The Philosopher was silent, thinking tremendous things, with his
sallow face transfigured by some spiritual emotion. It was when we
passed the Palais des Beaux-Arts that he stood still and raised two
fingers to the blue sky, like a priest blessing a kneeling multitude.
"Thanks be to the Great Power!" he said, with the solemn piety of an
infidel who knows God only as the spirit is revealed on lonely waters
and above uprising seas, and in the life of flowers and beasts, and in
the rare pity of men.
We did not laugh at him. Only those who have known Paris and loved
her beauty can understand the thrill that came to us on that morning
in September when we had expected to hear the roar of great guns
around her, and to see the beginning of a ghastly destruction. Paris
was still safe! By some kind of miracle the enemy had not yet touched
her beauty nor tramped into her streets. How sharp and clear were all
the buildings under that cloudless sky! Spears of light flashed from
the brazen-winged horses above Alexander's bridge, and the dome
of the Invalides was a golden crown above a snow-white palace. The
Seine poured in a burnished stream beneath all the bridges and far
away beyond the houses and the island trees, and all the picture of
Paris etched by a master-hand through long centuries of time the
towers of Notre Dame were faintly pencilled in the blue screen of sky.
Pages:
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169