LADY CLOTILDE'S MOONSTONE PENDANT
The next morning a royal messenger arrived with a letter for the little princess, and Le Glorieux, who was present when she received it, saw that tears were rolling down her cheeks when she had finished reading it. "What is it, little Cousin?" asked the jester. "Strange that a mere piece of paper should stir you up like this."
"Oh, Le Glorieux," cried Marguerite, "my father does not love me!" And covering her face with her handkerchief, she burst into sobs.
"Well, now that is another strange thing," said he, sitting down at her feet and clasping his hands about his knees, while he surveyed her thoughtfully. "His Royal Highness takes the trouble to send a messenger across the country to tell his little daughter that he does not love her, when it would have been so much easier to let this wonderful piece of news wait until he stood face to face with her."
The princess patted her foot impatiently on the floor while the jester was speaking, then she said, restraining her sobs with an effort, "I have been so impatient to see him that I could scarcely wait for the days to pass, and every morning when I have wakened during our journey I have said to myself, 'One more day is off the list, and I am so many more leagues nearer to him than I was at this time yesterday.' And although the Countess Von Hohenberg is very kind, and has begged me to remain here for a time, still I wanted to go this very day," and again she began to sob.
"Yes," said the jester, "I understand your side of the question, and now I wonder if you won't tell me just what Max writes in his letter, and I will help you to decide just what he means by it."
"He—he—s-s-ays that we are to remain at Castle Hohenberg for three or four days in order that I may recover from the fatigue of the journey. It is c-c-cruel!"
"It certainly is very cruel," replied Le Glorieux. "Odd that there should be such unnatural fathers in the world! A man must have a heart of flint to want his daughter to rest after a long journey."
"I do not at all consider this a subject for jest," said the little lady, surveying the jester indignantly through her tears.
"Looking at the matter broadly, I should say that it was just as much a subject for jesting as for weeping. Will your small Highness tell me what there is in all this to cry about? Do you not know that it is very foolish to cry about little things, and that the tears of even a princess are just as salt as those of anybody else, and if called up in abundance will make her eyes and nose just as red as those of a dairy maid who cries over a pail of spilled milk?"
"Le Glorieux," said Marguerite solemnly, "if my father is as anxious to see me as I am to see him, he would write 'Hurry, hurry,' in his letter instead of telling me to wait."
"Would you write 'Hurry, hurry,' to him if he were coming to you on a tiresome trip?"
"Indeed I would! I would say, 'Hurry, and hurry, and hurry again, for I long to embrace you.' Only think, I have lived for eight long years with no one near me but Cunegunda who really loves me, and none of my own blood to touch my brow with a kiss!"
"I do not know," said the fool reflectively, "how I should feel were there none near me to love me save Cunegunda, but I need not worry about that, for Cunegunda, if I read her aright, is not burned up with affection for me; but what you say proves to me that you are not really so fond of your father as he is of you."
"You are dreaming; what do you mean by such words?" asked the princess, wiping her eyes and looking haughtily at the jester. "I adore my father; he is dearer to me than all the crowns of the world."
"It is this way," said Le Glorieux; "as I remark probably once a day more or less, I am nothing but a fool, but nevertheless I say a good many wise things, and I think a good many more. Very often when I remain perfectly quiet my silence counts for a good deal, for I am thinking very hard about something. But as I was going to say, when one has the right kind of affection for another, there is not a grain of selfishness in it. Your father is just as anxious to see you as you are to see him, still at the same time he thinks of your comfort first and of his own wishes next."
"Do you think so, really?" asked Marguerite, smiling, then asked, "But why could he not have come to me himself instead of sending a messenger?"
"Kings and princes can not go about as they please, though they are always supposed to be doing what they like to do," replied Le Glorieux. "A king can not even marry to please himself. He may say, 'I do not want a wife, I prefer to be a bachelor.' The state says, 'Not a bit of it; you must marry.' Then the state picks out a wife for him. If she is pretty and agreeable he is lucky, but if she has a horrible squint and the temper of a tigress and the state says, 'Marry her,' why, marry her he must. Just now your father is probably cooking up a lot of schemes against France for its treatment of you and himself, and he is telling Spain and England how dearly he always loved them, and he is figuring out the lands that France ought to restore to him in return for his great disappointment, so he has no time to rush away to see his little daughter."
"Oh, Le Glorieux, you have made me so happy!" cried the princess, with shining eyes. "Then you think my father really is very fond of me!"
"I am sure of it, and I am sure that he will be still fonder of you when he sees you, for two reasons: one is that you look a good deal like himself, and the other that you will look at him with the very eyes of your mother."
"The marriage of my father and mother was a happy one, was it not, Le Glorieux?"
"Yes, little Cousin, that was one of the times when duty and inclination went hand in hand. That marriage was the best possible thing for both their countries, and the young couple were in love with each other from the moment when they first stood face to face, your beautiful mother being just a young slip of a girl, and your father but eighteen years of age. He was only twenty-three when she died, and he is still a young man, not so far past the first bloom of his youth."
The princess never tired of talking of her father and of her fair young mother, whose faces were known to her only from their portraits. Her brother, who was two years her senior, she often thought about, but it was her father who possessed the larger share of her affection.
It has been remarked of the Lady Clotilde that she always contrived to stir up some kind of commotion wherever she happened to be, and this journey was no exception to the general rule. The story of the emerald girdle, related by the countess the previous night, reminded the Lady Clotilde that she too owned a jewel which was said to bring good luck to her family, and the loss of which was to be followed by results too fearful to contemplate. It was a large moonstone, set as a pendant and surrounded by rubies. It had been curiously cut by an old Italian lapidary of the previous century, and represented a woman's face, which seemed to change its expression as the colors glimmering in the stone caught the light. This ornament had a great fascination for Le Glorieux. In former days when the Lady Clotilde had wished a special favor from Charles the Bold, she often managed to obtain it through Le Glorieux, who would first make his master laugh, and then while he was in this genial frame of mind the jester would present his petition in the cleverest way it could be framed. And being too penurious to reward her agent with a piece of money, the lady would say, "Le Glorieux, you may clean my jewels, for I know it must be a great pleasure to you to hold them in the sunlight and see them flash," and, while pretending to grant a favor to the jester, managed to gain one for herself.
Of all her trinkets, and she had many and valuable ones, none so charmed the fool as the moonstone pendant. Held in certain lights, the face seemed to dimple and smile upon him; in others, it was the face of a witch, or a gorgon, those dreadful beings the very sight of which would turn mortals into stone.
This ornament the Lady Clotilde was resolved to show to the countess, and descant on its history and its great value. With eager hands she unlocked the box of scented wood where the ornament was kept, and lo, the pendant was missing! Could she believe her eyes? In an agony of anxiety she tossed the jewels about, finally emptying the contents of the casket on the bed, where they flashed and glimmered like captive stars sending forth red, blue, and green lights. Frantically she picked them up one by one and shook them, but no moonstone was there!
"It is gone, it is gone!" groaned the Lady Clotilde
"It is gone, it is gone!" groaned the Lady Clotilde; then she sank to the floor and began to think of the many terrible things that might be expected to happen to that unlucky member of the family who should allow the stone to go out of his or her possession, the very thought of which made her tremble with terror. Calming herself at last, she reflected that some one must have taken the pendant, since such articles do not rise of their own accord, climb out of their boxes, and go swaggering about the world like a knight in search of adventure. And now the question was, who had taken it? She was sure that none but her own attendants had been near her room, but stay! a maid belonging to the countess had entered the room shortly after their arrival to bring a cup of hot mulled wine which the Lady Clotilde always required, or desired, which amounted to the same thing with her, after a journey in cold weather. She remembered that she had opened the casket and was just about to take out her ruby chain, which she considered a most becoming ornament for her more than generous length of neck, when the maid entered with the wine, and the girl must have slipped the moonstone from the box while the lady was sipping the contents of the cup. She recalled the appearance of the maid, a pale young creature with large startled dark eyes. She no doubt had thought that among so many handsome trinkets the loss of one never would be noticed by this rich and noble lady. The minx would find herself mistaken, however, for the Lady Clotilde was determined to report her loss at once, and to recover her property if it should become necessary to tear the castle down, stone by stone, in order to find it!
As it never had been her custom to delay after making a plan, she immediately stalked down the stone steps leading to the floor below, and entering the salon where the countess and her guests were whiling away the time at cards or with their embroidery, she advanced at once to her hostess. "Madame," said she, "I have lost a jewel. A valuable heirloom which has been in my possession, or rather in that of my family, for a hundred years, has disappeared from my casket."
"I am deeply grieved to hear it, Madame," said the countess, rising to her feet, "and I sincerely hope that you will be so fortunate as to find it again."
"I will be so fortunate as to find it again—I will, I will in spite of everything," replied the Lady Clotilde excitedly.
"Pray calm yourself, Cousin Clotilde," said Le Glorieux, who was lounging in the window seat. "Try to collect yourself, else I am afraid you will go into a fit. The veins in your forehead are as big as my smallest finger, and you are quite purple in the face."
"Anything that we can do to recover your jewel for you shall be done most gladly, Madame," said the countess. "I will send servants to your apartments to search for it."
"There have been too many of your servants in my apartments already," retorted the other rudely. "I want no searching there; I want the culprit searched and brought to justice as quickly as possible."
"Most assuredly, if we can discover who the culprit is."
"I know who it is," cried the Lady Clotilde. "It is that pale creature who came yesterday afternoon with my mulled wine, a girl with big dark eyes."
"Oh, that was Cimburga; she would not rob you of your gems, Madame. She is an orphan whose parents and grandparents died in our service. She can be thoroughly trusted. Without counting it, I should not be afraid to leave a lapful of gold in her care."
"Your confidence does but little honor to your judgment, Madame," said the injured one, "and what I have lost is of far more consequence than a lapful of gold."
Le Glorieux left his place in the window and came forward, saying, "You seem to be in a terrible state of mind, Cousin Clotilde; I have not seen you in such agitation since the news came to Burgundy of the battle of Nancy. What is the gewgaw which you seem to have valued as life itself?"
"It was the moonstone pendant. You know what it means to me to lose it."
"What, the carved lady who winks her eyes while you look at her?"
The Lady Clotilde nodded.
"This is indeed serious," remarked the jester. "If you but knew, Madame Countess, of the awful things written down to happen to the last possessor of that stone, you would be chilled to the bone. Why, death by slow strangulation would be a pleasure to some of the tortures she will suffer if she does not find it again."
"Some, in fact most, of those old traditions are mere myths," said the countess reassuringly.
"You do not consider them myths when they are connected with your girdle," returned Lady Clotilde tartly.
"At any rate the article must be found if possible," said the countess. "Are you very sure, Madame, that you had it when you came here?"
"Of course I am sure that I had it when I came here! Since we left Amboise no one has touched my valuables save myself."
"If you are sure of that, then, no one is to blame for having mislaid it save yourself," said the jester.
"It has not been mislaid; it has been stolen," cried the Lady Clotilde in the highest key of indignation. "I heard that black-eyed girl take it."
"You mean Cimburga?" asked the countess.
"If that is what you call her, yes."
"That girl would not steal," said Le Glorieux. "I watched her this morning while she was feeding the doves. They ate from her hand and perched on her shoulders, and she laughed like a little child. She is as innocent as the doves themselves."
"What do you know about it?" asked the Lady Clotilde. "There is no subject in this world about which you do not give your opinion."
"Why not, since I have plenty of opinions and all are welcome to them?"
"I tell you that black-eyed girl is the one who stole my jewel!"
"Pray calm yourself, my dear lady, and let us get at the bottom of this affair," said the countess soothingly. "You say that you heard Cimburga take the ornament. Was it in the night? If so, you may have been dreaming."
"Suppose it had been in the night, the fact that my pendant is missing would show that I was not dreaming, would it not?" asked the Lady Clotilde with some reason. "But I was not asleep; on the contrary, it was while I was drinking my hot wine with the girl waiting that my valuable disappeared." The idea that Cimburga had robbed her was now so thoroughly fixed in the lady's mind that she was almost ready to assert that she had seen the girl take it from the box. "I had sent my tiring woman to the bedchamber of Lady Ravenstein to borrow a needleful of gold thread, for the trimming of my bodice was slightly frayed and needed mending. During her absence I opened my casket to select the jewels best suited to wear with my change of costume. Just then the girl entered with the wine, which I turned to drink, and I now recall that I heard distinctly a slight click behind me, as the jewels would have rattled if disturbed, and to-day my precious heirloom is missing."
"It was missing then, if somebody took it then," remarked the jester. "But stay, can a thing be missing until somebody misses it? I shall have to think that out carefully some day when I have more time."
"Let us say nothing to Cimburga about it until we have searched," said the countess. She left the room and was absent for some time. When she returned, she said, "I went to the dormitory where all the maids sleep and searched everywhere and all through Cimburga's poor little effects, but no jewel of any kind did I find. There was a wooden cross attached to a black ribband which she wears on Sundays and fête days, but that was all in the way of a trinket that could be seen."
"Is it reasonable to suppose that a girl who could slyly filch my property would put it where it could be found?" asked the Lady Clotilde.
"Is there anything unusual in the girl's manner?" asked Lady Ravenstein, one of Marguerite's suite, who had remained perfectly quiet up to this time. "If this be her first offense she may betray herself by an agitated manner."
"She has seemed unhappy to-day," the countess admitted reluctantly. "I stopped her a moment ago in the hall leading to the servants' quarters, and I noticed that there were tears on her cheeks."
"I was sure of it!" cried the Lady Clotilde. "She was crying because she was afraid she would be discovered. I insist that she be brought before us and that she be accused of her crime."
"But let her not be accused harshly," said the little princess, who had been listening intently to all that had been said. "The maid may not be guilty; but if so, and it is her first offense, let us be merciful."
"All I ask is my moonstone pendant, your Highness," said the Lady Clotilde. "And although I think she should be severely punished for taking it from me, still she is not my servant and I have no right to insist upon her chastisement."
A page was sent to notify Cimburga that she was wanted, and she came at once, glancing about the room to see what there was for her hands to do, for she supposed that she had been sent for to perform a task.
"Let me question her, Madame," said the Lady Clotilde, and reluctantly the countess consented to oblige her guest, though she felt that she could best have managed the matter herself.
"What have you done with the locket you took from my casket yesterday afternoon?" asked the Lady Clotilde harshly.
The girl, who was pretty, and timid as a fawn of the wildwood, opened wide her eyes, and, gazing at the questioner in surprise, made no reply.
"I say," went on her tormentor in a louder tone, "what did you do with the ornament you took from my box yesterday? You slipped it out, you know, while I was sipping the wine you brought me."
"I, lady? I do not know of what you are speaking," replied Cimburga, in amazement.
"You know perfectly well of what I am speaking. You took it from my casket, I heard you, though you may think I did not, and now where is it?"
"I know nothing of it, Madame."
"Come now, that kind of a reply will not do. You have my moonstone in your possession and you must restore it to me at once."
"Madame, I am telling you the truth; I never have taken the smallest thing that did not belong to me, and of that my lady mistress will assure you."
"I can attest the truth of that statement, Cimburga," said her mistress gently, "but if you have been tempted by the sparkle of gems,—and you have a girl's love for things that glitter, even though you are in a lowly walk in life,—if you have taken the lady's ornament, as she seems certain that you have done, restore it to her. And this being your first offense, I promise you that your punishment shall be light."
"But, my mistress, how can I restore what I have not taken?" asked the girl simply.
"Talk about this being her first offense; if so, I am quite sure it will not be her last one, for she is as hardened as one old in crime," said the Lady Clotilde.
Then her mistress said, turning to the girl, "If you are innocent, if your conscience does not trouble you, why were you weeping this morning?"
Cimburga made no reply, but putting her apron to her face, began to sob.
"Come, answer me," said the countess gently.
"My dear and gracious mistress, do not ask me why I was weeping, for I can not tell you," sobbed the girl.
"You might as well tell us," said the Lady Clotilde, "for we are bound to know it sooner or later."
"I will never tell, I will go to my death first," said the girl desperately.
"You deserve to go to your death, since you are so stubborn," said the Lady Clotilde vindictively. "But give me back my jewel, and you shall be troubled no more so far as I am concerned."
"I can not give you what I have not got. I call upon all the saints to witness that I know nothing of the object which you have lost."
"She does but blaspheme," said the Lady Clotilde coldly. "Let her be handed over to the law."
The punishment for all kinds of crime was most severe at this time, and it is no wonder that Cimburga sobbed convulsively as she was taken from the room.
This unfortunate incident cast a gloom over the company. It was easy to see that the countess was unhappy about the accusation that had been made against the young girl who was under her own protection. The Lady Clotilde was sulky and restless, while the others seemed to be puzzled by what had happened. When the gentlemen, who had been hunting, returned to the castle, they were told of the occurrence of the morning, and most of those who gave an opinion were inclined to agree with the owner of the jewel that Cimburga was guilty, even the count expressing grave doubts as to her innocence. Cimburga was nothing but a servant, therefore was more than likely to be the thief.
"I wish," said Le Glorieux to Philibert, "that we had left Clotilde in France. I have been acquainted with her for a number of years, and I have never known a time when there was not some kind of agitation on her account. She is always just coming, or just going, or is looking for something that she can not find, or is doing something or other to make everybody around her restless. She is like a whirlwind that picks up leaves and sticks and slams them about. I know that she is your relative, but that is not your fault, my lad, and I respect you none the less for it. We should be judged by our friends and not by our relatives, for we select our own friends. It is a great pity that we are not allowed to select our own relatives too, since we are obliged to see so much of them. I know plenty of people who would have an entire new set of relatives if the thing could be managed."
"Le Glorieux," said Philibert, "I do not believe that the maid stole the moonstone any more than that I took it myself."
"I am not so sure that she is innocent," said Antoine. "Why should she have been weeping at such a rate?"
"Why should anybody weep?" asked Philibert. "For a hundred things. It is no sign because people have been crying that they have also been stealing."
"Let us ask Saint Monica if Cimburga is guilty," suggested the countess the following day. "Our Saint Monica is wonderful," continued she, turning to her guests. "She was placed in her present position by one of the Countesses Von Hohenberg, whose prayers for the reformation of an undutiful son were answered, for you know Saint Monica herself knows what it is to weep for a dissipated son, being the mother of the blessed Saint Augustine, who was very wild until miraculously changed to a saint. They say that when persons accused of a crime are made to pass before her their innocence or guilt may be proven at once, for if innocent the saint will make a sign, but if guilty she will remain immovable."
"Has she ever been seen to move when put to the test?" asked the Lady Clotilde.
"Never in our time," said the count, replying to the question. "In my grandfather's time it is said that a youth, accused of stealing a gold image from the chapel, passed before the saint and asked if he was innocent, and she raised her hand and bowed her head. Many others have tried it since, but they were all guilty, for the saint made no sign."
"We will put Cimburga to the test to-night," said the countess. "The moon will be bright by ten o'clock, and at that time we shall not have so many spectators as we should have during the day."
They started out to see this wonderful saint
Le Glorieux and the two boys started out to see this wonderful saint. She stood in the forest within a five minutes' walk from the castle, in front of a great oak. She was a painted wooden figure about five feet in height, and she had been scorched by the summer sun and pelted by rainstorms until her garments were all a dull gray, her face, partly concealed by her nun's coif, wearing a self-satisfied simper not at all consistent with her garb.
"The good saint is not a tall woman," said Philibert, eying her critically. He walked all around the figure, mounted a stone behind it, and examined it closely. "Some day she will move when they least expect it," he said, "for she is not secure on her pedestal, and a storm will blow her over."
In spite of the fact that a late hour had been set for the visit to the saint, and the matter was supposed to be a secret carefully kept from the servants, when the time came to start a curious crowd gathered and followed the supposed culprit, her master and mistress and their guests, to the statue of Saint Monica.
By Cimburga's side walked a tall young man who was said to be the miller's son, and whose presence beside the accused was viewed with considerable astonishment by those who knew him, for his father was well-to-do, and his station was above that of Cimburga. The face of the girl was radiant with happiness, and those who observed her tranquil countenance wondered why she exhibited so little agitation at a time when she might be supposed to be in a state of despair.
It was a very solemn procession that walked out on that moonlight night. At present there exist comparatively few people who would expect a wooden saint to move, even from a motive so noble as to prove the innocence of an accused person; but, as has already been said, many strange things were believed in the fifteenth century.
Even all whispering ceased as they approached the saint. The princess, warmly wrapped in fur, was riding a little mule, and as Le Glorieux walked beside her she slipped a cold hand into his with a shiver of fear, and all stepped softly over the frosty ground as if fearful of something, they knew not what. The wind swept through the trees, rustling the dry leaves. Was the saint already moving? No, it was only the shadow of a limb, which, stirred by the wind, swayed above her head.
"Hist!" said the castle chaplain, though there was no need to call for silence, as none at that moment felt in the least like talking. Then, in a solemn voice, the priest invoked the saint to deign to decide the fate of the accused maiden then standing before her. Was she innocent of the sin of theft?
He paused, there was a breathless moment of expectancy, then Saint Monica really did move. There was no doubt about it. She bowed her head and raised her right hand! All saw her do it, as they would tell their children, and their children's children, for years to come. The priest murmured some words in Latin, then all returned immediately to the castle, for none seemed inclined to remain in the neighborhood of the saint who so kindly had set their minds at rest. All gathered in the chapel, where a Te Deum was sung, as it had been sung for the first time when the son of Saint Monica was converted.
As soon as the exercises in the chapel were concluded the little princess retired to her own apartments, whispering to Le Glorieux as she passed him, "Bring Cimburga and the miller's son to me, and let no one else accompany you."
Marveling at this summons, and wondering what the daughter of their future emperor could have to say to them, now that Saint Monica had decided in the girl's favor, settling the question of her innocence, the young couple followed the jester. The Lady Marguerite had dismissed even Cunegunda, and was all alone when they entered the room. She sat in a large chair, and in a rather unprincess-like fashion, for she had been chilled in the cold chapel, and she had drawn her feet up under the folds of her velvet gown. After the young couple had knelt at her feet, and had saluted her according to the custom of the time, she bade them stand before her, and Le Glorieux said with great frankness, "I will leave the room if you say so, little Princess; but to be strictly honest about it, I should like mightily to stay and hear what you have to say to these young folk, and you may be sure that I shall not mention it to a soul."
"It is not a secret," replied the princess; "I was only afraid that they might be embarrassed by an audience."
"They will not be embarrassed by my presence," said he quickly, "for a fool in a room is of no more importance than a cat."
"You make yourself of small account when it is to gain your own ends, but stay, if you like," she returned, laughing.
"And as I do like, I will stay," he returned, sitting down on the floor beside her chair.
The young couple, standing, blushing and abashed before her, gazed with awe at the little maiden, who seemed almost lost in the embrace of the huge chair in which she sat. But when they saw that her eyes were soft and shining, that her lips were curved into a friendly smile, they forgot for the moment that she was of royal blood, and would, doubtless, one day wear the crown of a mighty kingdom. A silver griffin of a sconce near by held a light in its claws, which fell full upon Cimburga and the miller's son. The latter was tall and straight, with an honest, noble countenance, and certainly there were many ladies who were not half so pretty as Cimburga. The little princess wondered why these humble people should be so handsome, and concluded that the good God had given them personal comeliness to make up for lack of worldly goods, for certainly the athletic figure of the youth could have been no handsomer clad in velvet and satin than in the plain garments he now wore, and the flash of jewels could have made the eyes of Cimburga no brighter than they were at this moment.
"Your name is Cimburga?" said Marguerite, addressing the girl; "that is a Polish name."
"Yes, your Highness, it is the name of my grandmother, who was born in Poland, and who was given the name of the mother of his Imperial Majesty, the grandfather of your gracious Highness."
"That is a mixture of relatives that makes my head ache," observed Le Glorieux.
"Then it may be wise for you to leave the room," replied the princess slyly.
"If I did anything wise I would not be a fool," he returned; "therefore I stay."
"It is true," said Marguerite, "that my great grandmother was Cimburga of Poland, and it is from her, they say, that the archduke, my father, inherited his great physical strength. And now, Cimburga, I want you to answer my questions and do not be afraid, for no harm shall come to you from anything you may say to me. That you did not commit the crime of which you are accused we all know now, and I felt from the first, but why had you been crying even before you were accused?"
The girl dropped her eyes and a very pretty color dyed her cheeks.
"Your Highness," she faltered, playing restlessly with the cord that laced her bodice, "it was because I was afraid that Karl and I could never wed. His father, your Highness, is a miller and a man of means, and he wishes his son to marry the weaver's daughter, who can bring him a dowry, while I have nothing. And I had reason to believe that he was ready to obey his father; but when this great trouble was sent upon me he came to say that he cared only for me, that he believed in my innocence, and that he would stand by my side let happen what would. And after that, your Highness, I was not afraid of anything that might come."
"Karl is a worthy youth," said the princess. "I have heard my good confessor say that there is nothing more beautiful in this world than the love that brings our friends to our side when fortune frowns, and that good friends are the stars that shine all the brighter when night is darkest. But it is not right to disobey one's parents, and you would not wed without your father's consent?"
Karl was about to reply, when Cimburga said quickly, "No, your Highness, but even if his father should never be willing for us to wed, it is a joy to know that he cares for me, and that when all others were against me he still had faith in me."
A greater dowry than the weaver's daughter's
The little princess now realized that it is sometimes a great pleasure to be a person whose authority can be felt. She at once made up her mind that the mercenary miller should give his consent to the match, and that willingly, even gladly.
"What is the size of the dowry that this fortunate weaver's daughter will be able to bring to you?" she asked, turning to the young man.
"It is quite a large one, your Highness," he returned, with a sigh, as though he wished from the bottom of his heart that the thrifty weaver had been a gay spendthrift instead of having been a provident money-saver. And he mentioned a sum at which the Lady Marguerite smiled behind her hand, it seemed so small to her.
"Le Glorieux," said she, "go into my bedchamber and ask one of my women to give you the brass-bound box which will be found in the top of the chest."
The jester skipped gayly away to do her bidding and soon returned with the box clasped affectionately in his arms, and kneeling, he laid it on her lap. She took a purse from the box, and emptying the glittering coins in the chair beside her, she counted the pieces as she restored them one by one to the purse, which she handed to Cimburga, saying:
"Here is a greater dowry than the weaver's daughter will bring to her husband. I owe you something because one of my own suite has brought you so much trouble. I hope your marriage will be a happy one. Some day I too must marry, and a princess may not make her own choice. Say a prayer for me, Cimburga, that my betrothal may bring me the happiness that yours has brought to you. Petition the Holy Virgin for Marguerite of Hapsburg."
"Indeed and indeed I will, your gracious Highness," sobbed Cimburga, as she pressed the hem of Marguerite's robe to her lips. "The sun shall not set on a day of my life in which a prayer has not been said for you."
Le Glorieux rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, saying, "I do not like salt water in any shape. When I sail on it it makes me uncomfortable and ill, and it is equally disagreeable when it tries to drown a man's eyes."