Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seems abroad; moonlight and heaven are banished: the town, by her own flambeaux, beholds her own splendour⁠—gay dresses, grand equipages, fine horses and gallant riders throng the bright streets. I see even scores of masks. It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams. But where is the park?⁠—I ought to be near it. In the midst of this glare the park must be shadowy and calm⁠— there , at least, are neither torches, lamps, nor crowd?