herein you
divined that a world lay hid. From the unseen city blew a mighty yet
gentle wind. There was still a hum; sounds ascended faint yet clear to
Helene's ears--the sharp rattle of an omnibus rolling along the quay,
the whistle of a train crossing the bridge of the Point-du-Jour; and
the Seine, swollen by the recent storms, and pulsing with the life of
a breathing soul, wound with increased breadth through the shadows far
below. A warm odor steamed upwards from the scorched roofs, while the
river, amidst this exhalation of the daytime heat, seemed to give
forth a cooling breeze. Paris had vanished, sunk in the dreamy repose
of a colossus whose limbs the night has enveloped, and who lies
motionless for a time, but with eyes wide open.

Nothing affected Helene more than this momentary pause in the great
city's life. For the three months during which she had been a close
prisoner, riveted to Jeanne's bedside, she had had no other companion
in her vigil than the huge mass of Paris spreading out towards the
horizon. During the summer heats of July and August the windows had
almost always been left open; she could not cross the room, could not
stir or turn her head, without catching a glimpse of the ever-present
panorama. It was there, whatever the weather, always sharing in her
griefs and hopes, like some friend who would never leave her side. She
was still quite ignorant respecting it; never had it seemed farther
away, never had she given less thought to its streets and its
citizens, and yet it peopled her solitude. The sick-room, whose door
was kept shut to the outside world, looked out through its two windows
upon this city. Often, with her eyes fixed on its expanse, Helene had
wept, leaning on the window-rail in order to hide her tears from her
ailing child. One day, too--the very day when she had imagined her
daughter to be at the point of death--she had remained for a long
time, overcome and choked with grief, watching the smoke which curled
up from the Army Bakehouse. Frequently, moreover, in hours of
hopefulness she had here confided the gladsome feelings of her heart
to the dim and distant suburbs. There was not a single monument which
did not recall to her some sensation of joy or sorrow. Paris shared in
her own existence; and never did she love it better than when the
twilight came, and its day's work over, it surrendered itself to an
hour's quietude, forgetfulness, and reverie, whilst waiting for the
lighti