THE AMERICAN
passers; he was free to gaze his fill. This seemed the goal of his journey; it was all he had come for. It was a strange satisfaction too, and yet it was a satisfaction; the barren stillness of the place represented somehow his own release from ineffectual desire. It told him the woman within was lost beyond recall, and that the days and years of the future would pile themselves above her like the huge immoveable slab of a tomb. These days and years, on this spot, would always be just so grey and silent. Suddenly from the thought of their seeing him stand there again the charm utterly departed. He would never stand there again; it was a sacrifice as sterile as her own. He turned away with a heavy heart, yet more disburdened than he had come.
Everything was over and he too at last could rest. He walked back through narrow, winding streets to the edge of the Seine and there he saw, close above him, high and mild and grey, the twin towers of Notre Dame. He crossed one of the bridges and paused in the voided space that makes the great front clear; then he went in beneath the grossly-imaged portals. He wandered some distance up the nave and sat down in the splendid dimness. He sat a long time; he heard far-away bells chiming off into space, at long intervals, the big bronze syllables of the Word. He was very tired, but such a place was a kingdom of rest. He said no prayers; he had no prayers to say. He had nothing to be thankful for and he had nothing to ask; nothing to ask because now he must take care of himself. But a great church offers a very various hospitality, and he kept his
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