Here she was certainly living， in the deafening tumult. Perhaps she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages in waiting. Handsome equipages， with coachmen in gold braid and footmen in silken hose， drove up. The people who alighted from them were all richly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate， and ascended the broad staircase that led to a building resting on marble pillars. Was this building， perhaps， the wonder of the world? There Mary would certainly be found.
“Sancta Maria!” resounded from the interior. Incense floated through the lofty painted and gilded aisles， where a solemn twilight reigned.
It was the Church of the Madeleine.
Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs， fashioned according to the latest mode， the rich feminine world of Paris glided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors were engraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books， and embroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with Brussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer before the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.
Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as if she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was the abode of silence， the hall of secrets. Everything was said in whispers， every word was a mystery.
The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk， like the women of wealth and of high birth around her. Had， perhaps， every one of them a longing in her breast， like the Dryad?
A deep， painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some confessional in a distant corner， or from the bosom of the Dryad? She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed incense， and not the fresh air. Here was not the abiding-place of her longing.
Away! away—a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly knows not repose， for her existence is flight.
She was out again among the gas candelabra， by a magnificent fountain.
“All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the innocent blood that was spilt here.”
Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around， carrying on a lively conversation， such as no one would have dared to carry on in the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the Dryad came.
A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not understand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths below. The strangers stepped down， leaving the starlit air and the cheerful life of the upper world behind them.
“I am afraid，” said one of the women who stood around， to her husband， “I cannot venture to go down， nor do I care for the wonders down yonder. You had better stay here with me.”
“Indeed， and travel home，” said the man， “and quit Paris without having seen the most wonderful thing of all—the real wonder of the present 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 Dryad had heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent longing had thus been reached， and here was the entrance to it. Down into the depths below Paris? She had not thought of such a thing; but now she heard it said， and saw the strangers descending， and went after them.