I am not at all sorry that Messire Renaud is gone. He made me feel uncomfortable whenever I looked at him. I cannot well express my feeling in words; but he gave me a sensation as if nothing stood on any thing, and every thing was misty and uncertain. I fancy some people like that sort of feeling. I detest it. I like figures (though Amaury says it is a very unladylike taste) because they are so definite and certain. Two and two make four; and they will make four, do what you please with them. No twisting and turning will persuade them to be either three or five. Now I like that—far better than some arts, more interesting in themselves, such as music, painting, or embroidery, of which people say, "Yes, it is very fair,—very good,—but of course it might be better." I like a thing that could not be better. Guy says that is very short-sighted, and argues a want of ambition in me. I do not quite see that. If a thing be the best it can possibly be, why should I want it to be better? "Oh, but one wants an aim," says Guy; "one must have a mark to shoot at. If I were besieging a castle, and knew beforehand that I could not possibly take it, it would deprive me of all energy and object. There is nothing so devoid of interest as doing something which leads to nothing, and is worth nothing when done." "Well," I say then, "I think if sieges and wars were done away with, it would be no bad thing. Just think what misery they cause." But such an outcry comes upon me then! Amaury informs me that he is incomparably astonished at me. Is not war the grandest of all employments? What on earth could the nobles do, if there were no wars? Would I have them till the earth like peasants, or read and write like monks, or sew and dress wounds like women? And Guy says, good-naturedly,—"Oh, one of Elaine’s curious notions. She never thinks like other people." "But think," I say, "of the suffering which comes from war—the bereft widows and fatherless children, and human pain and sorrow. Does a woman weeping over her husband’s corpse think war grand, do you suppose?" "Stuff!" says Amaury. "Can’t she get another?" (Would he say, if Eschine were to die,—"Never mind, I can get another"? Well, I should not much wonder if he would!) Once, after a rather keen contest of this sort, I asked old Marguerite if she liked war. I saw her eyes kindle.