ABSTRACT
We’re on a bench aside the main path into the Orangerie. It's just here where you can see that a few of the magnificent giant plane trees of the avenue were blown down in one of the city's great collectively-recalled events, the December 26, 1999 storm. It's 10.30. Dusk merges into night. My British friends, who really value the quality of life this city has handed them, sit next to me as we eat our ice creams. Our young daughters have finished their ices and are now riding their little bicycles—one pink, one light blue—up and down the avenue as far as Empress Josephine's pavilion. “Stay in our sight, that's all,” we instruct, but I for one am hardly vigilant. It all seems so pleasant, I feel zero apprehension (FIGURE).
