THE WONDERFUL WISDOM OF PITTACUS
To go away at that moment, to leave the hated soil of France
forevermore, was now the ardent desire of the little princess, but even
royal ladies can not always do as they would like, and she was made to
realize that some days must elapse before it would be possible for her
to set out for her own country, where her father and her brother would
be waiting for her.
The chief delight of the princess at this time was in listening to the
songs of Burgundy as sung by the tuneful voice of Antoine. Anne of
Beaujeu entered her apartments one morning when the boy was singing his
Burgundian chansons. That cold and dignified lady was quite favorably
impressed by the singer's talent, and requested him to sing a well-known
French song.
"Madame," said the princess, "I shall be pleased to have my page sing
for you anything that you may fancy, but you will pardon me if I leave
the room while he sings of the glories of France!" And she walked out
with her head held high in the air.
Cunegunda was now utterly happy. Her migraine had been cured, thanks to
Saint Roch or to the change of air and scene necessitated by the
journey to his shrine, and she was going to return to her beloved
country.
"Ah, there is a land governed by a majestic ruler, a man who looks like
a sovereign," said she proudly. "But the kings of France, pouf! The old
king, who was alive when we came, looked like an old peasant, with his
claw-like hands and his awkward legs, and the present one, who in the
very bloom of his youth should be ruddy and handsome, has a large head
and is undersized and is not at all kingly in appearance."
"But let us think only of the real man shut inside of that
unprepossessing shell," said Le Glorieux, adding, "There is that clever
sentence again; I was afraid I had forgotten it."
"I do not see anything so very clever about it," retorted Dame
Cunegunda; "anybody could have thought it out."
"Anybody might think out things, my good Frau," he replied, "but it is
the knowing just when to say them that counts. But I have very bad news
for you, and instead of discussing my wonderful gift of always being
able to say the right thing at the right time, I really should be bathed
in tears."
"Has something dreadful happened to my father? Has news come from
Austria?" asked Marguerite, in alarm.
"By no means. Calm yourself, my little princess. The King of the Romans
may be at this moment climbing the cliffs to surprise the wary chamois,
or he may be defying some unlucky knight to mortal combat in the
tournament."
"Then it must have been decided that we are to remain in France," cried
Cunegunda. "Oh, unlucky was the day that we ever set foot in this unholy
land! I might have known that there was no such good luck for me as to
leave it!"
"Now you are preparing to cry," said the jester reproachfully, "and if
there is anything in this world I dislike to see it is a woman with her
face all wrinkled up ready for a boohoo. Your face is round and rosy,
and looks well enough when you let it alone, but ever since I have
become acquainted with you, you have been ready to weep at a moment's
warning; you have shed at least a barrel of tears, and what good has it
done you? Learn a lesson of me and smile at things instead of crying
about them."
"I never should want to smile had I so wide a mouth as yours," retorted
Cunegunda, forgetting in her indignation that she had not yet learned
the news that Le Glorieux had come to tell.
"My mouth is the right width for a man of my height," returned he, "and
could not be improved upon. But to return to the matter in hand, I will
say right here and now that we are going to sail away as soon as the
good ships can be made ready for us."
"Then, what is your news? be not so long about telling it," said
Marguerite, knitting her straight brows into a frown.
"It is, alas, alas, that Clotilde is going with us to the domains of
your royal grandfather!"
"This is news, indeed. Why must she go?"
"It appears that the new Queen of France, who so cleverly slipped into
your place, my little princess, and caught the crown as it was about to
settle itself upon your golden head--let me see, where was I?"
"What of the Queen of France?" asked Marguerite.
"Oh, yes; Anne wants a lady of her own kin to accompany you to your
native country, to escort you, to watch over you; and Clotilde, you
know, is a relative of Anne's, though they are about as much alike as
Pandora, my hawk, is like a meek little dove. Nature makes a mistake
sometimes and links the wrong people together by the ties of blood; I do
not know why, but so it is. I had hoped that the shores of France and
the sour face of Clotilde would disappear together from my view, but
perfect happiness is possible for no one, and moreover, I never was very
lucky."
"If the Lady Clotilde is a relative of the young Queen of France, how
does it happen that she has lived so long in Burgundy?" asked Cunegunda.
"My good friend," replied the jester, "you may have forgotten that
sometimes even the sourest of women have an opportunity to marry. They
manage it, I think, by the aid of witchcraft, and in her youth the
sharp black eyes of Clotilde captivated a Burgundian noble who afterward
was killed in the wars, and probably was glad of it, considering the
life she must have led him."
A number of proverbs have been suggested by the fact that people often
appear upon the scene while they are being talked about, and just as he
finished his sentence the Lady Clotilde parted the curtains that hung at
the doorway. She looked as pleased as her usually stern countenance
would permit, and she was accompanied by a boy about fourteen years of
age. This boy, afterward Duke of Savoy, and called Philibert the
Handsome, was so beautiful that it was a joy to look upon him. The
contour of his head, his straight nose, and his well-cut lips were as
perfect as if they had been carved from marble by the skillful, loving
hand of a sculptor, while his brilliant coloring, his dark and shining
eyes, were made still more attractive by the expression of his
countenance, which was frank and pleasing. For those days, when men and
women vied with each other in the selection of gaudy colors, he was
quite plainly clad, wearing a suit of dark velvet with no ornaments
whatever.
"I wish to present to your Highness a young relative of mine," announced
the Lady Clotilde. "He is Philibert, son of the Count de Bresse of
Savoy."
The boy kissed the hand Marguerite extended to him, and the Lady
Clotilde continued, "His father is an ally, as your Highness probably
knows, of the King of France."
"To gain my favor it is not necessary to be an ally of France," said
Marguerite shortly.
"And you are right, Madame," replied the boy quickly. "Were I in my
father's place never again would I draw my sword for France, for nations
as well as gentlemen should keep their promises."
This reply pleased the princess so much that her heart was won at once,
and she smiled brightly upon the boy as Le Glorieux said, "And now tell
me, Cousin Clotilde, how this young gentleman happens to be of your kin.
He does not resemble you in the least."
"I am not so sure about that," said the lady. "On the contrary, I think
that he looks quite as I did at his age, and even now I can trace a
great resemblance between his countenance and my own."
"Your eyes are very sharp, my lady, and you possess the gift of seeing
things that are visible to no one else," replied the jester.
"So I have been told," she responded, taking the remark as a compliment.
"Philibert's mother was a relative of my own, and this is the first time
I have seen the lad, who, young as he is, his father takes with him to
the wars."
"I wish," said Marguerite shyly, "that your father would ally himself
with Austria, since you no longer feel friendly toward France."
Philibert colored with pleasure as he replied, "Indeed, your Highness, I
should like it of all things, but my father must do as he thinks best."
"Would you like to go to Austria for a time, Philibert?" asked the Lady
Clotilde, who seemed to be in an unusually obliging mood. Then she
added, "A visit to a foreign court is of great advantage to a youth of
rank, and I will see what I can do to induce your father to allow you to
make the journey in my company."
There was no need for the boy to make a reply to this question, his
beaming face and sparkling eyes being sufficient to convince any who
cared to know that the very thought of such a trip made him happy, and
the Lady Clotilde left the room with the words of Le Glorieux ringing in
her ears, "She will succeed in her attempt, for those who do not obey
our Cousin Clotilde from love do so from fear," a doubtful compliment to
which she paid no attention. She was quite pleased with the thought of
procuring the companionship of this handsome and gracious boy, who, she
felt confident, would reflect great credit upon herself.
"Oh, you will be permitted to go with us, I am sure of it!" cried the
little princess enthusiastically. "Have you ever sailed in a ship?"
"No, Madame," replied the boy; "I have never been on the sea."
"Nor I, since I can remember it," returned she, "but I long to make a
voyage. It must be fine to be so far away from land as to see nothing
but the sky and the foam-capped waves, to be on the dark, cold sea and
yet be snug and comfortable."
"Once when I was a boy I made a trip on the sea," remarked Le Glorieux,
"and I remember that there were times when I was not so snug and
comfortable as I could have wished. Believe me, my little princess, you
would be much happier traveling on land this time of year than you would
be out on the stormy seas. But France will send you home in whatever way
it best pleases her, and we shall have but little to say about it."
And it so happened that it was deemed best to send the little princess
back to her father by land instead of intrusting her to the sea. This
was a disappointment to Marguerite, though she was glad to know that
they were to start at once. Already the palace of Amboise was being
refitted and refurnished in a style of great magnificence for the new
queen, who would not come to occupy it until after her coronation at St.
Denis. There was an atmosphere of joy throughout the kingdom in
anticipation of the new regime, which was expected to be very different
from the terrible days of the previous reign.
Lady Clotilde, who, as the jester had remarked, always managed in some
way to get what she wanted, succeeded in persuading the Count de Bresse
to allow his son to accompany her to Austria, and it was with light
hearts that the party set out on the journey, for a trip that has
something pleasant at the end of it is always begun joyously, and there
is ever a feeling of exhilaration in the thought of seeing a new
country. To the little princess her native land would be as an unknown
country, for to her it was not even a memory. Not for a moment did she
forget her grudge against France. At the first stop they made, when a
glass of wine was offered her with an apology for its sourness, she said
with a curl of her red lips, "Even the wine is sour in a country that
can not keep its promises." And the day they passed through Arras, the
town where the treaty was concluded that was to unite her to Charles,
and the people ran out with cries of greeting, she turned her head away
with a contemptuous reply.
As soon as they crossed the line that divided France from Flanders, Le
Glorieux put spurs to his steed and advanced to the side of the litter
in which the princess was seated.
"Little Cousin," said he. The curtains were parted and Marguerite's
pretty face smiled at him. "You are now in your very own land of
Flanders," said he, "the country your mother brought to Austria as her
dower."
"And I am glad to be here," replied she. "I could kiss the very soil of
the land that is my own!"
The jester now gradually fell behind, and once more rode at the rear of
the procession. "Why do you always ride so far behind?" asked Philibert,
checking his own horse to wait for Le Glorieux.
"Do you want me to tell you the real reason?" asked the fool.
"Certainly I do."
"It is because I wish to spare the feelings of Pittacus."
"The legs, rather," laughed the boy.
"I mean exactly what I say--the feelings," persisted the fool. "Do you
not think that a donkey can have feelings as well as a person? Of course
he can," he went on, answering his own question. "And do you not think
that he is greatly humiliated in a company like this?"
"What is there to humiliate him?" asked Antoine, who rode on the other
side of the jester.
"Why, look you, many of the other steeds are mounted by the nobility and
bear the richest trappings, while poor unfortunate Pittacus has nothing
but a common saddle. Do you not suppose that it cuts him to the heart
when he notices the contrast? How would either of you feel to mingle
with a gay company where jewels flashed and velvets shimmered, while you
wore the coarsest fustian?"
"We should not like it, of course," replied Philibert, "but what does a
donkey know about such things?"
"If you should ask him about it, you would be very soon convinced of the
truth of what I have told you, by the reply that he would make," said
Le Glorieux.
"Then let us ask him," said Antoine, and immediately raised his voice,
saying, "Pittacus, do you mind whether or not you are wearing gay
trappings? If you do, just move your right ear." But the donkey refused
to make a sign.
"What did I tell you?" asked Antoine mockingly. "He does not know or
care what kind of a saddle you have placed on his back."
"He did not hear you," replied the jester.
"I should like to know why he did not hear me; what are such long ears
for, if not for use?"
"If you will stop a moment you will see that he will answer me," said Le
Glorieux.
"He can not understand conversation when he is walking," said Philibert,
laughing.
"Nor well enough to make a reply even when he is standing still,"
remarked Antoine. "A donkey is nothing but a donkey, and you can make
nothing more out of him."
"There are some donkeys, two legged ones, that can not understand things
that are told them," retorted the jester, "but if you will stop a
moment, you will see that he will answer me. Pittacus is haughty and
particular in the choice of his friends, and he will not reply to every
jackanapes who asks him a question."
The three stopped and Le Glorieux dismounted, and going close to the
donkey's ear, he said, "Pittacus, joy of my heart, it makes you very
unhappy to see the other horses dressed so gay while you are wearing
your plain old saddle and blanket, I know it does. If I am right, just
move your right ear, Pittacus." And Pittacus did move his right ear, and
that quite vigorously.
"Now what have you to say?" asked his master triumphantly.
"You touched him with the point of your dagger and that was the cause of
it," said Philibert.
"I did nothing of the kind. See, I will ask him the same question again
with my hands clasped behind me. If you meant what you said just now,
move your right ear again, Pittacus." Again the donkey's long ear moved
as before, and, mounting him, the fool said with great satisfaction, "I
hope you will believe a thing when you have seen it with your own eyes,
and perhaps you will be careful in what you say about him in his
presence."
"I do not see that we need to be so very cautious in what we say, since
he does not seem to understand what is said to him, even by you, until
the question is bawled into his ear," said Philibert.
"He does not take the trouble to answer unless some one he respects
talks into his ear; in fact, he hears no questions asked by ordinary
people, but he would hear any gossip about himself, for all that,"
replied Le Glorieux.
Antoine was very much surprised at the superior intelligence of the
donkey, but he did not pursue the subject further. It was a popular
belief at this period that animals actually could talk on Christmas Eve,
and if this were true, he did not see any reason why they should not be
able to move their ears in reply to a question at any time of the year.
But Philibert, although he kept perfectly quiet regarding the matter,
suspected the truth, which was that with the word "Pittacus" at the end
of the sentence the jester blew into the donkey's ear, which caused the
animal to move his generous organ of hearing. He was also convinced that
it was not the sensitiveness of the animal to the fine trappings of the
other horses that kept him in the rear, but that it was because he was
too fat and lazy to keep up a brisk pace.
It was a tiresome journey, though they stopped at the towns, and
sometimes were entertained at the mansion of some noble family along the
route. Not far from Cologne the princess called to Le Glorieux, who,
though there were plenty of attendants to see that she was comfortable,
was in the habit of riding forward once in a while to make sure that she
needed nothing, "I am told that we are not far from Castle Hohenberg,"
said she. "Ask two of the gentlemen to ride on and notify them of our
coming."
"May I accompany them?" asked the fool.
"Certainly, if you like."
"And I should like to exchange horses with one of the guards."
"Why?"
"Because my donkey, Pittacus, is so sensitive."
"Sensitive?" repeated the princess, looking puzzled.
"Pittacus, little Cousin, is perfectly well aware of the shabbiness of
his wardrobe, and to prance into a castle courtyard caparisoned as he
is, with two other horses that are well dressed, would be more painful
to him than to enter in a crowd where he would not be so likely to be
noticed."
"Just as you please," replied the princess, smiling. "One of the guards
will exchange steeds with you."
"See the fibs your utter indolence and indifference force me to tell,"
muttered the fool, as he rode away from the litter. "It is I who am
sensitive, and on account of your slowness, but all this does not seem
to have the least effect upon you or to make you go a jot faster."
Having exchanged with one of the guards, who did not seem at all anxious
to make the trade, Le Glorieux galloped gayly away with the two
gentlemen, very glad to be one of the first to arrive at the castle.
[Illustration: Some youths and maidens had been to the woods]
Wrapped in his robes of crimson, the sun was sinking behind the forest
trees when Le Glorieux and his two companions came in sight of the
family seat of the Von Hohenbergs. The building was a grim old
structure, turreted and rugged, which had seen two centuries come and
go, and seemed able to greet many more. Some youths and maidens who had
been to the wood to gather fagots were singing and chattering as if the
world for them had not a care, though they possessed but the mere
necessaries of life. The count and countess had not yet returned from
the chase, so the strangers were informed by the haughty seneschal, who
immediately softened and almost groveled when informed that the Lady
Marguerite of Hapsburg was about to honor the castle with her presence,
while every being under that roof seemed to be on the alert to put the
best foot foremost, in order properly to receive the little princess.
Even Le Glorieux was treated with a degree of deference that caused him
to throw back his shoulders and strut about with a great deal of pride.
Soon the sound of a hunting horn was heard, and a company of ladies and
gentlemen dashed through the gate with hawks on their wrists and
followed by hounds. They seemed more quiet and less happy than the
fagot-gatherers, Le Glorieux thought, and he wondered if they were
really as happy as those young people who were working for their daily
bread.
The Count and Countess Von Hohenberg were very pleasant elderly people,
with a large family of sons and daughters, and a number of relatives who
always lived with them, so their household was a very large one. They
were charmed to hear of the unexpected arrival of the princess, who with
her suite soon rode through the gates and received a hearty welcome. A
bright fire was snapping in the broad fireplace of the great hall, and
did its part in cheering the fatigued and chilled travelers. The guests
were conducted to their rooms, which, if they did not contain the
luxuries afforded by the sleeping apartments in the mansions of the rich
of the present day, were at least comfortable, though the huge beds,
with their ghostly hangings, looked as if they might invite the
nightmare.
It was a merry company which surrounded the supper table, where
Marguerite was, of course, given the seat of honor. Great indignation
was expressed at the double insult offered their country by France. "I
have heard," said the count, "that Austria has taken up an alliance with
England and Spain, so France may learn to fear the house of Hapsburg and
its powerful friends."
"And France is no longer governed by the sly and scheming Louis, but by
the weakling Charles," said one of the gentlemen.
"I think you are wrong to call Charles a weakling," remarked Le
Glorieux, who was sitting on a low stool at the side of his mistress,
with his plate in his lap. "Charles has a dimple in his chin, which may
mean weakness, but he also has a nose of great size, which may mean
anything that is bad for his neighbors."
Just as he finished this speech a mournful shriek was heard outside,
which very nearly made the fool drop his plate. "What was that horrible
noise?" he gasped.
"It was only the wind whistling about the turrets," replied the count,
laughing. "The night is growing colder and the wind is rising."
"I thought it was the wail of a witch," said the jester.
"Send for Antoine that he may sing the witch song he gave us one night
in Rennes," said the Lady Marguerite. "It is like the howl of the wind."
A servant was sent to fetch the boy, who came with his lute and took a
seat by the fire, where he sang the witch song to such words as suited
his fancy, for he was not playing a joke upon his friend as when he had
sung at the court of Brittany, but was now anxious to please this merry
company of ladies and gentlemen. He told how a beauteous maiden with a
lovely voice was carried away one dark night by a witch, and changed
into a nightingale, where, lingering about her former home, she nightly
poured forth the woes of her heart in song. This production received
such high praise from the listeners that Antoine blushed very red, and
did not know whether to look up the chimney or at the floor, to hide his
confusion. Upon learning that he had set his own words to his own music,
one of the ladies wanted to know whether the story was true, and if the
unhappy maiden really had been thus bewitched. But Antoine was obliged
to admit that he had not a personal acquaintance with the nightingale
maiden, intimating that the young woman was merely a creature of his
imagination. To-day this would seem a strange question to ask in all
seriousness, but, as has already been said, the existence of witches and
hobgoblins was taken as a matter of course in those days.
Then they began to talk of the tricks played by witches, and while none
of the company could say that he or she ever had actually seen a witch,
still almost everybody had a story to tell that had been related by
people who had seen those mysterious and treacherous females.
"My mother often talked with witches," said the Lady Clotilde in that
decided way of hers which seemed to defy anybody to doubt her word. "And
they caused her a great deal of annoyance," she went on. "One day when
my mother was fastening a veil to her cap, a witch suddenly appeared and
said, 'Oh, what a pretty cap! And that lace is as delicate as frostwork!
Let me try it on, do!' And before my mother could say 'yes' or 'no,' the
witch had snatched the cap and put it on her head, and with a shrill
laugh vanished through the keyhole!"
"How did she get the cap through the keyhole?" asked Le Glorieux.
"That is no more wonderful than getting herself through the keyhole, is
it?" asked the lady tartly, annoyed by the query.
"No," returned the fool, "I do not think it is."
"Then do not interrupt with silly questions," said she.
"I can tell a story of something that happened over a hundred years ago,
in this very house, to one of my husband's ancestors," said the
countess. Everybody shivered with expectancy, while the wind outside
howled louder than ever; Antoine turned his back to the fire so that it
would not be convenient for anything to grab him from that direction,
while even Philibert, who was two years older, and who sat beside the
countess, regretted vaguely that the dagger at his side would be of no
avail against witches. For it seemed that if such creatures ever would
feel an inclination to meddle with the affairs of mortals, this old
castle with its vast rooms and dark corners would be the scene of their
liveliest performances.
"As I said," began the countess, "it was a hundred years ago. The Lady
Iolantha, whose father and brothers had all been killed in the wars,
lived here alone. She was the most beautiful woman of her time, and she
was betrothed to her cousin, Count Wolfgang, who had inherited the title
without the wealth, for the money all had come from her mother's side of
the house, and there was nothing left for the count but the empty
castle, which he scorned to take unless the lady should come with it.
"Iolantha, who was willful, detested her cousin, having bestowed her
affections upon a wandering minstrel by the name of Rudolph Eberhard, a
handsome youth, and one who sang in a most charming voice. He lingered
here day after day, and sang so many songs in praise of her beauty that
she determined to marry him, come what would. Wolfgang was not a man to
win the heart of a maiden, for, though young, he had a dark, forbidding
countenance, and a harsh, discordant voice. Every one feared him, and it
was believed by many that he was in league with evil spirits."
"A cheerful kind of an ancestor, that one of yours," remarked Le
Glorieux to the count.
"But he lived a hundred years ago; his blood has been filtered away by
this time, at least all that was bad in it," said the countess. "The
Count Wolfgang knew that his cousin cared nothing for him, still he was
determined to hold her to her promise, and he was resolved, by fair
means or foul, to get the young minstrel out of the way." The countess
now unclasped a girdle that hung loosely about her waist, with long ends
coming almost to the floor, and held it up that all might see it. It was
made of flexible silver fretwork, and was set with emeralds. "There is a
tradition that when this girdle is lost by the Von Hohenbergs their luck
will go with it," went on the countess, "so Iolantha cherished it very
highly. One night after dancing in the great hall, a dance in which
Rudolph was her partner, the girdle suddenly disappeared in a manner
that was most unaccountable. They searched everywhere, but it could not
be found, and one by one the servants were accused, but all to no avail.
Then tauntingly Wolfgang demanded that Rudolph be searched. Iolantha
indignantly refused to have this done, deeming the very suggestion an
insult to the man she loved and respected. But without more ado Wolfgang
walked up to the young minstrel, and tearing open his doublet, found the
girdle concealed on the inside of it."
"I suspected as much," remarked Le Glorieux, who, like every one else,
had been very much interested in the story. "You see," he went on, "the
minstrel was dancing with the lady, and it would be easy enough for him
to unclasp the girdle and hide it in the folds of his mantle until he
had a chance to tuck it away in his doublet."
"But wait," said the countess. "Rudolph was as much surprised as any one
else and declared that he did not know how it came there."
"He, would naturally make that very remark," observed the fool.
"But Rudolph had not taken the girdle," said the countess triumphantly.
"The Count Wolfgang was in league with witches, and it was by their
spells that the girdle had come into the minstrel's possession. Servants
told the story to their children, and so on down, of how that very night
they had heard the witches singing their wild songs, and the old
housekeeper saw them dancing in the moonlight. She said they were
dressed in a gray, misty material like cobwebs."
"Did Iolantha marry the minstrel?" asked the princess.
"No, your Highness. There was nothing to prove that the witches did the
trick, and she could not marry a man with so deep a stain upon his good
name. So Rudolph marched away to the crusades, and Iolantha married
Count Wolfgang."
"And she did a sensible thing," said Le Glorieux decisively. "I have
distrusted that minstrel ever since you brought him into the story,
which teaches that the man who does a wicked thing is bound to come out
at the small end of the horn."
"Thank you, Fool," said the count, laughing. "You have cleared the good
name of my ancestor and you are the first one in all these years to say
a word in his favor, all preferring to take sides with the handsome
minstrel."