“The tumult and the shouting dies,
The captains and the kings depart.”
Something of that wan and forlorn look is beginning to appear that makes even these buildings themselves seem dejected and remorseful, by the time the street cleaners advance to flood the boulevards and the sky beyond Père-Lachaise is paling to dawn. The heart says, “Let’s keep it up”; the body says, “To bed.” And now, too, the crasser comedies of the fag end of the night receive their premières. Amaryllis has lost her Colin and laments loudly with Florian:—
“C’est mon ami,
Rendez-le moi;
J’ai son amour,
Il a ma foi.”
Mlle. Fifi demands her carriage and bundles out into it, with the red-faced Baron hurrying after, carrying her amazing hat; and off they go toward the Champs-Élysées. A stag party of revelers hails a victoria and sinks limply onto its cushions; and they, too, head for the Champs-Élysées with one hanging onto the cocher and reciting dramatically:—
“Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami Pierrot.”