The fireworks thinned, then stopped.
Smoke drifted across the field in loose sheets, carrying the sharp smell of powder. People lingered, unwilling to leave all at once. Some clapped late. Others talked over each other, replaying colors and shapes with their hands.
Napoleon II and Elisabeth stepped away from the barrier and let the crowd pull them along the paths of the Champ de Mars.
Lanterns lined the walkways. Grass darkened underfoot where hundreds had stood. Vendors were already moving, pushing carts into new positions, calling out before the night cooled completely.
They walked without hurry.
A boy ran past them holding a paper cone, laughing as his sister chased him. Somewhere behind them, a couple argued quietly about directions.
Elisabeth slowed near a small cart. A man stood behind it, sleeves rolled, working a metal handle attached to a shallow drum packed with ice and salt.
"Ice cream," he called. "Vanilla. Lemon."
She looked at Napoleon II. Just once.
