one o’clock in the morning
When you arrive by night , and from the windows of the flying train , as it whirls past the streets at full speed , you see Paris enveloped in red steam , pierced by starry lines of gas-lamps crisscrossing in every direction , the sight is weird , and almost beautiful . You might fancy it the closing scene of some gigantic gala , where strings upon strings of colored lanterns brighten the night above a moving throng , passing , repassing , and raising a cloud of dust that reddens in the glow of expiring Bengal lights . Moreover , the illusion is in part a reality , for the great city is in truth lighted for its nightly revel . Till one o'clock in the morning it is alight and riotous with the stir and swing of life . But the dawn is bleak enough . That , delicious hour which puts a spirit of joy into green field and hedgerow is awful to look upon in Paris . You leave the train half-frozen , to find the porters red-eyed from their watch .