Yield us wool to make our nests warm In the branches of the--'"
"If it please your majesty," interrupted a harsh voice, "I will ask a question or two of this rhymester.There is little time to spare.I crave pardon, sire, if my anxiety for your safety offends."
"The loyalty," said the king, "of the Duke d'Aumale is too well proven to give offence." He sank into his chair, and the film came again over his eyes.
"First," said the duke, "I will read you the letter he brought:
"'To-night is the anniversary of the dauphin's death.If he goes, as is his custom, to midnight mass to pray for the soul of his son, the falcon will strike, at the corner of the Rue Esplanade.
If this be his intention, set a red light in the upper room at the southwest corner of the palace, that the falcon may take heed.'
"Peasant," said the duke, sternly, "you have heard these words.Who gave you this message to bring?"
"My lord duke," said David, sincerely, "I will tell you.A lady gave it me.She said her mother was ill, and that this writing would fetch her uncle to her bedside.I do not know the meaning of the letter, but I will swear that she is beautiful and good."
"Describe the woman," commanded the duke, "and how you came to be her dupe."
"Describe her!" said David with a tender smile."You would command words to perform miracles.Well, she is made of sunshine and deep shade.She is slender, like the alders, and moves with their grace.
Her eyes change while you gaze into them; now round, and then half shut as the sun peeps between two clouds.When she comes, heaven is all about her; when she leaves, there is chaos and a scent of hawthorn blossoms.She came to see me in the Rue Conti, number twenty-nine."
"It is the house," said the duke, turning to the king, "that we have been watching.Thanks to the poet's tongue, we have a picture of the infamous Countess Quebedaux."
"Sire and my lord duke," said David, earnestly, "I hope my poor words have done no injustice.I have looked into that lady's eyes.I will stake my life that she is an angel, letter or no letter."
The duke looked at him steadily."I will put you to the proof," he said, slowly."Dressed as the king, you shall, yourself, attend mass in his carriage at midnight.Do you accept the test?"
David smiled."I have looked into her eyes," he said."I had my proof there.Take yours how you will."
Half an hour before twelve the Duke d'Aumale, with his own hands, set a red lamp in a southwest window of the palace.At ten minutes to the hour, David, leaning on his arm, dressed as the king, from top to toe, with his head bowed in his cloak, walked slowly from the royal apartments to the waiting carriage.The duke assisted him inside and closed the door.The carriage whirled away along its route to the cathedral.
On the /qui vive/ in a house at the corner of the Rue Esplanade was Captain Tetreau with twenty men, ready to pounce upon the conspirators when they should appear.
But it seemed that, for some reason, the plotters had slightly altered their plans.When the royal carriage had reached the Rue Christopher, one square nearer than the Rue Esplanade, forth from it burst Captain Desrolles, with his band of would-be regicides, and assailed the equipage.The guards upon the carriage, though surprised at the premature attack, descended and fought valiantly.The noise of conflict attracted the force of Captain Tetreau, and they came pelting down the street to the rescue.But, in the meantime, the desperate Desrolles had torn open the door of the king's carriage, thrust his weapon against the body of the dark figure inside, and fired.
Now, with loyal reinforcements at hand, the street rang with cries and the rasp of steel, but the frightened horses had dashed away.Upon the cushions lay the dead body of the poor mock king and poet, slain by a ball from the pistol of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys.
THE MAIN ROAD
/Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle.It joined with another and a larger road at right angles.David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then sat himself to rest upon its side./
Whither these roads led he knew not.Either way there seemed to lie a great world full of chance and peril.And then, sitting there, his eye fell upon a bright star, one that he and Yvonne had named for theirs.
That set him thinking of Yvonne, and he wondered if he had not been too hasty.Why should he leave her and his home because a few hot words had come between them? Was love so brittle a thing that jealousy, the very proof of it, could break it? Mornings always brought a cure for the little heartaches of evening.There was yet time for him to return home without any one in the sweetly sleeping village of Vernoy being the wiser.His heart was Yvonne's; there where he had lived always he could write his poems and find his happiness.
David rose, and shook off his unrest and the wild mood that had tempted him.He set his face steadfastly back along the road he had come.By the time he had retravelled the road to Vernoy, his desire to rove was gone.He passed the sheepfold, and the sheep scurried, with a drumming flutter, at his late footsteps, warming his heart by the homely sound.He crept without noise into his little room and lay there, thankful that his feet had escaped the distress of new roads that night.
How well he knew woman's heart! The next evening Yvonne was at the well in the road where the young congregated in order that the /cure/
might have business.The corner of her eye was engaged in a search for David, albeit her set mouth seemed unrelenting.He saw the look;
braved the mouth, drew from it a recantation and, later, a kiss as they walked homeward together.
Three months afterwards they were married.David's father was shrewd and prosperous.He gave them a wedding that was heard of three leagues away.Both the young people were favourites in the village.There was a procession in the streets, a dance on the green; they had the marionettes and a tumbler out from Dreux to delight the guests.
