YOLANDA OR THE PRINCESS?
After these adventures we could no longer conceal Max's identity, and it soon became noised about that he was Count of Hapsburg. But Styria was so far away, and so little known, even to courtiers of considerable rank, that the fact made no great stir in Peronne. To Frau Kate and Twonette the disclosure came with almost paralyzing effect.
The duke remained with us until late in the night, so Max and I did not go over to the House under the Wall. When we were alone in our room, Max said:
"The Princess Mary has treated me as if I were a boy."
"She saved your life," I returned. "Calli would certainly have killed you had she not acted quickly."
"I surely owe her my life," said Max, "though I have little knowledge of what happened after I fell from my horse until I rose to my feet by her help. I complain of her conduct in deceiving me by pretending to be a burgher maiden. It was easily done, Karl, but ungraciously."
"You are now speaking of Yolanda," I said, not knowing what the wishes of the princess might be in regard to enlightening him. He looked at me and answered:--
"Karl, if a woman's face is burned on a man's heart, he knows it when he sees it."
"You know Yolanda's face, certainly, and I doubt if Yolanda will thank you for mistaking another's for it."
"I have made no mistake, Karl," he answered.
"I am not so sure," I replied. "The girl you placed in my arms seemed taller by half a head than Yolanda. I noticed her while she was standing. She seemed rounder and much heavier in form; but I, too, thought she was Yolanda, and, after all, you may be right."
"I caught but a glimpse of her face, and that poorly," said Max. "It is difficult to see anything looking downward out of a helmet; one must look straight ahead. But the glimpse I had of her face satisfied me."
"Do not be too sure, Max. I once took another man for myself." Max laughed. "I am sure no one could have told us apart. He was the Pope, and I his cousin. Yolanda herself once told me--I believe she has also told you--that she has the honor to resemble the princess."
I did not wish to lie to Max, and you will note that I did not say the princess was not Yolanda. Still, I wished him to remain ignorant upon the important question until Yolanda should see fit to enlighten him. I was not sure of her motive in maintaining the alias, though I was certain it was more than a mere whim. How great it was I could not know. Should she persist in it I would help her up to the point of telling Max a downright falsehood. There I would stop.
We spent two evenings at Castleman's, but did not see Yolanda. On the first evening, after an hour of listlessness, Max hesitatingly asked:--
"Where is Yo--that is, the princess has not been here this evening."
"The princess!" exclaimed Frau Kate. "No, she has not been here this evening--nor the duke, nor the king of France. No titled person, Sir Count, save yourself, has honored us to-day. Our poor roof shelters few such."
"I mean Yolanda," said Max. Good-natured Frau Kate laughed softly, and Twonette said, with smiling serenity:--
"Yolanda's head will surely be turned, Sir Count, when she hears you have called her the princess. So much greatness thrust upon her will make it impossible for us to live with her."
"She rules us all as it is, sweet soul," said Castleman.
"Yolanda is ill upstairs, Sir Count," said Frau Kate. "She wanted to come down this evening, but I commanded otherwise. Twonette, go to her. She will be lonely."
Twonette rose, courtesied, and departed. This splendid bit of acting almost made me doubt that Yolanda was the princess, and it shook Max's conviction to its very foundation.
I wish to warn you that the deception practised upon Max by Yolanda will seem almost impossible, except on the hypothesis that Max was a very simple fellow. But the elaborate scheme designed and executed by this girl, with the help of the Castlemans and myself,--all of whom Max had no reason to distrust,--would have deceived any man. Max, though simple and confiding where he trusted,--judging others' good faith by his own,--was shrewd for his years, and this plan of Yolanda's had to be faultless, as it really was, to mislead him.
On the morning of the fourth day after the trial by combat, Yolanda made her appearance at Castleman's, looking pale and large-eyed. Max and I had walked down to the House under the Wall before going to dine with the duke. Soon after we were seated Twonette left, and within five minutes Yolanda came suddenly upon us in the long parlor. She ran to Max, grasping both his hands. For a moment she could only say, "Max, Max," and he remained silent.
When she recovered control of her voice she said:--
"How proud we are of you, Sir Max! Uncle and aunt have told me how brave and merciful you were at the combat."
"Your Highness surely knows all that can be told on the subject, since you were there and took so active a part in the adventure," answered Max. "It is I who should be grateful, and I am. I owe my life to Your Highness."
"You honor me too much, Sir Max," said Yolanda, looking up with surprise and bowing low before him. "Let my elevation be gradual that I may grow accustomed to my rank. Make of me first a great lady, and then, say, a countess. Afterward, if I prove worthy, call me princess."
"We will call you a princess now, Your Highness," answered Max, not to be driven from his position.
"Very well," cried Yolanda, with a laugh and a sweeping courtesy. "If you will have me a princess, a princess I'll be. But I will not be the Princess of Burgundy. She saved your life, and I am jealous of her--I hate her."
She stamped her foot, and the angry gleam in her eyes was genuine. There could be no doubt that she was jealous of the princess. I could not account for her unique attitude toward herself save on one hypothesis: she was, even to herself, two distinct persons. Yolanda was a happy burgher girl; Mary was a wretched princess. The two widely differing conditions under which she lived were so distinct, and were separated by a gulf so broad, that to her the princess and the burgher girl were in no way related.
With change of condition there was always a change of person. The unhappy princess would come down the stairway in the wall; God would kindly touch her, and lo! she was transformed into a happy Yolanda. Yolanda's light feet would climb the dark stone steps, and God was once more a frowning father. There must also be added Max's share in her emotions. Perhaps she feared the princess as she would have dreaded a rival; since she longed with all her passionate, tender heart to win Max for herself only. It would have been an easy task, as princess, to win him or any man; but if she could win him as Yolanda, the burgher girl, the prize would be the greatest that could fall to a woman.
The true situation dawned upon me as I stood before Max and watched Yolanda. I thought of her adroit plan to make trouble with France, and I wanted to shout for joy. The impossible might yet happen. God's hand surely had been in our journeying to Burgundy. Max might yet win this peerless princess, this priceless girl; or, reverse it if you choose, Mary of Burgundy might win this peerless man, and might at the same time attain the unutterable joy of knowing that she had won him for her own sake.
Perhaps her yearning had led her to hope that he might in the end be willing to fling behind him his high estate for the sake of a burgher girl. Then, when she had brought him to that resolution, what a joy it would be to turn upon him and say: "I am not a burgher girl. I am Princess Mary of Burgundy, and all these things which you are willing to forego for my sake you may keep, and you may add to them the fair land of Burgundy!" Her high estate and rich domains, now the tokens of her thralldom, would then be her joy, since she could give them to Max.
While these bright hopes were filling my mind, Yolanda was playing well her part. She, too, evidently meant to tell no lies, though she might be forced to act many. Her fiery outburst against the Princess of Burgundy astonished Max and almost startled me. Still, the conviction was strong with him that Yolanda was Mary.
"If--if you are the princess, Yo--Yolanda," said Max, evidently wavering, "it were ungracious to deceive me."
"But I am the princess," cried Yolanda, lifting her head and walking majestically to and fro. "Address me not by that low, plebeian name, Yolanda."
She stepped upon a chair and thence to the top of the great oak table that stood in the middle of the room. Drawing the chair up after her she placed it on the table, and, seating herself on this improvised throne, lifted one knee over the other, after the manner of her father. She looked serenely about her in a most amusing imitation of the duke, and spoke with a deep voice:--
"Heralds!"
No one responded. So she filled the office of herald herself and cried out:--
"Oyez! Oyez! The princess now gives audience!" Resuming the ducal voice, she continued, "Are there complaints, my Lord Seneschal?" A pause. "Ah, our guards have stolen Grion's cow, have they? The devil take Grion and his cow, too! Hang Grion for complaining." A pause ensues while the duke awaits the next report. "The Swiss have stolen a sheepskin? Ah, we'll skin the Swiss. My Lord Seneschal, find me fifty thousand men who are ready to die for a sheepskin. Body of me! A sheepskin! I do love it well."
Yolanda's audience was roaring with laughter by this time, but her face was stern and calm.
"Silence, you fools," she cried hoarsely, but no one was silent, and Max laughed till the tears came to his eyes. Yolanda on her throne was so irresistibly bewitching that he ran to her side, grasped her about the waist, and unceremoniously lifted her to the floor. When she was on her feet, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, saying:--
"Yolanda or Mary--it's all one to me. There is not another like you in all the world."
She drew herself up haughtily: "Sir, this indignity shall cost you dear," and turning her back on him she moved away three or four paces. Then she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. His face had lost its smile, and she knew the joke had gone far enough; so the dimples began to cluster about the quivering corners of her mouth, the long black lashes fell for a moment, a soft radiance came to her eyes, and she asked:--
"Which shall it be, Sir Max, Yolanda or the princess?"
"Yolanda," cried Max, huskily, while he held out his hands to her. Quick as the movement of a kitten, she sprang to him and allowed his arms to close about her for one brief moment. While one might count ten she rested her head on his breast, but all too quickly she turned her face to his and whispered:--
"Are you sure? Is it Yolanda?"
"Yes, yes, Yolanda. Thank God! it is Yolanda," he replied, placing his hand before his eyes. She slipped from his arms, and Max, too deeply moved to speak, walked over to the window and looked out upon the frowning walls of Peronne the Impregnable. There was irony for you!
Probably Max was not sure that Yolanda was Yolanda; but, if he was, conviction had come through his emotions, and it might be temporary. He was, however, soon to be convinced by evidence so cunningly constructed that he was compelled to abandon the testimony of his own eyes and accept that of seemingly incontestable facts.
"We are to dine privately with the duke at twelve o'clock," I said, while Max was standing at the window.
"Indeed?" asked Yolanda, arching her eyebrows; surprise and displeasure evident in her voice. She glanced at the great clock, then looked toward Max, and said:--
"It lacks but thirty minutes of that time now, and I suppose I shall soon lose you."
Max turned from the window, saying:--"Yes, we must go, or we shall be late."
"Does the princess dine with you?" asked Yolanda.
"I do not know, Fräulein," answered Max. Thereupon Yolanda left the room pouting, and we took our departure, having promised to return to Castleman's after dinner.
We went at once to the castle; and thirty minutes after leaving Castleman's we were in the small parlor or talking room of Duchess Margaret, where the famous letter to the king of France had been signed by Duke Charles. When we entered we saw the duchess and the princess sitting upon the divan. The duke was in his great oak chair, and Hymbercourt and two other gentlemen were standing near by. I made obeisance to Charles on bended knee. He rose to receive Max, and, after a slight hesitation, offered his hand, saying:--
"You are welcome, my Lord Count."
A year had passed since I had heard Max addressed as "my lord," and the words sounded strange to my ears. I turned quickly toward the princess, expecting to see a sparkle of mirth in her eyes, but Yolanda's ever present smile was wholly lacking. The countenance of the princess was calm, immovable, and expressionless as a mirror. I could hardly believe that it was the radiant, bedimpled, pouting face I had just seen at Castleman's, and for the first time in all my experience I realized that I was face to face with a dual personality. The transformation was so complete that I might easily have been duped had I not known beyond peradventure the identity of Yolanda and Mary.
After the duke had kindly saluted Max, His Grace presented us to the ladies. When the princess rose to receive us, she seemed at least half a head taller than Yolanda. Her hair was hidden, and her face seemed fuller. These changes were probably wrought by her head-dress, which towered in two great curved horns twelve inches high. She wore a long, flowing gown that trailed two yards behind her, and this added to her apparent height. Max had seen Yolanda only in the short skirts of a burgher girl's costume.
When Max rose, after kneeling before the princess, he gazed into her eyes, but the glance he received in return was calm and cold. Yolanda was rich, red wine, hot and strong; the princess was cold, clear water. The one was exhilarating, at times intoxicating; the other was chilling. The face of the princess, though beautiful, was touched with disdain. Every attitude was one of dignity and hauteur. Her words, though not lacking intelligence, were commonplace, and her voice was that of her father's daughter. Yolanda was a girl; the princess was a woman. The metamorphosis was complete, and Max's hallucination, I felt sure, would be cured. The princess's face was not burned on his heart, whatever might be true of Yolanda's. I can give no stronger testimony to the marvellous quality of the change this girl had wrought in herself than to tell you that even I began to doubt, and wonder if Yolanda had tricked me. The effect on Max was instantaneous. After looking into the princess's face, he said:--
"I wish to thank Your Highness for saving my life. I surely had been killed but for your timely help."
The situation bordered on the ridiculous.
"Do not thank me, my Lord Count," responded the princess, in cold and measured words. "I should have done the same for any man in your hard case. I once saved a yokel in like manner. Two common men were fighting with staves. One would have beaten the other to death had I not entered the lists and parted them. Father feared a similar exhibition on my part and did not wish me to attend your combat. He says now that I shall go to no more. I certainly made myself ridiculous. I enjoy a fair fight, whatever the outcome may be, but I despise murder. My act was entirely impersonal, Sir Count."
"On the lists I addressed Your Highness as 'Yolanda,'" said Max. "Your resemblance to one whom I know well was so great as to deceive me."
I was eager to take Max away from the dangerous situation, but I could not. The duke, the courtiers, and myself had moved several paces from Max and the princess. I, however, kept my eyes and ears open to what occurred between them.
"Yes," returned the princess, haughtily, "I remember you so addressed me. I have heard of the person to whom you refer. She is, I believe, a niece of one Castleman, a burgher of Peronne. I know Castleman's daughter--a simple creature, with no pretence of being else. It has been said that--what do they call her? Yolanda, I believe--resembles me in some respects and is quite proud of the distinction. I am sure I thank no one for the compliment, since she is a low creature, but I accept your apology, my Lord Count."
"I do not apologize, Your Highness," answered Max, in tones of equal hauteur. "You probably do not know the lady of whom you speak."
The princess seemed to increase by an inch or two in stature as she drew herself up, and answered:--
"Of course we do not know her."
"If you knew her, Your Highness would apologize," retorted Max.
Seeing the angry color mounting to his face, I stepped to his side and joined in the conversation. Presently dinner was announced, and I rejoiced when we parted from the princess. Turning our faces toward the ladies, we moved backward from the room, and went with the duke to the dinner hall.
Compared with Castleman's daily fare, the duke's dinner was almost unpalatable. We had coarse beef, coarse boar's meat, coarse bread,--not black, but brown. Frau Kate's bread was like snow. The sour wine on the duke's table set our teeth on edge, though it was served in huge golden goblets studded with rare gems. At each guest's plate was a jewelled dagger. The tablecloth was of rich silk, soiled by numberless stains. Leeks and garlic were the only vegetables served.
Nothing of importance occurred at the table, but after dinner the duke abruptly offered Max a large sum of gold to accompany him to Switzerland. Max thanked His Grace and said he would give him an answer soon. The duke urged an early reply, and Max said:--
"With Your Grace's permission we will attend to-morrow's morning audience, and will make our answer after Your Lordship has risen."
Charles acquiesced, and we soon left the castle. The duke, as I have already told you, was very rich. Hymbercourt once told me that he had two hundred and fifty thousand gold crowns in his coffers at Luxembourg. That was probably more than the combined treasuries of any two kings in Europe could show. Max and I were short of money, and the sum that the duke offered seemed enormous. Neither Max nor his father, Duke Frederick, had ever possessed as much money at one time.
While we were leisurely walking across the courtyard toward the Postern, three ladies and two gentlemen, accompanied by outriders and pages carrying falcons, rode by us and passed out through the Postern. We followed, and overtook them at the town end of the drawbridge, where they had halted. When we came up to them, we recognized the duchess and the princess. The duchess bowed smilingly, but the princess did not speak, though she looked in our direction.
The cavalcade turned to the left, and went up a narrow street toward Cambrai Gate, evidently bound for the marshes. Max and I walked straight ahead toward the Cologne bridge, intending, as we had promised, to go back to Castleman's. Two hundred yards up the street I glanced back, and saw a lady riding through the Postern, back to the castle. I knew at once that the princess had returned, and I was sure of meeting Yolanda,--sweet, smiling, tender Yolanda,--at the dear old House under the Wall. I did not like the princess; she was cold, haughty, supercilious, and perhaps tinged with her father's cruelty. I longed ardently for Yolanda to come out of her skin, and my heart leaped with joy at the early prospect.
I was right in my surmise. Yolanda's sweet face, radiant with smiles and soft with dimples, was pressed against the window-pane watching for us when we crossed the moat bridge at Castleman's door.
"To see her face again is like coming back to heaven; isn't it, Karl?" said Max.
Yolanda ran to the door and opened it.
"I am glad you did not stay with her," she said, giving a hand to Max and to me, and walking into the room between us. She was like a child holding our hands.
I had seen the world and its people in all its phases, and I prided myself on my shrewdness, but without my knowledge of the stairway in the wall, I would have sworn that Yolanda had played a trick on me by leading me to believe that she was the Princess Mary. Even with full knowledge of all the facts, I found myself doubting. It is small cause for wonder, therefore, that Max was deceived.
"Uncle is at the shop," said Yolanda. "Tante is at a neighbor's, and Twonette, of course, is asleep. We three will sit here on this bench with no one to disturb us, and I shall have you both all to myself. No! There! I'll sit between you. Now, this is delightful."
She sat between us, crossed her knees--an unpardonable crime, Frau Kate would have thought--and giving a hand to Max and to me, said contentedly:--
"Now, tell me all about it."
I was actually on the point of beginning a narrative of our adventures, just as if she did not already know them,--so great was the spell she had thrown over me,--when Max spoke:--
"We had a poor dinner, but a kind host, therefore a fine feast. The duke has asked us to go to Switzerland with him. Judging by the enormous sum he offers for our poor services, he must believe that he will need no other help to conquer the Swiss."
"Yes--yes, that is interesting," said Yolanda, hastily, "but the princess--tell me of her."
"She is a very beautiful princess," answered Max.
"Yes--I suppose she is," answered Yolanda. "I have it dinned into my ears till I ought to believe it; but tell me of her manner, her conversation, her temper. What of them?"
"She is a most beautiful princess," answered Max, evidently intending to utter no word against Her Highness, though as a matter of fact he did not like her at all. "I am sure she deserves all the good that fame speaks of her."
Yolanda flung our hands from her, sprang to her feet, and faced us angrily.
"That's the way with all men. A rich princess, even though she be a cold devil, is beautiful and good and gentle and wise and true and quick of wit. Men care not what she is if her house be great and rich and powerful. If her domains are fat and broad, she deserves 'all the good that fame speaks of her.' She can win no man for herself. She cannot touch a man's heart; she can only satisfy his greed. You went to the castle, Sir Max, to see this princess. You want Burgundy. That is why you are in Peronne!"
The girl's passionate outburst was sincere, and showed me her true motive for deceiving Max. Her plan was not the outgrowth of a whim; it was the result of a tremendous motive conceived in the depths of her soul. She had found the man she loved, and was taking her own way to win him, if she could, for herself. She judged all men by the standard that she had just announced. She would never believe in the love of a man who should woo her as Princess Mary of Burgundy.
Her words came near accomplishing more than she desired. When she stopped speaking, Max leaned forward and gently took her hand.
"Yolanda, this princess is nothing to me, and I swear to you that I will never ask her to marry--"
A frightened gleam came to the girl's eyes when she understood the oath that Max was about to take, and she quickly placed her hand over his mouth. Max was swearing too much.
"You shall not make that oath, Little Max," she said. "You shall not say that you will never marry her, nor shall you say that you will never marry any one else. You must remain free to choose the right wife when the right time comes. You must tread the path that God has marked out for you. Perhaps it leads to this princess; no one can tell. If so, you must accept your fate, Sir Max." She sighed at the mere thought of so untoward a fate for Max.
"I need make no oath not to marry the princess," answered Max. "She is beyond my reach, even though I were dying for love of her."
"And you are not dying for love of her, are you?" asked Yolanda, again taking the seat between Max and me.
"No," he responded.
"Nor for love of any woman?" she asked, looking toward Max.
"I'll not say that," he replied, laughing softly, and taking her hands between his.
"No, no," she mused, looking in revery out the window. "No, we will not say that."
I have always been as unsentimental as a man well can be, but I believe, had I been in Max's place, I should have thrown away my crown for the sake of Yolanda, the burgher girl. I remember wondering if Max would be strong enough finally to reach the same conclusion. If he should be, my faith in Yolanda's powers led me to believe that she would contrive a plan to make him her husband, despite her father, or the devil and all his imps.
There is a power of finesse in the feminine mind that no man may fully compass, and Yolanda, in that respect, was the flower of her sex. That she had been able to maintain her humble personality with Max, despite the fact that she had been compelled to meet him twice as princess, proved her ability. Of course, she had the help of good old Castleman and his sweet Frau Kate, serene Twonette, and myself; but with all this help she probably would have failed without the stairway in the wall.
When we left Castleman's, I did not bring up the subject of Mary and Yolanda. Max walked silently beside me until we had nearly reached the inn, when he said:--
"I am almost glad I was wrong, Karl. I would not have Yolanda other than she is. At times, wild thoughts suggest themselves to me; but I am not so weak as to give way to them. I drive them off and clench my teeth, determined to take the misery God doles out to me. I am glad we are soon to leave Burgundy. The duke marches in three days, and it is none too soon for me."
"Shall not we return to Burgundy?" I asked. "I want you to see Paris and Brussels, and, if possible, London before we return to Styria. Don't you think it best that we come back to Peronne after this war?"
"You are right, Karl; we must come back," he answered. "I do not fear Yolanda. I am not weak."
"I sometimes wonder if we know our strength from our weakness," I suggested. "There is doubtless much energy wasted by conscientious men striving in the wrong direction, who fancy they are doing their duty."
"You would not have me marry Yolanda?" asked Max, a gleam of light coming to his eyes.
"I do not know, Max," I responded. "A rare thing has happened to you. You have won a marvellous love from a marvellous woman. She takes no pains to conceal it. She could not hide it if she would. What you feel, only you and God know."
"Only God," cried Max, huskily. "Only God. I cannot measure it."
"My dear boy," said I, taking his arm, "you are at a point where you must decide for yourself."
"I have decided," returned Max. "If my father and mother were not living, I might--I might--bah! there is but one life for me. I am doomed. I make myself wretched by resistance."
"When we return to Peronne, you will know your mind," I answered soothingly.
"I know my mind now," he answered. "I know that I would give half the years of my life to possess Yolanda; but I also know the fate that God has marked out for me."
"Then you know more than many a wise man thrice your age can boast," said I.
The duke's armies had been gathering throughout Burgundy. Men had come in great numbers to camp near Peronne, and the town was noisy with martial preparations. Contrary to Hymbercourt's advice, the duke was leaving Peronne Castle guarded by only a small garrison. Charles had great faith in the strength of Peronne the Impregnable, and, although it was near the French border, he trusted in its strength and in his treaty with King Louis. He knew from experience that a treaty with Louis would bind that crafty monarch only so long as it was to his interest to remain bound; but Louis' interest in maintaining the treaty seemed greater than Burgundy's, and Charles rested on that fact. Peronne was to be left captained by the duchess and Mary, and garrisoned by five score men-at-arms, who were either too old or too young to go to war.
Without discussing the duke's offer, Max and I decided to accept it, though for different reasons. Max needed the gold; he also sniffed battle, and wanted the excitement and the enterprise of war. I had all his reasons, and still another; I wanted to give Yolanda time to execute her plans.
The war with Switzerland would probably be short. Max would be with the duke, and would, I hoped, augment the favor with which Charles already honored him. Should Yolanda's letter make trouble with France, Duke Charles might be induced, through his personal feelings, to listen to Max's suit. If Charles returned from Switzerland victorious--and no other outcome seemed possible--he would no longer have reason to carry out the marriage treaty with France. It had been made largely for the purpose of keeping Louis quiet while Charles was absent. Anything might happen; everything might happen, while Max was with Charles in Switzerland and Yolanda at home making trouble with France.
The next day, by appointment, we waited on the duke at the morning audience. When we entered the great hall, the urgent business had been transacted, and half a score of lords and gentlemen stood near the dais, discussing some topic with the duke and with one another. We moved near the throne, and I heard Charles say to Campo-Basso and Hymbercourt:--
"Almost three weeks have passed since our message to France, and we have had no answer. What think you, gentlemen, of the delay?"
"His Majesty is not in Paris, or delays answering," said Hymbercourt.
"By the Host, if I could think that King Louis were holding Byron and delaying an answer, I would change my plans and march on Paris rather than on Switzerland."
"I fear, my lord," said Campo-Basso, with a sympathetic desire to make trouble, if possible, "that His Majesty delays an answer while he frames one that shall be elusive, yet conciliatory. King Louis, Your Grace knows, thinks many times before each word he speaks or writes."
"If he has intentionally delayed this answer, I'll give him cause to think many times after his words," said Charles.
Conversations of like nature had occurred on several occasions since the sending of the missive to Louis, and they offered the stormy duke opportunity to vent his boastfulness and spleen. While Charles was pouring out his wrath against his brother-in-law, Byron, the herald, appeared at the door of the great hall. He announced himself, and, when ordered to approach, ran to the dais, kneeled on the second step, and placed a small sealed packet in the duke's hand.
"Did you find King Louis at Paris?" asked the duke, addressing Byron.
"I did, my lord."
"Paris is but thirty leagues distant, and you certainly have had sufficient time since leaving us to journey across Europe and back. Did not I command you to make haste?"
"You did, my lord," answered the herald. "King Louis put me off from day to day, always promising me an answer, but giving it only yesterday afternoon when the sun was half below the horizon."
Charles nervously broke the seals of the package, and attempted to read the letter. He failed, and handed it to Campo-Basso, saying:--
"Read the missive. I already know its contents, but read, my lord, read."
Campo-Basso read the letter.
"To Our Most Illustrious Brother Charles Duke of Burgundy, and Count of Charolois:--
"We recommend us and send Your Grace greeting. We are anxious to pleasure our noble brother of Burgundy in all things, and heartily desire the marriage between our son and the illustrious Princess of Burgundy, but we shall not move toward it until our said noble brother shall return from Switzerland, nor will we do aught to distract his attention from the perilous business he now has on hand. We pray that the saints may favor his design, and would especially recommend that our noble brother propitiate with prayers and offerings the holy Saint Hubert. We, ourselves, have importuned this holy saint, and he has proved marvellously helpful on parlous occasions.
"Louis, R."
The duke's anger was terrible and disgusting to behold. When his transports of rage allowed him to speak, he broke forth with oaths too blasphemous to write on a white page.
"The fawning hypocrite!" he cried. "He thinks to cozen us with his cheap words. The biting insult in his missive is that he takes it for granted that we are so great a fool as to believe him. Even his recommendation of a saint is a lie. The world knows his favorite saint is Saint Andrew. King Louis spends half his time grovelling on his marrow bones before that saint and the Blessed Virgin. He recommends to us Saint Hubert, believing that his holy saintship will be of no avail."
Charles was right. Sir Philip de Comines, seneschal to King Louis, afterward told me that His Majesty, in writing this letter to the Duke of Burgundy, actually took counsel and devoted much time and thought to the choice of a baneful or impotent saint to recommend to his "noble brother of Burgundy." Disaster to Louis had once followed supplication to Saint Hubert, and the king hoped that the worthy saint might prove equally unpropitious for Charles. Yolanda's wonderful "t" was certainly the most stupendous single letter ever quilled. Here were the first-fruits of it.
"Were it not that these self-sufficient Swiss need to be blooded, I would turn my army against France to-morrow," said the duke.
"And have Bourbon and Lorraine upon Your Lordship's back from the east, Ghent rebelling in the north, and the Swiss pouring in from the south," interrupted Hymbercourt.
"You are certainly right, my Lord d'Hymbercourt," replied Charles, sullenly. "They surround us like a pack of starved wolves, ready to spring upon us the moment we are crippled. Burgundy stands alone against all Europe."
"A vast treasure, my lord, attracts thieves," said Hymbercourt. "Burgundy is the richest land on earth."
"It is, indeed it is," replied the duke, angrily, "and I have no son to keep it after me. But France shall not have it; that I swear upon my knighthood. Write to France, my Lord Bishop of Cambrai, and tell King Louis that my daughter shall not marry his son. Waste no words, my Lord Bishop, in what you call courtesy. We need no double meaning in our missives."
Those who heard the duke's words knew that he was committing a costly error, but no one dared to suggest as much. One might, with equal success, have flung soft words at a mad bull. Truly that "t"--but I will speak of it no more, though I have a thrill of joy and mirth even now when I think of it.
After many explosions, the duke's pent-up wrath found vent, and began to subside. Espying Max and me he called us to the throne.
"Have you concluded to join us in our little holiday excursion against these mountain swine?" asked His Grace, addressing us.
"We have, my lord. We shall be proud to serve under the banner of so brave a prince," I answered.
"'We have' would have been sufficient, Sir Karl," answered the duke, still surly from the dregs of his wrath. "We hear so many soft words from France that we despise them in the mouths of honest men."
The duke then turned to his seneschal, De Vergy, and spoke in tones that were heard all over the room:--
"My lord, Maximilian, Count of Hapsburg, and Sir Karl de Pitti have consented to join our banners. Enroll them in places of honor, my Lord Seneschal. See that they are supplied with horses, accoutrements, and tents for themselves and their squires, and direct my Lord Treasurer to pay to them upon demand a sum of money of which he shall be duly notified."
When the duke stopped speaking, a murmur of approval ran through the audience--though the Italians had no part in it. The murmur grew clamorous and soon a mighty shout filled the vaulted roof:--
"Long life to the noble Count of Hapsburg! Burgundy and Styria forever!"
To me, the words seemed delightfully prophetic. Soon afterward the audience was dismissed, and Max and I had the great honor of being asked to join the duke's council. A council to the Duke of Burgundy was indeed a veritable fifth wheel. He made his own plans and, right or wrong, clung to them. He would, on rare occasions, listen to Hymbercourt,--a man of few words, who gave advice as if he were lending a crown,--but the suggestions of others antagonized him.
The question before the council this morning was: Should the duke's army carry provisions, or should it take them from the countries through which it was to pass? Charles favored the latter course, and it was agreed upon. The people of non-belligerent states should be paid for the provisions that were taken; that is, theoretically they should be paid. The Swiss should furnish provision, gratis, and that doubtless would be terribly practical.
On each of the three evenings intervening between the day of this council and the departure of the army, we saw Yolanda at Castleman's. She was always waiting when we arrived. She had changed in many respects, but especially in her attitude regarding Max. She was kind and gentle, but shy. Having dropped her familiar manner, she did not go near him, but sat at a distance, holding Twonette's hand, and silently but constantly watching him, as if she were awaiting something. Her eyes, at times, seemed to be half-indignant interrogation points. At other times I could see in them doubt, waiting, and hope--hope almost tired with yearning.
It was no small love that she wanted from Max. She had hoped--perhaps I should say she had longed with little hope--that he would, for the sake of the burgher girl, Yolanda, be willing to turn his back on his family and his land. But now he was leaving, and her dream was about to close, since Max would probably never come back to her.
Not the least painful of Yolanda's emotions was the knowledge that she could insure Max's return by telling him that she was the Princess of Burgundy. But she did not want this man whom she loved so dearly, and who, she knew, loved her, if she must win him as princess. She was strangely impelled to reject a reprieve from a life of wretchedness, unless it came through the high court of love.
Max, in speaking to me about his return, had wavered many times. One day he would return; the next, he would swallow the bitter draught fate had in store for him. He was a great, honest soul, and to such the call of duty is compelling.
On the evening before our departure we went to sup with Castleman. On our way down to the House under the Wall, Max said:--
"Karl, my duty is clear. I must not return to Peronne. If I do, I fear I shall never leave it."
I did not answer; but I had resolved that he should return, and I intended that my resolution should become a fact. Yolanda was not present at supper, but she appeared soon after we had risen. We sat under the dim light of a lamp in the long room. Yolanda was on the cushioned bench in the shadow of the great chimney, silently clasping Twonette's hand. Twonette, of course, was silent and serene. Castleman and I talked disjointedly, and Max sat motionless, gazing through the window into the night. After greeting us, Yolanda spoke not a word; but ever in the deep shadow I could see the glow of her eyes looking toward Max. That his heart was filled with a great struggle, I knew, and I believed that Yolanda also knew.
We had many preparations to make before our departure next morning at dawn, so after an hour Max and I rose to leave. Twonette, leaving Yolanda, came to us, and the Castlemans all gave us a hearty God-speed. Yolanda sat wordless in the shadow. I went to her and gave her my hand.
"Farewell, Fräulein," I said.
Max followed me closely, and I stepped aside to make way for him. The girl rose and stood irresolute before him. I went to the Castlemans, who were standing at a distance.
"Fräulein--" said Max. But she interrupted him, extending her hands, which he clasped.
"Have you no word for me, Sir Max?" she asked pathetically, tears springing to her eyes. "Are you coming back to me? Have you the right to come into my life as you have done, and to leave me? Does God impose but one duty on you--that of your birth?"
"Ah, Fräulein," answered Max, huskily, "you know--you know what I suffer."
"I surely do know," she responded, "else I would not speak so plainly. But answer me, Sir Max. Answer my question. It is my right to know upon what I may depend. Will you come back to me?"
The imperious will of the princess had come to the rescue of Yolanda, the burgher girl.
Max paused before speaking, then grasped her hands fiercely and answered:--
"Before God, Fräulein, I will come back to you, if I live."
Yolanda sank upon the cushioned bench, covered her face with her hands, and the pent-up storm of sobs and tears broke forth as Max and I passed out the door.
Yolanda had won.