_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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 Sh.o.r.e'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 shuttlec.o.c.k, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 d.u.c.h.ess. 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, G.o.d 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 G.o.d'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.' G.o.d'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 d.u.c.h.ess. 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 G.o.d, 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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.

"G.o.d 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess. "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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 d.u.c.h.ess. "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 d.u.c.h.ess tenderly lifted Mary to the divan.

"He will not strike you, child," said Margaret. Then she fell to kissing Yolanda pa.s.sionately, 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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l before you can say a ma.s.s."

"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 doc.u.ment 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 G.o.ds, 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 G.o.d, 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 d.u.c.h.ess.

"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.