“It seems a pity to pick them, even in a good cause,” she said.
She was so near me that I could have touched her. A weakness seized me, and speech was farther away than ever. She moved, she sat down and looked at me, and the kind of mocking smile came into her eyes that I knew was the forerunner of raillery.
“There is a statue in the gardens of Versailles which seems always about to speak, and then to think better of it. You remind me of that statue, Mr. Ritchie. It is the statue of Wisdom.”
What did she mean?
“Wisdom knows the limitations of its own worth, Madame,” I replied.
“It is the one particular in which I should have thought wisdom was lacking,” she said. “You have a tongue, if you will deign to use it. Or shall I read to you?” she added quickly, picking up a book. “I have read to the Queen, when Madame Campan was tired. Her Majesty, poor dear lady, did me the honor to say she liked my English.”
“You have done everything, Madame,” I said.
“I have read to a Queen, to a King's sister, but never yet—to a King,” she said, opening the book and giving me the briefest of glances. “You are all kings in America are you not? What shall I read?”
“I would rather have you talk to me.”
“Very well, I will tell you how the Queen spoke English. No, I will not do that,” she said, a swift expression of sadness passing over her face. “I will never mock her again. She was a good sovereign and a brave woman, and I loved her.” She was silent a moment, and I thought there was a great weariness in her voice when she spoke again. “I have every reason to thank God when I think of the terrors I escaped, of the friends I have found. And yet I am an unhappy woman, Mr. Ritchie.”