The dryad a novel
that from the throng of knights now mingled with the brilliant swarm
of women, and gave each a few gracious moments of her sunshine ere she
dismissed him from her side. Count Ernault had his turn, and the flash
of their glances was always alive with intimate memories. Jaufre de
Brabant came and Guy de Hainault, and pompous Andronicus Palæologus and
the others; none was forgotten; each beamed with the conviction that
the duchess preferred him above his fellows. The last that Esclaramonde
called to her was Fernand Ximenes, and when the Spaniard was by her
side she turned to look into the court-yard, and he following her
example, none could hear their speech.
"You have not been brisk to wish me felicity," the duchess complained.
Ximenes shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not think you have made a good shot for fortune," he answered,
frankly. "The boy is a fool, and you might have had a man for a master."
The duchess's eyes mocked him under lowered lids, and she patted his
hands with her fan.
"Such an one as a certain soldier of fortune?" questioned Esclaramonde.
"But I believe I do not desire a master, and, besides, this boy-fool
will be Duke of Athens, whereas--"
She left her sentence unfinished, provocatively. Ximenes stared
impassive into her defiant face.
"I say you have made a bad shot," he replied, firmly. "You might have
chosen better; but I dare say you will be content enough, and, indeed,
I hope so."
And with that he bowed very stately and left her, knowing well that
his words would rankle uncomfortably. Which indeed they did, for the
duchess bit her lip and picked at her fan, brooding over troublous
fancies. She thought as well of Ximenes as it was possible for her to
think well of any one, and she knew that she held her betrothed by lies
and guile. But she had always desired to win him since the first time
that her eyes had entreated and his eyes had denied, and it seemed to
her a great thing to conquer his scorn. While she stood thus moody
there was a flutter among the women a-nigh, and then knights and ladies
made a lane down which came the burly Duke Baldwin arm in arm with his
son.
Duke Baldwin, sturdy soldier of fortune, with bright eyes ever fixed
on the main chance, was all for keeping the young couple together.
Enthusiastic about the match, he had confided to his intimates that
he thought it the most sensible act his son had ever undertaken, far
more sensible than he could have hoped for from a youth who wasted
precious living-time in the reading of foolish books. But if Duke
Baldwin understood and approved of the alliance, he did not altogether
understand or approve of the conduct of his son on the preceding day.
In the duchess's company Rainouart appeared to be the very proper image
of a perfect knightly worshipper; he had no eyes but for his lady, and
his voice echoed with a fair show of passion the endearments of which
the duchess was amiably prodigal. But apart from her the youth seemed,
in his father's words, to mope. He walked apart with head bent like
a scholar pursuing some tangled thread of thought rather than like a
soldierly lover hugging his heart at the capture of a fair prize.
This was not an attitude Duke Baldwin admired. Love-making with him
was a brisk business, alien from melancholy, sunning itself lustily in
the company of the beloved; and as Rainouart seemed to stand in shadow
when alone, Duke Baldwin made it his business to see that he should sun
himself as much as possible in the duchess's company until the marriage
ceremony was over and Thebes and Athens indissolubly linked. So it was
that but now having found his son walking apart in a quiet colonnade,
Duke Baldwin had rated him for a sluggard lover, had thrust a strong
arm within his, and haled him neither willing nor unwilling to the
great gallery where he knew that he should find the duchess.
That conduct in the son which had so perplexed the father had not
escaped the notice of those knights who were the nearest companions
of the prince. These thought him changed, thought his meditative
moods strange; but for the most part they set it down playfully to
moon-calfishness. "It is the young candle burning overhotly with
its first love, and guttering with every draught of fancy," was the
comment of Jaufre de Brabant. Guy de Hainault, more sympathetic,
if not less cynical, had his doubts, and tried to answer them with
friendly questions to which he got no satisfactory answers. Certainly
he saw that the prince when in her presence seemed devoted to his
imperious mistress, walked loyally by her side, listened reverently
to her speech, and seemed to thrill at her frequent caresses. Yet Guy
de Hainault said to Count Ernault, who bade him keep his thoughts to
himself, that to his eyes the young prince seemed more like a man in a
dream than a man in love, and Guy de Hainault had dreamed enough and
loved enough to speak with authority.
On one point there was no quarrel: there certainly was no doubt of the
duchess's free and full devotion to her lover. She had not even for
form's sake made any diffident protest against so swift a wedding, the
swiftness whereof came so largely from her own suggestion. Indeed, it
seemed as if with shining eyes and sugared tongue she spurred her
young lord to protestations and entreaties. The court, for the most
part, however, entered into no niceties of discrimination between the
conduct of the youth and the lady. It sufficed for those jolly spirits,
male and female, that there was to be a wedding, for a wedding meant
festivals, and the sight of a wedding, too, had a way of spurring
laggard gentlemen into proposals and prompting ladies that would be coy
to come to directer terms. Wedding calls for wedding, as blood is said
to call for blood.
The genial duke made his way with his son through the rapidly formed
alley of retiring lords and ladies to the place where Esclaramonde
leaned against a pillar of the gallery and fanned herself languidly,
watching their advance with bright eyes.
"Here," said the duke, cheerfully, "is one who would not be denied to
come to your presence for all that I could do to occupy him with other
matters."
He gently urged Rainouart forward as he spoke, and Rainouart, under the
influence of the eyes of Esclaramonde, moved with what seemed to the
spectators a lover's eagerness to greet her. The duke smiled a vast
smile on all around him.
"I was like that once," he said, with a leer, pinching the chin of
the nearest pretty woman and clipping another round the waist. "Come,
friends, come; let us leave the young people to themselves. They have
little time for courting and must make the most of it." And so with a
laughing baggage under each arm Baldwin led the way from the gallery
followed obediently by a merry retinue of knights and ladies. The
place was swiftly quiet that had been so lively, and for the moment
Esclaramonde and Rainouart were left alone. It was, indeed, to be
their last occasion for wooing in solitude. The day was all laid out:
first the tournament, then the wedding ceremony, then the banquet; the
next time this pair were to meet alone it was to be as man and wife.
The youth and the woman leaned over the balcony looking down into the
almost deserted court-yard. Neither heeded how in a corner, wellnigh
concealed from view by an ancient image, a shepherd was standing with a
sturdy fellow by his side. Indeed, there was little need to heed, for
but a moment after the princely pair were left together the shepherd
lad had touched the soldier on the arm, and the two passed quietly out
of the court-yard and went their way together in the direction of the
tilting-field. When they were gone, Rainouart, who had neither noticed
their presence nor their departure, still kept silence for a while,
but it was with a strained silence of one who seeks to remember what
it was that brought him to the place where he stands. The duchess was
silent for a while, with the serenity of one who triumphs and wears
her triumph with delight. So a few seconds sped, and then Esclaramonde
placed her hand on the hand of her companion where it rested on the
marble, and Rainouart's flesh and blood tingled in response to the warm
clasp.
"Dear lord," she said, with that caressing voice which always ran like
kindly fire over the nerves of those she sought to conquer--"dear lord,
your father reminds us that we stand alone as lovers for the last time.
You are happy, dear lord?"
Though her words had the form of a question, something in their
utterance seemed to sound like a command. The prince turned to her as
if he obeyed a summons, and fixed his eyes upon her face--eyes at first
indifferent, but which began to glow ardent from the moment that they
met her gaze. He put his hand to his forehead and brushed away his hair
as a man does who seeks to dissipate perplexing thoughts. It seemed
to him as if he had lost his way in the rose-garden; as if, though
his heart were still the quivering target for the shafts of love, the
living presence of the god were veiled and his voice obscure; as if
the noble rose were still afar. He sought in vain to frame the face of
Esclaramonde with the mystic petals. But her words sounded imperious
and sweet in the halls of his ears, and he took them for the behests of
love.
"Surely I am happy," he answered, and the duchess smiled at his speech.
"You love me very much?" she said again, and again her voice was
blended with the two notes of interrogation and command.
"Surely I love you very much," he answered again, still in the same
smooth, measured manner. It was not very ardent, but it seemed to
satisfy the duchess that she could make him say what she pleased.
"When we meet again," she murmured, "you will be the hero of the
tournament, yet I think you peril your fame and jeopardize your
judgment to proclaim me most fair."
Her words and her eyes stimulated him to the measure of her intention.
"Are you not most fair?" he asked, wonderingly, and his look was
compelled admiration and his voice paid the demanded homage.
The duchess smiled provocatively.
"Some have said so, and I smiled at their little wit, but when you
assert it my fond heart leaps to believe what my honest mirror denies."
She held out both her hands as she spoke, and Rainouart caught them in
his own obediently. It seemed rather that she drew him nearer to her
than that he drew her nearer to him.
"The mirror were wicked crystal that showed you other than most fair,"
he declared, "but there is no such lying glass in the world."
The duchess shook her head, and a cherub wind that was playing along
the gallery caught a free lock of her dark hair and blew the tresses
against his cheeks, and his cheeks burned.
"I should be proud," she said, "to count myself fair for your sake, for
you are the fairest of men and the bravest."
Even while she spoke her spirit seemed to laugh within her, for she
remembered to whom she had last said those words, and she wondered to
whom she would say them next. But the prince's eyes glowed as if with
the exaltation of strong wine.
"Your words are sweet to hear," he vowed. "I will do my best endeavor
to merit some little of their grace."
She bent her head forward as if to kiss him on the lips. There was
no one to see her--at least no one that counted; no page or servant
loitering in the court-yard mattered, and even before a larger audience
the duchess would scarcely have denied herself. But even as Rainouart
waited for her kiss the quiet of the noontime was broken by the shrill
call of a clarion, the call that warned all knights to hasten to the
lists and make them ready for the tournament. Rainouart stooped and
kissed the white hand of the duchess.
"Farewell, fair lady," he said; "I must go to my tent."