Within the close, still to be traced by the ruins of the towers, was a whole plain, now converted into a miserable truck garden.

Cabbages, in long bluish lines, impoverished carrots, consumptive navews, spread over this enormous circle where iron mail had clanked in the tournament and where processionals had slowly devolved, in the smoke of incense, to the chanting of psalms.
A thatched hut had been built in a corner.

The peasant inhabitants, returned to a state of savagery, no longer understood the meaning of words, and could be roused out of their apathy only by the display of a silver coin.

Seizing the coin, they would hand over the keys.
For hours one could browse around at ease among the ruins, and smoke and daydream.

Unfortunately, certain parts were inaccessible.