CHAPTER V
JACQUELINE FETCHES THE PRINCESS' FAN
Through the flowery path, so narrow her gown brushed the leaves oneither side, the Princess Louise appeared, walking slowly. Ahead-dress, heart-shaped, held her hair in its close confines; the gownof cloth-of-silver damask fitted closely to her figure, and, from thegirdle, hung a long pendent end, elaborately enriched. With short,sharp barks, the dog bounded before her, but the hand usually extendedto caress the animal remained at her side.
Intently the jester watched her draw near and ever nearer, their commontrysting spot, her favorite garden nook. A handsome bride, forsooth,as Jacqueline had suggested. All in white was she now; a glitteringwhite, with silver adornment; ravishingly hymeneal. A bride for aduke--or a king--more stately than the queen; handsomer than thefavorite of favorites who ruled the king and France.
"Jacqueline," she said, evincing neither surprise nor any otheremotion, as she approached, "go and fetch my fan. I believe 'tis inthe king's ante-chamber."
"Madam carried no fan when"--began the girl.
"Then 'tis somewhere else. Do not bandy words, but find it."
Sinking on the bench as the maid walked quickly away, she remained forsome moments in silent thought,--a reverie the jester forbore todisturb. Her head rested on her arm, from which fell the flowingsleeve almost to the ground; her wrist was lightly inclasped by aslender golden band of delicate Byzantine enamel work; over thesculptured form of the stone griffin that constituted one of thesupports of the ancient Norman bench flowed the voluminous folds of herdress, partly concealing the monster from view. Against the clamberingivy which for centuries had reveled in this chosen spot, and which thelandscape gardeners of Francis had wisely spared, lay her hand, a smallring of curious workmanship gleaming from her finger. The ring causedthe jester to start, remembering he had last seen it worn by the king.
Truly, the capricious, but august, monarch must have been well pleasedwith the complaisance of his fair ward, and the face of the fool,glowing and eager, became on the instant hard and cold. Did heexperience now the first pangs of that sorrow Jacqueline had vividlyportrayed as the love-portion of Marot and Caillette? Faintly the ivywhispered above the princess, telling perhaps of other days when,centuries gone by, some Norman lady had been wooed and won, or wooedand lost, in the shadow of the griffin, which, silent, sphinx-like, yetendured through the ages.
Idly the Princess Louise plucked a leaf from the old, old vine, pickedit apart and let the pieces float away. As they fluttered and fell atthe jester's feet she regarded him with thoughtful blue eyes.
"How far is it," she asked, "to the duke's principality?"
If he had doubted the maid's story, he was now convinced. The ring andher question confirmed Jacqueline's narrative. Moodily he surveyed thegreat claws of the griffin, firmly planted on the earth, and thenlooked from the feet to the laughing mouth of the stone figure, or somuch of it as the shining dress left uncovered.
"About fifteen days' journey, Princess," he replied.
"No farther?"
"Barring accidents, it may be made in that time."
She did not notice how dull was his tone; how he avoided her gaze.Blind to him, she turned the ring around and around on her finger, asthough her thoughts were concentrated on it.
"Accidents," she repeated, her hand now motionless. "Is the wayperilous?"
"The country is most unsettled."
"What do you mean by unsettled?" she continued, bending forward withfingers clasped over her knees. Supinely she waved a foot back andforth, showing and then withdrawing the point of a jeweled slipper, anda suggestion of lavender in silk network above. "What do you callunsettled?"
"The country is infested with many roving bands commanded by theso-called independent barons who owe allegiance to neither king noremperor," he answered. "Their homes are perched, like eagles' nests,upon some mountain peak that commands the valleys travelers mustproceed through. A fierce, untamed crew, bent on rapine and murder!"
"Did you encounter any such?" Gently.
"Ofttimes."
"And left unscathed?"
"Because I was a jester, Madam; something less than man; a lordling'sslave; a woman's plaything! Their sentinels shared with me theirflasks; I slept before their signal fires, and even supped in the heartof their stone fastnesses. Fools and monks are safe among them, forthe one amuses and the other absolves their sins. Yet is there onefree baron," he added reflectively, "whom even I should have done wellto avoid; he, the most feared, the most savage! Louis, the bastard ofPfalz-Urfeld!"
"Have you ever met him?" asked the princess, in a mechanical tone.
"No," with a short laugh. "A few of his knaves I encountered, however,whose conduct shamed the courtesy of the other mountain rogues. I allbut fared ill indeed, from them. To the pleasantry of my greeting,they replied with the true pilferer's humor; the free baron had orderedevery one searched. They would have robbed and stripped me, despitethe color of my coat, only fortunately, instead of a fool's staff, Ihad a good blade of the duke's. For a moment it was cut andthrust--not jest and gibe; the suddenness of the attack surprised them,and before they could digest the humor of it the fool had slipped away."
She leaned inertly back against the soft cushion of ivy. In the shadowthe tint on her cheeks deepened, but below the sunlight played abouther shoulders through leafy interspace, or crept in dancing spots downover her gown and arms.
"The duke would not be molested by these outlaws?" she continued,pursuing her line of questioning.
"The duke has a strong arm," he answered cautiously. "They may be wellcontent to permit him to come and go as he sees fit."
"Well, well," she said, perversely, "I was only curious about thedistance and the country."
"For leagues the land is wild, bleak, inhospitable, and then 'tislevel, monotonous, deserted, so lonely the song dies on the wanderingminstrel's lips. But the duke rides fast with his troop and soon wouldcover the mountain paths and dreary wastes."
"Nay," she interrupted impatiently, "I asked not how the duke wouldride."
"I thought you wished to know, Princess," he replied, humbly.
"You thought"--she began angrily, sitting erect.
"I know, Princess; a fool should but jest, not think."
"Why do you cross me to-day?" she demanded petulantly. "Can you notsee--"
Abruptly she rose; impatiently moved away; but a few steps, however,when she turned, her face suddenly free from annoyance, in her eyes asoft decision.
"There!" she exclaimed with a smile, half-arch, half-repentant. "Howcan any one be angry on such a day--all sunshine, butterflies andflowers!"
He did not reply, and, mistress once more of herself, she drew near.
"What a contrast to the stuffy palace, with all the courtiers,ministers and lap-dogs!" she went on. "Here one can breathe. But howshall we make the most of such a day? Stroll into the forest; sit bythe fountain; run over the grass?"
Her voice was softer than it had been; her words fraught withsuggestions of exhilarating companionship. Did she note their effect?At any rate, she laughed lightly.
"But how," she resumed, surveying the great enfolding skirt, "could onetrip the sward with this monstrous gown, weighted with wreaths ofsilver? Is it not but one of the many penalties of high birth? Oh,for the short skirts of the lowly! What comfort to be arrayed likeJacqueline!"
"And she, Princess, doubtless thinks likewise of more gorgeousapparel." His heart beat faster as he strove to answer her in kind.
"A waste of cloth in vanity, as saith Master Calvin!" she replied,lifting her arms that shone with creamy softness from the danglingfolds of heavy silk. "Were it not for this courtly encumbrance, Ishould propose going into the fields with the haymakers. You may seethem now--look!--through the opening in the foliage."
With an expression, part resignation, part regret, she leaned againstthe wind-worn griffin which formed the arm of the bench. Faintersoun
ded the warning of the jestress in the ears of the duke's fool; sofaint it became but a weak admonition. More and more he abandonedhimself to the pleasure of the moment.
"To make the most of the day," the princess had said.
How? By denying himself the sight of her ever-varying grace; byrefusing to yield to the charm of her voice. He raised his head moreboldly; through her drooping lashes a lazy light shot forth upon him,and the shadow of a smile seemed to say: "That is better. When themistress is indulgent, a fool should not be unbending. A melancholyjester is but poor company."
And so her mood swayed his; he forgot his resolution, his pride, andyielded to the infatuation of the moment. But when he endeavored tocall the weapons of his office to his aid, her glance and the shadow ofthat smile left him witless. Jest, fancy and whim had taken flight.
"Well?" she said. "Well, Sir Fool?"
His color shifted; withal his half-embarrassment, there was somethinggraceful and noble in his bearing.
"Madam"--he began, and stopped for want of matter to put into words.
But if the princess was annoyed at the new-found dullness of her_plaisant_, her manner did not show it.
"What," she said, gently; "no news from the court; no word of intrigue;no story of the king? I should seek a courtier for my companion, not ajester. But there! What book have you brought?" indicating the volumethat lay upon the bench.
"Guillaume de Lorris's 'Romance of the Rose,'" he answered, more freely.
"Where did we leave off?"
"Where the hero, arriving at a fountain, beheld a beautiful rose tree,"said the fool in a low tone. "Desiring the rose, he reached to gatherit--"
"Yes, I remember. And then, Reason and Danger did battle with Love."
"Is it your wish we continue?" he asked, taking the book in his hand.
"I would fain learn if he gathers his rose. Nay, sit here on the benchand I"--brightly--"may look over your shoulder ever and anon, to steala glimpse of the pretty pictures."
Unquestioningly, he obeyed her, the book, illumined, gleaming in thesunshine; the letters, red, gold, many-hued, dancing before them. Lovein crimson, the five silver shafts of Cupid, the Tower of Jealousy, afrowning fortress, the Rose, incentive for endless striving andendeavor--all floated by on the creamy parchment leaves. So interestedwas she in these wondrous pages, executed with such precision andperfection, with marginal adornment, and many a graceful turn and fancyin initial letter and tail-piece, she seemed to him for the momentrather some simple lowly maiden than a proud princess of the realm.
"How much splendor the penman has shown!" she murmured, her breath onhis cheek. "'Tis more beautiful than the 'Life of Saint Agnes.' Isnot that figure well done? A hard, austere old man; Reason, I believe,in monkish attire."
"Reason, or Duty, ever partakes of the monastery," he retorted with ashort, mirthless laugh.
"Duty; obedience!" she broke in. "Do I not know them? Please turn thepage."
Reaching over, she herself did so, her fingers touching his, her bosomjust brushing his shoulder; and then she flushed, for it was Venus'sself the page revealed, standing on a grassy bank and showing Love therose. Around the queen of beauty floated a silver gauze; her hair wasindicated by threads of gold tossed luxuriantly about her; upon theshoulder of Love rested her hand, encouraging him in his quest. Mostzealously had the monk-artist executed the lovely lady, as though someheart-dream flowed from the ink on his pen, every line exact, eachfeature radiantly shown. Some youthful anchorite, perhaps, was he, andthis the fair temptation that had assailed his fancy; such a vision asSt. Anthony wrestled with in the grievous solitude of his hermit cell.
From the book and the picture, the jester, feeling the princess drawback impulsively, dared look up, and, looking up, could not look downfrom a loveliness surpassing the idealization on vellum of a monkishdream. From head to foot, the sunlight bathed the princess, glisteningin her hair until it was alive with light. Even when he gazed into herblue eyes he was conscious of a more flaming glory than lay in theheavens of their depths; a splendent maze that shed a brightness aroundher.
"Oh, Princess," he said, wildly, "I know what the king hath told you!Why you wear the monarch's ring!"
"The monarch's ring!" she repeated, as recalled suddenly from wanderingthought. "Why--how know you--ah, Jacqueline--"
"And a ring signifieth consent. You will fulfill the king's desire?"
"The king's desire?" she replied, mechanically. "Is it not the will ofGod?"
"But your own heart?" he cried, holding her with his eager gaze.
She laid her hand on his shoulder; her eyes answered his. Did she notrealize the tragedy the future held for him? Or did to-morrow seem faroff, and the present become her greater concern? Was hers thephilosophy of Marguerite's code which taught that the sweets ofadmiration should be gathered on the moment? That a cry of pain from aworshiping heart, however lowly, was honeyed flattery to Love'svotaries? As the jester looked at her a sudden chill seized hisbreast. Jacqueline's mocking laughter rang in his ears. "Ask her therest yourself, most Unsophisticated Fool!"
"Then you will obey the king?" he persisted, dully.
"Why," she answered, smiling and bending nearer, "will you spoil theday?"
"You would give yourself to a man, whether or not you loved him?"
A frown gathered on the princess' brow, but she stooped, herself pickedup the book he had dropped, brushed the earth from it and seatedherself upon the bench. Her manner was quiet, resolute; her action, arebuke to the forward fool.
"Will you not read?" she said, with an inscrutable look.
"True," he exclaimed, rising quickly, "I was sent to amuse--"
"And you have found me a too exacting mistress?" she asked, moregently, checking the implied reproach.
"Exacting!" he repeated.
"What then?" she said, half sadly.
"Nothing," he answered.
But in his mind Jacqueline's scornful words reiterated themselves:"Think you the princess will wear the willow?"
Taking the book, he opened it at random, mechanically sinking at herfeet. The quest, the idle quest! Was it but an awakening? So far laythe branch above his reach! His voice rose and fell with the mysticrhythm of the meter, now dwelling on death and danger, the shortness oflife, the sweetness of passion; then telling the pleasures of the dance.
Taking the book, he opened it at random, mechanicallysinking at her feet.]
Lower fell the princess' hand until it touched the reader's head;touched and lingered. Before the fool's eyes the letters of the bookbecame blurred and then faded away. Doubt, misgiving, fear, vanishedon the moment. The flower she had given him seemed to burn on hisheart. He forgot the decree of the king; her equivocation; theunanswered question. Passionately he thrust his hand into his doublet.
"The rose and love are one," he cried. "The rose is--"
"Pardon me, Madam," said a voice, and Jacqueline, clear-eyed, calm,stood before them; "the fan was not in the king's ante-chamber, or Ishould have been here sooner. I trust you have not been put out forwant of it?"
"Not at all, Jacqueline," returned her mistress, with a natural,tranquil movement, "although"--sharply--"you were gone longer than youshould have been!"