The Flower Princess

At these words the Princess started, and her cheek flushed. The Gardener seized Joyeuse by the arm to drag him away. But Fleurette made a sign for him to stand back.

"Let the Stranger speak," she said, "and let him show, if he can, why, instead of being punished, he should be welcomed as one of our suitors."

Then Joyeuse knelt on the lowest step of the throne and laid at his maiden's feet his sword and his lute and the scrip, or little pocket, which he wore at his side.

"Fair Princess," he said, "I come with scanty gifts and with no attendants – poor and alone. But all that I have I offer you; my sword for your protection, my music for your joy, my little learning for your aid in sickness and in health. To atone for my boldness in forcing your garden gate I offer the service of all these for as long as you will have them. And withal I offer my merry heart, as true and faithful as that of any prince in the world; but more loving than any."

At this saying the Prince Fortemain pushed forward indignantly. "You shall not listen to these idle words, O Princess!" he cried. "This fellow has no right to speak thus to you. He is no prince; he is but a wandering minstrel and vagabond. Let him be flogged from the gates."

"Ay, let him be flogged away!" echoed the Gardener and others, and they jostled closer as if to seize him. But Joyeuse still knelt at the feet of his flower-maiden, not at all afraid. The Princess rose, and, stamping her little foot, angrily commanded her people to be quiet. Then she spoke to Joyeuse, and the anger was gone from her voice.

"It is true you are no prince," she said. "What have you to say in reply to this Prince's word?"

"Am I no prince?" he answered, looking her straight in the eyes. "The fairest Princess in the world has thrice named me Prince, – Prince of Minstrels, Prince of Doctors, Prince of Teachers. Does not that make me a prince indeed?"

There was a silence in the hall at this bold answer. Then Fleurette beckoned to her the Wise Man of the court, a wise man dressed all in black, with a long white beard and hair like silver thistledown.

"O Wise Man, if a princess gave him these titles, is he indeed a prince?" she asked, and her voice was eager.

The Wise Man thought for a little time, then nodded gravely thrice. "Ay, my Princess, so it is written in the Book of True Chivalry. If he has been so honored, he is in deed and in degree a prince."

"Nay!" cried the Prince Fortemain, "I say nay! She has not also named him the Prince of Courage. The Book of True Chivalry declares that he is no very prince who cannot do battle nobly for his lady's sake."

"That will I gladly do," said Joyeuse eagerly. "I can wield sword as well as any prince alive."

The cheeks of the Princess glowed brightly. "Let him prove it, Prince Fortemain," she cried. "You shall punish him for his fault and for his boast if his words prove false. But if he bear himself the better man he shall be called a worthy suitor like yourself, and shall have an equal chance with you."

Fortemain grumbled and looked sulky, for he felt ashamed to fight with a wandering adventurer. But, since the Princess so commanded, there was nothing for him but to obey. He drew his jeweled sword, and Joyeuse lifted his plain one from where it lay on the step of the throne. The courtiers made a ring around the two, and the bout began.

One – two! One – two! The bright blades flashed, and the two lads turned one about the other, seeking each the advantage. They were both skillful fencers; but the watchers soon saw that Joyeuse was the better man. Dextrously he thrust and warily he parried. At last, with a sudden jump and twist, he sent the weapon spinning from the hand of Fortemain. Away across the hall it flew; and, with red face and scowling brow, the Prince was forced to seek it where it fell.

"Well done! Well done!" cried the crowd, clapping their hands, forgetting the fault of Joyeuse in the wonder of his bravery. And "Well done!" cried Fleurette. "I, a Princess, name you in addition to your other titles the Prince of Courage. Arise, Prince Joyeuse. Your suit is answered thus, as I answer every prince who does me the honor to seek my hand. If you be the very Prince for me you will know where to find my heart. Seek it where it is hidden in my garden. My heart is with my favorite flower. Farewell, my Princes both. An hour before noontide to-morrow I will hold audience. Then he who is to be punished and he who is to be rewarded shall learn their fate."

Saying thus she rose and, stepping lightly down from the throne, passed out of the hall. Immediately all the lords and ladies followed her, leaving the two suitors alone together.

Then the Prince Fortemain scowled at Joyeuse, and Joyeuse scowled back at him; and they went out of the hall by opposite doors. For they loved not each other.

Joyeuse was moving slowly away when the Gardener approached and touched him on the shoulder. "How now, must I return to the dungeon as a criminal?" asked Joyeuse, flushing red.

"Nay. Matters have changed, my Lord Prince," answered the Gardener sulkily. "You seem no longer a trespasser, but a suitor. I do not understand how the seesaw has tilted so suddenly. But certainly you are to be lodged in no dungeon cell. My Lady has given orders that you be shown to a chamber as fine as that of the Prince Fortemain himself. Come with me, if it please you."

Joyeuse was then taken to a little chamber, not high, but very pleasant, looking out upon the garden through a window latticed with vines.

"You are free to come and go, Master," said the Gardener, and left him with a low bow.

Now by the time all these things were finished it was late in the day, and Joyeuse said to himself: "I will not search for the precious flower to-night. I know that my dear flower-maiden prefers the early morning garden, and among the freshly opened buds which I have seen her caress so kindly must be the one she loves the best. I will now seek sleep, for I am very weary. But early will I waken to-morrow morning, to seek the flower which is most dear to her."

So Joyeuse lay down on his bed, and was soon asleep, dreaming sweetly of the morrow. For he nothing doubted but that he should find the right and only flower, since he loved the Princess so dearly that he must at last read her secret.

IV

But the Prince Fortemain had no such peace of mind. He was wounded in his princely pride because of having been defeated by the wandering Minstrel. He could not sleep; but, resolving to be beforehand with Joyeuse, went out into the garden by night and sought high and low for the flower-favorite of the Princess. For he said to himself: "The precious time has been almost spent by that luckless fight. And by the hour when I arise to-morrow it will be time to present myself before the Princess." (He was a lazy, loitering Prince; which was one reason for his sour temper, I suppose.) "I must, then, find the flower to-night, before that villain Minstrel does so."

Up and down the flowery paths went Fortemain, in and out among the sleeping blossoms. Most of them had their eyes shut tightly, and he could not see how beautiful they were. At last he came upon a white, heavy-scented tuberose gleaming in the moonlight, and it seemed to him the fairest of all. "Ha!" he said, "this is the sweetest blossom. Surely this must be the favorite of the Princess Fleurette. I will pluck this, and to-morrow I will take it to her and claim her hand."

He gathered the tuberose and took it with him to his chamber. But even then the Prince Fortemain could not rest. The odor of the flower was heavy and sickening, and it gave him troublous dreams. All night wretchedly he tossed and turned, and there was no refreshment in his sleep.

Joyeuse woke in the morning fresh and happy and full of eagerness. He woke very early – earlier even than usual, when he had been wont to join the flower-maiden in her garden. He began to think of her, and how she had looked at different times when he had thus seen her. He remembered her the day before among the lavender; and before that among the roses, with their dangerous thorns; once among the lilies, herself as pure and white. "Surely, surely," he said to himself, "one of these three is her favorite flower." And he lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember which of all her posies she had seemed most to love. "Which one of them has her heart? How curiously she said it: 'My heart is with my favorite flower.' Surely, she meant something more by the words than the first thought which they bring. What did she mean?"

At this moment Joyeuse glanced toward the window, where the morning sunlight streamed in gloriously. The vines about the lattice trembled in a passing breeze. One of them, reaching out a slender tendril-finger, seemed to beckon him. He half rose in bed, smiling at the thought. Lo! a little pink and white flower nodded at him over the window sill. It was a morning-glory. How pretty, how fresh, how fairy-like it was, with the dew in its cup, and with its little green leaves so graceful, – like pointed hearts!

Suddenly Joyeuse sat straight up in bed. Those heart-shaped leaves! The heart of the Princess Fleurette! Her favorite flower – was it not the morning-glory? Now he remembered how he had first seen her peering in at the little arbor, herself a pink and white flower on a green stem, with the blossom in her hair. He remembered how she had kissed the little cups and called them her darlings. How could he ever have forgotten! How dull he had been!

He sprang from the bed and ran eagerly to the window. He stretched out his hand to the blossom, not to pick it, – it was too early for that, – but to caress it for his maiden's sake. Leaning out to do so, he heard a little laugh beneath his window, and, looking down, he saw the green flower-maiden with whom he had played in the mornings, standing at the foot of the morning-glory vine, on which her hand rested lovingly. She was looking up, but when she met his eyes she turned and ran away, laughing softly as she disappeared from sight.

The time passed, all too slowly for Joyeuse. But at last came the hour for the trial. The Herald blew his trumpet, "Tan-tara-tara!" and the courtiers flocked to the hall to witness a ceremony the like of which they had seen so many times before that they were bored at the very thought. But because Joyeuse had first come as a prisoner and was now a suitor for their lady's hand, they were somewhat more interested than usual in the day's decision.

Weary with a heavy night and with evil dreams, the Prince Fortemain stood on one side of the throne with his white tuberose in his hand. But alas! The flower was as faded and weary looking as himself. Plucked so early before the trial, all its fragrance and beauty were gone; and Fortemain's heart sank as he looked at it, wondering if, after all, it could be the Princess's favorite flower. But it was now too late to select another. Indeed, he had but just risen when he heard the great bell toll its warning to be ready for the trial. He showed a hasty toilet, and a mind as ill-prepared.

Joyeuse, on the other hand, was as bright and brisk as the sun whose rising he had seen. His suit of green velvet was fair to view, and his eyes shone happily. In his hand he held a few inches of little vine, with leaf and tendril and at the side a single pale pink blossom. The courtiers eyed it curiously. Most of them had never before seen a morning-glory; and they tittered to think one should suppose so simple a flower could be the choice of a royal Princess.

Now the trumpet sounded again, and in came the Princess Fleurette, dressed in a beautiful robe of green silk, in which she looked more than ever like a wonderful flower. She mounted to her throne, looking down kindly upon her people, but merely glancing toward the two suitors who stood on either side of the dais.

"Now to the business of the day," she said. "I will listen to the choice which my two suitors have made. And you first, Prince Fortemain – how have you selected? Have you found the flower of my heart? Have you guessed my secret choice, and are you therefore to be my very ownest Prince?"

Prince Fortemain knelt at the foot of the throne and held out the withered tuberose somewhat ruefully.

"This, my Princess, is your favorite flower, I think. All over the garden I sought, and I deemed it best of all. This queen of the night is less beautiful by day; but in the moonlight it was very fair and sweet. I think your heart lies in this flower. Give it to me to wear alway, dear Princess." He spoke beseechingly, for indeed he loved her very dearly. But the Princess shook her head.

"Not so, O Prince," she said. "This flower of the night is not my dearest one. It is sweet, but its breath is heavy and cloying; it takes away sleep and fills the brain with stupor. Nay, you have not chosen wisely, as your own haggard looks show. You are not to be my Prince. You know not my heart. Farewell, Prince Fortemain."

Then Fortemain rose and turned away, as so many princes had done before him. He went out of the palace very sadly, and was nevermore seen in that place.

The Princess turned next to Joyeuse. "And what has our Prince of Wanderers chosen?" she asked. "How well does Joyeuse know the heart of Fleurette?"

"I have chosen thus," said the lad, as he knelt at the feet of the flower-maiden and held out to her the bit of vine, with its frail blossom. "The sweet and simple blossom of early morning; the favorite of the early-riser. This has your heart, O my Princess – see, its heart-shaped leaf! Have I not guessed aright?"

Then the Princess went down the steps of the throne and took the vine from the hand of Joyeuse and placed its flower in her hair. But her hand holding the heart-shaped leaf she placed within that of Joyeuse, and she said: "Prince Joyeuse, you have chosen well, because you know my heart, and because you love what I love. You have guessed my secret. You found my heart among the morning-glories, and now it is yours forever. Take it, Prince Joyeuse, and with it my hand. I have yet to punish you for your fault in entering my garden at a forbidden hour. Your punishment shall be this: you shall without reward for a year and a day be my minstrel, my soldier, my teacher, my doctor. But from thenceforth forever you shall be my very ownest Prince, sharer of my kingdom of flowers. This is the doom and the decree which I pronounce."

Then she kissed him very sweetly, and, leading him up to the throne, they sat down side by side upon the golden chairs.

"Sing to them, my Minstrel," said the Princess. And he sang as she commanded, until the courtiers hugged one another for joy of his wondrous music. He sang a song of Fleurette and her heart like a flower. But he sang not the story of the flower-maiden, for that was a secret between him and the Princess, while they lived happily ever after.

From that time forward, each morning Joyeuse and Fleurette stole down into the garden while the others were yet asleep and enjoyed the flowers at their fairest. And no one, not even the surly Gardener, suspected anything about it, which was the greatest fun of all to the merry pair. Nor did any one ever hear aught of the tale until this day, when I tell it to you.

But it was a morning-glory which telephoned it to me this morning, very, very early, while lazy folk were abed.

THE LITTLE FRIEND

I

"Oh! I am so cold, so cold!" sobbed little Pierre, as he stumbled through the snow which was drifting deep upon the mountain side. "Oh, I am so cold! The snow bites my face and blinds me, so that I cannot see the road. Where are all the Christmas candle-lights? The people of the village must have forgotten. The little Jesus will lose His way to-night. I never forgot to set our window at home full of lights on Christmas Eve. But now it is Christmas Eve, and there is no home any more. And I am so cold, so cold!"

Little Pierre sobbed again and stumbled in the snow, which was drifting deeper and deeper upon the mountain side. This was the stormiest Christmas Eve which had been seen for years, and all the little boys who had good homes were hugging themselves close to the fire, glad that they were not out in the bleak night. Every window was full of flickering tapers to light the expected Holy Child upon His way through the village to the church. But little Pierre had strayed so far from the road that he could not see these rows and rows of tiny earth-stars, any more than he could see through the snow the far-off sky-stars which the angels had lighted along the streets of heaven.

Pierre was on his way to the village from the orphan boys' home at the Abbé's charity school. And that was not like a happy real home, for the little Brothers were rough and rude and far from loving one another. He had started at dusk from the school, hoping to be at the village church before curfew. For Pierre had a sweet little voice, and he was to earn a few pennies by singing in the choir on Christmas morning. But it was growing late. The church would be closed and the Curé gone home before Pierre could reach it; and then what should he do?

The snow whirled faster and faster, and Pierre's legs found it harder and harder to move themselves through the great drifts. They seemed heavy and numb, and he was growing oh, so tired! If he could but lie down to sleep until Christmas Day! But he knew that he must not do that. For those who choose this kind of soft and tempting bed turn into ice-people, and do not wake up in the morning. So he bent his head and tried to plough on through the drifts.

Whish! A soft white thing flapped through the snow and struck Pierre in the face, so that he staggered and almost lost his balance. The next moment he had caught the thing as it fell and was holding it tenderly in his numb hands. It was a beautiful dove, white as the snow from which it seemed to come. It had been whirled about by the storm until it had lost strength to fly, and it now lay quite still, with closed eyes. Pierre stroked the ruffled feathers gently and blew upon its cold body, trying to bring it back to life.

"Poor bird!" he said softly. "You are lost in the snow, like me. I will try to keep you warm, though I am myself a cold little body." He put the bird under his jacket, holding it close to his heart. Presently the dove opened its eyes and stirred feebly, giving a faint "Coo!"

"I wish I had something for you to eat, poor bird," said Pierre, forgetting his own cold and hunger. "If I could but take you into my own house and feed you as I used to feed the birds upon Christmas Eve! But now I have no home myself, and I can scarcely keep you warm."

Pierre shivered and tried to move forward. But the storm seemed to grow even fiercer, and the wind blew so keenly in his face that he could scarcely stand. "I cannot go another step," he said, and down he sank in the snow, which began to cover him with a downy blanket, pretending to be a careful mother. He hugged the bird closer and began to feel afraid. He knew that he was in great danger. "Dear Dove," he whispered, "I am sorry that I cannot save you. We shall turn into ice-images together. But I will keep you warm as long as I can." Then he closed his eyes, for he was very sleepy.

In a little while something made Pierre open his eyes. At first he could see only the whirling snow, which seemed to be everywhere. But presently he found that some one was bending over him, with face close to his; some one chubby and rosy and young, – a child like himself, but more beautiful than any child whom Pierre had ever seen. He stared hard at the face which seemed to smile at him through the snow, not minding the cold.

"You have my dove inside your coat," said the Child, pointing. "I lost her in the storm. Give her to me."

Pierre held his coat the closer. "She was cold," he answered. "She was dying in the snow. I am trying to keep her warm."

"But she is warm when she is with me, though I have no coat to wrap her in," said the Child. And, indeed, he was clad only in a little shirt, with his rosy legs quite bare. Yet he looked not cold. A brightness glowed about him, and his breath seemed to warm the air. Pierre saw that, though it was still snowing beyond them, there were no whirling flakes between him and the Child.

The little Stranger held out his hand once more. "Please give me the dove," he begged. "I must hasten on my way to the village yonder. The dove strayed from my bosom and was lost. You found her here, far from the road. Thank you, little boy. Are you often so kind to poor lost birds?"

"Why, they are the Lord's own birds!" cried little Pierre. "How should one not be kind and love them dearly? On the Lord's birthday eve, too! It is little that I could do for this one, – I who have saved and fed so many on other Christmas Eves. Alas, I wish I was back in those good old days of the wheat-sheaf and the full pan of milk and the bright warm fire!" Pierre's eyes filled with tears.

"What! Did you set a sheaf of wheat for the birds on Christmas Eve?" asked the Child, drawing closer and bending kindly eyes upon Pierre.

Now the boy saw that where the Stranger stood the snow had melted all away, so that they were inclosed in a little space like a downy nest, which seemed almost warm to his limbs.

"Yes, I set out a wheat-sheaf," said Pierre simply. "Why not? I love all the little creatures whom our Lord Himself so dearly loved, and to whom He bade us be kind. On Christmas Eve especially I always tried to make happy those which He sent in my way, – poor little wanderers as well as our own friends at home."

The Child drew yet closer and sat down in the snow beside Pierre. His beautiful eyes shone like stars, and his voice was like sweet music. "What," he said, "you are the boy who stood in the doorway with a pan of bread and milk, – part of your own supper, – and called the hungry kitten to feast? You are the same who tossed a bone to the limping dog and made him a bed in the stable? You stroked the noses of the ox and the ass and said gentle things to them, because they were the first friends of the little Jesus? You set the sheaf of wheat for the snowbirds, and they lighted upon your hands and shoulders and kissed your lips in gratitude? You are that boy, friend of God's friends. No wonder that my white dove flew to you out of the storm. She knew, she knew!"

The Child bent near and kissed Pierre on the cheeks, so that they grew rosy, and the warm blood went tingling through his little cold limbs. Sitting up, he said: "Yes, I am that boy who last year was so happy because he could do these pleasant things. But how do you know, little Stranger? How did you see?"

"Oh, I know, I saw!" cried the Child, gleefully clapping his hands as a child will. "I was there. I passed through the village last Christmas Eve, and I saw it all. But tell me now, how do you come here, dear boy? Why are you not in that happy home this stormy night, once more making the Lord's creatures happy?"

Pierre told all to the Child: how his dear father and mother had died and left him alone in the world; how the home had been sold, and now he lived in the charity school kept by the good Abbé; how he had learned of the chance to earn a few pennies by singing on Christmas Day in the neighboring village church, which lacked a voice among the choir-boys; how he was on his way thither when the storm had hidden the road, and he had grown so cold, so cold!

"Then your dove came to me, little Stranger," Pierre concluded. "She came, and I folded her in my jacket to keep her warm. But, do you know, it must be that she has kept me warm. Although I could walk no further, I am not cold at all, nor frightened, and no longer hungry. Sit close to me, little Stranger. You shall share my jacket, too, and we will all three warm one another."

The Child laughed again, a low, soft, silvery laugh, like a happy brook slipping over the pebbles. "I am not cold," he said. "I cannot stay with you. I must go yonder." And he pointed through the snow.

"Whither, oh, whither?" cried Pierre eagerly. "Let me go with you. I am lost; but if you know the way we can go together, hand in hand."

The Child shook his head. "Not so," he said. "I do not follow the path, and your feet would stumble. I shall find a way without sinking in the snow. I must go alone. But there is a better way for you. I leave my dove with you: she will keep you warm until help comes. Farewell, friend of the Lord's friends." Stooping the Child kissed Pierre once more, upon the forehead. Then, before the boy saw how he went, he had vanished from the little nest of snow, without leaving a footprint behind.