The enthusiasm of the crowd made no distinction between the charm of earth and the charm of woman. The incessant stream of flying bouquets was a link between the occupants of the stands and the beauties of the procession, who bent before the tributes paid to them and, amid the perfume that invaded earth and air alike, made their wondrous progress over a carpet of flowers, under a rain of flowers. The popular excitement grew still greater as the spectators saw the Allegory of Summer approaching. On a chariot with golden wheels drawn by white horses, ears of wheat were bound in sheaves whose gold was enhanced by the red and blue of the poppies and cornflowers, the rubies and sapphires of the fields. Young girls, whose flowing robes were the color of straw, whose unbound hair streamed in fair waves, veritable types of the supple maidens of Botticelli’s Primavera, symbolised, like the ripe grain itself, prosperity and happiness. “Bravo!” cried the crowd, designating this golden car to the jury for the first prize. Isabelle Orlandi and Jean Berlier emptied their baskets with joyful gaiety. The girl was wearing a white dress, and her bodice, half covered by a bolero, was trimmed with pleated satin of the color of mother-of-pearl. Pleasure intoxicated her, and her flushed brown cheeks betrayed her quickened pulses. The two young people reserved their hardest shots for the arrival of a few ancient crones who were not afraid to dishonor this procession of youth by their presence. They are to be met with at all fashionable promenades at Nice, at Monte Carlo, at Aix. In fact, they are apparently the same at all these functions. They try to forget or to cheat death, and their very faces adjure us to make the best of life or remind us of the threats of time. One of them was at last hit, and kept on her hat and head-dress with difficulty under the shocks of the missiles. Isabelle and Jean could no longer restrain their laughter. Beside Alice Dulaurens, whose mauve dress trimmed with white lace enhanced her ethereal grace, Marcel felt his will weakening and his melancholy disappearing. A cloud of colors and scents surrounded and enervated him. He could see nothing but flowers on the path of his future life. At intervals, however, a strange vision would come back to his memory, some vivid landscape of his childhood, or some dark valley in the Colonies, and he regretted these pictures of his old enthusiasms which he tried in vain to keep fresh. But why seek to bring back the past when the present had so many charms? He gazed, not without that sadness which accompanies a growing desire, at the dazzling white neck of the girl as she bent forward to get a better view of the course of her awkwardly thrown bouquet and he could not but admire the bloom of her pale skin.