Next followed the slicing off of the raw edge of the landslide, the building of a fence, and, later on, the preparation of a new garden. This last was to be madame's very own, and neither care nor cost was to be considered in its making. She could sleep in a garage--she had slept there since the catastrophe--and take her meals from the top of a barrel (which was also true), but a garden meant the very breath of her life--flowers she must have--flowers all the time, from the first crocus to the last October blossoms. Marc, now her abject slave, was then at Rouen arranging for their shipment. The daily news--such as twenty or more men at work, the chimney half finished, the fence begun, etc., etc.--Le Blanc, who was constantly at the site, generally brought us at night, his report being received with the keenest zest, for the marquise was now counted as the most delightful of our coterie. His very latest and most important bulletin set us all to speculating;--the old garage--here his voice rose in intensity--was to be moved back some fifty feet and a new wing added, with bedroom above and a kitchen below. "A new garage!" we had all exclaimed. Who then was to occupy it? Not madame, of course, nor her servants, for they, as heretofore, would be quartered in the reconstructed villa. Certainly not any of her visitors--and most assuredly not Marc! "Take my advice and stop guessing," laughed the Frenchman; "she'll tell you when she gets ready, and not before. And she'll have the wing completed on time, for nothing daunts her. To want a thing done is, with her, to have it finished. The new wing was an after-thought, and yet it did not delay the work an hour. She'll be serving tea in that wreck next week." "It is because madame la marquise was born with a gift," remarked Lemois dryly from his seat near the fire. "Her mind is constructive, and everything madame touches must have a definite beginning and lead up to a definite ending. Her sanity is shown in her never trying to do things for which she is not fitted. As a musician, or a painter, or even a sculptor, or in any occupation demanding a fine imagination, madame, it seems to me, would have been a pathetic failure." "How about an antiquary?" remarked Louis, blowing a ring of smoke across the table, a quizzical smile lighting up his face. "As an antiquary, my dear Monsieur Louis, the eminent lady would have been a pronounced success. She is one now, for she insists on knowing that the thing she buys is genuine, and it saves her many absurdities. I can think of nothing in her collection that can be questioned--and I cannot say that of my own." "And so you don't believe that a man or a woman can make what they please of themselves?" asked Herbert, who was always glad to hear from Lemois. "Not any more than I believe that tulip bulbs will grow blackberries if I water them enough."