TIDINGS FROM THE COURT
When Brusquet, the jester, fled from the camp at Avignon, where he had
presumed to practise medicine, to the detriment of the army, some one
said: "Fools and cats have nine lives," and the revised proverb had
been accepted at court. It was this saying the turnkey muttered when
he bent over the prostrate figure of the duke's _plaisant_ after the
free baron had departed. Thus one of the fabled sources of existence
was left the fool, and again it seemed the proverb would be realized.
Day after day passed, and still the vital spark burned; perhaps it
wavered, but in this extremity the jester had not been entirely
neglected; but who had befriended him, assisting the spirit and the
flesh to maintain their unification, he did not learn until some time
later. Youth and a strong constitution were also a shield against the
final change, and when he began to mend, and his heart-beats grew
stronger, even the jailer, his erstwhile assailant, the most callous of
his several keepers, exhibited a stony interest in this unusual
convalescence.
The touch of a hand was the _plaisant's_ first impression of returning
consciousness, and then into his throbbing brain crept the outlines of
the prison walls and the small window that grudgingly admitted the
light. To his confused thoughts these surroundings recalled the
struggle with the free baron and the jailer. As across a dark chasm,
he saw the face of the false duke, whereon wonder and conviction had
given way to brutal rage, and, with the memory of that treacherous
blow, the fool half-started from his couch.
A low voice carried him back from the past to a vague cognizance of a
woman's form, standing at the head of the bed, and two grave, dark eyes
looking down upon him which he strove in vain to interrogate with his
own. He would have spoken, but the soothing pressure of the hand upon
his forehead restrained him, and, turning to the wall, sleep overcame
him; a slumber long, sound and restorative. Motionless the figure
remained, listening for some time to his deep breathing and then stole
away as silently as she had come.
Amid a solitude like that of a catacomb the hours ran their course; the
day grew old, and eventide replaced the waning flush in the west. The
shadows deepened into night, and the first kisses of morn again merged
into the brighter prime. Near the cell the only sound had been the
footstep of the warder, or the scampering of a rat, but now from afar
seemed to come a faint whispering, like the murmur of the ocean. It
was the voice of awakened nature; the wind and the trees; the whir of
birds' wings, or the sound of other living creatures in the forest hard
by. A song of life and buoyancy, it breathed just audibly its cheering
intonation about the prison bars, when the captive once more stirred
and gazed around him. As he did so, the figure of the woman, who had
again noiselessly entered the cell, stepped forward and stood near the
couch.
"Are you better?" she asked.
He raised himself on his elbow, surprised at the unexpected appearance
of his visitor.
"Jacqueline!" he said, wonderingly, recognizing the features of the
joculatrix. "I must have been unconscious all night." And he stared
from her toward the window.
"Yes," she returned with a peculiar smile; "all night." And bending
over him, she held a receptacle to his lips from which he mechanically
drank a broth, warm and refreshing, the while he endeavored to account
for the strangeness of her presence in the cell. She placed the bowl
on the floor and then, straightening her slim figure, again regarded
him.
"You are improving fast," she commented, reflectively.
"Thanks to your sovereign mixture," he answered, lifting a hand to his
bandaged head, and striving to collect his scattered ideas which
already seemed to flow more consecutively. The pain which had racked
his brow had grown perceptibly less since his last deep slumber, and a
grateful warmth diffused itself in his veins with a growing assurance
of physical relief. "But may I ask how you came here?" he continued,
perplexity mingling with the sense of temporary languor that stole over
him.
"I heard the duke tell the king you had attacked him and he had struck
you down," she replied, after a pause.
His face darkened; his head throbbed once more; with his fingers he
idly picked at the straw.
"And the king, of course, believed," he said. "Oh, credulous king!" he
added scornfully. "Was ever a monarch so easily befooled? A judge of
men? No; a ruler who trusts rather to fortune and blind destiny.
Unlike Charles, he looks not through men, but at them."
"Think no more of it," she broke in, hastily, seeing the effect of her
words.
"Nay, good Jacqueline," quickly retorted the jester; "the truth, I pray
you. Believe me, I shall mend the sooner for it. What said the
duke--as he calls himself?"
"Why, he shook his head ruefully," answered the girl, not noticing his
reservation. "'Your Majesty,' he said, 'for the memory of bygone
quibbles I sought him, but found him not--alack!--on the stool of
repentance.'"
About the fool's mouth quivered the grim suggestion of a half-smile.
"He is the best jester of us all," he muttered. "And then?" fastening
his eyes upon hers.
"'No sooner, Sire,' went on the duke, 'had I entered the cell than he
rushed upon me, and, it grieves me, I used the wit-snapper roughly.'
So"--folding her hands before her and gazing at the _plaisant_--"I e'en
came to see if you were killed."
"You came," he said. "Yes; but how?"
"What matters it?" she answered. "Perhaps it was magic, and the
cell-doors flew open at my touch."
"I can almost believe it," he returned.
And his glance fell thoughtfully from her to the couch. Before the
assault he had lain at night upon the straw on the floor, and this
unhoped-for immunity from the dampness of the stones or the scampering
of occasional rats suggested another starting point for mental inquiry.
She smiled, reading the interrogation on his face.
"One of the turnkeys furnished the bed," she remarked, shrewdly. "Do
you like it?"
"It is a better couch than I have been accustomed to," he replied, in
no wise misled by her response, and surmising that her solicitation had
procured him this luxury. "Nevertheless, the night has seemed
strangely long."
"It has been long," she returned, moving toward the window. "A week
and more."
Surprise, incredulity, were now written upon his features. That such
an interval should have elapsed since the evening of the free baron's
visit appeared incredible. He could not see her countenance as she
spoke; only her figure; the upper portion bright, the lower fading into
the deep shadows beneath the aperture in the wall.
"You tell me I have lain here a week?" he asked finally, recalling
obscure memories of faintly-seen faces and voices heard as from afar.
"And more," she repeated.
For some moments he remained silent, passing from introspection to a
current of thought of which she could know nothing; the means he had
taken to thwart the ambitious projects of the king's guest.
"Has Caillette returned?" he continued, with ill-disguised eagerness.
"Caillette?" she answered, lifting her brows at the abruptness of the
inquiry. "Has he been away? I had not noticed. I do not know."
"Then is he still absent," said the jester, decisively. "Had he come
back, you would have heard."
Quickly she looked at him. Caillette!--Spain!--these were the words he
had often uttered in his delirium. Although he seemed much better and
the hot flush had left his cheeks, his fantasy evidently remained.
"A week and over!" resumed the fool, more to himself than to his
companion. "But he still may return before the duke is wedded."
"And if he did return?" she asked, wishing to humor him.
"Then the duke is not like to marry the princess," he burst out.
"Not like--to marry!" she replied, suddenly, and moved toward him. Her
clear eyes were full upon him; closely she studied his worn features.
"Not like--but he has married her!"
The jester strove to spring to his feet, but his legs seemed as relaxed
as his brain was dazed.
"Has married!--impossible!" he exclaimed fiercely.
"They were wedded two days since," she went on quietly, possibly
regretting that surprise, or she knew not what, had made her speak.
"Wedded two days since!"
He repeated it to himself, striving to realize what it meant. Did it
mean anything? He remembered how mockingly the jestress' face had
shone before him in the past; how derisive was her irony. From Fools'
hall to the pavilion of the tournament had she flouted him.
"Wedded two days since!"
"You must have your drollery," he said, unsteadily, at length.
She did not reply, and he continued to question her with his eyes.
Quite still she remained, save for an almost imperceptible movement of
breathing. Against the dull beams from the aperture above, her hair
darkly framed her face, pale, dim with half-lights, illusory. When he
again spoke his voice sounded new to his own ears.
"How could the princess have been married? Even if I have lain here as
long as you say, the day for the wedding was set for at least a week
from now."
"But changed!" she responded, unexpectedly.
"Changed!" he cried, sitting on the edge of the couch, and regarding
her as though he doubted he had heard aright. "Why should it have been
changed?"
"Because the duke became a most impatient suitor," she answered.
"Daily he grew more eager. Finally, to attain his end, he importuned
the countess. She laughed, but good-naturedly acceded to his request,
and, in turn importuned the king--who generously yielded. It has been
a rare laughing matter at court--that the duke, who appeared the least
passionate adorer, should really have been such a restless one."
"Dolt that I have been!" exclaimed the jester, with more anger, it
seemed to the girl, than jealousy. "He knew about Caillette, but
professed to be ignorant that the emperor was in Spain. And I believed
his words; thought I was holding something from him; let myself imagine
he could not penetrate my designs. While all the time he was
intriguing with the king's favorite and felt the sense of his own
security. What a cat's paw he made of me! And so he--they are gone,
Jacqueline?"
"Yes," she returned, surprised at his language, and, for the first
time, wondering if the duke's wooing admitted of other complications
than she had suspected. "They are on their way to the duke's kingdom."
"His kingdom!" said the fool, with derision. "But go on. Tell me
about it, Jacqueline. Their parting with the court? How they set out
on their journey. All, Jacqueline; all!"
"They were married in the Chapelle de la Trinité," responded the girl,
hesitating. Then with an odd side look, she went on rapidly: "The
bridal party made an imposing cavalcade: the princess in her litter,
behind a number of maids on horseback. At the castle gates several
pages, dressed as Cupids, sent silver arrows after the bridal train.
'Hymen; Io Hymen!' cried the throng. 'Godspeed!' exclaimed Queen
Marguerite, and threw a parchment, tied with a golden ribbon, into the
princess' litter; an epithalamium, in verse, written in her own fair
hand. '_Esto perpetua_!' murmured the red cardinal. Besides the
groom's own men, the king sent a strong escort to the border, and thus
it was a numerous company that rode from the castle, with colors flying
and the princess' handkerchief fluttering from her litter a last
farewell."
"A last farewell!" repeated the fool. "A splendent picture,
Jacqueline. They all shouted _Te Deum_, and none stood there to warn
her."
"To warn!" retorted the jestress. "Not a maid but envied her that
spectacle; the magnificence and splendor!"
"But not what will follow," he said, and, lying back on his couch,
closed his eyes.
Rapidly the scene passed before him; the false duke at the head of the
cavalcade, elate, triumphant; the princess in her litter, brilliant,
dazzling; the laughter, the hurried adieus; tears and smiles; the smart
sayings of the jesters, a bride their legitimate prey, her blushes the
delight of the facetious nobles; the complacency of the pleasure-loving
king--all floated before his eyes like the figment of a dream. How
mocking the pomp and glitter! For the princess, what an awakening was
to ensue! The free baron must have known the emperor was in Spain, and
had met the fool's stratagem with a final masterly manoeuver. The bout
was over; the first great bout; but in the next--would there be a next?
Jacqueline's words now implied a doubt.
"You are soon to leave here," she said. "For Paris."
Seated on the stool, her hands crossed over her knees, Jacqueline
seemed no longer a creature of indefinite or ambiguous purpose. On the
contrary, her profile was rimmed in light, and very matter-of-fact and
serious it seemed.
"Why am I to leave for Paris?" he remarked, absently.
"Because they are going to take you there," she returned, "to be tried
as a heretic." He started and again sat up. "In your room was found a
book by Calvin. Of course," she went on, "you will deny it belonged to
you?"
"What would that avail?" he said, indifferently. "But have the
followers of Luther, or Calvin, no friends in Francis' court?"
"Have they in Charles' domains?" she asked quickly.
"The Protestants in Germany are a powerful body; the emperor is forced
to bear with them."
"Here they have no friends--openly," she went on.
"Secretly--Marguerite, Marot; others perhaps. But these will not serve
you; could not, if they would. Besides, this heresy of which you are
accused is but a pretext to get rid of you."
"And how, good Jacqueline, has the king treated the new sect?"
She held her hand suddenly to her throat; her face went paler, as from
some tragic recollection.
"Oh," she answered, "do not speak of it!"
"They burned them?" he persisted.
"Before Notre Dame!"
Her voice was low; her eyes shone deep and gleaming.
"You are sorry, then, for those vile heretics?" asked the fool,
curiously.
She raised her head, half-resentfully. "Their souls need no one's
pity," she retorted, proudly.
"And you think mine is soon like to be beyond earthly caring?"
Her glance became impatient. "Most like," she returned, curtly.
"But what excuse does the king give for his cruelty?" he continued,
musingly.
"They threw down the sacred images in one of the churches. Now a
heretic need expect no mercy. They are placed in cages--hung from
beams--over the fire. The court was commanded to witness the
spectacle--the king jested--the countess laughed, but her features were
white--" Here the girl buried her face in her hands. Soon, however,
she looked up, brushing back the hair from her brow. "Marguerite has
interposed, but she is only a feather in the balance." Abruptly she
arose. "Would you escape such a fate?" she said.
He remained silent, thinking that if the mission to the emperor
miscarried, his own position might, indeed, be past mending. If the
exposure of the free baron were long delayed, the fool's assurance in
his own ultimate release might prove but vain expectation. In Paris
the trial would doubtless not be protracted. From the swift tribunal
to the slow fire constituted no complicated legal process, and appeal
there was none, save to the king, from whom might be expected little
mercy, less justice.
"Escape!" the jester answered, dwelling on these matters. "But how?"
"By leaving this prison," she answered, lowering her voice.
He glanced significantly at the walls, the windows and the door, beyond
which could be heard the tread of the jailer and the clanking of the
keys hanging from his girdle.
"I would have done that long since, Jacqueline, if I had had my will,"
he replied.
"Are you strong enough to attempt it?" she remarked, doubtfully,
scanning the thin face before her.
"Your words shall make me so," he retorted, and looking into his
glittering eyes, she almost believed him.
"Not to-day, but to-morrow," the girl added, thoughtfully. "Perhaps
then--"
"I shall be ready," he broke in impatiently. "What must I do?"
"Not drink this wine I have brought, but give it to the turnkey in the
morning. Invite him to share it, but take none yourself, feigning
sudden illness. He will not refuse, being always sharp-set for a cup.
Nothing can be done with the other jailers, but this one is a thirsty
soul, ever ready to bargain for a dram. Your couch cost I know not how
many flagons. Although he drinks many tankards and pitchers every day,
yet will this small bottle make him drowsy. You will leave while he is
sleeping."
"In the daylight, mistress?" he asked, eagerly. "Why not wait--"
"No," she said, decisively; "there is no other way. This turnkey is
only a day watchman. It is dangerous, but the best plan that suggested
itself. I know many unfrequented corridors and passages through the
old part of the castle the king has not rebuilt, and a road at the
back, now little used, that runs through the wood and thicket down the
hill. It is a desperate chance, but--"
"The danger of remaining is more desperate," he interrupted, quickly.
"Besides, we shall not fail. It is in the book of fate." His
expression changed; became fierce, eager. "Are you, indeed, the
arbiter of that fate; the sorceress Triboulet feared?"
"You are thinking of the duke," she answered, with a frown, "and that
if you escape--"
"Truly, you are a sorceress," he replied, with a smile. "I confess
life has grown sweet."
She moved abruptly toward the door. "Nay, I meant not to offend you,"
he spoke up, more gently.
"It is your own fortunes you ever injure," she retorted, gazing coldly
back at him.
"One moment, sweet Jacqueline. Why did you not go with the princess?"
Her face changed; grew dark; from eyes, deep and gloomy, she shot a
quick glance upon him.
"Perhaps--because I like the court too well to leave it," she answered
mockingly, and, vouchsafing no further word, quickly vanished. It was
only when she had gone the jester suddenly remembered he had forgotten
to thank her for what she had done in the past or what she proposed
doing on the morrow.