It has a roof almost as flat as roofs in the East， which involves sweeping the roof in winter， when it snows； and of course roofs are made to be swept. As for its purpose， of which we just spoke， it fulfils it to a marvel； it is a bourse in France as it would have been a temple in Greece. It is true that the architect was at a good deal of trouble to conceal the clock face， which would have destroyed the purity of the fine lines of the fa？ade； but， on the other hand， we have that colonnade which circles round the edifice and under which， on days of high religious ceremony， the theories of the stock-brokers and the courtiers of commerce can be developed so majestically.
These are very superb structures. Let us add a quantity of fine， amusing， and varied streets， like the Rue de Rivoli， and I do not despair of Paris presenting to the eye， when viewed from a balloon， that richness of line， that opulence of detail， that diversity of aspect， that grandiose something in the simple， and unexpected in the beautiful， which characterizes a checker-board.
However， admirable as the Paris of to-day may seem to you， reconstruct the Paris of the fifteenth century， call it up before you in thought； look at the sky athwart that surprising forest of spires， towers， and belfries； spread out in the centre of the city， tear away at the point of the islands， fold at the arches of the bridges， the Seine， with its broad green and yellow expanses， more variable than the skin of a serpent；project clearly against an azure horizon the Gothic profile of this ancient Paris. Make its contour float in a winter's mist which clings to its numerous chimneys； drown it in profound night and watch the odd play of lights and shadows in that sombre labyrinth of edifices； cast upon it a ray of light which shall vaguely outline it and cause to emerge from the fog the great heads of the towers； or take that black silhouette again， enliven with shadow the thousand acute angles of the spires and gables， and make it start out more toothed than a shark's jaw against a copper-colored western sky，--and then compare.
And if you wish to receive of the ancient city an impression with which the modern one can no longer furnish you， climb--on the morning of some grand festival， beneath the rising sun of Easter or of Pentecost--climb upon some elevated point， whence you command the entire capital； and be present at the wakening of the chimes. Behold， at a signal given from heaven， for it is the sun which gives it， all those churches quiver simultaneously. First come scattered strokes， running from one church to another， as when musicians give warning that they are about to begin. Then， all at once， behold！--for it seems at times， as though the ear also possessed a sight of its own，--behold， rising from each bell tower， something like a column of sound， a cloud of harmony. First， the vibration of each bell mounts straight upwards， pure and， so to speak， isolated from the others， into the splendid morning sky； then， little by little， as they swell they melt together， mingle， are lost in each other， and amalgamate in a magnificent concert.
It is no longer anything but a mass of sonorous vibrations incessantly sent forth from the numerous belfries； floats， undulates， bounds， whirls over the city， and prolongs far beyond the horizon the deafening circle of its oscillations.
Nevertheless， this sea of harmony is not a chaos； great and profound as it is， it has not lost its transparency； you behold the windings of each group of notes which escapes from the belfries. You can follow the dialogue， by turns grave and shrill， of the treble and the bass； you can see the octaves leap from one tower to another； you watch them spring forth， winged， light， and whistling， from the silver bell， to fall， broken and limping from the bell of wood； you admire in their midst the rich gamut which incessantly ascends and re-ascends the seven bells of Saint-Eustache； you see light and rapid notes running across it， executing three or four luminous zigzags， and vanishing like flashes of lightning. Yonder is the Abbey of Saint-Martin， a shrill， cracked singer； here the gruff and gloomy voice of the Bastille； at the other end， the great tower of the Louvre， with its bass. The royal chime of the palace scatters on all sides， and without relaxation， resplendent trills， upon which fall， at regular intervals， the heavy strokes from the belfry of Notre-Dame， which makes them sparkle like the anvil under the hammer. At intervals you behold the passage of sounds of all forms which come from the triple peal of Saint-Germaine des Prés. Then， again， from time to time， this mass of sublime noises opens and gives passage to the beats of the Ave Maria， which bursts forth and sparkles like an aigrette of stars. Below， in the very depths of the concert， you confusedly distinguish the interior chanting of the churches， which exhales through the vibrating pores of their vaulted roofs.
Assuredly， this is an opera which it is worth the trouble of listening to. Ordinarily， the noise which escapes from Paris by day is the city speaking； by night， it is the city breathing；in this case， it is the city singing. Lend an ear， then， to this concert of bell towers； spread over all the murmur of half a million men， the eternal plaint of the river， the infinite breathings of the wind， the grave and distant quartette of the four forests arranged upon the hills， on the horizon， like immense stacks of organ pipes； extinguish， as in a half shade， all that is too hoarse and too shrill about the central chime， and say whether you know anything in the world more rich and joyful， more golden， more dazzling， than this tumult of bells and chimes；--than this furnace of music，--than these ten thousand brazen voices chanting simultaneously in the flutes of stone， three hundred feet high，--than this city which is no longer anything but an orchestra，--than this symphony which produces the noise of a tempest.
