The gardens of the Palais Royal made a delightful place for such an
entertainment as the king's ball. In its contrasts of light and shadow,
in its sombre alleys starred with colored lights, in its blend of courtly
pomp and sylvan simplicity, it seemed the fairy-like creation of some
splendid dream. Against the vivid greenness of the trees, intensified by
the brightness of the blazing lamps, the whiteness of the statues
asserted itself with fantastic emphasis. Everywhere innumerable flowers
of every hue and every odor sweetened the air and pleased the eye, and
through the blooming spaces, seemingly as innumerable as the blossoms and
seemingly as brilliant, moved the gay, many-colored crowd of the king's
guests. The gardens were large, the gardens were spacious, but the king's
guests were many, and seemed to leave no foot of room unoccupied. Hither
and thither they drifted, swayed, eddied, laughing, chattering,
intriguing, whispering, admiring, wondering, playing all the tricks,
repeating all the antics that are the time-honored attributes and
privileges of a masquerade. Here trained dancers executed some elaborate
measure for the entertainment of those that cared to pause in their
wandering and behold them; there mysterious individuals, in flowing
draperies, professed to read the stars and tell the fortunes of those
that chose to spare some moments from frivolity for such mystic
consultations.
In the handsomest part of the garden, hard by the Pond and Fountain of
Diana, a magnificent tent had been pitched, which was reserved for the
accommodation of the king himself and for such special friends as he
might choose to invite to share his privacy. Around this tent a stream of
mirth-makers flowed at a respectful distance, envying--for envy is
present even at a masquerade--those most highly favored where all were
highly favored in being admitted into the sovereign's intimacy.
At the door of this tent, Monsieur Breant, who had been one of the
cardinal's principal servants, and who still remained the head custodian
of the palace, was standing surveying the scene with a curiosity dulled
by long familiarity. He was unaware that a sombrely clad hunchback, quite
an incongruous figure in the merry crowd, was making for him, until the
hunchback, coming along beside him, touched him on the arm and called him
by name: "Monsieur Breant!"
Breant turned and gazed at the hunchback with some surprise. "Who are
you?" he asked.
The hunchback laughed as he answered: "Don't you know me? Why, man, I am
Æsop the Second. My illustrious ancestor laughed at all the world, and
so do I. He loved the Greek girl Rhodopis, who built herself a pyramid. I
am wiser than he, for I love only myself."
Breant shrugged his shoulders and made to turn upon his heel. "I have no
time for fooling."