Masked
carriages filed hither and thither, crowding between hedges of hideous
men and women standing on the sidewalks. That sinister wall of spectators
had tiger eyes, red with wine, gleaming with hatred. The carriage wheels
splashed mud over this wall, but it did not move. I was standing on the
front seat of an open carriage; from time to time a man in rags would
step out from the wall, hurl a torrent of abuse at us, then cover us with
a cloud of flour. Mud would soon follow; yet we kept on our way toward
the Isle of Love and the pretty wood of Romainville consecrated by so
many sweet kisses. One of my friends fell from his seat into the mud,
narrowly escaping death on the paving. The people threw themselves on him
to overpower him and we were obliged to hasten to his assistance. One of
the trumpeters who preceded us on horseback was struck on the shoulder by
a paving stone; the flour had given out. I had never heard of anything
like that.
I began to understand the time and comprehend the spirit of the age.
CHAPTER III
DESGENAIS had planned a reunion of young people at his country house. The
best wines, a splendid table, gaming, dancing, hunting, nothing was
lacking. Desgenais was rich and generous. He combined antique hospitality
with modern custom. Moreover one could always find in his house the best
books; his conversation was that of a man of learning and culture.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92