Part 5

When the company had dispersed, the Princess declared that she would set out next morning for the city. There was nothing left for the King to do but to depart by the way he had come, and, furious and mortified, he returned to his own camp to throw off his velvet and resume his leather and steel; he meant to go at once. His heart was hot within him, for the one look he had had at the Princess was enough to set it in a flame. She was so beautiful that he had never seen her like, and even through his anger there was a sharp stab of regret for what he had lost. Heartless as she seemed, and ill as she had treated him, he would have given the world for her. While his men and horses were getting ready, he went out into the night, and turned his steps to a little thicket of birches which stood with their glimmering stems not far from the camp. The darkness was moist and chill, and some of the Princess’s men had lit a fire on the outskirts of the trees, and were sitting round it. He drew close to them under cover of the wood, and saw an old soldier in the centre of the circle who was talking to his companions. “If I had my will,” he was saying, “I would fell the tree to the ground, and the old goblin should die with it. He should pay for turning the sweetest, most beautiful lady in the world into such a jade! I remember her from the time she was no higher than my sword, and until she tasted that accursed fruit there was no creature more beloved in the kingdom—and with reason, too. And look at her now!”

“What is all this talk?” asked a new-comer, as he joined the group in the firelight. “Not but what Her Highness has given us enough to talk about for some time to come.”

“Why, it is just that,” continued the first speaker; “there’s the matter plain. She has eaten of the Tree of Pride. I saw it myself.”

“The Tree of Pride?” cried the others—“whoever heard of that?”

“You are young men,” the old soldier went on, “and you were not born, as I was, in a hut in these fields, where all the tales of the country round were common talk. My home was in sight of the Tree of Pride, where we camped last night, and many’s the time I’ve seen the old man sitting among the boughs like an evil bird. Whoever tastes of it, rich or poor, man or woman, young or old, becomes mad with vanity and pride. And but yesterday the Princess stood under the branches, and the old man reached down and offered her the fruit. She took it, poor lady, and thanked him, understanding nothing. I’ve more than a mind to turn aside and slay him on the way back.”

The King waited to hear no more; he stole through the trees and back to his own camp: he was determined to start at once for the Tree of Pride. He rode all night, taking only a couple of men with him, and in the morning sunlight he saw it raising its heavy head above the plain. He drew up almost under the boughs and dismounted. There, peering down on him, was the wizened face of the old man, smiling elusively as he plucked a cluster of fruit and began climbing down to offer it. The King waited until he had reached the lowest arm of the tree, and then, instead of taking the gift, he seized his garment and dragged him to the ground.

The old man shrieked and struggled, but the King held him fast, and, throwing him on the grass, stood over him while his two soldiers bound him hand and foot.

“Look!” cried the King, when they had done this, “here is my blade, ready to plunge into your evil body. Because the Princess ate the fruit you gave her, her whole heart is changed. You have only one chance of life. I will spare it if you tell me the remedy that can turn her into her true self.”

“There is no remedy,” he said, fixing his malicious eyes on the King.

“Then,” said the young man, “I will prevent anyone else from sharing the Princess’s fate.”

And he raised his arm.

“Stop!” screamed the other. “I will tell you everything! Only let me go and I will promise never to offer the fruit to anyone again.”

“Lie still,” said the King. “You will tell me the cure before you move and then I will cut down the tree. Go to the nearest hut and borrow an axe,” he added, turning to one of his men.

“No! no!” cried the old man again; “cut it down and all will be lost! Only unbind my hands and I vow I will make the mischief right.”

“You will be loosed when you have spoken,” replied the King.

“Tell your soldiers to go away,” said the prisoner at last; “for the thing is a secret.”

The King told his men to raise him, and when they were alone the old man began.

“You will need patience,” said he. “The winter must come and go before the tree whitens again, for it is only the blossom that can cure the poison of the fruit. When spring comes you must make a crown of the white flowers and take it as a gift to the Princess. If you can persuade her to wear it—if only for a few moments—her heart will change, and she will once more be the woman she was.”

The King’s face fell. It was full six months of waiting and it seemed like an eternity.

“Now let me go!” cried the old man again.

“I will unbind you, as I promised,” said the King, “but from now till the day we return together to pluck the flowers I will not lose sight of you—no, not for an hour—until your words are proven. Come, hold out your hands and feet, and I will cut the cords. Then we will turn our faces to my kingdom.”

And the prisoner was mounted and led away between two men-at-arms in the King’s troop.

* * * * *

While these things were happening, the Princess was on the road home. Having arrived, she shut herself up in her rooms and would hardly deign to go outside the walls of her garden, or to notice anyone. When her father was with her she treated him as though he were an intruder, and the slightest difference of opinion between them threw her into a fury.

She would pace up and down the corridor, her figure erect, her head thrown back; in her eyes was the look of one scarce conscious of her surroundings. And indeed, her soul had strayed into another world—the world of pride, and self and hardness of heart.

Time went, and the leaves of the Tree of Pride lay thick round its foot. Winter’s white veil covered plain and city, and the Princess, in her palace, drew every day farther from humanity; only the King, in his distant kingdom, hoped on, waiting for spring.

But in the old man, his prisoner, a mighty change was being wrought, and his malignant spirit was beginning to go from him. He had never before been brought so close to a noble human being. As the King had said, so he had done, and in the winter which followed his return he had hardly allowed his hostage out of his sight for an hour: waking, he kept him at his side, and sleeping, he lay across his barred door.

But, even while so much was at stake, he could not neglect his daily work, and so it came about that where he went the old man had to go also. While he sat in council he was at his left hand; when he dealt out justice he was present; and when he was occupied with his army—the pride of his soul—he was still beside him. He saw how the King made himself as one of his soldiers, how he shirked no work, took no advantage; he saw his gay and noble heart his joy in living, his prowess in all feats of arms, the love his troops bore him—and as he saw, his withered nature grew soft. And so it was that by the time the young buds began to show on the branches and the season drew near for their journey to the Tree of Pride, captive though he was, he would have laid down his life for him willingly.

All the earth was bursting into youth as the two rode over the plain and approached the tree. The scent of its blossoms was blowing towards them, heavy on the air. The flowers were thick about the ends of the green shoots, the petals, half closing, like cups, over the golden hearts within them. The King cut a few handfuls with his knife while his companion plaited them into a wreath, and when it was made, they mounted and rode into the city.

When they arrived, they went to a small inn, and the King, not wishing his presence to be known, sent a messenger to the palace, giving him a sum of money. With this he was to bribe the servants to carry news to the Princess that two strangers, having discovered a treasure, desired to offer it to her. In this manner they hoped to induce her to receive the crown. On the following day the man returned, having reached the Princess’s ear, and bringing leave for the strangers to approach. So they presented themselves.

They placed the wreath upon a velvet cushion, and the King waited in a dark corner of the Princess’s antechamber, while the old man, whose face was hidden by a magician’s hood which he had procured, entered and laid the gift at her feet.

“Royal lady——” he began, but his voice dropped, for the Princess’s glance fell on the flowers, and she rose from her chair, her eyes alight with wrath and her lips trembling. Instead of the rich jewels she had imagined, there lay before her a simple wreath—beautiful exceedingly, but with a beauty for which she had ceased to care. There was nothing about the offering that could add to her splendour. Any peasant girl, having leisure to weave such a crown, might wear it without pride and without remark.

And as she sprang up, her eyes met those of her rejected suitor, who had drawn the curtains of the antechamber a little aside in his suspense.

When the old man raised the cushion, she seized the wreath and tore it in pieces, scattering the petals, like snowflakes, on the floor.

The King went from the palace in despair and returned to his lodging. He had hoped so fiercely and so long that life seemed almost to have come to an end. He mounted his horse, and, bidding the old man farewell, determined to return to his kingdom and his soldiers, putting the thought of the Princess from him for ever. Before he went he gave him a thousand gold pieces, and made him promise to return to the Tree of Pride and cut it down. As the city walls faded behind him, he looked back at them with a sigh. For the first time he had lost interest in everything, and he knew that it was no longer his pleasure to which he was returning; but he had not forgotten that it was still his duty.

Now, it chanced that, while the Princess refused the crown, there stood by the chair a certain lady-in-waiting. She was no longer young, but she had been a beauty in her day and had seen much of men and matters. She had been at the Court for years and her heart was heavy at the change she saw in her mistress. She was a shrewd woman, and it did not escape her notice that the person who offered the crown wore a hood like those she had seen on the heads of magicians; besides this, she marvelled that two strangers, one of whom did not even show himself, should wish to give the Princess what any one of her servants might pluck from the hedge. The old man had scarcely disappeared before she made up her mind that here was some mystery she did not understand. Unobserved, she gathered up the broken flowers, and that evening she sent a page secretly to discover where he lived, and to desire him to meet her, after dark, at the foot of the palace garden. She also sent the key of a little door by which he might enter unobserved.

When the page found him, the old man was on the point of leaving the city. He was sad, for he had just parted from the King; but he was resolved, when he should have destroyed the Tree of Pride, to follow him to his own country and spend the rest of his life in his service. When he received the lady’s commands, he did not hesitate to obey them.

The watchmen were crying ten o’clock as he stood in the starlight inside the little door. He trembled, for he suspected the summons might lead him into some trap; but to serve the King he was ready to venture all, and he only hoped the morning might not find him at the bottom of a dungeon. He was considering these things when the lady appeared. He was about to speak when she held up her hand.

“I am the Princess’s chief lady-in-waiting,” she began, “and her welfare is to me as my own. I have sent for you that I may ask you, for her sake, what reason you had for bringing such a gift. She has everything the world can offer, and I am certain that you would not have brought her such a present as a common flower wreath if there had not been some hidden virtue in it.”

The old man fell down before her, clinging to her skirt and kissing its hem.

“Madam!” he cried, “only persuade the Princess to wear it and all that I have is yours! The King, who loves her, and whose heart she has broken, has made me rich for the rest of my days, but I will give it all up to you if you will only induce her to wear it, even for a moment.”

Then the lady remembered the King, for she had been at her post when he received his dismissal, and, under her breath, she had called the Princess a fool. She had lived long enough in the world to know a man when she saw one.

“I never take bribes,” she said, “nor, as a rule, do I tolerate those who offer them; but if you will tell me the truth, I will do my best to bring the King and my mistress together.”

So the old man told her all.

When the lady returned to the palace, she took the fragments of the wreath and put them carefully together. The petals she collected and sewed into their right places with fine silk; it was so deftly done that no one could suspect them of having been broken.

The next day there was to be a banquet at the palace, and before the time came for the Princess to get ready, the lady took one of her maids aside. “While you are fastening the pins of Her Royal Highness’s veil,” said she, “and before you put on her crown, you must scream as though you had pricked your finger. Do as I tell you and ask no questions, for I myself will be present and keep her wrath from you.”

So when the Princess sat before her mirror, the maid brought her veil and began to fasten it, while the lady stood by with the wreath concealed in her wide sleeve. All at once the girl shrieked aloud: “Oh! oh! I have torn my finger with a pin!”

“You unmannerly jade!” cried the lady, “will you make all this to-do while Her Highness is dressing? Off with you, and I will fasten the crown myself.”

And she thrust her from the room and took her place.

Suddenly the Princess looked up into the glass, and saw, instead of her crown, the wreath of half-opened flowers with their golden centres glowing through her hair. She put up her hand to tear the thing from her head; but just as she was going to do so, her lips trembled, and she leaned, sobbing, against the table, her face buried in her hands.

* * * * *

Great was the joy in the palace that night. The Princess sat at her father’s side with a strange look in her eyes, but her speech was gentle and her voice soft. The lady-in-waiting watched her, smiling. She had given the true history of the wreath, and she wondered what would happen.

* * * * *

Before dawn next morning the Princess rose. Without a word to anyone, she ordered her horse to be brought, and, riding by the quietest streets, left the city while the world was yet asleep. She took with her a heavy purse full of gold, which she hid in the trappings of the saddle, and her spaniel, Giroflé, which she carried on her knee. A mantle was thrown over her head, that her face should not be seen, and under it she still wore the wreath of flowers. Her way took her past the old man’s lodging, and there she stopped.

“Come out!” she cried. “Here are some gold pieces. Go to the stable, take the best mule you can find, and follow me. I have vowed to wear the wreath from the Tree of Pride until I can mend the heart that its evil magic has broken. I have determined to seek out the King and ask his forgiveness for all I have done.”

The old man desired nothing better. In a few minutes he came from the stable, leading a fine strong mule, and, as soon as he was mounted, they set off, and passed through the city gate while the sun was still rising through the mist.

Now, the little dog, Giroflé, was not in the best of tempers, for he resented his position very much. He had spent a pampered youth in the royal palace, and was now entering on a worldly and selfish middle age. His mistress had always made a great deal of him, and she now took him with her, because she feared his arrogant manners would earn him scant consideration in her absence. She knew that he thought himself a great deal better than her chief lady-in-waiting, and, in the days before her own pride blinded her to everything else, she had often rebuked him sharply. He sat curled up under her cloak, putting his nose out now and then, and sniffing to show his contempt for everything they passed.

“I suppose,” said he to the Princess’s horse, “that when one travels in outlandish places one is justified in addressing those whom one would not be called upon to notice at home. I shall, therefore, speak to you. Be good enough to inform me where we are going.”

Never having been inside the palace, the horse had not met Giroflé before, though he had often heard tell of him. His honest heart burned at the little creature’s insolence, but he answered civilly, not wishing to annoy the Princess.

“I have been told nothing, either,” said he.

“No one supposed you had,” replied Giroflé, “but one imagines that a beast of burden should know his way about the country.”

“Hold your peace, sirrah!” exclaimed the Princess. “I allow no one to speak to Amulet like that. It would be well for you if you were but half as useful and brave as he is.”

“I prefer to be ornamental myself,” said the little dog, impudently.

“You may change your mind when I set you down to run,” replied she, slapping him.

They travelled steadily day by day, sleeping at night in such country inns as lay in their road. These were not very grand places, but the Princess cared for no discomfort, thinking only how she might get forward on her way. The old man rode a few paces behind, sometimes carrying Giroflé. The little dog was light, but what he lacked in weight he made up in noise, for he barked ceaselessly, and nothing but threats of making him walk could keep his tongue still.

At last, one evening, as it grew late, they came to the borders of a forest which stretched, like a dark sea, across the horizon. A red streak from the departed sun glared angrily over the tree-tops, and they hurried on towards a miserable little house where they hoped to get a lodging. When they reached it, they found it to be an inn, but so mean and tumble-down was it that its walls seemed hardly able to hold together. A rough-looking man was leaning out of an upper window.

“Can we lodge here?” asked the Princess as she stopped before the door. “There are only myself, my servant, and my little dog.”

The man nodded, and came to take Amulet and the mule to the stable. She dismounted and went in, carrying Giroflé under her arm.

“Heavens! what a place!” he exclaimed, as he peeped from under her cloak. “Surely we are never going to spend the night here!”

“The forest is in front,” said she, “and we cannot find our way through it at this time of night. We have no choice but to stay where we are and be thankful that we have a roof over our heads. Listen! do you hear the wind? There will be a storm before morning.”

As she spoke a kind of moan ran through the air and the trees began to toss to and fro. A great splash of rain fell against the window. Giroflé said no more, but when food was brought and the Princess sat down to sup, he remained in a corner of the room, his face to the wall, and an expression on it impossible to describe.

“Come here, Giroflé, and have some food,” said the Princess, as she sat at the table.

“I am glad you call it food,” said he; “for my part, I should have called it garbage.”

The landlord, who was serving, looked at him angrily.

“I suppose you have never seen a spaniel of good family before, fellow?” snapped Giroflé, as he met his eye.

“Giroflé, behave yourself!” cried the Princess.

The landlord left the room, muttering.

So there Giroflé sat till his mistress had retired to bed; then he came out and went to warm himself by the hearth, for, the corner being cold, his exclusive demeanour had chilled him. Soon the landlord returned to take away the dishes.

“Oh, you are there, are you, little viper?” said he.

At this Giroflé turned upon him with such a torrent of impertinence as the man had never heard before. He had sharpened his tongue for years upon every member of the royal household, including the King himself, and the landlord, who soon found he was no match for him, grew almost frantic.