There Were Seven Of Us On A Drag, Four Women And Three Men; One Of The
Latter Sat On The Box Seat Beside The Coachman. We Were Ascending, At A
Snail's Pace, The Winding Road Up The Steep Cliff Along The Coast.
Setting Out From Etretat At Break Of Day In Order To Visit The Ruins Of
Tancarville, We Were Still Half Asleep, Benumbed By The Fresh Air Of The
Morning. The Women Especially, Who Were Little Accustomed To These Early
Excursions, Half Opened And Closed Their Eyes Every Moment, Nodding
Their Heads Or Yawning, Quite Insensible To The Beauties Of The Dawn.
It Was Autumn. On Both Sides Of The Road Stretched The Bare Fields,
Yellowed By The Stubble Of Wheat And Oats Which Covered The Soil Like A
Beard That Had Been Badly Shaved. The Moist Earth Seemed To Steam. Larks
Were Singing High Up In The Air, While Other Birds Piped In The Bushes.
The Sun Rose At Length In Front Of Us, Bright Red On The Plane Of The
Horizon, And In Proportion As It Ascended, Growing Clearer From Minute
To Minute, The Country Seemed To Awake, To Smile, To Shake Itself Like
A Young Girl Leaving Her Bed In Her White Robe Of Vapor. The Comte
D'etraille, Who Was Seated On The Box, Cried:
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