The staircase was of cast iron， spiral， broad and easy. Below there burned a lamp， and farther down， another. They stood in a labyrinth of endless halls and arched passages， all communicating with each other. All the streets and lanes of Paris were to be seen here again， as in a dim reflection. The names were painted up; and every， house above had its number down here also， and struck its roots under the macadamized quays of a broad canal， in which the muddy water flowed onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on arches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes and telegraph-wires.
In the distance lamps gleamed， like a reflection from the world-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was heard. This came from the heavy wagons rolling over the entrance bridges.
Whither had the Dryad come?
You have， no doubt， heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are vanishing points in that new underground world—that wonder of the present day—the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there， and not in the world's Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.
She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.
“From here go forth health and life for thousands upon thousands up yonder! Our time is the time of progress， with its manifold blessings.”
Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of those creatures who had been born here， and who built and dwelt here—of the rats， namely， who were squeaking to one another in the clefts of a crumbling wall， quite plainly， and in a way the Dryad understood well.
A big old Father-Rat， with his tail bitten off， was relieving his feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave their tribute of concurrence to every word he said：
“I am disgusted with this man-mewing，” he cried—“with these outbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence， truly! all made up of gas and petroleum! I can't eat such stuff as that. Everything here is so fine and bright now， that one's ashamed of one's self， without exactly knowing why. Ah， if we only lived in the days of tallow candles! and it does not lie so very far behind us. That was a romantic time， as one may say.”
“What are you talking of there?” asked the Dryad. “I have never seen you before. What is it you are talking about?”
“Of the glorious days that are gone，” said the Rat—“of the happy time of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Then it was a great thing to get down here. That was a rat's nest quite different from Paris. Mother Plague used to live here then; she killed people， but never rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely here. Here was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages， whom one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act melodrama， up above. The time of romance is gone even in our rat's nest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken in.”
A carriage stopped， a kind of open omnibus， drawn by swift horses. The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard de Sebastopol， that is to say， the underground boulevard， over which the 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 the vaulted passages， filled with heavy air， the wonder work must be found which she was to seek in her short lifetime. It must gleam brighter than all the gas-flames， stronger than the moon that was just gliding past.
Yes， certainly， she saw it yonder in the distance， it gleamed before her， and twinkled and glittered like the evening star in the sky.
She saw a glittering portal open， that led to a little garden， where all was brightness and dance music. Colored lamps surrounded little lakes， in which were water-plants of colored metal， from whose flowers jets of water spurted up. Beautiful weeping willows， real products of spring， hung their fresh branches over these lakes like a fresh， green， transparent， and yet screening veil. In the bushes burnt an open fire， throwing a red twilight over the quiet huts of branches， into which the sounds of music penetrated—an ear tickling， intoxicating music， that sent the blood coursing through the veins.