“Ah, now I am tired, and have the migraine! Come with me, Jeanne.” She went out slowly, leaning on Jeanne’s arm. Never a word spake Mademoiselle until the door of my lady’s chamber was closed behind them. Then she turned to Margaret, taking her hand.
“Margot, what dost thou purpose?” she asked anxiously.
Tense fingers clutched at her wrists.
“Jeanne, you swear—you swear to stand my friend?”
“But, chérie! Can you ask?”
“This Geoffrey—” Jealous, suspicious eyes glared into hers—“you would not betray me to him? You would not?”
“Never! Margot, what ails thee? Tell me, please! What said you to Léon?”
“Jeanne—I—I trust thee!”
“And so thou mayst.”
“Then listen!” Margaret dragged her to a seat. “Léon hath a pass! To go from the castle tomorrow. You see? Tell me now, am I not a little like him?” With a quick movement she was at her looking-glass, gazing close upon herself. “Black eyes, the nose—well, no. Mine is more straight. Lips? Too haughty, Margot dear. No matter. Let us essay a glad smile. Ay, it will suffice. Enough for this Simon. A cap pulled low over my brow. Height?” She drew herself up. “I will measure me ’gainst Léon.” She swept about, clasping her hands, eyes a-brim with triumphant laughter. “Jeanne, shall I not make a pretty page?”
Jeanne started up.
“Margot, what wouldst thou be at?”
“I would go to Fernand de Turincel. Nay, but listen! A pageboy excites no suspicion. Ten leagues. I might find a horse. It shall be given out here that I am sick abed. Even an I walk to Turincel I can reach it within three days. Yes, yes, I can! Oh, Jeanne, shake not thy head!”
“Chérie, thou art distraught! Bethink ye, it is all too perilous an emprise for a maid. I could not let thee try it. Ah, mignonne, mignonne, I could not!”
“Thou shalt come with me then! As—as—my sister! Smile, Jeannette! It means escape, and help!”
“But the danger—”
“Pho! Have I not my dagger? If thou art afraid, I’ll not take thee, but go alone. Thou hast sworn to stand my friend.”
“Margot, thou canst not do it!” Jeanne cried. “Would you don boy’s raiment? Margot!”
“That would I!” laughed the Countess, and drew back her skirts to show her tapering foot. Smiling she regarded first it, and then her lady. “Too small, you think? But long, Jeanne. And—and a shapely leg.”
“Margot!” almost wailed Jeanne. “Thou—thou art mad!”
“I was never more sane!—There is Léon! Open, child!”
Jeanne crept to the door, and admitted the handsome page.
“Ah, the good Léon!” Margaret gave him her hand to kiss. “Léon, thou wilt help me?”
“Yes, madame, of course. But I do not understand—”
“Am I not about to tell thee? Léon, swear not to divulge what I shall say to any living soul! Not even my cousin. Swear!”
“I swear, madame.”
“Thou sweet boy! I want thy pass. Quick, let me see it!”
He gave it to her, staring. The Countess spread it out.
“The secretary writes plain,” she remarked. “ ‘Léon de Margrute. … This by mine order, Simon Beauvallet.’ Dieu, what a flourish! Léon, I want this pass! I escape from the castle tomorrow. Thou art in my plot now!”
“But, madame, you cannot—”
“And a suit of thine apparel. Hose, tunic—Oh, I’ll spare thy blushes, Jeannette! Bring me them secretly, Léon, tonight. Ah, Léon, thou wilt do it? I ask thy help!”
He bowed.
“Madame, I must obey. But indeed, indeed—”
She covered her ears.
“I will not listen! Keep close tomorrow, my Léon, so that they shall not wonder at thy presence here. And—and see ye choose me a plain, dark dress, with a cap to set on my head. Go now and fetch it, dear boy! I’ll reward thee for thy pains. Oh, and thou shalt have another pass when I return! No need of it then, perhaps.”
The astonished page retreated. Jeanne sank down on to a chair.
“Margot,” she began weakly, and stopped. “Oh, Margot!”
The Countess picked up a quill and dipped it in the ink.
“See, Jeanne, there is room to add ‘and sister.’ Think you I can copy this fist? Give me parchment!”
Jeanne brought it, and watched her mistress practise writing on it. At length Margaret wrote upon the pass, and sat back surveying her handiwork.
“ ’Tis marvellous. Let it dry, Jeanne, my sister. Aha, Simon of Beauvallet, how now?”
“We are not yet escaped,” Jeanne said drily.
“But we shall escape, very early. Look out thine oldest dress, petite, and wear a hood and cloak. Oh, I should have written ‘brother,’ and we could have been boys together.”
“Heaven forbid!” Jeanne shuddered.
The black eyes sparkled.
“Conceive Malvallet’s face of horror! Oh, la, la! In truth, thou art too small for the part, and all a woman. Now I”—she glanced down herself—“I am a thin creature—well, thin enough, and tall. I shall make a comely lad. … Enter, Léon! Enter!”
Back into the room came the page. Blushing, he laid a neat bundle on the table.
“I—think—I have forgot naught,” he stammered.
“Thou dear boy!” Margaret kissed him on both cheeks. “There! Keep my secret well, Léon, and thank you, thank you, thank you!”
No sooner had he left the room than she untied the bundle, holding up each garment in turn.
“Oh, the brave hose! See, Jeanne! … A cap—the tunic, the—oh, the trunks!” She went off into a peal of laughter, and let them fall. “Go away, Jeannette, into my closet! And—and come when I call!”
Jeanne crawled away into the outer chamber. There followed a long pause, punctuated by gurgles of merriment from within my lady’s chamber. At last Margaret called to her, and she went back into the room.
Before the looking-glass stood a slim stripling in a short brown tunic, a dagger in his belt, and a cap crammed down over his eyes. Long shapely legs were cased in brown hose, and set well apart. Margaret swaggered forward.
“Am I not brave? Sister, I salute thee! These clothes make me smaller, but ’tis no matter. Jeanne, Jeanne, look not so horrified!”
“Margot,
