In the meantime an unexpected carriage had appeared in the procession. Entirely decorated with scarlet, copper red, and orange cannas, flame-like in shape and color, Clément Dulaurens’ motor puffed past snorting and panting. In the brilliant daylight it looked like a raging fire.
It was the first motor car allowed to take part in the show, and it was by no means welcome. Its abominable smell overwhelmed the scent of the flowers, and the horrible noise which accompanied its quivering progress brought down upon it the wrath of the crowd, in spite of indignant protests from some lovers of the sport.
Shouts of “Poisonous monster!” “Go to the ‘devil’” were heard.
“Fire! fire!” cried others at this wizard of the flaming flowers.
In the face of all this outcry, the young man did not try to force public favor. He was clever enough to leave the procession and on reaching the deserted race-course he let his swift obedient machine go. Across the lawn he went at full speed in his flaming car like a dazzling rocket and disappeared in the direction of the sun, but not too soon to hear the far-off cheers which at last greeted the matchless power of the machine and its meteor-like beauty.
Either from satiety or fatigue the battle was dying down. In vain the flower-sellers offered their flowers at a reduction. Cradled on their donkeys, the happy babies were the only ones who took much interest in the show. Foreseeing that people would soon be tired of it the jury began to distribute the prizes.
The sun was already setting on the Marlioz plain. Delicate shades of pink, violet, gold, and mauve were dusted over the horizon like some impalpable powder. And as the sun set, keeping to themselves all its vanishing glory the rocks of Mount Revard spread themselves with a robe of brilliant red, under which they seemed to quiver with joy as in a bath of light. As he was leaving the stand after Alice, Marcel stopped to admire this rapturous display of nature; the girl turned round to call him and wondered at the joy in his face. He had felt in himself a similar exaltation of all his vital forces.
The Dulaurens and their guests got into the coach awaiting them on the road and drove back to Aix-les-Bains.
On the evening of the Battle of Flowers it is the custom to dine in the open air, either at the Club or at the Villa, weather permitting. The restaurants encroach upon the gardens and on the well-worn lawns; Rows of little tables are set out, where lamps with many colored shades shine among the trees like scintillating glow-worms.
Armand de Marthenay, who had been asked to dine with the Dulaurenses, joined the party in the big hall of the Club. They had reserved one of the favorite and most sheltered tables, at the end of the terrace, for Alice was sensitive to cold and at nights a fresh breeze blew from the mountains. The cavalry lieutenant was in a bad humor. He could not swallow his discomfiture of the afternoon. As soon as he saw Marcel Guibert he came up to him rashly and remarked: