BY THE DRUIDS' TOWER
Mme Giras, the proprietress of the Villa Clémentine, was a rosy, smiling
body, plumped and rounded in almost every aspect, and with a heart of
gold. Yesterday it had been plain to her shrewd, twinkling eyes that
monsieur and mademoiselle were soon to make a match of it. Of course it
was very shocking that mademoiselle should be travelling about alone at
her age, but much could be forgiven in so charming a young lady.
When Rivière returned to the villa for lunch, he found the table in the
arbour laid for two, and by one plate a rose had been placed.
"I have prepared for two," said Mme Giras, smilingly. "Is it not right?"
"Thank you; but it will not be necessary," answered Rivière.
"After all my preparations! And the lunch that was to be my _chef
d'oeuvre_!" There was keen disappointment in her voice. "But perhaps
mademoiselle will be coming to dine this evening?"
"No, nor this evening. Mademoiselle is very busy with her work. She is
to leave Nîmes to-morrow."
"And monsieur also?" There was tragedy in her tone. It must mean that
monsieur would give up his rooms to follow the young lady.
"I shall probably remain here for a month or more," answered Rivière
somewhat stiffly: and then to salve her feelings: "You are making me
wonderfully comfortable. I shall always associate the Midi with Mme
Giras."
"_Monsieur est bien amiable!_" replied the little old lady, much
pleased. She hurried off to the kitchen to see that Marie was making no
error of judgment in the mixing of the sauces.
Rivière felt glad that the acquaintanceship with Elaine had progressed
no further. It was decidedly for the best that it had ended where it
had. Both of them had their life-work to call for all their energies.
Further companionship would only divert them from it. In his innermost
being he knew that, and now he acknowledged it frankly to himself. From
every point of view, it was best that their acquaintanceship should end.
But late that afternoon a brief note came from Elaine. "Dear Mr
Rivière," it said, "I have considered your warning. If you will be so
kind as to accompany me this evening while I am sketching the Druids'
Tower, I shall be glad. I propose to leave the hotel about eight."
Rivière was at her hotel punctually at eight. He helped her into her
warm travelling cloak, and taking up her campstool and easel they walked
briskly, with healthy, swinging strides, out by the avenue of plane
trees bordering the Roman aqueduct.
They ascended the now deserted garden on the hillside till they came to
the ruined tower which was grey with age when Roman legions first swept
in triumph over the country of the barbarians of Gaul. A chill wind set
the pines and the olives whispering mournfully together. The windowless
tower brooded over its memories of the past, like an aged seer blind
with years. The moonlight touched it tentatively as though it feared to
disturb its dreaming.
It was a perfect stage scene for a secret meeting of conspirators. In
the daylight, the tower was ugly with its rubble of fallen
stones--unkempt like a ragged tramp--but in the moonlight there was a
glamour of ages in its mournful brooding. Elaine was right to make her
sketch at night-time. Rivière placed the campstool for her, and watched
her in silence as she plied her pencil with swift, decisive lines.
With lithe, catlike softness, the youth Crau had followed them up the
hillside, padding noiselessly in the shadows of the pines and olives.
Crouching behind a tree, he felt in his breast-pocket and drew out a
small package which he quietly unwrapped from its foldings. Then he
waited his moment with every muscle tensed for action.
The night wind was chill. Rivière started to pace up and down a few
steps away from Elaine. He approached nearer to the tree behind which
Crau was crouching in shadow.
The lithe, wiry figure of the young Provençal sprang out upon him.
"Now you'll pay me what you owe!" he cried out in Provençal. "You cursed
pig of an Englishman!"
Rivière did not understand the words, but the menace in the voice left
no doubt as to the meaning. And the voice brought back to him the narrow
_ruelle_ at Arles where he had defended Elaine from the insult of the
half-drunken peasant.
He was about to step forward to grapple with him, when a warning cry
from Elaine stopped him for one crucial instant.
"Look out! There's something in his hand!" she called, and rushed
impetuously forward to make her warning clear.
As she came within range, Crau raised his arm to throw his vitriol into
Rivière's face, but in a fraction of a second a sudden thought changed
the direction of his aim.
"Your beautiful mistress! that will serve me better!" he hissed out
venomously as he flung it full upon Elaine; then fled at top speed.
"My eyes! Oh God, my eyes!" she cried, as she staggered to the ground.
Rivière sprang to her side, white with alarm. "The beast!"
"My eyes! Oh God, my eyes!" she moaned. "My eyes--my livelihood!"