"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!