ests
and hung over the abyss. It was a chaos; a blasted landscape, a mouth of
hell, with its wild turns, its droppings of blood-colored earth sliding
down from every cut, its desolate solitude invaded only by the eagles'
flight.

Felicite did not open her lips; her brain was at work, and she seemed
completely absorbed in her thoughts. The atmosphere was oppressive,
the sun sent his burning rays from behind a veil of great livid clouds.
Pascal was almost the only one who talked, in his passionate love for
this scorched land--a love which he endeavored to make his nephew share.
But it was in vain that he uttered enthusiastic exclamations, in vain
that he called his attention to the persistence of the olives, the fig
trees, and the thorn bushes in pushing through the rock; the life of the
rock itself, that colossal and puissant frame of the earth, from which
they could almost fancy they heard a sound of breathing arise. Maxime
remained cold, filled with a secret anguish in presence of those blocks
of savage majesty, whose mass seemed to crush him. And he preferred to
turn his eyes toward his sister, who was seated in front of him. He was
becoming more and more charmed with her. She looked so healthy and
so happy, with her pretty round head, with its straight, well-molded
forehead. Now and then their glances met, and she gave him an
affectionate smile which consoled him.

But the wildness of the gorge was beginning to soften, the two walls of
rock to grow lower; they passed between two peaceful hills, with gentle
slopes covered with thyme and lavender. It was the desert still, there
were still bare spaces, green or violet hued, from which the faintest
breeze brought a pungent perfume.

Then abruptly, after a last turn they descended to the valley of the
Tulettes, which was refreshed by springs. In the distance stretched
meadows dotted by large trees. The village was seated midway on the
slope, among olive trees, and the country house of Uncle Macquart stood
a little apart on the left, full in view. The landau turned into the
road which led to the insane asylum, whose white walls they could see
before them in the distance.

Felicite's silence had grown somber, for she was not fond of exhibiting
Uncle Macquart. Another whom the family would be well rid of the day
when he should take his departure. For the credit of every one he
ought to have been sleeping long ago under the sod. But he persisted
in living, he carried his