“The fortifications. In the great pure sky, of a warm serenity, the two o’clock sun was slowly descending. Above the immense Paris, distant smoke, russet smoke, rose in a light cloud, a scattered and flying breath of a colossus at work. It was Paris in its forge, Paris with its passions, its struggles, its thunder still rumbling, its ardent life still in childbirth of the life of tomorrow. And the white train, the lamentable train of all misery and pain, was coming back at high speed, blowing its heart-rending whistle. The five hundred pilgrims, the three hundred sick people were going to get lost in it and fall back on the hard pavement of their existence, after the prodigious dream they had just had, until the day when the consoling need of a new dream would force them to start again the eternal pilgrimage of mystery and oblivion.” - Archives Yan Morvan