She was at least seventy years old, tall, skinny, and angular, and her white hair was puffed around her temples in the old-fashioned style.  She was dressed like a traveling Englishwoman, in awkward, queer clothing, like a person who is indifferent to dress.  She was eating an omelet and drinking water.

Her face was peculiar, with restless eyes and the expression of one with whom fate has dealt unkindly.  I watched her, in spite of myself, thinking:  “Who is she?  What is the life of this woman?  Why is she wandering alone through these mountains?”

She paid and rose to leave, drawing up over her shoulders an astonishing little shawl, the two ends of which hung over her arms.  From a corner of the room she took an alpenstock, which was covered with names traced with a hot iron; then she went out, straight, erect, with the long steps of a letter-carrier who is setting out on his route.

A guide was waiting for her at the door, and both went away.  I watched them go down the valley, along the road marked by a line of high wooden crosses.  She was taller than her companion, and seemed to walk faster than he.

Two hours later I was climbing the edge of the deep funnel that incloses Lake Pavin in a marvelous and enormous basin of verdure, full of trees, bushes, rocks, and flowers.  This lake is so round that it seems as if the outline had been drawn with a pair of compasses, so clear and blue that one might deem it a flood of azure come down from the sky, so charming that one would like to live in a but on the wooded slope which dominates this crater, where the cold, still water is sleeping.  The Englishwoman was standing there like a statue, gazing upon the transparent sheet down in the dead volcano.  She was straining her eyes to penetrate below the surface down to the unknown depths, where monstrous trout which have devoured all the other fish are said to live.  As I was passing close by her, it seemed to me that two big tears were brimming her eyes.  But she departed at a great pace, to rejoin her guide, who had stayed behind in an inn at the foot of the path leading to the lake.

I did not see her again that day.

The next day, at nightfall, I came to the chateau of Murol.  The old fortress, an enormous tower standing on a peak in the midst of a large valley, where three valleys intersect, rears its brown, uneven, cracked surface into the sky; it is round, from its large circular base to the crumbling turrets on its pinnacles.

It astonishes the eye more than any other ruin by its simple mass, its majesty, its grave and imposing air of antiquity.  It stands there, alone, high as a mountain, a dead queen, but still the queen of the valleys stretched out beneath it.  You go up by a slope planted with firs, then you enter a narrow gate, and stop at the foot of the walls, in the first inclosure, in full view of the entire country.

Inside there are ruined halls, crumbling stairways, unknown cavities, dungeons, walls cut through in the middle, vaulted roofs held up one knows not how, and a mass of stones and crevices, overgrown with grass, where animals glide in and out.