All that is heard is the muffled sound of the passers-by steps on the fresh dense snow. All that is seen is the snow white and the grey of the sky. All that is smelled is fresh kindling  and smoked chestnuts roasting.

In the streets of Paris, people amble, stroll , saunter steadily, swaddled in layers of fur, nestled under scarves and hats. Pink cheeks and malicious eyes are left uncovered like candies in a chocolate box, they attract and shine involuntarily.

A woman walks smiling while gazing  ahead. She is about to meet her childhood friend. Behind her, another woman lurks at a boulangerie shop window, deciding whether she is in the mood for a pain au chocolat or a croissant. Despite her elegant silhouette, her white mink scarf and felt hat embellished with a swan feather, she appears like a child, hunched over, her mouth watering at the sight of exquisite pastries.

On the left, a boy avoids the crowd and steps on the road, unconcerned by the carriages borrowing this route. He advances staring at his feet, carrying a large and heavy basket of goods under his left arm. He is cold but he can only blame himself. He left his scarf at his aunt’s house while he hurried to get back home before five as Mother ordered. Last time he was late, he was assigned his most hated chores : shovelling freshly fallen snow from the front porch and fetching goods in a large and heavy basket from his aunt.

Behind him, people are walking purposely to their homes. It is cold outside and the air smells of winter. In a few hours the sun will set and night will fall. All that will be heard will be the sound of the bells coming from churches everywhere. In a few hours it will be Christmas.