At our feet Paris is breathing, like a monster with a million eyes.
On the right, at the very top of Montmartre, and looming up in the glow that surrounds it, stands the white Basilica of the Sacred Heart, with its colossal marble statue of the Redeemer watching over the city.
The great boulevards roll out in every direction like ribbons of fire; we can hear, as we sail over them, the muffled rumbling of a thousand carriages, and we watch them as they dodge each other in their complicated course.
A cry, a call, from time to time, reaches our ears; but the others are lost in the mighty silence above us.
“There is the Opéra,” whispers the owner, as he points to a square silhouette, bathed in a lake of electric light.
I seem to have no fear, merely the sensation of relief that follows an irrevocable decision; with the feeling that we are tasting a forbidden fruit, breaking some divine and primeval law. All our faculties are concentrated in our eyes, and they feast on this wonderful sight.
“Those dark pits that dot the surface of Paris are gardens,” explains the owner, “innumerable private parks; and most Parisians live and die without ever suspecting their existence.”
We cross the Place de la Bastille, soaring above the bronze column, with its graceful statue of Liberty, whose useless wings of metal seem childish and a bit ridiculous as we pass on.
A long and purple fissure that cuts the city in twain marks the Seine, long before we reach it. The “Rolla” feels the cool current that rises above the waters. A few handfuls of sand thrown overboard, and we resume our former position.
Our eyes are now accustomed to these weird and unusual effects, and few details of the picture escape us. In the distance another bright spot, Bullier, the students’ ball, in the heart of the Latin quarter. That obscure mass beyond must be the Luxembourg and its gardens.