there where the steep gorge is
interrupted by a sort of step, a kind of reservoir has been built which
holds the water of the rain storms.

They are large holes with slippery walls with nothing for any one to
grasp hold of should they fall in.

I was walking slowly in one of these ascending valleys or gorges,
glancing through the foliage at the vivid-hued fruit that remained on the
branches. The narrow gorge made the heavy odor of the flowers still more
penetrating; the air seemed to be dense with it. A feeling of lassitude
came over me and I looked for a place to sit down. A few drops of water
glistened in the grass. I thought that there was a spring near by and I
climbed a little further to look for it. But I only reached the edge of
one of these large, deep reservoirs.

I sat down tailor fashion, with my legs crossed under me, and remained
there in a reverie before this hole, which looked as if it were filled
with ink, so black and stagnant was the liquid it contained. Down yonder,
through the branches, I saw, like patches, bits of the Mediterranean
gleaming so that they fairly dazzled my eyes. But my glance always
returned to the immense somber well that appeared to be inhabited by no
aquatic animals, so motionless was its surface. Suddenly a voice made me
tremble. An old gentleman who was picking flowers--this country is
the richest in Europe for herbalists--asked me:

"Are you a relation of those poor children, monsieur?"

I looked at him in astonishment.

"What children, monsieur?"

He seemed embarrassed and answered with a bow:

"I beg your pardon. On seeing you sitting thus absorbed in front of this
reservoir I thought you were recalling the frightful tragedy that
occurred here."

Now I wanted to know about it, and I begged him to tell me the story.

It is very dismal and very heart-rending, my dear friend, and very
trivial at the same time. It is a simple news item. I do not know whether
to attribute my emotion to the dramatic manner in which the story was
told to me, to the setting of the mountains, to the contrast between the
joy of the sunlight and the flowers and this black, murderous hole, but
my heart was wrung, all my nerves unstrung by this tale which, perhaps,
may not appear so terribly harrowing to you as you read it in your room
without having the scene of the tragedy before your eyes.

It was one spring in recent years. Two little boys frequently came to
play on the edge of this cister