"Charles V!" came through Triboulet's half-closed teeth. "My master's one great enemy!"
"Hush!" muttered Villot. "Our master's enemy is now his dear friend!"
"Friend!" sneered the other, but even as he thrust, his sword tingled sharply in his hand, and, whisked magically out of his grip, described a curve in the air and fell at a far end of the room. At the same time a stinging blow descended smartly on the dwarf's hump.
"Pardon me!" laughed the duke's fool. "Being unused to such exercise, my blade fell by mistake on your back."
If looks could have killed, Triboulet would have achieved his original purpose, but after a vindictive though futile glance his head drooped despondently. To have been thus humiliated before those whom he regarded as his vassals! What jest could restore him the prestige he had enjoyed; what play of words efface the shame of that public chastisement? Had he been beaten by the king—but thus to suffer at the hand of a foreign fool! And the monarch—would he learn of it?—the punishment of the royal jester? As in a dream, he heard the hateful voices of the company.
"'Tis not the first time he has been wounded—there!" said fearless Caillette, who openly acknowledged his aversion for the king's favorite fool. "But be seated, gentle sir," he added to the stranger, "and share our rough hospitality."
"Rough, certes!" commented the other, as he returned his blade to his belt. "And as I see no stool—"
"There's the throne!" returned Caillette, courteously. "Since you have overcome Triboulet, his place is yours."
"A precarious place!" said the new-comer, easily, dropping, nevertheless, into the chair.
"The king is dead! Long live the king!" cried the cardinal's jester.