“That, I hope, will be of no moment now, since the duke is arranging for the immediate celebration of this marriage with the Dauphin.  I am given to understand that His Grace, the Bishop of Cambrai, secretary to the duke, has received orders to draught a letter to King Louis expressing our lord’s pleasure.  King Louis is so eager for the marriage, which will once more bring Burgundy to the French kingship, that Duke Charles deems it sufficiently courteous to express his intentions to Louis, rather than to request the king’s compliance.  The duke’s contempt for the king of France is so great that he causes the letter to be written in English, a language which Charles loves because of the English blood in his veins, and which Louis, with good reason, hates.”

“Has this letter been despatched?” I asked, concealing as well as I could my deep concern.

Max heard Hymbercourt’s statement without even a show of interest.  Had he suspected that Hymbercourt was speaking of Yolanda’s marriage, there surely would have been a demonstration.

“No,” answered Hymbercourt, “the letter has not been sent, but the duke will despatch it at once.  It will probably be the chief business of this morning’s audience.  The duke wants the marriage celebrated before he leaves for Switzerland.  That will be within three or four weeks.  I am not informed as to the details of the ceremony, but I suppose the princess will be taken to St. Denis, and will there be married.  The unfortunate princess, doubtless, has not yet been told of her impending fate, though she may have heard of it by rumor.  There will be tears and trouble when she learns of it, for she has a strong dash of her father’s temper.  But—­” He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that her tears would count for nothing.

Hymbercourt’s words took the heart out of me; and when he left us for a moment, I urged Max to leave Burgundy at once.

“I must see Yolanda and ask her to release me from my promise before I go,” he said.

“You are surely not so weak as to allow a burgher girl to hold you?” I asked.

“The girl does not hold me,” he answered.  “I was so weak as to give my promise, and that holds me.”

“She will give you your release if you demand it,” I suggested.

“If she does, I will go with you to-morrow.  It is time that we were out of Burgundy.  I will forego even my combat with Calli to get away.  I should not have given Yolanda my promise; but she is so persuasive, and I pity her, and—­and, oh!  Karl, I—­the trouble is, I love her, and it is like death to part from her forever.  That is my weakness.”

The poor, suffering boy leaned forward on the table and buried his face in his arms.

“That isn’t your weakness, Max, it’s your strength,” I responded.  “Few men are so unfortunate as to escape it.  God must pity those who do.  It may be well to tell the duke who you are.  If he is displeased, we may leave Burgundy at once.  If he receives you graciously, we may remain and you may fight this Calli.  That is the one duty that holds you in Peronne.”