How lifeless it sounds now, as I write down the ghosts of her words which haunt my memory! But how wonderfully alive they sounded that dazzling summer morning—Paris spread out at our feet—we two alone on the top of the world! Even then her words might have seemed dead things, if they had not been illumined by her vibrant beauty, by the glorious faith and enthusiasm within her. All this history was vitally alive to her. So had passed the first acts in the great drama of progress. And she saw the last act—the final consummation of universal brotherhood—as something near indeed, compared to the long centuries since Abelard had rung up the curtain. We are always attracted by what we lack and her faith threw new chains about me. A swarm of German tourists broke in upon us, and to escape them we went down to lunch. At this second meal with her she told me something of her life. She had been bred to the faith. Her mother, a Frenchwoman, had married an American. Suzanne had been born in New York. But her three uncles had been involved in the Communard revolt of 1871. One had died on the barricade. The other two had been sent to New Caledonia. The younger, living through the horrors of that Penal Colony, had escaped to America and had brought the shattered remnant of his life to his sister’s home. He had been the mentor of Suzanne’s childhood. Six months before I encountered her in Paris, she had fallen sick from overwork, and had come to relatives in Southern Prance to regain her strength. Recovered now, she was spending the last month of her vacation sight-seeing in Paris. She asked me where I was stopping, which reminded me that I had not yet secured a place to sleep. I blamed it on her for having taken me off to the cathedral when I should have been looking up a hotel. "Why waste money on a hotel?" she asked. "If you’re going to be here several weeks a _pension_ is lots cheaper." She told me of the place where she was staying over on the Left Bank. There were vacant rooms. I dashed away to cancel my sailing, to collect my baggage and, before I had time to realize my good fortune, I was installed under the same roof with her. My memory of the next few days is a jumble of Suzanne in the Musée Carnavelet, Suzanne in the Luxembourg, Suzanne in the Place de la Concorde, pointing out where they had guillotined the king, Suzanne under the dome of Les Invalides, denouncing Napoleon and all his ways. Coming back from Versailles one evening, I asked her if she ever thought of living permanently in France. "No," she said emphatically. "I love France, but I don’t like the French. The men don’t know how to treat a woman seriously. They always talk love." "I envy them the _sang froid_ with which they express their feelings."