Artaud. A splendid property it must have been, this Paradou. The park
wall this side alone is quite a mile and a half long. But for over a
hundred years it's all been running wild.'

'There are some fine trees,' observed the Abbe, as he looked up in
astonishment at the luxuriant mass of foliage which jutted over.

'Yes, that part is very fertile. In fact, the park is a regular forest
amidst the bare rocks which surround it. The Mascle, too, rises there; I
have heard four or five springs mentioned, I fancy.'

In short sentences, interspersed with irrelevant digressions, he then
related the story of the Paradou, according to the current legend of the
countryside. In the time of Louis XV., a great lord had erected a
magnificent palace there, with vast gardens, fountains, trickling
streams, and statues--a miniature Versailles hidden away among the
stones, under the full blaze of the southern sun. But he had there spent
but one season with a lady of bewitching beauty, who doubtless died
there, as none had ever seen her leave. Next year the mansion was
destroyed by fire, the park doors were nailed up, the very loopholes of
the walls were filled with mould; and thus, since that remote time, not
a glance had penetrated that vast enclosure which covered the whole of
one of the plateaux of the Garrigue hills.

'There can be no lack of nettles there,' laughingly said Abbe Mouret.
'Don't you find that the whole wall reeks of damp, uncle?'

A pause followed, and he asked:

'And whom does the Paradou belong to now?'