"And I did," cried Jim Frobisher. He was still looking towards the Maison Crenelle, and his arm swept to the left of the house. His fingers pointed at the Renaissance church with its cupolas and its loggia, to which Betty Harlowe had driven him.
"There it is and under its porch is that terrible relief of the Last Judgment."
"Yes," said Hanaud quietly. "But that is the Church of St. Michel, Monsieur."
He turned Frobisher about. Between him and Mont Blanc, close at his feet, rose the slender apse of a Gothic church, delicate in its structure like a jewel.
"That is the Church of Notre Dame. Let us go down and look at the façade."
Hanaud led Frobisher to the wonderful church and pointed to the frieze. There Frobisher saw such images of devils half beast, half human, such grinning hog-men, such tortured creatures with heads twisted round so that they looked backwards, such old and drunken and vicious horrors as imagination could hardly conceive; and amongst them one girl praying, her sweet face tormented, her hands tightly clasped, an image of terror and faith, a prisoner amongst all these monsters imploring the passers-by for their pity and their help.
"That, Monsieur Frobisher, is what I sent you out to see," said Hanaud gravely. "But you did not see it."
His face changed as he spoke. It shone with kindness. He lifted his hat.
Jim Frobisher, with his eyes fixed in wonder upon that frieze, heard Ann Upcott's voice behind him.
"And how do you interpret that strange work, Monsieur Hanaud?" She stopped beside the two men.