Chapter 32: Chapter 32

IV Tholomyès Is So Merry That He Sings a Spanish Ditty That day was composed of dawn, from one end to the other. All nature seemed to be having a holiday, and to be laughing. The flowerbeds of Saint-Cloud perfumed the air; the breath of the Seine rustled the leaves vaguely; the branches gesticulated in the wind, bees pillaged the jasmines; a whole bohemia of butterflies swooped down upon the yarrow, the clover, and the sterile oats; in the august park of the King of France there was a pac…