JACQUELINE FETCHES THE PRINCESS' FAN
Through the flowery path, so narrow her gown brushed the leaves on
either side, the Princess Louise appeared, walking slowly. A
head-dress, heart-shaped, held her hair in its close confines; the gown
of cloth-of-silver damask fitted closely to her figure, and, from the
girdle, hung a long pendent end, elaborately enriched. With short,
sharp barks, the dog bounded before her, but the hand usually extended
to caress the animal remained at her side.
Intently the jester watched her draw near and ever nearer, their common
trysting spot, her favorite garden nook. A handsome bride, forsooth,
as Jacqueline had suggested. All in white was she now; a glittering
white, with silver adornment; ravishingly hymeneal. A bride for a
duke--or a king--more stately than the queen; handsomer than the
favorite of favorites who ruled the king and France.
"Jacqueline," she said, evincing neither surprise nor any other
emotion, as she approached, "go and fetch my fan. I believe 'tis in
the 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 for
some moments in silent thought,--a reverie the jester forbore to
disturb. Her head rested on her arm, from which fell the flowing
sleeve almost to the ground; her wrist was lightly inclasped by a
slender golden band of delicate Byzantine enamel work; over the
sculptured form of the stone griffin that constituted one of the
supports of the ancient Norman bench flowed the voluminous folds of her
dress, partly concealing the monster from view. Against the clambering
ivy which for centuries had reveled in this chosen spot, and which the
landscape gardeners of Francis had wisely spared, lay her hand, a small
ring of curious workmanship gleaming from her finger. The ring caused
the jester to start, remembering he had last seen it worn by the king.
Truly, the capricious, but august, monarch must have been well pleased
with the complaisance of his fair ward, and the face of the fool,
glowing and eager, became on the instant hard and cold. Did he
experience now the first pangs of that sorrow Jacqueline had vividly
portrayed as the love-portion of Marot and Caillette? Faintly the ivy
whispered above the princess, telling perhaps of other days when,
centuries gone by, some Norman lady had been wooed and won, or wooed
and lost, in the shadow of the griffin, which, silent, sphinx-like, yet
endured through the ages.
Idly the Princess Louise plucked a leaf from the old, old vine, picked
it apart and let the pieces float away. As they fluttered and fell at
the 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 and
her question confirmed Jacqueline's narrative. Moodily he surveyed the
great claws of the griffin, firmly planted on the earth, and then
looked from the feet to the laughing mouth of the stone figure, or so
much 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, as
though her thoughts were concentrated on it.
"Accidents," she repeated, her hand now motionless. "Is the way
perilous?"
"The country is most unsettled."
"What do you mean by unsettled?" she continued, bending forward with
fingers clasped over her knees. Supinely she waved a foot back and
forth, showing and then withdrawing the point of a jeweled slipper, and
a suggestion of lavender in silk network above. "What do you call
unsettled?"
"The country is infested with many roving bands commanded by the
so-called independent barons who owe allegiance to neither king nor
emperor," he answered. "Their homes are perched, like eagles' nests,
upon some mountain peak that commands the valleys travelers must
proceed 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's
slave; a woman's plaything! Their sentinels shared with me their
flasks; I slept before their signal fires, and even supped in the heart
of their stone fastnesses. Fools and monks are safe among them, for
the one amuses and the other absolves their sins. Yet is there one
free baron," he added reflectively, "whom even I should have done well
to avoid; he, the most feared, the most savage! Louis, the bastard of
Pfalz-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 all
but fared ill indeed, from them. To the pleasantry of my greeting,
they replied with the true pilferer's humor; the free baron had ordered
every one searched. They would have robbed and stripped me, despite
the color of my coat, only fortunately, instead of a fool's staff, I
had a good blade of the duke's. For a moment it was cut and
thrust--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 shadow
the tint on her cheeks deepened, but below the sunlight played about
her shoulders through leafy interspace, or crept in dancing spots down
over 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 well
content to permit him to come and go as he sees fit."
"Well, well," she said, perversely, "I was only curious about the
distance and the country."
"For leagues the land is wild, bleak, inhospitable, and then 'tis
level, monotonous, deserted, so lonely the song dies on the wandering
minstrel's lips. But the duke rides fast with his troop and soon would
cover the mountain paths and dreary wastes."
"Nay," she interrupted impatiently, "I asked not how the duke would
ride."
"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 not
see--"
Abruptly she rose; impatiently moved away; but a few steps, however,
when she turned, her face suddenly free from annoyance, in her eyes a
soft decision.
"There!" she exclaimed with a smile, half-arch, half-repentant. "How
can any one be angry on such a day--all sunshine, butterflies and
flowers!"
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 how
shall we make the most of such a day? Stroll into the forest; sit by
the fountain; run over the grass?"
Her voice was softer than it had been; her words fraught with
suggestions of exhilarating companionship. Did she note their effect?
At any rate, she laughed lightly.
"But how," she resumed, surveying the great enfolding skirt, "could one
trip the sward with this monstrous gown, weighted with wreaths of
silver? 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 like
Jacqueline!"
"And she, Princess, doubtless thinks likewise of more gorgeous
apparel." 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 dangling
folds of heavy silk. "Were it not for this courtly encumbrance, I
should propose going into the fields with the haymakers. You may see
them now--look!--through the opening in the foliage."
With an expression, part resignation, part regret, she leaned against
the wind-worn griffin which formed the arm of the bench. Fainter
sounded the warning of the jestress in the ears of the duke's fool; so
faint it became but a weak admonition. More and more he abandoned
himself 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; by
refusing to yield to the charm of her voice. He raised his head more
boldly; through her drooping lashes a lazy light shot forth upon him,
and the shadow of a smile seemed to say: "That is better. When the
mistress is indulgent, a fool should not be unbending. A melancholy
jester is but poor company."
And so her mood swayed his; he forgot his resolution, his pride, and
yielded to the infatuation of the moment. But when he endeavored to
call the weapons of his office to his aid, her glance and the shadow of
that 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 something
graceful 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 a
jester. But there! What book have you brought?" indicating the volume
that 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 gather
it--"
"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 bench
and I"--brightly--"may look over your shoulder ever and anon, to steal
a glimpse of the pretty pictures."
Unquestioningly, he obeyed her, the book, illumined, gleaming in the
sunshine; the letters, red, gold, many-hued, dancing before them. Love
in crimson, the five silver shafts of Cupid, the Tower of Jealousy, a
frowning fortress, the Rose, incentive for endless striving and
endeavor--all floated by on the creamy parchment leaves. So interested
was she in these wondrous pages, executed with such precision and
perfection, with marginal adornment, and many a graceful turn and fancy
in initial letter and tail-piece, she seemed to him for the moment
rather some simple lowly maiden than a proud princess of the realm.
"How much splendor the penman has shown!" she murmured, her breath on
his cheek. "'Tis more beautiful than the 'Life of Saint Agnes.' Is
not 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 a
short, mirthless laugh.
"Duty; obedience!" she broke in. "Do I not know them? Please turn the
page."
Reaching over, she herself did so, her fingers touching his, her bosom
just brushing his shoulder; and then she flushed, for it was Venus's
self the page revealed, standing on a grassy bank and showing Love the
rose. Around the queen of beauty floated a silver gauze; her hair was
indicated by threads of gold tossed luxuriantly about her; upon the
shoulder of Love rested her hand, encouraging him in his quest. Most
zealously had the monk-artist executed the lovely lady, as though some
heart-dream flowed from the ink on his pen, every line exact, each
feature radiantly shown. Some youthful anchorite, perhaps, was he, and
this the fair temptation that had assailed his fancy; such a vision as
St. Anthony wrestled with in the grievous solitude of his hermit cell.
From the book and the picture, the jester, feeling the princess draw
back impulsively, dared look up, and, looking up, could not look down
from a loveliness surpassing the idealization on vellum of a monkish
dream. From head to foot, the sunlight bathed the princess, glistening
in her hair until it was alive with light. Even when he gazed into her
blue eyes he was conscious of a more flaming glory than lay in the
heavens of their depths; a splendent maze that shed a brightness around
her.
"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 wandering
thought. "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 of
God?"
"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 not
realize the tragedy the future held for him? Or did to-morrow seem far
off, and the present become her greater concern? Was hers the
philosophy of Marguerite's code which taught that the sweets of
admiration should be gathered on the moment? That a cry of pain from a
worshiping heart, however lowly, was honeyed flattery to Love's
votaries? As the jester looked at her a sudden chill seized his
breast. Jacqueline's mocking laughter rang in his ears. "Ask her the
rest yourself, most Unsophisticated Fool!"
"Then you will obey the king?" he persisted, dully.
"Why," she answered, smiling and bending nearer, "will you spoil the
day?"
"You would give yourself to a man, whether or not you loved him?"
A frown gathered on the princess' brow, but she stooped, herself picked
up the book he had dropped, brushed the earth from it and seated
herself upon the bench. Her manner was quiet, resolute; her action, a
rebuke 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, more
gently, 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 her
feet. The quest, the idle quest! Was it but an awakening? So far lay
the branch above his reach! His voice rose and fell with the mystic
rhythm of the meter, now dwelling on death and danger, the shortness of
life, the sweetness of passion; then telling the pleasures of the dance.
[Illustration: Taking the book, he opened it at random, mechanically
sinking 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 book
became blurred and then faded away. Doubt, misgiving, fear, vanished
on the moment. The flower she had given him seemed to burn on his
heart. He forgot the decree of the king; her equivocation; the
unanswered 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 I
should have been here sooner. I trust you have not been put out for
want of it?"
"Not at all, Jacqueline," returned her mistress, with a natural,
tranquil movement, "although"--sharply--"you were gone longer than you
should have been!"