“This sacred edifice,” Aristide began, in his best cicerone manner, “was built, after a classic model, by the great Napoleon, as a Temple of Fame. It was afterwards used as a church. You will observe—and, if you care to, you can count, as a conscientious American lady did last week—the fifty-six Corinthian columns. You will see they are Corinthian by the acanthus leaves on the capitals. For the vulgar, who have no architectural knowledge, I have memoria technica for the instant recognition of the three orders—Cabbages, Corinthian; horns, Ionic; anything else, Doric. We will now mount the steps and inspect the interior.”
He was dashing off in his eager fashion, when Mr. Ducksmith laid a detaining hand on his arm.
“No,” said he, solemnly. “I disapprove of Popish interiors. Take us to the next place.”
he might as well have pointed out the marvels of kubla khan’s pleasure-dome to a couple of guinea-pigs
He entered the waiting victoria. His wife meekly followed.
“I suppose the Louvre is the next place?” said Aristide.
“I leave it to you,” said Mr. Ducksmith.
Aristide gave the order to the cabman and took the little seat in the cab facing his employers. On the way down the Rue Royale and the Rue de Rivoli he pointed out the various buildings of interest—Maxim’s, the Cercle Royal, the Ministère de la Marine, the Hôtel Continental. Two expressionless faces, two pairs of unresponsive eyes, met his merry glance. He might as well have pointed out the marvels of Kubla Khan’s pleasure-dome to a couple of guinea-pigs.
The cab stopped at the entrance to the galleries of the Louvre. They entered and walked up the great staircase on the turn of which the Winged Victory stands, with the wind of God in her vesture, proclaiming to each beholder the deathless, ever-soaring, ever-conquering spirit of man, and heralding the immortal glories of the souls, wind-swept likewise by the wind of God, that are enshrined in the treasure-houses beyond.