The hill, like a
promontory, overlooks the plain of Issy, the course of the Seine, and
the road to Versailles; its summit, clothed and overshaded by the
forest which fills up the triangular intervals between the three
avenues, appears like the rounded basin of a lake of which grass and
foliage are the billows. If one looks towards Sevres, one sees only a
long and sloping meadow stretching down towards the river like a
verdant and undulating cascade, which, after a rapid descent, loses
itself at the bottom of the valley in dark masses of thickets stocked
with deer. Beyond these thickets, on the other side of the Seine, the
blue slated roofs of Meudon, and the waving tops of the majestic trees
of its park, stand out in the blue summer sky. We often came to sit on
this hill, which has all the elevation of a promontory, the silence and
shade of a valley, and the solitude of a desert. The lungs play freer
there; the ear is less disturbed by the sounds of earth; the soul can
better wing its flight beyond the horizon of this life.
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