BLOOM A FACE AS FRESH AS ANY OF THE FLOWERS.]

The Vicomte broke the silence that followed.

"The ladies are going away for the winter months," he said. "They are
going to Draguignan, in Var. At all events, stay with me until they
return."

"I cannot think why you ever took me."

"An old man's fancy, mon cher. You will not forsake me."

"No."

Chapter VII

In Provence

"Autant d'amoureux, autant d'amours; chacun aime comme il
est."

The chateau of La Pauline stands at the head of the valley of the
Nartubie in the department of Var, and looks down upon Draguignan, the
capital of that division of France. La Pauline, and its surrounding
lands formed the _dot_ of the Vicomtesse de Clericy, and the products
of its rich terraces were of no small account in the family revenues.

It was to this spot that Lucille and her mother repaired in the month
of December. Not far away the Baron Giraud had his estate--the modern
castle of "Mon Plaisir," with its little white turret, its porcelain
bas-reliefs in brilliant colours let into the walls, its artificial
gardens ornamented with gold and silver balls, and summer-houses of
which the windows were glazed with playful fancy that outdid nature in
clothing the prospect in the respective hues of spring, summer, autumn
and winter.

Very different from this was the ancient chateau of La Pauline,
perched half-way up the mountain on a table-land--its grey stone face
showing grimly against a sombre background of cypress trees. The house
was built, as the antiquarians of Draguignan avow, of stone that was
hewn by the Romans for less peaceful purposes. That an ancient
building must have stood here would, indeed, be to some extent
credible, from the fact that in front of the house lies a lawn of that
weedless turf which is only found in this country in such places as
the Arena at Frejus. In the center of the lawn stands a sun
dial--grey, green and ancient--a relic of those days when men lived by
hours, and not by minutes, as we do to-day. It is all of the old
world--of that old, old world of France beside which our British
antiquities are, with a few exceptions, youthful. This was the
birthplace of Madame de Clericy and of Lucille herself. Hither the
ladies always returned with a quiet joy. There is no more peaceful
spot on earth than La Pauline, chiefly, perhaps, because there is
nothing in nature so still and lifeless as an olive grove. Why, by the
way, do the