The spirit of France.

I am a huge fun of the eighteen-century French author Charles Baudelaire, of all his work my favorite is Petit poemes en prose. I taught about translating some poemes to English and publishing them in this blog and judging from the number of readers I can go on translating them or I would stop.
The poem I am translating today, I am sure a lot of people will find very amusing to say the least. It is titled Pleasant:
It was the explosion of the festivities of the new year, where mud and snow intermingled in chaos, crossed by thousands of carriages, glistening with children toys and candies, teeming with cupidity and despairs, official delirium of a big town to trouble the brain of the most ardent lonesome. In the middle of this tohu-bohu and racket, an ass was trotting lively, harassed by a cad armed with a whip. As the ass was turning the angle around the sidewalk, an elegant man wearing gloves, varnished, cruelly neck-tied, imprisoned in his all new clothes, bowed ceremoniously before the humble beasts, and said: “ I wished it to you good and happy!�? then he turned to I don’t know who comrades with an air of self-complacency as if asking them for their approbation for his contentment.
The ass didn’t notice this notice this handsome pleasant, and continued running with zeal toward where his duties call him.
For me, I was suddenly taken by an unmeasured rage against this magnificent imbecile, who appeared to me to have concentrated in him the spirit of France.