“One night in May, Eighteen Hundred Fourteen, about two o’clock in the morning, a cab stopped near the city gate of La Gare at an opening in a board fence.  This fence surrounded a large, vacant piece of ground belonging to the city of Paris.  The cab had come from the Pantheon, and the coachman had been ordered to take the most deserted streets.  Three men alighted from the cab and crawled into the enclosure.  Two carried a sack between them.  Other men, some in cassocks, awaited them.  They proceeded towards a hole dug in the middle of the field.  At the bottom of the hole was quicklime.  These men said nothing, they had no lanterns.  The wan daybreak gave a ghastly light; the sack was opened.  It was full of bones.  These were the bones of Jean Jacques and of Voltaire, which had been withdrawn from the Pantheon.

“The mouth of the sack was brought close to the hole, and the bones rattled down into that black pit.  The two skulls struck against each other; a spark, not likely to be seen by those standing near, was doubtless exchanged between the head that made ’The Philosophical Dictionary’ and the head that made ‘The Social Contract,’ When that was done, when the sack was shaken, when Voltaire and Rousseau had been emptied into that hole, a digger seized a spade, threw into the opening the heap of earth, and filled up the grave.  The others stamped with their feet upon the ground, so as to remove from it the appearance of having been freshly disturbed.  One of the assistants took for his trouble the sack—­as the hangman takes the clothing of his victim—­they left the enclosure, got into the cab without saying a word, and, hastily, before the sun had risen, these men got away.”

The ashes of the man who wrote these vivid words now rest next to the empty tombs of Voltaire and Rousseau.  But a step away is the grave of Sadi-Carnot.

When the visitor is conducted to the crypt of the Pantheon, he is first taken to the tomb of Victor Hugo.  The sarcophagus on each side is draped with the red, white and blue of France and the stars and stripes of America.  With uncovered heads, we behold the mass of flowers and wreaths, and our minds go back to Eighteen Hundred Eighty-five, when the body of the chief citizen of Paris lay in state at the Pantheon and five hundred thousand people passed by and laid the tribute of silence or of tears on his bier.

The Pantheon is now given over as a memorial to the men of France who have enriched the world with their lives.  Over the portals of this beautiful temple are the words, “Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite.”  Across its floors of rarest mosaic echo only the feet of pilgrims and those of the courteous and kindly old soldiers who have the place in charge.  On the walls color revels in beautiful paintings, and in the niches and on the pedestals is marble that speaks of greatness which lives in lives made better.

The history of the Pantheon is one of strife.  As late as Eighteen Hundred Seventy the Commune made it a stronghold, and the streets on every side were called upon to contribute their paving-stones for a barricade.  Yet it seems meet that Victor Hugo’s dust should lie here amid the scenes he loved and knew, and where he struggled, worked, toiled, achieved; from whence he was banished, and to which he returned in triumph, to receive at last the complete approbation so long withheld.