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The sun was setting in a pale gray October sky, streaked on the horizon with thin clouds. One last ray, falling from the distant shrubberies of the cascade, pierced the roadway and flooded the long array of stationary carriages with pale red light. The golden glints, the bright flashes thrown by the wheels, coloured edges of the calash, while the dark-blue panels reflected bits of the surrounding landscape. And higher up, full in red light that lit them up from behind, and gave effulgence to the brass buttons of their capes half-folded across the back of the box, sat the coachmen and footman, in their dark-blue liveries, their drab breeches, and their yellow-and-black striped waist-coats, erect, solemn and patient, after the manner of well-bred

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servants who are in no way put our by a block of carriages.

La Curée-Émile Zola trans. DeMattos p1

The front carriages were released and one by one the whole line began to move slowly on. It resembled an awakening. A thousand lively coruscations sprang up, quick flashes played among the wheels, sparks flew from the horses' harness. On the ground, on the trees, were broad reflections of trotting glass. This glitter of wheels and harness, this blaze of varnished panels glowing with the red gleam of the setting sun, the bright notes of colour cast by the dazzling liveries perched up full against the sky, and by the rich costumes projecting beyond the carriage-doors, were carried along amid a hollow, sustained rumbling sound, timed by the trot of the horses.