Just now, as I am writing, I glance at the table where I sit--a
small brown table of oak, carved with the name of Felise,
Baroness of Beaugard. She sat here; and some day, when you hear
her story, you will know why I begged Madame Lotbiniere to give
it to me in exchange for another, once the King's. Carved, too,
beneath her name, are the words, "Oh, tarry thou the Lord's
leisure."
And now you shall laugh with me at a droll thing Georgette has
given me to wipe my pen upon. There are three little circles of
deerskin and one of ruby velvet, stitched together in the centre.
Then, standing on the velvet is a yellow wooden chick, with little
eyes of beads, and a little wooden bill stuck in most quaintly,
and a head that twists like a weathercock. It has such a piquant
silliness of look that I laugh at it most heartily, and I have an
almost elfish fun in smearing its downy feathers. I am sure you
did not think I could be amused so easily. You shall see this silly
chick one day, humorously ugly and all daubed with ink.
There is a low couch in one corner of the room, and just above
hangs a picture of my mother. In another corner is a little shelf
of books, among them two which I have studied constantly since you
were put in prison--your great Shakespeare, and the writings of one
Mr.
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