"Now you are preparing to cry," said the jester reproachfully, "and if there is anything in this world I dislike to see it is a woman with her face all wrinkled up ready for a boohoo. Your face is round and rosy, and looks well enough when you let it alone, but ever since I have become acquainted with you, you have been ready to weep at a moment's warning; you have shed at least a barrel of tears, and what good has it done you? Learn a lesson of me and smile at things instead of crying about them." "I never should want to smile had I so wide a mouth as yours," retorted Cunegunda, forgetting in her indignation that she had not yet learned the news that Le Glorieux had come to tell. "My mouth is the right width for a man of my height," returned he, "and could not be improved upon. But to return to the matter in hand, I will say right here and now that we are going to sail away as soon as the good ships can be made ready for us." "Then, what is your news? be not so long about telling it," said Marguerite, knitting her straight brows into a frown. "It is, alas, alas, that Clotilde is going with us to the domains of your royal grandfather!" "This is news, indeed. Why must she go?" "It appears that the new Queen of France, who so cleverly slipped into your place, my little princess, and caught the crown as it was about to settle itself upon your golden head--let me see, where was I?" "What of the Queen of France?" asked Marguerite. "Oh, yes; Anne wants a lady of her own kin to accompany you to your native country, to escort you, to watch over you; and Clotilde, you know, is a relative of Anne's, though they are about as much alike as Pandora, my hawk, is like a meek little dove. Nature makes a mistake sometimes and links the wrong people together by the ties of blood; I do not know why, but so it is. I had hoped that the shores of France and the sour face of Clotilde would disappear together from my view, but perfect happiness is possible for no one, and moreover, I never was very lucky." "If the Lady Clotilde is a relative of the young Queen of France, how does it happen that she has lived so long in Burgundy?" asked Cunegunda. "My good friend," replied the jester, "you may have forgotten that sometimes even the sourest of women have an opportunity to marry. They manage it, I think, by the aid of witchcraft, and in her youth the sharp black eyes of Clotilde captivated a Burgundian noble who afterward was killed in the wars, and probably was glad of it, considering the life she must have led him."