The sun had set.

She had not eaten for twenty-four hours.
But she could not pause for anything now.

She crossed the gleaming river, and she heard the cathedral chimes.

Paris in all its glory was about her, but she took no more note of it than a pigeon that flies through it intent on reaching home.
No one looked at or stopped her; a little dusty peasant with a bundle on a stick over her shoulder.
The click-clack of her wooden shoes on the hot pavements made none look up; little rustics came up every day like this to make their fortunes in Paris.

Some grew into golden painted silken flowers, the convolvuli of their brief summer days; and some drifted into the Seine water, rusted, wind-tossed, fallen leaves, that were wanted of no man.