You have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are vanishingpoints in that new underground world- that wonder of the presentday- the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and not in theworld's Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.
  She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.
  "From here go forth health and life for thousands upon thousandsup yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with its manifoldblessings."
  Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of thosecreatures who had been born here, and who built and dwelt here- of therats, namely, who were squeaking to one another in the clefts of acrumbling wall, quite plainly, and in a way the Dryad understood well.
  A big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was relievinghis feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave their tribute ofconcurrence to every word he said:
  "I am disgusted with this man-mewing," he cried- "with theseoutbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all made up of gasand petroleum! I can't eat such stuff as that. Everything here is sofine and bright now, that one's ashamed of one's self, without exactlyknowing why. Ah, if we only lived in the days of tallow candles! andit does not lie so very far behind us. That was a romantic time, asone may say."
  "What are you talking of there?" asked the Dryad. "I have neverseen you before. What is it you are talking about?"
  "Of the glorious days that are gone," said the Rat- "of thehappy time of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Then itwas a great thing to get down here. That was a rat's nest quitedifferent from Paris. Mother Plague used to live here then; she killedpeople, but never rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freelyhere. Here was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages,whom one now only gets to see in the theatres where they actmelodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our rat'snest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken in."
  Thus squeaked the Rat; he squeaked in honor of the old time,when Mother Plague was still alive.
  A carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift horses.The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard deSebastopol, that is to say, the underground boulevard, over whichthe well-known crowded street of that name extended.
  The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad disappeared,lifted to the cheerful freshness above. Here, and not below in thevaulted passages, filled with heavy air, the wonder work must be foundwhich she was to seek in her short lifetime. It must gleam brighterthan all the gas-flames, stronger than the moon that was justgliding past.
  Yes, certainly, she saw it yonder in the distance, it gleamedbefore her, and twinkled and glittered like the evening star in thesky.
  She saw a glittering portal open, that led to a little garden,where all was brightness and dance music. Colored lamps surroundedlittle lakes, in which were water-plants of colored metal, fromwhose flowers jets of water spurted up. Beautiful weeping willows,real products of spring, hung their fresh branches over these lakeslike a fresh, green, transparent, and yet screening veil. In thebushes burnt an open fire, throwing a red twilight over the quiet hutsof branches, into which the sounds of music penetrated- an eartickling, intoxicating music, that sent the blood coursing through theveins.
  Beautiful girls in festive attire, with pleasant smiles on theirlips, and the light spirit of youth in their hearts- "Marys," withroses in their hair, but without carriage and postilion- flitted toand fro in the wild dance.
  Where were the heads, where the feet?