[#] The brothers in this family are historical persons; the sisters fictitious.
I do not know how it is, but Alix seems vexed that I should like Guy best of all my brothers. She says I ought to make companions of Amaury and Raoul, who are nearer me in age. But is that any reason for liking people? At that rate, I ought to love Alix least of all, because she is furthest off. And—though I should not like her to know that I said so—I am not at all sure that I don't.
Being like you in character, it seems to me, is a much better reason for choosing companions, than being near you in age. And I think Guy is much more like me than Amaury or Raoul either. They don't care for the same things that I do, and Guy does. Now, how can you like a man's company when you can never agree with him?
Alix says my tastes—and, of course, Guy's—are very silly. I believe she thinks there is no sense in anything but spinning and cooking and needlework. But I think Amaury and Raoul are quite as foolish as we are. Amaury admires everything that shines and glitters, and he is not at all particular whether it is gold or brass. I believe, this minute, he knows more about samite, and damask, and velvet, than I do. You would think the world was coming to an end by the wail he sets up if his cap has a feather less than he intended, or the border of his tunic is done in green instead of yellow. Is that like being a man? Guillot says Amaury should have been a woman, but I think he should have stayed a baby. Then Raoul cares for things that bang and clash. In his eyes, everybody ought to be a soldier, and no tale is worth hearing if it be not about a tournament or the taking of a city.
Now I do think Guy and I have more sense. What we love to hear is of deeds really noble,—of men that have saved their city or their country at the risk of their own lives; of a mother that has sacrificed herself for her child; of a lady who was ready to see her true knight die rather than stain his honour. When we were little children at old Marguerite's knee, and she used to tell us tales as a reward when we had been good,—and who ever knew half so many stories as dear old Marguerite?—while Raoul always wanted a bloody battle, and Amaury a royal pageant, and Alix what she called something practical—which, so far as I could see, meant something that was not interesting—and Guillot, he said, "Something all boys, with no girls in it"—the stories Guy and I liked were just those which our dear old nurse best loved to tell. There was the legend of Monseigneur Saint Gideon, who drove the heathen Saracens out of his country with a mere handful of foot-soldiers; and that of Monseigneur Saint David, who, when he was but a youth, fought with the Saracen giant, Count Goliath, who was forty feet high—Guillot and Raoul used to like that too; and of Monseigneur Saint Daniel, who on a false accusation was cast to the lions, and in the night the holy Apostle Saint Peter appeared to him, and commanded the lions not to hurt him; and the lions came and licked the feet of Monseigneur Saint Peter. The story that Amaury liked best of all was about Madame Esther, the Queen of Persia, and how she entreated her royal lord for the lives of certain knights that had been taken prisoners; but he always wanted to know exactly what Madame Esther had on, and even I thought that absurd, for of course Marguerite had to make it up, as the legend did not tell, and he might have done that for himself. Raoul best loved the great legend of the wars of Troy, and how Monseigneur Achilles dragged Monseigneur Hector at the wheels of his chariot: which I never did like, for I could not help thinking of Madame the Queen, his mother, and Madame his wife, who sat in a latticed gallery watching, and remembering how their hearts would bleed when they saw it. The story Guy liked best was of two good knights of Greece, whose names were Sir Damon and Sir Pythias, and how they so loved that each was ready and anxious to lay down his life for the other: and I think what I best loved to hear was the dear legend of Madame Saint Magdalene, and how she followed the blessed steps of our Lord wherever He went, and was the first to whom He deigned to appear after His resurrection.
I wish, sometimes, that I had known my mother. I never had any mother but Marguerite. If she heard me, I know she would say, "Ha, my Damoiselle does not well to leave out the Damoiselle Alix." But I am sure Alix was never anything like a mother. If she were, mothers must be queer people.
Why don't I like Alix better? Surely the only reason is not because she is my half-sister. Our gracious Lord and father was twice married,—first to the Lady Eustacie de Chabot, who was mother of Alix, and Guillot, and Guy, and Amaury, and Raoul: and then she died, soon after Raoul was born; and the year afterwards Monseigneur married my mother, and I was her only child. But that does not hinder my loving Guy. Why should it hinder my loving Alix?
Most certainly something does hinder it,—and some tremendous thing hinders my loving Cousin Hugues de la Marche. I hate him. Marguerite says "Hush!" when I say so. But Hugues is so intensely hateable, I am sure she need not. He is more like Guillot than any other of us, but rougher and more boisterous by far. I can't bear him. And he always says he hates girls, and he can't bear me. So why should I not hate him?
O Mother, Mother! I wish you had stayed with me!
Somehow, I don't think of her as I do of any one who is alive. I suppose, if she were alive, I should call her "Fair Madame," and be afraid to move in her presence. But being dead seems to bring her nearer. I call her "Mother," and many a time I say her pretty, gentle name, Clémence,—not aloud, but in my thoughts. Would she have loved me if she had stayed?