s ribbon. Flowers are thrown
from one to the other. They pass through the air like balls, striking
fresh faces, bouncing and falling into the dust, where an army of
youngsters pick them up.

A thick crowd is standing on the sidewalks looking on and held in check
by the mounted police, who pass brutally along pushing back the curious
pedestrians as though to prevent the common people from mingling with
the rich.

In the carriages, people call to each other, recognize each other and
bombard each other with roses. A chariot full of pretty women, dressed
in red, like devils, attracts the eyes of all. A gentleman, who looks
like the portraits of Henry IV., is throwing an immense bouquet which
is held back by an elastic. Fearing the shock, the women hide their
eyes and the men lower their heads, but the graceful, rapid and obedient
missile describes a curve and returns to its master, who immediately
throws it at some new face.

The two young women begin to throw their stock of flowers by handfuls,
and receive a perfect hail of bouquets; then, after an hour of warfare,
a little tired, they tell the coachman to drive along the road which
follows the seashore.

The sun disappears behind Esterel, outlining the dark, rugged mountain
against the sunset sky. The clear blue sea, as calm as a mill-pond,
stretches out as far as the horizon, where it blends with the sky;
and the fleet, anchored in the middle of the bay, looks like a herd of
enormous beasts, motionless on the water, apocalyptic animals, armored
and hump-backed, their frail masts looking like feathers, and with eyes
which light up when evening approaches.

The two young women, leaning back under the heavy robes, look out lazily
over the blue expanse of water. At last one of them says:

"How delightful the evenings are! How good everything seems! Don't you
think so, Margot?"

"Yes, it is good. But there is always something lacking."

"What is lacking? I feel perfectly happy. I don't need anything else."

"Yes, you do. You are not thinking of it. No matter how contented we may
be, physically, we always long for something more--for the heart."

The other asked with a smile:

"A little love?"

"Yes."

They stopped talking, their eyes fastened on the distant horizon, then
the one called Marguerite murmured: "Life without that seems to me
unbearable. I need to be loved, if only by a dog. But we are all alike,
no matter what you may say, Simone."

"Not at all,