Swann in the Allée de la Reine Marguerite, I found not the grey “tile” hats of old, nor any other kind. They walked the Bois bareheaded. And seeing all these new elements of the spectacle, I had no longer the faith which, applied to them, would have given them consistency, unity, life; they passed in a scattered sequence before me, at random, without reality, containing in themselves no beauty that my eyes might have endeavoured as in the old days, to extract from them and to compose in a picture. They were just women, in whose elegance I had no belief, and whose clothes seemed to me unimportant. But when a belief vanishes, there survives it⁠—more and more ardently, so as to cloak the absence of the power, now lost to us, of imparting reality to new phenomena⁠—an idolatrous attachment to the old things which our belief in them did once animate, as if it was in that belief and not in ourselves that the divine spark resided, and as if our present incredulity had a contingent cause⁠—the death of the gods.