At times cloudlets of yellow smoke
would, like giant birds, heavy of wing, slowly soar on high, and then
mingle with the atmosphere which seemed to absorb them. And above all
this immensity, this mass of cloud, hanging in slumber over Paris, a
sky of extreme purity, of a faint and whitening blue, spread out its
mighty vault. The sun was climbing the heavens, scattering a spray of
soft rays; a pale golden light, akin in hue to the flaxen tresses of a
child, was streaming down like rain, filling the atmosphere with the
warm quiver of its sparkle. It was like a festival of the infinite,
instinct with sovereign peacefulness and gentle gaiety, whilst the
city, chequered with golden beams, still remained lazy and sleepy,
unwilling to reveal itself by casting off its coverlet of lace.

For eight days it had been Helene's diversion to gaze on that mighty
expanse of Paris, and she never wearied of doing so. It was as
unfathomable and varying as the ocean--fair in the morning, ruddy with
fire at night, borrowing all the joys and sorrows of the heavens
reflected in its depths. A flash of sunshine came, and it would roll
in waves of gold; a cloud would darken it and raise a tempest. Its
aspect was ever changing. A complete calm would fall, and all would
assume an orange hue; gusts of wind would sweep by from time to time,
and turn everything livid; in keen, bright weather there would be a
shimmer of light on every housetop; whilst when showers fell, blurring
both heaven and earth, all would be plunged in chaotic confusion. At
her window Helene experienced all the hopes and sorrows that pertain
to the open sea. As the keen wind blew in her face she imagined it
wafted a saline fragrance; even the ceaseless noise of the city seemed
to her like that of a surging tide beating against a rocky cliff.

The book fell from her hands. She was dreaming, with a far-away look
in her eyes. When she stopped reading thus it was from a desire to
linger and understand what she had already perused. She took a delight
in denying her curiosity immediate satisfaction. The tale filled her
soul with a tempest of emotion. Paris that morning was displaying the
same vague joy and sorrow as that which disturbed her heart. In this
lay a great charm--to be ignorant, to guess things dimly, to yield to
slow initiation, with the vague thought that her youth was beginning
again.

How full of lies were novels! She was assuredly right in not reading
them. They wer