To the west of Castel-le-Gâchis four rows of venerable lime-trees formed, in this starry night, a twilit avenue with two side aisles of pitch darkness. Here and there stone benches were disposed between the trunks. There was not a breath of wind; a heavy atmosphere of perfume hung about the alleys; and every leaf stood stock-still upon its twig. Hither, after vainly knocking at an inn or two, the Berthelinis came at length to pass the night. After an amiable contention, Léon insisted on giving his coat to Elvira, and they sat down together on the first bench in silence. Léon made a cigarette, which he smoked to an end, looking up into the trees, and, beyond them, at the constellations, of which he tried vainly to recall the names. The silence was broken by the church bell; it rang the four quarters on a light and tinkling measure; then followed a single deep stroke that died slowly away with a thrill; and stillness resumed its empire. “One,” said Léon. “Four hours till daylight. It is warm; it is starry; I have matches and tobacco. Do not let us exaggerate, Elvira—the experience is positively charming. I feel a glow within me; I am born again. This is the poetry of life. Think of Cooper’s novels, my dear.” “Léon,” she said fiercely, “how can you talk such wicked, infamous nonsense? To pass all night out-of-doors—it is like a nightmare! We shall die.” “You suffer yourself to be led away,” he replied soothingly. “It is not unpleasant here; only you brood. Come, now, let us repeat a scene. Shall we try Alceste and Célimène? No? Or a passage from the ‘Two Orphans’? Come, now, it will occupy your mind; I will play up to you as I never have played before; I feel art moving in my bones.” “Hold your tongue,” she cried, “or you will drive me mad! Will nothing solemnise you—not even this hideous situation?” “Oh, hideous!” objected Léon. “Hideous is not the word. Why, where would you be? ‘Dites, la jeune belle, où voulez-vous aller?’” he carolled. “Well, now,” he went on, opening the guitar-case, “there’s another idea for you—sing. Sing ‘Dites, la jeune belle!’ It will compose your spirits, Elvira, I am sure.” And without waiting an answer he began to strum the symphony. The first chords awoke a young man who was lying asleep upon a neighbouring bench. “Hullo!” cried the young man, “who are you?” “Under which king, Bezonian?” declaimed the artist. “Speak or die!” Or if it was not exactly that, it was something to much the same purpose from a French tragedy. The young man drew near in the twilight. He was a tall, powerful, gentlemanly fellow, with a somewhat puffy face, dressed in a grey tweed suit, with a deer-stalker hat of the same material; and as he now came forward he carried a knapsack slung upon one arm. “Are you camping out here too?” he asked, with a strong English accent. “I’m not sorry for company.”