The little terrace had an old polished parapet, about as high as a man's breast, above which was a view of strange, sad-colored hills.

Outside, to the left, the wall of the town made an outward bend, and exposed its rugged and rusty complexion.

There was a smooth stone bench set into the wall of the church, on which Longueville had rested for an hour, observing the composition of the little picture of which I have indicated the elements, and of which the parapet of the terrace would form the foreground.

The thing was what painters call a subject, and he had promised himself to come back with his utensils.

This morning he returned to the inn and took possession of them, and then he made his way through a labyrinth of empty streets, lying on the edge of the town, within the wall, like the superfluous folds of a garment whose wearer has shrunken with old age.