especial disdain, from her position upon the corner of the table,
her glance wandered down the board and rested on Rabelais, the
gourmand, before whom were an empty trencher and tankard. The
priest-doctor-writer-scamp who affected the company of jesters and
liked not a little the hospitality of Fools' hall, which adjoined the
pastry branch of the castle kitchen and was not far removed from the
wine butts, had just unrolled a bundle of manuscript, all daubed with
trencher grease and tankard drippings, and was about to read aloud the
strange adventures of one Pantagruel, when, overcome by indulgence, his
head fell forward on the table, almost in the wooden platter, and the
papers fluttered to the floor.

"Put him out!" commanded Triboulet from his high place.

But she of the jaunty cap sprang from the table.

"How wise are your Majesty's decrees!" she said mockingly with her
glance upon the dwarf. He shifted uneasily in the throne. "You should
have put him out before! But now"--turning contemptuously to the poor
figure of the great man--"he's harmless. His silence is golden; his
speech was dross."

"And yet," answered Marot, thoughtfully, "the king esteems him; the
king who is at once scholar, poet, wit, soldier--"

"Soldier!" she exclaimed, quickly. "When he can not conquer Italy and
regain his heritage!"

"Can not?" ventured Triboulet, mindful of the dignity of his royal
master. "Why not?"

"Because the women would conquer him!"

"Nay; the king prefers the blue eyes of France," spoke up the
cardinal's fool, he of the viola.

"Then do you set our queen of fools, our fair Jacqueline, out of his
Majesty's good graces," interposed one of the lesser jesters, a mere
baron's hireling, who long had burned with secret admiration for the
maid of the coquettish cap.

"I am _such_ a fool as to want the good graces of no man--or monarch!"
she replied boldly, without glancing at the speaker.

"An he were in love, you would be two fools!" laughed Caillette, the
court poet.

"In love, 'tis only the man is the fool or--the fooled!" she returned
pointedly, and Caillette, despite his self-possession, flushed
painfully. Since Diane de Poitiers had wedded her ancient lord, the
poet had become grave, studious, almost sad.

"And is your mistress, the king's ward, fooling with her betrothed?" he
asked quickly, conscious of knowing winks and nudges.

"The Princess Louise and the Duke of Friedwald are to wed for reason