History has lent its hand to the process, too; and romance--it is not an
insipid chain of flowerbeds we have to follow, but the holy warriors of
Saint Louis, the roistering braves of Henry the Great, the gallant
Bourbons, the ill-starred Bonapartes. These as they passed have left their
monuments; it may be only in a crumbling old chapel or ruined tower, but
there they are, eloquent of days that are dead, of a spirit that lives
forever staunch in the heart of the fervent French people.

It comes over one overwhelmingly sometimes, in the midst of the careless
gaiety of the modern city, the old, ever-burning spirit of rebellion and
savage strife that underlies it all, and that can spring to the surface
now on certain memorable days, with a vehemence that is terrifying. Look
across the Pont Alexandre, at the serene gold dome of the Invalides,
surrounded by its sleepy barracks. Suddenly you are in the fires and awful
slaughter of Napoleon's wars. The flower of France is being pitilessly cut
down for the lust of one man's ambition; and when that is spent, and the
wail of the widowed country pierces heaven with its desolation, a costly
asylum is built for the handful of soldiers who are left--and the great
Emperor has done his duty!

Or you are walking through the Cite, past the court of the Palais de
Justice. You glance in, carelessly--memory rushes upon you--and the court
flows with blood, "so that men waded through it, up to the knees!" In the
tiny stone-walled room yonder, Marie Antoinette sits disdainfully composed
before her keepers; tho her face is white with the sounds she hears, as
her friends and followers are led out to swell that hideous river of
blood.

A pretty, artificial city, Paris; good for shopping, and naughty
amusements, now and then. History? Oh yes, of course; but all that's so