"What distrust could a little girl, born in Septimany, inspire you with? Am not I as well as my mother, the wife of the outside porter of this convent, a slave? When eighteen months ago you were brought to this place and I was not yet fifteen, I was assigned to you, to entertain you and play with you. Since then we have grown up together. You became accustomed to me.... Is it not of course that you should have some confidence in me?"
"You just told me you had some hope to give me.... What hope can you give me? I want to hear?"
"Do you first promise to be discreet?"
"Be easy on that score. I shall be discreet."
"Promise me also not to begin to weep again, because I shall have to speak about your father, a painful subject to you."
"I shall not weep, Septimine."
"It is now eighteen months since your father, King Thierry, died on his domain in Compiegne, and the steward of the palace, that wicked Charles Martel, had you taken to this place and kept imprisoned ... poor dear innocent boy!"
"My father always said to me: 'My little Childeric, you will be a king like myself, you will have dogs and falcons to hunt with, handsome horses, chariots to ride in, slaves to serve you'; and yet I have none of these things here. Oh, God! Oh, God! How unhappy I am!"
"Are you going to start weeping again?"
"No, Septimine; no, my little friend."