Several days passed, during which we saw the Castlemans frequently. One evening after supper, when we were all sitting in the parlor, Yolanda enticed Max to an adjoining room, on the excuse of showing him an ancient piece of tapestry. When it had been examined, she seated herself on a window bench and indicated a chair for Max near by. Among much that was said I quote the following from memory, as Max told me afterward:--
"So you are from Italy, Sir Max?" queried Yolanda, stealing a glance at his ring.
"Yes," returned Max.
"From what part, may I ask?" continued the girl, with a slight inclination of her head to one side and a flash from beneath the preposterously long lashes toward his hand.
"From--from Rome," stammered Max, halting at even so small a lie.
"Ah, Sir Karl said you were from Lombardy," answered the girl.
"Well--that is--originally, perhaps, I was," he returned.
"Perhaps your family lives in both places?" she asked very seriously.
"Yes, that is the way of it," he responded.
"Were you born in both places?" asked Yolanda, without the shadow of a smile. Max was thinking of the little lie he was telling and did not analyze her question.
"No," he answered, in simple honesty, "you see I could not be born in two places. That would be impossible."
"Perhaps it would be," replied Yolanda, with perfect gravity. Max was five years her senior, but he was a boy, while she had the self-command of a quick-witted woman, though she still retained the saucy impertinence of childhood. Slow-going, guileless Max began to suspect a lurking intention on Yolanda's part to quiz him.
"Did not Sir Karl say something about your having been born in Styria?" asked the girl, glancing slyly at the ring.
"No, he did not," answered Max, emphatically. "I suppose I was born in Rome--no, I mean Lombardy--but it cannot matter much to you, Fräulein, where I was born if I do not wish to tell."
The direct course was as natural to Max as breathing. The girl was startled by his abruptness. After a pause she continued:--
"I am sure you are not ashamed of your birthplace, and--"
He interrupted her sharply:--
"I also am sure I am not ashamed of it."
"If you had permitted me to finish," she said quietly, "you would have had no need to speak so sharply. I spoke seriously. I wanted to say that I am sure you have no reason to feel ashamed of your birthplace, and that perhaps I ought not to have asked a question that you evidently do not want to answer. Uncle says if my curiosity were taken from me, there would be nothing left but my toes."
Her contrition melted Max at once, and he said:--
I will gladly tell you, Fräulein, if you want to know. I was born--"
"No, no," she interrupted, "you shall not tell me. I will leave you at once and see you no more if you do. Besides, there is no need to tell me; I already know. I am a sorceress, a witch. I regret to make the confession, but it is true; I am a witch."
"I believe you are," answered Max, looking at her admiringly and seating himself beside her on the window bench. He had learned from Gertrude of Augsburg and many other burgher girls that certain pleasantries were more objectionable to them in theory than in practice; but this burgher girl rose to her feet at his approach and seemed to grow a head taller in an instant. He quietly took his old place and she took hers. She continued as if unconscious of what had happened:--
"Yes, I am a sorceress." Then she drew her face close to Max, and, gazing fixedly into his eyes, said solemnly:--
"I can look into a person's eyes and know if they are telling me the truth. I can tell their fortunes--past, present, and future. I can tell them where they were born. I can tell them the history of anything of value they have. Their jewellery, their--"
"Tell me any one of those things concerning myself," interrupted Max, suddenly alive with interest.
"No, it is too great a strain upon me," answered the girl, with amusing gravity.
"I entreat you," said Max, laughing, though deeply interested. "I believe you can do what you say. I beg you to show me your skill in only one instance."
The girl gently refused, begging Max not to tempt her.
"No, no, I cannot," she said, "good Father Brantôme has told me it is sinful. I must not."
Half in jest but all in earnest, Max begged her to try; and, after a great deal of coaxing, she reluctantly consented to give a very small exhibition of her powers. Covering her face with her hands, she remained for the space of a minute as if in deep thought. Then, making a series of graceful and fantastic passes in the air with her hands, as if invoking a familiar spirit, she said in low, solemn tones:--
"You may now sit by me, Sir Max. My words must not be heard by any ears save yours."
Max seated himself beside the girl.
"Give me your word that you will tell no one what I am about to do and say," she said.
"I so promise," answered Max, beginning to feel that the situation was almost uncanny.
"Now, place in my hand some jewel or valued article of which I may speak," she said.
Excepting his sword and dagger, Max owned but one article of value--the ring Mary of Burgundy had given him. He hesitatingly drew it from his finger and placed it in the girl's hand. She examined it carefully, and said:--
"Now, give me your hand, Sir Max." Her hand was not much larger than a big snowflake in early spring, Max thought, and it was completely lost to sight when his great fingers closed over it. The velvety softness of the little hand sent a thrill through his veins, and the firm, unyielding strength of his clasp was a new, delicious sensation to the girl. Startled by it, she made a feeble effort to withdraw her hand; but Max clasped it firmly, and she surrendered. After a short silence she placed the ring to her forehead, closed her eyes, and drew her face so near to Max that he felt her warm breath on his cheek. Max was learning a new lesson in life--the greatest of all. She spoke in soft whispers, slowly dropping her words one by one in sepulchral tones:--
"What--do--I see--surely I am wrong. No--I see clearly--a lady--a great lady--a princess. She smiles upon a man. He is tall and young. His face is fair; his hair falls in long, bright curls like yours. She gives him this ring; she asks him to be her husband--no--surely a modest maiden would not do that." She stopped suddenly, snatched her hand from Max, returned the ring and cried, "No more, no more!"
She tossed her hands in the air, as if to drive off the spirits, and without another word ran to the parlor laughing, and threw herself on Uncle Castleman's knee. Max slowly made the sign of the cross and followed the little enchantress. She had most effectually imposed on him. He was inclined to believe that she had seen the ring or had heard of it in Burgundy before the princess sent it; but Yolanda could have been little more than a child at that time--three years before. Perhaps she was hardly past fourteen, and one of her class would certainly not be apt to know of the ring that had been sent by the princess. She might have received her information from Twonette, who, Franz said, was acquainted with Mary of Burgundy; but even had Yolanda heard of the ring, the fact would not have helped her to know it.
After our first evening with the Castlemans we got on famously together. True, Max and I felt that we were making great concessions, and I do not doubt that we showed it in many unconscious words and acts. This certainly was true of Max; but Yolanda's unfailing laughter, though at times it was provoking, soon brought him to see that too great a sense of dignity was at times ridiculous. He could not, however, always forget that he was a Hapsburg while she was a burgher girl, and his good memory got him many a keen little thrust from her saucy tongue. If Max resented her sauciness, she ran away from him with the full knowledge that he would miss her. She was much surer that she pleased and delighted him than he was that he pleased her, though of the latter fact she left, in truth, little room for doubt.
Max was very happy. He had never before known a playmate. But here in Basel the good Franz and his frau, Yolanda, Twonette, fat old Castleman, and myself were all boys and girls together, snatching the joys of life fresh from the soil of mother earth, close to which we lived in rustic simplicity.
Since we had left Styria, our life, with all its hardships, had been a delight to Max, but it was also a series of constantly repeated shocks. If the shocks came too rapidly and too hard, he solaced his bruised dignity with the thought that those who were unduly familiar with him did not know that he was the heir of the House of Hapsburg. So day by day he grew to enjoy the nestling comfort of a near-by friend. This, I grieve to say, was too plainly seen in his relations with Yolanda, for she unquestionably nestled toward him. She made no effort to conceal her delight in his companionship, though she most adroitly kept him at a proper distance. If she observed a growing confidence in Max, she quickly nipped it by showing him that she enjoyed my companionship or that of old Franz just as much. On such occasions Max's dignity and vanity required balm.
"Oh, Karl," he said to me one evening while we were preparing for bed, "it seems to me I have just wakened to life, or have just got out of prison. No man can be happy on a pinnacle above the intimate friendships of his fellow-man and--and woman."
"Yes, 'and woman.' Well put, Max," said I.
Max did not notice my insinuation, but continued:--
"I have lived longer since knowing these lowly friends than in all the years of my life in Styria. Karl, you have spoiled a good, stiff-jointed Hapsburg, but you have made a man. If nothing more comes of this journey into the world than I have already had, I am your debtor for life. What would my dear old father and mother say if they should see me and know the life I am leading? In their eyes I should be disgraced--covered with shame."
"When you go back to Hapsburg," I said, "you can again take up your old, petrified existence and eat your husks of daily adulation. You will soon again find satisfaction in the bended knee, and will insist that those who approach you bow deferentially to your ancestors."
"I shall, of course, return to Hapsburg," he said. "It is my fate, and no man can change the destiny to which he was born. I must also endure the bowing and the adulation. Men shall honor my ancestors and respect in me their descendant, but I shall never again be without friends if it be in my power to possess them. As I have said, that is difficult for one placed above his fellow-man."
"There is the trouble with men of your degree," I answered. "Friends are not like castles, cities, and courtly servitors. Those, indeed, one may really own; but we possess our friends only as they possess us. Like a mirror, a friend gives us only what we ourselves give. No king is great enough to produce his own image unless he stands before the glass."
"Teach me, Karl, to stand before the glass," said Max, plaintively.
"You are before it now, my dear boy," I answered. "These new friends are giving you only what you give them. With me, you have always been before the glass."
"That has been true," said Max, "ever since the first day you entered Hapsburg. Do you remember? I climbed on your knee and said, 'You have a big, ugly nose!' Mother admonished me, and I quickly made amends by saying, 'But I like you.'"
"I well remember, Max," I responded. "That day was one of mutual conquest. That is the prime condition of friendship: mutual conquest and mutual surrender. But you must have other friends than me. You see I am not jealous. You must have friends of your own age."
"I now realize why I have hungered all my life," said Max, "though I have never before known: I longed for friends. Is it not strange that I should find them among these low-born people? It surely cannot be wrong for me to live as I do, though father and mother would doubtless deem it criminal."
"These good burgher folk are making you better and broader and stronger," I answered. "But there is one thing I want to suggest: you are devoting too much of your time to the brown-eyed little maid. You must seek favor with Twonette. She is harmless, and through her you may, by some freak of fortune, reach the goal of your desires. With the prestige of your family and the riches of Burgundy, you may become the most powerful man in the world, save the Pope."
"Perhaps Fräulein Yolanda is also acquainted with the Princess Mary," responded Max, half reluctantly speaking Mary's name.
"No," I answered, "she is not." I asked her if she were. She laughed at the suggestion, and said: 'Oh, no, no, the princess is a very proud person and very exclusive. She knows but one burgher girl in Peronne, I am told. That one is Twonette, and I believe she treats her most ungraciously at times. I would not endure her snubs and haughty ways as Twonette does. I seek the friendship of no princess. Girls of my own class are good enough for me. "Twonette, fetch me a cup of wine." "Twonette, thread my needle." "Twonette, you are fat and lazy and sleep too much." "Twonette, stand up." "Twonette, sit down." Faugh! I tell you I want none of these princesses, no, not one of them. I hate princesses, and I tell you I doubly hate this--this--' She did not say whom she doubly hated. She is a forward little witch, Max. She laughed merrily at my questions concerning the princess, and asked me if we were going to Burgundy to storm Mary's heart. 'Who is to win her?' she asked. 'You, Sir Karl, or Sir Max? It must be you. Sir Max is too slow and dignified even to think of scaling the walls of a maiden fortress. It must be you, Sir Karl.' The saucy little elf rose from her chair, bowed low before me and said, 'I do liege homage to the future Duke of Burgundy.' Then she danced across the room, laughing at my discomfiture. She is charming, Max, but remember Gertrude the Conqueror! Such trifling affairs are well enough to teach a man the a-b-c of life but one with your destiny ahead of him must not remain too long in his alphabet. Such affairs are for boys, Max, for boys."
"Do not fear for me, Karl," answered Max, laughingly. "We are not apt to take hurt from dangers we see."
"Do you clearly see the danger?" I suggested.
"I clearly see," he responded. "I admire Fräulein Yolanda as I have never admired any other woman. I respect her as if she were a princess; but one of the penalties of my birth is that I may not think of her nor of one of her class. She is not for me; she is a burgher maiden--out of my reach. For that reason I feel that I should respect her."
The attitude of Max toward Yolanda was a real triumph of skill and adroitness over inherited convictions and false education. She had brought him from condescension to deference solely by the magic of her art. Or am I wrong? Was it her artlessness? Perhaps it was her artful artlessness, since every girl-baby is born with a modicum of that dangerous quality.
"Perhaps you are right, Karl," added Max. "I may underrate the power of this girl. As you have said, she is a little witch. But beneath her laughter there is a rare show of tenderness and strength, which at times seems pathetic and almost elfin. You are right, Karl. I will devote myself to Twonette hereafter. She is like a feather-bed in that she cannot be injured by a blow, neither can she give one; but Yolanda--ah, Karl, she is like a priceless jewel that may be shattered by a blow and may blind one by its radiance."
But Max's devotion to Twonette was a failure. She was certainly willing, but Yolanda would have none of it, and with no equivocation gave every one to understand as much. Still, she held Max at a respectful distance. In fact, this Yolanda handled us all as a juggler tosses his balls. Max must not be too attentive to her, and he must not be at all attentive to Twonette. In this arrangement Twonette acquiesced. She would not dare to lift her eyes to one upon whom Yolanda was looking!
Here was illustrated the complete supremacy of mind over matter. Castleman, Twonette, Franz and his frau, Max and I, all danced when the tiny white hand of Yolanda pulled the strings. A kiss or a saucy nod for Castleman or Twonette, a smile or a frown for Max and me, were the instruments wherewith she worked. Deftly she turned each situation as she desired. Max made frequent efforts to obtain a private moment with her, that he might ask a few questions concerning her wonderful knowledge of his ring--they had been burning him since the night of her sorcery--but, though she knew quite well his desire to question her, she gave him no opportunity.
During the time that Castleman was buying his silks, the members of our little party grew rapidly in friendship. In culture, education, and refinement, the Castlemans were far above any burghers I had ever known. Franz and his wife, though good, simple people, were not at all in Castleman's class. They felt their inferiority, and did not go abroad with us, though we supped daily with them. Each evening supper was a little fête followed by a romp of amusement, songs, and childish games in the frau's great parlor.
The Castlemans, Max, and I made several excursions into the mountains. Yolanda and Twonette were in ecstasy at the mountain views, which were so vividly in contrast with the lowlands of Burgundy.
"These mountains are beautiful," said patriotic Yolanda, "but our lowlands raise bread to feed the hungry."
On one occasion we rode to the Falls of Schaffhausen, and often we were out upon the river. During these expeditions Yolanda adroitly kept our little party together, and Max could have no private word with her.
I had never been so happy as I was during the fortnight at Basel while Castleman was buying silk. I was almost a child again; my fifty odd years seemed to fall from me as an eagle sheds his plumes in spring. We were all happy and merry as a May-day, and our joyousness was woven from the warp and woof of Yolanda's gentle, laughing nature. Without her, our life would have been comfortable but commonplace.
During all this time Max pondered in vain upon the remarkable manner in which Yolanda had divined the secret of his ring. He longed to question her, but she would not be questioned until she was ready to answer.
On a certain morning near the close of our sojourn in Basel, Max, after many elephantine manoeuvres, obtained Yolanda's promise to walk out with him to a near-by hill in the afternoon. It was a Sabbath day, and every burgher maiden in Basel that boasted a sweetheart would be abroad with him in the sunshine. Max could not help feeling that it was most condescending in him, a prince, to walk out with Yolanda, a burgher maiden. Should any one from Styria meet him, he would certainly sink into the ground, though in a certain way the girl's reluctance seemed to place the condescension with her.
After dinner, which we all took together that day, she put him off with excuses until drowsy Uncle Castleman had taken himself off for a nap. Then Yolanda quickly said:--
"Fetch me my hood, Twonette. I shall not need a cloak. I am going to walk out with Sir Max."
Twonette instantly obeyed, as if she were a tire-woman to a princess, and soon returned wearing her own hood and carrying Yolanda's.
"Ah, but you are not to come with us," said Yolanda. She was ready to give Max the opportunity he desired, and would give it generously.
"But--but what will father say?" asked Twonette, uneasily.
"We shall learn what he says when we return. No need to worry about that now," answered Yolanda. Twonette took off her hood.
Max and Yolanda climbed the hill, and, after a little demurring on the girl's part, sat down on a shelving rock at a point where the river view was beautiful. As usual, Yolanda managed the conversation to suit herself, but after a short time she permitted Max to introduce the subject on which he wished to talk.
"Will you tell me, Fräulein," he asked, "how you were enabled to know the history of my ring? I cannot believe you are what you said--a sorceress--a witch."
"No, no," she answered laughingly, "I am not a sorceress."
"You almost made me believe you were," said Max, "but I am slow of wit, as you have doubtless observed. I told Sir Karl you said you were a sorceress, and he said--"
"You gave me your word you would not tell!" exclaimed Yolanda.
"Neither did I tell aught save that you said you were a sorceress. He laughed and said--"
"Yes, yes, what did he say?" eagerly queried the girl.
"He said--I am sure you will not take amiss what he said?" responded Max.
"No, no, indeed no! Tell me," she demanded eagerly.
"He said you were a witch, if brown eyes, dimpling smiles, and girlish beauty could make one," answered Max.
"Ah, did he say that of me?" asked the girl, musingly. After a pause she continued, "That was kind in Sir Karl and--and evidently sincere." After another pause devoted to revery she said: "Perhaps I shall be his friend sometime in a manner he little expects. Even the friendship of a helpless burgher girl is not to be despised. But he is wrong. I am not beautiful," she poutingly continued. "Now let us examine my face." She laughed, and settled herself contentedly upon the stone, as if to take up a serious discussion. "I often do so in the mirror. Vain? Of course I am!"
"I am only too willing to examine it," said Max, laughingly.
"My mouth," she said, pursing her lips and lifting her face temptingly for his inspection, "my mouth is--"
"Perfect," interrupted Max.
She looked surprised and said, "Ah, that was nicely spoken, Little Max, and quickly, for you."
"'Little Max'!" exclaimed the young man. "Where heard you that name? No one save my mother has ever used it; no one but Karl and my father has ever heard her speak the words. Did Karl tell you of it?"
"Karl did not tell me," she responded, "and I never heard any one speak the name. The name fits you so well--by contraries--that it came to me, perhaps, by inspiration."
"That hardly seems possible," returned Max, "and your knowledge of how I received the ring is more than remarkable."
"Let us talk about my face," said the girl, full of the spirit of mischief, and wishing to put off the discussion of the ring. "Now, my eyes, of which Sir Karl spoke so kindly, are--"
"The most wonderful in the world," interrupted Max. "They are brilliant as priceless jewels, fathomless as deep water, gentle and tender as--"
"There, there, Little Max," she cried, checking with a gesture his flow of unexpected eloquence. "I declare! you are not so slow as you seem. I will tell you just how much of a sorceress I am. I thought to flatter you by saying a great lady had given you the ring, and lo, I was right unless you are adroitly leading me to believe in my own sorcery. Is she a great lady? Come, tell me the story."
She unconsciously moved nearer to him with an air of pleasant anticipation.
"Yes, it was a great lady, a very great lady who gave me the ring," he said most seriously.
"And was I right in my other divination?" she asked, looking down and flushing slightly. "Did--did she wish to marry you? But you need not answer that question."
"I will gladly answer it," returned Max, leaning forward, resting his elbow on his knees and looking at the ground between his feet. "I hoped she did. I--I longed for it."
"Perhaps she possessed vast estates?" asked the girl, a slight frown gathering on her brow.
"Yes, she possessed vast estates," said Max, "but I would gladly have taken her penniless save for the fact that I am very poor, and that she would suffer for the lack of luxuries she has always known."
"But how could the lady have felt sure you were not seeking her for the sake of her estates?" asked Yolanda.
"She could not know," answered Max. "But I sought her for her own sake and for no other reason."
"What manner of person was she?" asked Yolanda. "Was she dark or light, short or tall, plain of feature or beautiful, amiable of temper or vixenish? Was she like any one you have ever seen?"
She spoke in deep earnest and looked eagerly up to his face.
"She was beautiful of feature," answered Max. "Her eyes and her hair were dark as yours are. She was short of stature, I have been told."
Yolanda laughed merrily: "I declare, Sir Max, you were in love with a lady you had never seen. It was her estate you loved."
"No, no," said Max, earnestly. "I ardently desired--"
"Perhaps if you were to see her, your enthusiasm would vanish," said Yolanda, interrupting him almost sharply. "My magic tells me she is a squat little creature, with a wizened face; her eyes are sharp and black, and her nose is a-peak, not unlike mine. That, she is sour and peevish of temper, as I am, there can be no doubt. And, although she be great and rich as the Princess of Burgundy, I warrant you she is not one whit handsomer nor kinder in disposition than I."
Max started on hearing Mary of Burgundy's name, but quickly recovering himself said:--
"I would not wish her better than you in any respect. You wrong both yourself and the lady to speak as you do. Those who know her say the lady has not her like in all the world."
A soft light came to Yolanda's face as he spoke, and she answered slowly:--
"Doubtless the lady had like news of you, and is curious to know what manner of man you are. She too may have dreamed of an ideal."
"How do you know she has never seen me?" asked Max, who had not fully caught her reply when she spoke of the fact that he had never seen the lady of the ring. "I shall surely come to believe you are a sorceress."
"No, I am not," she answered emphatically. "You shall carry that jest no further. A moment since you said those who know her say so and so, and you believed she was short of stature. Had you ever seen the lady, you would know if she were tall or short. You would not be in doubt upon so important a matter as the stature of your lady-love."
The reasoning and the reasoner were so irresistible that Max was easily satisfied.
"But you have spoken of the lady as in the past. I hope she is not dead?" asked Yolanda.
"No," answered Max, gravely, "our fathers did not agree. That is, her father was not satisfied, and it all came to nothing save a--a heartache for me."
It was well that Max was looking at the ground when she turned the soft radiance of her eyes upon him, else he might have learned too much. His modesty and honesty in admitting frankly that the lady's father was not satisfied with the match pleased her and she sat in silence, smiling contentedly. After a time she turned almost fiercely upon him:--
"Do you know what I should do, Sir Max, were I in your place?"
"What would you do, Fräulein?" queried Max.
"I would show the lady that I was worthy of her by winning her, even though she were on a throne, guarded by a thousand dragons. I am a woman, Sir Max, and I know a woman's heart. The heart of a princess is first the heart of a woman. Be sure the lady will thank you and will reward you if you fight your way to her and carry her off against all the world."
"But how is that to be done, Fräulein?" asked Max, carelessly. In truth, Mary of Burgundy was not uppermost in his heart at that moment.
"That is for a man to say and for a man to do," she responded. "A woman knows only how to wait and to long for one who, alas! may never come. She will wait for you, Sir Max, and when you come to her, she will place her hand in yours and go with you wherever you wish to take her. Of this, at least, my powers of sorcery are sufficient to assure you. Do not fear! do not fear!"
She spoke earnestly, as if from the depths of a personal experience. Her eyes glowed with the light of excitement and her face was radiant. Max turned to her and saw all this beauty. Then he gently took her hand and said huskily:--
"If I thought she were like you, Fräulein, I would gladly go to the end of the world to win from her even one smile."
"No, no, Sir Max," said Yolanda, withdrawing her hand, "we must have no more such speeches from you. They are wrong coming from one of your degree to a burgher girl of Peronne, if she be an honest girl. Our stations are too far apart."
"That is true, Fräulein," answered Max, sorrowfully, "but I mean no disrespect. I honor you as if you were a princess"--here his tones took energy and emphasis--"but I meant what I said, Fräulein, I meant what I said, and though I shall never say it again, I know that I shall mean it all the days of my life."
The expression in her eyes as she looked up at him was one of mingled pleasure and amusement. It seemed to say, "Do not be too sure that you will never say it again," but she said nothing. After a moment she suggested:--
"Shall we return, Sir Max?" They rose, and as they started back to Basel he remarked:--
"The words 'Little Max' on your lips sounded sweet to me, Fräulein. They bring home to me the voice of my mother, and though I should not care to hear another speak them, still, the words are very pretty on your lips, and I like them."
Yolanda glanced quickly up to him with radiant eyes. He caught the glance, and the last vestige of his ideal, Mary of Burgundy, left his heart, driven out by the very real little enchantress that walked by his side.
Notwithstanding the idle, happy life we were leading, I was anxious to begin our journey to Burgundy. Just what would--or could--happen when we should reach that land of promise--perhaps I should say of no promise--I did not know. I hoped that by some happy turn of fortune--perhaps through Twonette's help--Max might be brought to meet Mary of Burgundy. I had all faith in his ability to please her, or any woman, but what advantage he could gain by winning her regard I could not guess. The lady's personal preference would cut no figure in the choosing of a husband. Her father would do that for her, and she would be powerless against the will of a man whose chief impulses were those of a mad bull. This arrogant duke, without so much as a formal withdrawal, had ignored Duke Frederick's acceptance and had contracted his daughter's hand to the Dauphin of France, who was a puny, weak-minded boy of fourteen.
Should Max and I go to Burgundy and say to Charles, "This is Maximilian of Styria, to whom you offered your daughter in marriage," his answer might be a sword thrust. Should the duke learn of our unbidden presence in his domain, his love for making enemies would probably bring us into trouble. Therefore, though I ardently wished to begin the journey, I had no real cause to hope for good results, though there were many reasons to fear the outcome of our adventures.
One may well ask why I continued in a course so dangerous. My answer is: A man travels the road of his destiny. The Fates sometimes hunt out a man for their purposes and snatch him from his hiding-place in the by-ways, but they usually choose from the scenes of great events their victims or their favorites. The man who fears to be their victim is seldom chosen for their favorite. I should rather be their victim than be overlooked; and what I should have chosen for myself I desired for Max. I had no future save in him; I had been overlooked in the by-ways.
At the time of our journeying all Europe turned on a Burgundian pivot, and the Fates were busy in that land. It was the stage of the world, on which the strong, the great, and the enterprising of mankind were playing; and I hoped that Max, who was strong and enterprising, would find his part in this Burgundian drama. I was willing to risk sacrificing him, though he was dearer to me than the blood of my heart, if I might stand even a small chance to make him great.
At strange variance with my philosophy, I had faith in Max's luck. It was more than faith; it was a fixed, intuitive conviction that he would win. For these reasons, all growing out of what I felt rather than what I reasoned, we continued our dangerous and apparently useless journey. When a man feels himself led by an unseen hand, he should gladly follow. There is an intuition that is better than reason.
One bright morning in May we began our journey down the Rhine. My fears had no place in Max's heart, and his self-confidence was to me a harbinger of good fortune. A man may do anything that he knows he can do; failure never disappoints him who expects it.
We left Basel by the west gate and took the road for Strasburg, leading down the west bank of the Rhine. That was not the most direct route to Peronne, but it was the safest because of the numerous river towns wherein we might lie safely by night. The robber barons whom we had to fear along the river were at least not pilfering vagabonds, such as we should meet across country. Against the open attack of a brave foe we felt that we could make a good defence. Our fighting force consisted of Max, myself, and two lusty squires. We had also a half-score of men who led the sumpter mules.
Castleman had purchased two beautiful chargers in Basel, pretending that he wished to take them to Peronne for sale. He asked Max to ride one and offered the other for my use. I was sure that his only reason for buying the horses was his desire to present them to us, which he afterward did. Max named his charger "Night," because of its spotless coat of black. Yolanda rode a beautiful white mare which we re-christened "Day." Castleman bestrode an ambling Flemish bay, almost as fat as its master and quite as good-natured, which, because of its slowness, Yolanda dubbed "Last Week."
We travelled slowly down the Rhine, enjoying the scenery and filling our hearts with the sunshine of the soft spring days. Our cautious merchant so arranged our lodging-places that we were never on the road after dark. His system caused much delay, as we often rested a half-day in a town that we might be able to lodge there over night. In this deliberate manner of proceeding, life was a sweet, lazy holiday, and our journey was like a May outing. We were all very happy--almost ominously so.
After the explanation between Max and Yolanda on the hill at Basel she made no effort to avoid him, and he certainly did not avoid her. They both evidently rested on his remark that he would never again speak upon a certain subject. They fully understood each other's position.
Max knew that between him and the burgher maiden there could be no thought of marriage. She, it seemed, was equally aware of that fact. All that he had been taught to value in life--father, mother, family and position, his father's subjects, who would one day be his, his father's throne, on which he would one day sit--stood between him and Yolanda. They stood between him and the achievement of any desire purely personal to himself and not conducive to the welfare of his state. He felt that he did not belong to himself; that his own happiness was never to be considered. He belonged to his house, his people, and his ancestors.
Max had not only been brought up with that idea as the chief element in his education, but he had also inherited it from two score generations of men and women that had learned, believed, and taught the same lesson. We may by effort efface the marks of our environment, but those we inherit are bred in the bone. Yolanda was not for Max. He could not control his heart; it took its inheritance of unbidden passion from a thousand scores of generations which had lived and died and learned their lesson centuries before the House of Hapsburg began; but he could control his lips and his acts.
With Max's growing love for Yolanda came a knightly reverence which was the very breath of the chivalry that he had sworn to uphold. This spirit of reverence the girl was quick to observe, and he lost nothing by it in her esteem. At times I could see that this reverential attitude of Max almost sobered her spirits; to do so completely would have been as impossible as to dam the current of a mountain stream.
On the evening of our first day out of Basel we were merrily eating our suppers in a village where we had halted for the night, when I remarked that I had met a man, while strolling near the river, who had said that war was imminent between Burgundy and Switzerland. My remark immediately caught Yolanda's sharp attention.
"Yes," said I, "we left Switzerland none too soon. This man tells me, on what authority I know not, that a herald will soon be sent by Duke Charles carrying defiance to the Swiss. What of value the duke expects to obtain from barren Switzerland outside of Basel, I do not know. Fighting for fighting's sake is poor sport."
"Forbear your wise saws, Sir Karl, and tell me what the man said," demanded Yolanda.
"He told me," I replied, "that he had heard the news at Metz, and that it was supposed Duke René would muster his forces in Lorraine and turn them against Burgundy in case of war with Switzerland."
"I predicted evil when Burgundy took Nancy from Lorraine," cried Yolanda, excitedly. "The hollow conventions made with Lorraine after the capture of that city were but the promises of a man under duress. The only ties that will bind a narrow man are those of immediate self-interest. There can be no lasting treaty between France and Burgundy so long as King Louis covets Flanders and is able to bribe our neighbors. These conventions between Burgundy, Lorraine, Bourbon, and St. Pol will hold only so long as Burgundy does not need them."
"That is surely true, Fräulein," I said.
"Yes," she continued, "and should Burgundy suffer any great misfortune or be crippled for an hour, those small states would be upon his back like a pack of wolves, and he would be ruined. Lorraine, Bourbon, and St. Pol do not see that Burgundy alone stands between them and the greedy maw of France. Should King Louis survive my--my Lord of Burgundy five years, these dukes and counts will lose their feudal rights and become servile vassals of France, not in name, as now they are, but in sorry fact."
I was so astonished at this tempestuous outburst from an unexpected quarter, and was so surprised at discovering an intimate knowledge of great affairs in a simple burgher maid, that I dropped the piece of meat I held in my fingers and stared in wonder across the table at Yolanda. I had known from the first hour of meeting her that the girl's mind was marvellously keen; but that a maid of seventeen or eighteen, in her position, should have so firm a grasp of international affairs and should possess so clear a conception of the troublous situation in western Europe, astounded me.
In eastern Europe, where we were not blinded by neighborly hatred and local jealousies, the truth of Yolanda's statement had long been apparent. We carried our prophecy further and predicted that the headlong passions of Charles the Rash would soon result in his death or overthrow.
My point in dragging in this heavy load of political lore is this: In case of the death of Charles of Burgundy, the future of western Europe would depend on the brains and the bravery of the man who should marry the Princess Mary. I felt that Max was chosen of God for that destiny. Should he succeed in defending Burgundy against France, he would become the most powerful man in Europe. No event save death could keep him from achieving the imperial crown.
If the existing treaty of marriage between Mary and the Dauphin of France were carried out, and if the Dauphin as king should possess one-half the wisdom of his father, Louis, all western Europe would soon be France. If this treaty were to fail and the Princess Mary espouse a man capable of defending her territory, Burgundy would still remain a wall of protection to the smaller states of the Rhine.
A long silence followed Yolanda's outburst, but her words had so astonished me that my supper for the evening was finished. Castleman plied his knife industriously; Yolanda nibbled at a piece of meat between her dainty fingers, and Twonette gazed serenely out of the open window.
Yolanda's words and Castleman's constraint filled me with wonder. There was to me a mystery about this little beauty that had not been touched on by my friend from Peronne. I hoped to gain information on the point by inducing Yolanda to talk. She was willing enough.
"Fräulein," I said, "I quite agree with you. It is a matter of surprise to me that these noblemen you mention do not see the truth as you state it."
"They are fools, Sir Karl, sodden fools," exclaimed Yolanda. "You could buy their souls for a sou. King Louis buys them with an empty promise of one."
"Why does not Duke Charles buy them?" I asked. "'Tis said he has enormous quantities of ready gold in Luxembourg Castle."
"Because, Sir Karl," she responded almost savagely, "bribery is the weapon of a coward. The Duke of Burgundy uses his money to pay soldiers."
"But, Fräulein," I answered, "the duke has for years--ever since before his father's death--been wasting his money, sacrificing his soldiers, and despoiling his land by wars, prosecuted to no good end. He has conquered large territory, but he has paid for it with the blood of his people. Neither they nor he are the better because of those accessions, and the duke has made enemies who will one day surely wrest them from him. A brave prince should not fear to be called a coward because of an act that will bring peace and happiness to his subjects and save their lives, their liberties, and their estates. That great end will ennoble any means. The subjects of Burgundy are frugal and peace-loving. They should be protected from the cruel cost of useless war. I would not criticise Duke Charles, whose bravery is beyond compare, but for the sake of his people I could wish that his boldness were tempered with caution. Policy, not blows, appears to me the only way out of his present and imminent danger."
"Perhaps you are right, Sir Karl," answered Yolanda, "but I advise you to keep your views to yourself when you reach Burgundy. Should they come to the duke's ears, you might lose yours."
"Indeed, Fräulein, your warning is unnecessary," I responded laughingly. "I already know the disposition of the duke toward those who disagree with him. His ungovernable passions will surely lead him to a terrible end. Bravery, if wise, is one of the noblest attributes of men. The lack of wisdom makes it the most dangerous. Duke Charles ought to temper his courage with love for his people. He should fight, when he must, with wise bravery. If he should die, God pity the poor people of Burgundy unless their princess choose a husband both wise and brave."
"But she will not be allowed to choose," cried Yolanda, passionately. "Her freedom is less than that of any serf. She is bound hand and foot by the chains of her birth. She is more to be pitied than the poorest maiden in Burgundy. The saddest of all captives is she who is chained to a throne."
"That surely is the bitterest draught fate offers to mortal man," sighed Max.
"Yes," whispered Yolanda, huskily. "One cannot rebel; one may not even kill one's self when one is condemned to live. One can do nothing but endure and wait in haunting fear and, in rare moments, hope against a million chances."
Evidently she meant us to know that she sorrowed for Max's martyrdom, though how she had learned of his true station in life I could not guess.
"It is strange," said I to Castleman, when Yolanda and Twonette had left us, "that Fräulein Yolanda, who seems to be all laughter and thoughtlessness, should be so well informed upon the affairs of princes and princesses, and should take this public matter so much to heart."
"Yes, she is a strange, unfortunate girl," answered Castleman, "and truly loves her native land. She would, I believe, be another Joan of Arc, had she the opportunity. She and her father do not at all agree. He wholly fails to comprehend her."
"Is her father your brother?" I asked. I felt a sense of impertinence in putting the question, but my curiosity was irresistible.
"Yes," answered Castleman, hesitatingly; then, as if hurrying from the subject, he continued, "Her mother is dead, and the girl lives chiefly under my roof."
I wanted to ask other questions concerning Yolanda, but I kept silent. I had begun to suspect that she was not what she passed for--a burgher girl; but Castleman was a straightforward, truthful man, and his words satisfied me. I had, at any rate, to be content with them, since Yolanda's affairs were none of mine. Had I not been sure that Max's training and inheritance gave him a shield against her darts, she and her affairs would have given me deep concern. At that time I had all the match-making impulses of an old woman, and was determined that no woman should step between Max and the far-off, almost impossible Princess of Burgundy.
When we resumed our journey the next morning Yolanda was demure, grave, and serious; but the bright sun soon had its way with her, and within a half-hour after leaving the village she was riding beside Max, laughing, singing, and flashing her eyes upon him with a lustre that dimmed the sun--at least, so Max thought, and probably he was right. That evening Max told me much of Yolanda's conversation.
The road we were travelling clung to the Rhine for several leagues. In many places it was cut from the bank at the water's edge. At others it ran along the brink of beetling precipices. At one of these Max guided his horse close to the brink, and, leaning over in his saddle, looked down the dizzy heights to the river below.
"Please do not ride so near the brink, Sir Max," pleaded Yolanda. "It frightens me."
Max had little of the braggadocio spirit about him, but no rightly constituted young man is entirely devoid of the desire to "show off" in the presence of timid and interesting ladies. Without that spirit of "show-off," what would induce our knights to meet in glorious tournaments? Without it, what would our chivalry amount to? Without it, why should a peacock spread its tail? I do not belittle it, since from this spirit of "show-off" arises one great good--respect for the opinion of our fellow-man. So Max, with a dash of "show-off" in his disposition, laughed at Yolanda's fears and answered that he was in no danger.
"It is very brave in you, Sir Max, to go so near the brink," said Yolanda, ironically, "but do you remember what Sir Karl said concerning 'wise bravery'? There can be no need for your bravery, and therefore no wisdom in it. Were there good reason why you should go near the brink, I should despise you if you refused; but there is no reason and, since it frightens me, I wish you would remain in the road."
"Gladly I will," answered Max, reining his horse beside her.
"Do you know," said Yolanda, with as much seriousness as she could easily command, "that your friend, Sir Karl, is a philosopher? His phrase, 'wise bravery,' clings to me. I certainly wish the Duke of Burgundy would learn it and take it to heart."
"I have heard many conflicting stories concerning this Duke Charles," said Max. "Some persons say he is all that is brave and noble; others declare that he is fierce, passionate, and bad. I wonder which I shall find him to be?"
"Do you expect to take service with him?" asked Yolanda, half sadly. At the mention of the duke's name all smiles and dimples fled incontinently.
"No," answered Max, "I think I shall not take service with the duke. In truth, I don't know what I shall do. For what purpose I am going to Burgundy I am sure I cannot say."
A short silence ensued, which was broken by Yolanda, speaking archly:--
"Perhaps you are going to Burgundy or to France to win the lady who gave you the ring?" Max was surprised, and flushed as he answered:--
"That would be an impossible thought, Fräulein. If you but knew who the lady is, you would understand that such a hope on my part were a phantasy. But I have no such hope or wish. I do not now want to win the lady of the ring."
"No, no, Sir Max," said Yolanda, protestingly, "you must not basely desert this lady-love whom you have never seen. If trouble should come to her, whoever she is, you must hasten to her rescue and carry her away. The best opportunity to rob, you know, comes in the midst of a mêlée. Take her, Sir Max. I wish you success."
"Do you really wish me success, Fräulein?" asked Max, looking straight ahead. He was not at all flattered by her good wishes concerning the lady of the ring.
"Indeed I do," responded the girl, joyously; "I will pray to the Virgin and ask her to help you to win this fair lady who gave you the ring."
"I thank you for your good wishes," returned Max, "though I could easily be satisfied with less enthusiasm on the subject."
"Indeed? Why, may I ask?"
"Because, Fräulein--because I had hoped--" Max ceased speaking, and, leaning forward, smoothed his horse's mane.
Yolanda waited for a moment and then, turning her face toward Max, asked:--
"You had hoped for what, Sir Max?"
"I had hoped for nothing, Fräulein," he answered. "I am satisfied as matters now stand between us. Your words at supper last evening rang in my ears all night, 'Chained to a throne; chained to a throne.' I knew you referred to my unhappy lot when you spoke, though how you guessed the truth concerning my station I do not know."
A surprised little smile spread over her face, but he did not see it. He was still smoothing his horse's mane.
"You cannot know the terrible truth of your words," continued Max. "I will tell you a part of my secret, Fräulein. All my life I have been cut off--chained to a throne--from the fellowship of men and the love of friends. Karl is the only friend I have ever known save my mother until I met you and your good people. Only the good God can know how I have longed and hungered since childhood for friendship; even for companionship. I did not know what I yearned for until since my arrival at Basel. Truly it is not good for man to be alone, even though he be upon a throne. I am not upon a throne, Fräulein, but I am near one--a small, barren throne, whose greatest attribute is its ancestry. My home is a sad, lonely place--how lonely even you, who have guessed so shrewdly and who speak so eloquently, cannot know. You should thank God for your lowly birth and your lowly friends."
"I do," the girl answered, with a queer, half-sad, half-amused expression upon her face which Max could not interpret.
"But we cannot break the chains that have been welded a thousand years--that have grown stronger and tighter with each generation," said Max. "You truthfully said, 'One may only endure.'"
"I also said that at rare moments one may hope," she answered, with drooping head.
"Not I, Fräulein. I may not even hope. I am doomed," answered Max.
"No, no, Sir Max," responded the drooping head.
After a prolonged silence Max said, "I am sure the secret of my station is safe with you."
"You need not doubt, Sir Max," she responded. "You cannot know how safe it is." She turned brightly upon him and continued, "Let me invoke my spirits, Sir Max." She raised her eyes, saint-fashion, toward heaven, and spoke under her breath: "I hear the word 'hope,' Sir Max, 'hope.' It is very faint, but better faint than not at all."
"I tell you there is no hope for me, Fräulein," responded Max, desperately. "It is cruel in you to say there is. It is doubly cruel to speak jestingly."
"I speak earnestly," said Yolanda. "There is hope. If you win the lady who gave you the ring, you will be happy. I do not jest."
"You do. You mock me," cried Max. "I tell you, Yolanda, there is in all the world no woman for me save--save one upon whom I may not think." Yolanda's face grew radiant, though tears moistened her eyes. "Even though it were possible for me to defy my parents, to turn my face against my country, my people, and the sacred traditions of my house, by asking her to share my life, there could be only wretchedness ahead for her, and therefore unhappiness for me. The dove and the eagle may not mate. Consider the fate of sweet Agnes Bernauer, who married Duke Albert and perished in the Danube. I tell you, Fräulein, I am hopeless. When I return to my people, I shall do so knowing that life thereafter will be something to endure, not a blessing to thank God for."
"No, no, Sir Max," murmured the girl, "you do not know."
Max turned upon her almost angrily:--
"A man knows when he lives; a man knows when he is dying, and a man, if he be worthy of the name, knows when he loves a woman. I am not sure that the sun shines, Fräulein, than I am that I shall not forget this woman nor cease to sorrow for her all the days of my life."
"You must not speak such words to me, Sir Max," said Yolanda, reprovingly. "I, too, must live and be happy if--if I can."
She turned her face away from Max and, touching her horse with her whip, passed a few feet ahead of him. If there were tears in her eyes, she did not wish Max to see them. After several minutes of silence he spurred his horse to her side.
"I did not intend to speak, Fräulein. I once said I would never speak again. I should not have spoken now, though I have told you only what you already know. I ask no favor in return, not even a touch from your hand."
"You shall have that at least, Sir Max," she answered, impulsively reining her horse close to Max and placing her hand in his.
"Still, you wish me to win the lady who sent me the ring?" asked Max.
"Yes," returned Yolanda, softly. "It will mean your happiness and mine--" Suddenly checking herself, she explained: "I shall be happy if you are. A man cannot know how happy a woman may be for another's sake."
I felt no desire to reprove Max when he told me of his day's adventure with Yolanda, since I could in no way remedy the evil. In fact, Max was growing out of my jurisdiction. He had listened to my lectures and advice since childhood and had taken them kindly, because my authority grew out of my love for him and his love for me. He was a boy when we left Styria, but he was a man when we were journeying down the Rhine. Though the confidential relations between us had grown closer, my advice was gradually taking the form of consultation. I did not seek his confidences, and he gave them more freely, if that were possible, than ever before. I did not offer my advice so readily, but he sought it more frequently. Max told me the sorrowful little story of the day, and I did not comment on it. I simply led him in another direction.
"Fräulein Yolanda's words have given me food for thought," I said. "So long as Duke Charles lives, there can be no union between Burgundy and Hapsburg; but at the pace he is travelling he will surely receive hiscoup de grâcebefore long, and I hope you will meet and know the princess before the tragedy occurs. Then declare yourself and back your claim with the duke's proposal, which has never been withdrawn. That the people of Burgundy hate France and this French marriage there can be no doubt. They are fools for so doing, but we may easily profit by their lack of wisdom. In the event of the duke's death the inclinations of the princess will be half the battle. So long as he lives they are no part of it. If, by the help of Twonette, you should be so fortunate as to meet the princess, our dream may be realized, and our house may become the greatest in Europe."
"I suppose you are right, Karl," answered Max. "You are always right; but I have no heart in this matter, and I hope nothing will come of it. I have never known you to be so cold-blooded as in this affair."
"If you are to be hot-blooded, or even warm-blooded, you must turn your back on your house and cast from you the duties and privileges of your birth," I observed.
"You are right," he answered irritably. "But it will be difficult for me to please one woman while thinking of another. Ah, Karl, I am growing tired of this Burgundian dream. Dream? It is almost a nightmare."
Max's words did not alarm me; he was "chained to a throne." He would not fail me if the hour of good fortune should come.
"Your thoughts of another woman will not stand in your way," I said. "Experience is more necessary in dealing with women than in any other of life's affairs, and this episode with Yolanda is what you need to prepare you for--for what I pray you may have to do."
"Karl, please do not talk of this--this--my feeling for Yolanda as an episode," he said, speaking almost angrily. "It is a part of my life, and will be my sorrow as long as I live."
The boy's anger warned me that if I would lead him, I must do it gently.
"I believe, Max, you speak truly," I said; "but it will not be an unmixed evil. Good will come of it, since the image of a pure woman injures no man's heart. It keeps him in the narrow way and guides his hand for righteousness."