Love went on around him - reproachless love and illicit love alike. As he strolled along the seaside promenade at nine o'clock, when the stars were bright enough to compete with the bright lamps, he was aware of love on every side. From the open-air cafés, vivid with dresses just down from Paris, came a sweet pungent odor of flowers and chartreuse and fresh black coffee and cigarettes - and mingled with the all he caught another scent, the mysterious thrilling scent of love. Hands touched jewel-sparking hands upon the white tables. Gay dresses and white shirt-fronts swayed together, and matches were held, trembling a little, for slow-lighting cigarettes. On the the other side of the boulevard lovers less fashionable, young Frenchmen who worked in the stores of Cannes, sauntered with their fiancées under the dim trees, but Val's young eyes seldom turned that way. The luxury of music and bright colours and low voices - they were all part of his dream. They were the essential trappings of love in the night.
F. Scott Fitzgerald - Love in the Night
