1900. Begins: Silver and gold lay the landscape beneath the terrace
of the Chateau de Fitzroy, this golden month of September, this
golden hour of the afternoon. The fields of La Celle bathed in
sunlight, the wooded slopes of St. Michel and Marly already autumn
yellow, melted into the delicate hazes of the valley where the
Seine shimmered distantly, stream of burnished silver between the
dim silver of its banks. In the far background, just substantial
against the unsubstantial sky line, poised like the last fantastic
touch of a romantic painter, rose the ruined arches of Marly
aqueduct-that crowning extravagance of the Roy-Soleil. It completed
a picture which in its exquisite unreality, its warmth and glow,
its richness, its stillness, seemed like the dream of a Claude
Lorraine, expressed by that past-mistress of all art, living Nature
herself.
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