Indeed, they woke in me a healthy craving for all but forgotten earthly
joys--even for wretched meat and drink--so I went and ordered a
sumptuous repast at the Tete Noire--a brand-new Tete Noire, alas! quite
white, all in stone and stucco, and without a history!
It was a beautiful sunset. Waiting for my dinner, I gazed out of the
first-floor window, and found balm for my disappointed and regretful
spirit in all that democratic joyousness of French Sunday life. I had
seen it over and over again just like that in the old days; _this_, at
least, was like coming back home to something I had known and loved.
The cafes on the little "Place" between the bridge and the park were
full to overflowing. People chatting over their _consommations_ sat
right out, almost into the middle of the square, so thickly packed that
there was scarcely room for the busy, lively, white-aproned waiters to
move between them. The air was full of the scent of trodden grass and
macaroons and French tobacco, blown from the park; of gay French
laughter and the music of _mirlitons_; of a light dusty haze, shot with
purple and gold by the setting sun. The river, alive with boats and
canoes, repeated the glory of the sky, and the well-remembered,
thickly-wooded hills rose before me, culminating in the Lanterne
de Diogene.
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