258 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



house is exactly the same height as the next, the 

 windows are of the same pattern, the wooden outer 

 blinds the same shape ; the line of the level roof runs 

 along straight and unbroken, the chimneys are either 

 invisible or insignificant. Nothing projects, no bow 

 window, balcony, or gable ; the surface is as flat as 

 well can be. From parapet to pavement the wall de- 

 scends plumb, and the glance slips along it unchecked. 

 Each house is exactly the same colour as the next, 

 white ; the wooden outer blinds are all the same 

 colour, a dull grey ; in the windows there are no 

 visible red, or green, or tapestry curtains, mere sashes. 

 There are no flowers in the windows to catch the 

 sunlight. The upper stories have the air of being 

 uninhabited, as the windows have no curtains what- 

 ever, and the wooden blinds are frequently closed. 

 Two flat vertical surfaces, one on each side of the 

 street, each white and grey, extend onwards and 

 approach in mathematical ratio. That is a Parisian 

 street. 



Go on now to the next street, and you find pre- 

 cisely the same conditions repeated — the streets that 

 cross are similar, those that radiate the same. Some 

 are short, others long, some wide, some narrow; they 

 are all geometry and white paint. The vast avenues, 

 a rifle-shot across, such as the Avenue de I'Opdra, 

 differ only in width and in the height of the houses. 

 The monotony of these gigantic houses is too great to 

 be expressed. Then across the end of the avenue they 

 throw some immense fa9ade — some public building, 

 an opera-house, a palace, a ministry, anything will 

 do — in order that you shall see nothing but Paris. 



