THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY.
"You shall not touch the child, my lord!" cried the duchess. "Though she is your child, you shall not touch her if I can help it. Twice, my lord, you have almost killed your daughter in your anger, and I have sworn to prevent a recurrence of your brutality or to die in my attempt to save her."
She snatched a dagger from her bosom, and spoke calmly: "Now come, my lord; but when you do so, draw your dagger, for, by the Virgin, I will kill you if you do not kill me, before you shall touch that girl. Before you kill me, my lord, remember that my brother of England will tear you limb from limb for the crime, and that King Louis will gladly help him in the task. Come, my husband! Come, my brave lord! I am but a weak woman. You may easily kill me, and I will welcome death rather than life with you. When I am out of the way, you may work your will on your daughter. Because I am your wife, my brother has twice saved you from King Louis. You owe your domain and your life to me. I should sell my life at a glorious price if my death purchased your ruin. Come, my lord!"
The duke paused with his hand on his dagger; but he knew that his wife's words were true, and he realized that his ruin would follow quickly on the heels of her death.
"You complain that the world and your own family are against you, my lord," said the duchess. "It is because you are a cruel tyrant abroad and at home. It is because you are against the world and against those whom you should protect and keep safe from evil. The fault is with you, Charles of Burgundy. You have spoken the truth. The world hates you, and this girl--the tenderest, most loving heart on earth--dreads you as her most relentless enemy. If I were in your place, my lord, I would fall upon my sword."
Beaten by his wife's just fury, this great war hero walked back to his chair, and the duchess tenderly lifted Mary to the divan.
"He will not strike you, child," said Margaret. Then she fell to kissing Yolanda passionately, and tears came to her relief.
Poor Yolanda buried her face in her mother's breast and tried to smother her sobs. Charles sat mumbling blasphemous oaths. At the expiration of half an hour, a page announced the Bishop of Cambrai and other gentlemen. The duke signified that they were to be admitted; and when the bishop entered the room, Charles, who was smarting from his late defeat, spoke angrily:--
"By the good God, my Lord Bishop, you are slow! Does it require an hour to write a missive of ten lines? If you are as slow in saving souls as in writing letters, the world will go to hell before you can say a mass."
"The wording was difficult, Your Grace," replied the bishop obsequiously. "The Lord d'Hymbercourt said Your Grace wished the missive to be written in English, which language my scrivener knows but imperfectly. After it was written I received Your Lordship's instructions to use the word 'now,' so I caused the letter to be rewritten that I might comply with your wishes."
"Now" is a small word, but in this instance it was a great one for Yolanda, as you shall soon learn.
"Cease explaining, my Lord Bishop, and read me the missive," said the duke, sullenly.
The bishop unfolded the missive, which was in a pouch ready for sealing. Yolanda stopped sobbing that she might hear the document that touched so closely on her fate. Her tear-stained face, with its childlike pathos, but served to increase her father's anger.
"Read, my Lord Bishop! Body of me, why stand you there like a wooden quintain?" exclaimed the duke. "By all the gods, you are slow! Read, I say!"
"With pleasure, my lord," answered the bishop.
/# "To His Majesty, King Louis of France, Charles, Duke of Burgundy and Count of Charolois, sends this Greeting:--
"His Grace of Burgundy would recommend himself to His Majesty of France, and would beg to inform the most puissant King Louis that the said Charles, Duke of Burgundy, will march at the head of a Burgundian army within three weeks from the date of these presents, against the Swiss cantons, with intent to punish the said Swiss for certain depredations. Therefore, the said Charles, Duke of Burgundy and Count of Charolois, begs that His Majesty of France will now move toward the immediate consummation of the treaty existing between Burgundy and France, looking to the marriage of the Princess Mary, Mademoiselle de Burgundy, with the princely Dauphin, son to King Louis; and to these presents said Charles, Duke of Burgundy, requests the honor of an early reply.
"We recommend Your Majesty to the protection of God, the Blessed Virgin, and the Saints." #/
"Words, words, my Lord Bishop," said Charles. "Why waste them on a graceless hypocrite?"
"I thought only to be courteous," returned the bishop.
"Why should we show King Louis courtesy?" asked the duke. "Is it because we give him our daughter to be the wife of his bandy-shanked, half-witted son? There is small need for courtesy, my Lord Bishop. We could not insult this King Louis, should we try, while he sees an advantage to be gained. Give me the letter, and I will sign it, though I despise your whimpering courtesy, as you call it."
Charles took the letter, and, going to a table near a window, drew up a chair.
"Give me a quill," he said, addressing the bishop. "Did you not bring one, my lord?"
"Your Grace--Your Grace," began the bishop, apologetically.
"Do you think I am a snivelling scrivener, carrying quill and ink-well in my gown?" asked the duke. "Go to your parlor and fetch ink and quill," said Charles, pointing with the folded missive toward Yolanda.
"A page will fetch the quill and ink, my lord," suggested the duchess.
"Go!" cried the duke, turning angrily on the princess. Yolanda left the room, weeping, and hastened up the long flight of steps to her parlor. It was the refinement of cruelty in Charles to send Yolanda for the quill with which he was to sign the instrument of her doom.
Still weeping, Yolanda hurried back with the writing materials, but before entering the room she stopped at the door to dry her tears and stay her sobs. When she entered, she said:--
"There is the quill, father, and there is the ink."
She placed them before the duke and stood trembling with one hand on the table. After a moment she spoke in a voice little above a whisper:--"You will accomplish nothing, my lord, my father, by sending the letter. I shall die before this marriage can take place. I am willing to obey you, but, father, I shall die. Ah, father, pity me."
She fell upon her knees before the duke and tried to put her hands about his shoulders. He repulsed her, and, taking up the quill, signed the letter. After he had affixed his signature and had sealed the missive with his private seal, he folded the parchment and handed it to the bishop, saying:--
"Seal the pouch, my lord, and send Byron, the herald, here to receive our personal instructions."
"The herald has not yet returned from Cambrai, my lord," said De Vergy, who stood near by. "He is expected between the hours of five and six this evening."
"Leave the letter, my lord," said Charles, "and send Byron to me when he arrives. I shall be here at six o'clock to give him full instructions."
The letter was deposited in a small iron box on the table, and the duke left the room, followed closely by the lords and pages.
Yolanda and her stepmother remained on the divan in silence for fully an hour after the duke had left. The duchess was first to speak.
"Be resigned, sweet one, to your fate. It is one common to women. It was my hard fate to be compelled to marry your father. It was your mother's, poor woman, and it killed her. God wills our slavery, and we must submit. We but make our fate harder by fighting against it."
Yolanda answered with convulsive sobs, but after a while she grew more calm.
"Is there nothing I can do to save myself?" she asked.
"No, sweet one," answered the duchess.
"Has God put a curse upon women, mother?" asked Yolanda.
"Alas! I fear He has," answered Margaret. "The Holy Church teaches us that He punishes us for the sin of our mother Eve, but though He punishes us, He loves us, and we are His children. He knows what is best for us here and hereafter."
"He certainly is looking to myfuturegood, if at all," sighed Yolanda. "But I do believe in God's goodness, mother, and I am sure He will save me. Holy Virgin! how helpless a woman is." She began to weep afresh, and the duchess tried to soothe her.
"I believe I will pray to the Virgin. She may help us," said the girl, in a voice that was plaintively childlike.
"It is a pious thought, Mary," answered the duchess.
Yolanda slipped from the divan to the floor, and, kneeling, buried her face in her mother's lap. She prayed aloud:--
"Blessed Virgin, Thou seest my dire need. Help me. My prayer is short, but Thou, Blessed Lady, knowest how fervent it is." The duchess crossed herself, bowed her head, and murmured a fervent "Amen."
Yolanda rose from her prayer with a brighter face, and exclaimed almost joyfully:--
"It was impious in me to doubt God's love, mother. I do believe I heard the Blessed Virgin say, 'Help is at hand.' At least, I felt her words, mother."
Yolanda moved about the room aimlessly for several minutes and by chance stopped at the table. She started to take up the quill and ink-well to carry them back to her parlor, which was in Darius (Darius was the name of the tower that rose from the castle battlements immediately above Castleman's House under the Wall), and her eyes rested on the small iron box in which the letter to King Louis had been deposited. An unconscious motive, perhaps it was childish curiosity, prompted her to examine the missive. She took the pouch from the box and found it unsealed. She listlessly drew out the missive and began to read, when suddenly her face grew radiant with joy. She ran excitedly to her mother, who was sitting on the divan, and exclaimed:--
"Oh! mother, the sweet Blessed Virgin has sent help!"
"In what manner, child?" asked the duchess, fondling Yolanda's hair while the girl knelt beside her.
"Here, mother, here! Here is help; here in this very letter that was intended to be my undoing. I cannot wait to thank the Holy Mother." She crossed herself and buried her face in her mother's lap while she thanked the Virgin.
"What is it, Mary, and where is the help?" asked Margaret, fearing the girl's mind had been touched by her troubles.
"Listen!" cried Yolanda.
Her excitement was so great that she could hardly see the words the bishop's scrivener had written.
"Listen, listen! Father in this letter first tells the king that he--that is, father, you understand--is going to war with Lorraine--no, with Bourbon. I am wrong again. Father is so constantly warring with some one that I cannot keep track of his enemies--against the Swiss. See, mother, it is the Swiss. He says he will go--will start--will begin the war--no, I am wrong again. I can hardly see the words. He says he will march at the head of a Burgundian army--poor soldiers, I pity them--within three weeks. Ah, how short that time seemed when I heard the letter read an hour ago. How long it is now! I wish he would march to-morrow. Three long weeks!"
"But, my dear, how will that help you?" asked the duchess. "In what manner will--"
"Do not interrupt me, mother, but hear what follows. Father says he will march in three weeks and 'begs that His Majesty of France willnowmove toward the immediate consummation of the treaty existing between Burgundy and France looking to the marriage of the Princess, Mademoiselle de Burgundy, with the princely Dauphin, son to King Louis.' In that word 'now,' mother, lies my help."
"In what manner does help lie in the word 'now,' child?" asked the duchess.
"In this, mother. 'Now' is a little word of three letters, n-o-v. See, mother, the letter 'v' is not perfectly made. We will extend the first prong upward, cross it and make 't' of it, using the second prong as a flourish. Then the letter will read, 'begs that His Majesty of France willnotmove toward the immediate consummation of the treaty.' What could be more natural than that my father should wish nothing of importance to occur until after this war with Switzerland is over? The French king, of course, will answer that he will not move in the matter, and his letter will throw father into a delightful frenzy of rage. It may even induce him to declare war against France, and to break off the treaty of marriage when he returns from Switzerland. He has often done battle for a lesser cause. It will at least prevent the marriage for the present. It may prevent it forever."
"Surely that cannot be; King Louis will immediately explain the mistake to your father," suggested Margaret.
"But father, you know, will not listen to an explanation if he fears it may avert blows," returned Yolanda; "and he will be sure not to believe King Louis whose every word he doubts. I shall enjoy King Louis' efforts to explain. 'Hypocrite,' 'liar,' 'coward,' 'villain,' will be among father's most endearing terms when speaking of His Majesty. If by chance the error of 'not' for 'now' be discovered, the Bishop of Cambrai and father will swear it is King Louis who has committed the forgery. But should the worst come, our 't' will have answered its purpose, at least for the present. The bishop may suffer, but I care not. He did his part in bringing about this marriage treaty, bribed, doubtless, by King Louis' gold. In any case, we have no reason to constitute ourselves the bishop's guardians. We have all we can do to care for ourselves--and more."
She sprang to her feet and danced about the room, ardently kissing the letter she had so recently dreaded.
"Mary, you frighten me," said the duchess. "If we should be discovered in changing this letter, I do believe your father would kill us. I do not know that it would be right to make the alteration. It would be forgery, and that, you know, is a crime punishable by death."
"Weshall not be discovered," said Mary. "You must have no part in this transaction, mother. Father would not kill me; I am too valuable as a chattel of trade. With my poor little self he can buy the good-will of kings and princes. I am more potent than all his gold. This alteration can be no sin; it is self-defence. Think how small it is, mother. It is only a matter of the crossing of a 't.' But I care not how great the crime may be; I believe, mother, I would commit murder to save myself from the fate father wishes to put upon me."
"You frighten me, child," said Margaret. "I tremble in terror at what you propose to do."
"I, too, am trembling, mother," sighed Yolanda, "but you must now leave the room. You must know nothing of this great crime."
The girl laughed nervously and tried to push her mother from the room.
"No, I will remain," said the duchess. "I almost believe that you are right, and that the Virgin has prompted you to do this to save yourself."
"I know she has," answered Yolanda, crossing herself. "Now leave me. I must waste no more time."
"I will remain with you, Mary," said Margaret, "and I will myself make the alteration. Then I'll take all the blame in case we are discovered."
Margaret rose, walked over to the table, and took up the quill. She trembled so violently that she could not control her hand.
"No, mother, you shall not touch it," cried Yolanda, snatching the parchment from the countess and holding it behind her. "If I would let you, you could not make the alteration; see, your hand trembles! You would blot the parchment and spoil all this fine plan of mine. Give me the quill, mother! Give me the quill!"
She took the quill from Margaret's passive hand and sat down at the table. Spreading the missive before her, she dipped the quill in the ink-well, and when she lifted it, a drop of ink fell upon the table within a hair's breadth of the parchment.
"Ah, Blessed Virgin!" cried Yolanda, snatching the missive away from the ink blot. "If the ink had fallen on the parchment, we surely had been lost. I, too, am trembling, and I dare not try to make the alteration now. What a poor, helpless creature I am, when I cannot even cross a 't' to save myself. Blessed Virgin, help me once more!"
But help did not come. Yolanda's excitement grew instead of subsiding, and she was so wrought upon by a nameless fear that she began to weep. Margaret seated herself on the divan and covered her face with her hands. Yolanda walked the floor like a caged wild thing, uttering ejaculatory prayers to the Virgin. Again she took up the quill, but again put it down, exclaiming:--
"I have it, mother! There is a friend of whom I have often told you--Sir Karl. He will help us if I can bring him here in time. If father has left the castle, I'll take the letter to my parlor and fetch Sir Karl. He is a brave, strong old man and his hand will not tremble."
Yolanda left the room and soon returned.
"Father has gone to the marshes," she whispered excitedly. "We have ample time if I can find Sir Karl."
She took the missive, the ink, and the quill to her parlor in Darius Tower, and hurried to Castleman's house. How she got there I will soon tell you.
She found Twonette sewing, and hastily explained her wishes.
"Run, Twonette, to The Mitre, and fetch me Sir Karl. I don't want Sir Max to know that I am sending. I think Sir Max has gone falconing with father; I pray God he has gone, and I pray that Sir Karl has not. Tell Sir Karl to come to me at once. If he is not at the inn send for him. If you love me, Twonette, make all haste. Run! Run!"
Twonette's haste was really wonderful. When she found me her cheeks were like red roses, and she could hardly speak for lack of breath. For the first and last time I saw Twonette shorn of her serenity.
The duke had not invited me to go hawking, and fortunately I had stayed at home cuddling the thought that Yolanda was the Princess Mary, and that my fair Prince Max had found rare favor in her eyes.
"Yolanda wants you at my father's house immediately," said Twonette, when I stepped outside the inn door. "The need is urgent beyond measure." Whereupon she courtesied and turned away. Twonette held that words were not made to be wasted, so I asked no questions. I almost ran to Castleman's house, and was taken at once to a large room in the second story. It was on the west side of the house immediately against the castle wall. The walls of the room were sealed with broad oak panels, beautifully carved, and the west end of the apartment--that next the castle wall--was hung with silk tapestries. When I entered the room I found Yolanda alone. She hurriedly closed the door after me and spoke excitedly:--
"I am so glad Twonette found you, Sir Karl. I am in dire need. Will you help me?"
"I will help you if it is in my power, Yolanda," I answered. "You can ask nothing which I will not at least try to do."
"Even at the risk of your life?" she asked, placing her hand upon my arm.
"Even to the loss of my life, Yolanda," I replied.
"Would you commit an act which the law calls a crime?" she asked, trembling in voice and limb.
"I would do that which is really a crime, if I might thereby serve you to great purpose," I answered. "God often does apparent evil that good may come of it. An act must be judged as a whole, by its conception, its execution, and its result. Tell me what you wish me to do, and I will do it without an 'if'--God giving me the power."
"Then come with me."
She took my hand and led me to the end of the room next the castle wall. There she held the draperies to one side while she pushed back one of the oak panels. Through this opening we passed, and the draperies fell together behind us. After Yolanda had opened the panel a moment of light revealed to me a flight of stone steps built in the heart of the castle wall, which at that point was sixteen feet thick. When Yolanda closed the panel, we were in total darkness. She took my left hand in her left and with her right arm at my back guided me up the long, dark stairway. While mounting the steps, she said:--"Now, Sir Karl, you have all my great secrets--at least, they are very great to me. You know who I am, and you know of this stairway. No one knows of it but my mother, uncle, aunt, Twonette, and my faithful tire-woman, Anne. Even my father does not know of its existence. If he knew, he would soon close it. My grandfather, Duke Philip the Good, built it in the wall to connect his bedroom with the house of his true friend, burgher Castleman. Some day I'll tell you the story of the stairway, and how I discovered it. My bedroom is the one my grandfather occupied."
The stairway explained to me all the strange occurrences relating to Yolanda's appearances and disappearances at Castleman's house, and it will do the same for you.
After we had climbed until I felt that surely we must be among the clouds, I said:--
"Yolanda, you must be leading me to heaven."
"I should like to do that, Sir Karl," she responded, laughing softly.
"I would gladly give my life to lead you and Max to heaven," said I.
"Ah, Sir Karl," she answered gently, pressing my hand and caressingly placing her cheek against my arm. "I dare not even think on that. If he could and would take me, believing me to be a burgher girl, he would truly lead me to heaven."
After a pause, while we rested to take a breath, I said: "What is it you want me to do, Yolanda? I am unarmed."
"I shall not ask you to do murder, Sir Karl," she said, laughing nervously. I fancied I could see a sparkle of mirth in her eyes as she continued: "It is not so bad as that. Neither is there a dragon for you to overthrow. But I shall soon enlighten you--here we are at the top of the steps."
At the moment she spoke I collided with a heavy oak partition, in which Yolanda quickly found a moving panel, and we entered a dimly lighted room. I noticed among the furniture a gorgeously tapestried bed. A rich rug, the like of which I had seen in Damascus, covered the floor. The stone walls were draped with silk tapestry, and a jewelled lamp was pendant from the vaulted ceiling. This was Yolanda's bedroom, and truly it was a resting-place worthy of the richest princess in Christendom. I felt that I was in the holy of holies. I found difficulty in believing that the childlike Yolanda could be so important a personage in the politics of Europe. She seemed almost to belong to me, so much at that time did she lean on my strength.
Out of her sleeping apartment she led me to another and a larger room, lighted by broad windows cut through the inner wall of the castle, which at that point was not more than three or four feet thick. This was Yolanda's parlor. The floor, like that of the bedroom, was covered with a Damascus rug. The windows were closed by glass of crystal purity, and the furniture was richer than any I had seen in the emperor's palace.
Yolanda led me to a table, pointed to a chair for me, and drew up one for herself. At that moment a lady entered, whom Yolanda ran to meet. The princess took the lady's hand and led her to me:--
"Sir Karl, this is my mother. As you already know, she is my stepmother, but I forget that in the love I bear her, and in the sweet love she gives to me."
I bent my knee before the duchess, who gave me her hand to kiss, saying:--
"The princess has often spoken to me of you, Sir Karl. I see she has crept into your heart. She wins all who know her."
"My devotion to Her Highness is self-evident and needs no avowal," I answered, "but I take pleasure in declaring it. I am ready to aid her at whatever cost."
"Has the princess told you what she wants you to do?" asked the duchess.
I answered that she had not, but that I was glad to pledge myself unenlightened. I then placed a chair for the duchess, but, of course, remained standing. Yolanda resumed her chair, and said:--
"Fetch a chair, Sir Karl. We are glad to have you sit, are we not, mother?"
"Indeed we are," said Margaret. "Please sit by the table, and the princess will explain why she brought you here."
"I believe I can now do it myself, mother," said Yolanda, taking a folded parchment from its pouch.
"See, my hand is perfectly steady. Sir Karl has given me strength."
She spread the parchment before her, and, taking a quill from the table, dipped it in the ink-well.
"I'll not need you after all, Sir Karl. I find I can commit my own crime," she said, much to my disappointment. I was, you see, eager to sin for her. I longed to kill some one or to do some other deed of valiant and perilous villany.
Yolanda bent over the missive, quill in hand, but hesitated. She changed her position on the chair, squaring herself before the parchment, and tried again, but she seemed unable to use the quill. She placed it on the table and laughed nervously.
"I surely am a great fool," she said. "When I take the quill in my hand, I tremble like a squire on his quintain trial. I'll wait a moment, and grow calm again," she added, with a fluttering little laugh peculiar to her when she was excited. But she did not grow calm, and after she had vainly taken up the quill again and again, her mother said:--
"Poor child! Tell Sir Karl what you wish him to do."
Yolanda did so, and then read the missive. I did not know the English language perfectly, but Yolanda, who spoke it as if it were her mother tongue, translated as she read. I had always considered the island language harsh till I heard Yolanda speak it. Even the hissing "th" was music on her lips. Had I been a young man I would doubtless have made a fool of myself for the sake of this beautiful child-woman. When she had finished reading the missive, she left her chair and came to my side. She bent over my shoulder, holding the parchment before me.
"What I want to do, but can't--what I want you to do is so small and simple a matter that it is almost amusing. I grow angry when I think that I cannot do so little a thing to help myself; but you see, Sir Karl, I tremble and my hand shakes to that extent I fear to mar the page. I simply want to make the letter 't' on this parchment and I can't. Will you do it for me?"
"Ay, gladly," I responded, "but where and why?" Then she pointed out to me the word "nov" in the manuscript and said:--
"A letter 't,' if deftly done, will make 'not' instead of 'nov.' Do you understand, Sir Karl?"
I sprang to my feet as if I had been touched by a sword-point. The thought was so ingenious, the thing itself was so small and the result was so tremendous that I stood in wonder before the daring girl who had conceived it. I made no answer. I placed the parchment on the table, unceremoniously reached in front of the duchess for the quill, and in less time than one can count three I made a tiny ink mark not the sixteenth part of an inch long that changed the destinies of nations for all time to come.
I placed the quill on the table and turned to Yolanda, just in time to catch her as she was about to fall. I was frightened at the sight of her pale face and cried out:--
"Yolanda! Yolanda!"
Margaret quickly brought a small goblet of wine, and I held the princess while I opened her lips and poured a portion of the drink into her mouth. I had in my life seen, without a tremor, hundreds of men killed, but I had never seen a woman faint, and the sight almost unmanned me.
Stimulated by the wine Yolanda soon revived; and when she opened her eyes and smiled up into my face, I was so joyful that I fell to kissing her hands and could utter no word save "Yolanda, Yolanda." She did not at once rise from my arms, but lay there smiling into my face as if she were a child. When she did rise she laughed softly and said, turning to the duchess:--
"'Yolanda' is the name by which Sir Karl knows me. You see, mother, I was not mistaken in deeming him my friend."
Then she turned suddenly to me, and taking my rough old hand in hers, lifted it to her lips. That simple act of childish gratitude threw me into a fever of ecstasy so great that death itself could have had no terrors for me. He might have come when he chose. I had lived through that one moment, and even God could not rob me of it.
Yolanda moved away from me and took up the parchment.
"Don't touch it till the ink dries," I cried sharply.
She dropped it as if it were hot, and the duchess came to me, and graciously offered her hand:--
"I thank you with my whole heart, not only for what you have done, but for the love you bear the princess. She is the one I love above all others, and I know she loves me. I love those who love her. As the French say, 'Les amies de mes amies sont mes amies.'I am a poor helpless woman, more to be pitied than the world can believe. I have only my gratitude to offer you, Sir Karl, but that shall be yours so long as I live."
"Your Grace's reward is far too great for the small service I have rendered," I replied, dropping to my knee. I was really beginning to live in my sixtieth year. I was late in starting, but my zest for life was none the less, now that I had at last learned its sweetness through these two gracious women.
When we had grown more composed, Yolanda explained to me her hopes regarding the French king's answer to the altered missive, and the whole marvellous possibilities of the letter "t" dawned upon my mind. The princess bent over the parchment, watching our mighty "t" while the ink was drying, but the process was too slow for her, so she filled her cheeks and breathed upon the writing. The color returned to her face while I watched her, and I felt that committing a forgery was a small price to pay for witnessing so beautiful a sight. Yolanda's breath soon dried the ink, and then we examined my work. I had performed wonders. The keenest eye could not detect the alteration. Yolanda, as usual, sprang from the deepest purgatory of trouble to the seventh heaven of joy. She ran about the room, singing, dancing, and laughing, until the duchess warned her to be quiet. Then she placed her hand over her mouth, shrugged her shoulders, walked on tiptoe, and spoke only in whispers. Margaret smiled affectionately at Yolanda's childish antics and said:--
"I think the conspirators should disperse. I hope, Sir Karl, that I may soon meet you in due form. Meantime, of course, it is best that we do not know each other."
After examining the missive for the twentieth time, Yolanda placed it in its pouch and turned to the duchess.
"Take it, mother, to the iron box, and I will lead Sir Karl back to Uncle Castleman's," she said.
The duchess graciously offered me a goblet of wine, and after I had drunk, Yolanda led me down the stairway to the House under the Wall. While descending Yolanda called my attention to a loose stone in the wall of the staircase.
"The other end of this stone," she said, "penetrates the wall of the room that you and Sir Max occupied the night before you were liberated. The mortar has fallen away, and it was here that I spoke to you and told you not to fear."
Here was another supernatural marvel all too easily explained.
That evening after supper Max and I walked over to Castleman's. The evening was cool, and we were sitting in the great parlor talking with Castleman and Twonette when Yolanda entered. The room was fully fifty feet long, and extended across the entire front of the house. A huge chimney was built at the east end of the room, and on either side of the fireplace was a cushioned bench. A similar bench extended across the entire west end of the room. When Yolanda entered she ran to me and took my hand.
"Come, Sir Karl, I want to speak with you," she said.
She led me to the west end of the room, sat down on the cushioned bench, and drew in her skirts that I might sit close beside her.
"I want to tell you about the missive, Sir Karl," she whispered, laughing and shrugging her shoulders in great glee. "Mother returned it to the box, and when I left you I hurried back and haunted the room, fearing that some one might meddle with the parchment. Near the hour of six o'clock father entered. I was sitting on the divan, and he sat down in his great chair, of course taking no notice of me--I am too insignificant for so great a person to notice, except when he is compelled to do so. I was joyful in my heart, but I conjured up all my troubles that I might make myself weep. I feared to show any change in myself, so I sobbed aloud now and then, and soon father turned angrily toward me. 'Are you still there?' he asked. 'Yes, father,' I answered, as if trying to stifle my sobs. 'Are you really going to send that cruel letter to King Louis?'"
"Cruel, indeed," I interrupted.
"Ah, yes! Well, father made no reply, and I went over to him and began to plead. I should have wanted to cut my tongue out had I succeeded, but I had little fear. Father is not easily touched by another's suffering, and my tears only hardened his heart. Well, of course, he repulsed me; and soon a page announced Byron the herald and the Bishop of Cambrai. Father took the packet from the iron box, and put his fingers in the pouch, as if he were going to take out the letter. He hesitated, and during that moment of halting I was by turns cold as ice and hot as fire. Finally his resolution took form, and he drew out the missive. I thought I should die then and there, when he began to look it over. But after a careless glance he put it back in the pouch, and threw it on the table in front of the bishop. I could hardly keep from shouting for joy. He had failed to see the alteration, and in case of its discovery, he might now be his own witness against King Louis, should that crafty monarch dare to alter my father's missive by so much as the crossing of a 't'. If father hereafter discovers anything wrong in the letter, he will be able to swear that King Louis was the evil doer, since father himself put the letter in the pouch with his own hands. Father will never suspect that a friend came to me out of far-away Styria to commit this crime."
"I rejoice that I came," I said.
"And I," she answered. "I feared the bishop would read the letter, but he did not. He tied the ribbon, softened the lead wafer over the lamp flame, and placed it on the bow-knot; then he stamped it with father's small seal. When it was finished I did not want to laugh for joy--when one is very happy one wants to weep. That I could safely do, and I did. The bishop handed the letter to Byron, and father spoke commandingly: 'Deliver the missive to the French king before you sleep or eat, unless he has left Paris. If he has gone to Tours, follow him and loiter not.' 'And if he is not in Tours, Your Grace?' asked Byron. 'Follow him till you find him,' answered father, 'if you must cross the seas.' 'Shall I do all this without eating or sleeping?' asked Byron. Father rose angrily, and Byron said: 'If Your Grace will watch from the donjon battlements, in five minutes you will see me riding on your mission. When Your Grace sees me riding back, it will be, I fear, the ghost of Byron.'
"It was a wearisome task for me to climb the donjon stairs, but I knew father would not be there to watch Byron set out, and I felt that one of the family should give him God-speed; so alone, and frightened almost out of my wits, I climbed those dark steps to the battlements, and gazed after Byron till he was a mere speck on the horizon down toward Paris. I pray God there may be a great plenty of trouble grow out of the crossing of this 't'. Father is always saying that women were put on earth to make trouble, so I'll do what little I can to make true His Lordship's words." She threw back her head, laughing softly. "Is it not glorious, Sir Karl?"
"Indeed, Princess--" I began, but she clapped her hand over my mouth and I continued, "Indeed, Yolanda, the plan is so adroit and so effective that it fills me with admiration and awe."
"I like the name Yolanda," said she, looking toward Max, who was sitting with Twonette on one of the benches by the chimney.
"And I, too, like it," I responded. "I cannot think of you as the greatest and richest princess in Europe."
"Ah, I wish I, too, could forget it, but I can't," she answered with a sigh, glancing from under her preposterously long lashes toward Max and Twonette.
"How came you to take the name Yolanda?" I asked.
"Grandfather wished to give me the name in baptism," she answered, "but Mary fell to my lot. I like the present arrangement. Mary is the name of the princess--the unhappy, faulty princess. Yolanda is my name. Almost every happy hour I have ever spent has been as Yolanda. You cannot know the wide difference between me and the Princess Mary. It is, Sir Karl, as if we were two persons."
She spoke very earnestly, and I could see that there was no mirth in her heart when she thought of herself as the Princess Mary; she was not jesting.
"I don't know the princess," I said laughingly, "but I know Yolanda."
"Yes; I'll tell you a great secret, Sir Karl. The Princess Mary is not at all an agreeable person. She is morose, revengeful, haughty, cold--" here her voice dropped to a whisper, "and, Sir Karl, she lies--she lies. While Yolanda--well, Yolanda at least is not cold, and I--I think she is a very delightful person. Don't you?"
There was a troubled, eager expression in her eyes that told plainly she was in earnest. To Yolanda the princess was another person.
"Yolanda is very sure of me," I answered.
"Ah, that she is," answered the girl. You see, this was a real case of billing and cooing between December and May.
A short silence followed, during which Yolanda glanced furtively toward Max and Twonette.
"You spoke of your grandfather," said I, "and that reminds me that you promised to tell me the story of the staircase in the wall."
"So I did," answered Yolanda, haltingly. Her attention was at the other end of the room.
"Do you think Twonette a very pretty girl?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered, surprised at the abrupt question. I caught a glimpse of Yolanda's face and saw that I had made a mistake, so I continued hastily: "That is--yes--yes, she is pretty, though not beautiful. Her face, I think, is rather dollish. It is a fine creation in pink and white, but I fear it lacks animation."
"Now for the stairway in the wall," said Yolanda, settling herself with the pretty little movements peculiar to her when she was contented. "As I told you, grandfather built it. Afterward he ceded Peronne to King Louis, and for many years none of our family ever saw the castle. A few years ago King Louis ceded it to my father. Father has never lived here, and has visited Peronne only once in a while, for the purpose of looking after his affairs on the French border. The castle is very strong, and, being here on the border at the meeting of the Somme and the Cologne, it has endured many sieges, but it has never been taken. It is called 'Peronne La Pucelle.'
"Father's infrequent visits to the castle have been brief, and all who have ever known of the stairway are dead or have left Burgundy, save the good people in this house, my mother, my tire-woman, and myself. Three or four years ago, when I was a child, mother and I, unhappy at Ghent and an annoyance to father, came here to live in the castle, and--and--I wonder what Sir Max and Twonette find to talk about--and Twonette and I became friends. I love Twonette dearly, but she is a sly creature, for all she is so demure, and she is bolder than you would think, Sir Karl. These very demure girls are often full of surprises. She has been sitting there in the shadow with Sir Max for half an hour. That, I say, would be bold in any girl. Well, to finish about the staircase: my bedroom, as I told you, was my grandfather's. One day Twonette was visiting me, and we--we--Sir Max, what in the world are you and Twonette talking about? We can't hear a word you say."
"We can't hear what you are saying," retorted Max.
"I wish you were young, Sir Karl," whispered Yolanda, "so that I might make him jealous."
"Shall we come to you?" asked Max.
"No, no, stay where you are," cried Yolanda; then, turning to me, "Where did I stop?"
"Your bedroom--" I suggested.
"Yes--my bedroom was my grandfather's. One day I had Twonette in to play with me, and we rummaged every nook and corner we could reach. By accident we discovered the movable panel. We pushed it aside, and spurring our bravery by daring each other, we descended the dark stairway step by step until we came suddenly against the oak panel at the foot. We grew frightened and cried aloud for help. Fortunately, Tante Castleman was on the opposite side of the panel in the oak room, and--and--"
She had been halting in the latter part of her narrative and I plainly saw what was coming.
"Tante Castleman was--was--It was fortunate she--was in--" She sprang to her feet, exclaiming: "I'm going to tell Twonette what I think of her boldness in sitting there in the dark with Sir Max. Her father is not here to do it." And that was the last I heard of the stairway in the wall.
Yolanda ran across the room to the bench by the fireplace and stamped her foot angrily before Twonette.
"It--it is immodest for a girl to sit here in the deep shadow beside a gentleman for hours together. Shame, Twonette! Your father is not here to correct you."
Castleman had left the room.
Twonette laughed, rose hurriedly, and stood by Yolanda in front of Max. Yolanda, by way of apology, took Twonette's hand, but after a few words she coolly appropriated her place "in the deep shadow beside a gentleman." A princess enjoys many privileges denied to a burgher girl. When a girl happens to be both, the burgher girl is apt to be influenced by the princess, as the princess is apt to be modified by the life of the burgher girl. Presently Yolanda said:--
"Please go, Twonette, and mix a bowl of wine and honey. Yours is delicious. Put in a bit of allspice, Twonette, and pepper, beat it well, Twonette, and don't spare the honey. Now there's a good girl. Go quickly, but don't hurry back. Haste, you know, Twonette, makes waste, and you may spoil the wine."
Twonette laughed and went to mix the wine and honey. I walked back to the other end of the room, and sat down by a window to watch the night gather without. I was athrill with the delightful thought that, all unknown to the world, unknown even to himself, Max, through my instrumentality, was wooing Mary of Burgundy within fifty feet of where I sat. He was not, of course, actively pressing his suit, but all unconsciously he was taking the best course to win her heart forever and ever. Now, with a propitious trick of fortune, my fantastic dream, conceived in far-off Styria, might yet become a veritable fact. By what rare trick this consummation might be brought about, I did not know, but fortune had been kind so far, and I felt that her capricious ladyship would not abandon us.
Yolanda turned to Max with a soft laugh of satisfaction, settled her skirts about her, as a pleased woman is apt to do, and said contentedly:--
"There, now!"
"Fräulein, you are very kind to me," said Max.
"Yes--yes, I am, Sir Max," she responded, beaming on him. "Now, tell me what you and Twonette have been talking about."
"You," answered Max.
A laugh gurgled in her throat as she asked:--
"What else?"
"I'll tell you if you will tell me what you and Sir Karl were saying," he responded.
"Ah, I see!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands gleefully. "You were jealous."
"I admit it," he answered, so very seriously that one might have thought him in earnest. "And you, Fräulein?"
"I jealous?" she responded, with lifted eyebrows. "You are a vain man, Sir Max. I was not jealous--only--only a tiny bit--so much--" and she measured the extent of her jealousy on the pink tip of her little finger. "I am told you were falconing with the Duke of Burgundy to-day. If you go in such fine company, I fear we shall see little of you."
"There is no company finer than--than--" Max checked his tongue.
"Say it, Max, say it," she whispered coaxingly, leaning toward him.
"Than you, Fräulein." The girl leaned back contentedly against the wall, and Max continued: "Yes, his lordship was kind to me, and most gracious. I cannot believe the stories of cruelty I hear of him. I have been told that on different occasions he has used personal violence on his wife and daughter. If that be true, he must be worse than the brutes of the field, but you may be sure, Yolanda, the stories are false."
"Alas! I fear they are too true," responded the girl, sighing in memory of the afternoon.
"He is a pleasing companion when he wishes to be," said Max, "and I hear his daughter, the princess, is much like him."
"Heavens!" exclaimed Yolanda, "I hope she is like him only when he is pleasing."
"That is probably true," said Max.
"There is where I am really jealous, Max--this princess--" she said, leaning forward and looking up into his face with unmistakable earnestness.
"Why?" asked Max, laughing.
"Because men love wealth and high estate. There are scores of men--at least, so I have been told--eager to marry this princess, who do not even know that she is not hideous to look upon and vixenish in temper. They would take her gladly, with any deformity, physical, mental, or moral, for the sake of possessing Burgundy."
"But I am told she is fair and beautiful," said Max.
"Believe it not," said Yolanda, sullenly. "Whoever heard of a rich princess who was not beautiful? Anne and Joan, daughters of King Louis, are always spoken of as paragons of beauty; yet those who know tell me these royal ladies are hideous. King Louis has nicknamed Joan 'The Owlet' because she is little, ill-shapen, and black. Anne is tall, large of bone, fat, and sallow. He should name her 'The Giantess of Beaujeu'; and the little half-witted Dauphin he should dub 'Knight of the Princely Order of House Rats.'"
That she was deeply in earnest there could be no doubt.
"I hope you do not speak so freely to others," said Max. "If His Grace of Burgundy should hear of your words he might--"
"I hope you will not tell him," said Yolanda, laughing. "But this Mary!" she continued, clinging stubbornly to the dangerous topic. "You came to woo her estates, and in the end you will do so."
I am convinced that the girl was intensely jealous of herself. When she feared that Max might seek the Princess Mary, her heart brooded over the thought that he would do so for the sake of her wealth and her domains.
"I have told you once, Fräulein, what I will do and what I will not. For your own sake and mine I'll tell you no more," said Max.
"If I were a great princess," said Yolanda, pouting and hanging her head, "you would not speak so sharply to me." Evidently she was hurt by Max's words, though they were the expression, not of his displeasure, but of his pain.
"Fräulein, forgive me; my words were not meant to be sharp. It was my pain that spoke. You torture me and cause me to torture myself," said Max. "To keep a constant curb on one's ardent longing is exhausting. It takes the heart out of a man. At times you seem to forget that my silence is my great grief, not my fault. Ah, Fräulein! you cannot understand my longing and my struggle."
"I do understand," she answered plaintively, slipping her hand into his, "and unless certain recent happenings have the result I hope for, you, too, will understand, more clearly than you now do, within a very short time."
She covered her face with her hands. Her words mystified Max, and he was on the point of asking her to explain. He loved and pitied her, and would have put his arm around her waist to comfort her, but she sprang to her feet, exclaiming:--
"No, no, Little Max, let us save all that for our farewell. You will not have long to wait."
Wisdom returned to Max, and he knew that she was right in helping him to resist the temptation that he had so valiantly struggled against since leaving Basel.
All that I had really hoped for in Styria, all our fair dreams upon the castle walls of Hapsburg, had come to pass. Max had, beyond doubt, won the heart of Mary of Burgundy, but that would avail nothing unless by some good chance conditions should so change that Mary would be able to choose for herself. In such case, ambition would cut no figure in her choice. The chains of duty to family, state, and ancestry that bound Max's feet so firmly would be but wisps of straw about Yolanda's slender ankles. She would have no hesitancy in making her choice, were she free to do so, and states might go hang for all she would care. Her heart was her state. Would she ever be able to choose? Fortune had been kind to us thus far; would she remain our friend? She is a coquette; but the heart of a coquette, if truly won, is the most steadfast of all.
Twonette brought in the wine and honey; Castleman soon returned and lighted the lamp, and we all sat talking before the small blaze in the fireplace, till the great clock in the middle of the room chimed the hour of ten. Then Yolanda ran from us with a hurried good night, and Max returned with me to the inn.
I cannot describe the joy I took from the recurring thought that I was particeps criminis with the Princess of Burgundy in the commission of a crime. At times I wished the crime had been greater and its extenuation far less. We hear much about what happens when thieves fall out, but my observation teaches me that thieves usually remain good friends. The bonds of friendship had begun to strengthen between Yolanda and me before she sought my help in the perpetration of her great crime. After that black felony, they became like links of Milan chain. I shared her secrets, great and small.
One day while Yolanda and I were sitting in the oak room,--the room from which the panel opened into the stairway in the wall,--I said to her:--
"If your letter 't' causes a break with France, perhaps Max's opportunity may come."
"I do not know--I cannot hope," she responded dolefully. "You see, when father made this treaty with France, he was halting between two men in the choice of a husband for me. One was the Dauphin, son to King Louis, whom father hates with every breath he draws. The other was the Duke of Gelders, whom father really likes. Gelders is a brute, Sir Karl. He kept his father in prison four years, and usurped his domain. He is a drunkard, a murderer, and a profligate. For reasons of state father chose the Dauphin, but if the treaty with France is broken, I suppose it will be Gelders again. If it comes to that, Sir Karl--but I'll not say what I'll do. My head is full of schemes from morning till night, and when I sleep my poor brain is a whirl of visions. Self-destruction, elopement, and I know not what else appeal to me. How far is it to Styria, Sir Karl?" she asked abruptly.
"Two or three hundred leagues, perhaps--it may be more," I answered. "I do not know how far it is, Yolanda, but it is not far enough for your purposes. Even could you reach there, Styria could not protect you."
"I was not thinking of--of what you suppose, Sir Karl," she said plaintively.
"What were you thinking of, Yolanda?" I asked.
"Of nothing--of--of--a wild dream of hiding away from the world in some unknown corner, at times comes to me in my sleep--only in my sleep, Sir Karl--for in my waking hours I know it to be impossible. The only pleasant part of being a princess is that the world envies you; but what a poor bauble it is to buy at the frightful price I pay!"
"I have been on mountain tops," I answered philosophically, "and I find that breathing grows difficult as one ascends."
"Ah, Sir Karl," she answered tearfully, "I believe I'll go upstairs and weep."
I led her to the moving panel and opened it for her. Without turning her face she held back her hand for me to kiss. Then she started up the dark stone steps, and I knew that she was weeping. I closed the panel and sat on the cushioned bench. To say that I would have given my old life to win happiness for her but poorly measures my devotion. A man's happiness depends entirely on the number and quality of those to whom his love goes out. Before meeting Yolanda I drew all my happiness from loving one person--Max. Now my source was doubled, and I wished for the first time that I might live my life again, to lay it at this girl's feet.