"Yes, of course she wore a gown," laughingly retorted Hymbercourt. "Your lagging attention is what I deserve, Sir Karl, for trying in my lame fashion to describe a woman's gear to a man who is half priest, half warrior. I do not wonder that you did not follow me."
I had heard him, but there was another question dinning in my ears so loudly that it drowned all other sounds--"Who is Yolanda?"
Yolanda was entering the door of the House under the Wall less than five minutes before I saw the duke pass through the Postern. Marcus Grote had told me there were but two openings to the castle, the Postern and the great gate on the other side of the castle by the donjon keep. To reach the great gate one must pass out by Cambrai or the Somme Gate and go around the city walls--an hour's journey.
With an air of carelessness I asked Hymbercourt concerning the various entrances to the castle. He confirmed what Grote had said. Considering all the facts, I was forced to this conclusion: If the Princess Mary had met the duke at the Postern, Yolanda was not the Princess Mary.
The next day I reconnoitred the premises, and again reached the conclusion that Yolanda could not have met the duke inside the Postern unless she were a witch with wings that could fly thither over the castle walls; ergo, she was not the princess. With equal certainty she was not a burgher girl.
In seeking an identity that would fit her I groped among many absurd propositions. Yolanda might be the duke's ward, or she might be his daughter, though not bearing his name. My brain was in a whirl. If she were the princess, I wished to remain in Peronne to pursue the small advantage Max had assuredly gained in winning her favor. The French marriage might miscarry. But if she were not the princess, I could not get my Prince Max away from her dangerous neighborhood too quickly. I could not, of course, say to Max, "You shall remain in Peronne," or "You shall leave Peronne at once;" but my influence over him was great, and he trusted my fidelity, my love, and my ability to advise him rightly. I had always given my advice carefully, but, above all, I had given him the only pleasurable moments he had ever known. That, by the way, may have been the greatest good I could have offered him.
When Max was a child, the pleasure of his amusements was smothered by officialism. My old Lord Aurbach, though gouty and stiff of joint, was eager to "run" his balls or his arrows, and old Sir Giles Butch could be caught so easily at tag or blind man's buff that there was no sport for Max in doing it. Everything the boy did was done by the heir of Styria, except on rare occasions when he and I stole away from the castle. Then we were boys together, and then it was I earned his love and confidence. At such times we used to leave the Hapsburg ancestry to care for itself and dumped Hapsburg dignity into the moat. But the crowning good I had brought to him was this journey into the world. The boy loathed the clinging dignities that made of him, at home, a royal automaton, tricked out in tarnished gold lace, faded velvets, and pompous airs. He often spoke of the pleasures I had given him. One evening at Grote's inn I answered:--
"Nonsense, Max, nonsense," though I was so pleased with his gratitude I could have wept.
"It is not nonsense. You have saved me from becoming a mummy. I see it all, Karl, and shudder to think of the life that might have been mine. I take no pleasure in seeing gouty old dependents bowing, kneeling, and smirking before me. Of course, these things are my prerogative, and a man born to them may not forego what is due to his birth even though it irks him. But such an existence--I will not call it living--saps the juice of life. Even dear old mother is compelled to suppress her love for me. Often she has pressed me to her breast only to thrust me away at the approach of footsteps. By the way, Karl," continued Max, while preparing for bed, "Yolanda one day at Basel jestingly called me 'Little Max.'"
"The devil she did," I exclaimed, unable to restrain my words.