The mornings are fair yes, very sweet and very clear at the Mas of the Mountain well-nigh all the year round. However hot the day, however mosquito-tormented the nights for those who do not protect themselves, the morn is ever fresh, with deep draughts of air cool as long-cellared wine, and everywhere the scent of springy, low-growing plants the thyme, the romarin, the juniper making an undergrowth which supports the foot of the wanderer, and carries him on league after league almost without his knowledge.

There was great peace on the Valley of the Rhone. It was at peace even from the drive of the eternal mistral, which, from horizon to horizon, turns all things greyish-white, the trees and herbage heavy with dust, and the heavens hiding themselves away under a dry steely pall.

“Avenio ventoso,
Si non ventoso, venenoso,”

muttered the Professor, as he looked at the black mass to the north, which was the Palace of the Popes. “But I thank God it is windy, this Rhone Valley of ours, with its one great, sweeping, cleansing wind, so that no poison can lurk anywhere.”

He had a book in his hand, and he was looking abroad over the wide valley between the grey ridges of the Mountain of Barbentane and the little splintered peaks of the Alpilles. As on the landscape, great peace was upon the Professor.

But all suddenly, without noise of approach, Jean-aux-Choux stood before him changed, indeed, from him who had been called “The Fool of the Three Henries.” The fire of a strange passion glowed in his eye. His great figure was hollowed and ghastly. His regard seemed to burn like a torch that smokes. On the back of his huge hand the muscles stood out like whipcords. His arms, bare beneath his shepherd’s cape, were burned to brick colour.

“Jean-aux-Choux!” cried the Professor, clapping his hands, “come and see my mother how content she will be.”

The ex-fool made a sign of negation.

“No, I cannot enter,” he said; “there is a woman down in the valley there who would see Claire Agnew. She hath somewhat to say to her, which it concerns her greatly to know.”

“Who is the woman?” demanded the Professor.

“I will vouch for her,” said Jean-aux-Choux; “her name is nothing to you or to any man.”

“But Claire Agnew’s name and life concern me greatly,” said the Professor hotly. “Had it been otherwise, I should even now have been in my class-room with my students at the Sorbonne!”

“In your grave more like with Catherine and Guise and Henry of Valois!”

“Possibly,” said the Professor tranquilly, “all the same I must know!”

“I vouch for the woman. She has come with me from Collioure,” said Jean-aux-Choux. “Nevertheless, do you come also, and we will stand apart and watch while these two speak the thing which is in their hearts!”

“But she may be a messenger of the Inquisition,” the Professor protested, whom hard experience had rendered suspicious in these latter days. “A dagger under the cloak is easy to carry!”

“Did I not tell you I would vouch for her?” thundered Jean-aux-Choux, the face of the slayer of Guise showing for the first time; “is not that enough?”

It was enough. Notwithstanding, the Professor armed himself with his sword-cane, and prepared to be of the company. They called Claire. She came forth to them with the flour of the bread-baking on her hands, gowned in white with the cook’s apron and cap, which Madame Amelie had made for her a fair, gracious, household figure.

She had no suspicions. Someone wanted to speak with her. There down by the olive plant! A woman a single woman come from far with tidings! Well, Jean-aux-Choux was with her. Good Jean dear Jean!

Then, all suddenly, there sprang a vivid red to her cheek.

Could it be? News of the Abbe John. Ah, but why this woman? Why could not Jean-aux-Choux have brought the message himself?

And Claire quickened her step down towards the olives in the valley.

The two met, the girl and the woman Claire, slender and dark, but with eyes young, and with colour bright Valentine la Nina fuller and taller, in the mid-most flower of a superb beauty. Claire, fresh from the kitchen, showed an abounding energy in every limb. Sweet, gracious, happy, born to make others happy, the Woman of the Interior went to meet her Sister of the Exterior of the life without a home. Valentine la Nina had her plans ready. She had thought deeply over what to say and what to do before she met Claire Agnew. She must look into the depths of the girl’s soul.

“I am called Valentine la Nina,” she said, speaking with slow distinctness, yet softly, “and I have come from very far to tell you that I love the Prince Jean d’Albret. I am of his rank, and I demand that you release him from any hasty bond or promise he may have made to you!”

The colour flushed to the cheek of Claire Agnew, a deep sustained flood of crimson, which, standing a moment at the full, ebbed slowly away.

“Did he send you to ask me that question to make that request?” she demanded, her voice equally low and firm.

“I have come of my own accord,” Valentine la Nina answered, “I speak for his sake and for yours. The release, which it is not fitting that he should ask I, who am a king’s daughter, laying aside my dignity, may well require!”

It was curious that Claire never questioned the truth of these statements. Had not the lady come with Jean-aux-Choux? Nevertheless, when she spoke, it was clearly and to the main issue.

“Jean d’Albret has made me no promise I have given none to him. True, I know that he loved me. If he loves me no more, let him come himself and tell me so!”

“He cannot,” said Valentine la Nina, “he is in prison. He has been on the Spanish galleys. He has suffered much ”

“It was for my sake, I know all for my sake!” cried Claire, a burst of gladness triumphing in her voice. Valentine la Nina stopped and looked at her. If there had been only a light woman’s satisfaction in one more proof of her power, she would never have gone on with what she came to do. But Valentine saw clearly, being one of the few who can judge their own sex. She watched Claire from under her long lashes, and the smile which hovered about the corners of her mouth was tender, sweet, and pitiful. Valentine la Nina was making up her mind.

“Well, let us agree that it was ‘for your sake,’” she said. “Now it is your turn to do something for his. He is ill, in prison. If he is sent back to the galleys he will soon die of exposure, of torture, and of fatigue. If he, a prince of the House of France, weds with me, a daughter of the King of Spain, there will be peace. Great good will be done through all the world.”

“I do not care I do not care,” cried Claire, “let him first come and tell me himself.”

“But he cannot, I tell you,” said the other quietly; “he is in the prison of Tarragona!”

“Well, then, let him write!” said Claire, “why does he not write?”

Valentine la Nina produced a piece of paper, and handed it to Claire without a word. It was in John d’Albret’s clear, clerkly hand. Claire and he had capped verses too often together by the light of Madame Granier’s pine-cones for any mistake. She knew it instantly.

“Whatever this lady says is true, and if you have any feeling
in your heart for your father, or love for me, do as she bids
you!

“JEAN D’ALBRET DE BOURBON.”

Three times Claire read the message to make sure.

Then she spoke. “What do you wish me to do? I am ready!”

“You will give this man up to me?”

“He never was mine to give, but if he had been, he is free to go because he wills it!”

“I put my life in danger for him now every moment I stay here,” said Valentine la Nina; “Jean-aux-Choux will tell you so. Will you walk to the gates of death with me to deliver him whom you love?”

“I will,” said Claire, “I will obey you that is, I will obey him through you!”

“This you do for the love you bear to the man whom you give up to me?”

“For what else?” cried Claire, the tears starting in her eyes. “Surely an honest girl may love a man? She may be ready even to give her life for him. But she will not hold him against his will!”

“Then you will come with me to my father, the King of Spain?” Valentine persisted. “Perhaps I do not know he will pardon Jean d’Albret at our request perhaps he will send us, all three, to the fires of the Inquisition. That also I do not know!”

“And I do not care!” cried Claire; “I will come!”

“For his sake alone?” queried Valentine, resolved to test the girl to the uttermost.

“For whose else?” cried Claire at last, exasperated; “not for yours, I suppose! Nor yet for mine own! I have been searched for by your Inquisition bloodhounds before now. He saved me from that!”

“And I all of you!” said Valentine la Nina to herself. “But the price is somewhat heavy!”

Nevertheless, she had found Claire worthy.