The ruins of the château have taken on so completely the color and shape of the surrounding rocks that in many places one can hardly distinguish them at a little distance.
It is hard to say which was the bolder and the more tragically inspired in that spot, nature or man, and one cannot imagine, upon such a stage, other than scenes of implacable fury and unending despair.
A drawbridge, several dark posterns and a double encircling wall, flanked by towers and bastions, the remains of which can still be seen, made this fortress impregnable before the invention of cannon. And yet almost nothing is known of the history of a place that was of such importance in the wars of the Middle Ages.
A vague tradition attributes its construction to certain Saracen chiefs who are said to have defended themselves there for a long while. The frost, which is severe and of long duration in that region, accelerates each year the destruction of those fortifications which cannon-balls have shattered and years have reduced to dust. The great square donjon, however, which has the aspect of a Saracen structure, still stands in the centre, and, being undermined, threatens to fall at any moment, like all the rest. Several towers, of which a single side only is standing, planted upon cone-shaped points of rock, present the appearance of sharp rocky peaks around which clouds of birds of prey scream incessantly.
The circuit of the fortress cannot be made without danger. In many places there is no trace of a path, and the foot trembles on the brink of precipices over which the water plunges headlong.
The approach of the enemy could be detected only from the top of the towers of observation; for on a level with the lower portions of the buildings and the summit of the mountain, the view was restricted by other barren mountains. But to-day there are gaps in their rocky sides, patches of fertile soil where noble trees grow freely, often uprooted by the rising of the waters when they have reached a considerable height.
A few goats, less wild than the wretched children who guard them, cling to the ruins and climb fearlessly over the precipitous cliffs.
The whole spot is so magnificently desolate and so rich in contrasts that the painter knows not where to stop. The imagination of the artist would find a superfluity of material in that gorgeous panorama of terror and menace.
Emile passed several hours there, plunged in the chaos of his uncertainty and his projects. As he had left home at daybreak, he was consumed by hunger, but paid no heed to the physical discomfort which aggravated his mental distress. Stretched out upon a rock, he was watching the vultures hovering overhead and thinking of the tortures of Prometheus, when the distant sound of a man's voice, which seemed not unfamiliar to him, sent a thrill through his whole being. He rose and ran to the edge of the precipice and saw three persons descending the path on the opposite side of the ravine.
A man in a blouse and broad-brimmed gray hat rode ahead, turning from time to time to warn those who came behind to be careful; next to him came a peasant leading a donkey by the bridle, and on the donkey was a woman in a faded lilac dress and a simple straw hat.