Soon they began to walk on, and I turned to look at my brother, who was lingering by the car.  Already the guide had begun to be interesting.  I caught a few words:  “Celtic caverns”—­“Leibulf, the first Count”—­“the terrible Turenne, called the ’Fleau de Provence’—­the Lady Alix’s guardian”—­which made me long to hear more; but I didn’t want to crawl on until my Fellow Worm could crawl with me.

“I can’t go,” he said.  “It wouldn’t do to leave the car here.  There are several gipsy faces at the inn window, you see.  Why there should be gipsies I don’t know; but there are, for those are gipsies or I’ll eat my cap.  And I’ve got to keep watch on deck.”

“How horrid to leave you here alone, seeing nothing—­not even the sunset!” I exclaimed.  “I think I shall stop with you, unless she calls me—­”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” he had begun, when the summons came, sooner than I had expected.

CHAPTER XIII

“Elise, come here and put what this guide is saying into English,” was the command, and I flew to obey.  To hear him tell what he knew was like turning over the leaves of the Book of Les Baux; and I tried to do him justice in my translation; but it was disheartening to see Lady Turnour’s lack-lustre gaze wander as dully about the rock-hewn barracks of Roman soldiers as if she had been in her own lodging-house cellar, and to be interrupted by her complaints of the cold wind as we went up the silent streets, past deserted palaces of dead and gone nobles, toward the crown of all—­the Chateau.

Nothing moved her to any show of interest in this grave of mighty memories, of mighty warrior princes, and of lovely ladies with names sweet as music and perfume of potpourri.  Wandering in a splendid confusion of feudal and mediaeval relics—­walls with carved doorways, and doorways without walls; beautiful, purposeless columns whose occupation had long been gone; carved marvels of fireplaces standing up sadly from wrecked floors of fair ladies’ boudoirs or great banqueting halls, the stout, painted woman broke in 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.