"Himself!" laughed the minstrel. "Did I not tell you I should become a Spanish troubadour?" Then, reaching out his hand, he added seriously: "Right pleased am I to meet you. But how came you here?"
"I have fled from the keep of the old castle, where I lay charged with heresy," answered the jester, returning the hearty grip.
"The keep!" exclaimed Caillette in surprise. "You are fortunate not to have been brought to trial," he added, thoughtfully. "Few get through that seine, and his Holiness, the pope, I understand, has ordered the meshes made yet smaller."
They had paused on the brow of a hill, commanding the view of road and tavern. Dazed, the young girl had listened to the greeting between the two men. This ragged, beard-begrown troubadour, the graceful, elegant Caillette of Francis' court? It seemed incredible. At the same time, through her mind passed the memory of theplaisant'sreiterated exclamation in prison: "Caillette—in Spain!"—words she had attributed to fever, not imagining they had any foundation in fact.
But now this unexpected encounter abruptly dispelled her first supposition and opened a new field for speculation. Certainly had he been on a mission of some kind, somewhere, but what his errand she could not divine. A diplomat in tatters, serving a fellow-jester. Fools had oft intruded themselves in great events ere this, but not those who wore the motley; heretofore had the latter been content with the posts of entertainers, leaving to others the more precarious offices of intrigant.
But if she was surprised at Caillette's unexpected presence and disguise, that counterfeit troubadour had been no less amazed to see her, the joculatrix of the princess, in the mean garb of a waysideministralissa, wandering over the country like one born to the nomadic existence. That she had a nature as free as air and the spirit of a gipsy he well believed, but that she would forego the security of the royal household for the discomforts and dangers of a vagrant life he could not reconcile to that other part of her character which he knew must shrink from the actualities of the straggler's lot. He had watched her at the inn; how she held herself; how she was a part of, and yet apart from, that migratory company; and what he had seen had but added to his curiosity.
"Have you left the court, mistress?" he now asked abruptly.
"Yes," she answered, curtly.
Caillette gazed at her and her eyes fell. Then put out with herself and him, she looked up boldly.
"Why not?" she demanded.
"Why not, indeed?" he repeated, gently, although obviously wondering.
The constraint that ensued between them was broken by a new aspect of the distant conflagration. Fanned by the breeze, the flames had ignited the thatched roof of the hostelry and fiery forks shot up into the sky, casting a fierce glow over the surrounding scene. Through the glare, many birds, unceremoniously routed from their nests beneath the eaves, flew distractedly. Before the tavern, now burning on all sides, could be distinguished a number of figures, frantically running hither and thither, while above the crackling of the flames and the clamorous cries of the birds was heard the voice of the proprietor, alternately pleading with the knaves to save the tavern and execrating him who had applied the torch.
"Cap de Dieu! the landlord will snare no more travelers," said Caillette. "My horse had become road-worn and perforce I had tarried there sufficient while to know the company and the host. When you walked in with this fair maid, I could hardly believe my eyes. 'Twas a nice trap, and the landlord an unctuous fellow for a villain. Assured that you could not go out as you came, I e'en prepared a less conventional means of exit."
He had scarcely finished this explanation when, with a shower of sparks and a mighty crash, the heavy roof fell. A lambent flame burst from the furnace; grew brighter, until the clouds became rose-tinted; a glory as brilliant as short-lived, for soon the blaze subsided, the glow swiftly faded, and the sky again darkened.
"It is over," murmured Caillette; and, as they touched their horses, leaving the smoldering ruins behind them, he added: "But how came the scamp-student to serve you? I was watching closely, and listening, too; so caught how 'twas done."
"I spared his life once," answered the jester.
"And he remembered? 'Tis passing strange from such a rogue. A clever device, to warn you in Latin that his friends intended to kill one or both of you for the jeweled sword."
"Why," spoke up the young girl, her attention sharply arrested, "was it not a mere discussion of some kind? And—the quarrel?"
"A pretense on the rogue's part to avert the suspicion of the master of the boar. I could but marvel"—to the jester—"at your forbearance."
"I fear me Jacqueline had the right to a poor opinion of her squire," replied the duke's fool. "Nor do I blame her," he laughed, "in esteeming a stout bolt more protection than a craven blade."
But the girl did not answer. Through her brain flashed the recollection of her cold disdain; her scornful words; her abrupt dismissal of the jester at her door. Weighing what she had said and done with what he had not said and done, she turned to him quickly, impulsively. Through the semi-darkness she saw the smile around his mouth and the quizzical look with which he was regarding her. Whereupon her courage failed. She bit her lip and remained silent. They had now passed the brow of the hill; on each side of the highway the forests parted wider and wider, and the thoroughfare was bathed in a white light.
As they rode along on this clearly illumined highway, Caillette glanced interrogatively at theplaisant. The outcome of his journey—should he speak now? Or later—when they were alone? Heretofore neither had made reference to it; Caillette, perhaps, because his mind had been surprised into another train of thought by this unexpected encounter; the duke's fool because the result of the journey was no longer momentous. Since the other had left, conditions were different. The good-natured scoffing and warnings of his fellow-jester had proved not unwarranted.
The answer of the duke's fool to his companion's glance was a direct inquiry.
"You found the emperor?" he said.
"Yes; and presented your message with some misgiving."
"And did he treat it with the scant consideration you expected?"
"On the contrary. His Majesty read it not once, but twice, and changed color."
"And then?"
The narrator paused and furtively surveyed the jestress. Her face was pale, emotionless; as they sped on, she seemed riding through no volition of her own, the while she was vaguely conscious of the dialogue of her companions.
"Whatever magic your letter contained," resumed Caillette, "it seemed convincing to Charles. 'My brother Francis must be strangely credulous to be so cozened by an impostor,' quoth he, with a gleam of humor in his gaze."
"Impostor!" It was the young girl who spoke, interrupting, in her surprise, the troubadour's story.
"You did not know, mistress?" said Caillette.
"No," she answered, and listened the closer.
"When I left, two messages the emperor gave me," went on the other; "one for the king, the other for you." And taking from his doublet a document, weighted with a ponderous disk, the speaker handed it to the duke's fool, who silently thrust it in his breast. "Moreover, unexpectedly, but as good fortune would have it, his Majesty was even then completing preparations for a journey through France to the Netherlands, owing to unlooked-for troubles in that part of his domains, and had already despatched his envoys to the king. Charles assured me that he would still further hasten his intended visit to the Low Countries and come at once. Meanwhile his communication to the king"—tapping his breast—"will at least delay the nuptials, and, with the promise of the emperor's immediate arrival, the marriage can not occur."
"It has occurred," said the jester.
The other uttered a quick exclamation. "Then have I failed in my errand," he muttered, blankly. "But the king—had he no suspicion?"
"It was through the Countess d'Etampes the monarch was led to change the time for the festivities," spoke up Jacqueline, involuntarily.
"She!" exclaimed the poet, with a gesture of half-aversion. For some time they went on without further words; then suddenly Caillette drew rein.
"This news makes it the more necessary I should hasten to the king," he said. "The emperor's message—Francis should receive it at once. Here, therefore, must I leave you. Or, why do you not return with me?"—addressing the jester. "The letter from Charles will exonerate you and Francis will reward you in proportion to the injuries you have suffered. What say you, mistress?"
"That I will never go back," she answered, briefly, and looked away.
Caillette's perplexity was relieved by theplaisant. "Farewell, if you must leave," said the latter. "We meet again, I trust."
"The fates willing," returned the poet. "Farewell, and good fortune go with you both." And wheeling abruptly, he rode slowly back. The jester and the girl watched him disappear over the road they had come.
"A true friend," said theplaisant, as Caillette vanished in the gloom.
"You regret not returning with him, perhaps?" she observed quickly. "Honors and offices of preferment are not plentiful."
"I want none of them from Francis," he returned, as they started slowly on their way.
The road before them descending gradually, passed through a gulch, where the darkness was greater, and such light as sifted through the larch and poplar trees rested in variable spots on the earth. Overhead the somber obscurity appeared touched with a veil of shimmer or sheen like diamond dust floating through the mask of night. Their horses but crept along; the girl bent forward wearily; heretofore the excitement and danger had sustained her, but now the reaction from all she had endured bore down upon her. She thought of calling to the fool; of craving the rest she so needed; but a feeling of pride, or constraint, held her silent. Before her the shadows danced illusively; the film of brightness changed and shifted; then all glimmering and partial shade were swallowed up in a black chasm.
Riding near, the jester observed her form sway from side to side, and spurred forward. In a moment he had clasped her waist, then lifted her from the saddle and held her before him.
"Jacqueline!" he cried.
She offered no resistance; her head remained motionless on his breast. Sedulously he bent over her; the warm breath reassured him; tired nature had simply succumbed. Irresolute he paused, little liking the sequestered gulch for a resting-place; divining the prickly thicket and almost impenetrable brushwood that lined the road. An unhealthy miasma seemed to ascend from below and clog the air; through the tangle of forest, phosphorus gleamed and glowworms flitted here and there.
Gathering the young form gently to him, the jester rode slowly on, and the horse of his companion followed. So he went, he knew not how long; listening to her breathing that came, full and deep; half-fearing, half-wondering at that relaxation. For the first time he forgot about the emperor and his purpose; the free baron and the desires of sweet avengement. He thought only of her he held; how courageous yet alone she was in the world; how she had planned the service which won her the right to his protection; her flight from Francis—but where? To whom could she go? To whom could she turn? Unconscious she lay in his arms in that deep sleep, or heavy inertia following exhaustion, her pale face against his shoulder; and as the youngplaisantbent over her his heart thrilled with protecting tenderness.
"Why, what other maid," he thought, "would ride on until she dropped? Would meet discomfort at every turn with a jest or a merry stave?"
And, but for him, whom else had she? This young girl, had she not become his burden of responsibility; his moral obligation? For the first time he seemed to realize how the fine tendrils of her nature had touched his; touched and clung, ever so gently but fast. Her fine scorn for dissimulation; her answering integrity; the true adjustment of her instinct—all had been revealed to him under the test of untoward circumstances.
He saw her, too, secretly and silently cherishing a new faith in her bosom, amid a throng, lax and infirm of purpose, and wonderment gave way to another emotion, as his mind leaped from that past, with its covert, inner life, to the untrammeled moment when she had thrown off the mask in the solitude of the forest. Had some deeper chord of his nature been struck then? Their aspirations of a kindred hope had mingled in the majestic psalm; a larger harmony, remote from roundelay, or sparkling cadenza, that drew him to this Calvin maid. A solemn earnestness fell upon his spirits; the starlight bathed his brow, and he found the mystery of the night and nature inexplicably beautiful.
Afar the bell of some wanderer from the herd tinkled drowsily, arousing him from his reverie. The horses were ascending; the road emerged into a plain, set with bracken and gorse, with here and there a single tree, whose inclining trunk told of storms braved for many seasons. Near the highway, in the shadow of a poplar, stood a shepherd's hut, apparently deserted and isolated from human kind. The fool reined the horse, which for some time had been moving painfully, and at that abrupt cessation of motion the jestress looked up with a start.
Meeting his eyes, at first she did not withdraw her own; questioningly, her bewildered gaze encountered his; then, with a quick movement, she released herself from his arm and sprang to the ground. He, too, immediately dismounted. She felt very wide-awake now, as though the sudden consciousness of that encircling grasp, or something in his glance before she slipped from him, had startled away the torpor of somnolence.
"You fainted, or fell asleep, mistress," he said, quietly.
"Yes—I remember—in the gorge."
"It was impossible to stop there, so—I rode on. But here, in this shepherd's hut, we may find shelter."
And turning the horses, he would have led them to the door, but the animals held back; then stood stock-still. Striding to the hut, the jester stepped in, but quickly sprang to one side, and as he did so some creature shot out of the door and disappeared in the gloom.
"A wolf!" exclaimed theplaisant.
Entering the hut once more, he struck a light. In a corner lay furze and firewood, and from this store he drew, heaping the combustible material on the hearth, until a cheering blaze fairly illumined the worn and dilapidated interior. Near the fireplace were a pot and kettle, whose rusted appearance bespoke long disuse; but a trencher and porridge spoon on a stool near by seemed waiting the coming of the master. A couch of straw had been the lonely shepherd's bed—and later the lodgment of his enemy, the wolf. Above it, on the wall, hung a small crucifix of wood. For the fugitives this mean abode appeared no indifferent shelter, and it was with satisfaction the jester arranged a couch for the girl, before the fire, a rude pallet, yet—
"Here you may rest, Jacqueline, without fear of being disturbed again this night," he said.
She sank wearily upon the straw; then gave him her hand gratefully. Her face looked rosy in the reflection from the hearth; a comforting sense of warmth crept over her as she lay in front of the blaze; her eyes were languorous with the luxury of the heat after a chilling ride. Drawing the cloak to her chin, she smiled faintly. Was it at his solicitude? He noticed how her hair swept from the saddle pillowing her head, to the earth; and, sitting there on the stool, wondering, perhaps, at its abundance, or half-dreaming, he forgot he yet held her hand. Gently she withdrew it, and he started; then, realizing how he had been staring at her, with somewhat vacant gaze, perhaps, but fixedly, he made a motion to rise, when her voice detained him.
"Why did you not tell me it was not a discussion with the scamp-student?" she asked. "Why did you let me imagine that you—" Her eyes said the rest. "You should not have permitted me to—to think it," she reiterated.
He was silent. She closed her eyes; but in a moment her lashes uplifted. Her glance flashed once more upon him.
"And I should not have thought it," she said.
"Jacqueline!" he cried, starting up.
She did not answer; indeed, seemed sleeping; her face turned from him.
Through the open doorway a streak of red in the east heralded the coming glory of the morn. "Peep, peep," twittered a bird on the roof of the hovel. From the poplar it was answered by a more melodious phrase, a song of welcome to the radiant dawn. A moment the jester listened, his head raised to the growing splendor of the heavens, then threw himself on the earthen floor of the hut and was at once overcome with sleep.
The slanting rays of the sinking sun shot athwart the valley, glanced from the tile roofs of the homes of the peasantry, and illumined the lofty towers of a great manorial château. To the rider, approaching by the road that crossed the smiling pasture and meadow lands, the edifice set on a mount—another of Francis' transformations from the gloomy fortress home—appeared regal and splendid, compared with the humbler houses of the people lying prostrate before it. Viewed from afar, the town seemed to abase itself in the presence of the architectural preëminence of that monarch of buildings. Even the sun, when it withdrew its rays from the miscellaneous rabble of shops and dwellings, yet lingered proudly upon the noble structure above, caressing its imposing and august outlines and surrounding it with the glamour of the afterglow, when the sun sank to rest.
Into the little town, at the foot of the big house, rode shortly before nightfall the jester and his companion. During the day the young girl had seemed diffident and constrained; she who had been all vivacity and life, on a sudden kept silence, or when she did speak, her tongue had lost its sharpness. The weapons of her office, bright sarcasm and irony, or laughing persiflage, were sheathed; her fine features were thoughtful; her dark eyes introspective. In the dazzling sunshine, the memory of their ride through the gorge; the awakening at the shepherd's hut; something in his look then, something in his accents later, when he spoke her name while she professed to sleep—seemed, perhaps, unreal, dream-like.
His first greeting that morning had been a swift, almost questioning, glance, before which she had looked away. In her face was the freshness of dawn; the grace of spring-tide. Overhead sang a lark; at their feet a brook whispered; around them solitude, vast, infinite. He spoke and she answered; her reserve became infectious; they ate their oaten cakes and drank their wine, each strongly conscious of the presence of the other. Then he rose, saddled their horses, and assisted her to mount. She appeared over-anxious to leave the shepherd's hut; the jester, on the other hand, cast a backward glance at the poplar, the hovel, the brook. A crisp, clear caroling of birds followed them as they turned from the lonely spot.
So they rode, pausing betimes to rest, and even then she had little to say, save once when they stopped at a rustic bridge which spanned a stream. Both were silent, regarding the horses splashing in the water and clouding its clear depths with the yellow mud from its bed. From the cool shadows beneath the planks where she was standing, tiny fish, disturbed by this unwonted invasion, shot forth like darts and vanished into the opaque patches. Half-dreamily watching this exodus of flashing life from covert nook and hole, she said unexpectedly:
"Who is it that has wedded the princess?"
For a moment he did not answer; then briefly related the story.
"And why did you not tell me this before?" she asked when he had finished.
"Would you have credited me—then?" he replied, with a smile.
Quickly she looked at him. Was there that in her eyes which to him robbed memory of its sting? At their feet the water leaped and laughed; curled around the stones, and ran on with dancing bubbles. Perhaps he returned her glance too readily; perhaps the recollection of the ride the night before recurred over-vividly to her, for she gazed suddenly away, and he wondered in what direction her thoughts tended, when she said with some reserve:
"Shall we go on?"
They had not long left the brook and the bridge, when from afar they caught sight of the regal château and the clustering progeny of red-roofed houses at its base. At once they drew rein.
"Shall we enter the town, or avoid it by riding over the mead?" said theplaisant.
"What danger would there be in going on?" she asked. "Whom might we meet?"
Thoughtfully he regarded the shining towers of the royal residence. "No one, I think," he at length replied, and they went on.
Around the town ran a great wall, with watch-towers and a deep moat, but no person questioned their right to the freedom of the place; a sleepy soldier at the gate merely glancing indifferently at them as they passed beneath the heavy archway. Gabled houses, with a tendency to incline from the perpendicular, overlooked the winding street; dull, round panes of glass stared at them, fraught with mystery and the possibility of spying eyes behind; but the thoroughfare in that vicinity appeared deserted, save for an old woman seated in a doorway. Before this grandam, whose lack-luster eyes were fastened steadfastly before her, the fool paused and asked the direction of the inn.
"Follow your nose, if nature gave you a straight one," cried a jeering voice from the other side of the thoroughfare. "If it be crooked, a blind man and a dog were a better guide."
The speaker, a squat, misshapen figure, had emerged from a passage turning into the street, and now stood, twirling a fool's head on a stick and gazing impudently at the new-comers. The crone whom theplaisanthad addressed remained motionless as a statue.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the oddity who had volunteered this malapert response to the jester's inquiry, "yonder sign-post"—pointing to the aged dame—"has lost its fingers—or rather its ears. Better trust to your nose."
"Triboulet!" exclaimed Jacqueline.
"Is it you, lady-bird?" said the surprised dwarf, recognizing in turn the maid. "And with theplaisant," staring hard at the fool. Then a cunning look gradually replaced the wonder depicted on his features. "You are fleeing from the court; I, toward it," he remarked, jocosely.
"What mean you, fool?" demanded the horseman, sternly.
"That I have run away from the duke, fool," answered the hunchback. "The foreign lord dared to beat me—Triboulet—who has only been beaten by the king. Sooner or later must I have fled, in any event, for what is Triboulet without the court; or the court, without Triboulet?" his indignation merging into arrogant vainglory.
"When did you leave the—duke?" asked the other, slowly.
"Several days ago," replied the dwarf, gazing narrowly at his questioner. "Down the road. He should be far away by this time."
Suspiciously the duke's jester regarded the hunchback and then glanced dubiously toward the gate through which they had entered the town. He had experienced Triboulet's duplicity and malice, yet in this instance was disposed to give credence to his story, because he doubted not that Louis of Hochfels would make all haste out of Francis' kingdom. Nor did it appear unreasonable that Triboulet should pine for the excitement of his former life; the pleasures and gaiety which prevailed at Fools' hall. If the hunchback's information were true, they need now have little fear of overtaking the free baron and his following, as not far beyond the château-town the main road broke into two parts, the one continuing southward and the other branching off to the east.
While the horseman was thus reflecting, Triboulet, like an imp, began to dance before them, slapping his crooked knees with his enormous hands.
"A good joke, my master and mistress in motley," he cried. "The king was weak enough to exchange his dwarf for a demoiselle; the latter has fled; the monarch has neither one nor the other; therefore is he, himself, the fool. And thou, mistress, art also worthy of the madcap bells," he added, his distorted face upturned to the jestress.
"How so?" she asked, not concealing the repugnance he inspired.
"Because you prefer a fool's cap to a king's crown," he answered, looking significantly at her companion. "Wherein you but followed the royal preference for head-coverings. Ho! ho! I saw which way the wind blew; how the monarch's eyes kindled when they rested on you; how the wings of Madame d'Etampes's coif fluttered like an angry butterfly. Know you what was whispered at court? The reason the countess pleaded for an earlier marriage for the duke? That the princess might leave the sooner—and take the jestress, her maid, with her. But the king met her manoeuver with another. He granted the favorite's request—but kept the jestress."
"Silence, rogue!" commanded the duke's fool, wheeling his horse toward the dwarf.
"And then for her to turn from a throne-room to a dungeon," went on Triboulet, satirically, as he retreated. "As Brusquet wrote; 'twas:
"'Morbleu! A merry monarch and a jestress fair;A jestress fair, I ween!'—"
But ere the hunchback could finish this scurrilous doggerel of the court, over which, doubtless, many loose witlings had laughed, the girl's companion placed his hand on his sword and started toward the dwarf. The words died on Triboulet's lips; hastily he dodged into a narrow space between two houses, where he was safe from pursuit. Jacqueline's face had become flushed; her lips were compressed; the countenance of the duke'splaisantseemed paler than its wont.
"Little monster!" he muttered.
But the hunchback, in his retreat, was now regarding neither the horseman nor the young girl. His glittering eyes, as if fascinated, rested on the weapon of theplaisant.
"What a fine blade you've got there!" he said curiously. "Much better than a wooden sword. Jeweled, too, by the holy bagpipe! And a coat of arms!"—more excitedly—"yes, the coat of arms of the great Constable of Dubrois. As proud a sword as that of the king. Where did you get it?" And in his sudden interest, the dwarf half-ventured from his place of refuge.
"Answer him not!" said the girl, hastily.
"Was it you, mistress, gave it him?" he asked, with a sudden, sharp look.
Her contemptuous gaze was her only reply.
"By the dust of kings, when last I saw it, the haughty constable himself it was who wore it," continued Triboulet. "Aye, when he defied Francis to his face. I can see him now, a rich surcoat over his gilded armor; the queen-mother, an amorous Dulcinea, gazing at him, with all her soul in her eyes; the brilliant company startled; even the king overawed. 'Twas I broke the spell, while the monarch and the court were silent, not daring to speak."
"You!" From the young woman's eyes flashed a flame of deepest hatred.
The hunchback shrank back; then laughed. "I, Triboulet!" he boasted. "'Ha!' said I, 'he's greater than the king!' whereupon Francis frowned, started, and answered the constable, refusing his claim. Not long thereafter the constable died in Spain, and I completed the jest. 'So,' said I, 'he is less than a man.' And the king, who remembered, laughed."
"Let us go," said the jestress, very white.
Silently theplaisantobeyed, and Triboulet once more ventured forth. "Momus go with you!" he called out after them. And then:
"'Morbleu! A merry monarch and a jestress fair;'"
More quickly they rode on. Furtively, with suppressed rage in his heart, the duke's fool regarded his companion. Her face was cold and set, and as his glance rested on its pale, pure outline, beneath his breath he cursed Brusquet, Triboulet and all their kind. He understood now—too well—the secret of her flight. What he had heretofore been fairly assured of was unmistakably confirmed. The sight of the tavern which they came suddenly upon and the appearance of the innkeeper interrupted this dark trend of thought, and, springing from his horse, the jester helped the girl to dismount.
The house, being situated in the immediate proximity of the grand château, received a certain patronage from noble lords and ladies. This trade had given the proprietor such an opinion of his hostelry that common folk were not wont to be overwhelmed with welcome. In the present instance the man showed a disposition to scrutinize too closely the modest attire of the new-comers and the plain housings of their chargers, when the curt voice of the jester recalled him sharply from this forward occupation.
With a shade less of disrespect, the proprietor bade them follow him; rooms were given them, and, in the larger of the two chambers, theplaisant, desiring to avoid the publicity of the dining and tap-room, ordered their supper to be served.
During the repast the girl scarcely spoke; the capon she hardly touched; the claret she merely sipped. Once when she held the glass to her lips, he noticed her hand trembled just a little, and then, when she set down the goblet, how it closed, almost fiercely. Beneath her eyes shadows seemed to gather; above them her glance shone ominously.
"Oh," she said at length, as though giving utterance to some thought, which, pent-up, she could no longer control; "the irony; the tragedy of it!"
"What, Jacqueline?" he asked, gently, although he felt the blood surging in his head.
"'Morbleu! A merry monarch'—"
she began, and broke off abruptly, rising to her feet, with a gesture of aversion, and moving restlessly across the room. "After all these years! After all that had gone before!"
"What has gone before, Jacqueline?"
"Nothing," she answered; "nothing."
For some time he sat with his sword across his knees, thinking deeply. She went to the window and looked out. When she spoke again her voice had regained its self-command.
"A dark night," she said, mechanically.
"Jacqueline," he asked, glancing up from the blade, "why in the crypt that day we escaped did you pause at that monument?"
Quickly she turned, gazing at him from the half-darkness in which she stood.
"Did you see to whom the monument was erected?" she asked in a low voice.
"To the wife of the constable. But what was Anne, Duchess of Dubrois, to you?"
"She was the last lady of the castle," said the girl softly.
Again he surveyed the jeweled emblem on the sword, mocking reminder of a glory gone beyond recall.
"And how was it, mistress, the castle was confiscated by the king?" he continued, after a pause.
"Shall I tell you the story?" she asked, her voice hardening.
"If you will," he answered.
"Triboulet's description of the scene where the constable braved the king, insisting on his rights, was true," she observed, proudly.
"But why had the noble wearer of this sword been deprived of his feudality and tenure?"
"Because he was strong and great, and the king feared him; because he was noble and handsome, and the queen-regent loved him. It was not her hand only, Louise of Savoy, Francis' mother, offered, but—the throne."
"The throne!" said the wondering fool.
Quickly she crossed the room and leaned upon the table. In the glimmer of the candles her face was soft and tender. He thought he had never seen a sweeter or more womanly expression.
"But he refused it," she continued, "for he loved only the memory of his wife, Lady Anne. She, a perfect being. The other—what?"
On her features shone a fine contempt.
"Then followed the endless persecution and spite of a woman scorned," she continued, rapidly. "One by one, his honors were wrested from him. He who had borne the flag triumphantly through Italy was deprived of the government of Milan and replaced by a brother of Madame de Châteaubriant, then favorite of the king. His castle, lands, were confiscated, until, driven to despair, he fled and allied himself with the emperor. 'Traitor,' they called him. He, a Bayard."
A moment she stood, an exalted look on her features; tall, erect; then stepped toward him and took the sword. With a bright and radiant glance she surveyed it; pressed the hilt to her lips, and with both hands held it to her bosom. As if fascinated, the fool watched her. Her countenance was upturned; a moment, and it fell; a dark shadow crossed it; beneath her lashes her eyes were like night.
"But he failed because Charles, the emperor, failed him," she said, almost mechanically, "and broken in spirit, met his death miserably in exile. Yet his cause was just; his memory is dearer than that of a conqueror. She, the queen-mother, is dead; God alone may deal with her."
More composed, she resumed her place in the chair on the other side of the table, the sword across her arm.
"And how came you, mistress," he asked, regarding her closely, "in the pleasure palace built by Francis?"
"When the castle was taken, all who had not fled were a gamekeeper and his little girl—myself. The latter"—ironically—"pleased some of the court ladies. They commended her wit, and gradually was she advanced to the high position she occupied when you arrived," with a strange glance across the board at her listener.
"And the gamekeeper—your father—is dead?"
"Long since."
"The constable had no children?"
"Yes; a girl who, it is believed, died with him in Spain."
The entrance of the servant to remove the dishes interrupted their further conversation. As the door opened, from below came the voices of new-comers, the impatient call of tipplers for ale, the rattle of dishes in the kitchen. Wrapped in the recollections the conversation had evoked, to Jacqueline the din passed unnoticed, and when the rosy-cheeked lass had gone—it was the jester who first spoke.
"What a commentary on the mockery of fate that the sword of such a man, so illustrious, so unfortunate, should be intrusted to a fool!"
"Why," she said, looking at him, her arms on the table, "you drew it bravely, and—once—more bravely—kept it sheathed."
His face flushed. She half smiled; then placed the blade on the board before him.
"There it is."
Above the sword he reached over, as if to place his hand on hers, but she quickly rose. Absently he returned the weapon to his girdle. She took a step or two from him, nervously; lifted her hand to her brow and breathed deeply.
"How tired I feel!" she said.
Immediately he got up. "You are worn out from the journey," he observed, quickly.
But he knew it was not the journey that had most affected her.
"I will leave you," he went on. "Have you everything you need?"
"Everything," she answered carelessly.
He walked to the door. The light was on his face; hers remained shaded.
"Good-night," she said.
"Good-night, Jacqueline, Duchess of Dubrois," he answered, and, turning, disappeared down the corridor.
From one of the watch-towers of the town rang the clear note of a trumpet, a tribute of melody, occasioned by the awakening in the east. As the last clarion tones reëchoed over the sleeping village, a crimson rim appeared above the horizon and soon the entire wheel of the chariot of the sun-god rolled up out of the illimitable abyss and began its daily race across the sky. The stolid bugler yawned, tucked his trumpet under his arm, and, having perfunctorily performed the duties of his office, tramped downward with more alacrity than he had toiled upward.
About the same time the sleepy guard at the town gate was relieved by an equally drowsy-appearing trooper; here and there windows were flung open, and around the well in the small public square the maids began to congregate. In the tap-room of the tavern the landlord moved about, setting to rights the tables and chairs, or sprinkling fresh sand on the floor. The place had a stale, close odor, as though not long since vacated by an inabstinent company, a supposition further borne out by the disorder of the furniture, and the evidence the gathering had not been over-nice about spilling the contents of their toss-pots. The host had but opened the front door, permitting the fresh, invigorating air from without to enter, when the duke'splaisant, his cloak over his arm, descended the stairs, and, addressing the landlord, asked when he and his companion could be provided with breakfast.
"Breakfast!" grumbled the proprietor. "The maids are hardly up and the fires must yet be started. It will be an hour or more before you can be served."
The jester appeared somewhat dissatisfied, but contented himself with requesting the other to set about the meal at once.
"You ride forth early," answered the man, in an aggrieved tone.
Theplaisantmade no reply as he strode to the door and looked out; noted sundry signs of awakening life down the narrow street, and then returned to the tap-room.
"You had a noisy company here last night, landlord?" he vouchsafed, glancing around the room and recalling the laughter and shouts he had heard below until a late hour.
"Noisy company!" retorted the innkeeper. "A goodly company that ate and drank freely. Distinguished company that paid freely. The king's own guards who are acting as escort to Robert, the Duke of Friedwald, and his bride, the princess. Noisy company, forsooth."
The young man started. "The king's guards!" he said. "What are they doing here?"
The other vigorously rubbed the top of a table with a damp cloth. "Acting as escort to the duke, as I told you," he replied.
"The duke is here, also?"
"Yes; at the château. The princess had become weary of travel; besides, had sprained her ankle, I heard, and would have it the cavalcade should tarry a few days. They e'en stopped at my door," he went on ostentatiously, "and called for a glass of wine for the princess. 'Tis true she took it with a frown, but the hardships of journeying do not agree with grand folks."
These last words the jester, absorbed in thought, did not hear. With his back to the man, he stood gazing through the high window, apparently across the street. But between the two houses on the other side of the thoroughfare was a considerable open space, and through this, far away, on the mount, could be seen the château. The sunlight shone bright on turret and spire; its walls were white and glistening; its outlines, graceful and airy as a fabric of imagination.
"And yet it was a handsome cavalcade," continued the proprietor, his predilection for pomp overcoming his churlishness. "The princess on a steed with velvet housings, set with precious stones. Her ladies attired in eastern silks. Behind the men of arms; Francis' troops in rich armor; the duke's soldiers more simply arrayed. At the head of the procession rode—"
"Have the horses brought out at once."
Thus brusquely interrupted, the innkeeper stared blankly at his guest, who had left the window and now stood in the center of the room confronting him. "And the breakfast?" asked the man.
"I have changed my mind and do not want it," was the curt response.
The host shrugged his shoulders disagreeably, as the plaisant turned and ascended the stairs. "Unprofitable travelers," muttered the landlord, following with his gaze the retreating figure.
Hastily making his way to the room of the young girl, the jester knocked on the door.
"Are you awake, Jacqueline?"
"Yes," answered a voice within.
"We must ride forth as soon as possible. The duke is at the château."
"At the château!" she exclaimed in surprise. Then after a pause: "And Triboulet saw us. He will tell that you are here. I will come down at once. Wait," she added, as an afterthought seized her.
He heard her step to the window. "I think the gates of the château are open," she said. "I am not sure; it is so far."
"Do you see any one on the road leading down?"
"No," came the answer.
"Nor could I. But perhaps they have already passed."
Again the jester returned to the tap-room, where he found the landlord polishing the pewter tankards.
"The horses?" said the fool sharply.
"The stable boy will bring them to the door," was the response, and the innkeeper held a pot in the air and leisurely surveyed the shining surface.
"The reckoning?"
Deliberately the man replaced the receptacle on the table, and, pressing his thumbs together, began slowly to calculate: "Bottle of wine, ten sous; capon, twenty sous; two rooms—" when the jester took from his coat the purse the young girl had given him, and, selecting a coin, threw it on the board. At the sight of the purse and its golden contents the countenance of the proprietor mollified; his price forthwith varied with his changed estimate of his guest's condition. "Two rooms, fifty sous; fodder, forty sous"—he went on. "That would make—"
"Keep the coin," said theplaisant, "and have the stable boy make haste."
With new alacrity, the innkeeper thrust the pistole into a leathern pouch he carried at his girdle. A guest who paid so well could afford to be eccentric, and if he and the young lady chose to travel without breakfast, it was obviously not for the purpose of economy. Therefore, exclaiming something about "a lazy rascal that needed stirring up," the now interested landlord was about to go to the barn himself, when, with a loud clattering, a party of horsemen rode up to the tavern; the door burst open and Triboulet, followed by a tall, rugged-looking man and a party of troopers, entered the hall.
Swiftly the jester glanced around him; the room had no other door than that before which the troopers were crowded; he was fairly caught in a trap. Remorsefully his thoughts flew to the young girl and the trust she had imposed in him. How had he rewarded that confidence? By a temerity which made this treachery on the part of the hunchback possible. Even now before him stood Triboulet, bowing ironically.
"I trust you are well?" jeered the dwarf, and with a light, dancing step began to survey the other from side to side. "And the lady—is she also well this morning? How pleased you both were to see me yesterday!" assuming an insolent, albeit watchful, pose. "So you believed I had run away from the duke? As if he could get on without me. What would be a honeymoon without Triboulet! The maids of honor would die of ennui. One day they trick me out with true-lovers' knots! the next, give me a Cupid's head for a wand. Leave the duke!" he repeated, bombastically. "Triboulet could not be so unkind."
"Enough of this buffoonery!" said a decisive voice, and the dwarf drew back, not without a grimace, to make room for a person of soldierly mien, who now pushed his way to the front. Over his doublet this gentleman wore a somewhat frayed, but embroidered, cloak; his broad hat was fringed with gold that had lost its luster; his countenance, deeply burned, seemed that of an old campaigner. He regarded the fool courteously, yet haughtily.
"Your sword, sir!" he commanded, in the tone of one accustomed to being obeyed.
"To whom should I give it?" asked the duke's jester.
"To the Vicomte de Gruise, commandant of the town. I have a writ for your arrest as a heretic."
"Who has lodged this information against me?"
"Triboulet. That is, he procured the duke's signature to the writ."
"And you think the duke a party to this farce, my Lord?" said the fool, with assumed composure. "It has not occurred to you that before the day is over all the village will be laughing at the spectacle of their commandant—pardon me—being led by the nose by a jester?"
The officer's sun-burned face became yet redder; he frowned, then glanced suspiciously at Triboulet, whose reputation was France-wide.
"This man was the duke's fool," screamed the dwarf, "and was imprisoned by order of the king. His companion who is here with him was formerly jestress to the princess. She is a sorceress and bewitched the monarch. Then her fancy seized upon the heretic, and, by her dark art, she opened the door of the cell for him. Together they fled; she from the court, he from prison."
The commandant looked curiously from the hunchback to the accused. If this were acting, the dwarf was indeed a master of the art.
"Besides, his haste to leave the village," eagerly went on Triboulet. "Why was he dressed at this hour? Ask the landlord if he did not seem unduly hurried?"
At this appeal the innkeeper, who had been an interested spectator, now became a not unwilling witness.
"It is true he seemed hurried," he answered. "When he first came down he ordered breakfast. I happened to mention the duke was at the château, whereupon he lost his appetite with suspicious suddenness, called for his horses, and was for riding off with all haste."
From the commandant's expression this testimony apparently removed any doubts he may have entertained. Above the heads of the troopers massed in the doorway the duke'splaisantsaw Jacqueline, standing on the stairs, with wide-open, dark eyes fastened upon him. Involuntarily he lifted his hand to his heart; across the brief space glance melted into glance.
Persecuted Calvin maid—had not her fate been untoward enough without this new disaster? Had not the king wrought sufficient ill to her and hers in the past? Would she be sent back to the court; the monarch? For himself he had no thought, but for her, who was nobler even than her birthright. He had been thrice a fool who had not heeded portentous warnings—the sight of Triboulet, the clamor of the troopers—and had failed to flee during the night. As he realized the penalty of his negligence would fall so heavily upon her, a cry of rage burst from the fool's lips and he sprang toward his aggressors. The young girl became yet whiter; a moment she clung to the baluster; then started to descend the stairs. A dozen swords flashed before her eyes.
She drew in her breath sharply, when as if by some magic, the anger faded from the face of the duke's fool; the hand he had raised to his breast fell to his side; his blade remained sheathed.
"Your pardon, my Lord," he said to the commandant. "I have no intention of resisting the authority of the law, but if you will grant me a few moments' private audience in this room, I promise to convince you the Duke of Friedwald never signed that writ."
"Let him convince the council that examines heretics," laughed Triboulet. "I'll warrant they'll make short work of his arguments."
"I will give you my sword, sir," went on the jester. "Afterward, if you are satisfied, you shall return it to me. If you are not, on my word as a man of honor, I will go with you without more ado."
"A Calvinist, a jester, a man of honor!" cried the dwarf.
But narrowly the vicomte regarded the speaker. "Pardieu!" he exclaimed gruffly. "Keep your sword! I promise you I can look to my own safety." And in spite of Triboulet's remonstrance, he waved back the troopers and closed the door upon theplaisantand himself.
Outside the dwarf stormed and stamped. "The jester is desperate. It is the noble count who is a nonny. Open, fool-soldiers!"
This command not being obeyed by the men who guarded the entrance, the dwarf began to abuse them. A considerable interval elapsed; the hunchback, who dared not go into the room himself, compromised by kneeling before the keyhole; at the foot of the stairs stood the girl, her strained gaze fastened upon the door.
"They must be near the window," muttered Triboulet in a disappointed tone, rising. "What can they be about? Surely will he try to kill the commandant."
But even as he spoke the door was suddenly thrown open and the vicomte appeared on the threshold.
"Clear the hall!" he commanded sharply to the surprised soldiers. "If I mistake not," he went on, addressing the duke's jester, "your horses are at the door."
"You are going to let them go?" burst forth Triboulet.
"I trust you and this fair lady"—turning to the wondering girl, who now stood expectantly at the side of the foreign fool—"will not harbor this incident against our hospitality," went on the vicomte, without heeding the dwarf.
"The king will hang you!" exclaimed Triboulet, his face black with disappointment and rage, as he witnessed theplaisantand the jestress leave the tavern together. "Let them go and you must answer to the king. One is a heretic who threw down a cross; the other I charge with being a sorceress."
A terrible arraignment in those days, yet the vicomte was apparently deaf. Hat in hand, he waved them adieu; the steeds sprang forward, past the soldiers, and down the street.
"After them!" cried the dwarf to the troopers, "Dolts! Joltheads!"
Whereupon one of the men, angered at this baiting, reaching out with his iron boot, caught the dwarf such a sharp blow he staggered and fell, striking his head so violently he lay motionless on the walk. At the same time, far above, a body of troopers might have been seen issuing from the gates of the château and leisurely wending their way downward.