upon the guide's story to talk of any
irrelevant matter that jumped into her mind. She suddenly bethought
herself to scold Sir Samuel about "Bertie," from whom a letter had
evidently been forwarded, and who had been spending too much money to
please her ladyship.

"That stepson of yours is a regular bad egg," said she.

"Never you mind," retorted Sir Samuel, defending his favourite. "Many a
bad egg has turned over a new leaf."

My lip quivered, but I fixed my eyes firmly upon the guide, who was now
devoting his attention entirely to his one respectful listener. I was
ashamed of my companions, but I couldn't help catching stray fragments
of the conversation, and the involuntary mixing of Bertie's affairs with
the Religious Wars, and the destruction of Les Baux by Richelieu's
soldiers, had a positively weird effect on my mind. Bertie, it
seemed--(or was it Richelieu?) was invited to visit at the chateau of a
French marquis called de Roquemartine (or was it good King Rene, who
inherited Les Baux because he was a count of Provence?), and the chateau
was near Clermont-Ferrand. Lady Turnour was of opinion that it would be
well to make a condition before sending the cheque which Bertie wanted
to pay his bridge debts (or was he in debt because the Lady Douce and
her sister Stephanette of Les Baux had quarrelled?). If the advice of
Dane, the chauffeur, were taken, they would be motoring to
Clermont-Ferrand; and why not say to Bertie: "No cheque unless you get
us an invitation to visit the Roquemartines while you are there?" (Or
was it that they wanted an invitation to the boudoir of Queen Jeanne,
Rene's beloved wife, who lived at Les Baux sometimes, and had very
beautiful things around her--tapestries and Eastern rugs, and wondrous
rosaries, and jewelled Books of Hours?) Really, it was very
bewildering; but in my despair one drop of comfort fell. That chateau
near Clermont-Ferrand would prove a lodestar, and help Mr. Jack Dane to
lure the Turnours through chill gorges and over snowy mountains.

"Lodestar" really was a good word for the attraction, I thought, and I
would repeat it to the chauffeur. But it rose over the horizon of my
intellect probably because the guide talked of Countess Alix, last
heiress of the great House of Les Baux. "As she lay dying," he said,
"the star that had watched over and guided the fortunes of her house
came down from the sky, according to the legend, and shone pale and sad
in her bedchamber til