To Victor Hugo I It’s you, I’m thinking of, Andromache. The little river like a mournful mirror reflecting back your widowed majesty, your lying Simois deepened tear by tear, flooded up into memory again as I crossed the new Carrousel. And I thought how the old Paris is gone (the shape of a town changes faster, it seems, than a human heart); only the mind’s eye holds those booths and stalls, the rough-hewn shafts and capitals, the stones in green-scummed piles, the weeds and stagnant pools, the jumbled bric-a-brac glittering at the panes. A zoo once spread across this open…