CHAPTER II.TWO SURPRISES FOR ELAINE."I feel within meA mind above all earthly dignities,A still and quiet conscience."—SHAKSPERE.I should like to know, if I could find out, what it is that makes Alix have such a fancy for Lady Isabeau de Montbeillard. I think she is just abominable. She finishes off every sentence with a little crackling laugh, which it drives me wild to hear. It makes no difference what it is about. Whether it be, "Dear Damoiselle, how kind you are!" or "Do you not think my lord looks but poorly?" they all end up with "Ha, ha, ha!" Sometimes I feel as though I could shake her like Lovel does the rats.If Lady Isabeau were like Alix in her ways, I would understand it better; but they are totally unlike, and yet they seem to have a fancy for each other.As for the Baron, I don't care a bit about him any way. He is like Umberge in that respect—there is nothing in him either to like or dislike. And if there can be still less of anything than in him, I think it is in his brother, Messire Raymond, who sits with his mouth a little open, staring at one as if one were a curiosity in a show.Alix told me this morning that I was too censorious. I am afraid that last sentence looks rather like it. Perhaps I had better stop.The Baron and his lady went with us to the hawking, and so did Messire Raymond; but he never caught so much as a sparrow. Then, after we came back, I had to try on my new dress, which Marguerite had just finished. It really is a beauty. The under-tunic is of crimson velvet, the super-tunic of blue samite embroidered in silver; the mantle of reddish tawny, with a rich border of gold. I shall wear my blue kerchief with it, which Monseigneur gave me last New Year's Day, and my golden girdle studded with sapphires. The sleeves are the narrowest I have yet had, for the Lady de Montbeillard told Alix that last time she was at the Court, the sleeves were much tighter at the wrist than they used to be, and she thinks, in another twenty years or so, the pocketing sleeve[#] may be quite out of fashion. It would be odd if sleeves were to be made the same width all the way down. But the Lady de Montbeillard saw Queen Marguerite[#] when she was at Poictiers, and she says that the Queen wore a tunic of the most beautiful pale green, and her sleeves were the closest worn by any lady there.[#] One of the most uncomely and inconvenient vagaries of fashion. The sleeve was moderately tight from shoulder to elbow, and just below the elbow it went off in a wide pendant sweep, reaching almost to the knee. The pendant part was used as a pocket.[#] Daughter of Louis VII., King of France, and Constança of Castilla: wife of Henry, eldest son of Henry II. of England. Her husband was crowned during his father's life, and by our mediæval chroniclers is always styled Henry the Third.I wish I were a queen. It is not because I think it would be grand, but because queens and princesses wear their coronets over their kerchiefs instead of under. And it is such a piece of business to fasten one's kerchief every morning with the coronet underneath. Marguerite has less trouble than I have with it, as she has nothing to fasten but the kerchief. And if it is not done to perfection I am sure to hear of it from Alix.When Marguerite was braiding my hair this morning, I asked her if she knew why she was made. She was ready enough with her answer."To serve you, Damoiselle, without doubt.""And why was I made, dost thou think, Marguerite? To be served by thee—or to serve some one else?""Of course, while the Damoiselle is young and at home, she will serve Monseigneur. Then, when the cavalier comes who pleases Monseigneur and the good God, he will serve the Damoiselle. And afterwards,—it is the duty of a good wife to serve her lord. And of course, all, nobles and villeins, must serve the good God.""Well, thou hast settled it easier than I could do it," said I. "But, Margot, dost thou never become tired of all this serving?""Not now, Damoiselle.""What dost thou mean by that?""Ah, there was a time," said Marguerite, and I thought a blush burned on her dear old face, "when I was a young, silly maiden, and very, very foolish, Damoiselle.""Dost thou think all maidens silly, Margot?""Very few wise, Damoiselle. My foolish head was full of envious thoughts, I know that—vain wishes that I had been born a noble lady, instead of a villein maiden. I thought scorn to serve, and would fain have been born to rule.""How very funny!" said I. "I never knew villeins had any notions of that sort. I thought they were quite content.""Is the noble Damoiselle always quite content? Pardon me.""Why, no," said I. "But then, Margot, I am noble, and nobles may rightfully aspire. Villeins ought to be satisfied with the lot which the good God has marked out for them, and with the honour of serving a noble House.""Ha, Damoiselle! The Damoiselle has used a deep, strong word. Satisfy! I believe nothing will satisfy any living heart of man or woman,—except that one thing.""What one thing?""I am an ignorant villein, my Damoiselle. I do not know the holy Latin tongue, as ladies do. But now and then Father Eudes will render some words of the blessed Evangel into French in his sermon. And he did so that day—when I was satisfied.""What was it that satisfied thee, then, Margot?""They were words, Father Eudes said, of the good God Himself, when He walked on middle earth among us men. 'Come unto Me,' He said, 'all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'""But I do not understand, Marguerite. How did those words satisfy thee?""The words did not, Damoiselle. But the thing did. I just took the blessed Lord at His word, and went to Him, and, thanks be to His holy Name, He gave me rest.""What dost thou mean, Margot?""Will the dear Damoiselle not come and try? She will want rest, some day.""Had I not better wait till I am tired?" said I, laughingly."Ah, yes! we never want rest till we are tired.—But not wait to come to the merciful Lord. Oh no, no!""Nay, I cannot comprehend thee, Margot.""No, my Damoiselle. She is not likely to know how to come until she wants to do it. When she does want it, the good God will hear the Damoiselle, for He heard her servant.""Didst thou entreat the intercession of Saint Marguerite?""Ah, no. I am but an ignorant old woman. The dear Lord said, 'Come untoMe.' And I thought, perhaps, He meant it. So I just went.""But how couldst thou, Margot?""If it please my Damoiselle, I did it. And if He had been angry, I suppose He would not have heard me.""But how dost thou know He did hear thee?""When the Damoiselle entreats Monseigneur to give her a silver mark, and he opens his purse and gives it, is it possible for her to doubt that he has heard her? The good God must have heard me, because He gave me rest.""I do not understand, Margot, what thou meanest by rest. And I want to know all about it. Have things given over puzzling thee? Is there some light come upon them?""It seems to me, Damoiselle, if I be not too bold in speaking my poor thoughts"——"Go on," said I. "I want to know them.""Then, my Damoiselle, it seems to me that there are two great lights in which we may see every thing in this world. The first is a fierce light, like the sun. But it blinds and dazzles us. The holy angels perchance can bear it, for it streams from the Throne of God, and they stand before that Throne. But we cannot. Our mortal eyes must be hidden in that dread and unapproachable light. And if I mistake not, it is by this light that the Damoiselle has hitherto tried to see things, and no wonder that her eyes are dazzled. But the other light soothes and enlightens. It is soft and clear, like the moonlight, and it streams from the Cross of Calvary. There the good God paid down, in the red gold of His own blood, the price of our redemption. It must have been because He thought it worth while. And if He paid such a price for a poor villein woman like me, He must have wanted me. The Damoiselle would not cast a pearl into the Vienne for which she had paid a thousand crowns. And if He cared enough about me to give His life for me, then He must care enough to be concerned about my welfare in this lower world. The Damoiselle would not refuse a cup of water to him to whom she was willing to give a precious gem. Herein lies rest. What the good God, who thus loves me, wills for me, I will for myself also.""But, Marguerite, it might be something that would break thine heart.""Would the blessed Lord not know that? But I do not think He breaks hearts that are willing to be His. He melts them. It is the hearts that harden themselves like a rock which have to be broken.""But thou wouldst not like something which hurt thee?""Not enjoy it—no, no. Did the Damoiselle enjoy the verdigris plaster which the apothecary put on her when she was ill three years ago? Yet she did not think him her enemy, but her friend. Ah, the good God has His medicine-chest. And it holds smarting plasters and bitter drugs. But they are better than to be ill, Damoiselle.""Marguerite, I had no idea thou wert such a philosopher.""Ah, the noble Damoiselle is pleased to laugh at her servant, who does not know what that hard word means. No, there is nothing old Marguerite knows, only how to come to the blessed Lord and ask Him for rest.Hegave the rest. And He knew how to do it."I wonder if old Marguerite is not the truest philosopher of us all. It is evident that things do not puzzle her, just because she lets them alone, and leaves them with God. Still, that is not knowing. And I want to know.Oh, I wish I could tell if it is wicked to want to know!I wonder if the truth be that there are things which we cannot know:—things which the good God does not tell us, not because He wishes us to be ignorant, but because He could not possibly make us comprehend them. But then why did He not make us wiser?—or why does He let questions perplex us to which we can find no answer?I think it must be that He does not wish us to find the answer. And why? I will see what idea Marguerite has about that. She seems to get hold of wise notions in some unintelligible way, for of course she is only a villein, and cannot have as much sense as a noble.There was that tiresome Messire Raymond in the hall when I went down. He is noble enough, for his mother's mother was a Princess of the Carlovingian[#] blood: but I am sure he has no more sense than he needs. The way in which he says "Ah!" when I tell him anything, just exasperates me. The Baron, his brother, is a shade better, though he will never wear a laurel crown.[#] Still, he does not say "Ah!"[#] A descendant of Charlemagne.[#] The prize of intellect.I don't like younger brothers. In fact, I don't think I like men of any sort. Except Guy, of course—and Monseigneur. But then other men are not like them. Guillot, and Amaury, and Raoul rank with the other men.I wonder if women are very much better. I don't think they are, if I am to look upon Alix and the Lady de Montbeillard as samples.Oh dear, I wonder why I hate people so! It must be because they are hateful. Does anybody thinkmehateful? How queer it would be, if they did!I really do feel, to-night, as if I did not know whether I was standing on my feet or on my head. I cannot realise it one bit. Alix going to be married! Alix going away from the Castle! And I—I—to be the only mistress there!Monseigneur called me down into the hall, as I stood picking the dead leaves from my rose-bushes for a pot-pourri. There was no one in the hall but himself. Well, of course there were a quantity of servitors and retainers, but they never count for anything. I mean, there was nobody that is anybody. He bade me come up to him, and he drew me close, kissed me on the forehead, and stroked down my hair."What will my cabbage say to what I have to tell her?" said he."Is it something pleasant, Monseigneur?" said I."Now, there thou posest me," he answered, "Yes,—in one light. No,—in another. And in which of the two lights thou wilt see it, I do not yet know."I looked up into his face and waited."Dost thou like Messire Raymond de Montbeillard?""No, Monseigneur," I answered."No? Ha! then perchance thou wilt not like my news.""Messire Raymond has something to do with it?""Every thing.""Well," said I, I am afraid rather saucily, "so long as he does not want to marry me, I do not much care what he does."Monseigneur pinched my ear, kissed me, and seemed extremely amused."Thee? No, no! Not just yet, my little cabbage. Not just yet! But suppose he wanted to marry Alix?""Does he want to marry Alix?""He does.""And under your good leave, Monseigneur?""Well, yes. I see no good reason to the contrary, my little cat. He is a brave knight, and has a fine castle, and is a real Carlovingian."[#][#] Throughout France in the Middle Ages, the Carlovingian blood was rated at an extravagant value."He is a donkey!" said I. "Real, too.""Ha, hush, then!" replied Monseigneur, yet laughing, and patting my cheek. "Well, well—perhaps not overburdened with brains—how sharp thou art, child, to be sure! (No want of brains in that direction.) But a good, worthy man, my cabbage, and a stalwart knight.""And when is it to be, Monseigneur?" I asked."In a hurry to see the fine dresses?" demanded my gracious Lord, and laughed again. "Nay, I think not till after Christmas. Time enough then.Iam in no hurry to lose my housekeeper. Canst thou keep house, my rabbit?—ha, ha! Will there be anything for dinner? Ha, ha, ha, ha!"I was half frightened, and yet half delighted. Of course, I thought, if Alix goes away, Umberge will come and reign here. Nobody is likely to think me old enough or good enough."Under your Nobility's good leave, I will see to that," said I.Monseigneur answered by a peal of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! Showing her talons, is she? Wants to rule, my cabbage—does she? A true woman, on my troth! Ha, ha, ha!""If it please you, Monseigneur, why should you come short of dinner because I see about it?"My gracious Lord laughed more than ever."No reason at all, my little rabbit!—no reason at all! Try thy hand, by all means—by all means! So Umberge does not need to come? Ha, ha, ha, ha!""Certainly not for me," said I, rather piqued."Seriously, my little cat," said he, and his face grew grave. "Wouldst thou rather Umberge did not come? Art thou not friends with her?""Oh, as to friends, so-so, là-là,"[#] said I. "But I think I should get along quite as well without her."[#] Middling."But wouldst thou not weary for a woman's company?""I never weary for any company but Guy's," I answered; and I think the tears came into my eyes."Is it still Guy?" said he, smiling, but very kindly now. "Always Guy? Well, well! When the time comes—I promised the boy thou shouldst go out to him. We must wait till he writes to say he is ready to receive thee. So Guy stands first, does he?"I nodded, for my heart was too full to speak. He patted my head again, and let me go. But I thought he looked a little troubled; and I could not tell why.When I came to undress, the same evening, I asked Marguerite if she had heard the news."The Damoiselle Alix was so gracious as to inform me," said she."Dost thou like it, Margot?""Ha, my Damoiselle! What does it matter what a villein old woman likes?""It matters to me, or I should not have asked thee," said I."I trust it will be for the noble Damoiselle's welfare," said she; and I could get her to say no more."Now, Margot, tell me something else," said I. "Why does the good God not make all things clear to everybody? What sayest thou?""He has not told me why, Damoiselle. Perhaps, to teach my Damoiselle to trust Him. There could be no trust if we always knew.""But is not knowing better than trusting?" I replied."Is it?" responded Marguerite. "Does Monseigneur always take my Damoiselle into his secrets, and never require her to trust him? God is the great King of all the world. Kings always have secret matters. Surely the King of kings must have His state secrets too."This seemed putting it on a new footing. I sat and considered the matter, while Marguerite took off my dove cote[#] and unbound my hair.[#] The rich network which confined the hair; often of gold and precious stones."Still, I don't see why we may not know everything," I said at last."Does my Damoiselle remember what stood in the midst of the beautiful Garden of God, wherein Adam and Eva were put to dwell?""The tree of knowledge," said I. "True; but that does not help me to the why. Why might Adam and Eva not eat it?""Will my Damoiselle pardon me? I think it does help to the why; but not to the why of the why—which is what she always wants to see. Why Adam and Eva might not eat it, I suppose, was because the good God forbade it.""But why, Marguerite?—why?""Ha! I am not the good God.""I do not see it one bit," said I. "Surely knowledge is a good thing.""Knowledge of good, ay,—which is knowledge of God. The good Lord never forbids us that. He commands it. But let me entreat my Damoiselle to remember, that this was the tree of knowledge of goodand evil. That we should know evil cannot be good.""I do not understand why the good God ever let Satan be at all," said I. "And I do not see how Satan came to be Satan, to begin with.""The blessed Lord knows all about it," said Marguerite. "When my Damoiselle was a little child, I am sure she did not understand why we gave her bitter medicines. But the apothecary knew. Can my Damoiselle not leave all her questions with the good Lord?""I want them answered, Margot!" I cried impatiently. "If I knew that I should understand when I am dead, I would not so much mind waiting. But I don't know any thing. And I don't like it.""Well, I do not know even that much," she replied. "It may be so. I cannot tell. But the good Lord knows—and He loves me.""How knowest thou that, Marguerite?""People don't die for a man, Damoiselle, unless they love him very much indeed.""But how dost thou know that it was for thee?""It was for sinners: and I am one.""But not for all sinners, Margot. A great many sinners will go to perdition, Father Eudes says. How canst thou tell if thou art one of them or not?""Ah, that did perplex me at first. But one day Father Eudes read out of the holy Gospel that all who believed in our Lord should have life eternal: so that settled it. The sinners that are lost must be those who do not believe in our Lord.""Marguerite! don't we all believe in Him?""Let the Damoiselle forgive me if I speak foolishly. But there are two brothers among the varlets in the hall—Philippe and Robert. Now, I quite believe that they both exist. I know a good deal about them. I know their father and mother, Pierrot and Arlette: and I know that Philippe has a large nose and black hair, and he is fond of porpoise; while Robert has brown hair and limps a little, and he likes quinces. Yet, if I wanted to send a crown to my niece Perette, I should feel quite satisfied that Robert would carry it straight to her, while I should not dare to give it to Philippe, lest he should go to the next cabaret and spend it in wine. Now, don't I believe in Robert in a very different way from that in which I believe in Philippe?""Why, thou meanest that Robert may be trusted, but Philippe cannot be," said I. "But what has it to do with the matter?""Let the Damoiselle think a moment. Does she simply believe that the good God is, or does she trust Him?""Trust Him!—with what?" said I."With yourself, my Damoiselle.""With myself!" I exclaimed. "Nay, Margot, what dost thou mean now?""How does the Damoiselle trust Monseigneur? Has she any care lest he should fail to provide her with food and clothing suitable to her rank? Does it not seem to her a matter of course that so long as he lives he will always love her, and care for her, and never forget nor neglect her? Has she ever lain awake at night fretting over the idea that Monseigneur might give over providing for her or being concerned about her welfare?""What a ridiculous notion!" I cried. "Why, Margot, I simply could not do it. He is my father.""And what does my Damoiselle read in the holy Psalter? Is it not 'Like as a father pitieth his children, even so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him?' Is He not Our Father?""Yes, of course we expect the good God to take care of us," I replied. "But then, Margot, it is a different thing. And thou knowest He does not always take care of us in that way. He lets all sorts of things happen to hurt and grieve us.""Then, when my Damoiselle is ill, and Monseigneur sends off in hot haste for Messire Denys to come and bleed her in the foot, he isnottaking care of her? It hurts her, I think.""Oh, that has to be, Margot. As thou saidst, it is better than being ill.""And—let my Damoiselle bear with her servant—is there no 'must be' with the good God?""But I don't see why, Margot. He could make us well all in a minute. Monseigneur cannot.""Yet suppose it is better that my Damoiselle should not be made well all in a minute, but should learn by suffering to be patient in sickness, and thankful for her usual good health? Did not Monseigneur Saint David say, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted'?""Oh, what a queer idea!" said I."Is it?" quietly answered Marguerite. "I once heard a young noble lady say, about three years ago, that it was so delightful to feel well again after being ill, that it really was worth while going through the pain to reach it. And I think,—if I may be pardoned the allusion,—I think they called her the Damoiselle Elaine de Lusignan."I could not help laughing. "Well, I dare say I did say something like it. But, Margot, it is only when I am getting well that I think so. When I am well, to begin with, I don't want to go through the pain again.""When my Damoiselle is truly well of the mortal disease of sin, she will never need to go through the pain again. But that will not be till the sin and the body are laid down together.""Till we die—dost thou mean that?""Till we die.""O Margot! don't. I hate to think of dying.""Yes. It is pleasanter to think of living. They are well for whom all the dying comes first, and the life is hereafter.""Well, I suppose I shall be all right," said I, jumping into bed. "Monseigneur pays my Church dues, and I hear the holy mass sung every day. I say my prayers night and morning, and in all my life I never was so wicked as to touch meat on a fast-day. I think, on the whole, I am a very good girl.""Will my Damoiselle be angry if I ask her whether the good Lord thinks the same?""O Marguerite! how can I know?""Because, if Father Eudes read it right, we do know. 'There is none that doeth good, no, not one.'""Margot, how thou must listen to Father Eudes! I hear him mumbling away, but I never bother my head with what he is saying. He has got to say it; and I have got to sit there till he has done; that is all. I amuse myself in all sorts of ways—count the bits of glass in the window, or watch the effect of the crimson and blue light creeping over the stalls and pillars, or think how Saint Agatha would look in a green robe instead of a purple one. What makes thee listen to all the stuff he says?""My Damoiselle sees that—saving her presence—I am a little like her. I want to know.""But Father Eudes never tells us anything worth knowing, surely!""Ha! Pardon me, my Damoiselle. He reads the true words of the good God from the holy Evangels. Commonly they are in the holy Latin tongue, and then I can only stand and listen reverently to the strange sounds: the good God understands, not I. But now and then I suppose the blessed Lord whispers to Father Eudes to put it into French for a moment: and that is what I am listening for all the time. Then I treasure the words up like some costly gem; and say them to myself a hundred times over, so that I may never forget them any more. Oh, it is a glad day for me when Father Eudes says those dear words in French!""But how thou dost care about it, Margot! I suppose thou hast so few things to think of, and delight in—I have more to occupy me.""Ah, my Damoiselle! The blessed Lord said that His good word was choked up and brought no fruit when the cares of other things entered into the heart. No, I have not much to think of but my work, and—three graves in a village churchyard, and one——And I have not much to delight in save the words of the blessed Lord. Yet—let my Damoiselle bear with me!—I am better off than she.""O Margot!" And I laughed till the tears came into my eyes. It was so excessively absurd.Marguerite took up the lamp."May the good God and His angels watch over my sweet Damoiselle," she said.And then she tucked the silken coverlet round me, and put out the lamp, that the light should not keep me awake; and quietly undressed herself, and got into the trundle-bed. And I was asleep almost before she lay down.But, Oh dear, how ridiculous! Marguerite better off than I am! There is no harm in her fancying it, dear old thing; but the comicality of the idea! Why, I dress in velvet and diaper, and she in unshorn wool; and I lie on a feather-bed, under fustian blankets and satin coverlets, and she sleeps on straw with a woollen rug over her; and I ride, and hawk, and sing, and dance, and embroider,—and she is hard at all sorts of rough work from morning to night. Why, she cannot wear a jewel, nor a bit of gold, nor have any sort of pleasure except singing and dancing, and she is too old for both. Of course, such things as nobles amuse themselves with are not fit for villeins. But that a villein should fancy for a moment that she is better off than a noble—Oh, it is too absurd for any thing!Well, really!—better off than I am!CHAPTER III.ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS."All things that can satisfy,Having Jesus, those have I."So all is over, and Alix is really gone! It was a grand wedding. The bride was in blue velvet, embroidered in gold, with golden girdle, fermail,[#] and aumonière; her mantle was of gold-coloured satin, and her under-tunic of black damask. I thought she chose her colours with very good taste (more than Alix generally does); but one should look nice on one's wedding-day, if one ever is to do. And she did look nice, in her gemmed coronal, and no hood, and all her hair flowing over her shoulders.[#] As for Messire Raymond, I nearly went into fits when I caught sight of him. The creature had dressed himself in a yellow tunic, with a brick-red super-tunic, and flesh-coloured hose. Then he had green boots, striped in gold; and a sky-blue mantle studded with golden stars. Raoul said he must fancy that he was Jupiter, since he had clad himself with the firmament: but Amaury replied that, with all that flame-colour, he must be Vulcan, if he were a Pagan deity of any kind. Father Eudes sang the mass, and Father Gilbert, the Lord of Montbeillard's chaplain, gave the nuptial benediction. I was dressed in pale green and dark violet, and Lady Isabeau in rose-coloured satin.[#] Brooch.[#] The costume restricted to brides or to queens at their coronation.Then came the wedding-feast in the great hall, for which Alix and I had been preparing a week beforehand; (and after all, I am certain Héloïse forgot to put any more sugar in the placentæ[#]): and then the hall was cleared, and we danced till supper-time. Then, after supper, the minstrels played; and Lady Isabeau and I, with all the other ladies there, went up and put the bride to bed: and after throwing the stocking and all the other ceremonies,—and I am glad to say it did not hit me,[#] but that ugly Elise de la Puissaye,—we came back into the hall, and danced again till it was time to take up the posset.[#] Oh, I was tired when I did get to bed at last! I should not like to be at another wedding next week.[#] Cheesecakes.[#] The girl hit by the stocking was expected to be married next.[#] This serving of a posset to the newly-married pair in the night was a purely French custom.Well, it really is a very good thing that Alix is gone. I have had some peace these last two days. And there! if the very last thing she did before going was not to do me an ill turn! She went and persuaded Monseigneur to invite Umberge to come and take the reins. Oh, of courseIcould not be expected to understand anything!—(what sort of a compliment was that to her teaching?)—I was a mere baby, full of nonsense,—and all on in that way. And when Monseigneur was so good as to say that I did not like the idea of Umberge's coming, and he thought he would try what I could do, Alix fairly laughed in his face. As if I were fit to decide!—the baby that I was!—she said. Thank you very much, Dame Alix de Montbeillard; perhaps I have more sense than you suppose. At any rate, I am very glad of one thing,—that we have got rid ofyou.Oh dear! I wonder whether any body ever thinks that it would be nice to get rid of me? But then I am not disagreeable, like Alix. I am sure I am not.Now, why is it that when one gets something one has been wishing for a long while, one doesnotfeel satisfied with it? I have been fancying for months how pleasant it would be when Alix was gone, and there would be no one to find fault with me. Yet it is not pleasant at all. I thought it would be peaceful, and it is dull. And only this afternoon Raoul was as cross with me as he could be. Monseigneur took my part, as he well might, because of course I was right; but still it was disagreeable. Why don't I feel more happy?I thought I would see what Marguerite would say, and I asked her what she thought about it. She only smiled, and said,—"Such is the way of the world, my Damoiselle, since men forsook the peaceful paths of God.""But why do things look so much more delightful beforehand than when they come?" said I."The Damoiselle has a vivid fancy. Does she never find that things look more unpleasant at a distance?""Well, I don't know—perhaps, sometimes," I said. "But disagreeable things are always disagreeable."I suppose something in my face made Marguerite answer—"Is the coming of the Lady Umberge disagreeable to my Damoiselle?""Oh, as to that, I don't care much about it," said I. "But I do want to hear from Guy."Ay, that is coming to be the cry in my heart now. I want to hear from Guy! I want to know where he is, and what he is doing, and whether he is made a Count yet, and—Oh dear, dear!—whether that dreadful beautiful lady, whom he is to like so much better than me, has appeared. That could not happen to me. I could never love any body better than Guy.I should so like a confidante of my own rank and age. Umberge would never do at all, and she is quite fifteen years older than I am. If I had had a sister, a year older or younger than myself, that would have been about the right thing. Nobody ever was my confidante except Guy. And I wander about his chamber very much as Level does, and feel, I should imagine, very much like him when he holds up one paw, and looks up at me, and plainly says with his dog-face,—"Where is he?—and is he never coming back?" And I can only put my cheek down on his great soft head, and stroke his velvet ears, and feel with him. For I know so little more than he does.It must be dreadful for dogs, if they want to know!Here is Umberge at last. She came last night, and Guillot with her, and Valence and Aline. They are nice playthings, or would be, if I might have my own way. But—I cannot quite understand it—the Umberge who has come to live here seems quite a different woman from the Umberge who used to come for an afternoon. She used to kiss me, and call me "darling," and praise my maccaroons. But this Umberge has kept me running about the house all morning, while she sits in a curule chair with a bit of embroidery, and says, "Young feet do not tire," and "You know where everything is, and you are accustomed to the maids." It looks as if she thought I was a superior sort of maid. Then, when our gracious Lord comes in, she is all velvet, and "dear Elaines" me, and tells him I am such a sweet creature—ready to run about and do any thing for any body.If there is one thing I do despise, it is that sort of woman. Alix never served me like that. She was sharp, but she was honest. If Monseigneur praised the placentæ, she always told him when I had made them, and would not take praise for what was not her work.I shall never be able to get along with Umberge, if this morning is to be a specimen of every day.Oh dear! I wish Alix had not gone! And I wish, I wish we could hear from Guy!Things do not go on as smoothly as they used to do. I think Monseigneur himself sees it now. Umberge is not fond of trouble, and instead of superintending every thing, as Alix did, always seeing after the maids, up early and down late, she just takes her ease, and expects things to go right without any trouble on her part. Why, she never rises in the morning before six, and she spends a couple of hours in dressing. It is no good to tell her of any thing that is wanted, for she seems to expect every thing to mend itself. Yesterday morning, one of the jacinths dropped out of the sheet on my bed,[#] and I told Umberge—(Alix was always particular about any thing of that kind being reported to her directly)—but she only said, "Indeed? Well, I suppose you can sleep as well without it." But it was last night that Monseigneur seemed vexed. We had guests to supper, and I am sure I did my best to have things nice; but every thing seemed to go wrong. Umberge apparently thought the supper would order itself in the first place, and cook itself in the second, for beyond telling me to see that all was right, she took no care about it at all, but sat embroidering. The dining-room was only just ready in time, and the minstrels were half an hour behind time; the pastry was overbaked, and the bread quite cold. There was no subtlety[#] with the third course, and the fresh rushes would have been forgotten if I had not asked Robert about them. I was vexed, for Alix was there herself, and I knew what she would think,—to say nothing of the other guests. I do think it is too bad of Umberge to leave me all the cares and responsibilities of mistress, while she calmly appropriates the position and the credit, and then scolds me if every thing is not perfection. Why, I must go and dress some time; and was it my fault if Denise left the pies in too long while I was dressing, or did not attend to my order to have the bread hot[#] at the last minute? I cannot be every where!
CHAPTER II.
TWO SURPRISES FOR ELAINE.
"I feel within meA mind above all earthly dignities,A still and quiet conscience."—SHAKSPERE.
"I feel within meA mind above all earthly dignities,A still and quiet conscience."—SHAKSPERE.
"I feel within me
A mind above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience."
—SHAKSPERE.
—SHAKSPERE.
I should like to know, if I could find out, what it is that makes Alix have such a fancy for Lady Isabeau de Montbeillard. I think she is just abominable. She finishes off every sentence with a little crackling laugh, which it drives me wild to hear. It makes no difference what it is about. Whether it be, "Dear Damoiselle, how kind you are!" or "Do you not think my lord looks but poorly?" they all end up with "Ha, ha, ha!" Sometimes I feel as though I could shake her like Lovel does the rats.
If Lady Isabeau were like Alix in her ways, I would understand it better; but they are totally unlike, and yet they seem to have a fancy for each other.
As for the Baron, I don't care a bit about him any way. He is like Umberge in that respect—there is nothing in him either to like or dislike. And if there can be still less of anything than in him, I think it is in his brother, Messire Raymond, who sits with his mouth a little open, staring at one as if one were a curiosity in a show.
Alix told me this morning that I was too censorious. I am afraid that last sentence looks rather like it. Perhaps I had better stop.
The Baron and his lady went with us to the hawking, and so did Messire Raymond; but he never caught so much as a sparrow. Then, after we came back, I had to try on my new dress, which Marguerite had just finished. It really is a beauty. The under-tunic is of crimson velvet, the super-tunic of blue samite embroidered in silver; the mantle of reddish tawny, with a rich border of gold. I shall wear my blue kerchief with it, which Monseigneur gave me last New Year's Day, and my golden girdle studded with sapphires. The sleeves are the narrowest I have yet had, for the Lady de Montbeillard told Alix that last time she was at the Court, the sleeves were much tighter at the wrist than they used to be, and she thinks, in another twenty years or so, the pocketing sleeve[#] may be quite out of fashion. It would be odd if sleeves were to be made the same width all the way down. But the Lady de Montbeillard saw Queen Marguerite[#] when she was at Poictiers, and she says that the Queen wore a tunic of the most beautiful pale green, and her sleeves were the closest worn by any lady there.
[#] One of the most uncomely and inconvenient vagaries of fashion. The sleeve was moderately tight from shoulder to elbow, and just below the elbow it went off in a wide pendant sweep, reaching almost to the knee. The pendant part was used as a pocket.
[#] Daughter of Louis VII., King of France, and Constança of Castilla: wife of Henry, eldest son of Henry II. of England. Her husband was crowned during his father's life, and by our mediæval chroniclers is always styled Henry the Third.
I wish I were a queen. It is not because I think it would be grand, but because queens and princesses wear their coronets over their kerchiefs instead of under. And it is such a piece of business to fasten one's kerchief every morning with the coronet underneath. Marguerite has less trouble than I have with it, as she has nothing to fasten but the kerchief. And if it is not done to perfection I am sure to hear of it from Alix.
When Marguerite was braiding my hair this morning, I asked her if she knew why she was made. She was ready enough with her answer.
"To serve you, Damoiselle, without doubt."
"And why was I made, dost thou think, Marguerite? To be served by thee—or to serve some one else?"
"Of course, while the Damoiselle is young and at home, she will serve Monseigneur. Then, when the cavalier comes who pleases Monseigneur and the good God, he will serve the Damoiselle. And afterwards,—it is the duty of a good wife to serve her lord. And of course, all, nobles and villeins, must serve the good God."
"Well, thou hast settled it easier than I could do it," said I. "But, Margot, dost thou never become tired of all this serving?"
"Not now, Damoiselle."
"What dost thou mean by that?"
"Ah, there was a time," said Marguerite, and I thought a blush burned on her dear old face, "when I was a young, silly maiden, and very, very foolish, Damoiselle."
"Dost thou think all maidens silly, Margot?"
"Very few wise, Damoiselle. My foolish head was full of envious thoughts, I know that—vain wishes that I had been born a noble lady, instead of a villein maiden. I thought scorn to serve, and would fain have been born to rule."
"How very funny!" said I. "I never knew villeins had any notions of that sort. I thought they were quite content."
"Is the noble Damoiselle always quite content? Pardon me."
"Why, no," said I. "But then, Margot, I am noble, and nobles may rightfully aspire. Villeins ought to be satisfied with the lot which the good God has marked out for them, and with the honour of serving a noble House."
"Ha, Damoiselle! The Damoiselle has used a deep, strong word. Satisfy! I believe nothing will satisfy any living heart of man or woman,—except that one thing."
"What one thing?"
"I am an ignorant villein, my Damoiselle. I do not know the holy Latin tongue, as ladies do. But now and then Father Eudes will render some words of the blessed Evangel into French in his sermon. And he did so that day—when I was satisfied."
"What was it that satisfied thee, then, Margot?"
"They were words, Father Eudes said, of the good God Himself, when He walked on middle earth among us men. 'Come unto Me,' He said, 'all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"
"But I do not understand, Marguerite. How did those words satisfy thee?"
"The words did not, Damoiselle. But the thing did. I just took the blessed Lord at His word, and went to Him, and, thanks be to His holy Name, He gave me rest."
"What dost thou mean, Margot?"
"Will the dear Damoiselle not come and try? She will want rest, some day."
"Had I not better wait till I am tired?" said I, laughingly.
"Ah, yes! we never want rest till we are tired.—But not wait to come to the merciful Lord. Oh no, no!"
"Nay, I cannot comprehend thee, Margot."
"No, my Damoiselle. She is not likely to know how to come until she wants to do it. When she does want it, the good God will hear the Damoiselle, for He heard her servant."
"Didst thou entreat the intercession of Saint Marguerite?"
"Ah, no. I am but an ignorant old woman. The dear Lord said, 'Come untoMe.' And I thought, perhaps, He meant it. So I just went."
"But how couldst thou, Margot?"
"If it please my Damoiselle, I did it. And if He had been angry, I suppose He would not have heard me."
"But how dost thou know He did hear thee?"
"When the Damoiselle entreats Monseigneur to give her a silver mark, and he opens his purse and gives it, is it possible for her to doubt that he has heard her? The good God must have heard me, because He gave me rest."
"I do not understand, Margot, what thou meanest by rest. And I want to know all about it. Have things given over puzzling thee? Is there some light come upon them?"
"It seems to me, Damoiselle, if I be not too bold in speaking my poor thoughts"——
"Go on," said I. "I want to know them."
"Then, my Damoiselle, it seems to me that there are two great lights in which we may see every thing in this world. The first is a fierce light, like the sun. But it blinds and dazzles us. The holy angels perchance can bear it, for it streams from the Throne of God, and they stand before that Throne. But we cannot. Our mortal eyes must be hidden in that dread and unapproachable light. And if I mistake not, it is by this light that the Damoiselle has hitherto tried to see things, and no wonder that her eyes are dazzled. But the other light soothes and enlightens. It is soft and clear, like the moonlight, and it streams from the Cross of Calvary. There the good God paid down, in the red gold of His own blood, the price of our redemption. It must have been because He thought it worth while. And if He paid such a price for a poor villein woman like me, He must have wanted me. The Damoiselle would not cast a pearl into the Vienne for which she had paid a thousand crowns. And if He cared enough about me to give His life for me, then He must care enough to be concerned about my welfare in this lower world. The Damoiselle would not refuse a cup of water to him to whom she was willing to give a precious gem. Herein lies rest. What the good God, who thus loves me, wills for me, I will for myself also."
"But, Marguerite, it might be something that would break thine heart."
"Would the blessed Lord not know that? But I do not think He breaks hearts that are willing to be His. He melts them. It is the hearts that harden themselves like a rock which have to be broken."
"But thou wouldst not like something which hurt thee?"
"Not enjoy it—no, no. Did the Damoiselle enjoy the verdigris plaster which the apothecary put on her when she was ill three years ago? Yet she did not think him her enemy, but her friend. Ah, the good God has His medicine-chest. And it holds smarting plasters and bitter drugs. But they are better than to be ill, Damoiselle."
"Marguerite, I had no idea thou wert such a philosopher."
"Ah, the noble Damoiselle is pleased to laugh at her servant, who does not know what that hard word means. No, there is nothing old Marguerite knows, only how to come to the blessed Lord and ask Him for rest.Hegave the rest. And He knew how to do it."
I wonder if old Marguerite is not the truest philosopher of us all. It is evident that things do not puzzle her, just because she lets them alone, and leaves them with God. Still, that is not knowing. And I want to know.
Oh, I wish I could tell if it is wicked to want to know!
I wonder if the truth be that there are things which we cannot know:—things which the good God does not tell us, not because He wishes us to be ignorant, but because He could not possibly make us comprehend them. But then why did He not make us wiser?—or why does He let questions perplex us to which we can find no answer?
I think it must be that He does not wish us to find the answer. And why? I will see what idea Marguerite has about that. She seems to get hold of wise notions in some unintelligible way, for of course she is only a villein, and cannot have as much sense as a noble.
There was that tiresome Messire Raymond in the hall when I went down. He is noble enough, for his mother's mother was a Princess of the Carlovingian[#] blood: but I am sure he has no more sense than he needs. The way in which he says "Ah!" when I tell him anything, just exasperates me. The Baron, his brother, is a shade better, though he will never wear a laurel crown.[#] Still, he does not say "Ah!"
[#] A descendant of Charlemagne.
[#] The prize of intellect.
I don't like younger brothers. In fact, I don't think I like men of any sort. Except Guy, of course—and Monseigneur. But then other men are not like them. Guillot, and Amaury, and Raoul rank with the other men.
I wonder if women are very much better. I don't think they are, if I am to look upon Alix and the Lady de Montbeillard as samples.
Oh dear, I wonder why I hate people so! It must be because they are hateful. Does anybody thinkmehateful? How queer it would be, if they did!
I really do feel, to-night, as if I did not know whether I was standing on my feet or on my head. I cannot realise it one bit. Alix going to be married! Alix going away from the Castle! And I—I—to be the only mistress there!
Monseigneur called me down into the hall, as I stood picking the dead leaves from my rose-bushes for a pot-pourri. There was no one in the hall but himself. Well, of course there were a quantity of servitors and retainers, but they never count for anything. I mean, there was nobody that is anybody. He bade me come up to him, and he drew me close, kissed me on the forehead, and stroked down my hair.
"What will my cabbage say to what I have to tell her?" said he.
"Is it something pleasant, Monseigneur?" said I.
"Now, there thou posest me," he answered, "Yes,—in one light. No,—in another. And in which of the two lights thou wilt see it, I do not yet know."
I looked up into his face and waited.
"Dost thou like Messire Raymond de Montbeillard?"
"No, Monseigneur," I answered.
"No? Ha! then perchance thou wilt not like my news."
"Messire Raymond has something to do with it?"
"Every thing."
"Well," said I, I am afraid rather saucily, "so long as he does not want to marry me, I do not much care what he does."
Monseigneur pinched my ear, kissed me, and seemed extremely amused.
"Thee? No, no! Not just yet, my little cabbage. Not just yet! But suppose he wanted to marry Alix?"
"Does he want to marry Alix?"
"He does."
"And under your good leave, Monseigneur?"
"Well, yes. I see no good reason to the contrary, my little cat. He is a brave knight, and has a fine castle, and is a real Carlovingian."[#]
[#] Throughout France in the Middle Ages, the Carlovingian blood was rated at an extravagant value.
"He is a donkey!" said I. "Real, too."
"Ha, hush, then!" replied Monseigneur, yet laughing, and patting my cheek. "Well, well—perhaps not overburdened with brains—how sharp thou art, child, to be sure! (No want of brains in that direction.) But a good, worthy man, my cabbage, and a stalwart knight."
"And when is it to be, Monseigneur?" I asked.
"In a hurry to see the fine dresses?" demanded my gracious Lord, and laughed again. "Nay, I think not till after Christmas. Time enough then.Iam in no hurry to lose my housekeeper. Canst thou keep house, my rabbit?—ha, ha! Will there be anything for dinner? Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
I was half frightened, and yet half delighted. Of course, I thought, if Alix goes away, Umberge will come and reign here. Nobody is likely to think me old enough or good enough.
"Under your Nobility's good leave, I will see to that," said I.
Monseigneur answered by a peal of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! Showing her talons, is she? Wants to rule, my cabbage—does she? A true woman, on my troth! Ha, ha, ha!"
"If it please you, Monseigneur, why should you come short of dinner because I see about it?"
My gracious Lord laughed more than ever.
"No reason at all, my little rabbit!—no reason at all! Try thy hand, by all means—by all means! So Umberge does not need to come? Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
"Certainly not for me," said I, rather piqued.
"Seriously, my little cat," said he, and his face grew grave. "Wouldst thou rather Umberge did not come? Art thou not friends with her?"
"Oh, as to friends, so-so, là-là,"[#] said I. "But I think I should get along quite as well without her."
[#] Middling.
"But wouldst thou not weary for a woman's company?"
"I never weary for any company but Guy's," I answered; and I think the tears came into my eyes.
"Is it still Guy?" said he, smiling, but very kindly now. "Always Guy? Well, well! When the time comes—I promised the boy thou shouldst go out to him. We must wait till he writes to say he is ready to receive thee. So Guy stands first, does he?"
I nodded, for my heart was too full to speak. He patted my head again, and let me go. But I thought he looked a little troubled; and I could not tell why.
When I came to undress, the same evening, I asked Marguerite if she had heard the news.
"The Damoiselle Alix was so gracious as to inform me," said she.
"Dost thou like it, Margot?"
"Ha, my Damoiselle! What does it matter what a villein old woman likes?"
"It matters to me, or I should not have asked thee," said I.
"I trust it will be for the noble Damoiselle's welfare," said she; and I could get her to say no more.
"Now, Margot, tell me something else," said I. "Why does the good God not make all things clear to everybody? What sayest thou?"
"He has not told me why, Damoiselle. Perhaps, to teach my Damoiselle to trust Him. There could be no trust if we always knew."
"But is not knowing better than trusting?" I replied.
"Is it?" responded Marguerite. "Does Monseigneur always take my Damoiselle into his secrets, and never require her to trust him? God is the great King of all the world. Kings always have secret matters. Surely the King of kings must have His state secrets too."
This seemed putting it on a new footing. I sat and considered the matter, while Marguerite took off my dove cote[#] and unbound my hair.
[#] The rich network which confined the hair; often of gold and precious stones.
"Still, I don't see why we may not know everything," I said at last.
"Does my Damoiselle remember what stood in the midst of the beautiful Garden of God, wherein Adam and Eva were put to dwell?"
"The tree of knowledge," said I. "True; but that does not help me to the why. Why might Adam and Eva not eat it?"
"Will my Damoiselle pardon me? I think it does help to the why; but not to the why of the why—which is what she always wants to see. Why Adam and Eva might not eat it, I suppose, was because the good God forbade it."
"But why, Marguerite?—why?"
"Ha! I am not the good God."
"I do not see it one bit," said I. "Surely knowledge is a good thing."
"Knowledge of good, ay,—which is knowledge of God. The good Lord never forbids us that. He commands it. But let me entreat my Damoiselle to remember, that this was the tree of knowledge of goodand evil. That we should know evil cannot be good."
"I do not understand why the good God ever let Satan be at all," said I. "And I do not see how Satan came to be Satan, to begin with."
"The blessed Lord knows all about it," said Marguerite. "When my Damoiselle was a little child, I am sure she did not understand why we gave her bitter medicines. But the apothecary knew. Can my Damoiselle not leave all her questions with the good Lord?"
"I want them answered, Margot!" I cried impatiently. "If I knew that I should understand when I am dead, I would not so much mind waiting. But I don't know any thing. And I don't like it."
"Well, I do not know even that much," she replied. "It may be so. I cannot tell. But the good Lord knows—and He loves me."
"How knowest thou that, Marguerite?"
"People don't die for a man, Damoiselle, unless they love him very much indeed."
"But how dost thou know that it was for thee?"
"It was for sinners: and I am one."
"But not for all sinners, Margot. A great many sinners will go to perdition, Father Eudes says. How canst thou tell if thou art one of them or not?"
"Ah, that did perplex me at first. But one day Father Eudes read out of the holy Gospel that all who believed in our Lord should have life eternal: so that settled it. The sinners that are lost must be those who do not believe in our Lord."
"Marguerite! don't we all believe in Him?"
"Let the Damoiselle forgive me if I speak foolishly. But there are two brothers among the varlets in the hall—Philippe and Robert. Now, I quite believe that they both exist. I know a good deal about them. I know their father and mother, Pierrot and Arlette: and I know that Philippe has a large nose and black hair, and he is fond of porpoise; while Robert has brown hair and limps a little, and he likes quinces. Yet, if I wanted to send a crown to my niece Perette, I should feel quite satisfied that Robert would carry it straight to her, while I should not dare to give it to Philippe, lest he should go to the next cabaret and spend it in wine. Now, don't I believe in Robert in a very different way from that in which I believe in Philippe?"
"Why, thou meanest that Robert may be trusted, but Philippe cannot be," said I. "But what has it to do with the matter?"
"Let the Damoiselle think a moment. Does she simply believe that the good God is, or does she trust Him?"
"Trust Him!—with what?" said I.
"With yourself, my Damoiselle."
"With myself!" I exclaimed. "Nay, Margot, what dost thou mean now?"
"How does the Damoiselle trust Monseigneur? Has she any care lest he should fail to provide her with food and clothing suitable to her rank? Does it not seem to her a matter of course that so long as he lives he will always love her, and care for her, and never forget nor neglect her? Has she ever lain awake at night fretting over the idea that Monseigneur might give over providing for her or being concerned about her welfare?"
"What a ridiculous notion!" I cried. "Why, Margot, I simply could not do it. He is my father."
"And what does my Damoiselle read in the holy Psalter? Is it not 'Like as a father pitieth his children, even so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him?' Is He not Our Father?"
"Yes, of course we expect the good God to take care of us," I replied. "But then, Margot, it is a different thing. And thou knowest He does not always take care of us in that way. He lets all sorts of things happen to hurt and grieve us."
"Then, when my Damoiselle is ill, and Monseigneur sends off in hot haste for Messire Denys to come and bleed her in the foot, he isnottaking care of her? It hurts her, I think."
"Oh, that has to be, Margot. As thou saidst, it is better than being ill."
"And—let my Damoiselle bear with her servant—is there no 'must be' with the good God?"
"But I don't see why, Margot. He could make us well all in a minute. Monseigneur cannot."
"Yet suppose it is better that my Damoiselle should not be made well all in a minute, but should learn by suffering to be patient in sickness, and thankful for her usual good health? Did not Monseigneur Saint David say, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted'?"
"Oh, what a queer idea!" said I.
"Is it?" quietly answered Marguerite. "I once heard a young noble lady say, about three years ago, that it was so delightful to feel well again after being ill, that it really was worth while going through the pain to reach it. And I think,—if I may be pardoned the allusion,—I think they called her the Damoiselle Elaine de Lusignan."
I could not help laughing. "Well, I dare say I did say something like it. But, Margot, it is only when I am getting well that I think so. When I am well, to begin with, I don't want to go through the pain again."
"When my Damoiselle is truly well of the mortal disease of sin, she will never need to go through the pain again. But that will not be till the sin and the body are laid down together."
"Till we die—dost thou mean that?"
"Till we die."
"O Margot! don't. I hate to think of dying."
"Yes. It is pleasanter to think of living. They are well for whom all the dying comes first, and the life is hereafter."
"Well, I suppose I shall be all right," said I, jumping into bed. "Monseigneur pays my Church dues, and I hear the holy mass sung every day. I say my prayers night and morning, and in all my life I never was so wicked as to touch meat on a fast-day. I think, on the whole, I am a very good girl."
"Will my Damoiselle be angry if I ask her whether the good Lord thinks the same?"
"O Marguerite! how can I know?"
"Because, if Father Eudes read it right, we do know. 'There is none that doeth good, no, not one.'"
"Margot, how thou must listen to Father Eudes! I hear him mumbling away, but I never bother my head with what he is saying. He has got to say it; and I have got to sit there till he has done; that is all. I amuse myself in all sorts of ways—count the bits of glass in the window, or watch the effect of the crimson and blue light creeping over the stalls and pillars, or think how Saint Agatha would look in a green robe instead of a purple one. What makes thee listen to all the stuff he says?"
"My Damoiselle sees that—saving her presence—I am a little like her. I want to know."
"But Father Eudes never tells us anything worth knowing, surely!"
"Ha! Pardon me, my Damoiselle. He reads the true words of the good God from the holy Evangels. Commonly they are in the holy Latin tongue, and then I can only stand and listen reverently to the strange sounds: the good God understands, not I. But now and then I suppose the blessed Lord whispers to Father Eudes to put it into French for a moment: and that is what I am listening for all the time. Then I treasure the words up like some costly gem; and say them to myself a hundred times over, so that I may never forget them any more. Oh, it is a glad day for me when Father Eudes says those dear words in French!"
"But how thou dost care about it, Margot! I suppose thou hast so few things to think of, and delight in—I have more to occupy me."
"Ah, my Damoiselle! The blessed Lord said that His good word was choked up and brought no fruit when the cares of other things entered into the heart. No, I have not much to think of but my work, and—three graves in a village churchyard, and one——And I have not much to delight in save the words of the blessed Lord. Yet—let my Damoiselle bear with me!—I am better off than she."
"O Margot!" And I laughed till the tears came into my eyes. It was so excessively absurd.
Marguerite took up the lamp.
"May the good God and His angels watch over my sweet Damoiselle," she said.
And then she tucked the silken coverlet round me, and put out the lamp, that the light should not keep me awake; and quietly undressed herself, and got into the trundle-bed. And I was asleep almost before she lay down.
But, Oh dear, how ridiculous! Marguerite better off than I am! There is no harm in her fancying it, dear old thing; but the comicality of the idea! Why, I dress in velvet and diaper, and she in unshorn wool; and I lie on a feather-bed, under fustian blankets and satin coverlets, and she sleeps on straw with a woollen rug over her; and I ride, and hawk, and sing, and dance, and embroider,—and she is hard at all sorts of rough work from morning to night. Why, she cannot wear a jewel, nor a bit of gold, nor have any sort of pleasure except singing and dancing, and she is too old for both. Of course, such things as nobles amuse themselves with are not fit for villeins. But that a villein should fancy for a moment that she is better off than a noble—Oh, it is too absurd for any thing!
Well, really!—better off than I am!
CHAPTER III.
ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.
"All things that can satisfy,Having Jesus, those have I."
"All things that can satisfy,Having Jesus, those have I."
"All things that can satisfy,
Having Jesus, those have I."
So all is over, and Alix is really gone! It was a grand wedding. The bride was in blue velvet, embroidered in gold, with golden girdle, fermail,[#] and aumonière; her mantle was of gold-coloured satin, and her under-tunic of black damask. I thought she chose her colours with very good taste (more than Alix generally does); but one should look nice on one's wedding-day, if one ever is to do. And she did look nice, in her gemmed coronal, and no hood, and all her hair flowing over her shoulders.[#] As for Messire Raymond, I nearly went into fits when I caught sight of him. The creature had dressed himself in a yellow tunic, with a brick-red super-tunic, and flesh-coloured hose. Then he had green boots, striped in gold; and a sky-blue mantle studded with golden stars. Raoul said he must fancy that he was Jupiter, since he had clad himself with the firmament: but Amaury replied that, with all that flame-colour, he must be Vulcan, if he were a Pagan deity of any kind. Father Eudes sang the mass, and Father Gilbert, the Lord of Montbeillard's chaplain, gave the nuptial benediction. I was dressed in pale green and dark violet, and Lady Isabeau in rose-coloured satin.
[#] Brooch.
[#] The costume restricted to brides or to queens at their coronation.
Then came the wedding-feast in the great hall, for which Alix and I had been preparing a week beforehand; (and after all, I am certain Héloïse forgot to put any more sugar in the placentæ[#]): and then the hall was cleared, and we danced till supper-time. Then, after supper, the minstrels played; and Lady Isabeau and I, with all the other ladies there, went up and put the bride to bed: and after throwing the stocking and all the other ceremonies,—and I am glad to say it did not hit me,[#] but that ugly Elise de la Puissaye,—we came back into the hall, and danced again till it was time to take up the posset.[#] Oh, I was tired when I did get to bed at last! I should not like to be at another wedding next week.
[#] Cheesecakes.
[#] The girl hit by the stocking was expected to be married next.
[#] This serving of a posset to the newly-married pair in the night was a purely French custom.
Well, it really is a very good thing that Alix is gone. I have had some peace these last two days. And there! if the very last thing she did before going was not to do me an ill turn! She went and persuaded Monseigneur to invite Umberge to come and take the reins. Oh, of courseIcould not be expected to understand anything!—(what sort of a compliment was that to her teaching?)—I was a mere baby, full of nonsense,—and all on in that way. And when Monseigneur was so good as to say that I did not like the idea of Umberge's coming, and he thought he would try what I could do, Alix fairly laughed in his face. As if I were fit to decide!—the baby that I was!—she said. Thank you very much, Dame Alix de Montbeillard; perhaps I have more sense than you suppose. At any rate, I am very glad of one thing,—that we have got rid ofyou.
Oh dear! I wonder whether any body ever thinks that it would be nice to get rid of me? But then I am not disagreeable, like Alix. I am sure I am not.
Now, why is it that when one gets something one has been wishing for a long while, one doesnotfeel satisfied with it? I have been fancying for months how pleasant it would be when Alix was gone, and there would be no one to find fault with me. Yet it is not pleasant at all. I thought it would be peaceful, and it is dull. And only this afternoon Raoul was as cross with me as he could be. Monseigneur took my part, as he well might, because of course I was right; but still it was disagreeable. Why don't I feel more happy?
I thought I would see what Marguerite would say, and I asked her what she thought about it. She only smiled, and said,—"Such is the way of the world, my Damoiselle, since men forsook the peaceful paths of God."
"But why do things look so much more delightful beforehand than when they come?" said I.
"The Damoiselle has a vivid fancy. Does she never find that things look more unpleasant at a distance?"
"Well, I don't know—perhaps, sometimes," I said. "But disagreeable things are always disagreeable."
I suppose something in my face made Marguerite answer—
"Is the coming of the Lady Umberge disagreeable to my Damoiselle?"
"Oh, as to that, I don't care much about it," said I. "But I do want to hear from Guy."
Ay, that is coming to be the cry in my heart now. I want to hear from Guy! I want to know where he is, and what he is doing, and whether he is made a Count yet, and—Oh dear, dear!—whether that dreadful beautiful lady, whom he is to like so much better than me, has appeared. That could not happen to me. I could never love any body better than Guy.
I should so like a confidante of my own rank and age. Umberge would never do at all, and she is quite fifteen years older than I am. If I had had a sister, a year older or younger than myself, that would have been about the right thing. Nobody ever was my confidante except Guy. And I wander about his chamber very much as Level does, and feel, I should imagine, very much like him when he holds up one paw, and looks up at me, and plainly says with his dog-face,—"Where is he?—and is he never coming back?" And I can only put my cheek down on his great soft head, and stroke his velvet ears, and feel with him. For I know so little more than he does.
It must be dreadful for dogs, if they want to know!
Here is Umberge at last. She came last night, and Guillot with her, and Valence and Aline. They are nice playthings, or would be, if I might have my own way. But—I cannot quite understand it—the Umberge who has come to live here seems quite a different woman from the Umberge who used to come for an afternoon. She used to kiss me, and call me "darling," and praise my maccaroons. But this Umberge has kept me running about the house all morning, while she sits in a curule chair with a bit of embroidery, and says, "Young feet do not tire," and "You know where everything is, and you are accustomed to the maids." It looks as if she thought I was a superior sort of maid. Then, when our gracious Lord comes in, she is all velvet, and "dear Elaines" me, and tells him I am such a sweet creature—ready to run about and do any thing for any body.
If there is one thing I do despise, it is that sort of woman. Alix never served me like that. She was sharp, but she was honest. If Monseigneur praised the placentæ, she always told him when I had made them, and would not take praise for what was not her work.
I shall never be able to get along with Umberge, if this morning is to be a specimen of every day.
Oh dear! I wish Alix had not gone! And I wish, I wish we could hear from Guy!
Things do not go on as smoothly as they used to do. I think Monseigneur himself sees it now. Umberge is not fond of trouble, and instead of superintending every thing, as Alix did, always seeing after the maids, up early and down late, she just takes her ease, and expects things to go right without any trouble on her part. Why, she never rises in the morning before six, and she spends a couple of hours in dressing. It is no good to tell her of any thing that is wanted, for she seems to expect every thing to mend itself. Yesterday morning, one of the jacinths dropped out of the sheet on my bed,[#] and I told Umberge—(Alix was always particular about any thing of that kind being reported to her directly)—but she only said, "Indeed? Well, I suppose you can sleep as well without it." But it was last night that Monseigneur seemed vexed. We had guests to supper, and I am sure I did my best to have things nice; but every thing seemed to go wrong. Umberge apparently thought the supper would order itself in the first place, and cook itself in the second, for beyond telling me to see that all was right, she took no care about it at all, but sat embroidering. The dining-room was only just ready in time, and the minstrels were half an hour behind time; the pastry was overbaked, and the bread quite cold. There was no subtlety[#] with the third course, and the fresh rushes would have been forgotten if I had not asked Robert about them. I was vexed, for Alix was there herself, and I knew what she would think,—to say nothing of the other guests. I do think it is too bad of Umberge to leave me all the cares and responsibilities of mistress, while she calmly appropriates the position and the credit, and then scolds me if every thing is not perfection. Why, I must go and dress some time; and was it my fault if Denise left the pies in too long while I was dressing, or did not attend to my order to have the bread hot[#] at the last minute? I cannot be every where!