CHAPTER XVIII
THE SECRET OF THE JESTRESS
She, the quest, the mission! With growing amazement he gazed at her,but she returned his look, as though enjoying his surprise.
"You do not seem overpleased with the prospect of my company?" sheobserved. "Or perhaps you fear I may encumber you?" With mock irony."Confess, the service is more onerous than you expected?"
Beneath her flushed, yet smiling face lay a nervous earnestness hecould divine, but not fathom.
"Different, certainly," he answered, brusquely.
Her eyes flashed. "How complimentary you are!"
"For your own sake--"
"My sake!" she exclaimed, passionately. Her little hand closedfiercely; proudly her eyes burned into his. "Think you I have takenthis step idly? That it is but the caprice of a moment? Oh, no; no!It was necessary to flee from the court. But to whom could a womanturn? Not to any of the court--tools of the king. One person only wasthere; he whose life was as good as forfeited. Do you understand?"
"That my life belongs to you? Yes. But that you should leave thecourt--where you have influence, friends--"
"Influence! friends!"
He was startled by the bitterness of her voice.
"Tell me, Jacqueline--why do you wish to go?" he said, wonderingly.
"Because I wish to," she returned, briefly, and stroked the shiningneck of her horse.
Indeed, how could she apprise him of events which were now the talk ofthe court? How Francis, evincing a sudden interest as strong as it wasunexpected, had exchanged Triboulet for herself, and the princess, atthe king's request, had taken the buffoon with her, and left the girlbehind. The jestress' welcome to the household of the Queen ofNavarre; a subsequent bewildering shower of gifts; the complacent,although respectful, attentions of the king. How she had endured theseadvances until no course remained save the one she had taken. No; shecould not tell the duke's fool all this.
Between _folle_ and fugitive fell a mutual reserve. Did he divine someportion of the truth? Are there moments when the mind, tuned to atension, may almost feel what another experiences? Why had the girlnot gone with her mistress? He remembered she had evaded this questionwhen he had asked it. Looking at her, for the first time it crossedhis mind she would be held beautiful; an odd, strange beauty, imperiousyet girlish, and the conviction crept over him there might be more thana shadow of excuse for her mad flight.
Beneath his scrutiny her face grew cold, disdainful. "Like all men,"she said, sharply, as though to stay the trend of his thoughts, "youare prodigal in promises, but chary in fulfilment."
"Where is it your pleasure to go?" he asked quietly.
"That we shall speak of hereafter," she answered, haughtily.
"Forward then."
"I can ride on alone," she demurred, "if--"
"Nay; 'tis I who crave the quest," he returned, gravely.
Her face broke into smiles, "What a devoted cavalier!" she exclaimed."Come, then. Let us ride out into the world. At least, it is brightand shining--to-day. Do you fear to follow me, sir? Or do you believewith the hunchback that I am an enchantress and cast over whom I willthe spell of _diablerie_?"
"You may be an enchantress, mistress, but the spell you cast is not_diablerie_," he answered in the same tone.
"Fine words!" she said, mockingly. "But it remains to be seen intowhat a world I am going to lead you!" And rode on.
The rush of air, the swift motion, the changing aspect of nature wereapparently not without their effect on her spirits, for as theygalloped along she appeared to forget their danger, the certainty ofpursuit and the possibility of capture. Blithesome she continued;called his attention to a startled hare; pointed with her whip to ared-eyed boar that sullenly retreated at their approach; laughed whenan overhanging branch swept her little cap from her head and merrilythanked him when he hastily dismounted and returned it to her.
"You see, fool, what a burden I am like to prove!" she said,readjusting the cap, and, ere he could answer, had passed on, as ifchallenging him to a test of speed.
"Have a care!" he cried warningly, as they came to a rough stretch ofancient highway, but she seemed not to hear him.
That she could ride in such madcap fashion, seemingly oblivious of thegravity of their desperate fortunes, was not ill-pleasing to thejester; no timorous companion, shrinking from phantoms, he surmised shewould prove. Thus mile after mile they covered and the shadows hadreached their minimum length, when, coming to a clear pool of water,they drew rein to refresh themselves from the provisions in thesaddle-bags. Bread and wine--sumptuous fare for poor fugitives--theyate and drank with keen relish. Dreamily she watched the green insectsskimming over the surface of the shimmering water. On the bank swayedthe rushes, as though making obeisance to a single gorgeous lily, setlike a queen in the center of this little shining kingdom.
"Was the repast to your liking?" she asked, suddenly looking from thepool to him.
"Entirely, fair Jacqueline. The wine was excellent. Hunger gave itbouquet, and appetite aged it. Never did bread taste so wholesome, andas for the service--"
"It was perfect--lacking grand master, grand chamberlain, grandmarshals, grand everybody," she laughed.
In the reflected glow from pool and shining leaves, her eyes were sofull of light he could but wonder if this were the same person who hadso gravely stood by his bedside in the cell. That she should thus seemcarelessly to dismiss all thought of danger appeared the moresurprising, because he knew she was not one to lull herself with theassurance of a false security. To him her bright eyes said: "I am inyour care. Be yours the task now." And thus interpreting, he broke inupon her thoughts.
"Having dined and wined so well, shall we go on, Jacqueline?"
To which she at once assented by rising, and soon they had left theprincipality of the lily far in the distance. Now the road so narrowedhe fell behind. The character of the country had changed; some timeago they had passed out of the wild forest, and had begun to traverse agreat, level plain, broken with stubble. As far as the eye couldreach, no other human figures were visible; the land outstretched,apparently without end; no habitations dotted the landscape, and, thesole signs of life, wheeling birds of prey, languidly floated in theair. At length she glanced around. Was it to reassure herself thejester rode near; that she had not, unattended, entered that forbiddingterritory? Then she paused abruptly and the fool approached.
"By this time the turnkey should be relieved," she said.
"But not released," he answered, holding up the keys which he yet woreat his girdle. "They will have to come a long distance to find them,"he continued, and threw the keys far away upon the sward.
"They may not think of following on this road at all," she returned."It is the old castle thoroughfare, long since disused."
"And leads where?"
"Southward, to the main road."
"How came you to know it?" he asked, quickly.
"How--because I lived in the castle before the king built the palaceand the new thoroughfare," she answered slowly.
"You lived in the castle, then, when it was the residence of the proudConstable of Dubrois? You must have been but a child," he added,reflectively.
"Yes; but children may have long memories."
"In your case, certainly. How well you knew all the passages andcorridors of the castle!"
She responded carelessly and changed the conversation. Thethoroughfare broadening, for the remainder of the day they pressedforward side by side. But a single human figure, during all thosehours, they encountered, and that when the afternoon had fairly wornaway. For some time they had pursued their journey silently, when at aturn in the road the horse of the jester shied and started back.
At the same time an unclean, offensive-looking monk in Franciscanattire arose suddenly out of the stubble by the wayside. In his handhe held a heavy staff, newly cut from the forest, a stock which in hisbrawny arms seemed better adapted for
a weapon than as a prop for hissturdy frame. From the rope girdle about his waist depended a rosarywhose great beads would have served the fingers of a Cyclops, and amost diminutive, leathern-bound prayer-book. At the appearance of thefool and his companion, he opened an enormous mouth, and in a voiceproportionately large began to whine right vigorously:
"Charity, good people, for the Mother Church! Charity in the name ofthe Holy Mother! In the name of the saints, the apostles and theevangelists! St. John, St. Peter, St.--" Then broke off suddenly,staring stupidly at the jester.
"The duke's fool!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? A plagueupon it! You have as many lives as a monk."
"Call you yourself a monk, rascal?" asked the jester, contemptuously.
"At times. Charity, good fool!" the canting rogue again began towhine, edging nearer. "Charity, mistress! For the sake of theprophets and the disciples! The seven sacraments, the feast of thePentecost and the Passover! In the name of the holy Fathers! St.Sebastian! St. Michael! St.--"
But the fugitives had already sped on, and the unregenerate knaveturned his pious eloquence into an unhallowed channel of oaths, wavinghis staff menacingly after them.
"I fear me," said the jester, when they had put a goodly distancebetween themselves and the solitary figure, "yonder brother cravesalmsgiving with his voice, and enforces the bounty with his staff. Woebetide the good Samaritan who falls within reach of his pilgrim's prop."
"You knew him?" she asked.
"I had the doubtful pleasure," he answered. "He was hired to kill me."
"Why?" in surprise.
"Because the--duke wanted me out of the way."
She asked no further questions, although he could see by her brow shewas thinking deeply. Was the duke then no better than a commonassassin? She frowned, then gave an impatient exclamation.
"It is inexplicable," she said, and rode the faster.
The jester, too, was silent, but his mind dwelt upon the future and itshazards. He little liked their meeting with the false monk. Why wasthe Franciscan traveling in their direction? Had others of that bandof pillagers, street-fools and knave-minstrels, formerly infesting theneighborhood of the palace, gone that way? He did not believe the monkwould long pursue a solitary pilgrimage, for varlets of that kind havecommon haunts and byways. The encounter suggested hazard ahead as wellas the danger of pursuit from the palace. But this apprehension of anew source of peril he kept from his companion; since go on they must,there was no need to disquiet her further.
The mystic silver light of the day had now become golden; the sky,brilliant, many-colored, overdomed the vast, sullen earth; between tworoseate streamers a whitish crescent unobtrusively was set. Seeminglymisplaced in a sanguinary sea, passionless it lay, but as the ocean oflight grew dull the crescent kindled. Over a thick patch of pine treesin the distance myriads of dark birds hovered and screamed in chorus.Now they circled restlessly above that shaded spot; then darted off, acloud against the sky, and returned with renewed cawing and discord.As the riders approached the din abruptly ceased, the creaturesmysteriously and suddenly vanishing into the depths of the thicketbelow.
In the fading light, fool and jestress drew rein, and, moved by thesame purpose, looked about them. On the one hand was the deserted,desolate plain over which lay a sullen, gathering mist; on the other,the sombrous obscurity of the wood. Everywhere, an ominous silence,and overhead the crescent growing in luster.
"Do you see any sign of house or inn?" said the girl, peering afar downthe road, which soon lost itself in the general monotony of thelandscape.
"None, mistress; the country seems alike barren of farmhouse or tavern."
"What shall we do? I am full weary," she confessed.
"The forest offers the best protection," he reluctantly suggested.Little as he favored delay, he realized the wisdom of sparing theirhorses. Moreover, her appeal was irresistible.
She gazed half-dubiously into that woody depth. "Why not rest by thewayside--in the moonlight?"
"I like not the open road," he answered. "But if you fear thedarkness--"
For answer she guided her horse to the verge of the forest and lightlysprang to the ground. Upon a grassy knoll, but a little way within, hespread his cloak.
"There, Jacqueline, is your couch," he said.
"But you?" she asked. "To rob you thus of your cloak seemsill-comradeship."
"The cloak is yours," he returned. "As it is, you will find it but ahard bed."
"It will seem soft as down," she replied, and seated herself on thehillock. In the gloom he could just distinguish the outline of herfigure, with her elbow on her knee, and her hair blacker than theshadows themselves. A long-drawn, moaning sound, coming withoutwarning behind her, caused the girl to turn.
"What is that?" she said, quickly.
"The wind, Jacqueline. It is rising."
As he spoke, like a monster it entered the forest; about them brancheswaved and tossed: a friendly star seen through the boughs lost itselfbehind a cloud. Yet no rain fell and the air seemed hot and dry,despite the mists which clung to the ground. A crash of thunder or aflash of lightning would have relieved that sighing dolor which filledthe little patch of timber with its melancholy sounds.
Suddenly, above the plaint and murmur of wind and forest, the low,clear voice of the girl arose; the melody was no ballad, arietta orpastoral, such as he had before heard from her lips, but a simple hymn,the setting by Calvin. The jester started. How came she to know thatforbidden music? Not only to know, but to sing it as he had neverheard it sung before. Sweetly it vibrated, her waywardness sunk in itsswelling rhythm; its melody freighted with the treasure of her trust.As he listened he felt she was betraying to him the hidden well of herfaith; the secret of her religion; that she, his companion, wasproclaiming herself a heretic, and, therefore, doubly an outcast.
A stanza, and the melody died away on the wings of the tempest. Hisheart was beating violently; he looked expectantly toward her. Evenmore gently, like a lullaby to the turbulent night, the full-measuredcadence of the majestic psalm was again heard. Then another voice,deeper, fuller, blended with that of the first singer. Unwavering, shecontinued the song, as though it had been the most natural matter heshould join his voice with hers. Fainter fell the harmony; then ceasedaltogether--a hymn destined to become interwoven with terriblememories, the tragic massacre of the Huguenots on the ill-fated nightof St. Bartholomew. Again prevailed the tristful dirge of the pines.
"You sing well, mistress," said the jester, softly. "Is it true youare one of a hated sect?"
"As true as that you did not deny the heretic volume found in yourroom," she replied.
A silence ensued between them. "It was Marot placed the horses therefor us," she said, at length. "He, too, is a heretic, and would havesaved you."
Thereafter the silence remained unbroken for some moments, and then--
"God keep you, mistress," he said.
"God keep you," she answered, softly.
Soon her deep breathing told him she was sleeping, and, as he listened,in fancy he could hear the faint echoes of her voice, accompanied bythe sighing wind. How intrepid had she seemed; how helpless was shenow; and, as he bent over her, divining yet not seeing, he askedhimself whence had come this faith in him, that like a child sheslumbered amid the unrest of nature? What had her life been, who herfriends, that she should thus have chosen a jester as comrade? Whathad driven her forth from the court to nameless hazards? Had hesurmised correctly? Was it--
"The king," she murmured, with sudden restlessness in her sleep.
"The king," she repeated, with aversion.
In the jester's breast upleaped a fierce anger. This was theart-loving monarch who burned the fathers and brothers of the newfaith; this, the righteous ruler who condemned men to death forpsalm-singing or for listening to grave discourse; this the Christianking, the brilliant patron of science and learning.
The storm had sighe
d itself to rest, the stars had come out, butleaning with his back against a tree, the fool still kept vigil.
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