CHAPTER IV
AN IMPATIENT SUITOR
"Well, Sir Mariner, do you not fear to venture so far on a dangeroussea?" asked a mocking voice.
"A dangerous sea, fair Jacqueline?" he replied, stroking the head ofthe hound which lay before the bench. "I see nothing save smilingfields and fragrant beds of flowers."
"Oh, I recognize now Monsieur Diplomat, not Sir Mariner!" she retorted.
Beneath her head-dress, resembling in some degree two great butterflywings, her face looked smaller than its wont. Laced tight, after thefashion, the _cotte-hardie_ made her waist appear little larger thancould be clasped by the hands of a soldier, while a silken-shod footwith which she tapped the ground would have nestled neatly in his palm.Was it pique that moved her thus to address the duke's jester? Sincehe had arrived, Jacqueline had been relegated, as it were, to thecorner. She, formerly ever first with the princess, had perforce stoodaside on the coming of the foreign fool whose company her mistressstrangely seemed to prefer to her own.
First had it been talking, walking and jesting, in which lastaccomplishment he proved singularly expert, judging from the peals oflaughter to which her mistress occasionally gave vent. Then it hadbecome riding, hawking and, worst of all, reading. Lately Louise,learned, as has been set forth, in the profane letters, had displayed amarked favor for books of all kinds--The Tree of Battles, by Bonnet,the Breviary of Nobles in verse, the "_Livre des faits d'armes et dechevalerie_," by Christine de Pisan; and in a secluded garden spot,with her fool and servant, she sedulously pursued her literary labors.
As books were rare, being hand-printed and hand-illumined, theprincess' choice of volumes was not large, but Marguerite, the king'ssister, possessed some rarely executed poems--in their mechanicalaspect; the monarch permitted her the use of several preciouschronicles; while the abbess in the convent near by, who esteemedLouise for her piety and accomplishments, submitted to her care agorgeously painted, satin-bound Life of Saint Agnes, a Roman virgin whodied under the sanguinary persecution of Diocletian. But Jacquelinefrowningly noticed that the saint's life lay idle--conspicuously,though fittingly, on the altar-table--while a manuscript of the Queenof Navarre suspiciously accompanied the jester when he sought thepleasant nook selected for reading and conversation.
It was to this spot the maid repaired one soft summer afternoon, whereshe found the fool and a volume--Marguerite's, by the purple bindingand the love-knot in silver!--awaiting doubtless the coming of theprincess; and at the sight of them, the book of romance and the jesterwho brought it, what wonder her patience gave way?
"You have been here now a fortnight, Monsieur Diplomat," she continued,bending the eyes which Triboulet so feared upon the other.
"Thirteen days, to be exact, sweet Jacqueline!" he answered calmly.
"Indeed! Then there is some hope for you, if you've kept track oftime," she returned pointedly.
Still he forbore to qualify his manner, save with a latent smile thatfurther exasperated the girl.
"What mean you, gentle mistress?" he asked quietly, without evenlooking at her.
"'Sweet Jacqueline!' 'Gentle mistress!' you are profuse with softwords!" she cried sharply.
"And yet they turn you not from anger."
"Anger!" she said, her eyes flashing. "Not another man at court woulddare to talk to me as you do."
At this he lifted his brows and surveyed her much as one would aspoiled child, a glance that excited in her the same emotion she hadexperienced the night of his arrival in Fools' hall, when he hadcontemplated her in her garb of Joculatrix, as some misplaced anomaly.
"I know, mistress," he returned ironically, "you have a reputation forsorcery. But I think it lies more in your eyes than in the moon."
"And yet I can see the future for all that," she replied, persistently,defiantly.
"The future?" he retorted, and looked from the earth to the sky. "Whatis the goal of yonder tiny cloud? Can you tell me that?"
"The goal?" she repeated, uplifting her head. "Wait! It is verysmall. The sun is already swallowing it up."
"Heigho!" yawned the jester, outstretching his yellow-pointed boot, "Icatch not the moral to the fable--an there be one!
"The moral!" she said, quickly. "Ask Marot."
"Why Marot?" Balancing the stick with the fool's head in his hand.
"Because he dared love Queen Marguerite!" she answered impetuously."The fool in motley; the lady in purple! How he jested at her wedding!How he wept when he thought himself alone!"
"He had but himself to blame, Jacqueline," returned the other withcomposure, although his eyes were now bent straight before him. "Hecould not climb to her; she could not stoop to him. Yet I daresay, itwas a mad dream he would not have foregone."
"Not have foregone!" she exclaimed, quickly. "What would he not havegiven to tear it from his breast; aye, though he tore his heart withit! That day, bright and fair, when Henry d'Albret, King of Navarre,took her in his arms and kissed her brow! When amid gay festivitiesshe became his bride! Not have foregone? Yes; Marot would forego thatday--and other days."
Still that inertia; that irritating immobility. "What a tragic talefor a summer day!" was his only comment.
"And Caillette!" she continued, rapidly. "Distinguished in mien,graceful in manner. In the house of his patron, he dared look up tothat nobleman's daughter, Diane de Poitiers. A dream; a youthfuldream! Enter Monsieur de Breze, grand seneschal of Normandy. Shall Itell you the rest? How Caillette stares, moody, knitting his brows athis cups! Of what is the jester thinking?"
"Whether the grand seneschal will let him sleep with the spaniels,Jacqueline, or turn him out," laughed the jester.
Angrily she clasped her hands before her. "Is it the way your mindwould move?" she retorted.
"A jester without a roof to cover him is like a dog without a kennel,mistress."
Disdain, contempt, rapidly crossed her face, but her lip curvedknowingly and her voice came more gently, because of the greater stingthat lay behind her words.
"You but seek to flout me from my tale," she said sweetly. "Cailletteis none such, as you know. They were young together. 'Twas said heconfessed his love; that tokens passed between them. Rhymes he writ toher; a flower, perhaps, she gave him. A flower he yet cherishes,mayhap; dried, faded, yet plucked by her!"
Involuntarily the hand of her listener touched his breast, the firstsign he had made that her story moved him. Jacqueline, watching himkeenly, smiled, and demurely looked away. Her next words seemed todance from her lips, as with head bent, like a butterfly poised, sheaddressed her remark to vacancy.
"A flower for himself, no doubt! Not given him for another!"
Whereupon she turned in time to catch the burning flush which flamedhis cheek and left it paler than she had ever seen it. At this firstsignal of her success--proving that he was not impregnable to herattack--she hummed a little song and beat time on the sward with agreen-shod foot.
"What mean you?" he asked, momentarily dropping his unruffled manner.
"Not much!" Lightly she tripped to a bush, broke off a flower andregarded it mischievously. "Why should people hide that which is sosweet and fragrant?" she remarked, and set the rose in her hair.
"Hide?" he said, looking at the flower, but not at her.
"I trust you kept the rose, Monsieur Diplomat?" she spoke up, suddenly,her expression most serious.
"What rose?" he asked, now become restless beneath her cutting tongue.
"What rose! As if you did not know! How innocent you look! How manyroses are there in the world? A thousand? Or only one? What rose?Her rose, of course. Have you got it? I hope so--for the duke iscoming and might ask for it!"
This, then, was the information she had taken such a roundabout way tocommunicate! It was to this end she had purposely led the conversationby adroit stages, studying him gaily, impatiently or maliciously, asshe marked the effect of her words upon him. All alive, she steppedback laughing; elate, s
he put her arms about a branch of the rose-bushand drew a score of roses to her bosom, as though she were a witch,impervious to thorns. He had risen--yes, there was no doubt aboutit!--but her sunny face was turned to the flowers. His countenancebecame at once puzzled and thoughtful.
"The duke--coming--" He condescended to ask for information now.
Sidewise she gazed at him, unrelenting. "Does the flower become me?"she asked.
"The duke--coming--" he repeated.
"How impolite! To refuse me a compliment!" she flashed.
The next moment he was by her side, and had taken her arm, almostroughly. "Speak out!" he cried. "Some one is coming! What duke iscoming?"
"You hurt me!" she exclaimed, angrily. He loosened his grasp.
"What duke?" she answered scornfully. "Her duke! Your duke! Theemperor's duke!"
"The Duke of Friedwald?" he asked.
"Of course! The princess' fiance; bridegroom-to-be; future husband,lord and master," she explained, with indubious and positive iteration.
"But the time--set for the wedding---has not expired," he protestedwith what she thought seemed a suspicion that she was playing with him.
"That is easily answered," she said cheerfully. "The duke, it seems,has become more and more enamored. Finally his passion has so grownand grown he fears to let it grow any more, and, as the only way out ofthe difficulty, petitioned the king to curtail the time of probationand relieve him of the constantly augmenting suspense. To which hismost gracious Majesty, having been a lover himself (on diversoccasions) and measuring the poor fellow's troubles by the qualms hehas himself experienced, has seen generously fit to cut off a few weeksof waiting and set the wedding for the near future."
"How know you this?" he demanded, sharply, striding to and fro.
"This morning the princess sent me with a message to the Countessd'Etampes. You know her? You have heard? She has succeeded theCountess of Chateaubriant. Well, the king was with her--not theCountess of Chateaubriant, but the other one, I mean. They left poorme to await his Majesty's pleasure, and, as the Countess d'Etampes hasbut newly succeeded to her present exalted position and the king hasnot yet discovered her many imperfections, I should certainly havefallen asleep for weariness had I not chanced to overhear portions oftheir conversation. The Countess d'Etampes, it seemed, was very angry.'Your Majesty promised to send her home,' she said. 'But, my dear,give me time,' pleaded the king. 'Pack her off at once,' she demanded,raising her voice. 'Send her to her husband. That's where shebelongs. Think of him, poor fellow!' Laughing, his Majestycapitulated. 'Well, well, back to her castle goes the Countess ofChateaubriant!' Thereupon--"
"But the duke, mistress," interrupted the jester, who had become moreand more impatient during the prolonged narration. "The duke?"
"Am I not to tell it in my own way?" she returned. "What manners youhave! First, you pinch my arm until I must needs cry out. Then youask a question and interrupt me before I can answer."
"Interrupt!" he muttered. "You might have told a dozen tales. Whatcare I for the king's Jezebels?"
"Jezebels!" she repeated, in mock horror. "I see plainly, if you don'tdie one way, you will another."
"'Tis usually the case. But go on with your story."
"If I can not tell it in my own way--"
"Tell it as you will, if your way be as slow as your tongue is sharp,"he answered sullenly.
"Sharp! Jezebels! You deserve not to hear, but--the king, it seems,had laid the duke's request before the Countess d'Etampes. 'Here is animpatient suitor,' he said gaily. 'How shall we cure his passion?''By marrying him,' blithely answered this light-of-love. ''Tis amedicine that never fails!' His Majesty frowned; I could not see him,but felt sure of it from his tone, for although he neglects the queen,yet, to some degree, is mindful of her dignity. 'Marriage is a holystate, Madam,' he replied severely. 'There's no doubt about it,Francis,' returned the lady, 'and therefore is the antidote to passion.But a man bent on matrimony is like a child that wants a toy. Bettergive it to him at once--the plaything will the sooner be thrown aside!''Nay, Madam,' he said reprovingly, 'the duke shall have his wish, butfor no such reason.' 'What reason then?' quoth she, petulantly.'Because thou hast shown me love is a monarch stronger than any kingand that we are but as slaves in its hands!' he exclaimed,passionately. 'I know I shall like the duke,' cried she, 'since he isthe cause of that pretty speech.'
"At this point, not daring to listen longer, I coughed; there wassilence; then the countess herself appeared at the door and looked atme sharply. With such grace as I could command, I delivered mymessage, left the house and was hurrying through the garden when chancethrew you in my way. And now you have it all, sir."
"The princess--has she heard the king has received a letter from theduke, and that his Majesty has changed the wedding date?"
The jester spoke slowly, but Jacqueline was assured that beneath hisdeliberate manner surged deep and conflicting emotions; that hiscalmness was no more than a mask to conceal his pain. Had he givenutterance to the feeling that beset him, had he betrayed more than asuggestion of the passion, rage or grief which struggles for masterybeneath a forced sloth of sensibility, she would have once more mockedhim with laughter. But perhaps his very quiescence inclined her tolook upon him with a grain of sympathy or compassion, for her toneswere now grave.
"The princess knows; has heard all from the king. Not long since hesent for her. Will she consent? What else can she do? 'Tis themonarch who commands; we who obey!"
"Is the court then only a mart, a guildhall?" he exclaimed. "Awoman--even a princess--should be won, not--exchanged!"
Her lashes drooped; in her gaze shone once more the ironical amusement."Why," she said, "from what wilds, or forests, have you come? Theheart follows where the trader lists! Think you the princess will wearthe willow?" she laughed. "How well you know women!"
"Do you mean that she--"
"I mean that her welfare is in strong hands; that there will be fewgreater in all the land; none more honored! The duke's principality isvast--but here comes the princess." The hound sprang to his feet andran gamboling down the path. "Ask her the rest yourself, mostUnsophisticated Fool! Ah,"--with a touch she could not resist--"what ahandsome bride she will make for the duke!"