Another rampart of the same blood red and a great gate ornamented with faience through which we must pass,--this time it is the real gate of the Imperial City, the gate of the region which no one was ever allowed to enter; it is to me as though it had been announced as the gate to mystery or to an enchanted land. We enter, and my surprise is great; for it is not a city, but a wood,--a sombre wood, infested with crows which croak in the gray branches. The trees are the same as those at the Temple of Heaven,--cedars, arbor-vitæ, and willows,--old trees all of them, of twisted shapes, unknown in our country. Sleet and snow cling to their branches, and the inevitable dust in the narrow, windy paths engulfs us. There are also wooded hills where kiosks of faience rise among the cedars; in spite of their height, it is plain that they are artificial. Obscured by the snow and dust, we can see here and there in the distant wood austere old palaces, with enamelled roofs, guarded by horrible marble monsters which crouch at the thresholds. The whole place is of an incontestable beauty, while at the same time it is dismal, unfriendly, and disturbing under this sombre sky. Now we approach some enormous object which we shall soon be alongside of. Is it a fortress, a prison, or something more lugubrious still? Double ramparts without end, always blood red, with gloomy dungeons and a moat thirty metres wide, full of water-lilies and dying roses. This is the Violet City, enclosed in the heart of the impenetrable Imperial City, and more impenetrable still. It is the residence of the Invisible, of the Son of Heaven--God! but the place is gloomy, hostile, savage, beneath this sombre sky! We continue to advance under the old trees into what seems the park of death. [Illustration: MARBLE BRIDGE OVER MOAT BEFORE SOUTHERN GATE OF THE FORBIDDEN CITY] These dumb, closed palaces, seen first on one side, then on the other, are the Temple of the God of the Clouds, the Temple of Imperial Longevity, or the Temple of the Benediction of Sacred Mountains. Their names, inconceivable to us, the names of an Asiatic dream, make them still more unreal. My companion assures me that this Yellow City is not always so terrible as it is to-day; for this weather is exceptional in a Chinese autumn, which is usually magnificently luminous. He promises me afternoons of warm sunshine in this wood, unique in all the world, where I shall make my home for several days. "Now look," he said, "look! This is the Lake of the Lotus, and that is the Marble Bridge." The Lake of the Lotus and the Marble Bridge! These two names have long been known to me as the names of things _which could not be seen_, but of things whose reputations had crossed insurmountable walls. They call up images of light and intense color, and are a surprise to me here in this mournful desert, in this icy wind.