I still recollect with what raptures of expectation I got up on the morning of the day.

There was a holy joy in the air.

The neighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or figures, worked in tapestry, along the streets.

I went from one to another, by turns admiring religious scenes of the Middle Ages, mythological compositions of the Renaissance, old battles in the style of Louis XIV, and the Arcadias of Madame de Pompadour.

All this world of phantoms seemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist--silent and motionless--at the holy ceremony.