CHAPTER III

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_*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.

What should I have done if I had been born a villein? I cannot imagine what it would feel like. I am very glad I was not. But of course I cannot tell what it would feel like, because nobles have thoughts and feelings of quite a different sort to common people.

I suppose Guy would say that was one of my queer notions. He always says more queer ideas come into my head than any one else's.

O Guy, Guy!--when shall I see thee again? Two whole years, and not a word from thee! Art thou languishing in some Paynim dungeon? Hast thou fallen in some battle? Or has the beautiful lady come, and thy little Lynette is forgotten?

I have been asking Father Eudes to tell me something about the Holy Land, for I want to be able to picture to myself the place where Guy is. And of course Father Eudes can tell, for he knows all about every thing; and he had an uncle who was a holy palmer, and visited the blessed Sepulchre, and used to tell most beautiful legends, he says, about the Holy Land. Beside which, his own father fought for the Sepulchre in the second Crusade, and dwelt in that country for several years.

Father Eudes says it is nearly a hundred years since the kingdom of Jerusalem was founded, for it was in the year of our Lord 1099, at the time of the first Crusade. The first King was the gallant Count Godefroy of Boulogne, who was unanimously chosen by all the Christian warriors after the Holy City was taken: but he would never call himself King, but only "Defender of the Holy Sepulchre." But, alas!--the good King Godefroy only reigned one year; and on his death the Princes all assembled in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which they also call the Temple, to elect a successor. And because there were great contentions among them, they resolved to decide the choice by lot: and they stood around the tomb of our Lord, each holding a long taper, and earnestly besought the good God that He would cause the taper held by him who ought to be King of Jerusalem to be lighted by miracle. And when the prayer was ended, one of the tapers was found to be burning. It was that held by Duke Robert the Courthose, son of Lord William the Norman, who conquered England. But to the horror of all the Princes, Duke Robert blew out the taper, and refused to be King. He said that he was not worthy to wear a crown of gold in that place where for his sins our Lord had worn a crown of thorns. And I really have always felt puzzled to know whether he acted very piously or very impiously. So, in the end, the brother of King Godefroy was chosen; but he also left no child, though he reigned eighteen years. But the Lady Ida, his sister, who was a very wise and preux[#] lady, had a son, and he reigned after his uncle for thirteen years: yet at his death he left four daughters, and no son. And Father Eudes thinks that this showed the displeasure of our Lord, who had willed that the kingdom of Jerusalem should belong to our Lords the Kings of England, and they wickedly refused to receive it.

[#] Brave, noble, chivalrous.

For of course it is the bounden duty of all Christian men to rescue the Holy Land out of the hands of Paynims, Jews, and such horrible heretics, who all worship the Devil, and bow down to stocks and stones: since this land belonged to our Lord Jesus Christ, who was King of it by holy Mary His mother, and He died seised of the same. For which reason all Christian men, who are the right heirs of our said Lord, ought to recover their inheritance in that land, and not leave it in the hands of wicked heretics, who have no right to it at all, since they are not the children and right heirs of Jesus Christ our Lord.[#]

[#] This singular reasoning is borrowed from Sir John Mandeville.

Well! when King Beaudouin II. was dead, the Holy Land fell to the eldest of his four daughters, who was named the Lady Melisende: and she wedded Count Foulques of Anjou, and from her all the kings since then have come: so now it seems settled in the line of Anjou. I suppose our Lords the Kings of England, therefore, have no right to it any more.

I cannot help feeling sorry that Duke Robert blew out the taper. I would not have done it, if it had been mine. I think to be the Queen of Jerusalem would be the grandest thing in all the world--even better than to be the Empress of Monseigneur the Caesar. Is it not the Land of God?

A letter at last!--a letter from Guy! And he is high in the King's favour, and has won booty to the amount of eighteen thousand golden crowns, and he wants Amaury and me to go to him at once. I keep dancing about and singing, I am so delighted. And not one word of the beautiful lady! That is best of all.

Guy says the King is a mesel,[#] and dwells in chambers to himself; and he has never been married, so there is no Queen, except the widow of the late King his father; and she is of the high blood of Messeigneurs the Caesars,[#] but is not the mother of the King. He is like Guy, for his own mother, who was the Damoiselle de Courtenay, died when he was very young: and he has one sister of the whole blood, who is called the Lady Sybil; and one sister of the half blood, who is called the Lady Isabel. The Lady Sybil is a widow, though she is younger than Alix: for she was the wife of Monseigneur Guillaume, the Marquis of Montferrat, who died about the time Guy reached the Holy Land; and she has one child, Monseigneur Beaudouin, named after the King his uncle. The Lady Isabel is not yet married, and she is about fourteen years old. Guy writes that the King, and the ladies his sisters, and the old Queen, are all very good to him, and he is prospering marvellously.

[#] Leper.

[#] She was Maria, daughter (some writers say niece) of the Emperor Manuel Comnemus.

Guy's letter was brought by a holy palmer, late last night. I am sure the palmer must be a very holy man, for he had scallops fastened to his shovel-hat, and cross-keys embroidered on his bosom, and bells upon his sleeve, and the holy cross upon his shoulder.[#] His cross was green, so he must be a Fleming.[#] And whenever I came near him, there was such a disagreeable smell, that he must, I am sure, be very holy indeed. He told Robert, and Marguerite told me, that he had not changed his clothes for three whole years. What a holy man he must be! I was very glad when he gave me his benediction, though I did try to keep as much to windward of him as I could, and I put a sprig of lavender in my handkerchief before I asked for it. I am rather afraid Father Eudes would say it was wicked of me to put that sprig of lavender in my handkerchief. But really I think I should have felt quite disgusted if I had not done so. And why should it be holy not to wash one's self? Why don't they always leave babies unwashed, if it be, that they might grow up to be holy men and women?

[#] The scallop-shell denoted a pilgrim to the shrine of St. James of Compostella; the cross-keys, to Rome; the bells, to Canterbury (hence the "Canterbury bell"); and the cross, to the Holy Sepulchre.

[#] The Flemings wore a green cross, the French a red, the English a white one. The proverbial "Red Cross Knight," therefore, strictly speaking, could not be an Englishman.

I wonder if the angels like smells which we think disagreeable. If they do, of course that would account for it. Yet one cannot imagine an angel with soiled feathers.

I suppose Guy would say that was another of my queer ideas. Oh, I am so delighted that we have heard from Guy!

Monseigneur says I must have lots of new dresses to take with me. I have been wishing, ever so long, for a fine mantle of black cloth, lined with minever: and he says I shall have it. And I want a golden girdle, and a new aumoniere.[#] I should like a diaper[#] gown, too,--red and black; and a shot silk, blue one way, and gold the other.

[#] The bag which depended from the girdle.

[#] This term seems to have indicated stuff woven in any small regular pattern, not flowers.

My gracious Lord asked me what gems I would best like.

"Oh, agate or cornelian, if it please your Nobility," said I, "because they make people amiable."

He pinched my ear, and said he thought I was amiable enough: he would give me a set of jacinths.[#]

[#] These gems were believed to possess the properties in question.

"What, to send me to sleep?" said I, laughing.

"Just so," he answered. "Thou art somewhat too wide-awake."

"What do you please to mean, Monseigneur?"

He smiled, but then sighed heavily, and stroked my head.

"Ah, my little Lynette!" he said. "If thy blessed mother had but lived! I know not--truly I know not--whether I act for thy real welfare or not. The good God forgive our blunders, poor blindlings that we are!" And he rose and went away.

But of course it must be for my welfare that I should go to Guy, and get some appointment in the household of one of the Princesses, and see life, and--well, I don't know about getting married. I might not have so much of my own way. And I like that dearly. Besides, if I were married I could not be always with Guy. I think I won't, on the whole.

I asked Marguerite to-night if she could tell why holy people did not wash: and she said she thought they did.

"Well," said I, "but yonder holy palmer had not taken his clothes off for three years; and I am sure, Margot, he did not smell nice."

"I think," said Marguerite, "under leave of my Damoiselle, he would have been at least as holy if he had changed them once a month."

"O Margot! is not that heterodoxy?" asked I, laughing.

"Let my Damoiselle pardon her servant--no! Did not Monseigneur Saint Paul himself say that men should wash their bodies with pure water?"

"I am sure I don't know," said I. "I always thought, the holier you were, and the dirtier. And that is one reason why I always thought, too, that I could never be holy. I should want my hands and face clean, at least."

"Did my Damoiselle think she could never be holy?"

"Yes, I did, Margot, and do."

"Wherefore? Let her forgive her poor servant."

"Oh, holiness seems to mean all sorts of unpleasant things," said I. "You must not wash, nor lie on a comfortable bed, nor wear anything nice, nor dance, nor sing, nor have any pleasure. I don't want to be holy. I really could not do with it, Margot."

"Under my Damoiselle's leave, all those things she has mentioned seem to me to be outside things. And--unless I mistake, for I am but an ignorant creature--holiness must be something inside. My soul is inside of me; and to clean my soul, I must have something that will go inside to it. The inside principle will be sure to put all the outside things straight, will it not? But I do not see what the outside things can do to the inside--except that sometimes they make us cross. But then it is we who are wrong, not they."

"Dost thou suppose it is wicked to be cross, Margot?"

"Damoiselle, Father Eudes once read a list of the good things that a true Christian ought to have in his heart,--there were nine of them: 'love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.' I think one cannot have many of them when one is cross and peevish."

"Then thou dost not think it sinful to delight in fine clothes and jewels, and lie in a soft bed, and have dainties for dinner?--for all those are outside."

"Ha! yes, my Damoiselle. Those are the world's substitute for happiness."

"Now, what dost thou mean, Margot?" laughed I. "Have I not all these good things?--and am I not happy?"

"All these,--ah, yes. But, happy? No, no. My Damoiselle is not happy."

"Why, what wilt thou say next?" cried I.

"Will my Damoiselle permit her poor servant to ask her a question?"

"Oh yes!--anything thou wilt."

"Then is my Damoiselle quite certain--safely, happily certain--what will become of her when she shall die?"

"O Margot, what an ugly question! I hate to think of it Why, I suppose I shall go to Heaven--why should I not? Don't all nobles go there, except those who are very, very wicked?"

"Ha! She hates to think of it? Wherefore?"

"Why, everybody does, of course."

"Let my Damoiselle pardon me. Not I."

"Oh, thou art an old woman, and hast outlived thy youth and its pleasures. No wonder."

"My Damoiselle will find, as life goes on, that the older she grows, the more distasteful that thought becomes to her. That is, unless she should learn to be happy, which may the good God grant!"

I could not help laughing heartily. For a young noble maiden like me, to take lessons of a forlorn old creature like Margot, in the art of being happy, did seem so very ridiculous.

"Ah, my Damoiselle may laugh now," said Marguerite in her quiet way; "but I have told the sober truth."

"Oh dear!" said I. "I think I had better sleep on it.--Margot, art thou not very much pleased at the thought of going to the Holy Land?"

"Ah, yes, my Damoiselle, very much. I would dearly like to behold the earth which the feet of the blessed Lord have trodden,--the lake on which He walked, and the hill from which He went up. Ah! 'He shall so come'--'this same Jesus'!"

I looked at her in astonishment. The worn old face and sunken eyes seemed alight with some hidden rapture. I could not understand her.

"And the Holy Sepulchre!" I said; for that is holiest of all the holy places, as everybody knows.

"Well, I should not so much care to see that," answered Marguerite, to my surprise. "'He is not there; He is risen.' If a dear friend of mine had gone on a journey, I should not make a pet of the saddle on which he rode away. I should rather want not to see it, for it would always remind me that he was gone."

"Marguerite!" exclaimed I, "dost thou not know that a neuvaine offered at the Holy Sepulchre is of more efficacy than ten offered at any other altar?"

"Will my Damoiselle give me leave to wait till I see it? Of course, if the good God choose to have it so, there is an end of the matter. But I think I would rather be sure. For me, I should like to pray in the Church of the Nativity, to thank Him for coming as a little babe into this weary world: and in the Church of the Ascension, to beg Him to hasten His coming again."

"Ah, the Church of the Ascension!" said I. "There are pillars in that church, nearly close to the wall; and the man who can creep between the wall and the pillar has full remission of all his sins."

"Is that in the holy Evangel?" asked Marguerite; but I could not tell her.

"I fancy there may be some mistake about that," she added. "Of course, if it be in the holy Evangel! But it does not look quite of a piece with what Father Eudes reads. He read one day out of the writing of Monseigneur Saint John, that the blood of Jesus Christ, the blessed Lord, cleansed us from all sin: and another time--I think he said it was from the Evangel of Monseigneur Saint Matthew--he read that if a man did but ask the good God for salvation, it should be given him. Well! I asked, and He gave it me. Could He give me anything more?--or would He be likely to do it because I crept between a wall and a pillar?"

"Why, Marguerite! Hast thou been listening to some of those wicked Lyonnese, that go preaching up and down? Dost thou not know that King Henry the father hath strictly forbidden any man to harbour one of that rabble?"

"If it please my Damoiselle, I know nothing at all about them."

"Why, it is a merchant of Lyons, named Pierre Waldo, and a lot more with him; they go up and down the country, preaching, and corrupting people from the pure Catholic faith. Hast thou listened to any such preachers, Margot?"

"Ha, my Damoiselle, what know I? There was a Grey Friar at the Cross a few weeks since"----

"Oh, of course, the holy brethren of Saint Augustine are all right," said I.

"Well, and last Sunday there was a man there, not exactly in a friar's robe, but clad in sackcloth, as if he were in mourning; but he said none but very good words; they were just like the holy Evangel which Father Eudes reads. Very comforting words they were, too. He said the good Lord cared even for the sparrows, poor little things!--and very much more for us that trusted Him. I should like to hear him preach again."

"Take care how thou dost!" said I, as I lay down in bed. "I am afraid, Margot, he is one of those Lyonnese serpents."

"Well!" said Marguerite, as she tucked me up, "he had no sting, if he were."

"No, the sting comes afterwards," said I. "And thou art but a poor villein, and ignorant, and quite unable to judge which is the true doctrine of holy Church, and which the wicked heresy that we must shut our ears against."

"True, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite meekly. "But to say that the dear, blessed Lord cares for His poor servants--no, no!--that is no heresy!"

"What is heresy?" said I. "And what is truth? Oh dear! If one might know, one's own self!"

"Ah! Pilatus asked that of the good God, when He stood before his judgment-seat. But he did not wait for the answer."

"I wish he had done!" I answered. "Then we might have known it. But I suppose the good Lord would have told him to submit himself to the Church. So we should not have been much better off, because we do know that."

"We are better off, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite. "For though the good God did not answer Pilatus--maybe he was not worthy--He did answer the same question, asked by Monseigneur Saint Thomas. Did not my Damoiselle hear Father Eudes read that in French? It was only a few weeks ago."

I shook my head. I cannot imagine when or how Marguerite does hear all these things. I never do. But she went on.

"It was one day when the good Lord had told Messeigneurs the Apostles that He was going to ascend to Heaven: and He said, 'The way ye know.' But Monseigneur Saint Thomas--ah! he was rather like my Damoiselle; he wanted to know!--he replied that they did not know the way. (If he had not been a holy apostle, I should not have thought it very civil to contradict his Seigneur, let alone the good Lord.) But the good God was not angry: He saw, I suppose, that Monseigneur Saint Thomas did not mean anything wrong, but he wanted to know, like a damoiselle of the House of Lusignan. So He said, 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father but by Me.'"

"But I do not see what that means," said I. "Truth cannot be a person,--a man cannot be a way. Of course it is a figure of speech; but still I do not see what it means."

I was very sleepy, and I fancy rather cross. Marguerite stooped and kissed my hand, and then turned and put out the light.

"Rest, my fair Damoiselle," she said, tenderly. "And may the good God show my darling what it means!"

*