In the Place de la Concorde
the fountains played as always, but--heart-warming change--the Strasburg
statue, symbol of the lost Lorraine and Alsace, no longer drooped under
wreaths of mourning, but sat crowned and garlanded with triumphant
flowers.
Like diminishing flies, the same eternal swarm of cabs and motors filled
the long vista of the Champs-Elysees between the green branches of the
chestnut trees. At the end loomed the Arc de Triomphe, beneath which the
hordes of the kaiser, in their first madness of conquest, had sworn
to march. Farther on, in the Bois, along the shady paths and about the
lakes, the French still walked in safety, because on the frontier their
soldiers had cried to the Teutons the famous watchword, "You do not
pass!" Noon was approaching, and at the Porte Maillot I consulted Miss
Falconer's card.
"Number 630, rue St.-Dominique," I bade the driver, the address falling
comfortably on my ears. I knew the neighborhood. Deep in the Faubourg
St.-Germain, it was a stronghold of the old noblesse, suggesting eminent
respectability, ancient and honorable customs, and family connections of
a highly desirable kind.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125