We turn into the Avenue du Bois.

Presently we shall sweep with the rest through the Champs Elysees and on to the ocean of the infinite, the heart of the mystery we call Life, nowhere so condensed, so palpable, so appealing.

Roll the screen away! The shades of Clovis and Genevieve may be seen hand-in-hand with the shades of Martel and Pepin, taking the round of the ghost-walk between St.Denis and St.Germain, now le Balafre and again Navarre, now the assassins of the Ligue and now the assassins of the Terror, to keep them company.

Nor yet quite all on murder bent, some on pleasure; the Knights and Ladies of the Cloth of Gold and the hosts of the Renaissance: Cyrano de Bergerac and Francois Villon leading the ragamuffin procession; the jades of the Fronde, Longueville, Chevreuse and fair-haired Anne of Austria; and Ninon, too, and Manon; and the never-to-be-forgotten Four, 'one for all and all for one;' Cagliostro and Monte Cristo; on the side, Rabelais taking notes and laughing under his cowl.

Catherine de Medici and Robespierre slinking away, poor, guilty things, into the pale twilight of the Dawn! "Names! Names! Only names?
I am not just so sure about that.