So, after some difficulty, they persuaded the driver of a _voiture_ to drive them up the Champs Élysées and the length of the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne to the gates of the park. There the _cocher_ drew up to the curb inexorably and stopped without paying the least attention to the protests of the Americans. “We must get down,” said Andree. “He cannot go inside.” “But there are _voitures_ inside—lots of them. Why can’t he go in?” She shrugged her shoulders, but arose, and Madeleine followed her. They knew the way of the Paris coachmen—or it may have been a rule, or an agreement for the division of patronage. At any rate, they got down and paid the absurdly low fare. Then, walking two by two, they entered the famous park. The walks near the entrance were crowded, but as they penetrated the city’s playground the congestion became less dense. But it did seem as if Madeleine were right, that all the world had come to the Bois that day. Every seat, and they were scattered about generously, was occupied. Back among the trees family parties had preempted shady glades and were spreading lunches. Buxom young women played battledore with _poilus_ on permission, or engaged in what they seriously believed to be tennis with the most profound earnestness. This tennis delighted Bert, who insisted upon stopping to watch more than one game. The players had no nets—only rackets and a ball. With these they placed themselves sometimes as much as twenty feet apart and then lobbed the ball back and forth with such a seriousness and intensity that it seemed they were playing for life itself.... Children were everywhere, and stout old ladies who drowsed and lean old men who had taken off their coats and were tormented by insects.... Out on the pavements men and women and children rode furiously by on bicycles, all crouching apprehensively over their handlebars and pedaling for dear life.... Youths in French uniforms made vigorous and unashamed love to their sweethearts.... It was very hot.