Two hours later I was climbing the slopes of the high volcanic crater in whose wonderfully vast green bowl grow trees, bushes, greenery, rocks and flowers and in the middle of which lies Lake Pavin3 so perfectly round as to seem drawn by a compass, and as clear and blue as a sea of azure descended from the sky. The view is so enchanting that you want to move immediately into the little hut on the wooded hill that dominates the sleeping crater full of cold, still water. She was standing there motionless, contemplating the transparent surface of the lake lying within the now extinct volcano. She looked deep into its unknown depths populated, according to legend, by giant trout which have devoured all the other fish within. As I passed her I thought I saw two tears roll down her cheeks. But she strode off to join her guide who had remained in the little lodge at the foot of the rise leading to the lake.

I saw nothing more of her that day.

The following evening as night fell I arrived at the Château de Murol.4 The earth-coloured tones of the old fortress appeared in the shape of a gigantic tower forming a peak in the middle of a wide valley at the junction of three smaller vales. Though bruised and battered it still showed softly rounded contours from the large circular base up to the crumbling rooftop of its turret. It is an unusual ruin because of its great size and simplicity and because of the majesty of its ancient, powerful, sombre appearance. It stands alone as high as a mountain, like a dead queen rising still above the sleeping valleys below. It is reached by a slope planted with firs and is entered through a narrow gap beyond which the visitor stops at the foot of the walls forming the outward fortification.

Within lie the remains of rooms, disintegrated staircases, spaces where who knows what once stood, foundation stones, dungeons, shattered walls, seemingly unsupported vaults and a maze of fissured stones where grass grows and animals roam.

Wandering alone through this ruin I was suddenly aware of a ghostly presence, the spirit, as it were, of this ancient, ruined dwelling. I gave a start of surprise mixed with fear before recognizing the old woman I had already seen twice before. She was weeping huge tears and clutching a handkerchief. I turned to leave her in peace but she spoke, ashamed at having been caught off guard.

‘Yes, Monsieur, I’m weeping, as you can see. It doesn’t often happen, but …’

Embarrassed, and not knowing what to say in the circumstances, I stammered: ‘I’m so sorry to have disturbed you. Obviously something terrible has happened to …’

‘Well, yes … and no … it’s just that … I’m at a complete loss …’