I must think about it, and study Eschine. I certainly made a sad mistake when I thought there was nothing in her. But the holiest person in the house! That seems very strange to me. I believe, now, that what I took for absence of feeling is a mixture of great humility and profound self-control. But the queerest thing is, that I think she really loves Amaury. And how any creature can love Amaury is a puzzle to me. For no being with an atom of brains can look up to him: and how can you love one whom you cannot respect? Besides which, he evidently despises Eschine—I believe he does all women—and he scolds and snubs her from morning to night for everything she does or does not do. Such treatment as that would wear my love in holes—If it were possible for me ever to feel any for such an animal as Amaury. If I were Eschine, I should be anxious to get as far away from him as I could, and should be delighted when he relieved me of his company. Yet I do think Eschine really misses him, and will be honestly glad when he comes back, It is very unaccountable.
Our anxieties are all turned to rejoicing at once. Guy and Amaury returned last night, having concluded a six months' truce with Saladin: and Eschine had the pleasure—I am sure she felt it a very great one—when Amaury entered her chamber, of placing in his arms the boy for whom he had so fervently longed, who was born three days before they came back. Little Hugues—Amaury says that must be his name—seems as fine a child as Héloïse, and as likely to live. Amaury was about as pleased as it is in his nature to be; but he always seems to have his eyes fixed on the wormwood of life rather than the honey.
"Thou hast shown some sense at last!" he said; and Eschine received this very doubtful commendation as if it had been the most delightful compliment. Then Amaury turned round, and snapped at me, because I could not help laughing at his absurdity.
I asked Marguerite this evening what she thought was her chief fault.
"Ha!—the good God knows," she said. "It is very difficult to tell which of one's faults is the worst."
"But what dost thou think?" said I.
"Well," she answered, "I think that my chief fault is—with all deference—the same as that of my Damoiselle: and that is pride. Only that we are proud of different things."
"And of what art thou proud, Margot?" asked I laughingly, but rather struck to find that she had hit on the same failing (in me) as Lady Judith.
"Ha! My Damoiselle may well ask. And I cannot tell her. What is or has an old villein woman, ignorant and foolish, to provoke pride? I only know it is there. It does not fasten on one thing more than another, but there it is. And pride is a very subtle sin, if it please my Damoiselle. If I had nothing in the world to be proud of but that I was the ugliest woman in it, I believe I could be proud of that."
I laughed. "Well, and wherein lies my pride, Margot?" said I, wishful to see whether she altogether agreed with Lady Judith.