Through the same old cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my lady and sir Leicister, in their travelling chariot (my Lady's woman and Sir Leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With a considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two centaurs with glazed hats, jack boots, and flowing manes and tails, they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendôme and canter between the sun-and-shadow-checquered colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of the headless king and queen, off by the Palace of the Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the Gate of the Star, out of Paris.
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