The Fools Love Story | Page 6

received his instructions and will convey you to the village of Lossnitz,
three leagues from here. There is a suit of clothes in the coach, which
you will do well to don. When you stop at the hostelry of the
Schwarzen Hirsch, you will find a horse ready for you; turn its head
towards the frontier; by sunrise you will be a good fifteen leagues from
Schwerlingen, and beyond King Ludwig's reach when he discovers that
you have not died; whilst to-morrow night, if you ride well, you should
sleep in France. Come, take my coat." And, advancing, Kuoni holds out
his long black tunic, which he has removed whilst speaking.
The livery of motley makes the Frenchman pause, and a suspicion
flashes across his mind.
"This is not one of your jests, sir fool?"
"If you doubt me," cries Kuoni, with an impatient gesture, "wait and
see."
"No, no, Kuoni, I believe you," he exclaims, "but why is this
necessary?"
"Why?" echoes the other. "Oh thou far-seeing sage! What would the
coachman who is to drive you think, did he behold a cavalier return in
my stead? Besides, what if you chanced upon your assassins between
this and the Rathhaus? Do you not see how my cap and bells would
serve you?"
"True, true," murmurs the other.
"Then waste no more time; it wants but a few minutes to midnight now.
Come, on with it!"
Savignon wriggles into the black velvet tunic and Kuoni draws the

hood, surmounted by the cock's comb, well over his head, so that it
conceals his features, then, standing back to judge the effect:
"By the Mass!" he ejaculates with a grim laugh, "how well it becomes
you! Did I not always say it would! Here, take my bauble as well, and
there you stand as thorough a fool as ever strutted in a Royal anteroom.
Who would have thought it? de Savignon turned fool and Kuoni turned
courtier! Ha! ha! 'tis a merry jest, a jest of that prince of
jesters--Death!"
"Your merriment is out of season," grumbles the Marquis.
"And so is your chocolate hose with that tunic; but it matters not, 'tis all
a part of this colossal jest."
Then growing serious of a sudden:
"Are you ready? Then follow me; I will set you on your way."
Opening the door, the jester leads the nobleman, silently and with
stealthy tread, out of his chamber and down the broad oak staircase.
He pauses by the wainscot, in the spacious hall below, and after
searching for a few seconds, he alights upon a spring--which,
fortunately, he knows of old. A panel slides back and reveals an
opening through which he conducts the Frenchman.
They emerge presently into a courtyard at the back of the mansion, and
through a small postern they pass out into the street.
Here they pause for a moment; it is commencing to rain; the sky is
overcast and the night is inky black.
"Yonder lies your road," says Kuoni; "at the corner you will find the
coach. Do as I told you, and may God speed you. Farewell!"
"But you?" exclaims de Savignon, a thought for the jester's safety
arising at last in his mind; "are you not coming?"

"I cannot. I must return to impersonate you and receive your visitors,
for, did they find you gone, the pursuit would commence before you
were clear of the city, and you would, of a certainty, be taken."
"But you will be in danger!"
"Have no concern on that score," is the reply, delivered in grim accents.
"But--"
"Enough of buts; begone before midnight strikes, or, by the Mass, your
stay in Schwerlingen will be unpleasantly prolonged. Farewell!"
And, stepping back, the jester slams the door and de Savignon is left
alone, shivering with cold. For a moment the idea again occurs to him
that he is being victimised by Kuoni. But he remembers that were the
plot undiscovered the jester would scarcely be in possession of the
secret.
Next he begins to marvel why Kuoni should evince such solicitude for
his escape and for his life, after having always shown himself so bitter
an enemy in the past. However, fear overcomes his doubts; so,
swearing that if the fool has duped him he will return, if it be only to
wring his neck, he sets off briskly in the direction indicated.
Meanwhile, Kuoni has retraced his steps to the Frenchman's
bedchamber: tricked out in de Savignon's clothes and with de
Savignon's hat drawn well over his brows, so as to shade his face, he
flings himself into the chair lately occupied by the Marquis--and waits.
Presently the deep-toned bell of St. Oswald's chimes out the hour of
midnight; scarce has the vibration of the last stroke died away on the
silent