“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.”