"But why do things look so much more delightful beforehand than when they come?" said I.
"The Damoiselle has a vivid fancy. Does she never find that things look more unpleasant at a distance?"
"Well, I don't know—perhaps, sometimes," I said. "But disagreeable things are always disagreeable."
I suppose something in my face made Marguerite answer—
"Is the coming of the Lady Umberge disagreeable to my Damoiselle?"
"Oh, as to that, I don't care much about it," said I. "But I do want to hear from Guy."
Ay, that is coming to be the cry in my heart now. I want to hear from Guy! I want to know where he is, and what he is doing, and whether he is made a Count yet, and—Oh dear, dear!—whether that dreadful beautiful lady, whom he is to like so much better than me, has appeared. That could not happen to me. I could never love any body better than Guy.
I should so like a confidante of my own rank and age. Umberge would never do at all, and she is quite fifteen years older than I am. If I had had a sister, a year older or younger than myself, that would have been about the right thing. Nobody ever was my confidante except Guy. And I wander about his chamber very much as Level does, and feel, I should imagine, very much like him when he holds up one paw, and looks up at me, and plainly says with his dog-face,—"Where is he?—and is he never coming back?" And I can only put my cheek down on his great soft head, and stroke his velvet ears, and feel with him. For I know so little more than he does.
It must be dreadful for dogs, if they want to know!
Here is Umberge at last. She came last night, and Guillot with her, and Valence and Aline. They are nice playthings, or would be, if I might have my own way. But—I cannot quite understand it—the Umberge who has come to live here seems quite a different woman from the Umberge who used to come for an afternoon. She used to kiss me, and call me "darling," and praise my maccaroons. But this Umberge has kept me running about the house all morning, while she sits in a curule chair with a bit of embroidery, and says, "Young feet do not tire," and "You know where everything is, and you are accustomed to the maids." It looks as if she thought I was a superior sort of maid. Then, when our gracious Lord comes in, she is all velvet, and "dear Elaines" me, and tells him I am such a sweet creature—ready to run about and do any thing for any body.