The Fools Love Story | Page 3

wit in your soul than milk in an
oyster!"
And with an easy laugh which contains almost a ring of contempt, the
jester moves away to let others feel the sting of his tongue, from which
none, save the King, are sacred.
For a moment, the Frenchman follows the tall symmetrical figure with
his eyes, then, deeming it best to affect unconcern, he shrugs his
shoulders and, giving vent to a mirthless laugh, passes out on to the
balcony to seek balm for his wounded spirit at the hands of his
betrothed.
Chapter II.
During the weeks that follow upon the night of the fête whereat
Kuoni von Stocken so signally insulted the Marquis de Savignon, these
two men are careful to shun each other's presence.
The proud and vain French cavalier is not likely to forget the
humiliation to which he has been subjected, and the memory of it is
wont to make his fingers close over the jewelled hilt of his toy dagger
and black vows of vengeance arise in his heart, fostering the hatred in
which he holds the jester.
But it is not his dagger alone that is ready to do murder. Ugly thoughts
are running in Kuoni's mind, and one night when de Savignon sits, easy
in spirit for the while, telling the lady Louisa something that he has
already recited to her upon several former occasions, he little dreams
that from the curtains at his back two great lustrous eyes are watching
them, and that a nervous hand is gripping a keen Italian blade. Did he
but know how near at hand is death, his laugh would be less gay, his
manner less unconcerned, his mind less easy. But he knows naught of
this, and some angel must be watching over him, for the armed hand,
uplifted in menace, does not descend, the jester sheathes his poniard
and departs noiselessly the way he came.

But as the weeks go swiftly by and the nuptials of the marquis are fast
approaching, the strange and unaccountable moodiness of the whilom
lighthearted jester grows more and more accentuated. Each day he
seems to grow visibly thinner, as if some fell disease were gnawing at
his vitals and slowly sapping his life and strength. Each day his pale
cheeks appear paler and under his eyes there are deep black circles,
suggestive of pain and suffering and sleepless nights.
A more wretched, woe-begone picture than the poor fool presents,
when none are by to spy upon his feelings, it were difficult to conceive.
Meanwhile, however, there are other and graver matters to be
considered in the kingdom of Sachsenberg than the secret agony of a
lovesick jester. Rumours are abroad of a conspiracy to overthrow the
Sonsbeck dynasty, organised, it is said, by many great lords, tired of
their young King, Ludwig IV., who seems overmuch engrossed in
imitating the vices of the Court of his French cousin to pay great heed
to matters of state and the welfare of his people.
'Tis a weakness not uncommon to kings, especially young ones, for
monarchs are but ordinary folk when stripped of their purple. Ludwig,
however, is blessed with a character which, in some matters, is as firm
and earnest as it is weak and frivolous in others; moreover, he is doubly
blessed in the possession of an astute and far-seeing servant in the
person of the Ritter Heinrich von Grunhain, the Captain of his Guards.
He has been forced to listen to the grave things which this gentleman
has to relate, concerning the dissatisfaction of some of the nobles who
are zealously inciting the people to open rebellion, and a drastic line of
action has been drawn up.
The King is seated in his cabinet one night, about a month after the fête
dealt with in the preceding chapter, and a week before the day
appointed for the wedding of the lady Louisa von Lichtenau.
Around the table five men are grouped; two are old and faithful
servants of the late king, his father--the Duke of Ottrau and the Count
von Horst; two are men still in the prime of life, Ritter von Grunhain,

the Captain of his Guards, and Herr von Retzbach, his Minister; whilst
the fifth is none other than the gay young Lord von Ronshausen, his
favourite.
There is a solemn and anxious look upon the faces of these six men, for
it is being decided that upon that very night Sachsenberg shall tear a
gruesome page from the history of France--there is to be a parody of
the St. Bartholomée in Schwerlingen before sunrise.
"It is better thus, my lords," says the King, and although his face is pale
and haggard, his voice is calm; "for were we to publish the matter, and
give the traitors open