The king's countenance lightened; he turned his accusing glance upon the fool. As in a dream stood the latter; the words he would have uttered remained unspoken. But briefly the monarch surveyed him, satirically, darkly; then turning, with a gesture, summoned an attendant. Not until the hands of two soldiers fell upon him did the fool betray any emotion. Then his face changed, and the stunned look in his eyes gave way to an expression of such unbridled feeling that involuntarily the king stepped back and the free baron drew his sword. But neither had the monarch need for apprehension, nor the princess' betrothed use for his weapon. Some emotion, deeper than anger, replaced the savage turmoil of the jester's thoughts, as with a last fixed look at the princess he mechanically suffered himself to be led away. Louise's gaze perforce followed him, and when the canvas fell and he had disappeared she passed a hand across her brow.
"Are you satisfied, my Lord?" said the king to the free baron.
"The knave has received his just deserts, Sire," replied the other, and, stepping to the princess' side, raised her hand to his lips.
"Mère de Dieu!" cried the monarch, passing his arm in a friendly manner over the free baron's shoulder and addressing Louise. "You will find Robert of Friedwald worthy of your high trust, cousin."
Without, they were soon whispering it. The attendant, who was the Count of Cross, breathed what he knew to the Duke of Montmorency, who told Du Bellays, who related the story to Diane de Poitiers, who embellished it for Villot, who carried it to Jacqueline.
"Triboulet has his wish," said the poet-fool, half-regretfully. "There is one jester the less."
"Where have they taken him?" asked the girl, steadily.
"Where—but to the keep!"
"That dungeon of the old castle?"
"Well," he returned significantly, "a fool and his jests—alas!—are soon parted. Let us make merry, therefore, while we may. For what would you? Come, mistress—the dance—"