We go on to the platform in front of the church of St. Vincent, and stand looking over the parapet. The gloomy vale below is filled with the mysteries of twilight.
From this point one could watch those who go and come to the city from the side of the mountains, for they must emerge from or pass through the Gate of the Rocks on whose threshold we ourselves had our first sight of Les Baux that afternoon. Even as we look we can discern a small speck against the limestone—exactly so must the figure of Raimbaut have appeared to any eye that watched him from this balcony of rock. Did not Alazais so watch? And did he not turn and take one last long look at the city he was leaving? Presently, as she gazes (as we now gaze), there is no longer a black speck against the white; the valley is empty—and a faint breath of wind comes down it like a sigh.
And presently the sun begins to approach the edge of the cauldron, and the taller buildings take on a tint of vivid rose colour. How that golden hair must have flamed up into glory if its owner watched there on such an evening!
LES BAUX FROM THE ROAD TO ST. REMY, SHOWING PLATFORM IN FRONT OF CHURCH OF ST. VINCENT.
By E. M. Synge.
We had visited her place of burial in the church behind us; a sad, silent spot that might have supplied a text for many a solemn sermon.
Mouldering walls and an empty grave. But they breathed forth no solemnities to us, or at least no gloomy ones. Rather they whispered of the mystery and power of life and passion; of things potent, creative, immortal.
Nor could we believe that the vivid consciousness of self and soul in that being to whom we sent our thoughts could be less enduring than the mere echo of her words and deeds in a universe where not a breath in the air or a tremor of the ether can ever be truly lost.