Part 2

Why does the good God let there be any Saracens? Marguerite says--and so does Father Eudes, so it must be true--that God can do everything, and that He wants everybody to be a good Christian. Then why does He not make us all good Christians? That is what I want to know. Oh, I cannot, cannot make it out!

But then they all say, "Hush, hush!" and "Fie, Damoiselle!" as if I had said something very wicked and shocking. They say the good God will be very angry. Why is the good God angry when we want to know?

I wonder why men and women were ever made at all. I wonder why _I_ was made. Did the good God want me for something, that He took the pains to make me? Oh, can nobody tell me why the good God wanted me?

He must be good, for He made all so beautiful. And He might have made things ugly. But then, sometimes, He lets such dreadful things happen. Are there not earthquakes and thunderstorms? And why does He let nice people die? Could not--well, I suppose that is wicked. No, it isn't! I may as well say it as think it.--Would it not have done as well if Alix had died, and my mother had lived? It would have been so much nicer! And what difference would it have made in Heaven--I hope Alix would have gone there--where they have all the angels, and all the saints? Surely they could have spared my mother--better than I can.

Well, I suppose--as Alix says when she wants one to be quiet--"it is no use talking." Things are so, and I cannot change them. And all my tears will not give me Guy back. I must try to think of the neuvaine[#] which he has promised to offer for me at the Holy Sepulchre, and hope that he won't be taken prisoner, and that he will be made a Count, and--well, and try to reconcile myself to that beautiful lady who is to have Guy instead of me. Oh dear me!

[#] Nine days' masses.

Now, there is another thing that puzzles me. (Every thing puzzles me in this world. I wish there had been another to which I could have gone, where things would not have puzzled me.) If God be everywhere--as Father Eudes says--why should prayers offered at the Holy Sepulchre be of more value than prayers offered in my bedchamber? I cannot see any reason, unless it were that God[#] loves the Holy Land so very much, because He lived and died there, that He is oftener there than anywhere else, and so there is a better chance of getting Him to hear. But how then can He be everywhere?

[#] In using this one of the Divine Names, a mediaeval Romanist almost always meant to indicate the Second Person of the Trinity only.

Why will people--wise people, I mean--not try to answer such questions? Marguerite only says, "Hush, then, my Damoiselle!" Alix says, "Oh, do be quiet! When will you give over being so silly?" And Monseigneur pats me on the head, and answers, "Why should my cabbage trouble her pretty little head? Those are matters for doctors of the schools, little one. Go thou and call the minstrels, or bind some smart ribbons in thine hair; that is more fit for such maidens as thou."

Do _they_ never want to know? And why should the answers be only fit for learned men, if the questions keep coming and worrying me? If I could once know, I should give over wanting to know. But how can I give over till I do?

Either the world has got pulled into a knot, or else I have. And so far from being able to undo me, nobody seems to see that I am on a knot at all.

"If you please, Damoiselle, the Damoiselle Alix wishes to know where your Nobleness put the maccaroons."

"Oh dear, Heloise! I forgot to make them. Can she not do without them?"

"If you please, Damoiselle, your noble sister says that the Lady Umberge will be here for the spice this afternoon, and your Excellence is aware that she likes maccaroons."

Yes, I am--better than I like her. I never did see anybody eat so many at once as she does. She will do for once with cheesecakes. I would not mind staying up all night to make maccaroons for Guy, but I am sure cheesecakes are good enough for Umberge. And Alix does make good cheese-cakes--I will give her that scrap of praise.

"Well, Heloise--I don't know. I really think we should do. But I suppose--is there time to make them now?"

"If you please, Damoiselle, it is three o'clock by the sundial."

"Then it is too late."

And I thought, but of course I did not say to Heloise,--How Alix will scold! I heard her step on the stairs, and I fairly ran. But I did not lose my lecture.

"Elaine!" cried Alix's shrill voice, "where are you?"

Alix might be a perfect stranger, for the way in which she always calls me _you_. I came out. I knew it was utterly useless to try to hide.

"Where have you put those new maccaroons?"

"They are not made, Alix," I said, trying to look as if I did not care.

"Not made? Saint Martin of Tours help us! What can you have been doing?"

I was silent.

"I say, what were you doing?" demanded Alix, with a stamp of her foot.

"Never mind. I forgot the maccaroons."

If I had been speaking to any one but Alix, I should have added that I was sorry. But she is always so angry that it seems to dry up any regret on my part.

"You naughty girl!" Alix blazed out. "You very, very naughty girl! There is no possibility of relying on you for one instant. You go dreaming away, and forget everything one tells you. You are silly, _silly_!"

The tone that Alix put into that last word! It was enough to provoke all the saints in the calendar.

"There will be plenty without them," said I.

"Hold your tongue, and don't give me any impudence!" retorted Alix.

I thought I might have said the same. If Alix would speak more kindly, I am sure I should not get so vexed. I can't imagine what she would say if I were to do something really wicked, for she exhausts her whole vocabulary on my gathering the wrong flowers, or forgetting to make cakes.

"Don't be cross, Alix," I said, trying to keep the peace. "I really did forget them."

"Oh dear, yes, I never doubted it!" answered Alix, in that way of hers which always tries my patience. "Life is sacred to the memory of Guy, but my trouble and Umberge's likings are of no consequence at all! And it does not matter that the Baron de Montbeillard and his lady will be here, and that we shall have a dish too little on the table. Not in the least!"

"Well, really, Alix, I don't think it does much matter," said I.

"Of course not. And the Lady de Montbeillard will not go home and tell everybody what a bad housekeeper I am, and how little I care to have things nice for my guests--Oh dear, no!"

"If you treat her kindly, I should think her very ungrateful if she did," said I.

Alix flounced away with--"I wish you were gone after Guy!"

And so did I.

But at night, just before I dropped asleep, a new idea came to me--an idea that never occurred to me before.

Do I try Alix as much as she tries me?

Oh dear! I hope not. It cannot be. I don't think it is possible. Is it?

I wish I had not forgotten those cakes. Alix did seem so put out. And I suppose it was rather annoying--perhaps.

I did not like her saying that I was not to be trusted. I don't think that was fair. And I cannot bear injustice. Still, I did forget the cakes. And if she had trusted me, it was only reasonable that she should feel disappointed. But she did not need to have been so angry, and have said such disagreeable things. Well, I suppose I was angry too; but I show my anger in a different way from Alix. I do not know which of us was more wrong. I think it was Alix. Yes, I am sure it was. She treats me abominably. It is enough to make anybody angry.

Those limes seem to come up and look reproachfully at me, when I say that. I was not at all well--it might be three years ago: rather feverish, and very cross. And two travelling pedlars came to the Castle gate. One sold rare and costly fruits, and the other silken stuffs. Now I know that Alix had been saving up her money for a gold-coloured ribbon, for which she had a great fancy; and there was a lovely one in that pedlar's stock--in fact, I have never since seen one quite so pretty. Alix had just enough to buy it. She could not get any more, because the treasurer was away with Monseigneur at the hawking. But she saw my wistful glances at the limes in the other pedlar's panniers, and she bought some for me. They were delicious: but Alix went without her gold-coloured ribbon. She had no other chance of it, for the pedlar was on his way to the great Whitsuntide fair at Poictiers, and he would not stay even one night.[#]

[#] At the period of this story, shops were nearly unknown except in the largest towns. Country families--noble, gentle, or peasant--had to rely on laying in a stock of goods at the great fairs, held at Easter, Whitsuntide, Michaelmas, and Christmas; and for anything wanted between those periods, recourse was had to travelling pedlars, who also served as carriers and postmen when occasion demanded it.

I wonder if it be possible that Alix really loves me,--just one little bit! And I wonder if we could give over rasping one another as we do. It would be very difficult.

But if I ever do follow Guy, I will bring back, from Byzantium or Damascus, something beautiful for Alix, to make up for that gold ribbon. It was good of her. And I do wish I had remembered those maccaroons!

*CHAPTER II.*

_*TWO SURPRISES FOR ELAINE*_*.*

"I feel within me A 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 Constanca of Castilla: wife of Henry, eldest son of Henry II. of England. Her husband was crowned during his father's life, and by our mediaeval 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 unto _Me_.' 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. _He_ gave 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 think _me_ hateful? 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. _I_ am 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.