FullReads

“It is true,” she responded, “it is lamentably true that after to-night we are as different persons, you and I.”

He said: “Jehane, do you not love me any longer? Remember old years and do not break your oath with me, Jehane, since God abhors nothing so much as perfidy. For your own sake, Jehane–ah, no, not for your sake nor for mine, but for the sake of that blithe Jehane, whom, so you tell me, time has slain!”

Once or twice she blinked, as dazzled by a light of intolerable splendor, but otherwise sat rigid. “You have dared, messire, to confront me with the golden-hearted, clean-eyed Navarrese that once was I! and I requite.” The austere woman rose. “Messire, you swore to me, long since, an eternal service. I claim my bond. Yonder prim man–gray-bearded, the man in black and silver–is the Earl of Worcester, the King of England’s ambassador, in common with whom the wealthy dowager of Brittany has signed a certain contract. Go you, then, with Worcester into England, as my proxy, and in that island, as my proxy, wed the King of England. Messire, your audience is done.”

Latterly Riczi said this: “Can you hurt me any more, Jehane?–nay, even in hell they cannot hurt me now. Yet I, at least, keep faith, and in your face I fling faith like a glove–old-fashioned, it may be, but clean–and I will go, Jehane.”

Her heart raged. “Poor, glorious fool!” she thought; “had you but the wit even now to use me brutally, even now to drag me from this dais–!” Instead he went from her smilingly, treading through the hall with many affable salutations, while always the jongleur sang.

Sang the jongleur:

“There is a land the rabble rout
Knows not, whose gates are barred
By Titan twins, named Fear and Doubt,
That mercifully guard
The land we seek–the land so fair!–
And all the fields thereof,

“Where daffodils grow everywhere
About the Fields of Love–
Knowing that in the Middle-Land
A tiny pool there lies
And serpents from the slimy strand
Lift glittering cold eyes.

“Now, the parable all may understand,
And surely you know the name o’ the land!
Ah, never a guide or ever a chart
May safely lead you about this land,–
The Land of the Human Heart!”

And the following morning, being duly empowered, Antoine Riczi sailed for England in company with the Earl of Worcester, and upon Saint Richard’s day the next ensuing was, at Eltham, as proxy of Jehane, married in his own person to the bloat King of England. First had Sire Henry placed the ring on Riczi’s finger, and then spoke Antoine Riczi, very loud and clear:

“I, Antoine Riczi–in the name of my worshipful lady, Dame Jehane, the daughter of Messire Charles until lately King of Navarre, the Duchess of Brittany and the Countess of Rougemont–do take you, Sire Henry of Lancaster, King of England and in title of France, and Lord of Ireland, to be my husband; and thereto I, Antoine Riczi, in the spirit of my said lady”–he paused here to regard the gross hulk of masculinity before him, and then smiled very sadly–“in precisely the spirit of my said lady, I plight you my troth.”

Afterward the King made him presents of some rich garments of scarlet trimmed with costly furs, and of four silk belts studded with silver and gold, and with valuable clasps, whereof the recipient might well be proud, and Riczi returned to Lyonnois. “Depardieux!” his uncle said; “so you return alone!”

“As Prince Troilus did,” said Riczi–“to boast to you of liberal entertainment in the tent of Diomede.”

“You are certainly an inveterate fool,” the Vicomte considered after a prolonged appraisal of his face, “since there is always a deal of other pink-and-white flesh as yet unmortgaged– Boy with my brother’s eyes!” the Vicomte said, and in another voice; “I would that I were God to punish as is fitting! Nay, come home, my lad!–come home!”