The spectacle had been magnificent and the scene they now entered was
a worthy successor to it. They walked down through the garden of the
Tuileries and emerged upon the Place de la Concorde at five o'clock of
a perfect April afternoon, when the great square hummed and sang with
the gleaming traffic of luxury. Countless automobiles, like glistening
beetles, darted about, each one with its load of carefully dressed and
coiffed women, looking out on the weaving glitter of the street with
the proprietary, complacent stare of those who feel themselves in the
midst of a civilization with which they are in perfect accord. Up the
avenue, beyond, streamed an incessant parade of more costly ears, more
carriages, shining, caparisoned horses, every outfit sumptuous to its
last detail, every one different from all the others, and hundreds and
hundreds and hundreds of them, till in the distance they dwindled to
a black stream dominated by the upward sweep of the Arc de Triomphe,
magnified to fabulous proportions by the filmy haze of the spring day.
To their left flowed the Seine, blue and flashing. A little breeze
stirred the new leaves on the innumerable trees.
Sylvia stopped for an instant to take in the marvel of this pageant,
enacted every day of every season against that magnificent background.
She made a gesture to call her companions' attention to it--"Isn't it
in the key of Rubens--bloom, radiance, life expansive!"
"And Chabrier should set it to music," said Morrison.
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