JACQUELINE'S QUEST
"Truly, are you a right proper fool; for a man, merry in adversity, is
as wise as Master Rabelais. Many the time have I heard him say a fit
of laughter drives away the devil, while the groans of flagellating
saints seem as music to Beelzebub's ears. Thus, a wit-cracker is the
demon's enemy, and the band of Pantagruel, an evangelical brotherhood,
that with tankard and pot sends the arch-fiend back to the bottomless
pit."
And the fool's jailer, seated on the stool within the cell, stretched
out his legs and uplifted the bottle to his lips, while, judging from
the draft he took and assuming the verity of the theory he advanced,
the prince of darkness at that moment must have fled a considerable
distance into his chosen realms.
"Ah, you know the great philosopher, then?" commented the jester from
the couch, closely watching the sottish, intemperate face of his
keeper, and running his glance over the unwieldy form which bade fair
to outrival one of the wine butts in the castle cellar.
"Know him!" exclaimed this lowly votary. "I have e'en been admitted to
his table--at the foot, 'tis true--when the brave fellows of Pantagruel
were at it. Not for my wit was I thus honored"--the _plaisant_ made a
dissenting gesture, the irony of which passed over the head of the
speaker--"but because a giant flagon appeared but a child's toy in my
hands. The followers of Pantagruel fell on both sides, like wheat
before the blade of the reaper, until Doctor Rabelais and myself only
were left. From the head to the foot of the table the great man
looked. How my heart swelled with pride! 'Swine of Epicurus, are you
still there?' he said. And then--and then--"
With a crash the bottle fell from the hand of the keeper to the stone
floor. The massive body swayed on the small stool; his eyes stupidly
shut and opened.
"Swine of Epicurus," he repeated. "Swine--" and followed the bottle,
rolling gently from the stool. He made but one motion, to extend his
huge bulk more comfortably, and then was still.
"Why," thought the fool, "if Jacqueline fails me not, all may yet be
well."
But even as he thus reflected the door of the cell opened, and a face
white as a lily, looked in. Her glance passed hastily to the
motionless figure and an expression of satisfaction crossed her
features.
"The keys!" she said, and the jester, bending over the prostrate
jailer, detached them from his girdle.
"Lock the door when we leave," she continued. "The other keeper does
not come to relieve him for six hours."
"It would be an offset for the many times he has locked me in,"
answered the fool. "A scurvy trick; yet, as Master Rabelais says,
Pantagruelians select not their bed."
"Is this a time for jesting?" exclaimed the girl, impatiently.
"He has been treating me to Gargantuan discourse, Jacqueline," said the
fool, humbly. "I was but answering him in kind."
"And by delay increasing our danger!"
"Our danger!" He started.
Since she had first broached the subject of escape but one sweet and
all-absorbing idea had possessed him--retaliation. Liberty was the
means to that end, and every other thought and consideration had given
way to this desire. He had fallen asleep with the free baron's dark
features imaged on his fevered brain; when he had awakened the morbid
fantasy had not left him. But now, at her words, in her presence, a
new light was suddenly shed upon the enterprise, and he paused
abruptly, even as he turned to leave the cell. With growing wonder she
watched his altered features.
"Well," she exclaimed, impatiently, "why do you stand there?"
"Should I escape, you, Jacqueline, would remain to bear the brunt," he
said, reflectively. "The jailer, when he awakes, will tell the story:
who brought the wine; who succored the prisoner. To go, but one course
is open." And he glanced down upon the prostrate man. "To silence him
forever!"
She started and half-shrank from him. "Could you do it?"
He shook his head. "In fair contest, I would have slain him. But
now--it is not he, but I, who am helpless. And yet what is such a
sot's life worth? Nothing. Everything. Farewell, sweet jestress; I
must trust to other means, and--thank you."
The outstretched hand she seemed not to see, but tapped the floor of
the cell yet more impatiently with her foot, as was her fashion when
angered. Here was the prison door open, and the captive enamored of
confinement; at the culminating point conjuring reasons why he should
not flee. To have gone thus far; to have eliminated the jailer, and
then to draw back, with the keys in his hand--truly no scene in a
comedy could be more extravagant. The girl laughed nervously.
"What egotists men are!" she said. "Good Sir Jester, in offering you
liberty I am serving myself; myself, you understand!" she repeated.
"Let us hasten on, lest in defeating your own purpose, you defeat mine."
"What will you answer when he"--indicating the drugged
turnkey--"accuses you?"
"Was ever such perversity!" was all she deigned to reply, biting her
lip.
"You are somewhat wilful yourself, Jacqueline," he retorted, with that
smile which so exasperated her.
"Listen," she said at length, slowly, impressively. "You need have no
fear for me when you go. I tell you that more danger remains to me by
your staying than in your going; that your obstinacy leaves me
unprotected; that your compliance would be a boon to me. By the memory
of my mother, by the truth of this holy book"--drawing a little volume
passionately from her bosom--"I swear to what I have told you."
Eagerly her eyes met his searching gaze, and he read in their depths
only truth and candor. "I have a quest for you. It concerns my life,
my happiness. All I have done for you has been for this end."
Her eyes fell, but she raised them again quickly. "Will you accept a
mission from one who is not--a princess?"
"Name her not!" exclaimed the jester sharply. And then, recovering
himself, added, less brusquely: "What is it you want, mistress?"
"This is no time nor place to tell it," she went on rapidly, seeing by
his face that his dogged humor had melted before her appeal, "but soon,
before we part, you shall know all; what it is I wish to intrust in
your hands."
A moment she waited. "Your argument is unanswerable, Jacqueline," he
said finally. "I own myself puzzled, but I believe you, so--have your
way."
"This cloak then"--handing him a garment she had brought with
her--"throw it over you," she continued hurriedly. "If we meet any one
it may serve as a disguise. And here is a sword," bringing forth a
weapon that she had carried concealed beneath a flowing mantle. "Can
you use it?"
"I can but try, Jacqueline," he replied, fastening the girdle about his
waist and half-drawing and then thrusting the blade back into the
scabbard. "It seems a priceless weapon," he added, his eye lingering
on the richly inlaid hilt, "and has doubtless been wielded by a gallant
hand."
"Speak not of that," she retorted, sharply, a strange flash in her
eyes. "He who handled it was the bravest, noblest--" She broke off
abruptly, and they left the cell, he locking the door behind him.
Down the dimly lighted passage she walked rapidly, while the jester
tractably and silently followed. His strength, he found, had come back
to him; the joys of freedom imparted new elasticity to his limbs; that
narrow, cheerless way looked brighter than a royal gallery, or Francis'
_Salle des Fêtes_. Before him floated the light figure of the
jestress, moving faster and ever faster down the dark corridor, now
veering to the right or left, again ascending or descending well-worn
steps; a tortuous route through the heart of the ancient fortress,
whose mystery seemed dread and covert as that of a prison house.
Confidently, knowing well the puzzling interior plan of the old pile,
she traversed the labyrinth that was to lead them without, finally
pausing before a small door, which she tried.
"Usually it is unlocked," she said, in surprise. "I never knew it
fastened before."
"Is that our only way out?"
"The only safe way. Perhaps one of the keys--"
But he had already knelt before the door and the young girl watched him
with obvious anxiety. He vainly essayed all the keys, save one, and
that he now strove to fit to the lock. It slipped in snugly and the
stubborn bolt shot back.
Entering, he closed the door behind them and hastily looked around,
discovering that they stood in a crypt, the central part of which was
occupied by a burial vault. In the crypt chapels were a number of
statues, in marble and bronze, most of them rude, antique, yet not of
indifferent workmanship, especially one before which the jestress, in
spite of the exigency of the moment, stopped as if impelled by an
irresistible impulse. This monument, so read the inscription, had been
erected by the renowned Constable of Dubrois to his young and faithful
consort, Anne.
But a part of a minute the girl gazed, with a new and softened
expression, upon the marble likeness of the last fair mistress of the
castle, and then hurriedly crossed the old mosaic pavement, reaching a
narrow flight of stairs, which she swiftly ascended. A door that
yielded to the fool's shoulder led into a deserted court, on one side
of which were the crumbling walls of the chapel. Here several dark
birds perched uncannily on the dead branch of a massive oak that had
been shattered by lightning. In its desolation the oak might have been
typical of the proud family, once rulers of the castle, whose corporeal
strength had long since mingled with the elements.
This open space the two fugitives quickly traversed, passing through a
high-arched entrance to an olden bridge that spanned a moat. Long ago
had the feudal gates been overthrown by Francis; yet above the keystone
appeared, not the salamander, the king's heraldic emblem, but the
almost illegible device of the old constable. Beyond the great ditch
outstretched a rolling country on which the jester gazed with eager
eyes, while his companion swiftly led the way to a clump of willow and
aspen on the other side of the moat. Beneath the spreading branches
were tethered two horses, saddled and bridled. Wonderingly he glanced
from them to her.
"From whence did you conjure them, gentle mistress?" asked the fool.
"Some one I knew placed them there."
"But why--two horses, good Jacqueline?"
"Because I am minded to show you the path through the wood," she
replied. "You might mistake it and then my purpose would not be
served. Give me your hand, sir. I am wont to have my own way." And
as he reluctantly extended his palm she placed her foot upon it,
springing lightly to the saddle. "'Tis but a canter through the
forest. The day is glorious, and 'twill be rare sport."
Already had she gathered in the reins and turned her horse, galloping
down a road that swept through a grove of poplar and birch, and he,
after a moment's hesitation, rode after her. Like one born to the
chase, she kept her seat, her lithe figure swaying to the movements of
the steed. Soon the brighter green of her gown fluttered amid the
somber-tinted pines and elms, as the younger forest growth merged into
a stern array of primeval monarchs. Here reigned an austere silence--a
stillness that now became the more startlingly broken.
"Jacqueline!" said the fool, spurring toward her. "Do you hear?"
"The hunters? Yes," she replied.
"They are coming this way."
"Perhaps it were better to draw back from the road," she suggested,
calmly.
"Do you draw back to the castle!" he returned, quickly, his brow
overcast.
"And miss the hunt? Not I, Monsieur Spoil-Sport."
"But if they find you with me?"
She only tossed her head wilfully and did not answer.
Nearer came the hue and cry of the chase. A heavy-horned buck sprang
into the road and vanished like a flash into the timber on the other
side. Shortly afterward, in a compact bunch, with heads downbent and
stiffened tails, the pack, a howling, discordant mass, swept across the
narrow, open space.
"Quick!" exclaimed the jester, and they turned their horses into the
underbrush.
Scarcely had they done so when, closely following the dogs, appeared
the first of the hunters, mounted on a splendid charger, with housings
of rose-velvet.
"_Pardieu!_" muttered the _plaisant_, "I owe the king no thanks, but he
rides well. Do you not think so, Jacqueline?"
Her answering gaze was puzzling. After Francis rode many lords and
ladies, a stream of color crossing the road; riding habits faced with
gold; satin doublets covered with _rivières_ of diamonds; torsades
wherein gold became the foil to precious stones. So near was the
gorgeous cavalcade--the grand falconer, whippers-in, and the bearers of
hooded birds mingling with the courtiers immediately behind the
king--the escaped prisoner and the jestress could hear the panting of
horses. Fleeting, transient, it passed; fainter sounded the din of
hounds and horn; now it almost died away in the distance. The last
couple had scarcely vanished before the fool and his companion left
their ambush.
"You ride farther, Jacqueline?" he said.
"A little farther."
"It will be far to return," he protested.
"I have no fear," she answered, tranquilly.
Again he let her have her way, as one would yield to a wilful child.
On and on they sped; past the place where the deer-run crossed the
broader path; through an ever-varying forest; now on one side, a rocky
basin overrun with trees and shrubs; again, on the other hand, a great
gorge, in whose depths flowed a whispering stream. Yonder appeared the
gray walls of an ancient monastery, one part only of which was
habitable; a turn in the road swallowed it up as though abruptly to
complete the demolition time was slowly to bring about. On and on,
until the way became wilder and the wood more overgrown with bushes and
tangled shrubbery, when she suddenly stopped her horse.
He understood; at last they were to part. And, remembering what he
owed to her, the Jester suddenly found himself regretting that here
their paths separated forever. Swiftly his mind flew back to their
first meeting; when she had flouted him in Fools' hall. A perverse,
capricious maid. How she had ever crossed him, and yet--nursed him.
Attentively he regarded her. The customary pallor of her face had
given way to a faint tint; her eyes were humid, dewy-bright; beneath
the little cap, the curling tresses would have been the despair of
those later-day reformers, the successors of Calvinists and Lutherans.
"A will-o'-the-wisp," he thought. "A man might follow and never grasp
her."
Did she read what he felt? That mingled gratitude and perplexity? Her
clear eyes certainly seemed to have a peculiar mastery over the
thoughts of others. Now they expressed only mockery.
"The greater danger is over," she said, quietly. "From now on there is
less fear of your being taken."
"Thanks to you!" he answered, searching her with his glance.
Here he doubted not she would make known the quest of which she had
spoken. Whatever it might be, he would faithfully requite her; even to
making his own purpose subservient to it.
"It is now time," she said, demurely, "to acquaint you with the
mission. Of course, you will accept it?"
"Can you ask?" he answered, earnestly.
"You promise?"
"To serve you with my life."
"Then we had better go on," she continued.
"But, Mademoiselle, I thought--"
"That we were to part here? Not at all. I am not yet ready to leave
you. In fact, good Master Jester, I am going with you. _I_ am the
quest; _I_ am the mission. Are you sorry you promised?"