CHAPTER XIV 



THE HERMIT OF SERIGNAN (1879-I910) 



STARTING from Orange and crossing the 

 Aygues, a torrent whose muddy waters are lost 

 in the Rhone, but whose bed is dried by the July and 

 August suns, leaving only a desert of pebbles, where 

 the Mason-bee builds her pretty turrets of rock- 

 work, we come presently to the Serignaise country; 

 an arid, stony tract, planted with vines and olives, 

 coloured a rusty red, or touched here and there 

 with almost the hue of blood; and here and there 

 a grove of cypress makes a sombre blot. To the 

 north runs a long black line of hills, covered with 

 box and ilex and the giant heather of the south. 

 Far in the distance, to the east, the immense plain 

 is closed in by the wall of Saint-Amant and the 

 ridge of the Dentelle, behind which the lofty Ven- 

 toux rears its rocky, cloven bosom abruptly to the 

 clouds. At the end of a few miles of dusty road, 

 swept by the powerful breath of the mistral, we 

 suddenly reach a little village. It is a curious lit- 

 tle community, with its central street adorned by 

 a double row of plane-trees, its leaping fountains, 

 and its almost Italian air. The houses are lime- 

 washed, with flat roofs; and sometimes, at the side 

 of some small or decrepit dwelling, we see the un- 

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