“Not unless he appoints you my successor,” is the cool, sharp answer, whereat a titter arises among those who stand about, which makes the vain Frenchman turn pale with anger.
“You seem to forget, master fool,” he says harshly, “that you are addressing the Marquis de Savignon and not bandying words with a fellow-clown!”
He has wounded the jester more deeply than he imagines, and Kuoni’s proud spirit writhes and swells within him ‘neath the stinging lash of the Marquis’ scornful words, which remind him anew of the gulf that lies between their social positions. But naught of this is visible on his face, over which a bland, indulgent smile is softly spreading.
Only those who are well acquainted with him notice the slight compression of his thin lips, which, to them, forebodes a cutting retort.
His head on one side and his hand on his chin, he regards de Savignon for a moment through lids half closed, as it were, in languor. Then, slowly and almost wearily, he makes answer:
“Nay, Monsieur de Savignon, forgetfulness, methinks, lies more with your family than mine. Was it not you yourself, my lord, who, whilst at the siege of La Rochelle — so the story goes — one day when the Rochellais made a fierce sortie, forgot where the battle was being fought? So that in your absent-mindedness you galloped madly south, and by nightfall you were found at Royan, a good ten leagues from the scene of action.”
It is de Savignon’s turn to tremble now, and as a great burst of laughter greets the jester’s sally, his complexion is of a greyish tint and his teeth are clenched in anger, noting which, Kuoni continues pitilessly:
“Do you not see the humour of it, my lord? Why look so glum? Bah! You weary me; there is no more wit in your soul than milk in an oyster!”
And with an easy laugh which contains almost a ring of contempt, the jester moves away to let others feel the sting of his tongue, from which none, save the King, are sacred.
For a moment, the Frenchman follows the tall symmetrical figure with his eyes, then, deeming it best to affect unconcern, he shrugs his shoulders and, giving vent to a mirthless laugh, passes out on to the balcony to seek balm for his wounded spirit at the hands of his betrothed.
Chapter II.
During the weeks that follow upon the night of the fête whereat Kuoni von Stocken so signally insulted the Marquis de Savignon, these two men are careful to shun each other’s presence.
The proud and vain French cavalier is not likely to forget the humiliation to which he has been subjected, and the memory of it is wont to make his fingers close over the jewelled hilt of his toy dagger and black vows of vengeance arise in his heart, fostering the hatred in which he holds the jester.
But it is not his dagger alone that is ready to do murder. Ugly thoughts are running in Kuoni’s mind, and one night when de Savignon sits, easy in spirit for the while, telling the lady Louisa something that he has already recited to her upon several former occasions, he little dreams that from the curtains at his back two great lustrous eyes are watching them, and that a nervous hand is gripping a keen Italian blade. Did he but know how near at hand is death, his laugh would be less gay, his manner less unconcerned, his mind less easy. But he knows naught of this, and some angel must be watching over him, for the armed hand, uplifted in menace, does not descend, the jester sheathes his poniard and departs noiselessly the way he came.
But as the weeks go swiftly by and the nuptials of the marquis are fast approaching, the strange and unaccountable moodiness of the whilom lighthearted jester grows more and more accentuated. Each day he seems to grow visibly thinner, as if some fell disease were gnawing at his vitals and slowly sapping his life and strength. Each day his pale cheeks appear paler and under his eyes there are deep black circles, suggestive of pain and suffering and sleepless nights.
A more wretched, woe-begone picture than the poor fool presents, when none are by to spy upon his feelings, it were difficult to conceive.
Meanwhile, however, there are other and graver matters to be considered in the kingdom of Sachsenberg than the secret agony of a lovesick jester. Rumours are abroad of a conspiracy to overthrow the Sonsbeck dynasty, organised, it is said, by many great lords, tired of their young King, Ludwig IV., who seems overmuch engrossed in imitating the vices of the Court of his French cousin to pay great heed to matters of state and the welfare of his people.
’Tis a weakness not uncommon to kings, especially young ones, for monarchs are but ordinary folk when stripped of their purple. Ludwig, however, is blessed with a character which, in some matters, is as firm and earnest as it is weak and frivolous in others; moreover, he is doubly blessed in the possession of an astute and far-seeing servant in the person of the Ritter Heinrich von Grunhain, the Captain of his Guards.
He has been forced to listen to the grave things which this gentleman has to relate, concerning the dissatisfaction of some of the nobles who are zealously inciting the people to open rebellion, and a drastic line of action has been drawn up.
The King is seated in his cabinet one night, about a month after the fête dealt with in the preceding chapter, and a week before the day appointed for the wedding of the lady Louisa von Lichtenau.
Around the table five men are grouped; two are old and faithful servants of the late king, his father — the Duke of Ottrau and the Count von Horst; two are men still in the prime of life, Ritter von Grunhain, the Captain of his Guards, and Herr von Retzbach, his Minister; whilst the fifth is none other than the gay young Lord von Ronshausen, his favourite.
There is a solemn and anxious look upon the faces of these six men, for it is being decided that upon that very night Sachsenberg shall tear a gruesome page from the history of France — there is to be a parody of the St. Bartholomée in Schwerlingen before sunrise.
“It is better thus, my lords,” says the King, and although his face is pale and haggard, his voice is calm; “for were we to publish the matter, and give the traitors open trial, who knows what might ensue? Men are ever ready to revolt against those who rule them, and who can say but that the trial of these rebels would swell the ranks of the disloyal — for treason is an infectious malady — and prove the signal for open revolt? As it is, when the news goes round, to-morrow, that ten noble lords have been found murdered in their beds, there will be much marvelling and much surmising — also, maybe, some grief — but those who have listened to the doctrines of these ten, and sharpened their weapons in anticipation of a fray, will understand, and will be stricken with terror at the awful fate which has overtaken their leaders. Believe me, gentlemen, they will be silent and they will disperse.”
“Will not your Majesty consider—” began the grey-haired Duke of Ottrau; but the King cut him short.
“I have considered, my lords, and I have decided. What matters the manner of these men’s death? They have richly earned their fate, and if they were openly tried they could not escape the scaffold — so what difference does it make whether it be the dagger or the axe? None to them, but much to me.”
The tone is too determined to permit of further argument. It but remains for Grunhain to receive his Majesty’s instructions.
“Here is the list, Captain,” the King continues, taking a paper from the table. “I will read out the names of those whom we have sentenced: Kervenheim von Huld, Nienberge, Blankenburg, Eberholz, Retzwald, Leubnitz, Hartenstein, Reussbach, and the French Marquis de Savignon.”
“Concerning that last one, Sire,” ventures Ronshausen, the favourite, “has your Majesty remembered that he is a subject of the King of France?”
“I have,” answers Ludwig, “and I have also remembered that he — a foreigner to whom I have ever shown great favour and consideration, and who, were he to live, would wed one of the noblest ladies of my Court — couples ingratitude with his treason. No doubt he whom they intend to set up in my stead has bribed him richly; but he shall pay for his folly, as others are paying for theirs, with his life: and I fail to see how I am to be made accountable to the King of France for the
chance assassination of a subject of his, in my capital. The matter is settled, gentlemen; Ritter von Grunhain knows how to see to its execution. There is no more to be said,” he goes on, rising, “but when you hear midnight striking in the belfry of St. Oswald, say a prayer, gentlemen, for the repose of the souls of ten traitors whose knell it will be sounding. And now, let us join the Court.”
One by one, they pass out after the King, and then, when the door has closed upon the last of them, a head peeps forth from the rich damask drapery that curtains one of the windows, and a pair of dark eyes hastily survey the room: the next instant the curtains are parted and Kuoni von Stocken steps forth.
There is a look of fierce, almost fiendish exultation on his swart face, and the low mocking laugh that bursts from his thin lips can be likened to nothing save the chuckle of the Tempter in his hour of victory.
“So, my lord of Savignon, you have been meddling in politics, eh?” he murmurs, rubbing his lean, nervous hands together; “and to-night you die. Fool! Arch-fool! That you should be well-born, rich, high in favour at the Courts of France and Sachsenberg alike, did not suffice your greed, but you must wish to become a moulder of history besides, and like many another such before you, you have destroyed yourself! Oh, what a thing is man! Faugh!”
And with a sneer of contempt for the whole human race in general and the Marquis de Savignon in particular, Kuoni flings himself into the chair lately occupied by the King.
“To think,” he goes on, “that a man about to become the husband of such a woman as the lady Louisa von Lichtenau should trifle and fence with death! By the Mass, Sire,” he cries, raising his long arm and speaking as if the King were there to hear him, “slay him not! Spare him and clothe him in my suit of motley; he is too marvellous a fool to die!”
Then, of a sudden, the mocking smile fades from his face, to be replaced by a grave, sad look, as the thought occurs to him: “What will the lady Louisa think to-morrow, when the news is carried to her? How will she bear it?”
That she loves de Savignon with all her heart and soul the jester knows full well, and as he thinks of it he grinds his teeth and drives his nails into the palms of his clenched hands.
His imagination pictures her as she will be to-morrow, and into his soul there comes a great overwhelming wave of sorrow and of pity for her, which cleanses and purifies it of the sinful joy which it harboured but a moment back. “She will pine away and die of it,” he tells himself, “even as I am pining and dying for love of her! Alas! poor Louisa!” And he sighs heavily and sorrowfully. Then resting his chin upon his hands and his elbows on his knees, he sits there deep in thought, his eyes bent upon the floor.
And thus he sits on for nigh upon an hour, thinking strange thoughts in a strange manner, and revolving in his mind a strange resolve. At last, chancing to raise his eyes, his glance alights upon the gold and ivory time-piece. The sight rouses him, for springing suddenly to his feet —
“Himmel!” he cries. “It wants but half-an-hour to midnight — to the sounding of his knell.”
He pauses for a moment, undecided, then walks swiftly towards the door and disappears.
Chapter III.
Now it chanced that, owing to a fire which had, a few days before, destroyed the Palais Savignon, in the Klosterstrasse, the marquis found himself the guest of his future father-in-law, the Graf von Lichtenau.
Upon the night in question — which a scarlet page of the Chronicles of Sachsenberg tells us was that of the 12th of August of 1635 — de Savignon had retired to the room set apart in his suite as his bedchamber, just as eleven was striking.
Feeling himself as yet wakeful, the Frenchman, whose mood is naturally a poetic one, takes down a French translation of the Odyssey, and, flinging himself into a luxurious chair, is soon lost in the adventures of Ulysses on the Island of Calypso. His heart is full of sympathy for the demi-goddess and of contempt for the King of Ithaca, when a rustling of the window-curtains brings him back to Sachsenberg and his surroundings, with a start. Glancing up, he beholds a dark shadow in the casement, and before he can so much as move a finger a man has sprung into the room, and Kuoni von Stocken stands before him with a strange look upon his face.
Imagining that the visit has no friendly purport, the Marquis draws a dagger from his belt, whereat the shadow of a smile flits across the jester’s solemn countenance.
“Put up your weapon, Monsieur de Savignon,” he says calmly, “I am no assassin, but there are others coming after me who deserve the title.”
“What do you mean?” enquires the Marquis haughtily.
“I bring you news, Monsieur,” replies Kuoni, sinking his voice to a whisper, “that the plot to overthrow the Sonsbeck dynasty is discovered.”
The Frenchman bounds from his chair as if someone had prodded him with a dagger.
“You lie!” he shrieks.
“Do I?” answers the other indifferently, “then if it is not yet discovered, how comes it that I am acquainted with it?”
Then, as if blind to Savignon’s agitation, he goes on in the same deliberate accents.
“I also bring you news that his Majesty is possessed of a list of the names of the principal leaders; that your name figures upon that list, and that it is the King’s good pleasure that when midnight strikes from St. Oswald it will announce to ten gentleman that their last hour on earth is spent; for into the room of each there will penetrate three executioners to carry out the death-sentence which was passed upon them without trial, two hours ago, by the King.”
The Frenchman is too dazed to reply for a moment; he drops back into his chair, his cheeks blanched with terror and his eyes staring wildly at the jester. The matter is too grave, Kuoni’s manner too impressive, to leave any doubts as to the accuracy of his statement.
“And are you one of the three assassins to whom my end has been entrusted?” says de Savignon at length, a gleam of hatred in his eye and the memory of his feud with the jester in his mind.
“No,” replies Kuoni simply.
“Then why are you here?” the other cries vehemently. “Why? Answer me! Have you come to gloat over my end?”
“I have come to make an attempt to save you,” is the cold, proud answer.
“To save me? Did I hear you aright?”
“Aye, to save you. But come, my lord, there is not a moment to lose if I am to be successful. Off with your doublet. Quick!”
And as the Marquis mechanically proceeds to obey him, the jester goes on:
“In front of the Rathhaus, at the corner of the Klosterstrasse, you will find a carriage in waiting. Enter it without speaking; the driver has received his instructions and will convey you to the village of Lossnitz, three leagues from here. There is a suit of clothes in the coach, which you will do well to don. When you stop at the hostelry of the Schwarzen Hirsch, you will find a horse ready for you; turn its head towards the frontier; by sunrise you will be a good fifteen leagues from Schwerlingen, and beyond King Ludwig’s reach when he discovers that you have not died; whilst to-morrow night, if you ride well, you should sleep in France. Come, take my coat.” And, advancing, Kuoni holds out his long black tunic, which he has removed whilst speaking.
The livery of motley makes the Frenchman pause, and a suspicion flashes across his mind.
“This is not one of your jests, sir fool?”
“If you doubt me,” cries Kuoni, with an impatient gesture, “wait and see.”
“No, no, Kuoni, I believe you,” he exclaims, “but why is this necessary?”
“Why?” echoes the other. “Oh thou far-seeing sage! What would the coachman who is to drive you think, did he behold a cavalier return in my stead? Besides, what if you chanced upon your assassins between this and the Rathhaus? Do you not see how my cap and bells would serve you?”
“True, true,” murmurs the other.
“Then waste no more time; it wants but a few minutes to midnight now. Come, on with it!”
Savignon wriggles into the black velv
et tunic and Kuoni draws the hood, surmounted by the cock’s comb, well over his head, so that it conceals his features, then, standing back to judge the effect:
“By the Mass!” he ejaculates with a grim laugh, “how well it becomes you! Did I not always say it would! Here, take my bauble as well, and there you stand as thorough a fool as ever strutted in a Royal anteroom. Who would have thought it? de Savignon turned fool and Kuoni turned courtier! Ha! ha! ’tis a merry jest, a jest of that prince of jesters — Death!”
“Your merriment is out of season,” grumbles the Marquis.
“And so is your chocolate hose with that tunic; but it matters not, ’tis all a part of this colossal jest.”
Then growing serious of a sudden:
“Are you ready? Then follow me; I will set you on your way.”
Opening the door, the jester leads the nobleman, silently and with stealthy tread, out of his chamber and down the broad oak staircase.
He pauses by the wainscot, in the spacious hall below, and after searching for a few seconds, he alights upon a spring — which, fortunately, he knows of old. A panel slides back and reveals an opening through which he conducts the Frenchman.
They emerge presently into a courtyard at the back of the mansion, and through a small postern they pass out into the street.
Here they pause for a moment; it is commencing to rain; the sky is overcast and the night is inky black.
“Yonder lies your road,” says Kuoni; “at the corner you will find the coach. Do as I told you, and may God speed you. Farewell!”
“But you?” exclaims de Savignon, a thought for the jester’s safety arising at last in his mind; “are you not coming?”
“I cannot. I must return to impersonate you and receive your visitors, for, did they find you gone, the pursuit would commence before you were clear of the city, and you would, of a certainty, be taken.”
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 458
