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 till she was dead.  Then it burst, and its light was extinguished in darkness for ever.”

Eventually Sir Samuel’s eye brightened for the Tudor rose decoration, in the ruined chateau, relic of an alliance between an English princess and the House of Les Baux; and Lady Turnour didn’t interrupt once when the guide told of the latest important discovery in the City of Ghosts.  “Near the altar of the Virgin here,” he began, in just the right, hushed tone, “they found in a tomb the body of a beautiful young girl.  There she lay, as the tomb was opened, just for an instant—­long enough for the eye to take in the picture—­as lovely as the loveliest lady of Les Baux, that famed princess Cecilie, known through Provence as Passe-Rose.  Her long golden hair was in two great plaits, one over either shoulder, and her hands were crossed upon her breast, holding a Book of Hours.  But in a second, as the air touched her, she was gone like a dream; her sweet young face, white as milk, and half smiling, her long dark eyelashes, even the Book of Hours, all crumbled into dust, fine as powder.  Only the golden hair, tied with blue ribbon, was left; and when you go to Arles you can see it in the Museum of Monsieur Mistral.”

“Make a note of hair for Arles, Sam,” said her ladyship, gravely; and just as solemnly he obeyed, scribbling a few words in the pocket memorandum-book in which the poor man industriously puts down all the things which his wife thinks he ought to remember.