“Oh, Monsieur Maurice,” I said, “I did not think there was such a beautiful place in the world! It sounds like a fairy tale.”
He smiled, sighed, and—being seated at his desk with the pen in his hand—took up a blank sheet of paper, and began sketching the Château and the cliff.
“Tell me more about it, Monsieur Maurice,” I pleaded coaxingly.
“What more can I tell you, little one? See—this window in the turret to the left was my bed-room window, and here, just below, was my study, where as a boy I prepared my lessons for my tutor. That large Gothic window under the gable was the window of the library.”
“And is it all just like that still?” I asked.
“I don't know,” he said dreamily. “I suppose so.”
He was now putting in the rocks, and the rough steps leading down to the beach.
“Had you any little brothers and sisters, Monsieur Maurice?” I asked next; for my interest and curiosity were unbounded.
He shook his head.
“None,” he said, “none whatever. I was an only child; and I am the last of my name.”