As we came out, the air and the buildings round about were tinged with
purple, and the clear sharp half-moon before-mentioned was still in the
sky, where it seemed to be lingering as if it would catch a peep of the
commencement of the famous procession. The Arc de Triomphe was shining
in a keen frosty sunshine, and looking as clean and rosy as if it had
just made its toilette. The canvas or pasteboard image of Napoleon, of
which only the gilded legs had been erected the night previous, was now
visible, body, head, crown, sceptre and all, and made an imposing show.
Long gilt banners were flaunting about, with the imperial cipher and
eagle, and the names of the battles and victories glittering in gold.
The long avenues of the Champs Elysees had been covered with sand for
the convenience of the great procession that was to tramp across it that
day. Hundreds of people were marching to and fro, laughing, chattering,
singing, gesticulating as happy Frenchmen do. There is no pleasanter
sight than a French crowd on the alert for a festival, and nothing more
catching than their good-humor.
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