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The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it good for luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed- grown tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe walls a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight.
My hostess stopped her knitting, half rose, looked forth. "Yes. But what a lovely night! How is it that the moon blends into harmony things of which the sun only marks the contrast? That stately old church tower, gray with its thousand years, those vulgar tile-roofs and chimney-pots raw in the freshness of yesterday, now, under the moonlight, all melt into one indivisible charm!"
There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-grown tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe walls a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Up-street, and across the Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in Faubourg Ste.-Marie standing in silent wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias, tattered victims of the storm.
My hostess stopped her knitting, half rose, looked forth. "Yes. But what a lovely night! How is it that the moon blends into harmony things of which the sun only marks the contrast? That stately old church tower, gray with its thousand years, those vulgar tile-roofs and chimney-pots raw in the freshness of yesterday, now, under the moonlight, all melt into one indivisible charm!"
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