On the 10th of August, 1862, at four o’clock in the afternoon, a great number of people were thronging before the well-known Konversation in Baden-Baden. The weather was lovely; everything around — the green trees, the bright houses of the gay city, and the undulating outline of the mountains — everything was in holiday mood, basking in the rays of the kindly sun shine; everything seemed smiling with a sort of blind, confiding delight; and the same glad, vague smile strayed over the human faces, too, old and young, ugly and beautiful alike. Even the blackened and whitened visages of the Parisian demi-monde could not destroy the general impression of bright content and elation, while their many-colored ribbons and feathers and the sparks of gold and steel on their hats and veils in voluntarily recalled the intensified brilliance and light fluttering of birds in spring, with their rainbow-tinted wings. But the dry, guttural snapping of the French jargon, heard on all sides could not equal the song of birds, nor be compared with it.
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