"It seems to me, Damoiselle, if I be not too bold in speaking my poor thoughts"——
"Go on," said I. "I want to know them."
"Then, my Damoiselle, it seems to me that there are two great lights in which we may see every thing in this world. The first is a fierce light, like the sun. But it blinds and dazzles us. The holy angels perchance can bear it, for it streams from the Throne of God, and they stand before that Throne. But we cannot. Our mortal eyes must be hidden in that dread and unapproachable light. And if I mistake not, it is by this light that the Damoiselle has hitherto tried to see things, and no wonder that her eyes are dazzled. But the other light soothes and enlightens. It is soft and clear, like the moonlight, and it streams from the Cross of Calvary. There the good God paid down, in the red gold of His own blood, the price of our redemption. It must have been because He thought it worth while. And if He paid such a price for a poor villein woman like me, He must have wanted me. The Damoiselle would not cast a pearl into the Vienne for which she had paid a thousand crowns. And if He cared enough about me to give His life for me, then He must care enough to be concerned about my welfare in this lower world. The Damoiselle would not refuse a cup of water to him to whom she was willing to give a precious gem. Herein lies rest. What the good God, who thus loves me, wills for me, I will for myself also."
"But, Marguerite, it might be something that would break thine heart."
"Would the blessed Lord not know that? But I do not think He breaks hearts that are willing to be His. He melts them. It is the hearts that harden themselves like a rock which have to be broken."
"But thou wouldst not like something which hurt thee?"
"Not enjoy it—no, no. Did the Damoiselle enjoy the verdigris plaster which the apothecary put on her when she was ill three years ago? Yet she did not think him her enemy, but her friend. Ah, the good God has His medicine-chest. And it holds smarting plasters and bitter drugs. But they are better than to be ill, Damoiselle."
"Marguerite, I had no idea thou wert such a philosopher."
"Ah, the noble Damoiselle is pleased to laugh at her servant, who does not know what that hard word means. No, there is nothing old Marguerite knows, only how to come to the blessed Lord and ask Him for rest. He gave the rest. And He knew how to do it."
I wonder if old Marguerite is not the truest philosopher of us all. It is evident that things do not puzzle her, just because she lets them alone, and leaves them with God. Still, that is not knowing. And I want to know.