He knows death approaches as sunlight filters weak rays through a canopy of dark pine. He can hear cicadas sing their song of Provence, and can smell organic air breathe against Bibeus rock that echoes softly like a Devil’s whisper.

But he sits, mesmerised by its abandoned beauty as his hand creates a palette of thick green, blue and ochre while, inside those derelict walls, he imagines its past owner, floating like a dim orb, admiring a legacy of black, unique folly.

But no one dares to step inside. No dares to enter Satan’s chateau. Did Cezanne take those steps, you ask, my friend?

Take another look. See, your answer lies within the painting.