sty like to command me?"

The mocking feminine voice recalled Triboulet from his pleasing
contemplation.

"No, no!" he answered, sullenly, and condescended to turn his glance
upon the assemblage.

Over a goodly gathering of jesters, buffoons, poets, and even
philosophers, he lorded it, holding his head as high as his hump would
permit and conscious of his own place in the esteem of the king. Not
long ago the monarch had laughed and applauded when Triboulet had
twisted his features into a horrid grimace, and since then the dwarf's
little heart had expanded with such arrogance, it seemed to him he was
almost Francis himself as he sat there on Francis' sometime throne; and
these Sir Jollys were his subjects all--Marot, Caillette, Brusquet,
Villot, and the lesser lights, jesters of barons, cardinals and even
bishops! Rabelais, too, that poor, dissolute devil of a writer,
learned as Homer, brutish as Homer's swine--all subjects of his, the
king of jesters, save one; one whom he eyed with certain fear and
wonder; fear, because she was a woman--and Triboulet esteemed all the
sex but "highly perfected devils"--and wonder, at finding her different
from, and more perplexing than even the rest of her kind!

"Jacqueline!--"

now she was perched on one corner of the table, and her face had a
witch-like loveliness, as though borrowing its pallor and beauty from
the moon, source of all magic and necromancy. Her eyes shone with such
luster that, seeking their hue, they held the observer's gaze in
mocking languor, and cheated the inquisitive coxcomb of his quest, the
while the disdainful lips curved laughingly and so bewildered him, he
forgot the customary phrases and stood staring like a nonny. Her
footstep fell so light, she was so agile and quick, the superstitious
dwarf swore she was but a creature of the night and held surreptitious
meetings with all the familiar spirits of demonology. As she never
denied the uncanny imputation, but only displayed her small white teeth
maliciously, by way of answer, Triboulet felt assured he was right and
crossed himself religiously whenever she gazed too fixedly at him.

A most _gracieuse folle_, her dress was in keeping with her character,
yellow being the predominating color. To the fanciful adornment of the
gown her lithe figure lent itself readily, while her rebellious curls
were well adapted to that badge of her servitude, the jaunty cap that
crowned their waving abundance.

In