Under the Rose

by Frederic Stewart Isham

  UNDER THE ROSE

  by

  FREDERIC S. ISHAM

  Author of The Strollers

  With illustrations by Howard Chandler Christy

  [Frontispiece: Kneeling, he received it.]

  The Bobbs-Merrill CompanyPublishers : Indianapolis

  Copyright Nineteen Hundred ThreeThe Bowen-Merrill CompanyJanuary

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I A NEST OF NINNIES II A ROYAL EAVESDROPPER III A GIFT FOR THE DUKE IV AN IMPATIENT SUITOR V JACQUELINE FETCHES THE PRINCESS' FAN VI THE ARRIVAL OF THE DUKE VII THE COURT OF LOVE VIII A BRIEF TRUCE IX THE FLIGHT OF THE FOOL X THE FOOL RETURNS TO THE CASTLE XI A NEW MESSENGER TO THE EMPEROR XII THE DUKE ENTERS THE LISTS XIII A CHAPLET FOR THE DUKE XIV AN EARLY MORNING VISIT XV A NEW DISCOVERY XVI TIDINGS FROM THE COURT XVII JACQUELINE'S QUEST XVIII THE SECRET OF THE JESTERS XIX A FIGURE IN THE MOONLIGHT XX AN UNEQUAL CONFLICT XXI THE DESERTED HUT XXII THE TALE OF THE SWORD XXIII THE DWARF MAKES AN EARLY CALL XXIV AN ENCOUNTER AT THE BRIDGE XXV IN THE TENT OF THE EMPEROR XXVI THE DEBT OF NATURE XXVII A MAID OF FRANCE XXVIII THE FAVORITE IS ALARMED XXIX THE FAVORITE IS REASSURED

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  Kneeling, he received it . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

  Taking the book, he opened it at random, mechanically sinking at her feet.

  He threw the dregs of his glass in the face of the jester.

  He looked not at the young girl, but calmly met the scrutiny of the king.

  UNDER THE ROSE

  CHAPTER I

  A NEST OF NINNIES

  "A song, sweet Jacqueline!"

  "No, no--"

  "Jacqueline!--Jacqueline!--"

  "No more, I say--"

  A jingle of tinkling bells mingled with the squeak of a viola; theguffaws of a rompish company blended with the tuneless chanting ofdiscordant minstrels, and the gray parrot in its golden cage, suspendedfrom one of the oaken beams of the ceiling, shook its feathers for thetwentieth time and screamed vindictively at the roguish band.

  Jingle, jingle, went the merry bells; squeak, squeak, the tightenedstrings beneath the persistent scraping of the rosined bow. On histhrone in Fools' hall, Triboulet, the king's hunchback, leanedcomplacently back, his eyes bent upon a tapestry but newly hung in thatroom, the meeting place of jesters, buffoons and versifiers.

  "We appeal to Triboulet--"

  "Triboulet!"

  A girl's silvery laugh rang out.

  "Triboulet!"

  Again the derisive musical tones.

  Upon his chair of state, the dwarf did not answer; professed not tohear. By the uncertain glimmer of torches and the flickering glow ofthe fire he was engaged in tracing a resemblance to himself in thecentral figure of the composition wrought in threads of silk--Momus,fool by patent to Jove, thrust from Olympus and greeting the earth-bornwith a great grin.

  "An excellent likeness!" muttered Triboulet. "A very pretty likeness!"he continued, swelling with pride.

  And truly it was said that sprightly ladies, working between love andpleasure times, drew from the court fool for their conception of themythological buffoon, reproducing Triboulet's great head; his mouth,proportionately large; his protruding eyes; his bowed back, short,twisted legs and long, muscular arms; and his nose far larger than thatof Francis, who otherwise had the largest nose in the kingdom.

  But how could they depict the meanness of soul that dwelt in thatextraordinary shell? The blithesome tapestry-makers, albeit adepts inform, grace and harmony, could not touch the subjectiveness ofexistence. Thus it was a double pleasure for Triboulet to see, limnedin well-chosen hues, his form, the crookedness of which he was as proudas any courtier of his symmetry and beauty, the while his dark, vainsoul lay concealed behind the mask of merry deformity and laughingmonstrosity.

  "Would your Majesty like to command me?"

  The mocking feminine voice recalled Triboulet from his pleasingcontemplation.

  "No, no!" he answered, sullenly, and condescended to turn his glanceupon the assemblage.

  Over a goodly gathering of jesters, buffoons, poets, and evenphilosophers, he lorded it, holding his head as high as his hump wouldpermit and conscious of his own place in the esteem of the king. Notlong ago the monarch had laughed and applauded when Triboulet hadtwisted his features into a horrid grimace, and since then the dwarf'slittle heart had expanded with such arrogance, it seemed to him he wasalmost Francis himself as he sat there on Francis' sometime throne; andthese Sir Jollys were his subjects all--Marot, Caillette, Brusquet,Villot, and the lesser lights, jesters of barons, cardinals and evenbishops! Rabelais, too, that poor, dissolute devil of a writer,learned as Homer, brutish as Homer's swine--all subjects of his, theking of jesters, save one; one whom he eyed with certain fear andwonder; fear, because she was a woman--and Triboulet esteemed all thesex but "highly perfected devils"--and wonder, at finding her differentfrom, and more perplexing than even the rest of her kind!

  "Jacqueline!--"

  now she was perched on one corner of the table, and her face had awitch-like loveliness, as though borrowing its pallor and beauty fromthe moon, source of all magic and necromancy. Her eyes shone with suchluster that, seeking their hue, they held the observer's gaze inmocking languor, and cheated the inquisitive coxcomb of his quest, thewhile the disdainful lips curved laughingly and so bewildered him, heforgot the customary phrases and stood staring like a nonny. Herfootstep fell so light, she was so agile and quick, the superstitiousdwarf swore she was but a creature of the night and held surreptitiousmeetings with all the familiar spirits of demonology. As she neverdenied the uncanny imputation, but only displayed her small white teethmaliciously, by way of answer, Triboulet felt assured he was right andcrossed himself religiously whenever she gazed too fixedly at him.

  A most _gracieuse folle_, her dress was in keeping with her character,yellow being the predominating color. To the fanciful adornment of thegown her lithe figure lent itself readily, while her rebellious curlswere well adapted to that badge of her servitude, the jaunty cap thatcrowned their waving abundance.

  In especial disdain, from her position upon the corner of the table,her glance wandered down the board and rested on Rabelais, thegourmand, before whom were an empty trencher and tankard. Thepriest-doctor-writer-scamp who affected the company of jesters andliked not a little the hospitality of Fools' hall, which adjoined thepastry branch of the castle kitchen and was not far removed from thewine butts, had just unrolled a bundle of manuscript, all daubed withtrencher grease and tankard drippings, and was about to read aloud thestrange adventures of one Pantagruel, when, overcome by indulgence, hishead fell forward on the table, almost in the wooden platter, and thepapers fluttered to the floor.

  "Put him out!" commanded Triboulet from his high place.

  But she of the jaunty cap sprang from the table.

  "How wise are your Majesty's decrees!" she said mockingly with herglance upon the dwarf. He shifted uneasily in the throne. "You shouldhave put him out before! But now"--turning contemptuously to the poorfigure of the great man--"he's harmless. His silence is golden; hisspeech was dross."

  "And yet," answered Marot, thoughtfully, "the king esteems him; theking who is at once scholar, poet, wit, soldier--"

  "Soldier!" she exclaimed, quickly. "When he can not conquer Italy andregain his heritage!"

  "Can not?" ventured Triboulet, mindful of the dignity of his royalmaster. "Why not?"

  "Because the women would conquer him!"

  "Nay; the king prefers the blue eyes of France," spoke up thecardinal's fool, he of the viola.

  "Then do you set our queen of fools, our fair Jacqueline, out of hisMa
jesty's good graces," interposed one of the lesser jesters, a merebaron's hireling, who long had burned with secret admiration for themaid of the coquettish cap.

  "I am _such_ a fool as to want the good graces of no man--or monarch!"she replied boldly, without glancing at the speaker.

  "An he were in love, you would be two fools!" laughed Caillette, thecourt poet.

  "In love, 'tis only the man is the fool or--the fooled!" she returnedpointedly, and Caillette, despite his self-possession, flushedpainfully. Since Diane de Poitiers had wedded her ancient lord, thepoet had become grave, studious, almost sad.

  "And is your mistress, the king's ward, fooling with her betrothed?" heasked quickly, conscious of knowing winks and nudges.

  "The Princess Louise and the Duke of Friedwald are to wed for reasonsof state," said the young woman, gravely. "There'll be no fools."

  "Ah, a loveless match!"

  "But not a landless one!" retorted she of the cap without the bells."Besides, it cements the friendship of Francis and Charles V! Whatmore would you? But I'll tell you a secret."

  At that the company flocked around her, as though there was somethingenticing in her tone; the vague promise of an interesting bit of gossipor the indefinite suggestion of a court scandal.

  "A secret!" said the cardinal's fool, rubbing his hands together. Hismaster often rewarded him for particularly choice morsels of loosetittle-tattle.

  "Oh, nothing very wicked!" she answered, waving them back with hersmall hand. "'Tis only that they play at make-believe in love, theprincess and her betrothed! But after all, it is far more sensiblethan real love-making, where if the pleasure be more acute, the pangsare therefore the greater. She addresses to him the tenderestcounterfeit verses; he returns them in kind. She even simulated suchan illusory sadness that the duke has sent his own jester, who has butjust arrived at court, to amuse her (ahem!) dullness, until he himselfcould come!"

  At this the cardinal's buffoon looked disappointed, for his masterliked more highly-flavored hearsay, while Triboulet frowned and broughtdown his heavy fist upon the arm of the throne.

  "A new jester forsooth!" he exclaimed.

  "And why not?" Lifting her swart brows, quizzically.

  "We are already overstocked with 'prentice fools," he retorted, lookingover the throng.

  "Ah, you fear perhaps some one may depose you?" remarked Jacquelinecoldly.

  A guarded laugh arose from the gathering and the dwarf's eyes gleamed.

  "Depose me, Triboulet!" he shouted, rising. "Triboulet is sovereignlord of all at whom he mocks! His wand is mightier than an episcopalmiter!"

  In his overweening rage and vanity he fairly crouched before thethrone, eying them all like a cat. His thick lips trembled; his eyesbecame bloodshot.

  He forgot all prudence.

  "Doth not the king himself seek my advice?" He laughed horribly."Hath not, perhaps, many a fair gentleman been burned--aye, burned toashes as a Calvinist!--at my suggestion!"

  "Miserable wretch! Spy!" exclaimed the young woman, paler than a lily,as she bent her eyes, with fully opened lids, upon him.

  As if to shield himself, he raised his hand, yet drunkenness or wrathovercame caution and superstition, and the red eyes met the dark ones.But a moment, and the former dropped sullenly; a strange thrill ranthrough him. He thought he was bewitched.

  "_Non nobis Domine!_" he murmured, striving to recall a hymn. As Latinwas the language of witchcraft, so, also, was it the antidote.Contemptuously she turned her back and walked slowly to the fire. Uponher white face and supple figure played the elfish glow, lighting thelittle cap and the waving tresses beneath.

  Regarding her furtively, Triboulet's courage returned, since she waslooking at the coals, not at him.

  "Ho, ho!" he said jocosely. "You all thought I was sincere. Listen,my children! The art of fooling lies in trumped-up earnestness." Hesmiled hideously.

  "Bravo, Triboulet!" cried an admiring voice.

  "Only time and art can give you such mastery over the passions,"continued the jester. "Which one of you would depose me? Who so uglyas I? Poets, philosophers! I snap my fingers at them. Poor moths!And you dare bait me with a new-comer! Let him look to himself!" Fromearnestness to grandiloquence was but a step.

  "Let him come!" And Triboulet, imitating the pose of Francis himself,drew his wooden sword.

  "Let him come!" he repeated, fiercely.

  "Who?" called out a gay and reckless voice.

  Through the doorway leading into the kitchen stepped a young man;slender, almost boyish in appearance, with light-brown hair anddeep-set eyes that belied the gaiety and mirth of his features. Hiscostume, that of a Jester, was silk of finest texture and design, uponwhich were skilfully fashioned in threads of silver the arms of CharlesV, King of Spain and Emperor of Germany, the powerful rival of Francis,whose friendship now, for reasons of state, the latter sought.

  Smilingly the foreign jester gazed around the room; at the unusualfurnishings, picturesque, yet appropriate; at the inmates, the foolsscattered about the great board or near the mighty fireplace; therenowned philosopher, Rabelais, sleeping on his arms, with handoutstretched toward the neglected tankard; at the striking appearanceof the girl who looked with casual, careless interest upon him; at thegrotesque, crook-backed figure before the throne.

  And observing the incongruity of his surroundings, he laughed lightly,while his glance, turning inquiringly if not insolently, from one tothe other, lingered in some surprise upon the young woman. He hadheard that in far-away France the motley was not confined to men. Hadnot Jeanne, queen of Charles I, possessed her jestress, Artaude de Puy,"_folle_ to our dear companion," as said the king? Had not Madamed'Or, wearer of the bells, kept the nobles laughing? Had not thehaughty, eccentric Don John, his handsome, merry joculatrix, attachedto his princely household?

  But knowing only by rumor of these matters, the jester from abroadlooked hard at her, the first madcap in petticoats he had ever seen.For her part, Jacqueline bore his scrutiny with visible annoyance.

  "Well," she said impatiently, a flash of resentment in her fine eyes,"have you conned me over enough?"

  "Too much, mistress," he replied in no wise abashed, "an it hathdispleased you. Too little to please myself."

  "Yourself!" she returned, with sudden anger at his persistent gaze."Some lord's plaything to beat or whip; a toy--"

  "And yet a poet who can make rhymes on woman's beauty," he answeredwith a careless laugh.

  "Another courtier!" grumbled Triboulet. "Lacking true wit, foolsnowadays essay only compliments to cover their dullness."

  With the same air of insolent amusement, the new-comer turned to thethrone and its occupant, whom he subjected to an even more deliberateinvestigation.

  "Is it man or manikin, gentle mistress?" he asked, after concluding hisexamination.

  She did not deign to answer, but the offended Triboulet waved hiswooden sword vindictively.

  "Manikin!" he roared, and sprang with vicious lunges upon the duke'sjester, who falling back before the suddenness of the assault, whippedout his weapon in turn, and, laughing, threw himself into an attitudeof defense.

  "A mortal combat!" cried the cardinal's wit-snapper.

  "Charles V and Francis!" exclaimed Caillette, referring to the personalchallenge which had once passed between the two great monarchs. "Witha throne for the victor!" he added gaily, indicating Triboulet's chairof state.

  The clatter and din awoke Rabelais, who drowsily regarded thecombatants with lack-luster gaze and undoubtedly thought himself oncemore amid the fanciful conflicts of fearful giants.

  "Fall to, Pantagruel, my merry Paladin!" he exclaimed bombastically."Cut, slash, stab, fence and justle!" And himself, reaching for animaginary sword, encountered the tankard which he would have raised tohis lips but that his shaggy head fell again to the board before hiswilling arm had obeyed the passing impulse of his sluggish brain.

  "Fence!--justle!" he murmured, and slept on
ce more.

  But the parrot, again disturbed, could not so easily compose itself toslumber. Whipping its head from its downy nest, it outspread its graywings gloriously and screamed and shouted, as though venting all thethunders of the Vatican upon the offending belligerents. And above theuproar and noise of arms, rabble and bird, arose the piercing voice ofTriboulet:

  "Watch me spit this bantam-cock!"