The solitude makes everyone look better.
Versailles of Maurice Barres is its park, the cathedral of dead leaves whose long organ pipes sway and moan with the wind.
The whisper of its chorus — leaves entangled like the forty thousand wet female bodies marching onto Versailles in August.
In the distance Louis XVI reaches out to them, hands full of hunting trophies.
The moon performs celestial strip-tease. In the pool of black water pops up a yellow island.