"You are soon to leave here," she said. "For Paris."
Seated on the stool, her hands crossed over her knees, Jacqueline seemed no longer a creature of indefinite or ambiguous purpose. On the contrary, her profile was rimmed in light, and very matter-of-fact and serious it seemed.
"Why am I to leave for Paris?" he remarked, absently.
"Because they are going to take you there," she returned, "to be tried as a heretic." He started and again sat up. "In your room was found a book by Calvin. Of course," she went on, "you will deny it belonged to you?"
"What would that avail?" he said, indifferently. "But have the followers of Luther, or Calvin, no friends in Francis" court?"
"Have they in Charles" domains?" she asked quickly.
"The Protestants in Germany are a powerful body; the emperor is forced to bear with them."
"Here they have no friends--openly," she went on.
"Secretly--Marguerite, Marot; others perhaps. But these will not serve you; could not, if they would. Besides, this heresy of which you are accused is but a pretext to get rid of you."
"And how, good Jacqueline, has the king treated the new sect?"
She held her hand suddenly to her throat; her face went paler, as from some tragic recollection.
"Oh," she answered, "do not speak of it!"
"They burned them?" he persisted.
"Before Notre Dame!"
Her voice was low; her eyes shone deep and gleaming.
"You are sorry, then, for those vile heretics?" asked the fool, curiously.
She raised her head, half-resentfully. "Their souls need no one"s pity," she retorted, proudly.
"And you think mine is soon like to be beyond earthly caring?"
Her glance became impatient. "Most like," she returned, curtly.
"But what excuse does the king give for his cruelty?" he continued, musingly.
"They threw down the sacred images in one of the churches. Now a heretic need expect no mercy. They are placed in cages--hung from beams--over the fire. The court was commanded to witness the spectacle--the king jested--the countess laughed, but her features were white--" Here the girl buried her face in her hands. Soon, however, she looked up, brushing back the hair from her brow. "Marguerite has interposed, but she is only a feather in the balance." Abruptly she arose. "Would you escape such a fate?" she said.
He remained silent, thinking that if the mission to the emperor miscarried, his own position might, indeed, be past mending. If the exposure of the free baron were long delayed, the fool"s a.s.surance in his own ultimate release might prove but vain expectation. In Paris the trial would doubtless not be protracted. From the swift tribunal to the slow fire const.i.tuted no complicated legal process, and appeal there was none, save to the king, from whom might be expected little mercy, less justice.
"Escape!" the jester answered, dwelling on these matters. "But how?"
"By leaving this prison," she answered, lowering her voice.
He glanced significantly at the walls, the windows and the door, beyond which could be heard the tread of the jailer and the clanking of the keys hanging from his girdle.
"I would have done that long since, Jacqueline, if I had had my will,"
he replied.
"Are you strong enough to attempt it?" she remarked, doubtfully, scanning the thin face before her.
"Your words shall make me so," he retorted, and looking into his glittering eyes, she almost believed him.
"Not to-day, but to-morrow," the girl added, thoughtfully. "Perhaps then--"
"I shall be ready," he broke in impatiently. "What must I do?"
"Not drink this wine I have brought, but give it to the turnkey in the morning. Invite him to share it, but take none yourself, feigning sudden illness. He will not refuse, being always sharp-set for a cup.
Nothing can be done with the other jailers, but this one is a thirsty soul, ever ready to bargain for a dram. Your couch cost I know not how many flagons. Although he drinks many tankards and pitchers every day, yet will this small bottle make him drowsy. You will leave while he is sleeping."
"In the daylight, mistress?" he asked, eagerly. "Why not wait--"
"No," she said, decisively; "there is no other way. This turnkey is only a day watchman. It is dangerous, but the best plan that suggested itself. I know many unfrequented corridors and pa.s.sages through the old part of the castle the king has not rebuilt, and a road at the back, now little used, that runs through the wood and thicket down the hill. It is a desperate chance, but--"
"The danger of remaining is more desperate," he interrupted, quickly.
"Besides, we shall not fail. It is in the book of fate." His expression changed; became fierce, eager. "Are you, indeed, the arbiter of that fate; the sorceress Triboulet feared?"
"You are thinking of the duke," she answered, with a frown, "and that if you escape--"
"Truly, you are a sorceress," he replied, with a smile. "I confess life has grown sweet."
She moved abruptly toward the door. "Nay, I meant not to offend you,"
he spoke up, more gently.
"It is your own fortunes you ever injure," she retorted, gazing coldly back at him.
"One moment, sweet Jacqueline. Why did you not go with the princess?"
Her face changed; grew dark; from eyes, deep and gloomy, she shot a quick glance upon him.
"Perhaps--because I like the court too well to leave it," she answered mockingly, and, vouchsafing no further word, quickly vanished. It was only when she had gone the jester suddenly remembered he had forgotten to thank her for what she had done in the past or what she proposed doing on the morrow.
CHAPTER XVII
JACQUELINE"S QUEST
"Truly, are you a right proper fool; for a man, merry in adversity, is as wise as Master Rabelais. Many the time have I heard him say a fit of laughter drives away the devil, while the groans of flagellating saints seem as music to Beelzebub"s ears. Thus, a wit-cracker is the demon"s enemy, and the band of Pantagruel, an evangelical brotherhood, that with tankard and pot sends the arch-fiend back to the bottomless pit."
And the fool"s jailer, seated on the stool within the cell, stretched out his legs and uplifted the bottle to his lips, while, judging from the draft he took and a.s.suming the verity of the theory he advanced, the prince of darkness at that moment must have fled a considerable distance into his chosen realms.
"Ah, you know the great philosopher, then?" commented the jester from the couch, closely watching the sottish, intemperate face of his keeper, and running his glance over the unwieldy form which bade fair to outrival one of the wine b.u.t.ts in the castle cellar.
"Know him!" exclaimed this lowly votary. "I have e"en been admitted to his table--at the foot, "tis true--when the brave fellows of Pantagruel were at it. Not for my wit was I thus honored"--the _plaisant_ made a dissenting gesture, the irony of which pa.s.sed over the head of the speaker--"but because a giant flagon appeared but a child"s toy in my hands. The followers of Pantagruel fell on both sides, like wheat before the blade of the reaper, until Doctor Rabelais and myself only were left. From the head to the foot of the table the great man looked. How my heart swelled with pride! "Swine of Epicurus, are you still there?" he said. And then--and then--"