“Does monsieur come to visit the chateau?” she murmured.
“Or its master?—yes. But first I will help you in with this.”
“No, no!” she protested faintly.
“But, yes, I say. Open the gate, Nicette. And for what is this great heap of fodder?”
“It is for my beautiful génisse—Madeleine of the white star.”
She pushed open the gate. Within, to one side, was a low trellised lodge, set within the forward apex of an elliptical patch of garden. Farther back was a byre, and behind all a lofty bank of trees. A fine avenue of Spanish chestnuts led on to the house, which was here hidden from view.
“Whither?” said Ned.
She intimated the rearward shed, with a half-audible note of deprecation. He shouldered and carried the truss to its destination. A liquid-eyed cow, with a rayed splash of white on its forehead, blew a sweet breath of wonder as he entered. Within, all was daintily clean and fragrant.
“Now,” said he, “I must go on to the chateau. But I shall come again, Nicette, and paint you into a picture.”
The girl stood among the phloxes utterly embarrassed. He made her a grave salutation and pursued his way to the house. At a turn of the drive he came in view of the latter—a sombre grey building, sparely windowed, and with a peak-roofed tower—emblem of nobility—caught into one of its many angles. A weed-cumbered moat, with a little decrepit stream of water slinking through the tangle of its bed, surrounded the walls; and in front of the moat, as he encountered it, a neglected garden fell away in half-obliterated terraces. Here and there, placed in odd coigns of leafiness, decayed wooden statues of fauns and dryads, once painted “proper”—or otherwise—in flesh tints, had yielded their complexions piecemeal to the rasp of Time; and, indeed, the whole place seemed withdrawn from the considerations of order.