“A grateful night for the poor,” exclaimed the Abbe, who stood behind her.  “The autumn will be mild.”

That Tuesday Jeanne had fallen into a doze at dessert, and her mother, perceiving that she was rather tired, had put her to bed.  She was already fast asleep in her cot, while Monsieur Rambaud sat at the table gravely mending a toy—­a mechanical doll, a present from himself, which both spoke and walked, and which Jeanne had broken.  He excelled in such work as this.  Helene on her side feeling the want of fresh air—­for the lingering heats of September were oppressive—­had thrown the window wide open, and gazed with relief on the vast gloomy ocean of darkness that rolled before her.  She had pushed an easy-chair to the window in order to be alone, but was suddenly surprised to hear the Abbe speaking to her.  “Is the little one warmly covered?” he gently asked.  “On these heights the air is always keen.”

She made no reply, however; her heart was craving for silence.  She was tasting the delights of the twilight hour, the vanishing of all surrounding objects, the hushing of every sound.  Gleams, like those of night-lights, tipped the steeples and towers; that on Saint-Augustin died out first, the Pantheon for a moment retained a bluish light, and then the glittering dome of the Invalides faded away, similar to a moon setting in a rising sea of clouds.  The night was like the ocean, its extent seemingly increased by the gloom, a dark abyss wherein you divined that a world lay hid.  From the unseen city blew a mighty yet gentle wind.  There was still a hum; sounds ascended faint yet clear to Helene’s ears—­the sharp rattle of an omnibus rolling along the quay, the whistle of a train crossing the bridge of the Point-du-Jour; and the Seine, swollen by the recent storms, and pulsing with the life of a breathing soul, wound with increased breadth through the shadows far below.  A warm odor steamed upwards from the scorched roofs, while the river, amidst this exhalation of the daytime heat, seemed to give forth a cooling breeze.  Paris had vanished, sunk in the dreamy repose of a colossus whose limbs the night has enveloped, and who lies motionless for a time, but with eyes wide open.

Nothing affected Helene more than this momentary pause in the great city’s life.  For the three months during which she had been a close prisoner, riveted to Jeanne’s bedside, she had had no other companion in her vigil than the huge mass of Paris spreading out towards the horizon.  During the summer heats of July and August the windows had almost always been left open; she could not cross the room, could not stir or turn her head, without catching a glimpse of the ever-present panorama.  It was there, whatever the weather, always sharing in her griefs and hopes, like some friend who would never leave her side.  She was still quite ignorant respecting it; never had it seemed farther away, never had she given less thought to its streets and its