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.