Suresnes

It was sunset when we reached the gates of Paris.

Under the heights of Saint-Cloud and Suresnes, the reaches of the Seine trembled with the blue-pink luster of an early Monet.

The Bois lay about us in the stillness of a holiday evening, and the lawns of Bagatelle were as fresh as June.

Below the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysées sloped downward in a sun-powdered haze to the mist of fountains and the ethereal obelisk, and the currents of summer life ebbed and flowed with a normal beat under the trees of the radiating avenues.