"
"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.
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