With his hands behind him, he stood thoughtfully leaning against a table; his countenance had become somber, morose. The twinges of pain from a disease which afterward caused him to abdicate the throne and relinquish all power and worldly vanities for a life of religious meditation began to make themselves felt. Love--ambition--what were they? The perishable flesh--was it the all-in-all? Those sudden pangs of the body seemed like over-forward confessors abruptly admonishing him.
The jester and the woman--Francis and the princess--what had they become to him now? Figures in an intangible, illusory dream. Deeply religious, repentant, perhaps, for past misdeeds at such a moment as this, the soldier-emperor stood before a silver crucifix.
"_Credo in sanctum_," he murmured, with contrite glance. "How repugnant is human glory! to conquer the earth; to barter what is immortal! _Carnis resurrectionem--_"
A shadow fell across the tapestry, and glancing from the blessed symbol, he saw before him, kneeling on the rug, the figure of a woman.
For her it was an inauspicious interruption. With almost a frown, Charles, recalled from an absorbing period of oblation and self-examination, surveyed the young girl. The reflection of dark colors from the hangings and tapestries softened the pallor of her face; her hair hung about her in disorder; her figure, though meanly garbed, was replete with youth and grace. Silent she continued in the posture of a suppliant.
"Well?" said the monarch finally, in a harsh voice.
Slowly she lifted her head; her dark eyes rested on the ruler steadfastly, fearlessly. "Your Majesty commanded my presence," she answered.
"Who are you?" he asked coldly.
"I am called Jacqueline; my father was the Constable of Dubrois."
Incredulity replaced every other emotion on the emperor"s features, and, approaching her, he gazed attentively into the countenance she so frankly uplifted. With calmness she bore that piercing scrutiny; his dark, troubled soul, looking out of his keen gray eyes, met an equally lofty spirit.
"The Constable of Dubrois! You, his daughter!" he repeated.
His thoughts swiftly pierced the shadows of the past; that umbrageous past, darkened with war and carnage; the memory of triumphs; the bitterness of defeats! And studying her eyes, her face, as in a vision he recalled the features, the bearing, of him who had held himself an equal to his old rival, Francis. A red spot rose to his cheek as he reviewed the martial, combative days; the game of arms he had played so often with Francis--and won! Not always by daring, or courage--rather by sagacity, clear-headedness, more potent than any other force!
But a pang of bodily suffering reminded him of the present and its ills, and the vainglory of brief exultation faded as quickly as it had a.s.sailed him; involuntarily his glance sought the sacred emblem of intercession. When he regarded her once more his face had resumed its severe, uncompromising aspect.
"The constable was a proud, haughty man," he said, brusquely. "Yea, over-proud, in fact. You know why he fled to me?"
"Yes, Sire," she answered, flushing resentfully.
"To persuade me to espouse his cause against the king. Many times have my good brother, Francis, and myself gone to war," he added, reflectively and not without a certain complacency, "but then were we engaged in troubles in the east; to keep the Mohammedans from overrunning our Christian land. How could I oblige the constable by fighting the heathen and the believers in the gospel in one breath?
Your father--for I am ready to believe him such, by the evidence of your face, and, especially, your eyes--accused me of little faith. But I had either to desert him, or Europe. His cause was lost; "twas the fortune of war; the fate of great families becomes subservient to that of nations."
He spoke as if rather presenting the case to himself than to her; as though he sought to a.n.a.lyze his own action through the medium of time and the trend of larger events. Attentively she watched him with deep, serious eyes, and, catching her almost accusing look and knowing how, perhaps, he shuffled with history, his brow grew darker; he was visibly annoyed at her--his own conscience--he knew not what!
"I did not complain, your Majesty," she said proudly.
Her answer surprised him. Again he observed her attire; the pallor of her face; the dark circles beneath her eyes. Grimly he marked these signs of poverty; those marks of the weariness and privations she had undergone.
"Was it not your intention to seek me? To beg an asylum, perhaps?" he went on, less sternly.
"Not to beg, your Majesty! To ask, yes! But now--not that!"
"_Vrai Dieu_!" muttered Charles. "There is the father over again! It is strange this maiden clothed almost in rags should claim such ill.u.s.trious parentage," he continued to himself, as he walked restlessly to and fro. "It is more strange I ask no other proofs than herself--the evidence of my eyes! Where did you come from?" he added, aloud, pausing before her. "The court of Francis?"
"Yes, Sire."
"Why did you leave the king?"
"Why--because--" Her hands clenched. The gray eyes continued to probe her. "Because I hate him!"
The emperor"s face relaxed; a gleam of humor shone in his glance.
"Hate him whom so many of your s.e.x love?" he replied.
Through her tresses he saw her face turn red; pa.s.sionately she arose.
"With your Majesty"s permission, I will go."
"Go?" he said abruptly. "Where can you go? You are somewhat quick of temper, like--. Have I refused you aught? I could not serve your father," he continued, taking her hand, and, not ungently, detaining her, "but I may welcome his daughter--though necessity, the ruler of kings, made me helpless in his behalf!"
As in a flash her resentment faded. Half-paternally, half-severely, he surveyed her.
"Sit down here," he went on, indicating a low stool. "You are weary and need refreshment."
Silent she obeyed, and the emperor, touching a bell, gave a low command to the servitor who appeared. In a few moments meat, fruits and wine were set before her, and Charles, from his point of vantage--no throne of gold, but a chair lined with Cordovan leather, watched her partake.
The pains had again left him; the monk gave way to the ruler; he thought of no more phrases of the Credo, but with impa.s.sive face listened to her story, or as much as she cared to relate. When she had finished, for some time he offered no comment.
"A strange tale," he said finally. "But what will our n.o.bles do when ladies take mere fools for knight-errants?"
"He is no mere fool!" she spoke up, impulsively.
The emperor shot a quick look at her from beneath his lowering brows.
"I mean--he is brave--and has protected me many times," she explained in some confusion.
"And so you, knowing what you were, remained--with a poor jester--a clown--rather than leave him to his fate?" continued Charles, inexorably, recalling the words of the outriders.
Her face became paler, but she held her head more proudly; the spirit of the jestress sprang to her lips, "It is only kings, Sire, who fear to cling to a forlorn cause!"
His eyes grew dark and gloomy; morosely he bent his gaze upon her. No one had ever before dared to speak to him like that, for Charles had no love for jesters, and kept none in his court. Unsparing, iron-handed, he had gone his way. But, perhaps, in her very fearlessness he recognized a touch of his own inflexible nature. At any rate, his sternness soon gave way to an expression of melancholy.
"G.o.d alone knows the hearts of monarchs!" he said, somberly, and directed his glance toward the crucifix.
Moved by his unexpected leniency and the aspect of his cheerlessness, she immediately repented of her response. He looked so old, and melancholy, this great monarch. When he again turned to her his face and manner expressed no further cognizance of her reply.
"You need rest," he said, "and shall have a tent to yourself. Now go!"
he continued, placing his hand for a moment, not unkindly, on her head.
"I shall give orders for your entertainment. It will be rough hospitality, but--you are used to that. I am not sorry, child, you hate our brother Francis, if it has driven you to our court."
CHAPTER XXVI
THE DEBT OF NATURE
Although the daughter of the constable received every attention commensurate with the cheer of the camp, the day pa.s.sed but slowly.
With more or less interest she viewed the diversified group of soldiers, drawn by Charles from the various countries over which he ruled: the brawny troops from Flanders; the alert-looking guards, recruited from the mountains of Spain; the men of Friedwald, with muscles tough as the fibers of the fir in their native forests. Even the Orient--suggestive of many campaigns!--had been drawn upon, and the bright-garbed olive-skinned attendants, moving among the tents of purple or crimson, blended picturesquely with the more solid ma.s.ses of color.
For the Flemish soldiery, who had brought the fool and herself to the camp, the young girl had a nod and a word, but it was the men of Friedwald who especially attracted her attention, and unconsciously she found herself picturing the land that had fostered this stalwart and rough soldiery. A rocky, rugged region, surely; with vast forests, unbroken brush! Yonder armorer, polishing a joint of steel, seemed like a survivor of that primeval epoch when the trees were roofs and the ground the universal bed. Once or twice she pa.s.sed him, curiously noting his great beard and giant-like limbs. But he minded her not, and this, perhaps, gave her courage to pause.
"What sort of country is Friedwald?" she said, abruptly.