th eternal snow.
Nearer at hand the pavilions of the Tuileries and the Louvre, joined
together by newly erected buildings, resembled a ridge of hills with
spotless summits. On the right, too, were the white tops of the
Invalides, of Saint-Sulpice, and the Pantheon, the last in the dim
distance, outlining against the sky a palace of fairyland with
dressings of bluish marble. Not a sound broke the stillness.
Grey-looking hollows revealed the presence of the streets; the public
squares were like yawning crevasses. Whole lines of houses had
vanished. The fronts of the neighboring dwellings alone showed
distinctly with the thousand streaks of light reflected from their
windows. Beyond, the expanse of snow intermingled and merged into a
seeming lake, whose blue shadows blended with the blue of the sky.
Huge and clear in the bright, frosty atmosphere, Paris glittered in
the light of the silver sun.

Then Helene for the last time let her glance sweep over the unpitying
city which also remained unknown to her. She saw it once more,
tranquil and with immortal beauty amidst the snow, the same as when
she had left it, the same as it had been every day for three long
years. Paris to her was full of her past life. In its presence she had
loved, in its presence Jeanne had died. But this companion of her
every-day existence retained on its mighty face a wondrous serenity,
unruffled by any emotion, as though it were but a mute witness of the
laughter and the tears which the Seine seemed to roll in its flood.
She had, according to her mood, endowed it with monstrous cruelty or
almighty goodness. To-day she felt that she would be ever ignorant of
it, in its indifference and immensity. It spread before her; it was
life.

However, Monsieur Rambaud now laid a light hand on her arm to lead her
away. His kindly face was troubled, and he whispered:

"Do not give yourself pain."

He divined her every thought, and this was all he could say. Madame
Rambaud looked at him, and her sorrow became appeased. Her cheeks were
flushed by the cold; her eyes sparkled. Her memories were already far
away. Life was beginning again.

"I'm not quite certain whether I shut the big trunk properly," she
exclaimed.

Monsieur Rambaud promised that he would make sure. Their train started
at noon, and they had plenty of time. Some gravel was being scattered
on the streets; their cab would not take an hour. But, all at once, he
raised his voice:

"I believe yo