ar-away France the motley was not confined to men. Had
not Jeanne, queen of Charles I, possessed her jestress, Artaude de Puy,
"_folle_ to our dear companion," as said the king? Had not Madame
d'Or, wearer of the bells, kept the nobles laughing? Had not the
haughty, eccentric Don John, his handsome, merry joculatrix, attached
to his princely household?

But knowing only by rumor of these matters, the jester from abroad
looked hard at her, the first madcap in petticoats he had ever seen.
For her part, Jacqueline bore his scrutiny with visible annoyance.

"Well," she said impatiently, a flash of resentment in her fine eyes,
"have you conned me over enough?"

"Too much, mistress," he replied in no wise abashed, "an it hath
displeased you. Too little to please myself."

"Yourself!" she returned, with sudden anger at his persistent gaze.
"Some lord's plaything to beat or whip; a toy--"

"And yet a poet who can make rhymes on woman's beauty," he answered
with a careless laugh.

"Another courtier!" grumbled Triboulet. "Lacking true wit, fools
nowadays essay only compliments to cover their dullness."

With the same air of insolent amusement, the new-comer turned to the
throne and its occupant, whom he subjected to an even more deliberate
investigation.

"Is it man or manikin, gentle mistress?" he asked, after concluding his
examination.

She did not deign to answer, but the offended Triboulet waved his
wooden sword vindictively.

"Manikin!" he roared, and sprang with vicious lunges upon the duke's
jester, who falling back before the suddenness of the assault, whipped
out his weapon in turn, and, laughing, threw himself into an attitude
of defense.

"A mortal combat!" cried the cardinal's wit-snapper.

"Charles V and Francis!" exclaimed Caillette, referring to the personal
challenge which had once passed between the two great monarchs. "With
a throne for the victor!" he added gaily, indicating Triboulet's chair
of state.

The clatter and din awoke Rabelais, who drowsily regarded the
combatants with lack-luster gaze and undoubtedly thought himself once
more amid the fanciful conflicts of fearful giants.

"Fall to, Pantagruel, my merry Paladin!" he exclaimed bombastically.
"Cut, slash, stab, fence and justle!" And himself, reaching for an
imaginary sword, encountered the tankard which he would have raised to
his lips but that his shaggy head fell again to the board before his
willing arm had obeyed the pa