luge that had overwhelmed it, its roofs all streaming, and
every street filled with a river of water from which vapor still
ascended. But suddenly there was a burst of light; a ray of sunshine
fell athwart the shower. For a moment it was like a smile breaking
through tears.

The rain had now ceased to fall over the Champs-Elysees district; but
it was sabring the left bank, the Cite, and the far-away suburbs; in
the sunshine the drops could be seen flashing down like innumerable
slender shafts of steel. On the right a rainbow gleamed forth. As the
gush of light streamed across the sky, touches of pink and blue
appeared on the horizon, a medley of color, suggestive of a childish
attempt at water-color painting. Then there was a sudden blaze--a fall
of golden snow, as it were, over a city of crystal. But the light died
away, a cloud rolled up, and the smile faded amidst tears; Paris
dripped and dripped, with a prolonged sobbing noise, beneath the
leaden-hued sky.

Jeanne, with her sleeves soaked, was seized with a fit of coughing.
But she was unconscious of the chill that was penetrating her; she was
now absorbed in the thought that her mother had gone into Paris. She
had come at last to know three buildings--the Invalides, the Pantheon,
and the Tower of St.-Jacques. She now slowly went over their names,
and pointed them out with her finger without attempting to think what
they might be like were she nearer to them. Without doubt, however,
her mother was down there; and she settled in her mind that she was in
the Pantheon, because it astonished her the most, huge as it was,
towering up through the air, like the city's head-piece. Then she
began to question herself. Paris was still to her the place where
children never go; she was never taken there. She would have liked to
know it, however, that she might have quietly said to herself: "Mamma
is there; she is doing such and such a thing." But it all seemed to
her too immense; it was impossible to find any one there. Then her
glance travelled towards the other end of the plain. Might her mother
not rather be in one of that cluster of houses on the hill to the
left? or nearer in, beneath those huge trees, whose bare branches
seemed as dead as firewood? Oh! if she could only have lifted up the
roofs! What could that gloomy edifice be? What was that street along
which something of enormous bulk seemed to be running? And what could
that district be at sight of which she always