That day is dawn from one end to the other. The flower-beds of Saint-Cloud perfume the air. Bees pillage the jasmines. A pack of vagabond birds occupies the king's park. The four couples, mingled with sun and grass, are resplendent. They talk, sing, run, chase butterflies, wet their open-work stockings in the tall grass. All receive, to some extent, the kisses of all, except Fantine, who is hedged about with that vague resistance of hers, dreaminess and wildness, and who is in love. Favourite tells her she always has a queer look. Such things are joys, Hugo says, and people think they will never come to an end. After breakfast they go to the King's Square to see a newly arrived Indian shrub, a long stem bristling with a million tiny white rosettes, like a head of hair studded with flowers. Paris has been crowding to look at it.
Tholomyès offers them asses. They return by Vanvres and Issy. The contractor's park is wide open. They visit the manikin anchorite, try the cabinet of mirrors, stoutly shake the swing on two chestnut-trees. As he swings the others, producing folds Greuze would have liked, Tholomyès, somewhat of a Spaniard because Toulouse is cousin to Tolosa, sings an old gallega about Badajoz, love, and instruction received at a woman's feet. Fantine alone refuses to swing. Favourite mutters, with acrimony, that she does not like people putting on airs like that.
They leave the asses, cross the Seine in a boat, walk from Passy to the barrier of l'Étoile. They have been up since five. Favourite says there is no such thing as fatigue on Sunday. About three they slide down the Russian mountains on the heights of Beaujon, an undulating line above the trees of the Champs-Élysées. From time to time Favourite exclaims that she claims the surprise. Patience, replies Tholomyès.
Coming Up in Chapter 32
The Russian mountains having been exhausted, the eight become stranded in Bombarda's public house, an ugly room with a bed at the far end. Two tables: one a mountain of bouquets and hats, the other a merry confusion of platters. It is half-past four. The shepherd idyll has reached dinner.
