"I wonder if you have heard my news,—that my father has succeeded to the dukedom of Savoy?" asked the other as the jester paused.
"Yes, I have heard it, my boy, and I congratulate you with all my heart," said the fool hastily. "It is a fine inheritance, and one day you will be Philibert the Second, Duke of Savoy. Accept my felicitations."
"Thank you. And you see, Le Glorieux, there is quite a difference between the heir of the Count de Bresse and the heir of the duke of a wealthy province, and I feel that I can hope—well, I can hope for almost anything."
"Hope," said the jester gravely, "is one of the finest things in this world, and I wish we all had more of it. But you have not asked me what made Cunegunda weep."
"No," said Philibert absently, as one whose mind is traveling far afield; "what did make Cunegunda weep?"
"Because," replied the jester, "she has the narrowest mind of any woman living."
"And she is only beginning to find it out?" asked the other, laughing.
"Oh, she has not found it out, and never will, though I have known it from the beginning of our acquaintance. Now I ask you, why should not Spain be a good country to live in? There are flowers and palaces and oranges and bull-fights and everything to make a man or woman comfortable, and there are plenty of new friends, I dare say, if one cares to make them; still that woman is drowned in tears because she must go there, as if it were purgatory."
"Why must she go to Spain if she does not care to do so?" asked Philibert.
"Because she will not leave her young mistress," replied the fool deliberately.