He loved his wife and his child; he smiled with delicate grace; he outwardly appeared a well-bred man.  Then she saw him again with inflamed visage, and trembling with passion.  But weeks passed, and he vanished from her sight.  At this moment she could not have said where she had spoken to him for the last time.  He had passed away, and his shadow had gone with him.  Their story had no other ending.  She knew him not.

Over the city the sky had now become blue, and every cloud had vanished.  Wearied with her memories, and rejoicing in the purity before her, Helene raised her head.  The blue of the heavens was exquisitely clear, but still very pale in the light of the sun, which hung low on the horizon, and glittered like a silver lamp.  In that icy temperature its rays shed no heat on the glittering snow.  Below stretched the expanses of roofs—­the tiles of the Army Bakehouse, and the slates of the houses on the quay—­like sheets of white cloth fringed with black.  On the other bank of the river, the square stretch of the Champ-de-Mars seemed a steppe, the black dots of the straggling vehicles making one think of sledges skimming along with tinkling bells; while the elms on the Quai d’Orsay, dwarfed by the distance, looked like crystal flowers bristling with sharp points.  Through all the snow-white sea the Seine rolled its muddy waters edged by the ermine of its banks; since the evening before ice had been floating down, and you could clearly see the masses crushing against the piers of the Pont des Invalides, and vanishing swiftly beneath the arches.  The bridges, growing more and more delicate with the distance, seemed like the steps of a ladder of white lace reaching as far as the sparkling walls of the Cite, above which the towers of Notre-Dame reared their snow-white crests.  On the left the level plain was broken up by other peaks.  The Church of Saint-Augustin, the Opera House, the Tower of Saint-Jacques, looked like mountains clad with eternal snow.  Nearer at hand the pavilions of the Tuileries and the Louvre, joined together by newly erected buildings, resembled a ridge of hills with spotless summits.  On the right, too, were the white tops of the Invalides, of Saint-Sulpice, and the Pantheon, the last in the dim distance, outlining against the sky a palace of fairyland with dressings of bluish marble.  Not a sound broke the stillness.  Grey-looking hollows revealed the presence of the streets; the public squares were like yawning crevasses.  Whole lines of houses had vanished.  The fronts of the neighboring dwellings alone showed distinctly with the thousand streaks of light reflected from their windows.  Beyond, the expanse of snow intermingled and merged into a seeming lake, whose blue shadows blended with the blue of the sky.  Huge and clear in the bright, frosty atmosphere, Paris glittered in the light of the silver sun.