"Oh, that the duke were married and out of the kingdom!" Triboulet fervently wished, and the fiery comments of Marot, Villot and those other reckless spirits, who seemed to mind no more the prospect of being spitted on a lance than if it were but a novel and not unpleasant experience to look forward to, in no wise served to assuage his heart-sinking.
At the entrance of the pavilion stood Caillette, who had watched the passing of Bon Vouloir and now was gazing upward into a sea of faces from whence came a hum of voices like the buzzing of unnumbered bees.
"Certes," he commented, "the king makes much of this unmannered, lumpish, beer-drinking noble who is going to wed the princess."
"Caillette," said the low voice of the duke's jester at his elbow, "would you see a woman undone?"
"Why, mon ami!" lightly answered the French fool, "I've seen many undone—by themselves."
"Ah," returned the other, "I appeal to your chivalry, and you answer with a jest."
"How else," asked Caillette, with a peculiar smile that was at once sweet and mournful, "can one take woman, save as a jest—a pleasant mockery?"
"Your irony precludes the test of friendship—the service I was about to ask of you," retorted the duke's fool, gravely.
"Test of friendship!" exclaimed the poet. "'Tis the only thing I believe in. Love! What is it? A flame! a breath! Look out there—at the flatterers and royal sycophants. Those are your emissaries of love. Ye gods! into the breasts of what jack-a-dandies and parasites has descended the unquenchable fire of Jove! Now as for comradeship"—placing his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder—"by Castor and Pollux, and all the other inseparables, 'tis another thing. But expound this strange anomaly—a woman wronged. Who is the woman?"
"The Princess Louise!"