WHY MADAME JACQUELINE WAS SO LATE IN GETTING TO BED
I
Old Nicolle, restless and cross, was fidgeting about the room,
fingering with fussy inconsequence the beautiful clothes which her
mistress had taken off half an hour ago preparatory to going to
bed--clothes of great value and of vast beauty, which had cost more
money to acquire than good Nicolle had ever handled in all her life.
There was the beautiful gown which Madame had worn this evening at
supper, fashioned of black satin and all slashed with white and
embroidered with pearls. There was the underdress of rich crimson
silk, worked with gold and silver braid; there were the stockings of
crimson silk, the high-pattened shoes of velvet, the delicately
wrought fan, the gloves of fine chamois skin, the wide collarette
edged with priceless lace. There was also the hideous monstrosity
called the farthingale--huge hoops constructed of whalebone and of
iron which, with the no less abominable corset of wood and steel, was
intended to beautify and to refine the outline of the female figure
and only succeeded in making it look ludicrous and ungainly. There
were, in fact, the numberless and costly accessories which go to the
completion of a wealthy lady's toilet.
Madame had divested herself of them all and had allowed Nicolle to
wrap a woollen petticoat round her slender hips and to throw a shawl
over her shoulders. Then, with her fair hair hanging in heavy masses
down her back, she had curled herself up in the high-backed chair
beside the open window--the open window, an it please you! and the
evening, though mild, still one of early March! Old Nicolle had
mumbled and grumbled. It was ten o' the clock and long past bedtime.
For awhile she had idled away the hour by fingering the exquisite
satin of the gown which lay in all its rich glory upon the carved
dowry chest. Nicolle loved all these things. She loved to see her
young mistress decked out in all the finery which could possibly be
heaped up on a girlish and slender body. She never thought the silks
and satins heavy when Jacqueline wore them; she never thought the
farthingale unsightly when Jacqueline's dainty bust and shoulders
emerged above it like the handle of a huge bell.
But gradually her patience wore out. She was sleepy, was poor old
Nicolle! And Madame still sat squatting in the tall chair by the
open window, doing nothing apparently save to gaze over the courtyard
wall to the distance beyond, where the graceful steeple of St. Géry
stood outlined like delicate lace-work against the evening sky.
''Tis time Madame got to bed,' reiterated the old woman for the
twentieth time. 'The cathedral tower hath chimed the quarter now.
Whoever heard of young people not being abed at this hour! And
Madame sitting there,' she added, muttering to herself, 'not clothed
enough to look decent!'
Jacqueline de Broyart looked round to old Nicolle with amusement
dancing in her merry blue eyes.
'Not decent?' she exclaimed with a laugh. 'Why, my dear Colle,
nobody sees me but you!'
'People passing across the courtyard might catch sight of Madame,'
said Nicolle crossly.
'People?' retorted Jacqueline gaily. 'What people?'
'Monseigneur had company to-night.'
'They all went away an hour ago.'
'Then there are the varlets and maids----'
'E'en so,' rejoined Jacqueline lightly, 'my attire, meseems, is not
lacking in modesty. I am muffled up to my nose in a shawl and----
Oh!' she added with a quick sigh of impatience, 'I am so comfortable
in this soft woollen petticoat. I feel like a human being in it and
not like a cathedral bell. How I wish my guardian would not insist
on my wearing all these modish clothes from Paris! I was so much
more comfortable when I could don what I most fancied.'
'Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy,' said Nicolle sententiously, 'knows
what is due to your rank, Madame, and to your wealth.'
'Oh! a murrain upon my rank and upon my wealth!' cried the young girl
hotly. 'My dear mother rendered me a great disservice when she bare
me to this world. She should have deputed some simple, comfortable
soul for the work, who could have let me roam freely about the town
when I liked, run about the streets barefooted, with a short woollen
kirtle tied round my waist and my hair flying loose about my
shoulders. I could have been so happy as a humble burgher's daughter
or a peasant wench. I do so loathe all the stiffness and the
ceremony and the starched ruffles and high-heeled shoes. What I want
is to be free--free!--Oh!----'
And Jacqueline de Broyart stretched out her arms and sighed again,
half-longingly, half-impatiently.
'You want to be free, Madame,' muttered old Nicolle through her
toothless gums, 'so that you might go and meet that masked gallant
who has been haunting the street with his music of late. You never
used to sigh like this after freedom and ugly gowns before he
appeared upon the scene.'
'Don't scold, old Colle!' pleaded the girl softly. And now her arms
were stretched towards the old waiting-woman.
Nicolle resisted the blandishment. She was really cross just now.
She turned her back resolutely upon the lovely pleader, avoiding to
look into those luminous blue eyes, which had so oft been compared by
amorous swains to the wild hyacinths that grow in the woods above
Marcoing.
'Come and kiss me, Colle,' whispered the young charmer, 'I feel so
lonely somehow to-night. I feel as if--as if----'
And the young voice broke in a quaint little gasp which was almost
like a sob.
In a moment Nicolle--both forgiving and repentant--was kneeling
beside the high-backed chair, and with loving, wrinkled hands holding
a delicate lace handkerchief, she wiped the tears which had gathered
on Jacqueline's long, dark lashes.
'My precious lamb, my dove, my little cabbage!' she murmured
lovingly. 'What ails thee? Why dost thou cry? Surely, my pigeon,
thou hast no cause to be tearful. All the world is at thy feet;
every one loves thee, and M. de Landas--surely the finest gentleman
that ever walked the earth!--simply worships the ground thy little
foot treads on. And--and'--added the old woman pitiably--'thy old
Colle would allow herself to be cut into a thousand pieces if it
would please thee.'
Whereupon Jacqueline broke into a sudden, gay and rippling laugh,
even though the tears still glistened on her lashes.
'I shouldn't at all enjoy,' she said lightly, 'seeing my dear old
Colle cut into a thousand pieces.'
'Then what is it, my beloved?'
Jacqueline made no reply. For a few seconds she remained quite
silent, her eyes fixed into nothingness above old Colle's head. One
would almost have thought that she was listening to something which
the old woman could not hear, for the expression on her face was
curiously tense, with eyes glowing and lips parted, while the poise
of her girlish figure was almost rigidly still. The flame of the wax
candles in the tall sconces flickered gently in the draught, for the
casement-window was wide open and a soft breeze blew in from the west.
'Come, my cabbage,' pleaded Nicolle as she struggled painfully to her
feet. 'Come and let thy old Colle put thee to bed. Thou must be
tired after that long supper party and listening to so much talking
and music. And to-morrow yet another banquet awaits thee.
Monseigneur hath already desired thy presence----'
'I don't want to go to another banquet to-morrow, Colle,' sighed the
young girl dolefully. 'And I am sick of company and of scrapings and
bowings and kissing of hands--stupid flummery wherewith men regale me
because I am rich and because they think that I am a brainless
nincompoop. I would far rather have supper quietly in my room every
night--quite alone----'
But old Colle evidently thought that she knew better than that.
'Heu! heu!' she muttered with a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied
by a knowing wink. 'What chance wouldst thou have then of seeing M.
de Landas?'
'I hardly can speak with M. de Landas during those interminable
banquets,' rejoined Jacqueline with a sigh. 'My guardian or else M.
de Lalain always seem in the way now whenever he tries to come nigh
me.'
'I'll warrant though that M. de Landas knows how to circumvent
Monseigneur,' riposted the old woman slyly. Like so many of her sex
who have had little or no romance in a dull and monotonous life,
there was nothing that old Colle enjoyed more than to help forward a
love intrigue or a love adventure. M. de Landas she had, as it were,
taken under her special protection. He was very handsome and liberal
with money, and in his love-making he had all the ardour of his
Southern blood, all of which attributes vastly appealed to old Colle.
The fact that Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy did not altogether favour
the young man's suit--especially of late--lent additional zest to
Nicolle's championship of his claims.
'Even so,' said Jacqueline with sudden irrelevance, 'there are
moments when one likes to be alone. There is so much to think
about--to dream of----'
'I know, I know,' murmured the old woman crossly. 'Thy desire is to
sit here half the evening now by the open window, and catch a deathly
ague while listening to that impudent minstrel who dares to serenade
so great a lady.'
She went on muttering and grumbling and fidgeting about the room,
unmindful of the fact that at her words Jacqueline had suddenly
jumped to her feet; eyes blazing, small fists clenched, cheeks
crimson, she suddenly faced the garrulous old woman.
'Nicolle, be silent!' she commanded. 'At once! Dost hear?'
'Silent? Silent?' grumbled the woman. 'I have been silent quite
long enough, and if Monseigneur were to hear of these doings 'tis old
Nicolle who would get the blame. As for M. de Landas, I do verily
believe that he would run his sword right through the body of the
rogue for his impudence! I know.... I know,' she added, with a tone
of spite in her gruff voice. 'But let me tell thee that if that
rascally singer dares to raise his voice again to-night----'
She paused, a little frightened at the fierce wrath which literally
blazed out of her mistress's eyes.
'Well?' said Jacqueline peremptorily, but in a very husky voice.
'Why dost thou not finish? What will happen if the minstrel, whose
singing hath given me exquisite joy these three nights past, were to
raise his heavenly voice again?'
'Pierre will make it unpleasant for him, that's all!' replied the old
woman curtly.
'Pierre?'
'Yes; Pierre! M. de Landas' serving-man. I told him to be on the
look-out, outside the postern gate, and--well!--Pierre has a strong
fist and a heavy staff, and...'
In a moment Jacqueline was by Nicolle's side. She seized the old
woman by the wrist so that poor Colle cried out with pain, and it was
as the very living image of a goddess of wrath that the young girl
now confronted her terrified serving-maid.
'Thou hast dared to do that, Nicolle?' she demanded in a choked and
quivering voice. 'Thou wicked, interfering old hag! I hate thee!'
she went on remorselessly, not heeding the looks of terror and of
abject repentance wherewith Colle received this floodgate of
vituperation. 'I hate thee, dost hear? And if Pierre doth but dare
to lay hands on that exquisite singer I'll ask M. de Landas to have
him flogged--yes, flogged! And I'll never wish to see thy face
again--thou wicked, wicked Colle!'
Mastered by her own emotion and her passionate resentment, Jacqueline
sank back into a chair, her voice broken with sobs, and tears of
genuine rage streaming down her cheeks. Nicolle, quite bewildered,
had stood perfectly still, paralysed in fact, whilst this storm of
wrathful indignation burst over her devoted head. In spite of her
terror and of her remorse, there had lingered round her wrinkled lips
a line or two of mulish obstinacy. The matter of the unknown singer,
who had not only ventured to serenade the great and noble Dame
Jacqueline, Duchesse et Princesse de Ramèse and of several other
places, just as if she were some common burgher's wench with a none
too spotless reputation, had not ended with a song or two: no! the
malapert had actually been impudent enough last night to scale the
courtyard wall and to stand for over half an hour just below Madame's
window (how he knew which was Madame's window Satan, his accomplice,
alone could tell!) singing away to the accompaniment of a twangy
lute, which she--Nicolle--for one, could never abide.
Fortunately, on that occasion Madame Jacqueline had been both modest
and discreet. She had kept well within the room and even retired
into the alcove, well out of sight of that abominable rascal; but she
would not allow Colle to close the window and had been very angry
indeed when the old woman with a few gruff and peremptory words had
presently sent the malapert away.
That was yesterday. And now this outburst of rage! It was
unbelievable! Madame Jacqueline of a truth was hot-tempered and
passionate--how could she help being otherwise, seeing that she had
been indulged and adulated ever since, poor mite of three, she had
lost both father and mother and had been under the guardianship of
Monseigneur d'Inchy and of half a dozen other gentlemen. Never,
however, had Colle seen her quite like this, and for such a worthless
cause! Colle could scarce credit her eyes and ears. And alas! there
was no mistaking the flood of heartrending weeping which followed.
Jacqueline sat huddled up in her chair, her face buried in her hands,
sobbing and weeping as if her heart would break.
II
All the obstinacy in the worthy old soul melted away in an instant,
giving place to heartrending remorse. She fell on her knees, she
took the small feet of her adored mistress in her hands and kissed
them and wept over them and cried and lamented tearfully.
'Lord God, what have I done?' she called out from the depths of her
misery. 'My dove, my cabbage! Look at me--look at thy old Colle!
Dost not know that I would far sooner bite my tongue out than say one
word that would offend thee? My lamb, wilt not look at Colle?--I
vow--I swear that I'll die here on the spot at thy feet, if thou'lt
not smile on me!'
Gradually as the old woman wept and pleaded, Jacqueline became more
calm. The sobs no longer shook her shoulders, but she still kept her
face hidden in her hands. A few minutes went by. Colle had buried
her old head in the young girl's lap, and after a while Jacqueline,
regally condescending to forgive, allowed her hand to fall on the
bowed head of the repentant sinner.
'I'll only forgive thee, Colle,' she said with solemn earnestness,
'if Pierre doth not lay a finger upon that heavenly singer--but, if
he does----'
Colle struggled to her feet as quickly as her stiff joints would
allow.
'I'll go and find the varlet myself,' she said fiercely, ready to
betray with cowardly baseness the confederate of awhile ago, now that
she had propitiated the mistress whom she adored. 'M. de Landas hath
not yet left the Palace, and if Pierre dares but raise his hand
against that mal--hem!--against the noble singer whom thou dost
honour with thine attention, well! he'll have to reckon with old
Colle; that is all!'
With Jacqueline de Broyart--who in herself appeared the very
embodiment of spring, so full of youth, of grace and of vitality was
she--sunshine and storm came in rapid succession over her moods, just
as they do over the skies when the year is young. Already her eyes,
bathed in tears of rage awhile ago, were glistening with pleasure,
and her lips, which had pouted and stormed, were parted in a smile.
'Go, Colle!' she said eagerly. 'Go at once, ere it be too late and
that fool Pierre----'
The words died upon her lips. The next instant she had jumped down
from her chair and run to the window. From some distance down the
street there had come, suddenly wafted upon the wings of the wind,
the sound of a voice singing the well-known verses of Messire de
Ronsard:
'Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avait desclose
Sa robe de pourpre au soleil
A point perdu cette vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée
Et son teint au vostre pareil.'[1]
[1] 'Mignonne, come see if the rose
That this morning did unclose
Her purple robe to the sun
Hath not ere this evening lost
Of those purple petals most
And the tint with your tint one.'
(Translation by Mr. Percy Allen. _Songs of Old France_.)
Jacqueline knelt upon the window-seat, but she could see nothing, so
she turned back piteously to murmur to old Colle: 'Oh! if I could
only see him!'
The old woman, after the experience of the past few minutes, was
ready to do anything, however abject, to further her mistress' desire.
'Put on thy mask, my pigeon,' she said, 'and then lean well out of
the window; but not too far, for fear M. de Landas should happen to
be passing in the courtyard and should see thee with thy hair down.
No, no!' added the old hypocrite obsequiously, 'there is no harm in
listening to so sweet a singer. I'll get thy purse, too, and thou
canst throw him a coin or two. No doubt the poor fellow is
down-at-heels and only sings to earn his supper.'
And humble, fussy, still snivelling, Nicolle shuffled across the
room, found the satin mask and brought it to her mistress.
Jacqueline fixed it over her face; then she leaned as far out of the
window as she dared to do without fear of falling out. And, if M. de
Landas saw her, why! he would be so gladdened at the sight that he
would have no ear for a mere street musician, whilst
she--Jacqueline--was just now in so soft a mood that if M. de Landas
happened to scale the wall to her casement-window--as he had more
than once threatened to do--she would return his kisses in a way that
she had never done before.
For she was deeply in love with M. de Landas, had been for years.
She had plighted her troth to him when she was a mere child, and she
loved him--oh yes! she loved him very, very much, only...
III
There was the width of the courtyard and the tall wall between
Jacqueline and the street where stood the singer whom she so longed
to see. She had caught sight of him yesterday when, to Nicolle's
horror, he had boldly scaled the wall and then had lingered for nigh
on half an hour beneath her window, singing one merry song after
another, till her young heart had been filled with a new joy, the
cause of which she herself could not quite comprehend.
She had watched him unseen, fearful lest some of the serving-men
should see him and drive him away. Fortunately Chance had been all
in favour of her new romance. M. de Landas was on duty at the Forts
that night; her guardian was still closeted with some other grave
seigneurs, and the serving-men were no doubt too busy to trouble
about a harmless minstrel. As for the wenches about the place, they
had stood about in the doorways, listening with delight at the
impassioned songs and gaping in admiration at the splendid bearing of
the unknown cavalier.
Thus the singer had stood in the courtyard for some considerable
time, his martial figure silhouetted against the clear, moonlit sky,
his voice rising and falling in perfect cadence to the accompaniment
of a soft-toned lute, whilst Jacqueline, hidden within the shadow of
the window-embrasure, listened spellbound, her whole youth, her
ardent, loving soul exultant at this romance which was taking birth
at her feet.
And now he had come back, and the very night seemed to bid him
welcome. It was still quite early in March, yet the air was soft as
spring. All day the birds had been twittering under the eaves, and
on the west wind had come wafted gently the scent of budding almond
blossom and of the life-giving sap in the branches of the trees.
The stately city with its towers and steeples and cupolas lay bathed
in the light of the honey-coloured moon. Far away on the right, the
elegant church of Saint Géry up on the Mont-des-Boeufs seemed like a
bar of silver which attached old Cambray to the star-studded
firmament above, and around it were grouped the tall steeples of St.
Martin, St. Waast and St. Aubert, with the fine hexagon of Martin et
Martine which crowned the Town Hall; whilst, dominating this forest
of perfect and rich architecture, was the mass of the cathedral close
by, with its tall pointed steeple, its flying buttresses, its
numberless delicate pinnacles picked out as by a fairy hand against
the background of deep azure.
But Jacqueline de Broyart had for the nonce no eyes for all that
beauty. What cared she if the wintry moon outlined all these lovely
heights with delicate lines of silver? What cared she if the shadows
of stately edifices appeared full of a golden glow by contrast with
the cold blue of the lights? Her eyes were fixed, not on the tower
of St. Géry nor on the steeple of Notre Dame: they rested upon that
high and cruel wall which hid the unknown singer from her sight.
'Mignonne!' he sang out gaily. 'Allons voir la rose----'
'Oh!' sighed Jacqueline with passionate longing. 'If I only
could----!'
And her fancy went soaring into a world of romance--a world far away
from the sordid strifes, the political intrigues, the quarrels of
to-day; a world wherein men were all handsome and brave and women
were all free to grant them their hand to kiss, to listen to their
songs, to reward their prowess, to receive their homage unfettered by
convention--a world, in fact, such as Messire de Froissart had
chronicled and of which Messire Villon had sung so exquisitely.
Then suddenly Jacqueline's dreams were rudely interrupted, as was
also the song of the unseen minstrel. Loud voices were raised and
there was a clash which made Jacqueline's very heart turn cold in her
bosom.
'Colle!' she cried excitedly.
But Colle had shuffled out of the room some little while ago, in
search of Pierre, no doubt, whom evidently she had failed to find.
And out there behind that cruel wall the rough hands of that
abominable varlet were being laid on the precious person of the
unsuspecting minstrel. Jacqueline felt literally paralysed both with
terror and with wrath. Colle had spoken of Pierre's stout arm and
still stouter stick, but there was also the possibility of M. de
Landas himself being about, and then--oh, then! ... Ye heavens above!
anything might happen! ... Oh! the wicked, wicked old woman and that
execrable Pierre! ... and ... and of course M. de Landas' jealousy
was sometimes terrifying!
'God in Heaven!' sighed Jacqueline. 'I entreat Thee to protect him!'
The noise of the scuffle in the street became louder and louder.
There were cries of rage as well as of pain. Blows were evidently
raining freely--on whom? My God, on whom? Then, from further up the
street, came the sound of running footsteps as well as the stern
voice of the night watchmen hurrying to the scene. Jacqueline would
have bartered some years of her life to see what was going on the
other side of the wall. Only a minute or two had gone by: to the
young girl it had seemed like hours of suspense. And now these
people all rushing along, no doubt in order to give a hand to
Pierre--to fall on the unarmed minstrel--to lay hands upon him--to
belabour him with sticks--to wound or hurt him--to----
Jacqueline uttered a loud cry of horror. It was the echo of one of
terror, of pain and of rage which came from the other side of the
wall. The next moment a dark mass appeared over the top of the wall,
silhouetted against the moonlit sky. To Jacqueline's straining eyes
it seemed like the body of a man which, for the space of a brief
second, seemed to hover in mid air and then fell with a dull thud
upon the paving-stones of the courtyard below.
Jacqueline closed her eyes. She felt sick and faint. To her ears
now came the sound of loud groans and vigorous curses. And then--oh,
then!--loud laughter and the last bar of the interrupted song--a
sound indeed which caused her at once to open her eyes again;
whereupon she, too, could have laughed and sung for joy. The inert
mass still lay in a heap at the foot of the wall; Jacqueline could
vaguely discern its outline in the gloom, whilst up on the top of the
wall, astride, hatless, lute in hand, sat the masked minstrel with
his head turned gazing toward her window.
She clapped her hands with glee, and he, with a loud cry of
'Mignonne!' swung himself down from the wall and ran across the
courtyard until he came to a halt just beneath her window, and even
in the dim light of this wintry moon Jacqueline thought that she
could see his eyes glowing through the holes in the mask.
It was all so joyous, so gay, so romantic; so different--ah! so very,
very different--to the dreary monotony of Jacqueline's daily
existence! This masked and unknown minstrel! His daring, his
prowess, aye! his very impudence, which laughed at high walls and
defied an army of varlets! There was Pierre moaning and groaning,
disarmed and helpless, having been tossed over the wall just as if he
were a bale of cumbersome goods! Serve him right well, too, for
having dared to measure his valour against that of so proud a
cavalier! Pierre was not hurt--oh, Jacqueline was quite sure that he
was not hurt! Nothing, nothing whatever, was going to be wrong on
this lovely, glorious evening! No! Pierre would soon be healed of
his wounds; but it was ludicrous to see him stretched out just there,
where he thought he could lay the noble singer low!
'Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,' sang the mysterious minstrel; and
Jacqueline's young heart, which was filled with the joy of romance,
the exquisite rapture of ideals, suddenly ached with a passionate
longing for--for what? She did not know. She had had so many things
in life: riches, beauty, adulation, aye! and the love of a man whom
she loved in return. But now it seemed to her as if, in spite of all
that, in spite of M. de Landas and his love, she had really lacked
something all the time--something that was both undefinable and
mystic and yet was intensely and vividly real, something that would
fill her life, that would satisfy her soul and gladden her heart, in
a way that M. de Landas' love, his passionate kisses, had never
succeeded in doing hitherto.
And somehow all this longing, all this thirst for a still-unknown
happiness, seemed personified in the singer with the tall, broad
stature and the mellow voice; it was embodied in the honey-coloured
moon, in the glints of silver and gold upon the steeples of Cambray,
in the scent of the spring and the murmurs of the breeze. Jacqueline
pressed her hands against her heart. She was so happy that she could
have cried.
Beside her on the window-sill stood a tall vase fashioned of Dutch
clay. It was filled with tall-stemmed Madonna lilies, which had been
produced at great cost in the hot-houses belonging to her own estate
in Hainault. Their powerful scent had filled the room with its
fragrance. Without thought or hesitation, Jacqueline suddenly pulled
the sheaf out of the vase and gathered the flowers in her arms. The
tender, juicy stems were wet and she took her embroidered
handkerchief out of her pocket and wrapped it round them; then she
flung the whole sheaf of lilies out of the window and watched to see
them fall, bruised and sweet-smelling, at the minstrel's feet.
Then, half-ashamed, laughing a little hysterically, but thoroughly
happy and excited, she drew quickly back into the room and hastily
closed the casement.
IV
When, ten minutes or so later, Nicolle came back, shame-faced,
remorseful and not a little frightened, she was surprised and
delighted to find her young mistress sitting quite composedly in a
high-backed chair in the centre of the room, the window closed, and
the lady herself quite eager to go to bed.
'Thou hast been gone a long time, Colle,' said the young girl
carelessly. 'Where hast thou been?'
Old Colle sighed with relief. The Lord be praised! Madame had
evidently seen and heard nothing of that vulgar scuffle which had
ended in such disaster for poor Pierre, and in such a triumph for the
impudent rascal who had since disappeared just as quickly as he came.
'I just went round to see that those wenches were all abed and that
their lights were safely out,' replied the old woman with brazen
hypocrisy.
'And didst speak to Pierre on the way?' queried Jacqueline, who had
assumed the quaintest possible air of simple ingenuousness.
'Aye!' replied the old woman dryly. 'I spoke to Pierre.'
'What did he say?'
'Nothing of importance. We talked of to-morrow's banquet.'
'To-morrow's banquet?'
'Do not feign surprise, my pigeon,' rejoined old Colle, who was
decidedly out of humour. 'I even asked thee to-night, before taking
off thy gown, if thou wouldst wear that one or another on the morrow.'
'I remember,' replied Jacqueline with a yawn, 'I said that I did not
care what I wore, as I hated banquets, and company and bowings
and----'
'But Monseigneur said that the banquet to-morrow would be for a
special occasion.'
'When did he say that?'
'A moment or two ago--to Pierre.'
'And what will the special occasion be to-morrow?'
Nicolle looked mysterious.
'Maybe,' she said, 'that it is not altogether unconnected with
Monseigneur de Landas.'
'Why with him?' asked Jacqueline eagerly.
'Oh! I am only putting two and two together, my cabbage,' replied
old Colle with a sly wink. 'There is talk of distinguished guests in
Cambray, of betrothals, and ... and ...
'Betrothals?'
'Why, yes. Thou art nearly twenty, my pigeon, and Monseigneur, thy
guardian, will have to make up his mind that thou wilt marry sooner
or later. I always thought that he did favour Monseigneur de Landas,
until----'
'Until what?' queried Jacqueline impatiently.
'There are so many rumours in the air,' replied Colle sententiously.
'Some talk of the Duc d'Anjou, who is own brother to the King of
France.'
Jacqueline made a little moue of disdain.
'Oh! _Monsieur_!' she said carelessly.
'A very great and noble prince, my pigeon.'
'I am tired of great and noble princes.'
'But Monseigneur, the Duc d'Anjou...'
'Is one of the many, I suppose, who want my fortune, my family
connexions, the Sovereignty of the Netherlands. Bah!' she added with
an impatient sigh. 'They sicken me!'
'A great lady, my cabbage,' said Nicolle solemnly, 'cannot follow the
dictates of her heart like a common wench.'
'Why!' exclaimed Jacqueline. 'Methought thou wast all for M. de
Landas!'
'So I am, my pigeon, so I am!' rejoined the old woman. 'He is a very
distinguished gentleman, who loves thee ardently. But if there's one
who is own brother to the King of France....' And old Colle gave an
unctuous sigh when she spoke the exalted name.
'Bah!' retorted Jacqueline with a careless shrug of the shoulders.
'There are others too! And no one can force me into a marriage
whilst my heart is pledged to M. de Landas.'
'No, no! Thank God for that!' assented Colle piously. 'As for the
others ... well! their name is legion ... some of them will be at the
banquet to-morrow.... There is the Marquis de Hancourt, a
fine-looking youth, and that horrid German prince whom I cannot
abide! The English lord hath gone away, so they say, broken-hearted
at thy refusal; but there's the Spanish duke, whose name I cannot
remember, and Don José, own son to the Emperor.... As for that
stranger----' she added with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
'The stranger?' queried Jacqueline lazily. 'What stranger?
'Well, I don't know much about him. But Pierre, feeling crestfallen,
did admit that Monseigneur chided him severely for having shown a
want of respect to a gentleman who ought to have known better than to
pretend to be a street musician.'
But Jacqueline appeared all of a sudden to have lost interest in the
conversation. 'Ah!' she said with well-assumed indifference, 'then
the street musician of awhile ago was a gentleman in disguise?'
'Aye! so Pierre said--the fool!' quoth old Colle unblushingly.
'Monseigneur was very angry with him when he heard of the altercation
with the singer, threatened to speak of the matter to M. de Landas
and have Pierre flogged or dismissed for his interference. Then he
hinted that the stranger, far from being a street musician, was a
foreign seigneur of high degree, even if of scanty fortune.'
'Oh!' commented Jacqueline carelessly.
'And he e'en ordered Pierre to go and apologize most humbly to the
stranger, who it seems is lodging in a very poor hostelry known as
"Les Trois Rois," just close to the Porte Notre Dame.'
Jacqueline ostentatiously smothered a yawn.
'I think I'll go to bed now, Colle,' she said.
But Colle's tongue, once loosened, could not so easily be checked.
'Town gossip,' she went on with great volubility, 'has been busy with
that stranger for the past two days. 'Tis said that he is styled
Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont; though what a prince should be
doing in a shabby hostel in that squalid quarter of the city I, for
one, do not know--nor why he should be going about masked and cloaked
through the city in the guise of a vagabond.'
'Perhaps the vagabond is no prince after all,' suggested Jacqueline.
'That's what I say,' asserted Colle triumphantly. 'And that's what
Pierre thought until Monseigneur told him that if he did not go at
once and offer his humble apologies he surely would get a flogging,
seeing that the Prince de Froidmont would actually be a guest at the
banquet to-morrow, and would of a certainty complain to M. de Landas.'
'A guest at the banquet!' exclaimed Jacqueline involuntarily.'
'Aye!' assented Colle. 'Didst ever hear the like! But he must be a
distinguished seigneur for all that, or Monseigneur would not bid him
come.'
'No, I suppose not,' said Jacqueline with perfect indifference. 'The
Prince de Froidmont?' she added with a little yawn. 'Is that his
name?'
'So the town gossips say,' replied Colle, who was busy just then in
wrapping the bed-gown round her young mistress's shoulders.
'And he comes to the banquet to-morrow?'
'So Monseigneur said to Pierre.'
Jacqueline said nothing more for the moment, appeared to have lost
all interest in the masked musician and in Pierre's misdeeds. She
stretched out her arms lazily while vigorous old Colle picked her up
as if she were a baby and carried her--as she was wont to do every
night--to her bed.
She laid her down upon the soft feather mattress and spread the fine
coverlets over her. The alcove wherein stood the monumental bedstead
was in semi-darkness, for the light from the wax candles in the
sconces about the room failed to penetrate into the recess. But that
semi-darkness was restful, and for awhile Jacqueline lay back against
the pillows, with eyes closed, in a state of that complete well-being
which is one of the monopolies of youth. Nicolle, thinking that
Madame would be dropping off to sleep, made a movement to go; but
Jacqueline's small white hand had hold of the old woman's bony
fingers, and old Colle, abjectly happy at feeling the pressure,
remained quite still, waiting and watching, gazing with doglike
devotion on the lovely face--lovely in repose as it was when the
light of gaiety and roguishness danced in the blue eyes.
After a few minutes of this silent beatitude, Jacqueline opened her
eyes and said in a dreamy voice, half-asleep:
'Tell me, Colle, which is my prettiest gown?'
And Nicolle--herself more than half-way to the land of Nod--roused
herself in order to reply: 'The white one with the pearls, my pigeon.'
She was sufficiently awake to feel quite happy at the thought that
Madame was suddenly taking an interest in her clothes, and continued
eagerly: 'It hath an underdress of that lovely new green colour which
hath become the mode of late, and all embroidered with silver.
Nothing more beautiful hath ever been fashioned by tailors' art, and
in it Madame looks just like an exquisite white lily, with the
delicate green stem below.'
'Well then, Colle,' rejoined Jacqueline dreamily, 'to-morrow evening
I will wear my white satin gown with the pearls and the underdress of
green and silver, and Mathurine must study a new way of doing my hair
with the pointed coif which they say is so modish now in France. I
will wear my stockings of crimson silk and my velvet shoes, and round
my neck I'll wear the ropes of pearls which my dear mother did
bequeath to me; in my ears I'll have the emerald earrings, and I'll
wear the emerald ring upon my finger. I wish I had not that ugly
mole upon my left cheek-bone, for then I could have had one of those
tiny patches of black taffeta which are said to be so becoming to the
complexion....'
She paused, and added with quaint wistfulness: 'Think you, Colle,
that I shall look handsome?'
'As lovely as a picture, my dear one,' said Nicolle with enthusiasm.
'As exquisite as a lily; fit only to be the bride of a King.'
Jacqueline gave a quick sigh of satisfaction, after which she allowed
Colle to give her a kiss and to bid her a final 'good night.'
And even as she fell gradually into the delicious and dreamless sleep
of youth, her lips murmured softly: 'I wonder!'