Noon
Like diminishing flies , the same eternal swarm of cabs and motors filled the long vista of the Champs-Elysees between the green branches of the chestnut trees . At the end loomed the Arc de Triomphe , beneath which the hordes of the kaiser , in their first madness of conquest , had sworn to march . Farther on , in the Bois , along the shady paths and about the lakes , the French still walked in safety , because on the frontier their soldiers had cried to the Teutons the famous watchword , `` You do not pass ! '' Noon was approaching , and at the Porte Maillot I consulted Miss Falconer 's card . `` Number 630 , rue St.-Dominique , '' I bade the driver , the address falling comfortably on my ears . I knew the neighborhood . Deep in the Faubourg St.-Germain , it was a stronghold of the old noblesse , suggesting eminent respectability , ancient and honorable customs , and family connections of a highly desirable kind .