There Queen Jeanne of Naples—­that fateful Marie Stuart of Provence—­stood in her youth and beauty before her accusers, knowing she must buy her pardon, if for pardon she could hope.  There the wretched Bishop of Cahors suffered tortures incredible for plots his enemies vowed he had conceived against the Pope.  There came messages from Western Kings and Eastern Emperors; there Bertrand du Guesclin, my favourite hero, was excommunicated:  and there great Rienzi lay in prison.

“Now I think we might risk going to the Palace,” said Mr. Dane, when we had stood gazing in silence for more minutes than we could well afford.  So we made haste back, and walked up to the Rochers des Doms, where we lurked cautiously in the handsome modern gardens, glorying in the view over the old and new bridges, and to far off Villeneuve, where the Man in the Iron Mask was first imprisoned.  When we had admired the statue of Althen the Persian, with his hand full of the beneficent madder that did so much for Provence, we were rewarded for our patience by seeing Sir Samuel and Lady Turnour rush out from the Papal Palace, looking furious.

“They look like that, because they’ve been inside,” said the chauffeur.  “Their souls aren’t artistic enough to resent consciously the ruin and degradation of the place, but even they can be depressed by the hideous whitewashed barracks which were once splendid rooms, worthy of kings.  You will look as they do if you go in.”

“I hope my cheeks wouldn’t be dark purple and my nose a pale lilac!” I exclaimed.

“You’re twenty, at most, and Lady Turnour’s forty-five, at least,” said my brother.  “You can stand the pinch of Mistral; but the inside of that noble old pile is enough to turn the hair gray.  It would be much more original to let your imagination draw the picture.”

“Then I will!” I cried, knowing that nothing pleases a man more in a girl than taking his advice.  By the lateness of the hour we judged that the Turnours must have visited the Cathedral before they “did” the Palace, so we went boldly on to Notre Dame des Doms, beloved of Charlemagne.

No wonder, I said, that he had thought it worth restoring from the ruins Saracens had left!  Nothing could be more glorious than the situation of the historic church, once first in importance, perhaps, in all Christendom; and nothing could be more purely classic than the west porch.  We strained the muscles of our necks staring up at ancient, fading frescoes, and rested them again in gazing at famous tombs; then it was time to go, if we were not to start for Vaucluse too hungry to feed satisfactorily on thoughts of Laura and Petrarch.

“Now to our own trough with the other beasts,” I sighed.  “What an anti-climax!  From the cathedral to the couriers’ dining-room.”

“I thought that we might have our own private trough, just this once, if you don’t object,” said the chauffeur, almost wistfully.  “It would be a shame to spoil the memory of a perfect morning, wouldn’t it, so don’t you think you might accept my humble invitation?”