"Madame," said the princess, "I shall be pleased to have my page sing for you anything that you may fancy, but you will pardon me if I leave the room while he sings of the glories of France!" And she walked out with her head held high in the air.
Cunegunda was now utterly happy. Her migraine had been cured, thanks to Saint Roch or to the change of air and scene necessitated by the journey to his shrine, and she was going to return to her beloved country.
"Ah, there is a land governed by a majestic ruler, a man who looks like a sovereign," said she proudly. "But the kings of France, pouf! The old king, who was alive when we came, looked like an old peasant, with his claw-like hands and his awkward legs, and the present one, who in the very bloom of his youth should be ruddy and handsome, has a large head and is undersized and is not at all kingly in appearance."
"But let us think only of the real man shut inside of that unprepossessing shell," said Le Glorieux, adding, "There is that clever sentence again; I was afraid I had forgotten it."
"I do not see anything so very clever about it," retorted Dame Cunegunda; "anybody could have thought it out."
"Anybody might think out things, my good Frau," he replied, "but it is the knowing just when to say them that counts. But I have very bad news for you, and instead of discussing my wonderful gift of always being able to say the right thing at the right time, I really should be bathed in tears."
"Has something dreadful happened to my father? Has news come from Austria?" asked Marguerite, in alarm.
"By no means. Calm yourself, my little princess. The King of the Romans may be at this moment climbing the cliffs to surprise the wary chamois, or he may be defying some unlucky knight to mortal combat in the tournament."
"Then it must have been decided that we are to remain in France," cried Cunegunda. "Oh, unlucky was the day that we ever set foot in this unholy land! I might have known that there was no such good luck for me as to leave it!"
"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."