One by one, they pass out after the King, and then, when the door has closed upon the last of them, a head peeps forth from the rich damask drapery that curtains one of the windows, and a pair of dark eyes hastily survey the room: the next instant the curtains are parted and Kuoni von Stocken steps forth.
There is a look of fierce, almost fiendish exultation on his swart face, and the low mocking laugh that bursts from his thin lips can be likened to nothing save the chuckle of the Tempter in his hour of victory.
“So, my lord of Savignon, you have been meddling in politics, eh?” he murmurs, rubbing his lean, nervous hands together; “and to-night you die. Fool! Arch-fool! That you should be well-born, rich, high in favour at the Courts of France and Sachsenberg alike, did not suffice your greed, but you must wish to become a moulder of history besides, and like many another such before you, you have destroyed yourself! Oh, what a thing is man! Faugh!”
And with a sneer of contempt for the whole human race in general and the Marquis de Savignon in particular, Kuoni flings himself into the chair lately occupied by the King.
“To think,” he goes on, “that a man about to become the husband of such a woman as the lady Louisa von Lichtenau should trifle and fence with death! By the Mass, Sire,” he cries, raising his long arm and speaking as if the King were there to hear him, “slay him not! Spare him and clothe him in my suit of motley; he is too marvellous a fool to die!”
Then, of a sudden, the mocking smile fades from his face, to be replaced by a grave, sad look, as the thought occurs to him: “What will the lady Louisa think to-morrow, when the news is carried to her? How will she bear it?”
That she loves de Savignon with all her heart and soul the jester knows full well, and as he thinks of it he grinds his teeth and drives his nails into the palms of his clenched hands.
His imagination pictures her as she will be to-morrow, and into his soul there comes a great overwhelming wave of sorrow and of pity for her, which cleanses and purifies it of the sinful joy which it harboured but a moment back. “She will pine away and die of it,” he tells himself, “even as I am pining and dying for love of her! Alas! poor Louisa!” And he sighs heavily and sorrowfully. Then resting his chin upon his hands and his elbows on his knees, he sits there deep in thought, his eyes bent upon the floor.
And thus he sits on for nigh upon an hour, thinking strange thoughts in a strange manner, and revolving in his mind a strange resolve. At last, chancing to raise his eyes, his glance alights upon the gold and ivory time-piece. The sight rouses him, for springing suddenly to his feet —
“Himmel!” he cries. “It wants but half-an-hour to midnight — to the sounding of his knell.”
He pauses for a moment, undecided, then walks swiftly towards the door and disappears.
CHAPTER III.
Now it chanced that, owing to a fire which had, a few days before, destroyed the Palais Savignon, in the Klosterstrasse, the marquis found himself the guest of his future father-in-law, the Graf von Lichtenau.
Upon the night in question — which a scarlet page of the Chronicles of Sachsenberg tells us was that of the 12th of August of 1635 — de Savignon had retired to the room set apart in his suite as his bedchamber, just as eleven was striking.
Feeling himself as yet wakeful, the Frenchman, whose mood is naturally a poetic one, takes down a French translation of the Odyssey, and, flinging himself into a luxurious chair, is soon lost in the adventures of Ulysses on the Island of Calypso. His heart is full of sympathy for the demi-goddess and of contempt for the King of Ithaca, when a rustling of the window-curtains brings him back to Sachsenberg and his surroundings, with a start. Glancing up, he beholds a dark shadow in the casement, and before he can so much as move a finger a man has sprung into the room, and Kuoni von Stocken stands before him with a strange look upon his face.
Imagining that the visit has no friendly purport, the Marquis draws a dagger from his belt, whereat the shadow of a smile flits across the jester’s solemn countenance.
“Put up your weapon, Monsieur de Savignon,” he says calmly, “I am no assassin, but there are others coming after me who deserve the title.”
“What do you mean?” enquires the Marquis haughtily.
“I bring you news, Monsieur,” replies Kuoni, sinking his voice to a whisper, “that the plot to overthrow the Sonsbeck dynasty is discovered.”
The Frenchman bounds from his chair as if someone had prodded him with a dagger.
“You lie!” he shrieks.
“Do I?” answers the other indifferently, “then if it is not yet discovered, how comes it that I am acquainted with it?”
Then, as if blind to Savignon’s agitation, he goes on in the same deliberate accents.
“I also bring you news that his Majesty is possessed of a list of the names of the principal leaders; that your name figures upon that list, and that it is the King’s good pleasure that when midnight strikes from St. Oswald it will announce to ten gentleman that their last hour on earth is spent; for into the room of each there will penetrate three executioners to carry out the death-sentence which was passed upon them without trial, two hours ago, by the King.”
The Frenchman is too dazed to reply for a moment; he drops back into his chair, his cheeks blanched with terror and his eyes staring wildly at the jester. The matter is too grave, Kuoni’s manner too impressive, to leave any doubts as to the accuracy of his statement.
“And are you one of the three assassins to whom my end has been entrusted?” says de Savignon at length, a gleam of hatred in his eye and the memory of his feud with the jester in his mind.
“No,” replies Kuoni simply.
“Then why are you here?” the other cries vehemently. “Why? Answer me! Have you come to gloat over my end?”
“I have come to make an attempt to save you,” is the cold, proud answer.
“To save me? Did I hear you aright?”
“Aye, to save you. But come, my lord, there is not a moment to lose if I am to be successful. Off with your doublet. Quick!”
And as the Marquis mechanically proceeds to obey him, the jester goes on:
“In front of the Rathhaus, at the corner of the Klosterstrasse, you will find a carriage in waiting. Enter it without speaking; the driver has 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. Wh
o 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 night air, when his ear detects another and nearer sound.
He springs up, and turning finds himself confronted by three masked men, standing, sword in hand, by the open window through which they have entered. In an instant he has drawn de Savignon’s rapier from its scabbard.
“How now, my masters,” he exclaims, mimicking the Frenchman’s foreign accent, “what do you seek?”
“The Marquis Henri de Savignon,” says one, in a voice which the jester does not recognise.
“I am he,” he replies haughtily; “what is your business? Are you robbers or assassins, that you come in this guise and penetrate at such an hour into my bedchamber?”
“We bear you news,” says the former speaker, delivering the words after the fashion of a man who is reciting a lesson that he has learnt by heart, “we bear you news that your treason is discovered, and in the King’s name we bid you prepare to die.”
“A merry jest, gentlemen! An artful story! You are certainly no common footpads, but I fear me there is some slight mistake.”
“I give you five minutes, by yonder time-piece, wherein to prepare your soul for the next world.”
“It is considerate of you, my masters,” retorts Kuoni, the mocking spirit of the jester asserting itself, “but the boon is unrequested, and, by your leave, I trust to have many years yet wherein to carry out your amiable suggestion.”
“The man is laughing at us,” cries one of the hitherto silent assassins. “Let us end the business!”
His companions seek to detain him, but, going forward in spite of them, he crosses swords with Kuoni.
Seeing him engaged, the other two come forward also, and in a few minutes a terrible fight is raging. There is not, perhaps, in the whole of Sachsenberg a finer swordsman than this lithe and agile jester, but the odds are such as no man may hope to strive against victoriously. Before many minutes have elapsed, one of the assassin’s swords has passed through his right breast.
With a groan he sinks forward in a heap, and the sword he lately held bounds with a noisy ring upon the parquet floor.
Hurrying steps are heard outside the room, and presently voices are discernible, as the household, disturbed by the clash of steel and the din of struggle, is hurrying towards De Savignon’s room.
One of the assassins is on the point of going forward to make sure of their work, by driving his dagger into the heart of the prostrate man, when, alarmed by the approaching sounds and mindful of their orders not to allow themselves on any account to be taken, the other two drag him off through the window before he can accomplish his design.
“Come,” says he who delivered the fatal blow, “he will be dead in a few minutes. That stroke never yet left a man alive.”
An instant later the door of the room is burst violently open, and just as the murderers disappear into the night a curious group of half-clad men and women with frightened faces stand awe-stricken on the threshold, gazing at the spectacle before them.
“The Marquis has been slain,” cries a voice, which is followed by a woman’s shriek, and as the crowd divides, the old, white-haired Count of Lichtenau enters the room followed by his half-fainting daughter.
Together they stand gazing at the body on the floor, and at the dark crimson stain which is slowly spreading about it.
Then suddenly —
“Henri!” shrieks the girl, and rushing forwards, she falls on her knees beside the unconscious Kuoni. Then, as her father gently turns the body over to ascertain the nature of his hurt, another and different cry escapes her. But the jester reviving, and opening his eyes at the sound, meets her gaze and whispers faintly —
“Hush, my lady! do not say that I am not the Marquis. As you value his life, keep silent and let all believe and spread the report that the Marquis is dying.”
“What does it mean? what does it mean?” she wails, wringing her hands, yet, with quick instinct, understanding that serious motives have dictated Kuoni’s words.
“Send them away — your father also — I will explain,” gasps the jester, and at each word he utters the blood wells forth from his wound.
When all have withdrawn, and when she has raised his head and pillowed it in her lap, he tells her all, bidding her not to allow the real truth of the matter to transpire until morning.
“And you, you, Kuoni, of all men, who have ever seemed to hate him, you have so nobly given your life to buy his safety!” she exclaims.
“No, my lady, I have not,” he answers; “I have given my life not for him but for you. I wished to save him because you loved him. And because I wished to spare you the anguish of beholding his dead body, I have changed places with him. His life is valuable to some one — mine is worthless.”
The girl can find no words wherein to answer fittingly, but her tears are falling fast and they are eloquent to him. She understands at last!
“I am so happy,” he murmurs presently, “oh, so happy! Had I lived my head would never have been pillowed on your knee. Had I lived, I should never have dared to tell you — as I do now, when in the presence of death all differences of birth and station fade away — that I love you.”
The girl trembles violent
ly; then for a second their eyes meet. She were not a woman did her heart not swell with fondness and pity for the poor despised fool, who to ensure her happiness has sacrificed his life.
Growing bold in the dread presence of the Reaper —
“Louisa,” he gasps, his voice still fainter than before, “I am dying; there are none to witness, and none will ever know — kiss me!”
Weeping softly, the girl stoops until her loose flowing hair falls about his head and neck, and her lips, so rich with the blood of life and youth, touch his, upon which the chill of death is settling.
A quiver runs through his frame, his chest heaves with a long last sigh — then all is still, but for the gentle sobbing of the girl whose tears are falling fast upon the upturned face, which smiles upon her in death.
GISMONDI’S WAGE
Benvenuto Gismondi, thief and scoundrel, sat his horse, breathing hard and grinning. Supine and cruciform, with arms flung wide, lay Messer Crespi in the snow, grinning, too, but breathing not at all. Midway between Forli and Rimini, on the long road that, coming from beyond Bologna, runs southeastward to the sea in a line of rare directness, had this murder been committed in the full glare of a brilliant January noontide. And no witness was in sight as far as eye could reach, onward toward the hazy spires of distant Rimini, or backward in the direction of Forli.
So, well content, Ser Benvenuto, grinning under the shadow of his morion, got him down from his horse to reap the profit of his morning’s work. What though in falling the dying man had cursed him? It is true that Benvenuto’s superstitious soul had quaked under the awful malediction from those writhing lips, but only for an instant. He was as nimble with spiritual as with lethal tools, and to avert his victim’s curse he had crossed himself devoutly, and devoutly breathed a prayer to our Lady of Loreto, whose ardent votary he had ever been. Moreover, he wore armor against such supernal missiles as the moribund had hurled at him: the scapulary of the Confraternity of Saint Anne hung upon his breast and back, beneath his shirt, to turn the edge of any curse, however keenly barbed.
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