In 1892, Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem about the paradigmatic British soldier, Tommy Atkins, and his paradigmatic treatment at the hands of anindolent democratic society that takes him for granted - until he is needed.
In this gallery, the sensation of shimmering sunlight and indolent heat, an inner haze from luncheon wine counterpointed by the crisp linen day dresses on display, really does place us in the afternoon of French civilization, a Paris still primal.