We smiled into each other’s eyes, and I felt as if the castle were a present from him to me.  How I should have loved to have it for mine, to make up for one poor old chateau, now crumbled hopelessly into ruin, and despised by the least exacting of tourists!  Coming upon it unexpectedly in this green dell, at the foot of the precipice, seeing it rise from the water on one side, reflected as in a broken mirror, and draped in young, golden foliage on the other, it really was an ideal castle for a fairy tale.  A connoisseur in the best architecture of the Renaissance would perhaps have been ungracious enough to pick faults; for to a critical eye the turrets and arches might fall short of perfection; and there was little decoration on the time-darkened stone walls, save the thick curtain of old, old ivy; but the fairy grace of the towers rising from the moat of glittering, bright green water was gay and sweet as a song heard in the woods.

“Some beautiful nymph ought to have lived here,” I said dreamily, when we had got out of the car.  “A nymph whose beauty was celebrated all over the world, so that knights from far and near came to this lovely place to woo her.”

“Why, you might have heard the story of the place!” said Jack.  “It’s the Chateau de la Caze, usually called the Castle of the Nymphs, for instead of one, eight beautiful nymphs lived in it.  But their beauty was their undoing.  I don’t quite know why they were called ‘nymphs,’ for nymphs and naiads had gone out of fashion when they reigned here as Queens of Beauty, in the sixteenth century.  But perhaps in those days to call a girl a ‘nymph’ was to pay her a compliment.  It wouldn’t be now, when chaps criticize the ‘nymphery’ if they go to a dance!  Anyhow, these eight sisters, were renowned for their loveliness, and all the unmarried gentlemen of France—­according to the story—­as well as foreign knights, came to pay court to them.  The unfortunate thing was, when the cavaliers saw the eight girls together, they were all so frightfully pretty it wasn’t possible to choose between them, so the poor gentlemen fought over their rival charms, and were either killed or went away unable to make up their minds.  The sad end was, if you’ll believe me, that all the eight maidens died unmarried, martyrs to their own incomparable charms.”

“I can quite believe it,” I answered, “and it wasn’t at all sad, because I’m sure any girl who had once had this place for her home would have pined in grief at being taken away, even by the most glorious knight of the world.”

“Come in and see their boudoir,” said the knight who worked, if he did not fight, for me.

So we went in, without the trouble of using battering rams; for alas, the family of the eight nymphs grew tired of their chateau and the gorge in the dreadful days of the religious wars, and now it is an hotel.  It would not receive paying guests until summer, but a good-natured caretaker opened the door for us, and we saw a number of stone-paved corridors, and the nymphs’ boudoir.