THE SQUARE OF NOTRE DAME.

A week had passed since Rodin was seized with the cholera, and its
ravages had continually increased. That was an awful time! A funeral pall
was spread over Paris, once so gay. And yet, never had the sky been of a
more settled, purer blue; never had the sun shone more brilliantly. The
inexorable serenity of nature, during the ravages of the deadly scourge,
offered a strange and mysterious contrast. The flaunting light of the
dazzling sunshine fell full upon the features, contracted by a thousand
agonizing fears. Each trembled for himself, or for those dear to him;
every countenance was stamped with an expression of feverish astonishment
and dread. People walked with rapid steps, as if they would escape from
the fate which threatened them; besides, they were in haste to return to
their homes, for often they left life, health, happiness, and, two hours
later, they found agony, death, and despair.

At every moment, new dismal objects met the view. Sometimes carts passed
along, filled with coffins, symmetrically piled; they stopped before
every house. Men in black and gray garments were in waiting before the
door; they held out their hands, and to some, one coffin was thrown, to
some two, frequently three or four, from the same house. It sometimes
happened that the store was quickly exhausted, and the cart, which had
arrived full, went away empty, whilst many of the dead in the street were
still unserved. In nearly every dwelling, upstairs and down, from the
roof to the cellar, there was a stunning tapping of hammers: coffins were
being nailed down, and so many, so very many were nailed, that sometimes
those who worked stopped from sheer fatigue. Then broke forth laments,
heart-rending moans, despairing imprecations. They were uttered by those
from whom the men in black and gray had taken some one to fill the
coffins.