The Hunting Wasps 



sleepless night, it increased our discomfort. 

 And so we climbed slowly, with aching legs 

 and panting chests. More than one of us 

 had to stop and rest after every twentieth 

 step. 



At last we were there. We took refuge in 

 the rustic chapel of Sainte-Croix to take 

 breath and counteract the nipping morning 

 air by a pull at the gourd, which this time was 

 drained to the last drop. Soon the sun rose. 

 Ventoux projected to the extreme limits of 

 the horizon its triangular shadow, whose 

 sides became brightly tinged with violet by 

 the effect of the diffracted rays. To the 

 south and west stretched misty plains, where, 

 when the sun was higher in the heavens, we 

 should be able to make out the Rhone, look- 

 ing like a silver thread. On the north and 

 east, under our feet, lay an enormous bank 

 of clouds, a sort of ocean of cotton-wool, 

 whence peeped, like islands of slag, the dark 

 summits of the lower mountains. A few 

 tops, with their trailing glaciers, gleamed in 

 the direction of the Alps. 



But botany called our attention and we 

 had to tear ourselves from this magic spec- 

 tacle. The time of our ascent, in August, 

 was a little late in the year; many plants were 

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