garden stretching out between it and the edge of the cliff. Three
_berceaux_ of orange-trees lead straight away from the paved terrace
on which the salon windows open, to another terrace overhanging the beach
and the sea. The cliff is overgrown from top to bottom with shrubs and wild
flowers, and a flight of steps cut in the living rock leads down to a
little cove and a strip of yellow sand a hundred feet below. Ah, petite, I
fancy I can see myself scrambling up and down those steps--a child younger
than yourself; watching the sun go down into that purple sea; counting the
sails in the offing at early morn; and building castles with that yellow
sand, just as you build castles out yonder with the snow!"

I clasped my hands and listened breathlessly.

"Oh, Monsieur Maurice," I said, "I did not think there was such a beautiful
place in the world! It sounds like a fairy tale."

He smiled, sighed, and--being seated at his desk with the pen in his
hand--took up a blank sheet of paper, and began sketching the Chateau and
the cliff.

"Tell me more about it, Monsieur Maurice," I pleaded coaxingly.

"What more can I tell you, little one? See--this window in the turret to
the left was my bed-room window, and here, just below, was my study, where
as a boy I prepared my lessons for my tutor. That large Gothic window under
the gable was the window of the library."

"And is it all just like that still?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said dreamily. "I suppose so."