. With short,
sharp barks, the dog bounded before her, but the hand usually extended
to caress the animal remained at her side.

Intently the jester watched her draw near and ever nearer, their common
trysting spot, her favorite garden nook. A handsome bride, forsooth,
as Jacqueline had suggested. All in white was she now; a glittering
white, with silver adornment; ravishingly hymeneal. A bride for a
duke--or a king--more stately than the queen; handsomer than the
favorite of favorites who ruled the king and France.

"Jacqueline," she said, evincing neither surprise nor any other
emotion, as she approached, "go and fetch my fan. I believe 'tis in
the king's ante-chamber."

"Madam carried no fan when"--began the girl.

"Then 'tis somewhere else. Do not bandy words, but find it."

Sinking on the bench as the maid walked quickly away, she remained for
some moments in silent thought,--a reverie the jester forbore to
disturb. Her head rested on her arm, from which fell the flowing
sleeve almost to the ground; her wrist was lightly inclasped by a
slender golden band of delicate Byzantine enamel work; over the
sculptured form of the stone griffin that constituted one of the
supports of the ancient Norman bench flowed the voluminous folds of her
dress, partly concealing the monster from view. Against the clambering
ivy which for centuries had reveled in this chosen spot, and which the
landscape gardeners of Francis had wisely spared, lay her hand, a small
ring of curious workmanship gleaming from her finger. The ring caused
the jester to start, remembering he had last seen it worn by the king.

Truly, the capricious, but august, monarch must have been well pleased
with the complaisance of his fair ward, and the face of the fool,
glowing and eager, became on the instant hard and cold. Did he
experience now the first pangs of that sorrow Jacqueline had vividly
portrayed as the love-portion of Marot and Caillette? Faintly the ivy
whispered above the princess, telling perhaps of other days when,
centuries gone by, some Norman lady had been wooed and won, or wooed
and lost, in the shadow of the griffin, which, silent, sphinx-like, yet
endured through the ages.

Idly the Princess Louise plucked a leaf from the old, old vine, picked
it apart and let the pieces float away. As they fluttered and fell at
the jester's feet she regarded him with thoughtful blue eyes.

"How far is it," she asked, "to the duke's principa