Under the Rose Part 23

"Oh, you may remain," she added, carelessly. "The duke has but left me. He received a message that the man hurt in the lists was most anxious to see him."

Into the whirl of his reflections her words insinuated themselves. Why had the free baron gone to the trooper? What made his presence so imperative at the bedside of the soldier that he had abruptly abandoned the festivities? Surely, more than mere anxiety for the man's welfare.

The jester looked at the princess for the answer to these questions; but her face was cold, smiling, unresponsive. In the basin of the fountain tiny fish played and darted, and as his eyes turned from her to them they appeared as swift and illusive as his own surging fancies.

"The--duke, Madam, is most solicitous about his men," he said, in a voice which sounded strangely calm.

"A good leader has always in mind the welfare of his soldiers," she replied, briefly.

Her hand played among the blossoms. Over the flowers she looked at him. Her features and arms were of the sculptured roundness of marble, but the reflection of the roses bathed her in the warm hue of life. As he met her gaze the illumined pages of a book seemed turning before his eyes. Did she remember?

She could not but perceive his emotion; the tribute of a glance beyond control, despite the proud immobility of his features.

"Sit here, fool," she said, not unkindly, "and you may tell me more about the duke. His exploits--of that battle when he saved the life of the emperor."

The jester made no move to obey, but, looking down, answered coldly: "The duke, Madam, likes not to have his poor deeds exploited."

"Poor deeds!" she returned, and seemed about to reply more sharply when something in his face held her silent.

Leaning her head on her hand, she appeared to forget his presence; motionless save for a foot that waved to and fro, betraying her restless mood. The sound of her dress, the swaying of the foot, held his attention. In that little bower the air was almost stifling, laden with the perfume of many flowers. Even the song of the birds grew fainter. Only the tiny fountain, more a.s.sertive than ever, became louder and louder. The princess breathed deeply; half-arose; a vine caught in her hair; she stooped to disentangle it; then held herself erect.

"How close it is in here!" she murmured, arranging the tress the plant had disturbed. "Go to the door, fool, and see if you can find your master."

Involuntarily he had stepped toward her, as though to a.s.sist her, but now stopped. His face changed; he even laughed. That last word, from her lips, seemed to break the spell of self-control that held him.

"My master!" he said in a hard, scoffing tone. "Whom mean you? The man who left you to go to the soldier? That bl.u.s.terer, my master!

That swaggering trooper!"

Her inertness vanished; the sudden anger and wonderment in her eyes met the pa.s.sion in his.

"How dare you--dare you--" she began.

"He is neither my master, nor the duke; but a mere free-booter, a mountain terrorist!"

Pride and contempt replaced her surprise, but indignation still remained. His audacity in coming to her with this falsehood; his hardihood in maintaining it, admitted of but one explanation. By her complaisance in the past she had fanned the embers of a pa.s.sion which now burst beyond control. She realized how more than fair she looked that evening--had she not heard it from many?--had not the eyes of the king's guest told her?--and she believed that this lie must have sprung to the jester's lips while he was regarding her.

As the solution crossed her mind, revealing the _plaisant_, a desperate and despicable, as well as lowly wooer, her face relaxed. In the desire to test her conclusion, she laughed quietly, musically. Cruelly kind, smiled the princess.

"You are mad," she breathed softly. "You are mad--because--because you--"

He started, studying her eagerly. He fancied he read relenting softness in her gaze; a flash of memory into a past, where glamour and romance, and the heart-history of the rose made up life's desideratum.

Wherein existence was but an allegory of love's quest, and the goal, its consummation. Had she not bent sedulously over the rose of the poet? Had not her breath come quickly, eagerly? Could he not feel it yet, sweet and warm on his cheek? Into the past, having gone so far, he stepped now boldly, as though to grasp again those illusive colors and seize anew the intangible substance. He was but young, when shadows seem solid, when dreams are corporeal stuff, and fantasies, rock-like strata of reality.

So he knelt before her. "Yes," he said, "I love you!"

And thus remained, pale, motionless, all resentment or jealousy succeeded by a stronger emotion, a feeling chivalric that bent itself to a glad thraldom, the desire but to serve her--to save her. His heart beat faster; he raised his head proudly.

"Listen, Princess," he began. "Though I meant it not, I fear I have greatly wronged you. I have much to ask your pardon for; much to tell you. It is I--I--"

The words died on his lips. From the princess' face all softness had suddenly vanished. Her gaze pa.s.sed him, cold, haughty. Across the illusory positiveness of his world--immaterial, psychological, ghostly--an intermediate orb--a tangible shadow was thrown. Behind him stood the free baron and the king. Quickly the fool sprang to his feet.

"Princess!" exclaimed the hoa.r.s.e voice of the master of Hochfels.

"My Lord?"

For a moment neither spoke, and then the clear, cold voice of the princess broke the silence.

"Are all the fools in your country so presumptuous, my Lord?" she said.

The king's countenance lightened; he turned his accusing glance upon the fool. As in a dream stood the latter; the words he would have uttered remained unspoken. But briefly the monarch surveyed him, satirically, darkly; then turning, with a gesture, summoned an attendant. Not until the hands of two soldiers fell upon him did the fool betray any emotion. Then his face changed, and the stunned look in his eyes gave way to an expression of such unbridled feeling that involuntarily the king stepped back and the free baron drew his sword.

But neither had the monarch need for apprehension, nor the princess'

betrothed use for his weapon. Some emotion, deeper than anger, replaced the savage turmoil of the jester's thoughts, as with a last fixed look at the princess he mechanically suffered himself to be led away. Louise's gaze perforce followed him, and when the canvas fell and he had disappeared she pa.s.sed a hand across her brow.

"Are you satisfied, my Lord?" said the king to the free baron.

"The knave has received his just deserts, Sire," replied the other, and, stepping to the princess' side, raised her hand to his lips.

"_Mere de Dieu!_" cried the monarch, pa.s.sing his arm in a friendly manner over the free baron's shoulder and addressing Louise. "You will find Robert of Friedwald worthy of your high trust, cousin."

Without, they were soon whispering it. The attendant, who was the Count of Cross, breathed what he knew to the Duke of Montmorency, who told Du Bellays, who related the story to Diane de Poitiers, who embellished it for Villot, who carried it to Jacqueline.

"Triboulet has his wish," said the poet-fool, half-regretfully. "There is one jester the less."

"Where have they taken him?" asked the girl, steadily.

"Where--but to the keep!"

"That dungeon of the old castle?"

"Well," he returned significantly, "a fool and his jests--alas!--are soon parted. Let us make merry, therefore, while we may. For what would you? Come, mistress--the dance--"

"No! no! no!" she exclaimed, so pa.s.sionately he gazed at her in surprise.

CHAPTER XIV

AN EARLY-MORNING VISIT

In a mood of contending thought, the free baron left his apartments the next morning and traversed the tapestry-hung corridor leading toward the servants' and soldiers' quarters. He congratulated himself that the incident of the past night had precipitated a favorable climax in one source of possible instability, and that the fool who had opposed him had been summarily removed from the field of action. Confined within the four walls of the castle dungeon, there was scant likelihood he would cause further trouble and annoyance. Francis' strong prison house would effectively curb any more interference with, or dabbling in, the affairs of the master of the Vulture's Nest.

Following the exposure of the jester's weakness, his pa.s.sion for his mistress, Francis, as Villot told Jacqueline, had immediately ordered the fool into strictest confinement, the donjon of the ancient structure. In that darkened cell he had rested over night and there he would no doubt remain indefinitely. The king's guest had not been greatly concerned with the jester's quixotic love for the princess, being little disposed to jealousy. He was no sighing solicitant for woman's favor; higher allurements than woman's eyes, or admiration for his inamorata, moved him--that edge of appet.i.te for power, conquest hunger, an itching palm for a kingdom. His were the unscrupulous soldier's rather than the eager true-love's dreams.

But to offset his satisfaction that the jester lay under restraint he took in bad part the trooper's continued insensibility which deprived him of the much-desired information. When he had repaired to the bedside of the soldier the night before he had only his trip for his pains, as the man had again sunk into unconsciousness shortly before his coming. Thus the free baron was still in ignorance of the person to whom the fool had betrayed him. The fact that there still roamed an unfettered some one who possessed the knowledge of his ident.i.ty caused him to knit his brows and look glum.

These jesters were daring fellows; several of them had borne arms, as, for example, Clement Marot, who had been taken prisoner with Francis at the battle of Pavia. Brusquet had been a hanger-on of the camp at Avignon; Villot, a Paris student; Caillette had received the spirited education of a soldier in the household of his benefactor, Diane's father. And as for the others--how varied had been their careers!--lives of hazard and vicissitude; scapegraces and adventurers--existing literally by their wits.

To what careless or wanton head had his secret been confined? What use would the rashling make of it? Daringly attempt to approach the throne with this startling budget of information; impulsively seek the princess; or whisper it over his cups among the _femmes de chambre_, laundresses or scullery maids?