At no season does Paris look more beautifully than early December. There is a curious light, particular to the Ile de France and faithfully interpreted by the painter Michel, which brings out all the shades, from primrose to navy blue, implicit in the beige and gray of the landscape buildings. The river becomes a steely flood which matches the huge clouds rolling overhead. As this is not, like harvest time or the first warm days of spring, one of those seasons that induce an almost animal craving for field and forest, you can sit by the fire, look out of the window and peacefully enjoy the prospect.
-Nancy Mitford, Don't Tell Alfred, pg. 218