Three years had passed. Philibert and Antoine now were tall youths, and Marguerite was a slender, graceful maiden of fifteen.
"I am sorry that she is growing up," said Cunegunda to Le Glorieux.
"Then am I to infer that you are fond of dwarfs?" asked he.
"No, but do you not see that as soon as she becomes a woman she must marry?"
"Most women do," he returned, "and most of them are equally discontented, whether they do or do not."
"And small wonder, since they must marry men," said Cunegunda. Le Glorieux could always throw her into a temper. "I did not marry again, and I am not discontented," she added.
"I have no doubt that you have made many a man discontented by refusing them right and left," said the fool politely.
Cunegunda smiled, but looked serious again as she said dolefully, "Our princess must marry and go to live in a strange land. How I wish that she were merely the child of a nobleman instead of being the daughter of the emperor; then she could remain in Austria. Now she must go away."
"Something about me makes you cry"