All of them alike find there, in death, the things amid which their lives have been passed: the salt sand, filled with tiny shells, the _enganes_ that grow in spite of everything, reddened by the salt-laden winds, and heavy with soda,--and the thin shadow of the pink-plumed tamarisk. There they hear the neighing of the wild mares, the shouts of the herdsmen contending on the race-course on fête-days, or stirring up the black bulls in the arena under the walls of the church. They hear the sails flapping, and the _han_ of the bare-legged fishermen pushing their flat-bottomed boats or barges into the water; and night and day, the pounding of the sea in its efforts to push back the island of Camargue, while the Rhône, on the other hand, is constantly pushing it into the sea, and adding to its bulk with mud and stones brought down from its head-waters. The sea smites the island as if it would have none of it, but all in vain,--it, too, can but augment its size with the sand it casts up. And the sand from the sea makes a broad hem of dunes along the shores of Camargue. No one can fail to see that the dunes, those shifting, tomb-like hills of sand, must have served as models for the massive pyramids, the tombs of kings, in the Egyptian desert. At the feet of the little pyramids of sand sleep the dead of Camargue. But whither has the thought of death led us? Why do we tarry here, while Livette is timidly lifting the knocker at monsieur le curé's door? The blow echoed within the house, in the empty hall. Livette was much perturbed. What was she to say? Where should she begin? The beginning is always the most difficult part. She would like to run away now, but it is too late. She hears steps inside. Marion, the old servant, opens the door. Marion has a practised eye. When any one knocks at Monsieur le curé's door, she knows, simply by examining his face, what he wants, and frames her answers accordingly, on her own responsibility; for Monsieur le curé is subject to rheumatism: he suffers from fever, too, and Marion nurses Monsieur le curé! If he listened to Marion, he would nurse himself so carefully that all the sick people would have to die unshriven, without extreme unction, for Marion would always have a good reason to give to prevent him from going out by day or night, when the _mistral_ was blowing or the wind was from the east, summer or winter, rain or shine. But Monsieur le curé would smile and do just what he chose. He was a good priest. He never failed in his duty. He loved his parishioners. He assisted them on all occasions with his purse and his advice. He was beloved by them all.