The Hunting Wasps 



can see; on the north, the scene is full of wild 

 grandeur: the mountain, sometimes hewn 

 perpendicularly, sometimes carved into rough 

 steps, alarmingly steep, is little else than a 

 sheer precipice a mile high. If you throw a 

 stone, it never stops, but falls from rock to 

 rock until it reaches the bottom of the valley, 

 where you can distinguish the bed of the 

 Toulourenc looking like a ribbon. While 

 my companions loosen masses of rock and 

 send them rolling into the abyss so that they 

 may watch the frightful fall, I discover under 

 a broad flat stone one of my old insect ac- 

 quaintances, the Hairy Ammophila, whom I 

 had always met by herself on the road-side 

 banks in the plain, whereas here, almost at 

 the top of the Ventoux, I find her to the num- 

 ber of several hundreds heaped up under one 

 and the same shelter. 



I was beginning to investigate the reasons 

 for this agglomeration, when the southerly 

 breeze, which already during the morning 

 had inspired us with a few vague fears, sud- 

 denly brought up a cohort of clouds which 

 melted into rain. Before we knew it, we 

 were shrouded in a thick, drizzling mist, 

 which prevented us from seeing two yards in 

 front of us. By an unfortunate coincidence, 



222 



