of this city of Paris, then indeed Religion
seems to have alighted there as if to spread her hands above the sorrows
of both banks and extend her arms from the faubourg Saint-Antoine to
the faubourg Saint-Marceau. Let us hope that this sublime unity may be
completed by the erection of an episcopal palace of the Gothic order;
which shall replace the formless buildings now standing between the
"Terrain," the rue d'Arcole, the cathedral, and the quai de la Cite.

This spot, the heart of ancient Paris, is the loneliest and most
melancholy of regions. The waters of the Seine break there noisily, the
cathedral casts its shadows at the setting of the sun. We can easily
believe that serious thoughts must have filled the mind of a man
afflicted with a moral malady as he leaned upon that parapet. Attracted
perhaps by the harmony between his thoughts and those to which these
diverse scenes gave birth, he rested his hands upon the coping and gave
way to a double contemplation,--of Paris, and of himself! The shadows
deepened, the lights shone out afar, but still he did not move, carried
along as he was on the current of a meditation, such as comes to many of
us, big with the future and rendered solemn by the past.

After a while he heard two persons coming towards him, whose voices had
caught his attention on the bridge which joins the Ile de la Cite with
the quai de la Tournelle. These persons no doubt thought themselves
alone, and therefore spoke louder than they would have done in more
frequented places. The voices betrayed a discussion which apparently,
from the few words that reached the ear of the involuntary listener,
related to a loan of money. Just as the pair approached the quay, one
of them, dressed like a working man, left the other with a despairing
gesture. The other stopped and called after him, saying:--

"You have not a sou to pay your way across the bridge. Take this," he
added, giving the man a piece of money; "and remember, my friend,
that God Himself is speaking to us when a good thought comes into our
hearts."

This last remark made the dreamer at the parapet quiver. The man who
made it little knew that, to use a proverbial expression, he was killing
two birds with one stone, addressing two miseries,--a working life
brought to despair, a suffering soul without a compass, the victim
of what Panurge's sheep call progress, and what, in France, is called
equality. The words, simple in themselves, became sublime