“The same!” gravely admitted Basil.
“And what of it?” she demanded, breathlessly.
“What of it? There’s a question to ask! What of it, forsooth? Millions of workmen—you know how I despise exaggeration—millions of workmen, therefore, are even now dealing with those mossy ancient stones, those tottering battlements where your hero ... and other heroes—you have such a collection of them, by the way, Marguerite—enough to make one horribly jealous—”
“Were not one the chief and dearest of them all?” she interrupted him.
He bowed, his hand on his heart. “Thanks, my lady-love, queen of my soul. Those tottering battlements, as I was endeavoring to explain—well, in short, the workmen are cementing their reunion. Flocks of decorators under the guidance of the most distinguished Viollet-le-Duc of our period are at this very instant evoking the past, poring over documentary evidence in black, and red-letter, tearing their hair and rolling their eyes, and laying back their ears in the endeavor to put together again La Tour du Chevalier as it once reigned over the border—La Tour du Chevalier, for one Chevalier ‘Gamin,’ whose home in Brittany it is to be.”
With a cry of delight Marguerite jumped up and threw her arms around her husband’s neck.
“Oh! You fairy prince! Aladdin of the Wonder-Lamp! Do you mean it? Is the Tour du Chevalier to come back to life for my sake? Really? Really?”
With eyes full of joyful tears she nestled against him. The dream of her childhood had come true at the touch of a magician’s wand, as it were; and he, who had not realized quite what boundless pleasure he was giving, held closely the happy little creature he worshiped. Nor did he entirely understand until she told him of her rovings to the Tour du Chevalier from her earliest childhood, her evocations there of Merlin and Mélusine, and the knights of Arthur riding in their splendid armor under the forest boughs. Of how she had wandered untiringly in and out of the dismantled halls and roofless galleries, the enormous crackling walls of which seemed held together merely by huge clinging ropes of ivy thick as a man’s leg. Ah! La Tour du Chevalier had been her fairest record of chivalry, her window into that mediæval period where she had lived in thought, and whence she seemed to have emerged aimed cap-à-pié with the virtues of those great Ages—their heroism and dauntlessness, their generosity and nobility and faith. And wasn’t Basil a proud man that day!
“Would it be ready?” she inquired, in the fashion of a child asking when Christmas will be here. “Could it be possible that it would be ready soon?”
Never had Basil been so conscious of the power of great wealth as he was now. Yes! The multiplication of hands and of ducats was easy to him, as easy, he asserted, as, “Kiss your hand, my lady.” Nothing was being neglected to hasten l’accomplissement du rêve. Moreover, ever since that unclouded morn when she had said “Yes” to him, the work had been going on. “So there, Madame ‘Moonglade,’ reassure yourself. Your slightest desire is an order to me—” etc., etc.—da-capo—to the end of the chapter!