Everyone smiles, for they know whither, they are bound. For Pré Catelon, of course, in the Bois de Boulogne, where they will chase the ducks and chickens around the little farmyard and make speeches to the mild-eyed cows and recover themselves gradually on mugs of cold milk.
Clearly, it is time to depart. One does not want the lees of this sparkling cup. A man is a fool to abuse his pleasures—though this may sound naïve at one o’clock in the morning. Go, while everything is still charming and delightful. The seasoned boulevardier can do it, for he has a viewpoint that is all his own; it is by no means that of France, nor yet that of Paris by day, but of Paris by night—his Paris. It is opportunism applied to society. Not the mad, reckless après-moi-le-déluge folly rout of the late Louises, but rather a conception of the importance of few things and the inconsequence of many. He sings with Villon: “Where are the snows of yester-year?” He searches the classics, and has “Carpe Diem” framed. He skims Holy Writ and puts his finger on “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” “Life is poetry,” quoth he, “in spite of a limping line here and there! Why fuss over Waterloo, or the Place de Grève, or the guillotine, or the tumbrils that rattled up the Rue Royale? The present alone is ours; enjoy it to the uttermost! Life is beautiful and of the moment. Lights are sparkling. Fountains are splashing. The night is delicious with fragrance and enchanting with music and laughter. Join me!” he cries. “I raise my glass: To the lilies of France and the Bright Eyes of the Daughters of Paris!”
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U. S. A.