promised to meet Maurice, owed its name to the rebellious and sterile
character of the soil.

Nature seemed to have laid her curse upon it. Nothing would grow there.
The ground was covered with stones, and the sandy soil defied all
attempts to enrich it.

A few stunted oaks rose here and there above the thorns and broom-plant.

But on the lowlands of the Reche is a flourishing grove. The firs are
straight and strong, for the floods of winter have deposited in some
of the clefts of the rock sufficient soil to sustain them and the wild
clematis and honeysuckle that cling to their branches.

On reaching this grove, Maurice consulted his watch. It marked the hour
of mid-day. He had supposed that he was late, but he was more than an
hour in advance of the appointed time.

He seated himself upon a high rock, from which he could survey the
entire Reche, and waited.

The day was magnificent; the air intensely hot. The rays of the August
sun fell with scorching violence upon the sandy soil, and withered the
few plants which had sprung up since the last rain.

The stillness was profound, almost terrible. Not a sound broke the
silence, not even the buzzing of an insect, nor a whisper of breeze in
the trees. All nature seemed sleeping. And on no side was there anything
to remind one of life, motion, or mankind.