Many weeks had elapsed.

The first of March had arrived. The sun, which Dubartas, that classic ancestor of p�riphrase, had not yet dubbed the “Grand-duke of Candles,” was none the less radiant and joyous on that account. It was one of those spring days which possesses so much sweetness and beauty, that all Paris turns out into the squares and promenades and celebrates them as though they were Sundays.

In those days of brilliancy, warmth, and serenity, there is a certain hour above all others, when the fa�ade of Notre-Dame should be admired. It is the moment when the sun, already declining towards the west, looks the cathedral almost full in the face. Its rays, growing more and more horizontal, withdraw slowly from the pavement of the square, and mount up the perpendicular