Beyond the garden, the rough outline of the walls cut a straight line across the distant plains, which melted away into the haze of the marsh-lands by the banks of the Gironde far to the westward. The Marquis had dined. They dined early in those days in France, and coffee was still served after the evening meal. The sun was declining toward the sea in a clear copper-coloured sky, but a fresh breeze was blowing in from the estuary to temper the heat of the later rays. The Marquis was beating time with one finger, and within the room, to an impromptu accompaniment invented by Juliette, Barebone was singing: C'est le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici-bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. He broke off with a laugh in which Juliette's low voice joined. "That is splendid, mademoiselle," he cried, and the Marquis clapped his thin hands together. Un tel qu'on vantait Par hasard était D'origine assez mince; Par hasard il plut, Par hasard il fut Baron, ministre et prince: C'est le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. "There--that is all I know. It is the only song I sing." "But there are other verses," said Juliette, resting her hands on the keys of the wheezy spinet which must have been a hundred years old. "What are they about?" "I do not know, mademoiselle," he answered, looking down at her. "I think it is a love-song." She had pinned some mignonette, strong scented as autumn mignonette is, in the front of her muslin dress, and the heavy heads had dragged the stems to one side. She put the flowers in order, slowly, and then bent her head to enjoy the scent of them. "It scarcely sounds like one," she said, in a low and inquiring voice. The Marquis was a little deaf. "Is it all chance then?" "Oh yes," he answered, and as he spoke without lowering his voice she played softly on the old piano the simple melody of his song. "It is all chance, mademoiselle. Did they not teach you that at the school at Saintes?" But she was not in a humour to join in his ready laughter. The room was rosy with the glow of the setting sun, she breathed the scent of the mignonette at every breath, the air which she had picked out on the spinet in unison with his clear and sympathetic voice had those minor tones and slow slurring from note to note which are characteristic of the gay and tearful songs of southern France and all Spain. None of which things are conducive to gaiety when one is young. She glanced at him with one quick turn of the head and made no answer. But she played the air over again--the girls sing it to this day over their household work at Farlingford to other words--with her foot on the soft pedal. The Marquis hummed it between his teeth at the other end of the room.