Francaise should produce plays there, even once a year, when they could do it so much more comfortably at any modern theatre in the provinces if they must travel; and as to the gathering of the Felibres, she didn’t even know what Felibres were, nor did she care, as she was unlikely to meet any in society.  She would have proposed going on somewhere else, as there was so “little to see in Orange,” but that rain came sweeping down, cold from the east, when I had followed the pair a quarter of a mile from the motor.  They fled into their mackintoshes as a hermit-crab flees into his borrowed shell, and I was the only one the worse for wear when we reached the car.  I didn’t much mind the wetting, but it was rather nice to be fussed over by a brother, and forced into a coat of his, whether I liked or not.  “The quality” must have seen me in it, through the glass, but Lady Turnour ignored the sight.  Altogether, everything was agreeable, and the thunder-storm of last night, in clearing, had turned us into quite a happy family party.

It rained all day, and I sat in my room before a blazing fire of olive wood which a dear old waiter, exactly like a confidential servant of a pope, bestowed upon me out of sheer Provencal good nature.  As he’s been in the hotel for thirty years, he is a privileged person, and can do what he likes.

Lady Turnour gave me a pile of stockings to look over, lest Satan should find some more ornamental use for my idle hands; so I asked Mr. Dane for his socks too; and pretended that I should consider it a slight upon my skill if he refused.

That was our last night at Avignon, and early in the morning I packed for Arles, where we would sleep.  But on the way we stopped at Tarascon, so splendid with its memories of Du Guesclin, and the towers of King Rene’s great chateau reflected in a water-mirror, that no Tartarin could be blamed if he were born with a boasting spirit.  And there are other things in Tarascon for its Tartarins to be proud of, besides the noble old castle where King Rene used to spend his springs and summers when he was tired of living in state at Aix.  There is the church of Saint Martha, and the beautiful Hotel de Ville, and—­almost best of all for its quaintness, though far from beautiful—­the great Tarasque lurking in a dark and secret lair.

We couldn’t go into the chateau, but perhaps it was better to see it only from the outside, and remember it always in a crystal picture, framed with the turquoise of the sky.  Besides, not going in gave us more time for Beaucaire, just across the river—­Beaucaire of the Fair; Beaucaire of sweet Nicolete and her faithful lover Aucassin.

I know a song about Nicolete of the white feet and hair of yellow gold, and I sang it below my breath, sitting beside my brother Jack, as we crossed the bridge.  Although I sang so softly, he heard, and turned to me for an instant.  “You can sing!” he said.

“You don’t like singing,” I suggested.