"Ha! yes, my Damoiselle. Those are the world's substitute for happiness."
"Now, what dost thou mean, Margot?" laughed I. "Have I not all these good things?—and am I not happy?"
"All these,—ah, yes. But, happy? No, no. My Damoiselle is not happy."
"Why, what wilt thou say next?" cried I.
"Will my Damoiselle permit her poor servant to ask her a question?"
"Oh yes!—anything thou wilt."
"Then is my Damoiselle quite certain—safely, happily certain—what will become of her when she shall die?"
"O Margot, what an ugly question! I hate to think of it Why, I suppose I shall go to Heaven—why should I not? Don't all nobles go there, except those who are very, very wicked?"
"Ha! She hates to think of it? Wherefore?"
"Why, everybody does, of course."