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has impeded the cultivation and put into the shade one entire side of the field, on which it looks down. For six years, Père Oriol has every week been announcing that he was going to blast his hill; but he has never made up his mind about it.
“Every time a country boy went to be a soldier, the old man would say to him: ‘When you’re coming home on furlough, bring me some powder for this rock of mine.’ And all the young soldiers would bring back in their knapsacks some powder that they stole for Père Oriol’s rock. He has a chest full of this powder, and yet the hill has not been blasted. At last, for a week past, he has been noticed scooping out the stone, with his son, big Jacques, surnamed Colosse, which in Auvergne is pronounced ‘Coloche.’ This very morning they filled with powder the empty belly of the enormous rock; then they stopped up the mouth of it, only letting in the fuse bought at the tobacconist’s. In two hours’ time they will set fire to it. Then, five or ten minutes afterward, it will go off, for the end of the fuse is pretty long.”
Christiane was interested in this narrative, amused already at the idea of this explosion, finding here again a childish sport that pleased her simple heart. They had now reached the end of the park.
“Where do you go now?” she said.
Doctor Honorat replied: “To the End of the World, Madame; that is to say, into a gorge that has no outlet and which is celebrated in Auvergne. It is one of the loveliest natural curiosities in the district.” But a bell rang behind them. Gontran cried: “Look here! breakfast-time already!”
They turned back. A tall, young man came up to meet them.
Gontran said: “My dear Christiane, let me introduce to you M. Paul Bretigny.” Then, to his friend: “This is my sister, my dear boy.”
She thought him ugly. He had black hair, close-cropped and straight, big, round eyes, with an expression that was almost hard, a head also quite round, very strong, one of those heads that make you think of cannonballs, herculean shoulders, a rather savage expression, heavy and brutish. But from his jacket, from his linen, from his skin perhaps, came a very subtle perfume, with which the young woman was not familiar, and she asked herself:
“I wonder what odor that is?”
He said to her: “You arrived this morning, Madame?” His voice was a little hollow.
She replied: “Yes, Monsieur.”
But Gontran saw the Marquis and Andermatt making signals to them to come in quickly to breakfast.
Doctor Honorat took leave of them, asking as he left whether they really meant to go and see the hill blasted. Christiane declared that she would go; and, leaning on her brother’s arm, she murmured as she dragged him along toward the hotel:
“I am as hungry as a wolf. I shall be very much ashamed to eat as much as I feel inclined before your friend.”
French
II
THE breakfast was long, as the meals usually are at a table d’hôte. Christiane, who was not familiar with all the faces of those present, chatted with her father and her brother. Then she went up to her room to take a rest till the time for blasting the rock.
She was ready long before the hour fixed, and made the others start along with her so that they might not miss the explosion. Just outside the village, at the opening of the glen, stood, as they had heard, a high knoll, almost a mountain, which they proceeded to climb under a burning sun, following a little path through the vine-trees. When they reached the summit the young woman uttered a cry of astonishment at the sight of the immense horizon displayed before her eyes. In front of her stretched a limitless plain, which immediately gave her soul the sensation of an ocean. This plain, overhung by a veil of light blue vapor, extended as far as the most distant mountain-ridges, which were scarcely perceptible, some fifty or sixty kilometers away. And under the transparent haze of delicate fineness, which floated above this vast stretch, could be distinguished towns, villages, woods, vast yellow squares of ripe crops, vast green squares of herbage, factories with long, red chimneys and blackened steeples and sharp-pointed structures, with the solidified lava of dead volcanoes.
“Turn around,” said her brother.
She turned around. And behind she saw the mountain, the huge mountain indented with craters. This was the entrance to the foundation on which Enval stood, a great expanse of greenness in which one could scarcely trace the hidden gash of the gorge. The trees in a waving mass scaled the high slope as far as the first crater and shut out the view of those beyond. But, as they were exactly on the line that separated the plains from the mountain, the latter stretched to the left toward Clermont-Ferrand, and, wandering away, unrolled over the blue sky their strange mutilated tops, like monstrous blotches —— extinct volcanoes, dead volcanoes. And yonder — over yonder, between two peaks — could be seen another, higher still, more distant still, round and majestic, and bearing on its highest pinnacle something of fantastic shape resembling a ruin. This was the Puy de Dome, the king of the mountains of Auvergne, strong and unwieldy, wearing on its head, like a crown placed thereon by the mightiest of peoples, the remains of a Roman temple.
Christiane exclaimed: “Oh! how happy I shall be here!”
And she felt herself happy already, penetrated by that sense of well-being which takes possession of the flesh and the heart, makes you breathe with ease, and renders you sprightly and active when you find yourself in a spot which enchants your eyes, charms and cheers you, seems to have been awaiting you, a spot for which you feel that you were born.
Some one called out to her: “Madame, Madame!” And, at some distance away, she saw Doctor Honorat, recognizable by his big hat. He rushed across to them, and conducted the family toward the opposite side of the hill, over a grassy slope beside a grove of young trees, where already some thirty persons were waiting, strangers and peasants mingled together.
Beneath their feet, the steep hillside descended toward the Riom road, overshadowed by willows that sheltered the shallow river; and in the midst of a vineyard at the edge of this stream rose a sharp-pointed rock before which two men on bended knees seemed to be praying. This was the scene of action.
The Oriols, father and son, were attaching the fuse. On the road, a crowd of curious spectators had stationed themselves, with a line of people lower down in front, among whom village brats were scampering about.
Doctor Honorat chose a convenient place for Christiane to sit down, and there she waited with a beating heart, as if she were going to see the entire population blown up along with the rock.
The Marquis, Andermatt, and Paul Bretigny lay down on the grass at the young woman’s side, while Gontran remained standing. He said, in a bantering tone:
“My dear doctor, you must be much less busy than your brother-practitioners, who apparently have not an hour to spare to attend this little fête?” Honorat replied in a good-humored tone:
“I am not less busy; only my patients occupy less of my time. And again I prefer to amuse my patients rather than to physic them.”
He had a quiet manner which greatly pleased Gontran. Other persons now arrived, fellow-guests at the table d’hôte — the ladies Paille, two widows, mother and daughter; the Monecus, father and daughter; and a very small, fat, man, who was puffing like a boiler that had burst, M. Aubry-Pasteur, an exengineer of mines, who had made a fortune in Russia.
M. Pasteur and the Marquis were on intimate terms. He seated himself with much difficulty after some preparatory movements, circumspect and cautious, which considerably amused Christiane. Gontran sauntered away from them, in order to have a look at the other persons whom curiosity had attracted toward the knoll.
Paul Bretigny pointed out to Christiane Andermatt the views, of which they could catch glimpses in the distance. First of all,