he awakes, will tell the story: who brought the wine; who succored the prisoner. To go, but one course is open." And he glanced down upon the prostrate man. "To silence him forever!"
She started and half-shrank from him. "Could you do it?"
He shook his head. "In fair contest, I would have slain him. But now—it is not he, but I, who am helpless. And yet what is such a sot's life worth? Nothing. Everything. Farewell, sweet jestress; I must trust to other means, and—thank you."
The outstretched hand she seemed not to see, but tapped the floor of the cell yet more impatiently with her foot, as was her fashion when angered. Here was the prison door open, and the captive enamored of confinement; at the culminating point conjuring reasons why he should not flee. To have gone thus far; to have eliminated the jailer, and then to draw back, with the keys in his hand—truly no scene in a comedy could be more extravagant. The girl laughed nervously.
"What egotists men are!" she said. "Good Sir Jester, in offering you liberty I am serving myself; myself, you understand!" she repeated. "Let us hasten on, lest in defeating your own purpose, you defeat mine."
"What will you answer when he"—indicating the drugged turnkey—"accuses you?"
"Was ever such perversity!" was all she deigned to reply, biting her lip.
"You are somewhat wilful yourself, Jacqueline," he retorted, with that smile which so exasperated her.
"Listen," she said at length, slowly, impressively. "You need have no fear for me when you go. I tell you that more danger remains to me by your staying than in your going; that your obstinacy leaves me unprotected; that your compliance would be a boon to me. By the memory of my mother, by the truth of this holy book"—drawing a little volume passionately from her bosom—"I swear to what I have told you." Eagerly her eyes met his searching gaze, and he read in their depths only truth and candor. "I have a quest for you. It concerns my life, my happiness. All I have done for you has been for this end."
Her eyes fell, but she raised them again quickly. "Will you accept a mission from one who is not—a princess?"
"Name her not!" exclaimed the jester sharply. And then, recovering himself, added, less brusquely: "What is it you want, mistress?"
"This is no time nor place to tell it," she went on rapidly, seeing by his face that his dogged humor had melted before her appeal, "but soon, before we part, you shall know all; what it is I wish to intrust in your hands."
A moment she waited. "Your argument is unanswerable, Jacqueline," he said finally. "I own myself puzzled, but I believe you, so—have your way."
"This cloak then"—handing him a garment she had brought with her—"throw it over you," she continued hurriedly. "If we meet any one it may serve as a disguise. And here is a sword," bringing forth a weapon that she had carried concealed beneath a flowing mantle. "Can you use it?"
"I can but try, Jacqueline," he replied, fastening the girdle about his waist and half-drawing and then thrusting the blade back into the scabbard. "It seems a priceless weapon," he added, his eye lingering on the richly inlaid hilt, "and has doubtless been wielded by a gallant hand."
"Speak not of that," she retorted, sharply, a strange flash in her eyes. "He who handled it was the bravest, noblest—" She broke off abruptly, and they left the cell, he locking the door behind him.
Down the dimly lighted passage she walked rapidly, while the jester tractably and silently followed. His strength, he found, had come back to him; the joys of freedom imparted new elasticity to his limbs; that narrow, cheerless way looked brighter than a royal gallery, or Francis'Salle des Fêtes. Before him floated the light figure of the jestress, moving faster and ever faster down the dark corridor, now veering to the right or left, again ascending or descending well-worn steps; a tortuous route through the heart of the ancient fortress, whose mystery seemed dread and covert as that of a prison house. Confidently, knowing well the puzzling interior plan of the old pile, she traversed the labyrinth that was to lead them without, finally pausing before a small door, which she tried.
"Usually it is unlocked," she said, in surprise. "I never knew it fastened before."
"Is that our only way out?"
"The only safe way. Perhaps one of the keys—"
But he had already knelt before the door and the young girl watched him with obvious anxiety. He vainly essayed all the keys, save one, and that he now strove to fit to the lock. It slipped in snugly and the stubborn bolt shot back.
Entering, he closed the door behind them and hastily looked around, discovering that they stood in a crypt, the central part of which was occupied by a burial vault. In the crypt chapels were a number of statues, in marble and bronze, most of them rude, antique, yet not of indifferent workmanship, especially one before which the jestress, in spite of the exigency of the moment, stopped as if impelled by an irresistible impulse. This monument, so read the inscription, had been erected by the renowned Constable of Dubrois to his young and faithful consort, Anne.
But a part of a minute the girl gazed, with a new and softened expression, upon the marble likeness of the last fair mistress of the castle, and then hurriedly crossed the old mosaic pavement, reaching a narrow flight of stairs, which she swiftly ascended. A door that yielded to the fool's shoulder led into a deserted court, on one side of which were the crumbling walls of the chapel. Here several dark birds perched uncannily on the dead branch of a massive oak that had been shattered by lightning. In its desolation the oak might have been typical of the proud family, once rulers of the castle, whose corporeal strength had long since mingled with the elements.
This open space the two fugitives quickly traversed, passing through a high-arched entrance to an olden bridge that spanned a moat. Long ago had the feudal gates been overthrown by Francis; yet above the keystone appeared, not the salamander, the king's heraldic emblem, but the almost illegible device of the old constable. Beyond the great ditch outstretched a rolling country on which the jester gazed with eager eyes, while his companion swiftly led the way to a clump of willow and aspen on the other side of the moat. Beneath the spreading branches were tethered two horses, saddled and bridled. Wonderingly he glanced from them to her.
"From whence did you conjure them, gentle mistress?" asked the fool.
"Some one I knew placed them there."
"But why—two horses, good Jacqueline?"
"Because I am minded to show you the path through the wood," she replied. "You might mistake it and then my purpose would not be served. Give me your hand, sir. I am wont to have my own way." And as he reluctantly extended his palm she placed her foot upon it, springing lightly to the saddle. "'Tis but a canter through the forest. The day is glorious, and 'twill be rare sport."
Already had she gathered in the reins and turned her horse, galloping down a road that swept through a grove of poplar and birch, and he, after a moment's hesitation, rode after her. Like one born to the chase, she kept her seat, her lithe figure swaying to the movements of the steed. Soon the brighter green of her gown fluttered amid the somber-tinted pines and elms, as the younger forest growth merged into a stern array of primeval monarchs. Here reigned an austere silence—a stillness that now became the more startlingly broken.
"Jacqueline!" said the fool, spurring toward her. "Do you hear?"
"The hunters? Yes," she replied.
"They are coming this way."
"Perhaps it were better to draw back from the road," she suggested, calmly.
"Do you draw back to the castle!" he returned, quickly, his brow overcast.
"And miss the hunt? Not I, Monsieur Spoil-Sport."
"But if they find you with me?"
She only tossed her head wilfully and did not answer.
Nearer came the hue and cry of the chase. A heavy-horned buck sprang into the road and vanished like a flash into the timber on the other side. Shortly afterward, in a compact bunch, with heads downbent and stiffened tails, the pack, a howling, discordant mass, swept across the narrow, open space.
"Quick!" exclaimed the jester, and they turned their horses into the underbrush.
Scarcely had they done so when, closely following the dogs, appeared the first of the hunters, mounted on a splendid charger, with housings of rose-velvet.
"Pardieu!" muttered theplaisant, "I owe the king no thanks, but he rides well. Do you not think so, Jacqueline?"
Her answering gaze was puzzling. After Francis rode many lords and ladies, a stream of color crossing the road; riding habits faced with gold; satin doublets covered withrivièresof diamonds; torsades wherein gold became the foil to precious stones. So near was the gorgeous cavalcade—the grand falconer, whippers-in, and the bearers of hooded birds mingling with the courtiers immediately behind the king—the escaped prisoner and the jestress could hear the panting of horses. Fleeting, transient, it passed; fainter sounded the din of hounds and horn; now it almost died away in the distance. The last couple had scarcely vanished before the fool and his companion left their ambush.
"You ride farther, Jacqueline?" he said.
"A little farther."
"It will be far to return," he protested.
"I have no fear," she answered, tranquilly.
Again he let her have her way, as one would yield to a wilful child. On and on they sped; past the place where the deer-run crossed the broader path; through an ever-varying forest; now on one side, a rocky basin overrun with trees and shrubs; again, on the other hand, a great gorge, in whose depths flowed a whispering stream. Yonder appeared the gray walls of an ancient monastery, one part only of which was habitable; a turn in the road swallowed it up as though abruptly to complete the demolition time was slowly to bring about. On and on, until the way became wilder and the wood more overgrown with bushes and tangled shrubbery, when she suddenly stopped her horse.
He understood; at last they were to part. And, remembering what he owed to her, the Jester suddenly found himself regretting that here their paths separated forever. Swiftly his mind flew back to their first meeting; when she had flouted him in Fools' hall. A perverse, capricious maid. How she had ever crossed him, and yet—nursed him.
Attentively he regarded her. The customary pallor of her face had given way to a faint tint; her eyes were humid, dewy-bright; beneath the little cap, the curling tresses would have been the despair of those later-day reformers, the successors of Calvinists and Lutherans.
"A will-o'-the-wisp," he thought. "A man might follow and never grasp her."
Did she read what he felt? That mingled gratitude and perplexity? Her clear eyes certainly seemed to have a peculiar mastery over the thoughts of others. Now they expressed only mockery.
"The greater danger is over," she said, quietly. "From now on there is less fear of your being taken."
"Thanks to you!" he answered, searching her with his glance.
Here he doubted not she would make known the quest of which she had spoken. Whatever it might be, he would faithfully requite her; even to making his own purpose subservient to it.
"It is now time," she said, demurely, "to acquaint you with the mission. Of course, you will accept it?"
"Can you ask?" he answered, earnestly.
"You promise?"
"To serve you with my life."
"Then we had better go on," she continued.
"But, Mademoiselle, I thought—"
"That we were to part here? Not at all. I am not yet ready to leave you. In fact, good Master Jester, I am going with you.Iam the quest;Iam the mission. Are you sorry you promised?"