So she told herself a thousand times to give
her strength when the mist would come over her sight, and the earth would
seem to tremble as she went. On the fifteenth day from the night when she
had left her hut by the swans' water, Bebee saw Paris.
Shining away in the sun; white and gold; among woods and gardens she saw
Paris.
She was so tired--oh, so tired--but she could not rest now. There were
bells ringing always in her ears, and a heavy pain always in her head.
But what of that?--she was so near to him.
"Are you ill, you little thing?" a woman asked her who was gathering
early cherries in the outskirts of the great city.
Bebee looked at her and smiled: "I do not know--I am happy."
And she went onward.
It was evening. The sun had set. She had not eaten for twenty-four hours.
But she could not pause for anything now. She crossed the gleaming river,
and she heard the cathedral chimes. Paris in all its glory was about her,
but she took no more note of it than a pigeon that flies through it
intent on reaching home.
No one looked at or stopped her; a little dusty peasant with a bundle on
a stick over her shoulder.
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