"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?"