The Fools Love Story | Page 2

does not. "Why, 'tis said," she
continues, "that a jester's is a gay and careless life. I have even heard it
said by some of those fine gentlemen yonder that it gives rise to envy in
them."
"I doubt it not, I doubt it not," he answers with a laugh of scorn, "and I
dare swear there are many of them whom a fool's cap would fit better
than it does me!"
Then abruptly changing his tone and becoming earnest--
"Fraulein von Lichtenau," he says, scarce above a whisper, "this fête
to-night is given in honour of your betrothal; will you deign to accept a
poor jester's deepest, sincerest wishes for your happiness."
There is something so strange and curious in his tone that the girl feels
herself unaccountably moved by it.
"I accept them and thank you, friend Kuoni, with all my heart," she
answers kindly, giving him her hand.
"You call me friend Kuoni," he cries, drawing a step nearer. "You call

the poor fool, friend! May God bless you for that word!"
"Kuoni! Kuoni!" comes a voice from within; but he heeds it not as,
stooping, he raises her hand to his lips and kisses the slender fingers, as
one might kiss a sacred relic.
"May God bless you, Madame, and if ever it should be your lot to need
a friend, I swear it, by the Mass, that he whom you now honour with
that proud title will be at hand."
Then, tearing himself away before she has time to answer, he enters the
salon.
"Kuoni! Kuoni! Where are you?" cry a dozen voices.
"I am here," he answers sourly; "what is amiss? Are there not fools
enough assembled in one room, but that you must clamour for me to
swell your number?"
He has worn a mask too long to forget the part he plays in life, and as
he stands now before them, all traces of his late emotion have
disappeared from his face, albeit the natural expression,
half-melancholic, half-scornful, remains.
With his dark eyes he sweeps the glittering throng of Court beauties
and gay gallants waiting for some one to take up his challenge.
Where are Felsheim, Altenburg, Briedewald, and the other witty triflers
of ready tongue? Silent! All silent--for they know the jester's virulence
too well to expose themselves to its venom in open Court.
It is the débonnaire young foreigner, the Marquis de Savignon, who is
rash enough to cross weapons with him.
"They tell me, Kuoni," he remarks with a complacent laugh, and in
excellent German tainted but slightly by a foreign accent, "that you are
thinking of abandoning the motley and turning courtier instead."
"That were easy," answers the jester with a shrug, "for 'twixt fool and

courtier there lies but a difference of designation."
"Aye, aye," goes on de Savignon, "but ponder for a moment, my prince
of fools, and think of what would become of Sachsenberg in your
absence. His Majesty will never find such another fool!"
"Not unless he appoints you my successor," is the cool, sharp answer,
whereat a titter arises among those who stand about, which makes the
vain Frenchman turn pale with anger.
"You seem to forget, master fool," he says harshly, "that you are
addressing the Marquis de Savignon and not bandying words with a
fellow-clown!"
He has wounded the jester more deeply than he imagines, and Kuoni's
proud spirit writhes and swells within him 'neath the stinging lash of
the Marquis' scornful words, which remind him anew of the gulf that
lies between their social positions. But naught of this is visible on his
face, over which a bland, indulgent smile is softly spreading.
Only those who are well acquainted with him notice the slight
compression of his thin lips, which, to them, forebodes a cutting retort.
His head on one side and his hand on his chin, he regards de Savignon
for a moment through lids half closed, as it were, in languor. Then,
slowly and almost wearily, he makes answer:
"Nay, Monsieur de Savignon, forgetfulness, methinks, lies more with
your family than mine. Was it not you yourself, my lord, who, whilst at
the siege of La Rochelle--so the story goes--one day when the
Rochellais made a fierce sortie, forgot where the battle was being
fought? So that in your absent-mindedness you galloped madly south,
and by nightfall you were found at Royan, a good ten leagues from the
scene of action."
It is de Savignon's turn to tremble now, and as a great burst of laughter
greets the jester's sally, his complexion is of a greyish tint and his teeth
are clenched in anger, noting which, Kuoni continues pitilessly:

"Do you not see the humour of it, my lord? Why look so glum? Bah!
You weary me; there is no more