THE DRYAD [6]
her dress and her form changed,
according to the nature of the house or the place whose light happened
to shine upon her.
She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed forth
from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the cafes. Here
stood in a row young and slender trees, each of which concealed its
Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial sunlight. The whole vast
pavement was one great festive hall, where covered tables stood
laden with refreshments of all kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse
down to coffee and beer. Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues,
books, and colored stuffs.
From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth over the
terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder heaved a stream of
rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and among
them riding gentlemen and marching troops. To cross to the opposite
shore was an undertaking fraught with danger to life and limb. Now
lanterns shed their radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand;
suddenly a rocket rises! Whence? Whither?
Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish songs
are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets; but strongest of
all, and predominating over the rest, the street-organ tunes of the
moment, the exciting "Can-Can" music, which Orpheus never knew, and
which was never heard by the "Belle Helene." Even the barrow was
tempted to hop upon one of its wheels.
The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every
moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with the
world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.
As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is carried away
by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along. Whenever she paused, she
was another being, so that none was able to follow her, to recognize
her, or to look more closely at her.
Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked into a
thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she saw not a
single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained in her memory. She
thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged merry child, who wore the red
flowers in her black hair. Mary was now here, in the world-city,
rich and magnificent as in that day when she drove past the house of
the old clergyman, and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.
Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhaps
she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages in
waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in gold braid and footmen
in silken hose, drove up. The people who alighted from them were all
richly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate, and ascended
the broad staircase that led to a building resting on marble
pillars. Was this building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There
Mary would certainly be found.
"Sancta Maria!" resounded from the interior. Incense floated
through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilight
reigned.
It was the Church of the Madeleine.
Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashioned
according to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Paris
glided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors were
engraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, and
embroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with
Brussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer
before the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.
Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as if
she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was the
abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said in
whispers, every word was a mystery.
The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the women
of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one of
them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?
A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some
confessional in a distant
according to the nature of the house or the place whose light happened
to shine upon her.
She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed forth
from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the cafes. Here
stood in a row young and slender trees, each of which concealed its
Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial sunlight. The whole vast
pavement was one great festive hall, where covered tables stood
laden with refreshments of all kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse
down to coffee and beer. Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues,
books, and colored stuffs.
From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth over the
terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder heaved a stream of
rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and among
them riding gentlemen and marching troops. To cross to the opposite
shore was an undertaking fraught with danger to life and limb. Now
lanterns shed their radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand;
suddenly a rocket rises! Whence? Whither?
Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish songs
are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets; but strongest of
all, and predominating over the rest, the street-organ tunes of the
moment, the exciting "Can-Can" music, which Orpheus never knew, and
which was never heard by the "Belle Helene." Even the barrow was
tempted to hop upon one of its wheels.
The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every
moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with the
world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.
As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is carried away
by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along. Whenever she paused, she
was another being, so that none was able to follow her, to recognize
her, or to look more closely at her.
Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked into a
thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she saw not a
single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained in her memory. She
thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged merry child, who wore the red
flowers in her black hair. Mary was now here, in the world-city,
rich and magnificent as in that day when she drove past the house of
the old clergyman, and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.
Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhaps
she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages in
waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in gold braid and footmen
in silken hose, drove up. The people who alighted from them were all
richly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate, and ascended
the broad staircase that led to a building resting on marble
pillars. Was this building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There
Mary would certainly be found.
"Sancta Maria!" resounded from the interior. Incense floated
through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilight
reigned.
It was the Church of the Madeleine.
Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashioned
according to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Paris
glided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors were
engraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, and
embroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with
Brussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer
before the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.
Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as if
she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was the
abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said in
whispers, every word was a mystery.
The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the women
of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one of
them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?
A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some
confessional in a distant