I could not help hoping that Hymbercourt was mistaken in pointing out Her Highness. She rode in the shadow of the buildings and the moon was less than half full. Yolanda might have wished to deceive us by pointing out the princess while we watched the cavalcade from Castleman's garden. The burgher and Twonette might have been drawn into the plot against us by the impetuous will of this saucy little witch. Many things, I imagined, had happened which would have appeared absurd to a sane man--but I was not sane. I wished to believe that Yolanda was the princess, and I could not get the notion out of my head.
Yolanda's forwardness with Max, if she were Mary of Burgundy, could easily be explained on the ground that she was a princess, and was entitled to speak her mind. I was sure she was a modest girl, therefore, if she were of lowly birth, she would have hesitated to speak so plainly to Max. So, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I refused to be convinced that Yolanda was not Mademoiselle de Burgundy. I loved the thought so dearly that I could not and would not part with it. That night, while I lay pondering over the riddle, I determined to do no more guessing, and let the Fates solve it for me. They might give me the answer soon if I would "give it up."
The next evening we went to Castleman's house, but we did not see Yolanda. Frau Kate said she was indisposed, and we ate supper without her. It was a dull meal,--so much does a good appetite wait upon good company,--and for the first time I realized fully the marvellous quality of this girl's magic spell. Max, of course, was disappointed, and we walked back to The Mitre in silence.
MAX.
A day or two after the supper of the wren pie, Max bought from a pedler a gray falcon most beautifully marked, with a scarlet head and neck, and we sent our squires to Hymbercourt, asking him to solicit from the duke's seneschal, my Lord de Vergy, permission to strike a heron on the marshes. The favor was easily obtained, and we went forth that afternoon to try the new hawk.
The hours passed quickly. The hawk was perfectly trained, and as fierce as a mountain wildcat. Its combats in mid air were most exciting. It would attack its prey and drive it back to a point nearly over our heads. There it waged the battle of death. It had killed three herons, all of which had fallen at our feet, and we were returning home when a fourth rose from the marsh. We were on a side road or path, perhaps five hundred yards from the main highway.
At the moment Max gave wing to his bird, two ladies and three gentlemen came up the road, returning to Peronne, and halted to witness the aërial combat. That they were of the court, I could easily see by their habits, though the distance was so great that I could not distinguish their faces.
Never did hawk acquit itself more nobly. It seemed to realize that it had a distinguished audience. The heron opened the battle desperately, and persisted in keeping its course to the south. The hawk, not ready for battle till the prey should be over our heads, circled round and round the heron, constantly striking, but carefully avoiding thecoup de grace. After the birds had flown several hundred yards away from us, and were growing small in the distance, the heron, less hardy than its knightly foe, showed signs of weariness and confusion. It changed its course, still flying away from us. This did not suit the hawk, and it continued circling about its faltering prey with a vicious swiftness well calculated to inspire terror. Its movements became so rapid that it appeared to describe a gray circle about the heron. These circles, with the heron as the centre, constantly grew smaller, and after a time we could see that the birds were slowly but surely approaching us.
When they were almost over our heads, the hawk rose with incredible swiftness above its prey, and dropped like a bolt of gray lightning upon the heron. Then followed a struggle that lasted while the birds fell three hundred feet. When within fifty feet of the ground the hawk suddenly spread its wings and stood motionless in mid air, watching its vanquished foe as it fell to a spot within ten yards of where we stood. The movement of the falcon in descending to us can only be described as a settling or gradual sinking, with outstretched, motionless wings. When Max piped, the bird flew to its master's wrist and held down its beak for the hood.
At the close of the battle, the gentlemen of our little audience clapped their hands, and the ladies waved their kerchiefs. Max and I raised our caps and reined our horses toward the main road. As we approached, the ladies and one of the gentlemen resumed their journey toward Cambrai Gate, but the others awaited us. When we reached them we found, to our surprise, Duke Charles and my Lord d'Hymbercourt.
"Ah, it is our unknown knight who was so eager to fight Count Calli," exclaimed the duke.
"And still eager, Your Grace," answered Max. He uncovered upon approaching the duke, but after a moment said, "By Your Grace's leave," and resumed his cap. I, of course, remained uncovered. The duke showed surprise and irritation as he answered:--
"Since you do not see fit to tell us who you are, you should have the grace to remain uncovered."
Max glanced quickly at the duke's face, and removed his cap, as he answered, smiling:--
"If it pleases Your Grace, I will remain uncovered even though I be the Pope himself."
The duke saw the humor of the situation and replied:--
"One who owns so noble a hawk may remain covered in any man's presence. Never have I seen so rare a battle in mid air. The soul of Roland himself must inhabit the bird."
"Will Your Grace accept the hawk?" Max asked.
"Gladly," answered the duke, "though I hesitate to deprive you of a bird to which you must be attached."
"Do not hesitate to give me that pleasure, my lord," answered Max. "The bird is yours. His name is Caesar. I will send him to the castle this evening."
"Do not send him," suggested the duke. "Double your kindness by bringing him to-morrow at the noon hour, after the morning audience. We must now follow the princess. Adieu, messieurs."
The duke touched his cap, and we bent almost to our horses' manes.
Charles and Hymbercourt rode forward at a brisk canter, and Max and I followed slowly. We entered Cambrai Gate three or four minutes after the duke and the princess.
Max, eager to exhibit his hawk to Yolanda, proposed that we ride directly to Castleman's house.
While we were crossing the Cologne bridge we saw the duke's party enter the castle by the Postern, and as we turned a corner toward Castleman's the ladies looked in our direction and the gentlemen lifted their caps.
"Yolanda will be delighted when she sees my hawk," said Max.
I did not answer, but I thought that Yolanda would not see the bird that evening, since she had just entered the castle with her father. I was in great glee of spirits; I had at last trapped the young lady. If she were not at Castleman's house there could be but one answer to my riddle. I did not merely believe that I should not find her there; I knew I should not.
Max and I hitched our horses, and when Castleman's front door opened, lo! there stood Yolanda. Never in all my life have I taken such a fall.
Somewhat out of breath, Yolanda exclaimed:--
"Ah, Sir Max and Sir Karl, I saw you coming and ran to give you welcome."
She was in an ecstasy of glee, strangely out of proportion to the event, and there was a look of triumph in her eyes.
After we entered the house Yolanda's laughter continued, and if it ceased for a moment it broke out again without a pretext. She was always pleased to see Max, and never failed to show her pleasure in laughter more or less; but Max's presence could hardly account for her high merriment and the satisfaction she seemed to feel, as if a great victory had been gained. My sense of utter defeat had nothing but Yolanda's peculiar conduct to comfort it.
To the arbor we went, Yolanda carrying the hawk on her shoulder and caressing it with her cheek. In the garden, when our adventures were related, Yolanda, all excitement, could not keep her chair, but danced delightedly like a child and killed a score of imaginary herons.
She stroked the falcon's wings, and when I said, "My lord the duke has graciously consented to accept the bird," she turned upon Max, exclaiming in mock anger:--
"The duke has graciously consented to accept the bird! I should think it required little grace to accept such a gift, though much to give it. Why don't you give the bird to me, Sir Max, if you are eager to part with it?"
"I would gladly have given it to you, Fräulein," answered Max, "had I supposed you could use it on the duke's marshes. Only nobles practise the royal sport of falconry."
Yolanda glanced quickly from Max to Castleman, turned her face to the bird upon her shoulder, and said, with a touch of dignity:--
"We receive small favors from court once in a while, don't we, uncle? We are not dirt under the nobles' feet, if we are plain burgher folk, are we, uncle?"
"Don't you know, Fräulein, what great pleasure I should have taken in giving you the bird?" asked Max.
Yolanda bent her head to one side, placed her cheek against the falcon's wing and pouted. Her pout was prettier even than her smile, and that is saying a great deal.
After a few minutes Yolanda started to walk up the garden path and Max followed her, leaving the Castlemans and me under the arbor. Yolanda, still pouting, carried Caesar on her shoulder, lavishing caresses on the bird that excited Max's bitterest envy. Max spoke at intervals, but she answered only to the bird. After many futile efforts to make her speak, he said:--
"If you won't talk to me, I'll go back to the arbor."
She turned to the bird: "We are willing, Caesar, aren't we--if he can go."
Max laughed and started toward the arbor.
"Tell him to come back, Caesar. Tell him to come back," exclaimed Yolanda.
"I take no orders from a bird," declared Max, with pretended seriousness. Then she turned toward him and her face softened. She smiled and the dimples came, though there was a nervous tremor in the upturned corners of her mouth that belied her bantering air and brought Max quickly to her side. I saw the pantomime, though I did not hear the words; and I knew that neither Max nor any other man could withstand the quivering smile that played upon Yolanda's lips and the yearning invitation that was in her eyes. If Max did not soon take himself away from Burgundy and lead himself out of this temptation, I feared that in the end he would cast aside his ancient heritage, rend his sacred family ties, and forego everything he possessed in response to this mighty cry of nature, offering the one chance in life for happiness.
"Now you will give me the bird--I know you will," exclaimed Yolanda.
A remnant of the pout still hovered about her lips, doing battle with the dimples of a smile.
"I have already given him to the duke," answered Max.
"Tell the duke the bird escaped, or died suddenly of an apoplexy. Tell him anything you like, but give me the hawk," said Yolanda.
"Would you have me lie, Fräulein?" asked Max, amused at her persistency. "I cannot do that, even for you. If you insist upon having the bird, I may go to the duke and withdraw my gift."
"Would you do that for me, Sir Max?" she asked, eagerly.
"Ay, and a great deal more, Fräulein. I tremble at the thought of what you could make me do," he answered.
"In the fiend's name, let the duke have the bird," cried Yolanda. "He will pout more than I if you don't. He is of a sullen nature."
"Do you know the duke?" asked Max, suspecting for the first time that Yolanda might be more intimate about the court than he had supposed.
"I have heard much of him from those who know him," answered Yolanda.
So the duke got Caesar.
The next morning Hymbercourt came to the inn to accompany us to the castle. While we were sipping a mug of wine at a garden table, he said:--
"I do not want to be officious in your affairs, but I am convinced that it will be well for you to tell the duke who you are. If you do not see fit to do so, it were wise in you to leave Burgundy at your earliest convenience."
"I cannot leave within a month," said Max. I knew the cause of his detention, and, ignoring his remark, turned to Hymbercourt:--
"Do you want to give the reasons for your advice?"
"Yes, I am quite willing," he answered, "but I would not have my words repeated."
"Of that you may rest assured," I answered.
"If you do not tell the duke who you are," said Hymbercourt, "he will soon learn it from our Italian friends, who have the fiend's own energy in the pursuit of vengeance. They will discover who you are, and you will lose the advantage of a frank avowal. Duke Charles admires Sir Max, but our liege lord is capricious and can easily fancy that others are plotting to injure him. I am sure that he will now receive the Count of Hapsburg graciously if you tell him that Sir Max is that person. What he would do were he to learn the fact highly colored by his Italians, I cannot say. These mercenaries have a strange influence over His Grace, and there is not a nobleman in Burgundy who does not fear them."
"How will the duke feel concerning the old proposition of marriage?" I asked.
"That, I hope, will be of no moment now, since the duke is arranging for the immediate celebration of this marriage with the Dauphin. I am given to understand that His Grace, the Bishop of Cambrai, secretary to the duke, has received orders to draught a letter to King Louis expressing our lord's pleasure. King Louis is so eager for the marriage, which will once more bring Burgundy to the French kingship, that Duke Charles deems it sufficiently courteous to express his intentions to Louis, rather than to request the king's compliance. The duke's contempt for the king of France is so great that he causes the letter to be written in English, a language which Charles loves because of the English blood in his veins, and which Louis, with good reason, hates."
"Has this letter been despatched?" I asked, concealing as well as I could my deep concern.
Max heard Hymbercourt's statement without even a show of interest. Had he suspected that Hymbercourt was speaking of Yolanda's marriage, there surely would have been a demonstration.
"No," answered Hymbercourt, "the letter has not been sent, but the duke will despatch it at once. It will probably be the chief business of this morning's audience. The duke wants the marriage celebrated before he leaves for Switzerland. That will be within three or four weeks. I am not informed as to the details of the ceremony, but I suppose the princess will be taken to St. Denis, and will there be married. The unfortunate princess, doubtless, has not yet been told of her impending fate, though she may have heard of it by rumor. There will be tears and trouble when she learns of it, for she has a strong dash of her father's temper. But--" He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that her tears would count for nothing.
Hymbercourt's words took the heart out of me; and when he left us for a moment, I urged Max to leave Burgundy at once.
"I must see Yolanda and ask her to release me from my promise before I go," he said.
"You are surely not so weak as to allow a burgher girl to hold you?" I asked.
"The girl does not hold me," he answered. "I was so weak as to give my promise, and that holds me."
"She will give you your release if you demand it," I suggested.
"If she does, I will go with you to-morrow. It is time that we were out of Burgundy. I will forego even my combat with Calli to get away. I should not have given Yolanda my promise; but she is so persuasive, and I pity her, and--and, oh! Karl, I--the trouble is, I love her, and it is like death to part from her forever. That is my weakness."
The poor, suffering boy leaned forward on the table and buried his face in his arms.
"That isn't your weakness, Max, it's your strength," I responded. "Few men are so unfortunate as to escape it. God must pity those who do. It may be well to tell the duke who you are. If he is displeased, we may leave Burgundy at once. If he receives you graciously, we may remain and you may fight this Calli. That is the one duty that holds you in Peronne."
My heart was hardened with years, and its love of just vengeance was stronger than young Max could feel. Besides, he was possessed by a softer passion; and though he felt it his pleasant duty to fight Calli, vengeance held second place in his breast.
Hymbercourt returned, and we started for the castle accompanied by our squires; all riding in fine state.
We arrived at the great hall before the duke had arisen from the morning audience, and waited unobserved in the back part of the chamber. Our Irish squire, Michael, carried Caesar, hooded and belled. He was held by a golden chain that we had bought from a goldsmith, notwithstanding our purse was growing dangerously light.
There was a great stir in the hall as we entered. The courtiers were buzzing like a swarm of bees discussing a new queen. Evidently matters of importance had been under consideration. Campo-Basso, my Lord de Vergy, seneschal of Burgundy, and the Bishop of Cambrai, clerk to the duke, were standing on the second step of the dais, each with hand resting on knee, and leaning eagerly toward the duke. Charles and these councillors were speaking in low tones, and the courtiers of less degree were taking advantage of the intermission in public business to settle the great question among themselves. Each petty courtier felt that he could offer a suggestion that would be of great value, could he but gain the duke's ear.
After a little time, Charles saw Hymbercourt with us, and sent a page to fetch him. Hymbercourt left us, and soon we saw him in whispered conversation with the duke. Soon after Hymbercourt had gone to the ducal throne, Calli, with two Italians, stopped four paces from where we were standing. He gazed insolently at Max, and said in Italian to his companions:--
"There is the loutish outlander, who boasted before the duke that he would fight me. He is a big callow fellow, and it would be a shame to stick the swine."
Max, who understood the Italian language sufficiently to grasp Calli's meaning, flushed angrily, but I touched his arm and he turned his back upon the fellow. Then I spoke in tones that Calli could not fail to hear:--
"Never turn your face from a cowardly foe, Max. He will, if he can, stab you in the back. Your revenge will come when you send his soul to hell."
Calli grasped his dagger hilt and muttered something about the duke's presence. The incident determined us in the course Max should take. He should tell the duke who he was, remain in Burgundy to kill this fellow Calli, and to meet such other fortune as the Fates might have in store for him.
Hymbercourt and the duke spoke together for the space of five minutes, evidently discussing a parchment that Charles held in his hand. Then the duke resumed his seat, and handed the parchment to the Bishop of Cambrai, when all save His Reverence stepped from the dais to the floor. A herald commanded silence, and the bishop spoke:--
"It is the will of our most gracious lord that I announce to the court the impending marriage of Her Grace, the Princess, Mademoiselle de Burgundy, to the princely Dauphin of France, son to our lord's royal ally, King Louis. His Grace of Burgundy hopes within three weeks to open his campaign against the Swiss, and it is his intention to cause the marriage ceremony to take place before his departure. When the details have been arranged, they will be announced to the court."
The bishop had barely stopped speaking when the shutter in the chancel of the ladies' gallery above the throne opened, and a voice rang through the vast audience hall, like the tones of an alarm bell:--
"Make one more announcement, please, my Lord Bishop. Say that if this wondrous ceremony is to come off within three weeks, the Dauphin of France must be content with a dead bride."
No one saw the face of the speaker. The shutter closed, and a deep silence fell upon the room. The duke sprang angrily to his feet; his face was like a thunder-cloud. He looked toward the ladies' gallery, and stood for a moment like the incarnation of wrath. A puzzled expression followed the glare of anger; and within a moment he laughed, and waved his hands to the heralds, directing them to cry the rising. The audience was dismissed, and the courtiers left the hall, laughing in imitation of their lord and master.
Nothing could be more indicative of cruelty than the laughter that followed the passionate protest of the unhappy princess. To the duke, and of course to his courtiers, the girl's suffering and the fate that was in store for her were mere matters of mirth. They laughed at her pain as savages laugh at the agonies of a tortured victim.
I was so startled by the cry of the princess that for a time I could not think coherently. My first clear thought was of Yolanda. If she were the princess, this sacrifice that is practised without a protest throughout the world had come home to me, for Yolanda had nestled in my heart. That she, the gentle, the tender, the passionate, the sensitive, should be the victim of this legalized crime; that she, innocent of all fault, save that she had been born a girl, should be condemned to misery because the laws of chivalry and the laws of God, distorted by men to suit their purposes, declared her to be the chattel of her father, moved me as I was never moved before. My sympathy for this rare, sweet girl, so capable of joy, so susceptible to pain, almost brought tears to my eyes; for I could not help thinking that she was the suffering princess.
When the courtiers had left the great hall Hymbercourt, Max, and I approached the duke. Hymbercourt and I made obeisance on bended knee, but Max saluted the duke with a low bow. After the duke had spoken, Max said:--
"I hope Your Grace has not forgotten your promise to honor me by accepting the falcon you admired yesterday."
"I have not, my unknown friend," answered the duke.
Max took the bird from Michael and offered it to Charles, who accepted the gift graciously. I looked toward Hymbercourt and he, understanding my unspoken word, again bent his knee before the duke:--
"My gracious lord, it is the desire of this young knight that he be presented to you in due form under his own name and title, though he would humbly ask that he be permitted to retain the name by which he is known in Burgundy. His reasons for so doing are good, though they would not interest Your Grace. Have I my lord's permission to present him?"
"In God's name, yes!" exclaimed the duke, stirred by some irritation, but spurred by curiosity.
"My lord," said Hymbercourt, speaking to the duke and extending his hand toward Max, "it is my great honor to present to Your Grace his highness, Maximilian, Count of Hapsburg."
"By the just God, my lord, you certainly have given us a surprise," said the duke, stepping back and making no offer of his hand to Max. He passed the falcon to a page, and continued, "What business have these men at my court?"
"None, Your Grace, absolutely none," answered Max, standing proudly before the duke and steadfastly meeting his gaze. "It was my desire to see the world and to learn something of its people before I undertook to govern my own. My country is not rich and fat like this great land of Burgundy. I have neither the means nor the inclination to travel in state; so my dear friend and instructor, Sir Karl de Pitti, undertook to guide me and teach me in this journey to the outer world. I would rather have missed seeing all other countries than Burgundy, and of all the princes of the world Your Grace was and is to me the most interesting. Your hand is the strongest, your courage the bravest, and your land the richest in Europe. We heard at Metz that you were here in Peronne; and now, my lord, you understand what business I have in Burgundy."
I had never given the boy credit for so much adroitness. What the duke's intentions were, immediately after Hymbercourt presented Max, I could not have told, but his words sounded ominous, and the expression of his face was anything but pleasant. Max, though not quarrelsome, was not given to the soft answer that turneth away wrath; but on this occasion discretion came to his rescue, and he made the soft answer with a dignity and boldness that won Charles's respect. The duke's face softened into a half-smile,--if anything so hard as his face can be said to soften,--and he offered his hand to Max. He withdrew it almost instantly from Max's grasp, and said:--
"Are you sure my armament against Switzerland is no part of the reason for your presence in Burgundy?" Like all highly pugnacious men, he was suspicious. "I have been told your father is a friend to the Swiss."
"Does Your Grace mean to ask if I am here in the capacity of a spy, as Calli has charged?" asked Max, lifting his head and looking boldly into the duke's face.
"I do not know," said the duke, hesitatingly. "I do not say you are. I do not think you are, but--"
"I am glad Your Grace does not think we are spies, and am pleased to believe that you would not put so great an insult upon us," answered Max, "else we should ask permission to leave Burgundy at once. I am sure my lord knows we are not spies. If Your Lordship had a son, would you send him forth as a spy for the sake of Burgundy? Much less would you do it for another land. Your Grace is misinformed. My father is not a friend to the Swiss; neither does he hate them, though perhaps he has better cause to do so than has Your Grace. Your quarrel with the Swiss is over a few cart-loads of sheepskins. These same Swiss took from my father our ancient homestead, the old Castle of Hapsburg, and the surrounding territory of Aargau."
"I have heard of the spoliation, and have often wondered at your father's meek submission," said the duke, with an almost imperceptible sneer. Like Richard the Lion-hearted, of England, butchery was this duke's trade, and he despised a man who did not practise it on all possible occasions. A pretext for a quarrel is balm to the soul of a hero.
"The mountains of Switzerland, my lord, are the graveyard of foreign soldiers," Max replied. "Old Hapsburg Castle is a mere hawks' crag, as its name implies, and the half-score of mountain peaks my father lost with it are not worth the life of his humblest subject. He loves his people, and would not shed their blood to soothe his wounded pride. The man who makes war should fight in the front rank."
"There is where I fight, young sir," returned Charles.
"The world knows that fact, my lord," responded Max. "My father cannot fight at the head of his army, therefore, he makes war only in defence of his people's hearths. It is possible that after consulting with my friend, Sir Karl, I may ask the honor of serving with Your Grace against these Swiss who despoiled my house. Is Your Grace now satisfied that we are not Swiss spies? And are we welcome to sojourn for a time in Peronne? Or shall we leave Burgundy and return to my father in Styria, to tell him that you turned a guest and a friend from your door?"
"You are very welcome, Sir Count, and you, Sir Karl," answered the duke, giving his right hand to Max and familiarly offering me his left. This hard duke had been beaten into a gracious mood by Max's adroit mixture of flattery and boldness.
A soft answer may turn away wrath, but it may also involve the disagreeable necessity of turning the other cheek. If it be not tempered by spirit, it is apt to arouse contempt. The duke remained silent for the space of a minute or two. He was evidently struggling to suppress a good impulse. Then he turned to me and said, laughingly:--
"By my soul, Sir Karl, you have brought us a Roland and a Demosthenes in one. Where learned you your oratory, Sir Count?"
"From a just cause, my lord," quickly retorted Max.
"I fear I have had the worst of this encounter, Hymbercourt," said the duke, smiling, "and I see nothing left for me but apology."
"I sincerely hope Your Grace will not embarrass us by apologizing," said Max.
Charles hesitated, gave a short laugh, and apologized by placing his hand on Max's shoulder.
"Let us go into the little parley room," he said "Hymbercourt, lead the way with Sir Max; Sir Karl and I will follow presently."
Max and Hymbercourt passed out at a small door near the throne, and the duke turned to me:--
"I like the boy's modest boldness, and I hope that I may induce him and you to accompany me against the Swiss. I would not accept his offer made on the spur of the moment, but if, on talking it over with him, you make up your minds to come with me, I will make it well worth your while. This war will be but a May-day outing. We'll speak on the subject again. Meantime, I understand that you and Sir Max wish to remain incognito at Peronne?"
"We do, Your Grace," I responded. "I fear it will be impossible to accept the honor you have offered, but, as you have graciously said, we will, if you wish, speak of it again."
"I am content," said the duke. "Let us follow Hymbercourt."
The duke and I passed through the door by which Max and Hymbercourt had left the hall, and entered a narrow passageway eight or ten yards long, having two doors at the farther end. The door to the right, I soon learned, led to the little parley room where Max and Hymbercourt had gone. The door to the left opened into a staircase that led to the apartments of the duchess. A narrow flight of stone steps that led from the ladies' gallery opened into the passage, and, just as the duke entered in advance of me, two ladies emerged from the stairs. They did not see me in the shadow, and supposed that the duke was alone. The taller, who I soon learned was the duchess, hastened down the passage and through the door leading to her apartments. The smaller I at once recognized. She was Yolanda.
"Father, you cannot mean to send me into France," she cried, trying to detain the duke. "Kill me, father, if you will, but do not send me to that hated land. I shall not survive this marriage a fortnight, and if I die, Burgundy will go to our cousin of Bourbon."
"Don't hinder me, daughter," returned the duke, impatiently. "Don't you see we are not alone?"
Yolanda turned in surprise toward me, and the duke said:--
"Go by the right door, Sir Karl. I will be with you at once. I wish to speak with the duchess."
He hurriedly followed his wife and left me alone with Yolanda.
"Fräulein, my intrusion was unintentional," I stammered. "I followed the duke at his request."
"Fräulein!" exclaimed the girl, lifting her head and looking a very queen in miniature. "Fräulein! Do you know, sir, to whom you speak?"
"I beg your pardon, most gracious princess," I replied. "Did you not command me to address you as Fräulein or Yolanda?"
"My name, sir, is not Yolanda. You have made a sad mistake," said the princess, drawing herself up to her full height. Then I thought of Yolanda's words when she told me that she resembled the princess as one pea resembles another.
The girl trembled, and even in the dim light I could see the gleam of anger in her eyes. I was endeavoring to frame a suitable apology when she spoke again:--
"Fräulein! Yolanda! Sir, your courtesy is scant to give me these names. I do not know you, and--did I not tell you that if you made this mistake with the princess you would not so easily correct it? That I--you--Blessed Virgin! I have betrayed myself. I knew I should. I knew I could not carry it out."
She covered her face with her hands and began to weep, speaking while she sobbed:--
"My troubles are more than I can bear."
I wished to reassure her at once:--
"Most Gracious Princess--Yolanda--your secret is safe with me. You are as dear to me as if you were my child. You have nestled in my heart and filled it as completely as one human being can fill the heart of another. I would gladly give my poor old life to make you happy. Now if you can make use of me, I am at your service."
"You will not tell Sir Max?" she sobbed.
She was no longer a princess. She was the child Yolanda.
"As I hope for salvation, no, I will not tell Sir Max," I responded.
"Sometime I will give you my reasons," she said.
"I wish none," I replied.
After a short pause, she went on, still weeping gently:--
"If I must go to France, Sir Karl, you may come there to be my Lord Chamberlain. Perhaps Max should not come, since I shall be the wife of another, and--and there would surely be trouble. Max should not come."
She stepped quickly to my side. Her hand fell, and she grasped mine for an instant under the folds of her cloak; then she ran from the passage, and I went to the room where Max and Hymbercourt were waiting.
After a few moments the duke joined us. Wine was served, but Charles did not drink. On account of the excessive natural heat of his blood he drank nothing but water. His Grace was restless; and, although there was no lack of courtesy, I fancied he did not wish us to remain. So after our cups were emptied I asked permission to depart. The duke acquiesced by rising, and said, turning to Max:--
"May we not try our new hawk together this afternoon?"
"With pleasure, Your Grace," responded Max.
"Then we'll meet at Cambrai Gate near the hour of two," said the duke.
"I thank Your Grace," said Max, bowing.
On our way back to the inn, I told Max of my meeting with the princess, and remarked upon her resemblance to Yolanda.
"You imagined the resemblance, Karl. There can be but one Yolanda in the world," said Max. "Her Highness, perhaps, is of Yolanda's complexion and stature,--so Yolanda has told me,--and your imagination has furnished the rest."
"Perhaps that is true," said I, fearing that I had already spoken too freely.
So my great riddle was at last solved! The Fates had answered when I "gave it up." I was so athrill with the sweet assurance that Yolanda was the princess that I feared my secret would leap from my eyes or spring unbidden from my lips.
I cast about in my mind for Yolanda's reasons in wishing to remain Yolanda to Max, and I could find none save the desire to win his heart as a burgher girl. That, indeed, would be a triumph. She knew that every marriageable prince in Europe coveted her wealth and her estates. The most natural desire that she or any girl could have would be to find a worthy man who would seek her for her own sake. As Yolanda, she offered no inducement save herself. The girl was playing a daring game, and a wise one.
True, there appeared to be no possibility that she could ever have Max for her husband, even should she win his heart as Yolanda. In view of the impending and apparently unavoidable French marriage, the future held no hope. But when her day of wretchedness should come, she would, through all her life, take comfort from the sweetest joy a woman can know--that the man she loved loved her because she was her own fair self, and for no other reason. There would, of course, be the sorrow of regret, but that is passive, while the joy of memory is ever active.
When Max and I had departed, the duke turned to Hymbercourt and said:--
"The bishop's letter is not sufficiently direct. It is my desire to inform King Louis that this marriage shall take place at once--now!Now! It will effectually keep Louis from allying with Bourbon and Lorraine, or some other prince, while I am away from home. They all hate me, but not one of the cowards would say 'Booh!' unless the others were back of him. A word from Louis would kindle rebellion in Liege and Ghent. This war with Switzerland is what Louis has waited for; and when I march to the south, he will march into Burgundy from the west unless he has a counter motive."
"That is but too true, my lord," said Hymbercourt.
"But if my daughter marries the Dauphin, Louis will look upon Burgundy as the property of the French kingship in the end, and the marriage will frighten Bourbon and Lorraine to our feet once more. This hypocrite, Louis, has concocted a fine scheme to absorb Burgundy into his realm by this marriage with my daughter. But I'll disappoint his greed. I'll whisper a secret in your ear, Hymbercourt,--a secret to be told to no one else. I'll execute this treaty of marriage now, and will use my crafty foe for my own purposes so long as I need him; but when I return from Switzerland, I will divorce my present duchess and take a fruitful wife who will bear me a son to inherit Burgundy; then King Louis may keep the girl for his pains."
The duke laughed, and seemed to feel that he was perpetrating a great joke on his rival.
"But your brother-in-law, Edward of England, may object to having his sister divorced," suggested Hymbercourt.
"In that case we'll take a page from King Louis' book," answered Charles. "We'll use gold, Hymbercourt, gold! I shall not, however, like Louis, buy Edward's ministers! They are too expensive. I'll put none of my gold in Hastings's sleeve. I'll pension Shore's wife, and Edward will not trouble himself about his sister. He prefers other men's sisters. Do not fear, Hymbercourt; the time has come to meet Louis' craft with craft."
"And Your Grace's unhappy daughter is to be the shuttlecock, my lord?" suggested Hymbercourt.
"She will serve her purpose in the weal of Burgundy, as I do. I give my life to Burgundy. Why should not this daughter of mine give a few tears? But her tears are unreasonable. Why should she object to this marriage? Even though God should hereafter give me a son, who should cut the princess out of Burgundy, will she not be queen of France? What more would the perverse girl have? By God, Hymbercourt, it makes my blood boil to hear you, a man of sound reason, talk like a fool. I hear the same maudlin protest from the duchess. She, too, is under the spell of this girl, and mourns over her trumped-up grief like a parish priest at a bishop's funeral."
"But, my lord, consider the creature your daughter is to marry," said Hymbercourt. "He is but a child, less than fourteen years of age, and is weak in mind and body. Surely, it is a wretched fate for your daughter."
"I tell you the girl is perverse," interrupted the duke. "She would raise a storm were the Dauphin a paragon of manliness. He is a poor, mean wretch, whom she may easily rule. His weakness will be her advantage. She is strong enough, God knows, and wilful enough to face down the devil himself. If there is a perverse wench on all the earth, who will always have her own way by hook or by crook, it is this troublesome daughter of mine. She has the duchess wound around her finger. I could not live with them at Ghent, and sent them here for the sake of peace. When she is queen of France she will also be king of that realm--and in God's name what more could the girl ask?"
"But, my lord, let me beg you to consider well this step before you take it. I am sure evil will come of it," pleaded Hymbercourt.
"I have considered," answered the duke. "Let me hear no more of this rubbish. Two women dinning it into my ears morning, noon, and night are quite enough for my peace of mind. I hear constantly, 'Dear father, don't kill me. Spare your daughter,' and 'Dear my lord, I beg you not to sacrifice the princess, whom I so love.' God's mercy! I say I am tired of it! This marriage shall take place at once! Now, now, now, do you hear, Hymbercourt? Tell the bishop to write this letter in English. We will make the draught as bitter as possible for Louis. He hates the sight of an English word, and small wonder. Direct the bishop to make the letter short and to the point. Tell him to say the marriage shall take placenow. Have him use the wordnow. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord," answered Hymbercourt.
"Order him to fetch the missive immediately to the apartments of the duchess. It shall be read, signed, and despatched in the presence of my daughter and my wife, so that they may know what they have to expect. I'll see that I'm bothered no more with their tears and their senseless importunities."
"I'll carry out your instructions," said Hymbercourt, bowing and taking his leave.
The duke went to his wife's parlor and fell moodily into a chair. The duchess was sitting on a divan, and the princess was weeping in her arms. After a long silence, broken only by Mary's half-smothered sobs, the duke turned sharply upon the women:--
"For the love of God, cease your miserable whimpering," growled his lordship. "Is not my life full of vexations without this deluge of tears at home? A whimpering woman will do more to wear out the life of a man than a score of battling enemies. Silence, I say; silence, you fools!"
Mary and the duchess were now unable to control themselves. Charles rose angrily and, with his clenched hand raised for a blow, strode across the room to the unhappy women. Clinging to each other, the princess and Duchess Margaret crouched low on the divan. Then this great hero, whom the world worships and calls "The Bold," bent over the trembling women and upbraided them in language that I will not write.
"God curse me if I will have my life made miserable by a pair of fools," cried the duke. "I am wretched enough without this useless annoyance. Enemies abroad and disobedience in my own family will drive me mad!"
The women slipped from the divan to the floor at the duke's feet, and clung to each other. The duchess covered the princess to protect her from the duke's blow, and, alas! took it herself. Charles stepped back, intending to kick his daughter, but the duchess again threw herself on Yolanda and again received the blow. By that time the duke's fury was beyond all measure, and he stooped to drag his wife from Yolanda that he might vent his wrath upon the sobbing girl. The duchess, who was a young, strong woman, sprang to her feet and placed herself between Yolanda, lying on the floor, and the infuriated duke.