SIR KARL MEETS THE PRINCESS
The duke and I passed through the door by which Max and Hymbercourt had
left the hall, and entered a narrow passageway eight or ten yards long,
having two doors at the farther end. The door to the right, I soon
learned, led to the little parley room where Max and Hymbercourt had
gone. The door to the left opened into a staircase that led to the
apartments of the duchess. A narrow flight of stone steps that led from
the ladies' gallery opened into the passage, and, just as the duke
entered in advance of me, two ladies emerged from the stairs. They did
not see me in the shadow, and supposed that the duke was alone. The
taller, who I soon learned was the duchess, hastened down the passage
and through the door leading to her apartments. The smaller I at once
recognized. She was Yolanda.
"Father, you cannot mean to send me into France," she cried, trying to
detain the duke. "Kill me, father, if you will, but do not send me to
that hated land. I shall not survive this marriage a fortnight, and if I
die, Burgundy will go to our cousin of Bourbon."
"Don't hinder me, daughter," returned the duke, impatiently. "Don't you
see we are not alone?"
Yolanda turned in surprise toward me, and the duke said:--
"Go by the right door, Sir Karl. I will be with you at once. I wish to
speak with the duchess."
He hurriedly followed his wife and left me alone with Yolanda.
"Fräulein, my intrusion was unintentional," I stammered. "I followed the
duke at his request."
"Fräulein!" exclaimed the girl, lifting her head and looking a very
queen in miniature. "Fräulein! Do you know, sir, to whom you speak?"
"I beg your pardon, most gracious princess," I replied. "Did you not
command me to address you as Fräulein or Yolanda?"
"My name, sir, is not Yolanda. You have made a sad mistake," said the
princess, drawing herself up to her full height. Then I thought of
Yolanda's words when she told me that she resembled the princess as one
pea resembles another.
The girl trembled, and even in the dim light I could see the gleam of
anger in her eyes. I was endeavoring to frame a suitable apology when
she spoke again:--
"Fräulein! Yolanda! Sir, your courtesy is scant to give me these names.
I do not know you, and--did I not tell you that if you made this mistake
with the princess you would not so easily correct it? That
I--you--Blessed Virgin! I have betrayed myself. I knew I should. I knew
I could not carry it out."
She covered her face with her hands and began to weep, speaking while
she sobbed:--
"My troubles are more than I can bear."
I wished to reassure her at once:--
"Most Gracious Princess--Yolanda--your secret is safe with me. You are
as dear to me as if you were my child. You have nestled in my heart and
filled it as completely as one human being can fill the heart of
another. I would gladly give my poor old life to make you happy. Now if
you can make use of me, I am at your service."
"You will not tell Sir Max?" she sobbed.
She was no longer a princess. She was the child Yolanda.
"As I hope for salvation, no, I will not tell Sir Max," I responded.
"Sometime I will give you my reasons," she said.
"I wish none," I replied.
After a short pause, she went on, still weeping gently:--
"If I must go to France, Sir Karl, you may come there to be my Lord
Chamberlain. Perhaps Max should not come, since I shall be the wife of
another, and--and there would surely be trouble. Max should not come."
She stepped quickly to my side. Her hand fell, and she grasped mine for
an instant under the folds of her cloak; then she ran from the passage,
and I went to the room where Max and Hymbercourt were waiting.
After a few moments the duke joined us. Wine was served, but Charles did
not drink. On account of the excessive natural heat of his blood he
drank nothing but water. His Grace was restless; and, although there was
no lack of courtesy, I fancied he did not wish us to remain. So after
our cups were emptied I asked permission to depart. The duke acquiesced
by rising, and said, turning to Max:--
"May we not try our new hawk together this afternoon?"
"With pleasure, Your Grace," responded Max.
"Then we'll meet at Cambrai Gate near the hour of two," said the duke.
"I thank Your Grace," said Max, bowing.
On our way back to the inn, I told Max of my meeting with the princess,
and remarked upon her resemblance to Yolanda.
"You imagined the resemblance, Karl. There can be but one Yolanda in the
world," said Max. "Her Highness, perhaps, is of Yolanda's complexion and
stature,--so Yolanda has told me,--and your imagination has furnished
the rest."
"Perhaps that is true," said I, fearing that I had already spoken too
freely.
So my great riddle was at last solved! The Fates had answered when I
"gave it up." I was so athrill with the sweet assurance that Yolanda was
the princess that I feared my secret would leap from my eyes or spring
unbidden from my lips.
I cast about in my mind for Yolanda's reasons in wishing to remain
Yolanda to Max, and I could find none save the desire to win his heart
as a burgher girl. That, indeed, would be a triumph. She knew that every
marriageable prince in Europe coveted her wealth and her estates. The
most natural desire that she or any girl could have would be to find a
worthy man who would seek her for her own sake. As Yolanda, she offered
no inducement save herself. The girl was playing a daring game, and
a wise one.
True, there appeared to be no possibility that she could ever have Max
for her husband, even should she win his heart as Yolanda. In view of
the impending and apparently unavoidable French marriage, the future
held no hope. But when her day of wretchedness should come, she would,
through all her life, take comfort from the sweetest joy a woman can
know--that the man she loved loved her because she was her own fair
self, and for no other reason. There would, of course, be the sorrow of
regret, but that is passive, while the joy of memory is ever active.
When Max and I had departed, the duke turned to Hymbercourt and said:--
"The bishop's letter is not sufficiently direct. It is my desire to
inform King Louis that this marriage shall take place at once--now!
_Now_! It will effectually keep Louis from allying with Bourbon and
Lorraine, or some other prince, while I am away from home. They all hate
me, but not one of the cowards would say 'Booh!' unless the others were
back of him. A word from Louis would kindle rebellion in Liege and
Ghent. This war with Switzerland is what Louis has waited for; and when
I march to the south, he will march into Burgundy from the west unless
he has a counter motive."
"That is but too true, my lord," said Hymbercourt.
"But if my daughter marries the Dauphin, Louis will look upon Burgundy
as the property of the French kingship in the end, and the marriage will
frighten Bourbon and Lorraine to our feet once more. This hypocrite,
Louis, has concocted a fine scheme to absorb Burgundy into his realm by
this marriage with my daughter. But I'll disappoint his greed. I'll
whisper a secret in your ear, Hymbercourt,--a secret to be told to no
one else. I'll execute this treaty of marriage now, and will use my
crafty foe for my own purposes so long as I need him; but when I return
from Switzerland, I will divorce my present duchess and take a fruitful
wife who will bear me a son to inherit Burgundy; then King Louis may
keep the girl for his pains."
The duke laughed, and seemed to feel that he was perpetrating a great
joke on his rival.
"But your brother-in-law, Edward of England, may object to having his
sister divorced," suggested Hymbercourt.
"In that case we'll take a page from King Louis' book," answered
Charles. "We'll use gold, Hymbercourt, gold! I shall not, however, like
Louis, buy Edward's ministers! They are too expensive. I'll put none of
my gold in Hastings's sleeve. I'll pension Shore's wife, and Edward will
not trouble himself about his sister. He prefers other men's sisters. Do
not fear, Hymbercourt; the time has come to meet Louis' craft
with craft."
"And Your Grace's unhappy daughter is to be the shuttlecock, my lord?"
suggested Hymbercourt.
"She will serve her purpose in the weal of Burgundy, as I do. I give my
life to Burgundy. Why should not this daughter of mine give a few tears?
But her tears are unreasonable. Why should she object to this marriage?
Even though God should hereafter give me a son, who should cut the
princess out of Burgundy, will she not be queen of France? What more
would the perverse girl have? By God, Hymbercourt, it makes my blood
boil to hear you, a man of sound reason, talk like a fool. I hear the
same maudlin protest from the duchess. She, too, is under the spell of
this girl, and mourns over her trumped-up grief like a parish priest at
a bishop's funeral."
"But, my lord, consider the creature your daughter is to marry," said
Hymbercourt. "He is but a child, less than fourteen years of age, and is
weak in mind and body. Surely, it is a wretched fate for your daughter."
"I tell you the girl is perverse," interrupted the duke. "She would
raise a storm were the Dauphin a paragon of manliness. He is a poor,
mean wretch, whom she may easily rule. His weakness will be her
advantage. She is strong enough, God knows, and wilful enough to face
down the devil himself. If there is a perverse wench on all the earth,
who will always have her own way by hook or by crook, it is this
troublesome daughter of mine. She has the duchess wound around her
finger. I could not live with them at Ghent, and sent them here for the
sake of peace. When she is queen of France she will also be king of that
realm--and in God's name what more could the girl ask?"
"But, my lord, let me beg you to consider well this step before you take
it. I am sure evil will come of it," pleaded Hymbercourt.
"I have considered," answered the duke. "Let me hear no more of this
rubbish. Two women dinning it into my ears morning, noon, and night are
quite enough for my peace of mind. I hear constantly, 'Dear father,
don't kill me. Spare your daughter,' and 'Dear my lord, I beg you not to
sacrifice the princess, whom I so love.' God's mercy! I say I am tired
of it! This marriage shall take place at once! Now, now, now, do you
hear, Hymbercourt? Tell the bishop to write this letter in English. We
will make the draught as bitter as possible for Louis. He hates the
sight of an English word, and small wonder. Direct the bishop to make
the letter short and to the point. Tell him to say the marriage shall
take place _now_. Have him use the word _now_. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord," answered Hymbercourt.
"Order him to fetch the missive immediately to the apartments of the
duchess. It shall be read, signed, and despatched in the presence of my
daughter and my wife, so that they may know what they have to expect.
I'll see that I'm bothered no more with their tears and their senseless
importunities."
"I'll carry out your instructions," said Hymbercourt, bowing and taking
his leave.
The duke went to his wife's parlor and fell moodily into a chair. The
duchess was sitting on a divan, and the princess was weeping in her
arms. After a long silence, broken only by Mary's half-smothered sobs,
the duke turned sharply upon the women:--
"For the love of God, cease your miserable whimpering," growled his
lordship. "Is not my life full of vexations without this deluge of tears
at home? A whimpering woman will do more to wear out the life of a man
than a score of battling enemies. Silence, I say; silence, you fools!"
Mary and the duchess were now unable to control themselves. Charles rose
angrily and, with his clenched hand raised for a blow, strode across the
room to the unhappy women. Clinging to each other, the princess and
Duchess Margaret crouched low on the divan. Then this great hero, whom
the world worships and calls "The Bold," bent over the trembling women
and upbraided them in language that I will not write.
"God curse me if I will have my life made miserable by a pair of fools,"
cried the duke. "I am wretched enough without this useless annoyance.
Enemies abroad and disobedience in my own family will drive me mad!"
The women slipped from the divan to the floor at the duke's feet, and
clung to each other. The duchess covered the princess to protect her
from the duke's blow, and, alas! took it herself. Charles stepped back,
intending to kick his daughter, but the duchess again threw herself on
Yolanda and again received the blow. By that time the duke's fury was
beyond all measure, and he stooped to drag his wife from Yolanda that he
might vent his wrath upon the sobbing girl. The duchess, who was a
young, strong woman, sprang to her feet and placed herself between
Yolanda, lying on the floor, and the infuriated duke.
"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.