![]() ![]() ![]() Nothing is beautiful to him any more, and he stopped believing in wonders long ago. The man gives an almost imperceptible nod. The man stands there while the child scampers around the graves, stalking colourful wings. The woman’s face – earnest, perhaps even serene – gazes out, her long hair billowing around her face as if being tossed by a wind at her back. Nonetheless, the angel on the bronze tablet attached to the marble gravestone is one of the loveliest here. This isn’t the Lady of the Camellias, either. He stops at a grave known only to a few people. ![]() You can find graves ornamented with artistic monuments and angelic figures in flowing stone garments, their arms gracefully outstretched, eyes fixed on the sky.Ī dark- haired man enters the cemetery, holding the hand of a young boy. Some of the people resting here are famous. It even uses names and numbers, which make it seem like a real town – a very silent town. ![]() It is a very old cemetery, complete with dirt paths and long shady drives that meander under lindens and maples. Montmartre – that famous hill on the northern edge of Paris, where tourists cluster around the street painters on the Place du Tertre as they create artworks of dubious quality, where couples ramble hand in hand through the lively springtime streets before sinking down a little breathless on the steps of the Sacré- Coeur, to gaze in amazement across the city shimmering in the final gentle rosy glow before nightfall – Montmartre is home to a cemetery. ![]()
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