A Salon in Paris before the War, Part III [pp. 323-328]

A Salon in Paris before the War.
A SALON IN PARIS BEFORE THE WAR.
PART III.
ON TIHE BOULI EVARDS.
SUMMER had come, and was neairly gone. Paris was deserted. As
autumn approached, lifting its fiery
finger over the city, the flaizeuzrs disappeared. All those who could flee,
fled. The faubourg had fled long
ago to its chateaux. The Chauss6e
d'Antin and the Champs Elys6es
were fleeing aux eaux or alix
baits de mler and the boulevards,
with their glittering shops and cafes
and theatres, were left to the mercy
of the tourist. Perhaps the tourist
would retort that he was left to the
mercy of the boulevards. And perhaps he would be right. Clhii,goned
sirens, who dwelt in glass cases surrounded by millions of glass vials
ranged in rhythmic color from the
ceiling to the floor, so as to make
the sirens look as much as possible
like the centre point of an elaborate
kaleidoscope, smiled through their
crystal shell at the reckless being who
stood outside to peep and wonder.
The door stood open. He might not
hear the siren's, " Entrez, monsieur!"
but there was no being deaf to her
smile; it drew him irresistibly.
"Would monsieur not like just to
'gouter' our last novelty,'cerise a
la Victor Noir?' Would he not very
much like to take some little souvenir home to madame?"
Of course monsieur would. Weak
mortal! He unbuttons his coat, and
straightway the bees which had sipped abundantly of native porte-monnaies the rest of the year, alight on
the purse of the tourist, and suck it,
if not dry, as nearly dry as they can.
Busy " dead season," when stale
bonbons and faded finery are brought
out, christened by new names, and sold
to the barbarians across the Channel.
Paris does not want any more of it,
but Londres, that city which the
English in their ignorance of the
French language call Lon-don Londres will find it charming!
Gaily, busily the bees were plying
their task. The long white lines of
Haussmann barracks glared shadowless in the fierce vertical sun; gilded
railings and balconies flashed in gingerbread magnificence; the dome of the
Invalides rose up against the cloudless blue and blazed like a burning
mount; the red heat poured down
from the zenith on the miles of aspha/le that meander through the city,
and pelted it till it softened and gave
under your foot like india-rubber.
Even the lordly chestnuts of the Tuileries, so carefully tended, so abundantly watered, were burnt brown
and red, and were shedding their
leaves from exhaustion; not a vestige
of green was anywhere visible. The
fountains were playing, but even they
had a tired, worn-out look, and the
water seemed to go'on splashing lazily from miere force of habit; the flag
was still floating above the'palace,
the gray old palace blinking with its
myriad glass eyes in the sultry noon;
the broad walks were deserted, no
little feet wvent pattering on the gravel, no merry child-laughter rang
through the shade to scare the swallows from their cool siesta; the whole
scene, lately so animated and bright,
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