n, he dared look up to
that nobleman's daughter, Diane de Poitiers. A dream; a youthful
dream! Enter Monsieur de Breze, grand seneschal of Normandy. Shall I
tell you the rest? How Caillette stares, moody, knitting his brows at
his cups! Of what is the jester thinking?"

"Whether the grand seneschal will let him sleep with the spaniels,
Jacqueline, or turn him out," laughed the jester.

Angrily she clasped her hands before her. "Is it the way your mind
would move?" she retorted.

"A jester without a roof to cover him is like a dog without a kennel,
mistress."

Disdain, contempt, rapidly crossed her face, but her lip curved
knowingly and her voice came more gently, because of the greater sting
that lay behind her words.

"You but seek to flout me from my tale," she said sweetly. "Caillette
is none such, as you know. They were young together. 'Twas said he
confessed his love; that tokens passed between them. Rhymes he writ to
her; a flower, perhaps, she gave him. A flower he yet cherishes,
mayhap; dried, faded, yet plucked by her!"

Involuntarily the hand of her listener touched his breast, the first
sign he had made that her story moved him. Jacqueline, watching him
keenly, smiled, and demurely looked away. Her next words seemed to
dance from her lips, as with head bent, like a butterfly poised, she
addressed her remark to vacancy.

"A flower for himself, no doubt! Not given him for another!"

Whereupon she turned in time to catch the burning flush which flamed
his cheek and left it paler than she had ever seen it. At this first
signal of her success--proving that he was not impregnable to her
attack--she hummed a little song and beat time on the sward with a
green-shod foot.

"What mean you?" he asked, momentarily dropping his unruffled manner.

"Not much!" Lightly she tripped to a bush, broke off a flower and
regarded it mischievously. "Why should people hide that which is so
sweet and fragrant?" she remarked, and set the rose in her hair.

"Hide?" he said, looking at the flower, but not at her.

"I trust you kept the rose, Monsieur Diplomat?" she spoke up, suddenly,
her expression most serious.

"What rose?" he asked, now become restless beneath her cutting tongue.

"What rose! As if you did not know! How innocent you look! How many
roses are there in the world? A thousand? Or only one? What rose?
Her rose, of course. Have you got it? I hope so--for the duke is
coming and migh