John Maverell: a tale of the Riviera

Front matter

JOHN MAVERELL. C JOHN MAVERELL H Uale of tbe "IRfviera. BV I. DUNCAN CRAIG, D.D., Soci Dbu Felibrtge, if author (of 'REAL PICTURES OF CLERICAL LIFE IN IRELAND'; ' LA 'DEBANADO, OR SCENES DURING THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR'; ' MIEJOUR, OR LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE IN THE LAND OF THE FELIBRE'; 'LADY WILMERDING OF MAISON ROUGE'; 'THE HANDBOOK OF THE PROVENfAL LANGUAGE,' ETC. <_*. LONDON : ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E 1898. AVANT-PROPOS. This book was written more than twelve years ago. Some of the characters that occur in it first saw the light in ' Lady Wil merding of Maison Rouge,' a work long out of print. Trelcat and Patron Paul, with a few others recorded herein, I trust will re-appear one day in a work whose scene lies in a different land. THE AUTHOR. Villa Miramare, San Remo, Italy. CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE I. RIGOLO ....... i II. SERGEANT BERTHOLD - - - - - 5 III. LOU MAS DE FLOUR-DI-CALANC 9 IV. THE YELLOW MANE - - - - "13 V. PERE TRELCAT - - - - - 17 VI. PERE TRELCAT STANDS AT ATTENTION - - - 21 VII. PATRON PAUL - - - - - 25 VIII. JOHN MAVERELL - - - - - 29 IX. LA MARQUISE DE TROIS ETOILES - - - "34 X. PONGO ! - - - - - - 38 XI. THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE - - - 40 XII. LAMPLIGHT - - - - - 46 XIII. BLAS ! - - - - - - - 47 XIV. FOR CORSICO, HO ! - - - - - 49 XV. WILD WEATHER FOR CORSICA - - - "53 XVI. MON PLAISIR - - - - - 58 XVII. PATRON PAUL BEARS AWAY - - - - 6l XVIII. ETHEL DOUGLAS - - - - - "63 XIX. RABBI JOHANAN - - - - - 67 XX. THE RESCUE - - - - - 70 XXI. SIEUR OLIVER - - - - - 72 XXII. PERE TRELCAT HURLS A ROPE - - - 79 XXIII. MARTIN ------- 8! XXIV. GERARD BRANCAMP - - - - - 86 XXV.

THE BRINGARI WOMAN - - - - 89 XXVI. LA MAISON ROUGE - - - - "92 XXVII. THE HAUNTED CHAPEL - - - - - 96 XXVIII. IN THE ESTEREL - - - - - 98 XXIX. THE AUBERGE OF THE ESTEREL - - - - IOI XXX. AN INTERVIEW ------ _08 XXXI. TROIS BRAS - - - - - - I09 XXXII. TROIS BRAS THINKS HE DREAMS- - - - 112 XXXIII. SAVED - - - - - - - Il6 XXXIV. THE BATTLE WITH THE WILD-BOAR - - - I18 XXXV. THE WIND COMES OVER THE MOUNTAIN TO TROIS BRAS 120 XXXVI. VÆ SOLIS ! - - - - - - - I25 XXXVII. THE FOREST ON FIRE - I3I XXXVIII. PATRON PAUL AT BAY - - - - - 1 36 XXXIX. IN THE SERPENTS' NEST ----- 138 XL. THE GRAVE BENEATH THE PINASTER - - - CONTENTS VIII PAGE

Chapter I. Rigolo

' Rigolo ! Rigolo !' A seaman who was engaged in discussing a vessel of soup and an accompaniment of brown bread, which he dipped occa sionally in a saucer of aioli, the garlic sauce loved of Provencals, looked up grumblingly at the hoarse summons. ' Ah, just so !' he muttered ; ' one can never get five minutes to one's self on board this felucca. You are expected to watch all the night and work all the day. It is always, " Rigolo, is the breakfast ready ?" or, " Rigolo, are the haricots stewed ?" One never gets a moment to swallow a morsel. Well, what is the patron thinking of now ? I'll let him call a second time, anyhow.' The speaker was an extraordinary-looking, low-sized seaman, with masses of black hair surmounted by a red cap. A sash of the same colour girded an ample waist. And a chest mahogany -coloured by the Mediterranean sun bore certain tattooed devices, as though to correspond with curious figures and letters covering his brown, muscular arms. ' How hard these poor wretches on the quay are working !' said he, as he swallowed the last spoonful of soup. ' What a sun we have to-day !

This forecastle-deck is like a hot grid iron.' Rigolo, while he awaited a repetition of the summons, folded his arms and gazed admiringly, yet condescendingly, on a party of forcats who were engaged in unloading the felucca of her cargo of bricks, and were piling them symmetrically on the hot quay, while half a dozen dignified warders smoked their briar pipes, and gazed on complacently. ' Sieu au bout de moun camin. I am at the end of my road now,' growled Rigolo. ' Moussou lou patron, I forgot.' 'Ah, peccaire I thou hast forgotten. Ah, bregand !' and the JOHN MA VERELL 2 old patron stamped his foot and finally dived down into his smoky cabin. ' That is something like a man,'muttered Rigolo, as he watched a convict who, clad in the uniform that marked a life-sentence, was working a little apart from the rest of the fatigue-party, and was piling up his bricks in a somewhat fantastic manner into the shape and semblance of a small oitstaoit, or house.

The life-convict was a pale faced, gray haired man, somewhat over the middle height. He wore a tunic of red colour, with a deep turn-down collar, buttoned up the front. Canary-yellow trousers and a conical olive coloured green cap, rising in a peak, completed his uniform. His left wrist was chained to an iron circlet that confined the left ankle. The other convicts, who were sentenced to a less lengthened period of confine ment, wore the same uniform, but had red conical caps. It would seem as though the life-prisoner had by this very fact a certain strange melancholy precedence granted to him by the rest of the convict gang. He seemed to keep aloof from them in a measure ; even in his work he worked apart. The warders, too, treated him with a sort of dignified deference. ' Ah, Pere Trelcat, art thou building a chateau for thyself there?' said the chief warder, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe.

Trelcat laughed a low, melancholy laugh. ' I have nearly succeeded in roofing it in after an idea of mine own.' And then he muttered : ' Well, was it not ? that he did not see that it was all hollow inside, or he might have sus pected something. Now I must leave a doorway large enough to creep in when the alarm comes.' Rigolo, who had been attentively watching the house-building, as he handed down a score of bricks to the life-convict, quietly slipped a small parcel of tobacco into his hand. ' Thanks, comrade,' gravely said the life-convict ; and then a sudden thought seemed to strike him. He drew a little back and made a sign, one almost imperceptible, which might have served, had its meaning not been apprehended, as some ordinary movement without peculiar significance. Rigolo coloured up through his mahogany face, and rapidly made an answering signal, and then both men whispered together for a moment. ' Canst thou swim, Rigolo ?' said Trelcat.

Rigolo laughed. ' Can yonder seagull rest upon the waters of the harbour when weary ?' 'Listen,' said Trelcat; 'the work is well-nigh over for the day. I do not want to sleep in le bagne to-night. Thou must RIGOLO 3 fall overboard when I give thee the signal, and thou must be a long time before they can rescue thee. Take off the attention of the warders for ten minutes. It's my last chance. Now dost see why I have been building up the brick house yonder ? I intend moving into it the moment thou, mon cher Rigolo, hast drawn the warders off the scent.' ' Eh ben cambarado? said Rigolo, ' toucan lou cinq sordino?1 ' Rigolo ! Rigolo ! ' Ah, there's the old patron again !' And he slowly went aft. ' A man overboard ! Ah, Rigolo ! Rigolo ! cast a rope there ! He's sinking the second time. Zou, 'tis Rigolo himself!

Ah, Rigolo ! and thou hast been paid thy wages a full month in advance, mon gars !' And the old, weather-beaten patron danced down the hot deck of the felucca, and shouted and vociferated, while the convicts hurried into the forecastle and lined the bulwarks, watching the frantic movements of Rigolo, who splashed and sunk and rose again, and shouted for help, so that even the dignified warders hastened aboard to watch the result. Trelcat alone was left upon the quay, and, glancing rapidly around him, he crept into the brick house which he had made, and quickly piled bricks from the inside, so as to shut up the door, and then crouched down in a sitting posture, listening with ears quickened to catch every sound, and occasionally stealing a glance through the apertures that he had left for air and vision.

Presently Trelcat judged, from the silence that followed the noise and excitement concerning Rigolo, that that worthy had been rescued. Then a few minutes elapsed, and he heard the tramping and shuffling of feet, as the voice of the chief warder ordered the convicts to 'fall in.' Then he could catch the sounds of the calling of the roll, and could distinctly hear his own name pronounced : ' Trel cat — Trelcat ! Where is Pere Trelcat ?' 'Step aboard the felucca,' shouted the chief warder, 'and see if he be trying to revive that coquin Rigolo.' At last Trelcat, to his infinite satisfaction, heard the angry comments of the warder die away, and the word 'March!' sounding on his ear. The tramp, tramp gradually faded away, and Trelcat drew a long deep breath of relief. 1 'Well, comrade, let us shake the five sardines,' i.e., fingers.

A Pro vencal fisherman's phrase. 1 — JOHN MAVERELL 4 Twilight around, and silence that grew deeper as the night drew on. He could catch a solitary star that seemed to cast a ray of silver light towards him, and it seemed unto the life convict an omen and augury of good. ' If I could smoke !' he muttered. ' Rigolo must soon look me up now. And yet this is only the first step for freedom. Ugh ! If I were to be captured, after all, and brought back to le bagne ; but that were too horrible!' And he shuddered. ' How cold this chain is ! It seems as though it were eating into my very flesh.' ' Revihasvous leu, Moussou Trelcat ! Quick ! awake !' The convict started. And next moment the bricks were gently laid aside, and Rigolo appeared at the doorway. ' Levas-vous leu, cambarado ! Quick ! arouse thee, comrade !

All is quiet now. See, I have brought thee th\s pelican — this great-coat — which will hide thy chain, and make thee respectable once more. And look thee, comrade : there are some rations in the inside pocket ; and here, swallow this vise, vite I And hark ye, comrade : here are twenty francs ; they'll be of use, doubtless. Lucky it was that patron advanced them this morning ; better thou shouldst have them than the absinth shop. Quick, mon ami! Thou hast only one sentinel to pass now, and he is half asleep by this.' The two men stood for a moment looking into each other's eyes. Then tears trickled down Trelcat's pale face. He grasped Rigolo's hand. 'You and John Maverell have saved me from being a wolf, Rigolo. Ye have shown me mercy. Thou hast not only saved me, and given me this and this ' — and he touched the pelican and looked at the francs — ' but thou hast melted the long-frozen stream inside.

Thou hast been a man to me, and not a serpent, Rigolo.' Trelcat caught Rigolo's hand again. ' Farewell. I will repay thee one day.' And he stole off into the dark night. Rigolo quietly piled up the bricks in the doorway of the refuge-house again. Then he folded his arms, and smoked his briar pipe complacently. ' Ah, that is a man worth saving !' he muttered. ' Rigolo ! Rigolo ' ' Ah, there is the old patron again ! Best get on board as quick as I can. Ah ! how light I feel after helping that brave Trelcat !' ' Rigolo ! Rigolo !' ' Si, si, moun patron? SERGEANT BERTHOLD 5 ' Rigolo, m'aves gen fa de fougasseto 1 Hast thou made me any cake-bread ?' ' I wonder,' said Rigolo, ' how far has he got by this time ? He is sure to make for the Esterelles. And there — boom ! boom ! — there goes the cannon that tells that a convict has escaped.

It is well for him that it is night, for by the morrow there won't be a gendarme or a douanier but will be keeping a bright look-out for Pere Trelcat. Boom ! boom ! what a sullen sound from thy black throat and muzzle !' And Rigolo shook his hand towards the bagne.

Chapter II. Sergeant Berthold

The douanier, pacing slowly amid the glistening sands and long ribbon seaweed of the point of La Croisette, bronzed and weather-worn and saturnine in visage, as he wearily crushed the shells beneath his feet, or tossed aside an oar-pin corroded by the waves, which had fallen from some fisher craft, seemed suddenly, as he halted and attentively surveyed the blue waters of the olive-bordered Gulf of Napoule, to have at last discovered an excitement. Shading his eyes with his right hand from the setting sun, the old veteran made his way down to the margin of the water and stepped on board a small boat, which with a single thrust of the oar he launched from La Croisette ; then, hoisting a lug-sail, he sat down aft and steered the little craft for He Sainte Marguerite. It was a lovely evening, and as the veteran sergeant leaned back in the stern-sheets and gazed towards the clearly indented peaks of the Esterelles, a strangely beautiful succession of colours seemed to glow around their blue crests ; streak after streak of deep purpling light floated around their summits, and from a background of exquisite amber light glowed forth the deepening carmine tints, reflecting themselves upon the slumbering waters beneath, and even lighting up the Grand Pine Mountain and the snow-capped Maritime Alps with a lurid glory.

The veteran drew forth his briarwood pipe and began to smoke. 'Smoking makes me think,' growled he, as he kept the boat away, and regarded attentively a felucca approaching slowly beneath a light breeze, which barely filled her tall triangular white sails and rippled out her ensign. ' As sure as my name is Sergeant Berthold, and, as we used to say in the army, Je depose mes sardines,1 if yonder felucca working up this 1 ' I resign my lace stripes.' way be not M. le Baron himself. I wonder if mademoiselle be with him again. As I am an old sea-wolf, 'tis the very craft.' And a cloud of white smoke curled up from the sergeant's pipe as he bore down upon the felucca. A few minutes more and the sergeant found himself standing, with his right arm raised to his cap in military salute, upon the deck of the felucca, while a young lady sitting upon a camp stool graciously acknowledged, with a glance of half-concealed merriment, his profound homage, and a deep toned voice of welcome from the helmsman exclaimed : ' Bravo, Berthold ! is that you ?' The felucca on whose white deck Sergeant Berthold was now standing was a long, sharp-bowed craft, from whose great yards, slung on three low masts, clouds of snowy canvas spread themselves fluttering to the gentle breeze, that scarce filled out their ample folds.

Her hull was painted black, with a single narrow yellow streak running from stem to stern. Immedi ately aft of each mast a long, bright brass cannon was mounted on an oaken carriage, and grouped around the forecastle some twelve seamen, wearing red Phrygian caps — the bonnet of the Mediterranean — smoked vigorously as they occasionally glanced towards the white walls of Fort St. Marguerite and talked gruffly in the Frovencal, while some older mariner lifted his eyes towards the canvas and shook his head with a growl, as he muttered, 'The manfo-vent1 scarcely draws.' The felucca had good beam, and could evidently, with her sharp entrance and beautiful lines, carry a great breadth of canvas ; Guy de Castelaras had built her under his own inspec tion, and as yet she had walked away from all rivals. ' You gave me a start, M. le Baron, and made me rouge comme un Angles'2 the moment that I saw your fore-yard between me and the Esterelles.

" As sure as the east wind summons rain, that's M. le Baron de Castelaras," said I ; " and perhaps mademoiselle is with him, and if she is there Roso will be there, too, and ' And Roso is there, too, and she is here, too, thou dear old father ;' and the next moment the sergeant felt a pair of lovin^ hands over his eyes, and a couple of long, hearty kisses pressed upon his lips. ' What, Roso ! is it really thou ? Why, how tall thou art !' and the veteran gazed at her with joy sparkling in his eyes. ' Why, thou foolish child, what art thou crying for ?' 1 Wind-eater, the foresaii. ' As red as an Englibhman :' an allusion to the scarlet tunic of our soldiers. SERGEANT BERTHOLD 7 It seemed a little strange that the old sea-wolf did not tarry for an answer, but turned abruptly, and, as he wiped away a tear, said in rather a husky voice : ' Berthold, Berthold, thou art childish again !' The helmsman, who had been gazing with a good-humoured smile at this meeting of Roso with her father, now headed the felucca for the Cannes lighthouse.

As the sharp bow pointed towards the long, snow-crested ranges of the Maritime Alps, and the triangular sails slowly filled beneath the breeze, the fortress of St. Marguerite gleamed in the rays of the setting sun. A haze of purpling light rested upon the Esterelles, and as the gentle rippling of the water against the stem stole upon the ear, a strange, low sound seemed to issue from the sea. Mdlle. de Castelaras gazed over the low bulwark with an inquiring glance ; and as louder and louder, till it swelled like a sweet, deep organ note, the curious music floated upward, an expression of wonder settled on her face. In truth, with that mellow, dying sunlight falling thereon, it were hard to find a better type of real Provencal beauty. Adele de Castelaras, as her features lighted up, as she looked inquiringly for the source of the singular, sweet, deep, eerie music, that seemed to float around the felucca, might well have served for the painting of some noble chatelaine of some old Provencal chateau.

In truth, in the dining-hall of the ancestral abode of Guy de Castelaras — beautiful as some of the faces of the ladies were, that seemed lifelike to look down from the gilt frames above — there was no face that would have impressed the visitor more deeply. She wore the Catalan, that wondrous head-dress that Petrarch's Laura used to wear, and which well became the oval face and bright flashing eyes, that ever and anon seemed to alternate from mirth to sadness. An artist would have given much to have been permitted to transfer her face to canvas, especially could he have caught the expression which lingered on her cameo-chiselled features as she bent over the bulwarks and gazed into the blue waters, which seemed to sound forth the strange weird melody. The crew, aroused by the unwonted music, every now and then muttered their conjectures as to its origin. 'Hast thou never heard, then, this "organ of the sea" before, Adele ?' said Guy. ' Dost thou not know that this is La Sereno, the siren of the Mediterranean ?' ' Yes, M. le Baron,' exclaimed an old seaman, as he touched his cap. ' Many a poor fellow has been drifted by that treacherous voice of lou peisorgue — the organ fish — upon the hidden reef; and many a poor pescaire1 has found his shroud amid the seaweed beneath, through listening to that evil music.

You mind nothing, mademoiselle, when once you hear it. Helm, sails, oars, shoals, nets, all vanish out of your memory ; and you go drift, drift, drift, till you are brought up suddenly by the teeth of the rock — then, pren gardo que soulo noun te dessoute I'2 ' I hope such ill-fortune won't attend us now, Barba Gian,'^ said Adele, with a lurking smile. ' That were sad for La Hirondelle? Pushing the tiller over to the weather-beaten seaman, Guy dived down the companion for his long-vue, while Barba Gian, with a look of intense gravity not unmingled with awe, listened to the expiring strains of the ' organ of the sea.' ' Starboard your helm !' suddenly shouted Sergeant Berthold. The next moment a cry forward was heard : ' Felucca ahoy ! mind your helm !' And then, amid a din of confused voices, a crash followed, and a large schooner struck the felucca's quarter, sweeping her jib-boom over the bulwarks, and a view was seen of seamen swarming out along the bowsprit, and of the felucca's crew hastening to clear the two vessels, which ground against each other in the tremulous roll of the Mediterranean. ' A cos fa 'me la destrau ,A 'tis best now manda lou manche apres la destrau"0 growled out Barba Gian, as he rushed for ward to clear the wreck; and soon, under Guy's direction, and the efforts of the schooner's crew on the other side, the two vessels drifted apart.

A young man with a felt chapeau, and a deep, long brown moustache, was seen standing out on the bowsprit, and lifting his hat as his glance fell upon Adele ; while some ladies and gentlemen clustered round the companion gazed with interest at the felucca. ' Not so bad, after all,' said Guy ; ' a day or two will set all to rights again.' 'Oh, that Sereno !' growled Barba Gian. 1 Fisherman. - ' Take care that the pot does not boil over.' 3 Uncle John. The Sardinians call a man who has reached his fiftieth year barba, or uncle. The same usage prevails in the county of Nice. 4 ' That's done with the hatchet,' i.e., badly. 5 ' To send the handle after the hatchet.' LOU MAS DE FLOUR-DI-CALANC 9

Chapter III. Lou Mas De Flour-di-calanc

The Mas de Flour-di-Calanc1 had an ill-omened reputation. The peasants, as they returned from fair or market, crossed themselves when once they caught sight of the ancient fig-tree, which spread its wide branches like some great canopy before the chief door of the old mas ; indeed, the branches were so long that some of them had to be supported by posts fixed in earth, over which they descended till their leaves almost touched the arid grass beneath. The house itself was built of blocks of gray stone, roughly hewn, and a red-tiled roof covered the narrow windows, from which a view of the blue waters of the Mediterranean rewarded the gazers, who looked through a vista of gray and gnarled olive-trees towards the Gulf of Napoule. An arena of rocks, rising tier above tier, sheltered the mas from the fury of the blast of the mistral ; and an orchard of orange and lemon trees grew on the sunny terraces, which had been hewn out, evidently with great labour, from the very heart of the cliff itself; while higher up olive-trees and corktrees mingled along the abruptly ascending height of the Alp or mountain peak behind, and one enormous pine shot upward, a perfect Anak among the lower pinasters that clothed its crest.

Many years ago the mas had first acquired its evil repu tation. A murder had been committed beneath the shade of the lonely fig-tree, and a phantom form was said to haunt the prad, or meadow, which environed it. Then the house itself was believed to be unlucky ; successive proprietors had experienced varying misfortunes. One of them had met with a violent death, another had become bankrupt, a third had suddenly abandoned house and home, and had strangely disappeared ; so that for years the mas lay deserted. No one would venture upon its tenancy. Much excitement was caused, therefore, when the haunted mas was at last discovered to be inhabited, and the wonder which the nearest neighbours felt was deepened by the strange appearance of its tenants, four in number : an old man and a younger one, both of exceeding tall stature, each evidently 1 In Provence it is usual for every farmhouse, or mas, to bear a dis tinctive name.

Lou Mas de Flour-di-Calanc means ' The Farmhouse of the Flower of the Rock.' Some of these names are characteristic enough : 'The Farmhouse of the Fallen Oak.' Mas-N6u, Mas-Viei, Mas de la Font, Mas-Crema = ' The New House,' ' The Old House,' ' The House of the Fountain,' ' The Burnt House,' etc. possessed of great physical strength, for they seemed to labour incessantly, hewing away blocks of rock from the cliff, and blasting at frequent intervals large portions of the gray crags that towered behind the house; an elderly woman of stern aspect and weird like form, that seemed to act as domestic ; and a young maiden, whose merry laugh was often heard as she flitted like a parpaio/tn, or butteifly, in the sunshine, under the shadow of the great fig-tree. The dull yet loud echoes of the danger horn, blown before each blast of the rocks took place, had a something of a sinister and evil tendency in the estimation of the peasants around.

And the Oriental garb of the new tenants of the mas deepened the lurking suspicions of their character which they entertained. Some said that they were treasure-hunters who were seeking for the vast riches of the Cabro-tf-Uro, or Golden Goat, that dreaded animal which plays so distinguished a part in modern as well as in ancient Provencal legendary lore. 'They have heard of the cavern of the Cabro-ct-Oro, and they are seeking its hid entrance, and soon they will have all his golden caldrons and his jewels,' cried the aged paigraus, or grandfathers, of the village. What added to their dark surmisings of evil was the fact that they had never seen any of the tenants of the mas entering the door of the chapel ; and it was well known that when the reverend segoundari, or curate, had called at the mas, although he had been respectfully received, no apology was given for non-attendance, and the vicaire had gone forth as much in the dark as to the religious tenets of his new parishioners as any of the wisest of his flock.

It was a lovely afternoon. Even Marith the servant's austere face seemed to have somewhat lightened its usual gloom as she fed the fowl that clustered round her at the door, an opera tion attentively surveyed by an auban, or white eagle, which from its perch fluttered its chain and uttered a hoarse scream occasionally, as though supplicating for a portion of the banquet. ' Why, thou dost look as though thou wert ready perdre la plus bello phi/no de toun alo1 for thy dinner,' said a musical voice, as a man emerged from behind an olive-tree, and stood admiring the eagle, who fluttered his wings and rapidly danced along his perch, as though in answer. The stranger, whose broad felt sombrero shaded a bronzed 1 ' To lose the fairest feather of thy wing.' LOU MAS DE FLOUR-DI-CALANC 11 and handsome face, and whose form bespoke a happy mingling of strength with activity, now approaching still closer, patted the auban's head, an endearment evidently received with great delight by the white eagle. 'Where is thy mistress, Auban ?' said his friend, bending over him. ' Qu' amo Martin, amo soun chin,-1 as sounds the old refrain.' The next moment the light laugh of someone hidden under the fig-tree was heard, and the young man bounded forward, despite a warning cry of, ' Oh, do take care of my violets !' 'There is one violet, at least, that I hope to— that is, that I trust none shall ever harm,' laughed his answering voice. ' Flower of the Rock, where art thou ?' A red feather, from the wing of a flamingo of the Crau, gleamed like a sunbeam from the quaint little cap that covered as sweet a face as ever poet or felibre dreamed of.

A robe, Oriental in its seeming and curiously fashioned, yet strangely becoming its owner ; a sort of light silken doublet with silver buttons, and a figure which would have served Michel Angelo as a model of symmetry. Such was the form that gleamed upon the stranger's eye as he gazed upon Violet, as she seemed to him from under the deep shadowing of the fig-tree to resemble some old portrait of the past, some ladye of the old Provencal noblesse, set in a deep sombre framework marvellously contrasting with her rare beauty. ' Why do you call me Flower of the Rock ?' laughed Violet. ' I only repeat the name that all the peasants have given you, and which I most respectfully endorse,' answered he. ' Flour de Calanc — is it not a pretty title?' ' See here, Reginald, what hast thou to answer for !