ThereMary would certainly be found.
  "Sancta Maria!" resounded from the interior. Incense floatedthrough the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilightreigned.
  It was the Church of the Madeleine.
  Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashionedaccording to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Parisglided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors wereengraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, andembroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered withBrussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayerbefore the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.
  Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as ifshe had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was theabode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said inwhispers, every word was a mystery.
  The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the womenof wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one ofthem a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?
  A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from someconfessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the Dryad?She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed incense, and not thefresh air. Here was not the abiding-place of her longing.
  Away! away- a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly knowsnot repose, for her existence is flight.
  She was out again among the gas candelabra, by a magnificentfountain.
  "All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the innocentblood that was spilt here."
  Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around, carrying ona lively conversation, such as no one would have dared to carry onin the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the Dryad came.
  A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did notunderstand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths below. Thestrangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and the cheerfullife of the upper world behind them.
  "I am afraid," said one of the women who stood around, to herhusband, "I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for the wondersdown yonder. You had better stay here with me."
  "Indeed, and travel home," said the man, "and quit Paris withouthaving seen the most wonderful thing of all- the real wonder of thepresent period, created by the power and resolution of one man!"
  "I will not go down for all that," was the reply.
  "The wonder of the present time," it had been called. The Dryadhad heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent longing hadthus been reached, and here was the entrance to it. Down into thedepths below Paris? She had not thought of such a thing; but now sheheard it said, and saw the strangers descending, and went after them.
  The staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy. Belowthere burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They stood in alabyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all communicating witheach other. All the streets and lanes of Paris were to be seen hereagain, as in a dim reflection. The names were painted up; and every,house above had its number down here also, and struck its rootsunder the macadamized quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy waterflowed onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried onarches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes andtelegraph-wires.
  In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from theworld-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was heard. Thiscame from the heavy wagons rolling over the entrance bridges.
  Whither had the Dryad come?