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 good _and 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 is _not_ taking
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 aumoniere; 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 Heloise
forgot to put any more sugar in the placentae[#]): 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 course
_I_ could 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 of _you_.
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 does _not_ feel 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 placentae, 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!
[#] How jewels were set in linen sheets is a mystery, but there is
abundant evidence of the fact.
[#] Ornamental centre-piece.
[#] It was considered of consequence that the bread at a feast should be
as new as possible.
My gracious Lord did not blame me; he asked Umberge and me together how
it happened that all these things were wrong: and I declare, if Umberge
did not say, "Elaine had the ordering of it; Monseigneur will please to
ask her." I am afraid I lost my temper, for I said--
"Yes, Monseigneur, I had the ordering of it, for my fair sister took no
care of any thing; and if I could have had three pairs of hands, and
been in six places at once, perhaps things might have been right."
Monseigneur only laughed, and patted my head. But this evening I heard
him say to Guillot, just as I was entering the hall--
"Fair Son, thy fair wife puts too much on the child Elaine."
Guillot laughed, rubbed his forehead, and answered--"Fair Father, it
will take more than me to stop her."
"What! canst thou not rule thine own wife?" demanded our gracious Lord.
"Never tried, Monseigneur," said Guillot. "Too late to begin."
And Monseigneur only said, with a sigh,--"I wonder when we shall hear
from Guy!"
Guillot looked relieved, and (seeing me, I think) they went on to talk
of something else.
But everything seems changed since they came. Except for my gracious
Lord and Amaury and Raoul. It does not feel like home.
Alix rode over this afternoon. I took her to my bower in the turret,
and almost directly she asked me,--"How do you get on with our fair
sister?"
And I said,--"O Alix! I wish thou wouldst come back!"
She laughed, and replied,--"What would my lord say, child? I thought
you were not very comfortable."
"What made thee think so, Alix? Was it Tuesday night?"
"Tuesday night--the supper? I guessed you had seen to it."
"Why?--was it so very bad?" said I, penitently.
"Bad?--it was carelessness and neglect beyond endurance," she said.
"No, I saw the maids wanted the mistress's eye; and Umberge evidently
had not given it; and I thought you had tried to throw yourself into the
gap, and--as such an inexperienced young thing would--had failed."
I really was pleased when Alix said that.
"Then thou wert not vexed with me, Alix?"
"Not I. You did your best. I was vexed enough with Umberge. I knew
she was lazy, but I did not expect her to discredit the house like
that."
"She seems quite altered since she came here," I said.
"Ah, you never can tell how people will turn out till you come to live
with them," said Alix. "So you are not so very glad, after all, to lose
me, little one?"
I was startled, for I never supposed that Alix had guessed that. I did
not know what to say.
"Why, child, did you think I had no eyes?" she added. "You know you
were glad."
I did what I generally do--hesitated for a moment, and then came out
bluntly with the truth--
"Well, Alix, I was glad. But I am not now."
Alix laughed. "That is right," she said; "always tell the plain truth,
Elaine. You will find many a time, as you go through life, child, that
the prettiest pasties are not always the best flavoured, nor the
plainest say[#] the worst to wear."
[#] A common quality of silk.
I suppose it is so. But I never should have guessed that I should be
wishing for Alix to come back.
"Marguerite," I said one morning as I was dressing, "dost thou think it
would be wrong if I were to pray for a letter from Guy?"
"I cannot think it wrong to pray for anything," she answered, "provided
we are willing that the good God should choose for us in the end."
"Well, but I am not sure that I am willing to have that."
"Is my Damoiselle as wise as the good Lord?"
"Oh no, of course not! But still"----
"But still, my Damoiselle would like always to have her own way."
"Yes, I should, Margot."
"Well, if there be one thing for which I am thankful it is that the good
Lord has not given me much of my own way. It would have been very bad
for me."
"Perhaps, for a villein, it might," said I; "but nobles are different."
"Possibly, even for the nobles," said Marguerite, "the good Lord might
be the best chooser."
"But it seems to me, if we left everything in that way, we should never
pray at all."
"Let my Damoiselle pardon me. That we have full trust in a friend's
wisdom is scarcely a reason why we should not ask his counsel."
"But the friend cannot know what advice you need. The Lord knows all
about it."
"Does my Damoiselle never tell her thoughts to Monseigneur Guy because
he knows that she is likely to think this or that?"
"Oh, but it is such pleasure to tell one's thoughts to Guy," I replied.
"He generally thinks as I do; and when he does not, he talks the thing
over with me, and it usually ends in my thinking as he does. Then if I
am sad, he comforts me; and if I am rejoicing, he rejoices with me;
and--O Margot! it is like talking to another me."
"My Damoiselle," said Marguerite, with a peculiar smile which I have
seen on her lips before, and never could understand--it is so glad and
sunny, yet quiet and deep, as if she were rejoicing over some hidden
treasure which she had all to herself,--"My Damoiselle has said well.
'He that is joined to the Lord is one spirit.' 'If we walk in the
light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship one with another.' My
Damoiselle does not yet know what it is to speak out freely all her
thoughts to One who is infinitely high and wise, and who loves her with
an infinite love. I am but a poor ignorant villein woman: I know very
little about any thing. Well! I take my ignorant mind to Him who knows
all things, and who can foresee the end from the beginning. I do not
know any grand words to pray with. I just say, 'Sir[#] God, I am very
much puzzled. I do not know what to do for the best. Put the best
thing into my head. Thou knowest.' Every night, before I go to sleep,
the last thing, I say in my heart, 'Sir God, I do not know what is good,
and what is evil for me. Thou knowest. Give me the good things
to-night, and keep the evil ones away.' I suppose, if I were very wise
and clever, I should not make such poor, ignorant prayers. I should
know then what would be best to do. Yet I do not think I should be any
better off, for then I should see so much less of the good Lord. I
would rather have more of the good God, and less of the quick wit and
the ready tongue."
[#] Though this title will certainly sound strange, if not irreverent,
to modern ears, it was meant as the most reverent epithet known to those
who used it.
It would be nice to feel as Margot does. I cannot think where she got
it But it would never do for me, who am noble, to take pattern from a
poor villein. I suppose such thoughts are good for low, ignorant
people.