"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 good _and evil_. That we should know evil cannot be good."