Do you think, for instance, that it would be pleasant to be loved by-by-” She was thinking by whom she might possibly be loved, glancing across the wide landscape. I had rather not be loved at all than to be loved by the first comer. But we are all alike, no matter what you may say, Simone.” “Not at all, my dear. 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 don't need anything else.” “Yes, you do. But there is always something lacking.” “What is lacking? I feel perfectly happy. 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. The two young women, leaning back under the heavy robes, look out lazily over the blue expanse of water. 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 sun disappears behind Esterel, outlining the dark, rugged mountain against the sunset sky. 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. 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. A gentleman, who looks like the portraits of Henry IV., is throwing an immense bouquet which is held back by an elastic. A chariot full of pretty women, dressed in red, like devils, attracts the eyes of all. In the carriages, people call to each other, recognize each other and bombard each other with roses. 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. They pass through the air like balls, striking fresh faces, bouncing and falling into the dust, where an army of youngsters pick them up. Flowers are thrown from one to the other. All along the immense avenue a double row of flower-bedecked vehicles are going and coming like an endless ribbon. The carriage reaches the Boulevard de la Fonciere, where the battle is waged. The landau drives rapidly along the road, through the Rue d'Antibes, preceded, followed, accompanied, by a crowd of other carriages covered with flowers, full of women almost hidden by a sea of violets. The coachman's whip is wound with a garland of anemones, the horses' traces are dotted with carnations, the spokes of the wheels are clothed in mignonette, and where the lanterns ought to be are two enormous round bouquets which look as though they were the eyes of this strange, rolling, flower-bedecked creature. On the front seat are two small hampers of white satin filled with violets, and on the bearskin by which their knees are covered there is a mass of roses, mimosas, pinks, daisies, tuberoses and orange blossoms, interwoven with silk ribbons the two frail bodies seem buried under this beautiful perfumed bed, which hides everything but the shoulders and arms and a little of the dainty waists. They are alone in the immense landau, which is filled with flowers like a giant basket. AS MOSCAS DE DEUS: The two young women appear to be buried under a blanket of flowers.
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