I had again saved up enough money to carry my long longed-for journey to
Paris into execution. The _Seine's_ boiler got up its steam, the
_Seine's_ white awning was put up for me as well as others; and on a
beautiful cloudless English morning I stood by the man at the wheel, and
saw St. Paul's and London Bridge and the Tower fade out of sight; with
what hope and joy I cannot describe. I almost forgot that I was me!
And next morning (a beautiful French morning) how I exulted as I went up
the Champs Elysees and passed under the familiar Arc de Triomphe on my
way to the Rue de la Pompe, Passy, and heard all around the familiar
tongue that I still knew so well, and rebreathed the long-lost and
half-forgotten, but now keenly remembered, fragrance of the _genius
loci_; that vague, light, indescribable, almost imperceptible scent of a
place, that is so heavenly laden with the past for those who have lived
there long ago--the most subtly intoxicating ether that can be!
When I came to the meeting of the Rue de la Tour and the Rue de la
Pompe, and, looking in at the grocer's shop at the corner, I recognized
the handsome mustachioed groceress, Madame Liard (whose mustache twelve
prosperous years had turned gray), I was almost faint with emotion.
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