"Now to see Presumption sue for pardon," she whispered to herself.
One by one the company, too, turned in the direction Triboulet was looking. In portraiture the classical buffoon grinned and gibed at them from the tapestry; and even from his high station above the clouds Jupiter, who had ejected the offending fool of the gods, looked less stern and implacable. An expectant hush fell upon the assemblage, when suddenly Jove and Momus alike were unceremoniously thrust aside, and, as the folds fell slowly back, before the many-hued curtain stood a man of stately and majestic mien.
A man whose appearance caused deep-seated consternation, whose forbidding aspect made the very silence portentous and terrifying. With dress slashed and laced, rich in jewelry and precious stones, he remained motionless, regarding the motley gathering, while an ominous half-smile played about his features. He said nothing, but his reserve was more sinister than language. Capricious, cruel was his face; in his eyes shone covert enjoyment of the situation.
Would he never speak? With one hand he stroked his beard; with the other he toyed with the lace on his doublet.
"You were talking, children," he said, finally, "before I came in."
"If your Majesty," ventured Triboulet, "has heard all, your Majesty will not blame--us!" And he glanced malevolently toward the duke's Jester, who, upon the king's abrupt entrance, had descended from the platform.
Observing the emblazoned arms of Charles V upon the dress of the culprit, a faint look of surprise swept Francis' face. Did it recall that fatal day, when on the field of battle, a rival banner had waved ever illusively; ever beyond his reach? Now it shone before him as though mocking his friendship for his one-time powerful enemy, the only man he feared, the emperor who had overthrown him. The sinister smile of the king gave way to gloomy thoughtfulness.
"Who is this knave?" he asked at length, fixedly regarding the erstwhile badge of his defeat.
"A poor fool, Sire!" replied the kneeling man.
"Those arms, embroidered on your dress--what do they mean?" said the king shortly.
"The arms of my master's master, your Majesty!" was the over-confident answer.
"The Duke of Friedwald, Sire, the betrothed of the Princess Louise."