A FESTIVAL AT THE INN
The following morning bright and early the procession rode briskly out
of the castle courtyard. The Lady Clotilde traveled in her litter and
was attended by her maids and her men-servants and her guards on mules,
the guards being necessary, for it was dangerous for those possessing
money and jewels to travel unless they were protected from the outlaws
who infested mountain and forest.
At the rear of the company rode Le Glorieux on a steed he always
preferred when riding abroad. This was a donkey which the fool had named
Pittacus after one of the seven wise men of Greece, for he declared the
little animal was very wise, though no one as yet had discovered the
fact. On the jester's wrist was perched Pandora, his hawk, for he vowed
that no man with a proper degree of self-respect would be seen in public
without his hawk, which was true, the fashion of the time having so
decreed. Pandora wore a cunning little red leather hood with some bells
attached to it, and, to keep her from escaping from him, a cord attached
to her leg was fastened to the jester's arm.
Antoine, whose lute was slung to his shoulder by a blue ribband, was
mounted upon a small gray mule and rode beside his comrade, the two
whistling and singing and making so merry together that more than once
the Lady Clotilde put her head out between the curtains of her litter
and, with a very severe face and a harsh voice, bade them be quiet.
History tells us that Edward the Second of England had a jester who
amused his royal master simply by riding before him and frequently
falling off his horse, so it is no wonder that a boy of the age of
Antoine should have been kept in a continuous state of merriment caused
by the antics of his friend. You doubtless have been to the circus, and
you know what a very funny fellow a clown can be, and how the boys and
girls in the audience are inclined to laugh every time he opens his
mouth, and how even the grown people are not ashamed to smile at his
drolleries. Then imagine the bliss experienced by Antoine in riding with
a real clown who performed, not because he was expected to do so and was
paid for it, but because he was anxious to have a good time.
Sometimes the jester rode with his face toward the donkey's tail, at
others he lay flat on the animal's back, to the intense indignation of
Pittacus and Pandora, neither of whom could appreciate that sort of
thing. Then sometimes the boy and the fool broke into song together, and
if the birds were not exactly "ashamed of themselves," as Le Glorieux
had predicted they would be, they must have been very much astonished,
to say the least.
This mode of travel was not so swift as one may find in France to-day,
but it had its advantages, for the scenery could be more thoroughly
enjoyed when every bird and every flower could be leisurely surveyed
instead of passing the car window like a flash, leaving upon the mind no
impression whatever.
[Illustration: They stopped at an old inn]
After a journey of some days they entered Brittany, and stopped at
nightfall at an old inn situated on a cliff above the Loire, which
smoothly ripples its way to the Bay of Biscay.
The arrival of the Lady Clotilde and her party created a certain degree
of agitation throughout the inn, for an empress could not have been more
exacting in her demands than this lady, who always seemed to think that
she was created first and the rest of the world added as an
afterthought.
Soon afterward there came a middle-aged woman and a little girl
apparently of about twelve years of age, who caused no commotion
whatever, for they were unattended and plainly clad. The Lady Clotilde,
looking out of her window, pronounced the woman to be an ordinary
person, and, supposing the little girl to be the woman's child, did not
waste even a glance upon her, but began to give quick, sharp commands
regarding her own supper, which was brought to her hot and fragrant with
appetizing odors, and with which, strange to say, she found no fault.
But in the great kitchen of the inn that night there was a joyful
celebration. The innkeeper's baby daughter had been christened that day
and this was the feast which followed it. Mine host had invited Le
Glorieux and Antoine to join him and his friends in the celebration of
the occasion, and, after the guests of the house had been served, a long
table, uncovered and made of rough unplaned wood, was spread with all
the good things the hostelry afforded. There was roast pig stuffed with
chopped meat and aromatic herbs, and there were meat pasties and
ragouts, to say nothing of sugared cakes and various other dainties.
There was no coffee, for that was about a hundred and fifty years before
that now popular beverage was used in Europe, but there was the wine of
the country, which, being pure and honestly made, was less dangerous
than the wine of to-day. Another feature was lacking which now is so
familiar; the air at the close of the meal was not contaminated with the
odor of pipes and cigars, for Sir Walter Raleigh, who brought tobacco
from savagery to civilization, was not even born, and the mainland of
the New World was still waiting for Columbus.
Le Glorieux in his fantastic costume of striped yellow and green, and
his queer cap with its points sticking out on either side and adorned
with bells, was an object of much interest, for it was the first time
these people had ever seen such a costume. To-day the portraits of the
celebrated people of the world are familiar to all who have pennies to
invest in newspapers, and had there been at that time the same
facilities for spreading the news that there are to-day, Le Glorieux,
with his sayings and doings, particularly in the campaign with his late
master, would have been written up again and again, and the public, you
may be sure, would have known his face as well as those of its own
father and mother.
The innkeeper, his family, and friends all wore what to us would seem
like comic opera costumes: mine host, fat and rosy, wore his holiday
suit of a gorgeous color, and all the men were similarly attired, while
the women wore pink, or blue, or green bodices with short skirts of a
different color. On their heads they wore flat white linen caps fitting
close, and with tails to them like mantles floating down their backs,
the costume being completed by a high collar flaring out from the
shoulders.
The fairest of the women was the pale, pretty young mother, who cast
many proud glances at the rude wooden cradle in the corner where lay the
real heroine of the occasion, and, to her, the most important person in
the company.
Considered the most distinguished of the guests, Le Glorieux was given a
seat at the head of the table, where he immediately began to make
himself at home, not only with the viands, but with the company, keeping
up a continuous chatter and convulsing his audience with his merry
jokes.
"I should like to know the name of the woman who came shortly after our
arrival," he said after a while, turning to his host, who replied, "I do
not know her name; her garb is plain, yet she seems to be one who is
accustomed to the best of everything, for she insisted upon having two
of my largest rooms for herself and the child, showing that she had the
means to pay for them. She is on her way to the shrine of Saint Roch in
the forest beyond, to be relieved of a migraine that torments her
morning, noon, and night."
"And the blessed Saint Roch will cure her," said the innkeeper's mother
confidently; "no one goes in pain from his shrine."
Le Glorieux had noticed the shrine as they came along. The good saint,
who is supposed to lend a kindly hearing to those who are suffering from
physical ailments, was carved in rock above a clear spring. He was
represented as a young man with his robe lifted to show a plague spot on
his leg, and by his side was the dog which brought bread to him when he
was starving. When the readers of this story travel abroad they will see
pictures of Saint Roch painted by Rubens, Guido, Tintoretto, and other
great masters.
"I have heard my mother say that when the plague was in many parts of
Europe it never came near Brittany because of Saint Roch," remarked a
young woman.
"I should think not," observed Le Glorieux; "curing the plague is what
he prides himself upon, and it is not reasonable to suppose that he
would allow it to rage under his very nose."
"From the tinkle of your bells," said a foppish young man at the
jester's left, a youth who had grown a little envious of the attention
paid to Le Glorieux, "I should say that you are a fool."
"And from the tinkle of your tongue, I have been suspecting the same
thing of you," retorted the other quickly.
"No man may say that of me!" said the foppish youth, springing to his
feet and drawing his dagger from its sheath, while the jester drew his
sword.
"Shame upon you, Nicole, to begin a brawl upon such an occasion," said
the innkeeper, rising and putting his hand upon his friend's arm, while
some of the women gave little shrieks of fear, though at this period the
clash of swords and daggers was not an unusual sound, and such a scene
was liable to happen in almost any company.
"Our host is right," said Le Glorieux, replacing his sword in its sheath
with a decided clank. "Such a fray is not only disrespectful to the
ladies, but it will give an opportunity for that lovely pig to get cold
before we have a chance to finish it. I will just say, however, that if
this young man is anxious to fight me I am ready to meet him in some
quiet spot at any moment that may be convenient to him." And the jester
resumed his seat at the table.
"The woman who came to-day is not the mother of that child," remarked
the innkeeper, anxious to change the subject.
"Did she tell you so?" asked his mother.
"No, but I have eyes. The woman is of the ordinary walks of life, a
German, I should say, while the little girl is an aristocrat, and if I
am not very much mistaken she is French."
"But she is clothed no better than the woman," argued his mother. "An
aristocrat would not travel without attendants and dress in such poor
style, and----"
An exclamation from some one on the opposite side of the table arrested
her words, for standing in the doorway was the child of whom they were
speaking. She was a pretty little maiden with large blue eyes, whose
long lashes made them appear black, and her hair, which hung in half
curling masses below her waist, was of a reddish gold. She was dressed
in a dark blue gown of coarse woolen material, with a close-fitting cap
of the same. She seemed not at all abashed at thus entering where she
had not been invited, saying in a clear sweet voice, "May I stay here
for a while? Cunegunda put me to bed and then retired herself, for she
is so tormented by migraine that she did not sit by me for a time, as
she usually does. I could not sleep on account of all this racket, so I
dressed myself and came down and would like to remain for a little
while, if I may."
"I am sorry we disturbed your rest, my little lady," replied the
innkeeper respectfully. "I will change your room, if you wish."
"No," said the little girl, "I do not want you to do that. I am going to
stay up as long as you do if you will let me. I want to see what this
kind of an entertainment is like."
"Then I will make a place at the table," returned he.
"Thank you, no," she returned, with dignity. "I have had all that I
require. I will just sit here by the window and look on."
"That you may and welcome," said the innkeeper heartily, "and in order
that you may do so to the greatest advantage, I am going to place you
here," and lifting her lightly he placed her on the deep window seat,
which was some distance from the floor. "And now you may not only look
at us, but at this pretty bird as well."
The casement of the window, which swung like a door, was opened on the
inside, and perched on top of it where her master had placed her,
sulkily ruffling her feathers as though strongly disapproving of her
surroundings, was Pandora.
"You have never been so close to a fine hooded bird before, I warrant,"
said the innkeeper.
"I have birds of my own, and they are all hooded," replied the child
indifferently.
The people seated at the table glanced significantly at each other as if
to ask, "Is she bragging, or is she of a higher rank than she pretends
to be?" for middle-class folk did not possess hooded birds.
"To whom does this one belong?" asked the child.
"To that gentleman seated at the head of the table," was the reply.
She looked at him thoughtfully and then at the bird. "I wonder how a
hawk likes belonging to a fool," she said.
Everybody laughed, Le Glorieux loudest of all. "No matter how wise a
fool may appear, his cap and bells will always betray him," he said.
"Yes, my friends, as you no doubt have suspected, I am a court jester. I
belonged to Duke Charles the Bold of Burgundy, and now I am being sent
as a present to her Grace, the young Duchess of Brittany."
"I have suspected your identity all along," said a fat friar seated at
the other end of the table. "I was at Beauvais during the siege and I
heard of you there. You are Le Glorieux."
The jester rose and made an extravagant bow. "At your service," said he.
"Yes," he continued, taking his place again, "I was at the siege of
Beauvais. I saw the young maid Jeanne Fourquet, in imitation of the Maid
of Orleans, fight like a witch with her little ax, for which she was
named Jeanne Hachette, and when a tall Burgundian was scaling the walls
and was planting his banner, she pushed him over into the ditch and
waving her flag shouted, 'Victory!' I am not boring anybody by talking
about the past, am I?" asked the fool suddenly.
"On the contrary," said the host, "it is more interesting than a tale of
gnomes and pixies."
"You see," explained Le Glorieux, "I have lived so long at court, where
the past is raked out and talked over and over, that I am afraid to
relate anything that happened longer ago than the day before yesterday."
"If it please you, continue," said one of the company. "We are humble
folk living in a quiet village, and we know but little of what happens
in the great world outside."
So Le Glorieux continued, keeping the company chilled with awe or
shaking with laughter, according to the nature of the incident he
happened to be relating. It may be that some of the incidents he related
never occurred outside of his own brain, but one at least of his
anecdotes may be found in history.
"It was after the siege of Beauvais," said he, "that Cousin Charles came
nearer to giving me a cuff on the jaw than ever happened before or
afterward. He was quite boastful, was Charles, and with considerable
pomp he was conducting some ambassadors through the arsenal. He stopped
short in one of the rooms and swelling himself up said, 'This room
contains the keys of all the cities of France.' Then I began to fumble
in my pockets and to search all over the room. 'Now, donkey, for what
are you looking so anxiously?' asked he. I replied, 'I am looking for
the key of Beauvais,' and that made him turn as red as your doublet,
mine host, for we had not been victorious at Beauvais."
"But you were very brave there, although a mere youth," remarked the
friar, "and I should advise our young friend here to think twice before
he meets you out, as you have invited him to do."
"Oh, we will let that pass, if he is willing," said Le Glorieux
good-naturedly, an arrangement with which the young man, who was not
especially brave, was very glad to agree.
"And now," said the jester, "I am reminded that there is one thing that
I have forgotten, and that is to ask the name that you have given to
that blessed baby."
"That you will be glad to hear," said the host, rubbing his hands
delightedly. "The good wife too is a Burgundian, and nothing would do
but that we should name the little one for the Duchess Mary. Heaven rest
her soul!" he continued reverently.
It happened that this was the one theme that could render Le Glorieux
sad. He had worshiped the young Duchess Mary, who had ruled the province
after the death of her father, Charles the Bold--worshiped her as a
faithful dog loves his kind mistress. He had seen her betrothed at
Ghent to the Archduke Maximilian of Austria, also styled King of the
Romans, and when a few years later news had come of her death, caused by
a fall from her horse, the jester had known the first real grief of his
life.
"Yes," said the mother of the baby. "Her name is Mary, and may she be as
good and beautiful as the poor young duchess, cut off in the bloom of
her life."
The jester rose, and going to the cradle took in his own the little baby
hand curled like a crumpled rose-leaf. "Mary, namesake of an angel, I
salute you," said he, pressing the tiny fingers to his lips.
"No matter how well the children of the poor young duchess are cared
for, they will miss the love of their mother, for there is nothing like
it," said the innkeeper's wife. "One of them, the Lady Marguerite of
Hapsburg, is to be Queen of France," she added proudly.
"I was so fortunate as to witness that betrothal," said the friar,
helping himself to another piece of the pasty.
"You did!" cried Le Glorieux. "I would give a year of my life to see
Mary's little child. Tell us about it, good friar."
The child in the window, who had at first sat carelessly swinging her
little feet, had now drawn them up to the sill, and turning sidewise and
with her hands clasped about her knees, was listening intently.
"It was eight years ago that the betrothal took place, if you will
remember," began the friar in the satisfied tone of one who feels that
what he is about to tell will be vastly interesting to his audience. "I
was riding my mule to the city of Amboise on business for my order.
"At Herdin, which is near that city, I saw a great concourse of people,
and being under a vow of silence for that day, I could ask no questions,
but drew up with the crowd to see what was going on. The air was wild
with the acclamations of the people, and _gens d'armes_ were stalking
about to make the crowd stand back so that the road might be left
unobstructed.
"Then from the city came a glittering procession of ladies and gentlemen
and archers. At the head of it rode a boy, whom from his dress and the
deference paid him, I immediately recognized as the Dauphin of France,
so soon to be king. He was about twelve at the time, but he looked
younger, being undersized. He wore a robe of crimson satin lined with
black velvet, and his black horse was richly caparisoned. Crossing the
bridge the boy paused, for, slowly advancing from the opposite
direction, was another procession equally imposing, headed by a litter,
silk-curtained and surmounted by a crown. And then I knew that I was to
witness an event which was to go down in history, for I knew this was
the expected ceremonial of the betrothal of the little Lady Marguerite
of Hapsburg, daughter of the Archduke of Austria, to the Dauphin of
France.
"The young dauphin saluted the ladies and changed his robe for one of
cloth of gold. Then from the litter was lifted a tiny girl between three
and four years of age, the little archduchess, whose hair glistened like
gold in the sunlight. A tall and elegantly-dressed lady accompanied her
to the boy's side, and the prothonotary asked in a loud voice if Charles
of France would take Marguerite of Austria for his bride. The boy
answered 'Yes' in a loud, clear voice, and a similar question was put to
the little archduchess, who, after a whispered word from the lady at her
side, uttered a faint 'Yes.'
"And when I rode on to Amboise I found the city gay with festoons of
brilliantly-colored cloth, and in the market place there was a fountain
which gave forth both white and red wine."
"The dear little princess!" said the innkeeper's wife. "Though she is to
be Queen of France, I pity her, thus to be betrothed without a word of
choice in the matter."
"The good God has not divided happiness so unevenly as some might
suppose," observed the friar, "for in some things the peasant woman
enjoys more liberty than the queen."
"The dear little Lady Marguerite was taken from her own country and all
her kin that she might grow up in a foreign court and be a true French
woman," said one of the women. "And she was beautiful, did you say,
Brother Sebastian?"
"I did not have a good view of her face, but I should say that she was
very fair to look upon," he replied.
"Pretty she had a right to be," said Le Glorieux. "Her mother was as
beautiful as the morning, and her father, when I saw him, looked like a
glorious knight descended from the clouds. He was mounted on a chestnut
horse; he was clad in silver armor and his head was bound by a circlet
of precious stones. His smile was so kind and his face so handsome that
he won all hearts."
"Look! That child is about to fall out of the window!" cried the friar,
for the little one was gazing at the speaker with her soul in her eyes,
and the better to see him, was sitting on the very edge of the
window-sill in a way that indeed suggested a possible fall. Seeing all
eyes turned upon her she drew herself back and clasped her hands about
her knees as before.
"And now," said the innkeeper, "I notice that a young gentleman of the
company has a lute, and I am sure we should all enjoy a song." He looked
at Antoine, who, though silent, had been very much engaged with the good
things set before him.
"You are right, mine host," said Le Glorieux. "My comrade sings in such
a way that I am sure the nightingales outside will cease to trill from
pure envy."
Musicians, and indeed all people who are capable of entertaining others,
have fits of diffidence at the most unexpected moments, and although he
was in the habit of singing for the ladies of the Burgundian court, who
knew far more about music than these people could possibly understand,
it seemed to Antoine that if he could unseen escape by the door, and run
away into the woods, or sink through the floor, it would be the greatest
boon that could happen to him. Not being able to efface himself in any
way, he resorted to a fib, and said that he would be most happy to
oblige them, but that a string of his lute was broken, and that he had
no other with which to replace it.
Le Glorieux strode to the corner of the room and took up the lute where
the boy had placed it before supper. It was an instrument resembling a
modern mandolin with a crooked neck, as if it had once been strangled,
and becoming convulsed in the effort to breathe, had remained petrified
in that position.
The jester held the instrument out at arm's length, saying, "It is
strange, but even a lute can not remain disabled in the neighborhood of
the good Saint Roch. Here are all the strings in a perfectly sound
condition, and fairly quivering with anxiety to be played on."
A fib, like a murder, will "out" sooner or later, and realizing this
fact, Antoine said nothing more, but striking a few chords began to
sing, though in a quavering voice.
"See here, Antoine," said his friend, stopping him, "I have praised your
voice and I am not going to have you sing like a frog that is choking to
death in a pond. Open your mouth and let your words out instead of
keeping them prisoners behind your teeth."
The boy was very angry at being thus derided, and his voice rang loud
and flute-like in an old chanson of Burgundy, to which his audience
listened with great pleasure, the innkeeper's wife remarking at its
close that it was one she often had sung in her childhood.
"Let him sing some more songs of Burgundy," said the child in the
window, speaking for the first time since she had made the remark about
the hawk.
Antoine complied, and in the middle of the second song the company was
surprised by the entrance of a large woman clad in a loose robe and a
nightcap, who, without a word of apology, crossed the room to the window
and waving her arms with their wide, flowing sleeves, which in this
position gave her the appearance of a large bird that is about to fly,
poured out a torrent of words in a strange language, then, swooping upon
the little girl, swept her from the window and held her imprisoned in
her wing-like arms.
[Illustration: She laid it on baby Mary's breast]
The child replied in the same language and in a voice of indignation,
but the woman was about to carry her from the room, when the little one
struggled to the floor, and taking a piece of money from a small purse
at her girdle, she crossed the floor and laid it on baby Mary's breast.
Then turning with a brief "Good night" to the others, she followed her
grotesque attendant from the room.
"Now I wonder," said Le Glorieux, "if that woman is kidnapping the
child?"
"I think not," said the innkeeper. "That was the woman who came with her
to the inn, though she did not look like herself in that garb."
"To come before a large company in her nightcap like that was
disgraceful," said one of the women.
"She was too agitated to think of her appearance," said the friar. "I
think she was very much annoyed at the little one for coming down here
alone."
"As if we were ogres to swallow her!" cried the innkeeper's mother
indignantly.
"She has given our little one a fine present," said the baby's mother,
examining the coin by the rush light. "Husband, it is gold!"
"That child is not an ordinary person; I have said so all along," said
the host, with conviction.
Then a lively discussion followed, some of the women, and indeed some of
the men also, declaring that the authorities should be notified and the
matter investigated in order to find if the child were being carried off
and away from her home in an unlawful manner.
"My friends," said Le Glorieux, "perhaps the advice of a fool is worth
nothing, but such as it is you are welcome to it. I always have found
that when in doubt as to what course to pursue, you will be convinced
that the best plan is to go ahead and attend strictly to your own
affairs. That beautiful child knows just why she is here, and it is not
against her will, for she had ample time to tell us her troubles and to
ask our aid if she cared to do so before that old bird of prey swooped
down upon her. So let us go to bed and to sleep, for some of us, at
least this boy and myself, must be up bright and early and away before
the dew is off the grass."
And so the guests departed to their several homes or to their rooms in
the inn, while the host blew out the lights, closed the lattice, and
secured the door. And the nightingales sang on undisturbed.