“I have known two solitaries—­a man and a woman.  The woman must be living still.  She dwelt, five years ago, on the ruins of a mountain top absolutely deserted on the coast of Corsica, fifteen or twenty kilometers away from every house.  She lived there with a maid-servant.  I went to see her.  She had certainly been a distinguished woman of the world.  She received me with politeness and even in a gracious manner, but I know nothing about her, and I could find out nothing about her.

“As for the man, I am going to relate to you his ill-omened adventure: 

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Look round!  You see over there that peaked woody mountain which stands by itself behind La Napoule in front of the summits of the Esterel; it is called in the district Snake Mountain.  There is where my solitary lived within the walls of a little antique temple about a dozen years ago.

Having heard about him, I resolved to make his acquaintance, and I set out for Cannes on horseback one March morning.  Leaving my steed at the inn at La Napoule, I commenced climbing on foot that singular cave, about one hundred and fifty perhaps, or two hundred meters in height, and covered with aromatic plants, especially cysti, whose odor is so sharp and penetrating that it irritates you and causes you discomfort.  The soil is stony, and you can see gliding over the pebbles long adders which disappear in the grass.  Hence this well-deserved appellation of Snake Mountain.  On certain days, the reptiles seem to spring into existence under your feet when you climb the declivity exposed to the rays of the sun.  They are so numerous that you no longer venture to go on, and experience a strange sense of uneasiness, not fear, for those creatures are harmless, but a sort of mysterious terror.  I had several times the peculiar sensation of climbing a sacred mountain of antiquity, a fantastic hill perfumed and mysterious, covered with cysti and inhabited by serpents and crowned with a temple.

This temple still exists.  They told me, at any rate, that it was a temple; for I did not seek to know more about it so as not to destroy the illusion.

So then, one March morning, I climbed up there under the pretext of admiring the country.  On reaching the top, I perceived, in fact, walls and a man sitting on a stone.  He was scarcely more than forty years of age, though his hair was quite white; but his beard was still almost black.  He was fondling a cat which had cuddled itself upon his knees, and did not seem to mind me.  I took a walk around the ruins, one portion of which covered over and shut in by means of branches, straw, grass and stones, was inhabited by him, and I made my way towards the place which he occupied.

The view here is splendid.  On the right is the Esterel with its peaked summit strangely carved, then the boundless sea stretching as far as the distant coast of Italy with its numerous capes, facing Cannes, the Lerins Islands green and flat, which look as if they were floating, and the last of which shows in the direction of the open sea an old castellated fortress with battlemented towers built in the very waves.