breaths of Puvis de Chavannes and Carpeaux and Balzac and Alfred de Musset and Victor Hugo and Pasteur and Curie and Taine and Renan... It seems to me that I can make out the traces of their footsteps on this path!!.. — And the "muses" — do their fresh footprints not appear to you? The feet of Miss Olga, for instance?!

Gibran smiles his delicate smile and closes his eyes to me, half in a pang, so I leave him absorbed in thinking of the great men... and turn myself to thinking of the muses!..

After a long silence Gibran asks me: What do you say to a visit to the Lady Geneviève, since we are so near her? I have not seen her for a long time, and I long for the sight of her...

Before long we leave the garden and walk in the direction of the rue "Soufflot," until there loom before our eyes the majestic lines of the temple of the "Panthéon," built by the architect "Soufflot" shortly before the Revolution... God! How temple rose upon temple, and the dome crouched above the two temples! On the ruins of an ancient church of Sainte Geneviève this shrine was raised to the patroness of the Parisian people. In the days of the great Revolution it was made a sanctuary to shelter the great-est of men, and it was named the Panthéon, and on its façade was written: "The homeland gives thanks to its great men." When the Revolution ended it was restored as a church... and lately the French Republic returned it as a resting place for the great men... And here we are entering it now, as if we were entering the seat of greatness and grandeur...

The first thing we sought out was the picture of Sainte Geneviève by the painter "Puvis de Chavannes," which Gibran admired intensely... There she stands with her slender figure, on the balcony before her chamber...

on her head a white shawl, one end of which she holds in one hand, while the other hand is laid upon the wall. In the moonlight she keeps watch, wakeful, over the sleeping city and its inhabitants — an immortal artistic masterpiece!! This woman one day calmed the terror of the people of Paris as they trembled in panic at the approach of the soldiers of the barbarians — the soldiers of Attila! who in the middle of the fifth century managed to prevail over the Roman emperors in East and West... He swept over the lands and left them in ruin, and occupied France up to the gates of Paris; it was said of him: "The grass did not grow where the hooves of his horses passed"!!! He turned toward Paris and came within sight of its wall... and here is Geneviève, meeting him outside the wall, standing in his face and speaking to him... What did she say to him? What language did she speak? What was the ring of her voice? What were her looks? — until the terrible Attila was persuaded to turn his horse's head and to withdraw from Paris!..

Gibran said, moved: — Is there any serenity broader and deeper than what is upon her face?! And I added, nodding my head in agreement, without lifting my gaze from the painting: — Thus let painting be, or not at all!

After that we went on to contemplate a second picture along the wall, representing the death of the saint as she blesses those present, the work of J. P. Laurens — here is the classical type in the full sense of the word! Cold, provoking yawns and drowsiness... without soul... And a well-known saying occurred to me: "Perfect beauty belongs to no particular school... it is the feeling of the sincere artist, revealing itself with simplicity... it is the easy that defies attainment!" Gibran said: As I have told you many times, Youssef, I have never had a taste for the art of the master Laurens — indeed I often feel a loathing for it... I want to be free in my own kind! I said to him: And I likewise. And we heard the guide calling at the top of his voice: "The door of the crypt is open! Who wishes to visit the crypt?!" We went down with those descending, and the guide stood on a small rise, pointed his finger at a tomb, and said in a loud, parrot-like tone: "Here lies Voltaire: a great philosopher. A great writer. A great poet..." Then he pointed to a second tomb: "Here lies Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a great writer. A great thinker..."

And to another tomb: "Here lies Victor Hugo, a great poet..."

Gibran pressed my arm and whispered in my ear: — I have had my fill of "great"... and I would now prefer a stroll along the river.

— I answered him: — You are right; I too have had my fill!. And at our