As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem,
For one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang up,and, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and sprang like thereflection from the mirror that, carried by the sunshine, is cast, nowhere, now there. Could any one have followed her with his eyes, hewould have seen how marvellously her dress and her form changed,according to the nature of the house or the place whose light happenedto shine upon her. She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed forthfrom the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the cafes. Herestood in a row young and slender trees, each of which concealed itsDryad, and gave shade from the artificial sunlight. The whole vastpavement was one great festive hall, where covered tables stoodladen with refreshments of all kinds, from champagne and Chartreusedown 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 theterrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder heaved a stream ofrolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and amongthem riding gentlemen and marching troops. To cross to the oppositeshore was an undertaking fraught with danger to life and limb. Nowlanterns 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 songsare sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets; but strongest ofall, and predominating over the rest, the street-organ tunes of themoment, the exciting “Can-Can” music, which Orpheus never knew, andwhich was never heard by the “Belle Helene.” Even the barrow wastempted to hop upon one of its wheels. The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color everymoment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with theworld belonging to it, gave her its own reflections. As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is carried awayby the stream, so the Dryad drifted along. Whenever she paused, shewas another being, so that none was able to follow her, to recognizeher, or to look more closely at her. Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked into athousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she saw not asingle form from home. Two bright eyes had remained in her memory. Shethought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged merry child, who wore the redflowers 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 ofthe old clergyman, and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak. Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhapsshe had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages inwaiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in gold braid and footmenin silken hose, drove up. The people who alighted from them were allrichly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate, and ascendedthe broad staircase that led to a building resting on marblepillars. Was this building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? ThereMary would certainly be found. “Sancta Maria!” resounded from the interior. Incense floatedthrough the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilightreigned. It was the Church of the Madeleine. Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashionedaccording to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Parisglided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors wereengraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, andembroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered withBrussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayerbefore the altars; others resorted to the confessionals. Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as ifshe had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was theabode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said inwhispers, every word was a mystery. The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the womenof wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one ofthem a longing in her breast, like the Dryad? A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from someconfessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the Dryad?She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed incense, and not thefresh air. Here was not the abiding-place of her longing. Away! away- a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly knowsnot repose, for her existence is flight.
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