"Indeed, madam! So fatal was the ascendency that she gained over him, that she caused us to be driven out of Metz, both you and me, and led prisoners as far as Arcis-on-the-Aube, the boundary of Burgundy, the kingdom of your other grandson, Thierry. But all that is an old story, madam, that is dead and should be forgotten, together with the principal actors in it. Bilichilde is no more; she was last year strangled to death by your grandson, the savage idiot Theudebert himself, who passed from love to hatred; afterwards, beaten at the battle of Tolbiac by his brother, whom you hurled at his head, he was himself shorn of his hair and stabbed to death; finally, his five-year-old son had his skull broken against a stone. Accordingly, that score was thoroughly settled. Were you not amply revenged?"
"No; with me, hatred survives vengeance, it survives death itself, as the dagger survives the murder. No; my vengeance is not yet complete."
"You are not reasonable. To hate beyond the grave is childish at your age."
"And is your mind not yet enlightened by what we have just said?"
"With regard to the two handsome slaves?"
"Yes, with regard to the two pretty girls."
"No, madam, I cannot yet fathom your thoughts."
"Let us, then, proceed, seeing that you have become so obtuse. Tell me, what was the nature of Theudebert, before we gave him Bilichilde for companion?"
"Violent, active, resolute, head-strong and above all proud. At eleven years he already felt the proud ardor of his royal blood. He used to say loftily: 'I am the King of Austrasia! I am master!'"
"And two years after he possessed the dark-complexioned slave with the green eyes and curly hair, whom you so judiciously chose for him, what was then the nature of my grandson? Answer me, Chrotechilde."