princess until he had
finished; motionless it would have seemed but for the chain on her
breast, which rose and fell with her breathing. From the jeweled network
which half-bound her hair shone flashes of light; a tress which escaped
the glittering environment lay like a serpent of gold upon the crimson of
her gown where the neck softly uprose. A hue, delicately rich as the
tinted leaves of orange blossoms, mantled her cheeks.

She shook her head in soft dissent. "Queen for how long?" she answered
gently. "As long as gentle Claude was queen for Francis? As long as
saintly Eleanor held undisputed sway?"

"As long as Eleanor is queen in the hearts of her people!" he exclaimed,
passionately. "As long as France is her bridegroom!"

Deliberately she half-turned, the coil of gold falling over her shoulder.
Near her hand, white against the dark casement, a blood-red rose trembled
at the entrance of her chamber, and, grasping it lightly, she held it to
her face as if its perfume symbolized her thoughts.

"Is there so much constancy in the world?" she asked musingly. "Can such
singleness of heart exist? Like this flower which would bloom and die at
my window? A bold flower, though! Day by day has it been growing
nearer. Here," she added, breaking it from the stem and holding it to
the jester.

"Madam!" he cried.

"Take it," she laughed, "and--send it to the duke!" Kneeling, he
received it. "Thou art a fellow of infinite humor indeed. Equally at
home in a lady's boudoir, or a fools' drinking bout. Come, Jacqueline,
Queen Marguerite awaits our presence. She has a new chapter to read, but
whether another instalment of her tales, or a prayer for her Mirror of
the Sinful Soul, I know not. As for you, sir"--with a parting
smile--"later we shall walk in the garden. There you may await us."

CHAPTER IV

AN IMPATIENT SUITOR

"Well, Sir Mariner, do you not fear to venture so far on a dangerous
sea?" asked a mocking voice.

"A dangerous sea, fair Jacqueline?" he replied, stroking the head of
the hound which lay before the bench. "I see nothing save smiling
fields and fragrant beds of flowers."

"Oh, I recognize now Monsieur Diplomat, not Sir Mariner!" she retorted.

Beneath her head-dress, resembling in some degree two great butterfly
wings, her face looked smaller than its wont. Laced tight, after the
fashion, the _cotte-hardie_ made her waist appear little larger than
could be clasped by the hands