LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 ELIZABETH HARD I SON
 
 n^<JL
 
 Kiosk
 
 MAGNETIC 
 PARIS 
 
 By 
 ADELAIDE MACK 
 
 With Many Illustrations Especially Drawn by 
 GEO. DESAINS 
 
 AND 
 
 CHARLOTTE SCHALLER 
 
 Indianapolis 
 The Bobbs-Merrill 
 
 Company j | I 
 
 Publishers
 
 Copyright 1913 
 The Bobbs-Merrill Company
 
 TO 
 
 MY FRIEND 
 
 EUGENIE M. WERK 
 
 CINCINNATI
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I Street Comedy s . . 1 
 
 II The Boulevardier 22 
 
 III A House for "Paying Guests" 32 
 
 IV Popular Holidays 45 
 
 V Saturday Afternoon in the Bois ... 72 
 
 VI Gay Montmartre 82 
 
 VII Parisian Dogs 106 
 
 VIII Artist Life in the Quarter 116 
 
 IX In the Luxembourg Gardens 133 
 
 X Woman Turns the Wheel ...... 151 
 
 XI Paris in May 175 
 
 XII Housekeeping 191 
 
 XIII Napoleon 206 
 
 XIV Versailles 219 
 
 XV Where to Live 225 
 
 XVI Affirmations 236
 
 HORS-D'OEUVRE 
 
 Americans are imbued with the false idea that in 
 case of accident the captain of a French steamship 
 loses his head and screams to the passengers, "Sauve 
 qui peut," as he and the crew take to the boats. Per- 
 sonally, I feel much safer on a French ship than I 
 do on an American steel limited. Besides, the cap- 
 tain and the officers are dignified and polite, the food 
 is delicious, as all French food is, the waiters cour- 
 teous and the service excellent, while the larger 
 steamers are very comfortable, even luxurious!. 
 
 The last time I crossed over from New York I 
 took a French boat. We arrived at Havre one hour 
 late. The greater number of the passengers ar- 
 ranged to stay a day and run over to Deauville and 
 Trouville. Havre had no attractions for me, al- 
 though formerly I did enjoy a day or two at Fras- 
 cati's because of the delightful sea view from all the 
 windows and the savory cuisine. 
 
 I swung my bag at one of the women customs' 
 officials and called out, "Pas de tabac — pas d'allu- 
 mettes," the two articles the French government is 
 more strict about than is the American over foreign 
 seals. Perhaps it was my knowledge of what the 
 officials were seeking in the row upon row of suit- 
 cases piled high before them, or perhaps it was my 
 French, which surged up to meet the occasion after 
 several years of rust and decay in America, that 
 spared me delay. At all events, the officials nodded
 
 HORS-D'OEUVRE 
 
 and I hurried down the steep toboggan-slide to the 
 street, told a cocker to drive vite, vite to the station 
 for Paris. Paris ! What magic in a name ! ! 
 
 The station with its rows of electric lights was 
 reached. The cocker said, "Mer — ci" with a pro- 
 nounced hiss on the last syllable to demonstrate his 
 appreciation of his fifteen-cent pouboire, as he shook 
 the reins at Coquette and clattered off. The official 
 at the door passed me, with a bow, to his confrere 
 official inside in gilt buttons and braid, who in turn 
 passed me to still another official in more gilt braid 
 and wearing a medal, who looked at my ticket, then 
 showed me through a door to the platform where 
 the chief of all the officials in gold lace, red cap and 
 a whole row of medals, each attached by a different 
 colored ribbon, pointed out to me with an elaborate 
 bow, the Paris rapide. 
 
 I was delighted to find it a rapide, I was in 
 such a hurry to be off; but I glanced at the station 
 clock and found I had thirty minutes to wait. The 
 whole first-class car was deserted. I investigated the 
 corridor with its smoking-room at each end and its 
 one cabinet, evidently for both men and women. 
 
 I entered one of the cool-looking compartments 
 with the double-cushioned seats done in silver-gray 
 cloth, the tops in leather, which is a far more sensi- 
 ble furnishing than the sticky velvet of our Pull- 
 mans. I put my bag in one of the broad wire racks 
 that extend across both sides of the compartment 
 above the seats ; rested my arm in one of the em- 
 broidered rest-straps, of which there are two at each 
 one of the four windows ; put my feet on the divid- 
 ing rubber strip that runs through the center over
 
 HORS-D'OEUVRE 
 
 the dull-red carpet — the Rubicon the French trav- 
 eler never crosses to poach on his neighbor's foot 
 space, but which the English all superciliously ig- 
 nore; settled down on the springy cushions; leaned 
 my head against the clean white protector with the 
 name of the road woven in the center and a scroll- 
 work border for decoration ; glanced at the map of 
 France edged with brass on the wall space opposite, 
 with the route we would travel marked boldly in red, 
 showing the asterisk towns at which we would stop ; 
 looked at a photograph of my favorite piece of 
 sculpture, the Venus de Milo, in a narrow dead-gold 
 frame; noted the marine-blue curtains, and was 
 vaguely conscious that the tout ensemble of silver- 
 gray, marine-blue and the red of the carpet was an 
 artistic and pleasing way of waving the French flag 
 in the face of the traveler. I found everything very 
 French, very comfortable, and much more satisfac- 
 tory on the whole than our plushy Pullmans. 
 
 But after the rapide started, when the men began 
 to smoke at both ends of the short car, and the cor- 
 ridor and compartments were blue with the fumes 
 of the most villainous tobacco; when the race be- 
 gan between the women and the men to see who 
 should reach the cabinet first; when the train wob- 
 bled along at breakneck speed dragging a flat 
 wheel, which crunched and bumped over a wretched 
 track, and when, forty miles out of Paris, the door 
 of the corridor, which a careless guard had not prop- 
 erly secured, suddenly opened, and a woman who 
 was getting a breath of air at the upper-half window 
 was pitched out and ten minutes later was picked up 
 with a broken leg and shoulder, I changed my mind
 
 HORS-D'OEUVRE 
 
 and acknowledged our plush-cushioned Pullmans to 
 be far ahead of the French first-class. 
 
 Two hours more, and I was stepping from the 
 gare St. Lazare into the heart of Paris, with all the 
 familiar street scenes of the fascinating city before 
 me. 
 
 In these pages that follow I have not attempted 
 to do more than write a pot-pourri of what I have 
 lived, absorbed, and observed in various residences 
 in Paris at two or three year intervals, covering in 
 all a period of fifteen years. The transparent veneer 
 of the French rests on a solid foundation, and their 
 veneer is not by any means all of them. But solidity 
 is not interesting except politically or historically, 
 nor is it poetical or amusing. I have not meant to be 
 at any time unpleasantly critical. If my French 
 friends find me so, je demande pardon.
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 STREET COMEDY 
 
 Paris is the magnet that at- 
 tracts all the tribes of the earth ; 
 it is the dumping ground for the 
 gold of the world. Once you 
 have lived in it, drunk in its 
 beauties, absorbed its mysterious 
 atmosphere, and become fasci- 
 nated with its inscrutable person- 
 ality and sans-gene joy of life, you are part of it 
 forever. It is a city full of noble beauty and of fas- 
 cination. You can not define this fascination, but 
 you feel it — it takes possession of you. You breathe 
 it in, in long delicious -draughts. You live tremen- 
 dously and nerve-rackingly ; you expect it; it is 
 Paris. 
 
 Even the tumultuous traffic, the continual whis- 
 tling, whip-cracking, bell-ringing, horn-blowing, the 
 weird street cries, the singing cockers, the darting 
 
 I
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 air-ships, the street singers, the shouting camelots, 
 the huge petroleum automobiles, with their ear-split- 
 ting noise as their iron-shod wheels clang over the 
 stone pavements — all this is but a part of matchless, 
 gay, irresistible, irresponsible Paris. It is the sordid 
 dregs of the cup — the rest of the draught is satisfy- 
 ing beauty. 
 
 It is the city of atmosphere and esthetics, of art, 
 music and science; of ingenious inventors and cour- 
 ageous daring aeronauts ; of eccentric artists and 
 beautiful models, modes and moods; of amours and 
 intrigues ; of celebrated mondaines and demi-mon- 
 daines; of easy gaiety ; of fascinating dogs and ador- 
 able children; of picturesque bonnes, chic women, 
 and ridiculous men; of cafes and music-halls, fetes 
 and balls, delectable dinners and courteous waiters — 
 a wonderful melange to be seen in no other city in 
 the world. 
 
 The streets and boulevards of Paris are not 
 merely for traffic; they are turned into picturesque 
 pleasure resorts of one continuous entertainment of 
 a novel kind. They are never dull and monotonous. 
 And the Parisian is chez-lui seated on a bench under 
 the trees in his favorite square or boulevard or un- 
 
 2
 
 Rue Montmartre
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 der the awning of his cafe terrasse. Here he has a 
 constant change of mise en scene, with many actors 
 playing their roles before him; for all Paris is a 
 surface comedy, and many of the Parisians are 
 comedians. 
 
 The most entertaining feature of the boulevard 
 cafe, and of nearly every cafe of Paris, is its side- 
 walk terrasse. It is enclosed at each end by a high 
 glass screen, the top roofed over with gay striped 
 awnings, with the four or five rows of small tables 
 and their reed chairs separated from the street by 
 dwarf Japanese trees in green tubs. In winter, the 
 terrasse of the popular cafe is made comfortable by 
 big open braziers of burning charcoal, which take 
 the place of the dwarf trees. On a winter afternoon 
 at four o'clock, with the thermometer around freez- 
 ing, you often see every table occupied — not only by 
 men but by women and children. 
 
 At all times these terrasscs are excellent places 
 from which to view the passing kaleidoscopic show, 
 which is humorous, dramatic, pathetic, or novel, and 
 always intensely interesting. You take a seat at one 
 of these terrasses on the boulevard, order an ice or 
 coffee, and soon find yourself staring with the boule- 
 
 4
 
 STREET COMEDY 
 
 vardier at the chic and fascinating women, wearing 
 hats adorned with billowy bunches of nodding 
 plumes, their tight skirts drawn a shade tighter as 
 they lift them en vrai Parisienne to show their an- 
 kles in silk stockings. These women have a panther- 
 ine grace, strikingly tinted hair, black eyes and 
 rouged lips, in great contrast to the deathly pallor 
 of the skin. You realize it is all artificial, but it is 
 a part of Paris. 
 
 The Parisienne is very clever in the art of make- 
 up. By one stroke of her black eye pencil she will 
 give her eyes a serious or a coquettish expression. 
 By the aid of her rouge stick, her mouth will be 
 made to emulate a perfect Cupid's bow and her com- 
 plexion will assume that deathly pallor, so much ad- 
 mired, through the bountiful use of Poudre La- 
 blache. Her hair is tinted either blue-black to 
 match her eyes, or Titian-red or ash-blond, in strik- 
 ing contrast to them. She is an artiste jusqu' an bout 
 dcs ongles, for her art conceals art, at least under 
 her dainty lace veil. A Frenchman admires and ap- 
 proves this artifice, and she will take out her eye 
 pencil, rouge stick and mirror, sans-gene, in his 
 presence and renew an expression that has become 
 
 5
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 obliterated, he watching the operation with de- 
 lighted interest. 
 
 But it is not only the gay chic women who at- 
 tract you while seated on the terrasse. You are 
 amused watching the sergent de ville, who, abso- 
 lutely without power, now and then holds up his 
 hand in a weak sort of way, in an attempt to stop the 
 mass of racing traffic. In the face of this uplifted 
 hand a cocher will come around the corner at a brisk 
 pace, deliberately trot past, and when the sergent 
 remonstrates, will crack his whip, scream back some 
 insult, and drive on. Often the whole mass of autos 
 and cabs, if led by some daring chauffeur, pays no 
 attention to the sergent's lifted hand, but rushes 
 madly on, and then the sergent, seemingly discour- 
 aged at not being able to control this particular mass, 
 holds the pedestrians on the street corners and is- 
 lands for interminable minutes before venturing 
 even to signal again. 
 
 There is no speed limit, carelessness and disorder 
 reign, and the sergent de ville, theoretically stationed 
 there to maintain order, practically has no power to 
 enforce his commands. The motor-cars, taxis and 
 auto-buses rush with cyclonic speed in every direc- 
 
 6
 
 Accident in Champs Elysees
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 tion, whiz around corners and come at you from all 
 directions in the Place de la Concorde, Place de 
 l'Opera and the Rond Point in the Champs Elysees. 
 Your only hope in crossing is to run like a fox with 
 a pack of hounds in pursuit and gain one of the stone 
 islands in the center of the street, stationed at all 
 wide crossings, and even they are often dangerous. 
 Wo to you if, in your haste, you trip and fall. Noth- 
 ing will save you, for one of the motors you are run- 
 ning from will be upon you, and if you gain the is- 
 land in safety, you will find it so close on your heels 
 that you will not recover from the fright and shock 
 for the rest of the day. 
 
 There is nearly always a sergent standing on or 
 near the island, but he will do nothing. He will see 
 you knocked down, but he is powerless to save you, 
 and will often turn his back. Yet he will answer all 
 your questions courteously. Everything on wheels 
 has the right of way in the streets of Paris, and 
 pedestrians, like the dogs, must take their chances. 
 Even the sergents are often knocked over by big 
 cars which for some good reason have been ordered 
 to go in a certain direction. The owner of a car in- 
 sults the sergent and tells his chauffeur to drive on ; 
 
 8
 
 STREET COMEDY 
 
 he does so and the sergent, who places himself in 
 front of the car to stop its progress, is deliberately 
 run down and often severely hurt while the chauffeur 
 and owner escape at great speed. 
 
 You should never sue a taxi company or an indi- 
 vidual owner for an injury. If you do, it will be 
 you who will pay the damage to yourself. The 
 coquin cocher tries his best to run as close to you as 
 possible. This is one of his tricks when his librc red 
 flag is turned up. He hates to see you walk by him; 
 so, to call your attention to his unoccupied cab, he 
 annoys you by grazing your gown with his dirty 
 wheels. These are the cockers you always want to 
 annihilate — but you never do. 
 
 You are never tranquil in the streets of Paris. 
 You are either on the alert trying to escape some- 
 thing on the street level, or stretching your neck to 
 watch an air-ship sailing over your head. 
 
 Now and then, when the street is a solid mass of 
 auto-buses and taxis all rushing at terrific speed, 
 the policeman will step suddenly into the middle and 
 flourish his little- sword. In the sudden" stopping of 
 the auto-buses and taxis there is usually a crash. 
 The most unfortunate victim, often an old woman 
 
 9
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 who is pushing her cart behind a bus for safety, is 
 sent sprawling to the pavement, while a cocker's 
 horse succumbs to the terrific shock and the back of 
 his cab is in splinters from the impact of the motor 
 in the rear. Then a scene of wrath and recrimination 
 follows, highly amusing to the crowd which is sure 
 to collect. Koko is finally assisted to her feet, the 
 wrecked cab pulled to the curb, and the whole mass 
 of traffic, by this time become dense, rushes on. 
 
 Some of these old women with their charcttcs of 
 fruit and flowers — and there are twenty thousand of 
 these carts licensed in the streets of Paris — are over- 
 turned every day, the fruit and flowers scattered in 
 every direction, and the charettes knocked into kin- 
 dling wood, while the women are left sprawling in 
 the dust with a broken leg or arm, or killed outright, 
 and there is never a pause in the mad race. Five 
 minutes after the accident two sergents come run- 
 ning to the scene and take the names of everybody 
 in the crowd except the eye-witnesses, who have all 
 left. They listen to the account of the catastrophe 
 as told by the dog- vender, who arrived two minutes 
 before the sergents and who had gleaned it from the 
 
 10
 
 STREET COMEDY 
 
 full-bearded newsboy, who in turn got his version 
 from some one else. In the meantime a man in the 
 crowd — usually English — calls an ambulance, and 
 the unfortunate woman is hauled to the nearest hos- 
 pital or to the morgue, while the sergents are still 
 taking names promiscuously. But there will be no 
 summons and they know it. There is perhaps one 
 summons in ninety motor accidents. If the woman 
 dies her gamble in life is over. Paris shrugs her 
 shoulders and says, "Que voulez-vous que je fasse?" 
 
 The official report two years ago showed sixty- 
 five thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five acci- 
 dents by eighty-one thousand, eight hundred and 
 sixty-eight motors, taxis and buses — three accidents 
 for every four vehicles. Almost incredible, and yet 
 these are official facts. 
 
 Still it is Paris — light-hearted, gay, fickle, irrev- 
 erent, mocking Paris. No one seems serious. If you 
 accidentally slip and fall on the sidewalk, no one 
 will assist you to your feet or pick up your purse or 
 package. Three or four men will stop and stare at 
 you, and when you finally pick yourself up, if they 
 see you are not hurt but only a little muddy or dusty, 
 
 ii
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 they will smile and say, "Bon voyage, Madame." 
 Every mishap or accident of this kind is a source of 
 interest and amusement to them. 
 
 Some years ago Ex-queen Isabella of Spain, who 
 often walked unaccompanied near her private hotel 
 in the avenue Kleber, tripped and fell, and as she 
 was short and broad could not get up. A huge crowd 
 collected and gaped at her curiously. But not a 
 Frenchman offered to assist her — they seemed to be 
 afraid to touch royalty. Finally, an Englishman as- 
 sisted her to her feet and into her hotel, amid the 
 vociferous cheers of the crowd. 
 
 Frenchmen are always intensely curious. A Pa- 
 risian will be coming down an avenue in a taxi at 
 breakneck speed, will catch a glimpse of a crowd 
 looking skyward, suddenly put his head out of the 
 window and yell to the chauffeur, "Arretes, arretez" 
 and step out and join the crowd which is watching 
 an aeroplane sailing majestically a thousand feet 
 above. He sees this sight nearly every day — still it 
 affords him interest and amusement for the moment. 
 He always takes his time and loses all sense of his 
 nice economies when pleasure is paramount, for al- 
 though he knows his taxi fare is mounting by tens 
 
 12
 
 What Is at the Theaters
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 every two minutes, c'est peu de chose, measured by 
 the amount of pure enjoyment he gets from watch- 
 ing this air-ship for fifteen minutes and making a 
 bet with an acquaintance in the crowd, as to whether 
 or not the ship will reach its destination in safety. 
 The betting is often even — if there are odds they 
 are usually in favor of the accident, for when the 
 aeroplanes are up a considerable distance, they some- 
 times turn and suddenly swoop down on a crowd or 
 crash into a tree. The French aeronaut is ingenious, 
 has great courage, and is perhaps more daring than 
 aeronauts of other nations, since his achievements so 
 far have been more brilliant. He is one more novel 
 addition to the many street attractions of Paris. 
 
 The numerous camelots are another interesting 
 feature of the terrasse life. A small lean man with 
 his face lined like that of a comedian suddenly ap- 
 pears before you, glances quickly around and takes 
 from the tails of his coat a short nickel tripod which 
 he carefully adjusts on the sidewalk. He then stands 
 back and eyes it from all points, rubs his hands, 
 wipes his face with a dirty handkerchief and says a 
 few disparaging words about the police. By this 
 time several people will have stopped to gaze at him.
 
 STREET COMEDY 
 
 He now puts his right foot, on which he wears a 
 buttoned shoe, on the tripod and begins a voluble 
 harangue. He takes from his pocket an ordinary 
 steel button-hook and a little half-opened nickel 
 tube. He unbuttons his shoe and buttons it again 
 with the ordinary hook, explaining and demonstrat- 
 ing how it catches on the buttons and often twists 
 them off. 
 
 Again he unbuttons his shoe and easily rebuttons 
 it with the partly opened tube, explaining to the 
 crowd now collected the merit of the tube over the 
 hook. Then he offers it for sale for ten cents. But 
 before a would-be purchaser can get at his money, a 
 little hatless blond girl of fifteen — her blue eyes 
 full of anxiety and fear, her brow puckered into 
 creases with the strain of watching both ends of the 
 street — plucks him suddenly by the sleeve, and in a 
 flash snatches the tripod and deftly closes it as she 
 hides it behind her. Her blue eyes then lose the 
 anxious expression and assume a baby stare, while 
 the man with the tube leisurely saunters along with 
 the wondering crowd. Now a bicycle-policeman 
 rides up, looks sharply over the moving crowd and 
 rides on. The little girl with the tripod has sud- 
 
 15
 
 denly disappeared around the corner where she is 
 presently joined by a gay hatless woman and a 
 camelot with a bag hung over his shoulder. They all 
 begin talking, laughing and gesticulating, and you 
 are rather surprised to see this timid little girl witli 
 a scared expression suddenly put her thumb to her 
 nose and twirl her fingers at the back of another po- 
 liceman who is crossing the street. Then they all 
 laugh and jeer as they come boldly around the cor- 
 ner to the boulevard, the little girl and woman keep- 
 ing to the curb. 
 
 The man deposits the bag on the walk and pulls 
 from the depths a pair of dusty folded trousers 
 hanging over a copper-wire device with wire spread- 
 ers protruding from each leg. "Void les chose s 
 Americaines pour quinze sous," he announces. At 
 the word "American" a half dozen people stop, and 
 before he has demonstrated twice how these wires 
 are adjusted to keep the trousers in pressed form he 
 
 16
 
 STREET COMEDY 
 
 has sold three to Frenchmen, with a good-natured 
 German a fourth purchaser. 
 
 The man of the button-hooks has again set up his 
 tripod a few yards farther on and at ten cents each 
 is making a number of sales, when all suddenly grab 
 their wares again and disappear, the women giving 
 warning as two policemen approach. Thus the police 
 play tag all day and a greater part of the evening 
 with the camelots whom they rarely succeed in tag- 
 ging. 
 
 The camelot belongs to the boulevards and is al- 
 ways an amusing and diverting feature. He is nim- 
 ble of foot, as well as of tongue. He is an inventor, is 
 shrewd, good-natured and honest, is usually a half- 
 way comedian, is almost a Mephisto for ingenious- 
 ness and never fails to afford entertainment to the 
 clientele of a cafe, the waiters of which always are 
 his friends. He will suddenly deposit on your table
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 a black poodle carrying a blue-bead basket in his 
 mouth, and by the aid of a rubber tube and bulb at- 
 tachment the poodle is made to sit up, shake hands 
 with you and walk across your table. He has furry 
 rabbits which hop about and wiggle their ears; 
 fighting cocks running up and down his extended 
 arm, performing monkeys on sticks, and painted 
 rubber faces which, by squeezing, you can change 
 into all sorts of grotesque, hideous and leering ex- 
 pressions. He has for sale the latest toy of the hour 
 and will cut out your silhouette or make a charcoal 
 sketch of you for five cents. 
 
 Again, a street gamin suddenly stands before you 
 in a rimless hat, pulls a lock of hair over his fore- 
 head, takes from under his coat a sharp-cornered, 
 turned-up rim which he adjusts over his hat crown, 
 thrusts a hand into the opening of his coat, strikes 
 an attitude, looks at you with a frowning serious 
 expression and announces himself the great Napo- 
 leon. He unexpectedly shifts his hat, sticks on a 
 white beard, assumes another attitude and lo, he is 
 President Fallieres ! Thus, in rapid succession, he 
 impersonates the new minister and other public men 
 familiar to the crowd. He is alert and very quick 
 
 18
 
 STREET COMEDY 
 
 in his movements, for he is the only one of this class 
 of street artists who is without a confederate to an- 
 nounce to him the approach of the police. This 
 gamin is his own scout. He always keeps a sharp 
 lookout during his impersonations, is as fleet of foot 
 as a deer and never is captured. 
 
 Another amusing feature of the boulevards is the 
 cocker in yellow coat, red waistcoat and white var- 
 nished hat, driving up and down, cracking his whip, 
 disputing and gesticulating with a brother cocker or 
 chauffeur who has grazed his cab in passing, argu- 
 ing with the sergent, as he trots by his uplifted hand 
 — or stopping on a crossing to tell a lady, who is 
 carrying a scarlet and white parasol, that she has 
 very good taste — tres bon gout. 
 
 The Paris cocker is insuppressible and insufferable 
 and always ready for an argument. You learn after 
 a time never to hail at night a cocker whose cab has 
 green lights, if you are bound for the Etoile Quarter, 
 nor a cocker with red lights if your destination is the 
 Latin Quarter. They will refuse to take you. If you 
 are uninitiated your anger is apt to surge to the sur- 
 face — but live and learn. Green lights are for the 
 Latin Quarter, red for the Etoile Quarter, blue lights 
 
 19
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 for Montmartre, and yellow lights for the heart of 
 Paris and the boulevards. 
 
 There are always dozens of indifferent sleepy 
 cockers at the stations when you arrive in Paris. 
 They will pile two or three huge trunks into the 
 front and back of their open cabs, and if it happens 
 to be eleven A. M. when you arrive, don't look for 
 your luggage before three o'clock. 
 
 On the stroke of twelve, every cocker turns his 
 horse in the direction of his favorite restaurant, 
 where he drinks his vin ordinaire, leisurely eats his 
 plat du jour, gossips and smokes over his coffee and 
 often has a game of cards with his confreres. A 
 Paris cocker is never in a hurry and is rarely to be 
 trusted. If you hail him around the noon hour he 
 will crack his whip, raise his shoulders and clatter 
 on, not deigning a reply. Often on a rainy day if 
 your course does not meet with his approval, he 
 will drive off and leave you standing on the curb. 
 
 Again, should you approach him at a cab stand 
 and ask him if he is free, he will tell you that de- 
 pends on where you are going — Cela depend ou 
 vous allez. If you must have money dealings with 
 him look well to the change for he always has a 
 
 20
 
 STREET COMEDY 
 
 supply of bad franc pieces which he takes delight in 
 disposing of to the unsuspecting stranger. 
 
 Though you may consider your French accent 
 quite perfect, a Paris cocker will always disillusion 
 you. He will make you pronounce the name of the 
 street you give him with all the different accents on 
 each syllable, until you finally stumble on the right 
 one through sheer desperation. 
 
 A Paris cocker is usually a cochon and you are 
 bound to have trouble with him sooner or later.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE BOULEVARDIER 
 
 ROBABLY the most conspicuous type 
 in Paris aside from the woman of the 
 half-world is the boulevardier, the 
 Parisian of leisure and pleasure whose 
 age is anywhere from forty to sev- 
 enty, and who, like the demi-mon- 
 daine, is omnipresent. His chief oc- 
 cupation is the seeking of novelty in 
 the feminine world. His income is often derived 
 from some miserable tenement houses in Montmartre 
 or in the quarter back of the Pantheon, where misery 
 exists in its most pathetic form. 
 
 He understands the art of living simply, without 
 fuss or fume. He takes his enjoyment, not in gulps 
 but in sips. He never rushes. He requires at least 
 five minutes to look a woman over and stare through 
 to her backbone, if she attracts'his notice. He is un- 
 conscious of rudeness ; it is what French women like, 
 and he knows it. They gown themselves to be stared 
 at; it is part of the Parisienne's amusement in life. 
 
 22
 
 THE BOULEVARDIER 
 
 Little things interest him. He is light-hearted and 
 easily amused. He dislikes violent exercise or any- 
 thing fatiguing; he is fond of the races, and aviation 
 is his delight. He seldom hunts feathered game, al- 
 though he is often seen walking in the Bois with a 
 number of thoroughbred bird dogs. 
 
 HL favorite pastimes are pistol practise and fenc- 
 ing, a mode of exercise that is worth while, as duels 
 are fought every day in the shadow of the Grand 
 Roue and are the only means of settling an affair of 
 honor. If he is religiously inclined he holds to the 
 faith of his ancestors, that of the church of Rome, 
 with all its mysticism, and goes now and then to put 
 a two-franc or fifty-centimes candle — according to 
 his needs and deeds — on one of the numerous spikes 
 surrounding the gilded sarcophagus of Sainte Gene- 
 vieve, the patron saint of Paris. 
 
 He would not tolerate Calvinism any more than 
 he would New Thought, and his mental reactions 
 would not permit him to accept either if he did un- 
 derstand them. Generally he is not troubled with 
 religious scruples or convictions, and he mocks at 
 things sacred. He is systematic, and if he has a 
 hobby it is for economy in small things. He is rarely
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 prodigal. He is versatile in thought and feeling. 
 He is a proud father. He loves his children and his 
 dog, and his wife, or some other man's wife. He 
 often maintains two or three establishments, accord- 
 ing to his income, and rotates from one to the other. 
 He sleeps behind closed windows and blinds because 
 he is afraid of fresh air, except when he is in the 
 open. He stops his ears with cotton for fear of a 
 draft on the brain — vial au cerveau. He reads his 
 Figaro or Patrie close to his nose and held at all 
 angles, because he was born a myope, and glasses 
 either do not become him or they annoy him. 
 
 He has a nice sense of the fitness of things, except 
 in hats. He always looks as if he had changed hats 
 with a man smaller than himself. He is extremely 
 ugly, his clothes are badly cut, he wears hideous 
 socks and ties, and takes great pride in his beard, 
 which he caresses and arranges before the numerous 
 street mirrors. He has no sense of clean fun or hu- 
 mor, but drags his esprit through the mud to give 
 it a double meaning. The reverse side of his medal 
 is usually indecency. He always sees the body 
 through the clothes and speculates upon its good and 
 bad points. 
 
 24
 
 THE BOULEVARDIER 
 
 Anglo-Saxon women look on the boulevardier as 
 they look on the other boulevard nuisances — it 
 would not be Paris without him. Only a few years 
 ago a boulevardier would attend to the demands of 
 nature and at the same time lift his hat to a woman 
 
 (acquaintance who was pass- 
 "' ing, and the woman would 
 return the bow in the most 
 natural manner — Honi soit 
 qui vial y pense. It is the 
 Latin blood in his veins that 
 made such an act perfectly 
 com me il faut. 
 
 He passes the 
 day and evening at 
 his favorite cafe. His 
 greater part of the
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 house is merely his wardrobe, where he keeps his 
 clothes. Chez-lni means to him simply a place in 
 which to sleep, and it is often gloomy and cheerless. 
 There is no word in the French language for home, 
 and the boulevardier has no use for a home. His 
 home life, as we know home life, is spent in the 
 boulevards and cafes. He drops in at his favorite 
 cafe at eleven A. M., calls for a bock — for it is now 
 quite the fashion to drink beer, a drink he scorned 
 twelve years ago as he did his German neighbor who 
 brewed it — reads his favorite journal, discusses 
 American railroad stocks — which are always popu- 
 lar — politics, or the last big lottery drawing, gazes 
 at and criticizes the passing crowd, thus spending 
 the time until dejeuner. 
 
 At four o'clock he is back again, and seated at his 
 favorite table, he orders a demi-tasse of coffee, com- 
 ments to a friend on the most recent air-ship acci- 
 dent, discusses the latest downfall of the ministry, 
 smokes, stares intently at the feminine world and 
 plays a game of chess. He then writes a letter with 
 a spluttering pen and impossible ink which the 
 obliging gargon brings him, together with a black 
 portfolio of lined note paper. Later, he takes a walk 
 
 26
 
 THE BOULEVARDIER 
 
 in the avenue du Bois with his dog. Then he re- 
 turns to the cafe and orders an aperitif, usually ab- 
 sinthe, which he leisurely sips in keen anticipation 
 of his dinner — for to dine is his supremest joy, and 
 he stimulates his appetite in every conceivable way. 
 
 At seven-thirty he goes 
 with madame, the dog and 
 his daughter to dine at his 
 favorite restaurant, wear- 
 ing an air of light- 
 headedness, content- 
 ment, expectation 
 
 Boulevardier's Tenants
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 and pure joy, such as is known to the man of no 
 other nation. He never makes conversation of his 
 petty worries and annoyances. He hides all his trou- 
 bles under a veneer of gay talk, for he hates sym- 
 pathy in the same degree that he is indifferent to 
 ridicule. Still, at heart he is pessimistic and to him- 
 self confesses that life is difficult. 
 
 He patronizes the theaters and music-halls where 
 he can see and hear black and white facts, as he has 
 no taste for elusive subtleties and restraint is not a 
 quality he admires. He will remark to his friend as 
 a woman passes, "Elle est bicn faite" or "Sa poitrine 
 n'est pas mauvaise." He seldom discusses her face. 
 
 Twelve years ago a French lady rarely walked in 
 the streets of Paris alone; to-day she goes every- 
 where. Twelve years ago an American or an Eng- 
 lish woman alone, who stopped to look in at a shop- 
 window on the boulevards, invited the attention of 
 one or two boulevardiers who began by paying a 
 compliment and then persistently annoyed her. If she 
 appealed to a sergent de ville he would smile, shrug 
 his shoulders and turn his back. To-day Paris teems 
 with English and Americans who have made it the 
 
 28
 
 Chansonnette
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 fashion to gaze into shop-windows, and all Paris 
 gazes with them. 
 
 To-day the boulevardier is more cautious; ten 
 years have brought about a complete change in his 
 tactics. If he is attracted by your feet, your back or 
 your tout ensemble , he will hum a tune as he passes 
 you and deliberately turn and stare at you as only 
 a Frenchman can stare. If you look over his head, 
 which is an easy matter, he will go on his way. 
 If you are alone and sit down in one of the chairs 
 along the avenue du Bois or the Champs Elysees 
 to idle away an hour gazing at the passing show, 
 the chair on your right or left is apt to be taken 
 by one of these men who will stare at you with 
 intensity and talk at you in an undertone. If you 
 say to him "va-t-en" — an expression he uses only 
 to his dog, you have paved the way to all sorts of 
 comments. He will appear shocked and ask you 
 if you would say that to an American gentle- 
 man. Your only refuge is to seek a vacant chair 
 between two bonnes with baby perambulators. If 
 you say "va-t-en cochon" he will not stop to ar- 
 gue or comment, but will swiftly disappear. Cochon 
 — pig — is the one word a Frenchman of high or 
 
 30
 
 THE BOULEVARDIER 
 
 low degree will not forgive. It is a word over 
 which many duels are fought every day under the 
 Big Wheel, but it is often a snug fit and always ef- 
 fective for the French idler, who is unique in char- 
 acter and altogether impossible from the viewpoint 
 of American, English and Viennese women. 
 
 This boulevard type of Frenchman is gradually 
 being swallowed up in the onward march of the 
 twentieth century.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A HOUSE FOR "PAYING GUESTS" 
 
 I am living in a little triangle street with the 
 hypotenuse side on the avenue du Bois de Bo- 
 logne, one block from the Arc de Triomphe and two 
 blocks from the famous pink marble Trianon, rue 
 Chalgrin, named for one of Napoleon's architects. 
 I am in one of those numerous houses where they re- 
 ceive paying guests. Madame has the whole house, 
 six floors, and there is no concierge, for which every 
 one seems to be thankful. 
 
 I am on the fourth floor, because of the long bal- 
 cony and much light and air. This is one of the 
 houses where the triangle lift, with capacity for one 
 person, has not yet penetrated. However, an electric 
 light pulls up and down in the center of the room 
 and has an opaque fluted shade, over which I have 
 hung a square of pink chiffon that gives a soft beau- 
 tiful light. But should I accidentally jar the shade, 
 I find myself in total darkness, for Paris has not 
 mastered all the tricks of modern conveniences. 
 
 32
 
 A HOME FOR "PAYING GUESTS" 
 
 In one corner of the room there is a flat-piped 
 radiator, the connecting pipe of which is about the 
 size of a gas-pipe. Ten years ago we shivered over 
 the tiny grates, burned lamps and candles and took 
 our baths in china bowls. Occasionally, however, we 
 ordered in the bains a domicile which two or three 
 men pushed and pulled to the door, carrying up two 
 flights of stairs the tub and the buckets of hot water 
 that had been taken from the steaming boiler in 
 the street. The arrival of this hot bath always was 
 the cause of great excitement and usually a big 
 crowd collected. We finally decided it was a nui- 
 sance and went back to our china bowls. But to-day, 
 in addition to the electricity, there are porcelain tubs 
 in the second and fourth Stages, and one is continu- 
 ally running into a bath procession on the stairway. 
 
 It took the Parisian a long time to accustom him- 
 self to the order of the bath, but now that it is in, 
 he often spends the morning in the bath. "C'cst si 
 chic, vons savez," was confided to me by an adorable 
 petite Francaise, who in summer has her floating 
 table and often takes her breakfast in the bath, 
 where she reads a book or embroiders, thus passing 
 the whole forenoon. But not all the Parisians have 
 
 33
 
 taken to the bath ; it 
 is too recent. In some 
 of the very handsomest apart- 
 ments near the Bois, they use the. 
 bathroom and tub much as we do 
 a garret — a place in which to store 
 away useless rubbish. 
 You pay twenty-five or thirty cents for a bath, 
 which includes a Turkish sheet, but no soap. Paris- 
 ians seem to have no use for soap. They manufac- 
 ture at Marseilles and export to America the excel- 
 lent castile soap made from olive oil, but you can 
 not buy it in Paris, although you can buy fine soap 
 made in New York, and hundreds of scented va- 
 rieties. 
 
 This little rue Chalgrin is rather exclusive and 
 contains several interesting private hotels. In one 
 there lives a celebrated artist who has his studio way 
 
 34
 
 A HOME FOR "PAYING GUESTS" 
 
 up in the top, among the chimney pots. His balcony 
 is full of Japanese dwarf trees and pink oleanders. 
 To the left of him is a picturesque pink-brick and 
 white-stone hotel with beautifully sculptured women 
 in the niches — the home of an equally celebrated 
 sculptor. For the sake of air and the view I leave 
 my many-hinged metal blinds folded back — much 
 to the scandal of the maids — although there is no 
 house directly opposite and the artist and the sculp- 
 tor have gone to the country. 
 
 I was awakened the other morning at five by the 
 
 Pont Alexander
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 swish-swashing of water. I got up and discreetly 
 peeped over the balcony to the street below but with 
 all my discreetness a gay voice greeted me with, 
 "Bon jour, Madame!" I glanced hurriedly around, 
 but saw no one. An old woman below, in short skirt 
 and wooden shoes, was splashing the water from the 
 gutter into the street and scrubbing the stones white 
 with her long broom of brush. Again I was greeted 
 with, "Bon jour, Madame!" in the same gay tone, 
 and glancing across the street to the left, I saw in a 
 balcony, a New Zealand white parrot with a scal- 
 loped yellow comb sitting on a perch and a French- 
 man in pajamas staring from the open window. 
 
 By seven o'clock pandemonium breaks in this 
 quiet street with the piercing cries, bass and treble 
 songs of the street vendeuses. An old woman, push- 
 ing a cart of silver fish on a bed of green grass, calls 
 out in a wailing voice, "J'ai les poissons pour quinze 
 sous" stopping her cart now and then to pat and 
 rearrange her fish more advantageously. A little 
 later you may hear a musical jingle of, "Les haricots 
 verts, les pommes de terre" in long, drawn-out, 
 plaintive notes, and you realize that the vegetable- 
 woman is at the door. Following on the heels of the
 
 A HOME FOR "PAYING GUESTS" 
 
 vegetable-woman is the old woman with her cart of 
 fruit, protected from the sun by branches of green 
 leaves. "Les f raises, les bananes, trois sous la piece," 
 she calls in a shrill voice. Then follows the cheese- 
 woman in white cap, oversleeves and apron, the 
 
 cream cheese packed in little china hearts and neatly 
 covered with cheesecloth — "Voici la fro mage du 
 ceeur — quatre sous." 
 
 And now and then the parrot across the way re- 
 peats the cries in exact imitation of the voices. 
 
 At twelve o'clock a woman with a baby and a big 
 basket of flowers stands directly opposite your en- 
 trance, on the shady side of the street, and as you 
 
 37
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 approach, she holds out a lovely bunch of violets or 
 roses. "Les belles roses, Madame, trots sous; pour la 
 bebe, Madame," and you take them for several rea- 
 sons, but principally because of the baby. While 
 you are at luncheon, you will hear a weird squeaky 
 pipe, not unlike a bad imitation of the Scotch bag- 
 pipes. This announces the approach of a knife- 
 sharpener. An hour later, as you are closing your 
 eyes for a half-hour's rest, you hear drifting up to 
 your window first a man's throaty, "Le tonneau," 
 which is followed immediately by a woman's voice 
 pitched a key or two higher, "Le — tonn — eau," lay- 
 ing great stress on the last drawn-out syllable. They 
 have come to take away your empty wine-case or tub. 
 A minute later you are startled with rapid screams 
 of, "Chiffons, chiffons, chiffons," running up and 
 down a very bass scale ; this is the rubbish-man. 
 
 You finally lose consciousness for a minute, only 
 to be brought back by a sudden yell of, "Vitrier, 
 vitrier." You give up your nap as a lost joy, and go 
 out on the balcony. A man is passing with a box 
 strapped to his back filled with window-glass, and 
 he is ready to mend a broken pane. Later, a tiny 
 
 38
 
 A HOME FOR "PAVING GUESTS" 
 
 fuzzy burro walks sleepily down the street, pulling 
 a cart of rush -bottomed chairs with the rush badly 
 broken. A man walking in the rear calls out, "Rac- 
 commoder les chaises." At four o'clock the parrots 
 in the fourth and fifth etages anticipate the screams 
 of the old news- women and men by shouting, "Void 
 le Soir," "La Patrie," "La Presse," in imitation of a 
 half-dozen different screaming voices. 
 
 There are eight nations represented in this house, 
 two or more of each nation and each group talking 
 exclusively its own language, except the pretty Rus- 
 sian girl at my table who speaks seven languages, 
 but prefers French. There are two dining-rooms. 
 Each language has its own table, and when the din- 
 ers begin to talk one has an idea of what must have 
 occurred at Babel. 
 
 Madame is young, though she has four sons. She 
 is bourgeois, is very chic and wears exquisite hats. 
 Monsieur is an avocat, and they have their apartment 
 around the corner. Madame is a born manager; all 
 the maids, except the cook, are afraid of her. As in 
 America, the cook holds the whip-hand and Madame 
 gives her carte blanche. The cook supports her hus- 
 
 39
 
 band and three children out of Ma- 
 dame's kitchen, so Madame confided to 
 me — "Mais elle est bonne cuisiniere, et 
 que voulez-vous?" It is the same the world over; 
 there is nothing new in cooks. 
 
 Madame is not troubled with the spirit of small 
 economies which the French housewife has down to 
 a fine point. Being the only American in the house, 
 I have a silver bucket of ice at each meal because 
 Madame realizes that no American can be happy in 
 July without ice. The Russian girl, who is emanci- 
 pated, puts ice in her wine to cool it ; the others di- 
 lute with water. In season, for dejeuner, delicious 
 wild strawberries are served on a bed of their own 
 leaves with a little pot of powdered sugar. The 
 French pour red wine over them to give them a 
 godt. 
 
 The cool green and white dining-rooms with their 
 
 40
 
 Voici La Patria
 
 A HOME FOR "PAYING GUESTS" 
 
 filet lace and embroidered curtains, the white- 
 capped, white-aproned maids, the glistening ice, the 
 red berries, and the beautiful Russian girl make a 
 tempting and charming picture. 
 
 Madame marshals her forces in the early morn- 
 ing hours and by ten-thirty is off to the shops. At 
 luncheon she regales us with the news that we can 
 buy excellent, long glace gloves for three francs 
 ninety at the Printemps, an occasion for the day 
 only, and lovely chiffon blouses over hand-embroi- 
 dered net for twenty-nine francs Aux Galeries La- 
 fayette. She relates in a rapid and most dramatic 
 manner the harrowing details of a motor accident, 
 then, as some important engagement suddenly oc- 
 curs to her, she hurries to the telephone, which is 
 just outside of the dining-room, and the babble of 
 tongues immediately ceases in the interest of the 
 telephone talk which follows : 
 
 " 'Elo !— 'Elo, 'Elo, 'El— off 
 
 Dix-huit cent quatre-vingt quinze — quarante-sept 
 
 Oui, Bon! 
 
 (One minute wait.) 
 
 C'est l'Odeon? 
 
 Non? Eh, bien ! qu'etes-vous? 
 
 42
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Pard — on, Monsieur. 
 
 'Elo, 'Elo, 'Elo ! !— 'El— o, 'El— of 
 
 Je disais dix-huit cent quatre-vingt quinze — 
 quarante-sept et vous m'avez donnee quatre-vingt- 
 seize. 
 
 Comment? 
 
 (Two minute wait.) 
 
 'El— oo! 'El— oooff 'El— ooo!!! 
 
 Dix-huit cent quatre-vingt — Xon, pas du tout, je 
 
 r 
 
 disais quatre-vingt quinze — Vous et-es folle. 
 
 43
 
 A HOME FOR "PAYING GUESTS" 
 
 (Two minutes later.) 
 
 'Elo! 'Elo!! 'Elo!!! 
 
 Quoi? Sotte! c'esttrop^-ga." 
 And she gives it up, hangs up the receiver with a 
 loud click, then, her dark eyes snapping and her 
 eyebrows arched to the extreme, she returns to the 
 dining-room to sip her after-luncheon coffee and ex- 
 patiate, with her hands, shoulders, eyes and tongue, 
 on the stupidity and impudence of the telephone 
 girls and the bad management of the system in 
 general. 
 
 These international French houses are never with- 
 out comedy scenes of one kind or another, and to the 
 foreigner always prove a source of much entertain- 
 ment.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 lei P^ ^ te days °^ P ai 'is are ver y nu- 
 
 v M^M^&Mn merous. Indeed, there are almost as 
 many as there are saints in the cal- 
 endar, and the streets and boulevards 
 are always more or less en fete, for 
 in them domesticity is carried on in 
 all its detail. On a bench under the 
 trees the baby is minutely cared for, 
 while sitting next the bonne-, on the same bench, are 
 two bareheaded women shelling peas. At a push- 
 cart near by a man is drinking a cup of coffee and 
 eating a waffle. Seated on a chair under the trees a 
 portly woman, with nodding feather, is taking a 
 siesta. A boy brings a bucket of water, a scrubbing 
 brush and a soiled white poodle to the curb and pro- 
 ceeds to scrub him. This performance is watched 
 with interest by a Parisian stretched at full length on 
 a bench, who has hitherto been supremely happy in 
 the contemplation of the patches of blue sky seen 
 
 45
 
 ^MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 through the tree-tops. The vigorous scrubbing and 
 the howls of the dog bring him to a sitting posture. 
 With great deliberation, he rolls a cigarette, while 
 his black eyes shine with interest in the boy, the 
 bucket, and the dog. The dog's toilet under the trees 
 is suggestive, and the observer takes from his pocket 
 a small brush and begins brushing his hair and 
 beard. He has no thought of the act being ridicu- 
 lous. What are the boulevards of republican France 
 for if not to live in? 
 
 The boulevard is his lounging-room, dressing- 
 room and toilet-room, and there are hundreds of 
 mirrors and necessary conveniences. He crosses the 
 street to a cafe and adjusts his neck-scarf and pats 
 his beard before a paneled mirror. Then he drinks 
 a cup of coffee and catches up with his correspon- 
 dence — his thoughts flow better in the boulevard. 
 After all this he proceeds to stare, and he has a 
 dozen different kinds of stare. He stares with in- 
 terest, with surprise, with curiosity, with delight, 
 with expectation, with anticipation and with uncon- 
 scious rudeness. The Frenchman can out-stare the 
 men of all other nations. It is one of his greatest ac- 
 complishments. 
 
 46
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 By ten o'clock on a fete morning, the metal blinds 
 are lowered and all working Paris saunters forth in 
 search of amusement. A fair is held in some quarter 
 of the city, which is visited by great crowds of 
 merry-makers. The Bois, the Tuileries and the Lux- 
 embourg Gardens are packed with the holiday 
 crowd, all in fete dress. The petits bateaux mouches 
 are crowded to their capacity with happy people go- 
 ing to enjoy the day in the country under the trees 
 in some vast forest, just outside of Paris, where they 
 will picnic on the grass, stretch themselves at full 
 length under the trees, play with the children and 
 dogs, and gather flowers. The dogs and feathered 
 pets are carried along with the babies and hampers, 
 for the pets will enjoy the outing if possible even 
 more than the family. Tope's life in Paris is not a 
 happy one, as there he is never detached from the 
 leash, but in the country he will frisk about and run 
 with the children all day, returning in high spirits 
 on the last boat home, where he will seem wistful 
 and sad until next fete day. 
 
 It is looking forward to the fete days — the joy of 
 anticipation — which is the secret of the city's every- 
 day smile of good nature. Outwardly, Paris is al- 
 
 47
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 ways laughing, bubbling and 
 polite, but if you pierce its ve- 
 neer you will discover much 
 sadness and brutality. In the 
 same way the beauty of Paris is 
 all exterior, a feast for the eye 
 ■ — the most wonderful and mag- 
 nificent feast in the world. Yet 
 under this incomparable exte- 
 rior, Paris is often offensive to 
 the eye, nose and ear. 
 The fete day is often the one chosen by insubordi- 
 nates for a demonstration, and it sometimes ends in 
 riots in which the little policeman is roughly han- 
 dled. One readily understands why Napoleon de- 
 creed that four fete days in a year were sufficient for 
 the people — for the repeated interruption of fete 
 days is a great hindrance to those who must earn 
 their bread. 
 
 Mi-careme, mid-Lent, is still celebrated by a gor- 
 geous procession of artistic floats, representing La 
 Musique, La Poesie, La Sculpture, La Danse and 
 La Peinture. There is a splendid gilded car resting 
 on the spread tails of peacocks for the Reine des 
 
 48
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 Reines and her ladies of honor, escorted by musi- 
 cians of the royal guard, Greek cavaliers, Ecuyeres 
 of the queen and dozens of royal porters, all in six- 
 teenth century costumes, and carrying parasols of 
 pink roses and big baskets of lilies. 
 
 The students and artists are out in numbers, wear- 
 ing death's-heads and with their clothes painted to 
 represent skeletons. They walk arm in arm with 
 Quartier grisettes in the latest mode, as escort to 
 their float, which starts from the Pantheon and joins 
 the procession from Montmartre, in the rue de 
 Rivoli. The students' float, drawn by six white 
 horses, is a reproduction of the mansard of Mimi 
 Pinson. A blond Mimi, wearing a wreath of pink 
 roses, is seated in her tiny window balcony among 
 her flower pots and 
 birds, and the big Mou- 
 lin de la Galette towers 
 above the mansard in 
 
 the tiny garden at the^^r-' 
 rear, where students, 
 artists and more Mimis, 
 the latter in transparent 
 gauzes, dance and 
 
 49
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 smoke cigarettes. The streets and balconies along 
 the route are dense with gay people, and hundreds 
 of children parade in fancy costume. 
 
 A few years ago at this fete one walked in confetti 
 two or three feet deep in the boulevards, and all the 
 trees were strung with colored serpentines. To-day, 
 while the fete is on, the confetti is thrown only by 
 children and American tourists, but in the evening 
 the students wage vigorous battles with the girls, 
 along the boulevard St. Michel en route to the Bal 
 Bullier. 
 
 All that remains of the former picturesque Mardi- 
 Gras fete which takes place on Shrove Tuesday is 
 the procession of big white oxen, wearing floral 
 harness, walking serenely through the boulevards, 
 drawing a big flower-trimmed float of musicians 
 playing popular airs. This procession of the oxen 
 is to remind the Parisian that Tuesday is the last 
 day on which to eat meat before the inauguration of 
 Ash-Wednesday. Lent, however, plays only a small 
 part in the life of the average Parisian of to-day. 
 
 The great masked ball of former years, which ri- 
 valed the balls of ancient Rome, is held no more at 
 the Grand Opera House; but on the evening of Mi- 
 
 50
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 careme balls are given in all quarters of Paris. In 
 the Quartier, the Bullier, located at the end of the 
 celebrated Boul' Miche' in the avenue de l'Observa- 
 toire, is riotiously gay on this popular fete night. 
 Students, artists, models, and grisettes in abbrevi- 
 ated costumes flock into the boulevard cafes at nine. 
 The students wear masks, and the girls tie scarfs of 
 tissue over their heads and faces to protect them 
 from the confetti which the boys carry in huge pa- 
 per sacks. 
 
 Many of the boys are in short skirts and decollete 
 bodices and they romp along with girls in trousers 
 above the knee, their bare feet in sandals. Others 
 represent Mephistos, death's-heads, bathers, and 
 gipsies — a merry-mad shouting crowd who ex- 
 change jokes with the sight-seers seated at the 
 tables of the tavern terrasses. All the bock and wine- 
 glasses are carefully covered to protect the drinks 
 from the showers of confetti hurled at them during 
 the evening. 
 
 Masqueraders rush in and out of the two entrances 
 of the Pantheon Tavern and shower the waiters, 
 carrying trays of drinks. Then down they go to the 
 American bar under the tavern, where more drinks 
 
 51
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 are spilled and the glasses filled with confetti. At 
 ten the cheering romping procession streams into 
 the Bullier, the three policemen guarding the en- 
 trance being the last targets for the confetti. 
 
 Here the orchestra, one of the oldest and most 
 celebrated in Paris, plays a fast and furious gallop, 
 and the dance is entered into with great abandon. 
 The girls lift their skirts higher and higher, turn- 
 ing and twisting them as they do a fancy step, all 
 singing at the tops of their voices. As the music ends 
 with a grand crash of cymbals, the wild-looking 
 leader fires three shots to add to the noise. Then 
 all romp forward and shout, "Bis! bis!! bis!!!" and 
 with a tremendous crash of instruments, the leader 
 beats the time furiously all over again ; the mad 
 whirl begins anew, and, if possible, ends in wilder 
 abandon than before. 
 
 The dance over, as it is too cool yet to sit in the 
 garden, everybody rushes to the terrasse back of the 
 railing to be served with mild drinks. While seated 
 at a table you will observe a great deal of side-play 
 between the girls and students. A girl with a superb 
 figure, possibly a sculptor's model, will leave her 
 table and partner, rush over to a clown seated at 
 
 52
 
 Quatarze Juillet
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 i 
 
 another table, who is busy entertaining a delighted 
 trio, kiss him, shake hands all round and then rush 
 back pell-mell to her partner, who will be scowling 
 ominously. She will then take his face between her 
 hands and kiss him much in the same manner as she 
 kissed the clown, and thus at once blot out all ill- 
 feeling. Then she will part her drapery at the waist, 
 and taking from a silk bag, attached by a ribbon 
 underneath, a tiny mirror and rouge stick, she will 
 proceed to remedy the defects made by the kisses. 
 This is all done with supreme unconsciousness of the 
 gray-haired Englishman with twinkling eyes and 
 his two severe-looking daughters who are gazing at 
 her curiously, but with evident disapproval. Four 
 Americans at another table near by look upon this 
 little digression as purely French and not unex- 
 pected. 
 
 These little camarades of the students seem to the 
 manner born in their free gaiety. Presently you find 
 yourself gazing at a graceful little blonde in a bath- 
 ing costume of red silk jersey tights, her bare feet 
 in red morocco sandals and her blond hair tied up 
 in a scarlet silk handkerchief. She is beautiful of 
 face as well as figure, and as she skips along the 
 
 54
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 Americans exclaim with one voice, "How lovely!" 
 much to the horror of a dear little Princeton woman 
 in the party who hasn't quite realized what the Bal 
 Bullier is like, yet is anxious to see the students and 
 grisettes dance on a big fete night. 
 
 At Trouville or Dieppe this little blond girl, in 
 her scarlet silk trunks, would have been in perfect 
 form as she dropped her bath robe and posed for a 
 moment before diving, that the men, some armed 
 with field-glasses, others with opera-glasses, and 
 still others with cameras, might admire and snap- 
 shot her. French women are much alike whether you 
 see them at Deauville, at the Madrid, at the Grand 
 Prix, or on the boulevards. Their one object is to 
 attract the masculine eye, and they always succeed, 
 for they are infinitely more chic and fascinating in 
 their simplest gowns than women of other nations, 
 however gowned. 
 
 The most historical of all the fetes is the ginger- 
 bread fete which follows the ham fete. This fete 
 dates back to the Middle Ages, when Philippe le Bel 
 gave the monks of Citeaux the privilege of selling 
 honey-cakes and pigs on the Vincennes Road, which 
 is now the Faubourg St. Antoine. This combination 
 
 55
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 of live stock and cake explains why the present-day 
 gingerbread is made in the form of a pig with the 
 purchaser's name written on it in colored sugar. 
 
 After the Revolution, hucksters took the place of 
 the monks, and numerous features were added until 
 there has developed the great fete of to-day, with 
 twelve hundred people — showmen and hucksters — 
 carrying on business for over a month in the busy 
 streets of Paris. Gay crowds throng the place night 
 and day, for the attractions are varied and numer- 
 ous. Parisians seem in their element at these annual 
 fetes, as they take childish delight in the simplest 
 pleasures and for a few sous can dip into all the va- 
 ried and mysterious attractions. If you are lucky at 
 "odd or even", rouge et noir, or pctits chevaux, you 
 can win all sorts of useful or impossible prizes. 
 
 The fete given annually on the Esplanade des In- 
 valides in July is patronized by all Paris. The great 
 open space is divided off into streets, lined on both 
 sides with booths, in every one of which is a wheel 
 of fortune, where for two sous you may possibly win 
 two pounds of cut sugar or a box of French matches, 
 which will not light. Here, too, are shooting-gal- 
 leries, side-shows, theaters, waxwork monstrosities, 
 
 56
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 merry-go-rounds, miniature Ferris wheels, all va- 
 rieties of swings, flying aeroplanes, zigzag rail- 
 roads, a chamber of horrors and dozens of other at- 
 tractions, all decorated with mirrors, statues, flags, 
 garlands of flowers and quantities of gold and silver 
 to dazzle and bewilder. 
 
 Steam pianos and organs are playing their reper- 
 toires over and over again ; men are beating bass 
 drums and banging cymbals; a girl in pink tights 
 calls out to the crowd, "Mais entrez, Messieurs et 
 Mesdames!" You enter for four sous and see a life- 
 like representation of the execution of Gerot, a cele- 
 brated criminal. The throng here is dense; the sor- 
 did and gross in life never fails to attract the Paris 
 crowd. 
 
 Here you will see a mother explaining the hide- 
 ous scene to her little boy of twelve, just as she takes 
 him to the Louvre and explains to him the beauties 
 of a Raphael Madonna or a Titian Venus. The Pa- 
 risian child is educated from the cradle in the sordid 
 as well as in the artistic, beautiful and historic side 
 of life. He will give you the name of the sculptor 
 of a beautiful monument recently unveiled in the 
 Tuileries Gardens, recount to you the history of Na- 
 
 57
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 poleon, and assure you that the thief who stole the 
 Mona Lisa must be some foreign devil. Then, with 
 a sly look, he will tell you he knows where there are 
 some bien gates Venuses, and you know that he has 
 been to the shop just off the Grand Boulevard where 
 the window is filled with plaster Venuses done in 
 the vulgar humoristique style of so many French 
 artists. 
 
 The child can look in the window of an antique 
 shop and see a beautiful old print and directly under 
 it a modern indecency. His moral sense is thus 
 stunted at a tender age. There are Napoleon battle 
 pictures painted on panels in the shooting-galleries 
 at the fete, and if you happen to strike a particular 
 panel it will drop, disclosing a ridiculous and often 
 vulgar picture which always creates shouts of laugh- 
 ter from the crowd, many of whom are children. 
 
 There are merry-go-rounds' of sportive-looking 
 cows, with their red tongues lolling out, their tails 
 tied up with blue ribbons, and the true Parisian 
 spirit looking out of their glass eyes. There are 
 laughing pigs, giraffes, tigers, grinning lions, big 
 white swans and tiny chariots drawn by rabbits for 
 the children. You can ride any animal that you 
 
 58
 
 At Trouville
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 fancy for two sous. In the evening under the bril- 
 liant electric lights, every animal is bestrode by stu- 
 dents and grisettes, soldiers and bonnes, shopkeep- 
 ers and their wives, valets and maids, all clinging 
 to one another and laughing and shouting as they 
 whirl rapidly round and round to the accompani- 
 ment of the ear-splitting and inharmonious music 
 of the steam organs and loud-beating drums. Often 
 the girls choose seats on the cows' heads. Monsieur 
 and Madame mount to the backs of a pair of giraffes 
 and clasp their long necks with no thought of the 
 ridiculous picture they present. The bonne arranges 
 the children on the back of a big swan and in the 
 rabbit chariot. Then with a bound, she in turn lands 
 on the back of a lion beside a soldier, whose arm 
 immediately encircles her. All the time the manager 
 with a very red face is screaming at the top of his 
 voice, "Mais depechez-vous!" All are munching 
 gingerbread as they whirl. After a turn with the 
 merry-go-round you can step into a bona fide aero- 
 plane from a high platform and sail round and 
 round like a bird fifty feet above the crowd, or you 
 can be jerked about in a zigzag railroad. This lat- 
 ter exercise is very popular. 
 
 60
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 Then there are strings of darting motors racing 
 round and round and up and down steep inclines, 
 each one filled with screaming humanity. Walking 
 along the outdoor foyer of the theaters, you find 
 dancing girls in ballet skirts giving free exhibitions 
 of their art before the inside show begins. Perform- 
 ing acrobats are building human pyramids ; clowns 
 exchanging risque jokes at the expense of the crowd ; 
 boxers having bouts, and wrestlers exhibiting their 
 prowess, strength and agility, while girls in blue 
 and yellow tights beat tambourines and call out, 
 "Entrez! — entrez done! ! — nous commencerons dans 
 quelques minutes — vous pouvez trouver la bonne 
 place maintenant — entrez, Messieurs!" But very few 
 enter, for the free outside show, though only a sam- 
 ple of the one inside, seems to satisfy the crowd. 
 
 You move on, and presently the museum of hor- 
 rors is before you. Disgusting surgical operations, 
 all forms and stages of loathsome diseases, babies in 
 incubators, accouchements and reconstructions of 
 hideous crimes are all curiously inspected by chil- 
 dren, who are always numerous at these fetes. 
 
 The fete held in June each year at Neuilly just 
 outside Porte Maillot is similar to the Fete des In- 
 
 61
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 valides and lasts for a fortnight Both sides of the 
 road for miles are gay with decorated booths, flow- 
 ers and flags, and all bourgeois Paris is seen here in 
 the evening. 
 
 Later in the summer, Saint Cloud, too, has its 
 fete which has the added attraction of many water 
 games and sports on the Seine. 
 
 The Fete des Fleurs, held in the avenue des Aca- 
 cias in the Bois in June, just before the Grand Prix, 
 is of quite another genre and belongs more exclu- 
 sively to the fashionable side of Paris. At this fete, 
 which is given for the benefit of the families of the 
 Paris police who have lost their lives in the dis- 
 charge of their duty — and the number is very great 
 — you will see the chic fashionable world in beau- 
 tiful rose and violet-trimmed motor-cars and vic- 
 torias lined with flowers, the women carrying floral 
 parasols and tossing flowers as they pass and repass. 
 
 Flowers are everywhere. Garlands of pink and 
 white roses are suspended from tall poles, and ropes 
 of lilies and violets are stretched from tree to tree 
 and twined about the tree trunks, while both ends 
 of the section of the avenue given over to the fete 
 are roped off with a blaze of flowers. A famous 
 
 62
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 actress of the Gymnase Theater passes you again and 
 again in a red geranium-trimmed victoria, the center 
 of the wheels in white roses. The beautiful and per- 
 fectly matched team of blacks wear blankets of scar- 
 let geraniums and harness and collars of white roses. 
 
 The coachman and footman are in scarlet coats, and 
 this Camille of the theater, in a white chiffon gown, 
 wears a small white-rose hat and carries a parasol 
 of the scarlet blossoms. 
 
 The fete lasts two days and a large sum is real- 
 ized for the fatherless. 
 
 Le Jour de I' An or New Year's day, is the fete 
 looked forward to by working Paris with interest 
 
 63
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 and assurance. A week before reveillon, or Christ- 
 mas Eve, the etrenne procession begins to call on 
 you and from then on till three or four days after 
 New Year's, your bell is rung at intervals through- 
 out the day. First the concierge gets very industri- 
 ous. She takes up your door-mat and actually beats 
 it out of a wide-open window on the stairway which 
 has remained closed all the year with an invisible 
 lock. She smiles on you as you pass her on the stairs, 
 instead of presenting her back. She polishes up the 
 brass handle of your door and dusts it down with a 
 long brush. This all means a tip of anything from 
 ten to one hundred francs, according to the amount 
 of your rent. 
 
 The jacteur, with a smile in his beard, arrives in 
 cocked hat and circular cape on which is pinned a 
 medal often given for a service rendered by some 
 other man. You never have seen him before. He 
 informs you that he brings your journal every morn- 
 ing. You tell him you buy your journal at a kiosk 
 and carry it yourself. He answers, "Mais fapporte 
 les joumaux ici chaque jour." Of course, why ar- 
 gue? You are living in an apartment-house of seven 
 Stages and fourteen apartments. Without doubt he 
 
 64
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 brings journals. You pay and save time. He smil- 
 ingly accepts the two francs and lifts his cocked hat. 
 "Merci, Madame" he says as he turns to descend 
 the stairs. 
 
 The bell rings. This time it is a boy in buttons, 
 a wholesome, pink-cheeked, black-eyed boy of four- 
 teen. He is the petit bleu boy. You give him five 
 francs, for your worktable is inundated with the 
 petits bleus. This is the only kind of mail you can 
 rely on. This boy is good to look at — not a little bit 
 like his father. 
 
 The bell rings again ; it is the charbon a bois boy, 
 a little monkey without any memory, his face washed 
 in spots and his brown eyes shining with anticipa- 
 tion. "Combien?" you ask him. "Comme vous vou- 
 lez, Madame," he answers, smiling, and is delighted 
 with a franc. 
 
 The laundress times your laundry the day before 
 New Year's. The milk boy on this morning rings 
 your bell at seven o'clock, as does the bread woman 
 — porteuse du pain. Each receives a franc. Then, 
 there are the registered-letter man, the cable boy, 
 the telegraph boy, and the garbage man. Even the 
 gas man is not above waiting for his etrenne, not- 
 
 65
 
 withstanding he has a military air and bristles with 
 authority. 
 
 Thousands rush to Montmartre to view from the 
 terrace of the Sacre Coeur the dawn of a New Year 
 
 floating up to them out of the gray mysterious night 
 surrounding and enveloping the Paris of Zola's 
 Pierre Froment. 
 
 The season's festivities begin two weeks before 
 Christmas and do not terminate till after the new 
 year is two or three days old. Parisians must have 
 a day or two before a fete for preparation and a 
 day or two after the fete to find their level again. 
 They like to approach a joy slowly, to dream and an- 
 ticipate, and then live it all over again in mind after- 
 ward. They dislike being hurried. The Parisian la- 
 borer will not work on Monday ; it is too soon after 
 
 66
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 his Sunday fete. He must have time to reconstruct 
 his Sunday pleasure and enjoy it again. The Pa- 
 risian is always a child when at play, but he can be 
 very earnest when at work. 
 
 The great national fete, the anniversary of the 
 storming and taking of the Bastile, the ancient state 
 prison, dating from the fourteenth century, which 
 was crowded with victims of the despotism of the 
 old monarchy, is celebrated on the fourteenth of 
 July and is one of the most picturesque festivities of 
 Paris.
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 A week previous to the fourteenth, the streets 
 and boulevards are in unmolested possession of the 
 camelots, for all Paris enjoys absolute freedom. 
 Even the police lose their anxious look and enjoy 
 themselves. At this time Paris is in a more chaotic 
 state than ordinarily. The city is beautifully deco- 
 rated; all the principal monuments are hung with 
 flags and emblems; the cafes are festooned with 
 flags, and the city is in gala dress. Even the con- 
 cierge of the unfashionable quarter washes, buttons 
 up and sallies forth to dance several rounds in the 
 square near by. It is the one day in the year when 
 her door is left unguarded for an hour, for even the 
 Apaches give themselves over to the jollification, 
 remunerating themselves in the crowd from time to 
 time. 
 
 The state, the department of the Seine and the 
 city of Paris contribute two hundred and fifty-five 
 thousand francs to the popular amusement, and a 
 hundred and twenty thousand more are divided 
 among the different arrondissements for the very 
 poor. There is a grand military review in the early 
 morning hours at Longchamp; free performances 
 are given in all the theaters and four great popular 
 
 68
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 balls take place in the evening, at one or the other 
 of which, all true Parisians fraternize in the dance. 
 All social barriers are leveled, and students, shop- 
 keepers, grisettes, artists, models, Apaches, police, 
 clerks, cabmen, demi-mondaines, concierges, sol- 
 diers, cocottes, cooks, maids and bonnes all dance in 
 the public squares and on the sidewalk terrasses of 
 the cafes which have been moved out on the pave- 
 ment. The traffic of motors and cabs is completely- 
 blocked and the cocker who tries to break through 
 while the dance is in progress is roughly handled, 
 not by the police, but by a determined citizens' 
 guard stationed at all corners of the square. 
 
 The trees are hung with red and yellow lanterns, 
 and ropes and garlands of flowers are festooned 
 from flag-poles put up at intervals with strings of 
 swaying electric lights in colored shades. A band- 
 stand is erected in every square throughout Paris 
 and the city is a blaze of lights and flags. The or- 
 chestras play a varied repertoire over and over again 
 for three consecutive afternoons and evenings. 
 
 Babies in arms and in perambulators, and tiny 
 boys and girls participate in the frolic until two and 
 three o'clock in the morning; women with trays of 
 
 69
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 sugared waffles and cakes, and men with nuts, olives 
 and chocolate are constantly passing in and around 
 the tables ; hot coffee is served, and all are made 
 comfortable and happy. Now and then in the rush 
 a waiter trips on a rough stone and spills the con- 
 tents of his tray on the head of some unfortunate, 
 but apologies are made and accepted, and "every- 
 thing goes". Good nature is on top. Even the police 
 shake hands and fraternize with the Apaches. 
 
 The Place de la Bastile, the largest square in 
 Paris, is dense with people on this fete night. The 
 great bronze Colonne de Juillet is hung with ropes 
 of electric lights festooned out to the big arc lights 
 and flag-poles. Great chrysanthemum stars of light 
 in all colors are elevated at points above the huge 
 base, while Liberty Statue, a hundred and fifty feet 
 in the air, stands out against the dark heavens in a 
 blaze of blue light. Thousands of red balls of light 
 gleam from all the trees, and the buildings sur- 
 rounding the square are decorated in fantastic man- 
 ner. Seven enormous pieces of fireworks, which cost 
 the city twenty thousand francs, are exploded at 
 twelve o'clock as a grand finale, although dancing is 
 
 kept up until morning. 
 
 70
 
 POPULAR HOLIDAYS 
 
 Montmartre, too, on this fete night, is a perfect 
 whirligig of riotously gay people. Very little 
 dancing is indulged in, but every conceivable some- 
 thing else is in full swing till morning.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN THE BOIS 
 
 To sit, on a Saturday afternoon of June or July, 
 in front of the Chinese restaurant near the Porte- 
 Dauphine, and watch the carriage parade is to be- 
 hold one of the characteristic and unforgetable 
 sights of Paris. Every type of the world may be 
 seen, in carriages, on wheels, or afoot, and from 
 this comfortable nook one may miss but little. Under 
 the trees of this Chinese tea garden are numerous 
 little tables covered with white cloths, and there are 
 dozens of attentive waiters hovering near, for tea 
 has become a fashionable necessity since the Eng- 
 lish and the Americans have invaded Paris in such 
 numbers. Here tea is served to suit all tastes — 
 tea with rum, tea with brandy, tea with liqueur, tea 
 with citron, tea with cream, tea clear, comme vous 
 voulez. Under a fantastic green pagoda a scarlet- 
 uniformed orchestra plays international music while 
 the patrons chat and drink. 
 
 72
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN THE BOIS 
 
 One of the interesting features of these Saturday 
 afternoons in June and July is the almost unbroken 
 bridal parades that drive through the Champs Ely- 
 sees en route to the Bois, where the various parties 
 stop at some favorite restaurant and drink cham- 
 pagne to the newly wed. 
 
 There are ten or twelve carriages in each proces- 
 sion, and on a pleasant afternoon from fifteen to 
 twenty parties may be seen to enter the Porte-Dau- 
 phine entrance to the Bois and wind down the beau- 
 tiful avenue des Acacias. The bride's carriage is 
 stately and is built after the pattern of the king's 
 carriage at Versailles, with big silver lamps front 
 and back. It is upholstered in white broadcloth, the 
 back of the seat hung with Duchesse or Renaissance 
 lace, and the entire front a mirror, banked with the 
 bride's roses, which reflects the interesting and pretty 
 interior. 
 
 The cocker is very important in his black suit 
 with much white shirt-front, and silver on his hat. 
 He wears a broad smile and has a gardenia in his 
 buttonhole. Many yards of white satin ribbon are 
 looped and tied in knots with flowing streamers and 
 wound about his whip. The horses are sleek, their 
 
 73
 
 manes and tails tied and knotted with ribbons, and 
 big white rosettes decorate their bridles. 
 
 These carriages are very expensive and their hire 
 is often as much as the cost of a modest trip. But 
 why should the Parisian take a bridal-trip when he 
 has everything in beautiful Paris? Why, indeed! 
 
 By five o'clock many tourists are dashing by in 
 open taxis. One of Cook's huge parties is en route 
 through the Bois to St. Cloud, entirely satisfied with 
 mere glimpses of what it takes years to know. 
 
 A perfectly appointed victoria, with footman and 
 coachman in correct English livery has stopped at 
 the curb and two old women in dowdy black, each 
 with a fuzzy toy dog, step out and promenade under 
 the trees. They are the flotsam of their world, for 
 at sixty-five the Parisienne becomes careless of her 
 
 74
 
 appearance, allows her Titian hair to show gray an 
 inch or two from the roots, discards her face make- 
 up and settles down into wrinkled old age. She con- 
 cludes the game is no longer worth the candle, looks 
 to her toy dog for consolation, and calls the world 
 of fashion si bete. 
 
 Two bridal parties, one after the other, come dash- 
 ing up the avenue. In the first carriage the bride- 
 groom, a petty officer of the army, is in uniform. His 
 bride is enveloped in billowy masses of tulle and the 
 front of the carriage is banked with white roses and 
 lilies. The guests following are smartly gowned and 
 very gay. They toss flowers from carriage to car- 
 riage, kiss their hands to the occupants, smile and 
 chat excitedly. In the second procession, most of the 
 women are smoking cigarettes and mama's face is 
 
 75
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 very red as she shouts her joy to the guests in the 
 carriage in front. 
 
 Still another bridal party passes. The bride- 
 groom of sixty wears evening clothes and smiles 
 contentedly at his bride of twenty. They are com- 
 pletely banked in with flowers and one huge bou- 
 quet of roses is suspended from the open window by 
 white ribbons. The maids are in pale-blue mous- 
 seline de soi with white hats and blue feathers. The 
 guests, in gay toilettes, are nodding, laughing, talk- 
 ing rapidly with their hands, shoulders and eyes, as 
 well as their tongues. 
 
 A high cart, driven tandem, by a distinguished- 
 looking gray-haired Englishman with a groom on 
 the seat beside him, is just turning the corner, fol- 
 lowed by three bicyclists — one, a girl, in lavender 
 bloomers, exposing sun-burned calves and with a 
 Turkish scarf wound into a turban on her head. 
 They all do fancy-trick turns on their wheels as 
 they speed around the corner. 
 
 The chairs in front of the restaurant are now all 
 occupied and the band is playing a nocturne. Sud- 
 denly a black-garbed old woman appears before you 
 for the two sous for your chair. "Merci, Madame," 
 
 7 6
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN THE BOIS 
 
 she says as she gives you your ticket. She is always 
 
 smiling and polite. 
 
 Now it begins to rain a little, quelle dommage! 
 
 and the people seated in chairs rush for the shelter 
 
 of the umbrella-top trees in the thick wood near by. 
 
 But it is only for a minute or two. Voila encore le 
 
 soleil, and everybody smiles again. 
 
 An Alsatian bonne, with two children driving a pet 
 
 white goat and carrying a min- 
 iature sailboat, buckets and 
 spades, is proceeding slowly to- 
 ward the lake. Another bridal 
 party is coming into view and 
 the band is playing Lohengrin's
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 wedding march. This party is of the well-to-do 
 bourgeois class. The old grandmother rides in a 
 carriage with the bonne. She sits very straight in 
 her black-silk gown and frilled, white tulle cap. Her 
 cheeks are flushed with excitement or perhaps with 
 the vin ordinaire, and her eyes twinkle and snap as 
 she smiles and nods to the guests. Now the maids' 
 carriage turns out of the procession and proceeds 
 alongside of the bride's carriage where they pelt her 
 with roses through the open window, all laughing 
 joyously. 
 
 The bridal parties are now arriving in quartettes, 
 all very gay, nodding and tossing flowers as they 
 pass. One loses all count of them. 
 
 The omnibus special for ten is driving up with a 
 whole family, including the country relations, all 
 chattering like monkeys in their delight over the 
 grand drive in the wonderful Bois. 
 
 And, silent commentary on the vanity of life, the 
 cortege of the minister of war, who was crushed to 
 death at the aviation meet, is solemnly winding its 
 way through the Bois to St. Cloud. 
 
 You see many young women with old men, in 
 beautiful limousines, who smile and look very bored. 
 
 78
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN THE BOIS 
 
 The Parisienne may be sad at heart and in the very 
 depths of despair, but you always see the outward 
 smile, although it is often full of pathos. 
 
 A graceful, exquisitely-gowned young woman has 
 just taken a seat near us. Her delft-blue eyes have 
 
 U'L. 
 
 a wistful expression in their sad depths. With her 
 are three well-groomed young men who gaze in- 
 tently at her as they pay her compliments. But for 
 all their attentions and her chic clothes, which of 
 themselves make most French women happy, her 
 smile is pathetic, and she has the sad indifferent air 
 of a Camille. Like Camille, she, too, may have had 
 a real lover and perhaps has had to give him up. 
 
 79
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Now two cockers, with white varnished hats and 
 very red faces that match their waistcoats in color, 
 have locked wheels in trying to avoid two motors 
 at the same time. There is much gesturing, shaking 
 of fists and cracking of whips for emphasis. They 
 call each other sales lapins, sons of pigs and sons of 
 cabbages and are about to fight it out when one sud- 
 denly mounts his cab and harangues the collected 
 crowd, all the time shaking his fist at his confrere. 
 A policeman suddenly arrives and tells both of them 
 to allez vite. The one who has been silent for a min- 
 ute, tells the policeman no, he will not go — not he; 
 he will say all ; he has not yet had the chance of it, 
 moil! And he strikes his breast with his fist, mounts 
 his cab and gives the policeman and the crowd his 
 version of the locked wheels, then with a loud crack 
 of the whip and a shout of, "Voila tout!" he is off. 
 
 The bonne, with the happy children and white 
 goat, is now coming in view en route home. The bi- 
 cycle girl in lavender, with her two men companions,. 
 is swinging around the corner, the band is playing 
 The Beautiful Blue Danube, and the cyclists, who 
 are without doubt members of the Nouveau Cirque, 
 are waltzing on their wheels in the open space. The 
 
 80
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN THE BOIS 
 
 women sitting in chairs are taking out their rouge 
 sticks, powder puffs and mirrors to touch up their 
 expressions to the desired point. 
 
 The beautiful woman with delft-blue eyes and 
 her three friends have motored off in a splen- 
 did violet car with a big Scotch collie seated beside 
 the chauffeur. The cars in front of the tea garden, 
 with their chic occupants, are departing one by one. 
 The sun has disappeared behind the green tree-tops, 
 and gray and purple shadows are enveloping the 
 Bois in a velvet-like pall, for God's day is over and 
 the Parisian hurries home to make ready for his day, 
 which starts at midnight.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 GAY MONTMARTRE 
 
 The quintessence of Parisian gaiety begins at mid- 
 night on Montmartre. There gay Paris tosses to the 
 winds her mask of decorum and etiquette and comes 
 out in her true colors. 
 
 Between the Place Blanche and the Place Pigalle 
 on the boulevard Clichy is a Broadway in minia- 
 ture for revolving electric lights, and the cabarets, 
 theaters, music-hall balls, all-night cafes of gro- 
 tesque, fantastic and eccentric fame are as numerous 
 as leaves on a tree. English-speaking people are al- 
 ways well represented at l'Abbaye, Tabarin, Pigalle, 
 and Rat Mort. A visit to Paris is not complete with- 
 out at least one all-night of gaiety on the world- 
 famed Butte. At l'Abbaye's evening dress is de 
 rigueur, and seated on old-pink chairs and divans 
 and under hundreds of prism lights, you drink your 
 champagne in a beautiful ivory and gold-mirrored 
 salon and watch the French, Russian and Spanish 
 
 82
 
 GAY MONTMARTRE 
 
 girls execute eccentric dances, point their toes above 
 their heads and display the latest modes in French 
 lingerie. Here many of the foreign colony dine be- 
 fore going to the theater, and here they return for 
 supper and the dancing afterward. 
 
 On New Year's Eve all cosmopolitan Paris 
 watches the old year out and the new year in at one 
 or more of Montmartre's celebrated ball-cafes. On 
 this greatest of all fete nights it is necessary to en- 
 gage your table or loge at least ten days in advance. 
 The usual price is multiplied by five, and a loge 
 for four or six people will cost you from one hun- 
 dred to one hundred and fifty francs. 
 
 At the Tabarin, the best known of all the music- 
 hall ball-cafes, the scene in the salle de dance, on 
 this fete night, is fairy-like with garlands of flow- 
 ers, hundreds of colored lights, flags of all nations, 
 suspended hoops loaded with souvenirs, huge New 
 Year's cards representing the black cat, the donkey 
 and the pig and reflecting mirrors wreathed in flow- 
 ers, all seen through a bewildering maze of colored 
 serpentine ribbons, thrown from the balconies on the 
 dancers below. 
 
 The girls who dance the French quadrille or can- 
 
 83
 
 Bal Tabarin 
 
 can of Mabille fame wear immense picture hats, lace 
 lingerie and white satin gowns, each arranged with 
 a wire hoop which they turn and throAv over them 
 as they do a high kick, frequently knocking off the 
 hat of a man whose curiosity has led him too near. 
 These girls are professionals and dance more or less 
 mechanically, never with the spontaneous abandon 
 that you will see at the Moulin de la Gallette and 
 the Bullier on a big fete night. The four enormous 
 hoops loaded with souvenirs, suspended from the 
 ceiling over the dancers, are lowered just out of 
 
 84
 
 GAY MONTMARTRE 
 
 reach of every one at eleven-thirty, and there is a 
 wild scramble to poke them down with canes. A 
 number fall and the hoops are suddenly pulled out 
 of reach. Again they are lowered and some of the 
 tall English and American men on the floor snatch 
 off armfuls. This is kept up until the hoops are quite 
 bare and everybody seems to have one or more of the 
 beautiful souvenirs and in addition a revolving, 
 noise-making disk. 
 
 Promptly at twelve the lights are turned off and 
 the leader of the orchestra fires twelve pistol-shots 
 
 At the Dead Rat
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 to mark the hour. Then night is suddenly turned 
 into day by strings of colored electric lights that 
 have been hidden in the garlands of flowers, and the 
 new year is ushered in by a deafening fanfare of 
 trumpets, a chorus of voices in greeting and the 
 clinking of hundreds of champagne glasses, while 
 the orchestra plays a popular air and the dancing 
 becomes fast and impetuous. The noise is deafening 
 and is kept up for a half-hour, while a perfect lat- 
 tice-work of color is woven across corners of the bal- 
 conies by men and women pelting each other with 
 serpentines. There is a parade of pretty girls in 
 tinted gauzes representing the Goddesses of Love, 
 War and Beauty, and the Four Seasons. The girls, 
 posed in huge sea-shells and bowers of roses, are 
 supported on the shoulders of Egyptians and Ro- 
 mans in gorgeous costumes. The procession circles 
 the hall two or three times and disappears under a 
 rain of flowers and colored ribbons. 
 
 The receipts on this night at Tabarin are between 
 thirty and forty thousand francs. 
 
 Le Rat Mort, another popular all-night cafe, has 
 been in existence fifty years. It was once the rendez- 
 vous of celebrated artists, one of whom decorated the 
 
 86
 
 At l'Abbaye's
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 ceiling of the lower room and gave the name of Dead 
 Rat to the cabaret. It is now transformed into a 
 glittering all-night cafe, famous for its cuisine, 
 where girls of the half-world, accompanied by ec- 
 centric Beau Brummels, dance round the tables while 
 the world dines. 
 
 The world-famed Moulin Rouge is given over to- 
 day to reviews; but every year in April, the great 
 costume ball of the Quat'z' Arts is held here, and 
 all Montmartre turns out into the Place Blanche to 
 see the artists and models arrive under the red lights 
 that outline the big arms of the mill. This ball is 
 organized by art students of recognized ateliers, and 
 is exclusively for them. No outsider is admitted. 
 The committee which passes censor upon the cos- 
 tumes is rigorous, and if any costume falls below 
 the artistic or historical standard the artist wearing 
 it is not admitted. 
 
 Hundreds of motors and taxis dash up in a whirl- 
 wind of gaiety, songs and trumpet blasts, and out of 
 them step Cleopatras and goddesses in jeweled belts 
 and scant draperies. A Caesar, in flowing toga, wear- 
 ing a wreath of laurel, arrives on top of a taxi, 
 blowing blasts from a long trumpet; the Emperor 
 
 88
 
 Arrival of the Quat'z' Arts
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Nero, riding outside with the chauffeur, makes mock 
 salaams to the crowd, while his guard, a Roman sen- 
 tinel wearing a monocle, flourishes a long spear; 
 barbarians, dressed in the skins of mountain goats, 
 step from taxis arm in arm with Helens of Troy 
 and Roman Octavias. A valiant Chief Hector wears 
 a big checked ulster over his short skirt, for the 
 night is cool; Hebes, Greek dancers and Roman 
 gladiators arrive, salute and pass in ; a dancing faun, 
 smoking a huge cigar, assists a beautiful Psyche to 
 dismount from the hood of the cab, and so the pro- 
 cession continues until twelve o'clock when the doors 
 are closed and no one else is admitted. From then on 
 till seven in the morning the great ball develops into 
 a bacchanalian fete which rivals the fetes of the an- 
 cient Greeks and Romans, with this difference, how- 
 ever, that the Bacchus and Bacchante poses are all 
 ostensibly in the interests of art and are licensed by 
 the officials of law and order. 
 
 Perhaps the most inane and morbid of all the 
 Montmartre whirligigs of amusement are the 
 Cafes du Ciel, de l'Enfer, and du Neant, where the 
 interiors are supposed to represent heaven, hell and 
 death. In le Ciel you are invited by an attendant in 
 
 90
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 medieval dress to, "Ascend into Heaven and meet 
 your God." You go up-stairs, and through a gauze 
 screen, see angels floating around in a blue sky 
 studded with tiny stars of electric lights. You also 
 are shown some optical illusions, all inane, vulgar, 
 and ridiculous. At l'Enfer devils in red tights and 
 horns greet you at the door with, "Descend into 
 Hell and receive what you merit." You do not enter, 
 but look in at le Neant, where pall-bearers with 
 mock solemnity greet you with, "Prepare for death, 
 for it is now upon you." Here, if you remain, you 
 eat from the top of a coffin that serves as a table. 
 Your waiter, dressed to resemble a skeleton, calls out, 
 "One soup with a germ of smallpox." You are re- 
 volted and leave, but the French revel and find great 
 amusement in such corruption. 
 
 There are many different phases of life on Mont- 
 martre. In the daytime the boulevard Clichy is like 
 any other busy street of Paris, with its push-carts 
 of vegetables and flowers, markets, paper kiosks, 
 little street fairs, side-shows of performing animals, 
 rushing motors, shops and boutiques, sidewalk bras- 
 series, brazen advertisements, camelots, groups of 
 gossiping old women in dishabille, men and dogs 
 
 91
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 sitting on benches 
 under the trees, and 
 children playing 
 hop-scotch on the 
 sidewalk, while the 
 numerous all - night 
 places are being 
 dusted and aired for 
 the evening's enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 But if you turn to 
 the left of the Mou- 
 lin Rouge and climb 
 c.S. 
 
 the narrow, steep 
 
 and crooked rue Lepic, you will meet with still an- 
 other side of Montmartre life. Here everybody 
 seems to go as they please — old women in chemises 
 and short skirts, their bare feet thrust into wooden 
 shoes; a tall girl of twelve in a single garment, an 
 apron, half unfastened; boys with rags of shirt 
 hanging to their shoulders, and ugly, fierce-looking, 
 dirty men disputing over a cart of vegetables. You 
 hurry on up the steep street, which becomes dirtier 
 while the women grow more slovenly, until finally 
 
 92
 
 GAY MONTMARTRE 
 
 you turn a sharp 
 corner to the left 
 and immediately 
 breathe a purer at- 
 mosphere. Here the 
 houses and inhab- 
 itants have the 
 stamp of well-to-do 
 respectability. Now 
 and then through a 
 court you catch a 
 glimpse of neat 
 gardens of flowers 
 and shrubs, for 
 right here in this 
 particular section, still live some of the old families, 
 the best of Paris' good bourgeois class. You continue 
 your climb, a little farther on turning to the right, 
 mounting up, up, until you see on your left the big 
 black arms of the Moulin de la Galette with its high 
 platform "Point de Vue," overlooking immense pan- 
 oramic Paris, which from here looks like a city of 
 gray ruins, except for the domes, spires, and the 
 Tour Eiffel, which stand out in bold relief; for the 
 
 93
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Moulin is still higher than the Sacre Coeur, and on a 
 clear morning the view is infinitely more wonderful. 
 
 The balls held here are typically Parisian, sans- 
 gene, and very gay, for the dancing is spontaneous. 
 Here there are no paid professionals, and the lancers 
 affords great opportunity for capers and high kicks. 
 The orchestra plays with great dash and is directed 
 by an eccentric character, Maestro Mabille. 
 
 This Moulin de la Galette dates from the thir- 
 teenth century, when the people of that age sat in 
 the garden drinking wine from the surrounding 
 vineyards and eating a flat thin cake called Galette, 
 which cake you can eat in Paris to-day. Years ago 
 the hill of Montmartre was crowned with windmills, 
 three of which are still to be seen in the garden of the 
 Moulin de la Galette. You can also see in the gar- 
 den bullet-holes made when in 1814 a portion of the 
 allied armies fired upon the mill because the pro- 
 prietor would not surrender. He was afterward 
 seized, his body quartered, and the parts hung from 
 the great arms of the windmill. The proprietor of 
 to-day is the grandson of this brave man. 
 
 It was in the shadow of the great arms of this mill 
 that dainty Mimi Pinson of La Bohcme fame sat in 
 
 94
 
 
 Steps Leading to Sacre Coeur
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 the tiny balcony of her mansard among her flowers 
 and birds and dreamed her sad dream of love. It 
 was here, too, the little seamstress Louise of Char- 
 pentier's opera, stood in the open window of her 
 father's house and listened to the songs her art- 
 ist-lover sang to her from his balcony near by, 
 with such sweetness and passion that she left her 
 workroom and home to follow the dictates of her 
 heart, and joined her lover in his tiny garden which 
 overlooked the immense gray picture below, where 
 with arms twined about each other they called on 
 "Par-ee! Oh, Par-ee ! ! Oh, Par-ee!!!" to witness 
 their great happiness. 
 
 You climb two hundred and sixty steps or take 
 the funicular railroad to reach the huge monument 
 of cream-tinted stone, known as the Church du 
 Sacre Cceur, which stands quite on the apex of Mont- 
 martre, from whose terrace on a clear day an im- 
 posing view of Paris is obtained. The church with 
 its Romanesque-Byzantine architecture would seem 
 more in place at Rome than in godless Paris. The 
 great bell tower of the basilica, just now completed, 
 rises like Giotto's Campanile of the Duomo at Flor- 
 ence, to a height of seven hundred feet above the 
 
 96
 
 Rue St. Rustique 
 
 e° ?eyi'«r=- -m<"J -"'i
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Seine. The tower and church, seen from different 
 points in the city in the golden glory of an afternoon 
 sun, resemble a stupendous temple of old ivory. 
 
 The interior of the church is spacious and lofty, 
 with enormous stone arches, and the soft yellow light 
 from the windows of the big dome sheds a warmth 
 over the cold bare interior. Processions of little or- 
 phan children led by priests and sisters, the latter in 
 white-winged caps, are passing and repassing for 
 afternoon vespers. Just outside are numerous old 
 women selling saints, beads and virgins in blue 
 robes; and miserable beggars, blind, crippled and 
 half-starved, solicit alms as you pass. 
 
 You turn to the left of the church and proceed 
 down a narrow roughly-paved street between high 
 plastered walls where, now and then, you catch a 
 glimpse through an open gate of a garden, two or 
 three feet below the street, dark and cool-looking 
 under its thatch of green leaves. A little farther on 
 you come into a tiny open square, Place Cottin, and 
 realize you are quite in the country. A quiet sleepy 
 village is around you, with detached cottages and 
 green blinds, not a cart or horse to be seen, the cob- 
 bles overgrown with grass, and the children and 
 
 98
 
 Artist and Model
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 dogs playing in the street. Idle contented-looking 
 men are lolling in the doorways, smoking and watch- 
 ing the women who, seated near, are chatting, knit- 
 ting and sewing. The scene is rustic and might be 
 fifty miles from seething Paris, so tranquil and 
 peaceful seem these simple folk. If you ask them 
 they will tell you, "C'est Montmartre, pas Paris." 
 You wonder in what manner they earn their bread, 
 for in the adjoining streets are no shops — only a 
 wine-house or two with tables and chairs in front — • 
 not even a push-cart or newsboy. You learn that 
 the younger element go every morning down the 
 steep hill to Paris, where they work at some trade, 
 returning at six o'clock to spend their evenings danc- 
 ing at the Moulin de la Galette. The older people 
 have no taste for the turmoil of Paris. They prefer 
 to pass their existence in a peaceful way among their 
 chickens, vegetables and flowers, content to view the 
 wonderful city enveloped in its gray mist from their 
 garden terrace three hundred and fifty feet above. 
 
 It was in this little square that Saint Denis was 
 beheaded and the insurgents in 1871 got possession 
 of the cannon after assassinating Generals Clement- 
 
 100
 
 GAY MONTMARTRE 
 
 Thomas and Lecomte, when one more horror was 
 added to the city's appalling list. In this dreamy 
 
 Mansard of Mimi Pinson 
 
 part of highest Montmartre you will see to-day the 
 real Bohemian artist or poet called the "pure", 
 
 IOI
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 strolling about in picturesque attire, unkempt and 
 dirty, with long hair, and smoking a longer pipe; 
 wearing wide velvet trousers, innocent of linen, and 
 his coat buttoned up to meet the flowing neck-scarf 
 of scarlet or black silk. He is accompanied often in 
 his walks by his model, who wears a tub gown, her 
 madonna-type of face full of love and respect for 
 her ideal artist for whom she makes the menage, 
 and whom she cheers and encourages in his rare 
 intervals of work. Mere work in order to gain suc- 
 cess he considers vulgar and to fame he is indiffer- 
 ent, often signing an exquisite poem or picture un- 
 der some other name. He takes no note of time, is 
 artistically disinterested in business, is without am- 
 bition, loves his independence and care-free tran- 
 quillity. He turns out just enough work to enable 
 him to buy the necessary food and to sit with his 
 brother artists at their favorite rendezvous, the Cab- 
 aret du Lapin Agile, so-called from the picture of a 
 gigantic rabbit escaping from a stew-pan, painted on 
 the front of the establishment. Here they smoke and 
 drink beer, served them from a stone jug by their 
 picturesque musical proprietor, and talk over and 
 
 102
 
 GAY MONTMARTRE 
 
 dream of some wonderful conception they have in 
 mind but which they rarely find time to execute. 
 
 Among these Bohemians there are celebrities, who, 
 although quite unreliable, produce now and then a 
 poem of such exquisite rhythm that all the world 
 will talk of it, or a picture so wonderful in concep- 
 tion and so gorgeous in coloring that it is the mar- 
 vel of the salon. But, being pressed for money, the 
 artist has already sold it for two or three hundred 
 francs to a shrewd connoisseur who maintains a tiny 
 shop in the neighborhood, and understanding the 
 temperament, tastes and ways of these artists, takes 
 advantage of them. Later this connoisseur sells the 
 picture to an art collector for three or four thousand 
 francs. 
 
 West of this quiet artistic quarter, in and around 
 the rue des Saules and the rue St. Rustique is a 
 dark, sinister, hideous side of Montmartre, where 
 poverty, vice and crime walk hand in hand, where 
 the people are miserable, cold and hungry, where 
 little children and the very old are left to die of 
 starvation in horrible holes of tenement houses with 
 broken windows, exhaling atrocious odors. But even 
 
 103
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 here, the filthy door is guarded by a greasy miser- 
 able concierge who collects the meager rent for her 
 boulevardier proprietor. 
 
 Here, too, is where the Apaches dwell in large 
 numbers, and from here they make their descent 
 into the Place Blanche and Place Pigalle, snatching 
 purses from the gay crowds who are leaving the 
 places of amusement in the early morning hours. 
 
 Paris is literally infested with Apaches who breed 
 and thrive in colonies along the banks of the Seine 
 and in different quarters of Paris. Their women act 
 as decoys and then blow a whistle, when suddenly 
 two or three of these men, often mere boys, spring 
 upon their victim, stab him three or four times, then 
 rob and leave him. 
 
 The Bois de Bologne is one of the Apaches' ren- 
 dezvous, and people are robbed and stabbed there 
 nearly every day. 
 
 It is not safe for a woman, alone, to make the short 
 cut through the Bois from the Porte-Dauphine to the 
 Porte Maillot at twelve o'clock noon. The little po- 
 lice do their best, but the municipal authorities make 
 no effort to rid Paris of these assassins. The policy 
 
 104
 
 GAY MONTMARTRE 
 
 of the changeable government seems to be to "live 
 and let live" and to give everybody, even the thieves 
 and assassins, employment.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PARISIAN DOGS 
 
 The Parisian loves variety 
 and movement, dislikes trouble, 
 and economy is his one hobby. 
 Hence, he dispenses with a com- 
 petent cook and dines at the res- 
 MoKitL»»» \ j tau rant. You often see whole 
 
 1411 \> /V 
 
 families dining at the restaurant. 
 I do not mean to convey the idea 
 that "a. whole family" means 
 many children, for the Parisian 
 who prefers to dine at the restaurant never has a 
 number of children. There may be a young daugh- 
 ter or a son and — the dog — there always is a dog, 
 and he is of as much importance as the daughter. 
 
 Lili has his special chair and plate at the table. 
 His napkin is tucked under his silver-gilt collar, and 
 often the gargon serves him with an especially-made 
 patee, or Monsieur cuts into shreds bits of meat, 
 green beans and lettuce, to which he adds a few 
 
 1 06
 
 PARISIAN DOGS 
 
 drops of olive oil, and then portions off the mixture 
 into tiny heaps. Don't think for a moment Lili gob- 
 bles it up in a flash, or, in his hurry, pokes half of it 
 off on the cloth with his nose and licks the plate 
 shining clean. Lili has manners — never a wolfish 
 appetite. 
 
 He is as dainty as a Dresden china lady. He 
 knows how to take up each small portion with his 
 teeth. To be sure, now and then a morsel will rest 
 on his nose, but Lili is conscious at once of its pres- 
 ence there and with his paw deftly fillips it off into 
 his plate. Then he looks at mama with his pleading 
 brown eyes for approval before he attempts another 
 mouthful. 
 
 The human under- 
 standing of these 
 dogs who dine in 
 public is wonderful, 
 and they have a 
 great fascination for 
 me. particularly / 
 
 admire the caniche, > 
 better known as the ^- "^ 
 French poodle, elab- 
 
 G.1D 
 
 107
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 orately barbered with rosettes on his back, legs and 
 tail, often wearing a bracelet on his left fore leg, and 
 on his head a long lock of curls tied up with a chic 
 bow of blue ribbon. He is either snow-white, cinna- 
 mon-brown or jet-black in color, and is perhaps the 
 most intelligent of all breeds. 
 
 You see him now and then conducting a blind 
 man in and out of a busy street, and often he is 
 found on a corner for hours with a card hanging 
 from his mouth, begging for himself and his master. 
 Even the beggar takes great pride in his dog and 
 will deny himself in order that his faithful friend 
 may be well fed and properly barbered. I have seen 
 a tiny four-pound black-and-tan with speaking 
 brown eyes answer intelligently every question asked 
 him. 
 
 The smart fox terrier is Monsieur's favorite, and 
 he will amuse himself by the hour sitting in a chair 
 in the Champs Elysees or avenue du Bois de Bo- 
 logne, throwing a ball or stick, which the dog always 
 chases in great glee and fetches to his master's feet 
 for another throw. The French bulldog is also very 
 wise and always well-trained. 
 
 But it is the toy dog — Pekingese, Japanese, Blen- 
 
 108
 
 c&> new vs^,
 
 heim, Yorkshire, Pomera- 
 nian, Papillon, Griffon or 
 the fluffy, silky-haired tiny 
 poodle — that often takes 
 the place of children in the 
 French family. He is pampered and coddled, 
 bathed and brushed, rocked, hugged and kissed, and 
 then put to sleep between embroidered sheets, on a 
 pillow of down in a white enameled or brass bed. He 
 goes to his tailor's with his mistress in the limousine, 
 riding with his silky pattes hanging out of the win- 
 dow. He wears a fine filigree-gold collar with his 
 name done in brilliants and one or two tiny gold 
 bells pendent. 
 
 The dog tailor is a great personage with a big 
 clientele and is as expensive in proportion as Worth 
 
 no
 
 PARISIAN DOGS 
 
 or Paquin. He stands Jou-Jou on his table and 
 studies him with as much thought as he does his 
 model. He trys on Jou-Jou's new broadcloth or vel- 
 vet jacket and considers a bit of skunk fur. Then he 
 tries a flat band of ermine. Since Madame wears 
 ermine with her marine-blue velvet, Jou-Jou is best 
 with a tiny band of ermine on his velvet jacket. 
 Jou-Jou has a pocket in which he sports a real lace- 
 edged handkerchief, for often he gets a cold when 
 the maid has neglected to put on his boots, and the 
 tears are apt to flow and must be wiped away. The 
 boots for wet weather are rubber and in color match 
 his ribbon bow. 
 
 He has his visiting cards and visiting jacket, his 
 promenade jacket 
 and his motor coat, 
 which in winter is 
 entirely of ermine 
 or white rabbit; 
 and if he suffers 
 from ear trouble; 
 he frequently goes 
 out with a fur cap 
 tied under his chin. In June when the sun is hot 
 
 in 
 
 cx>.
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 you will see him walking in the avenue du Bois at 
 eleven A. M. with a tiny red or green silk parasol 
 attached to the back of his harness, protecting his 
 head from the sun. Later, he goes to Deauville, or 
 
 Dieppe and promenades on the beach in a bathing 
 costume which harmonizes perfectly with that of his 
 mistress. 
 
 From the dog tailor has sprung the dog furnisher, 
 at whose shop everything for fashionable dogdom 
 can be purchased, including bath-tubs, bed equip- 
 ment and chairs ; leashes, collars, combs and brushes ; 
 soaps and perfumes; traveling sacks and upholstered 
 baskets; eye-glasses, bracelets, and boots — even 
 down to tooth brushes. 
 
 When Lili, Bebe or Jou-Jou dies he has a Pere- 
 Lachaise on an island in the Seine at Pont de Clichy, 
 
 112
 
 _m_
 
 PARISIAN DOGS 
 
 Asnieres, where he is buried. A marble monument 
 is erected to his memory and on top of it stands a 
 sculptured Bebe, often his head only in bas-relief 
 over his epitaph : 
 
 Bebe 
 
 Bien aime 
 
 Mort le 10 Juin 
 
 IQII 
 
 II etait naif, sage, bon, 
 intelligent et fidele. 
 The graves are overgrown with ivy or outlined 
 with immortelles. Often a tiny bead or china-flower 
 wreath leans against the monument, or a large palm 
 leaf is laid across the grave. You are not permitted 
 to enter this cemetery, unless you have a Nanade or 
 Chou-Chou buried there. 
 
 I was at the entrance looking in when a dog fu- 
 neral party dashed up in a big touring car. The 
 valet, in solemn black, got out, carrying the minia- 
 ture white casket on which was a wreath of violets — 
 no doubt the dog's favorite flowers. Madame followed 
 in deep black, and then the Breton bonne, whose cos- 
 tume always is black, led by the hand a little girl 
 in a white gown, black socks and pig-tails tied up 
 
 114
 
 PARISIAN DOGS 
 
 with black ribbons. The procession passed in and I 
 tried desperately to pass in with it, but the gates 
 were suddenly closed by one of the omnipresent 
 guardians, leaving me on the outside — possibly be- 
 cause I, too, was not arrayed in black.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ARTIST LIFE IN THE QUARTER 
 
 OWHERE in the world can you 
 see more happy-go-lucky Bohe- 
 mians from every clime, greater 
 eccentricity in dress, more varied 
 styles of hair and beard, more 
 beautiful models and piquant gri- 
 settes than in the Quartier of 
 song and story on the south side 
 of the Seine — made famous some fifty years ago 
 by the poetical genius, Henri Murger, in his Scenes 
 de la Vie de Boheme, from which sprang the melo- 
 dious La Boheme. 
 
 The Quartier is dominated by the fifty thousand 
 students of law, medicine, science and art who 
 dwell there, and it is well they have this particular 
 quarter. Otherwise, all Paris at times would be in an 
 uproar, for when they have a grievance they muster 
 a formidable army among themselves and march 
 
 116
 
 Simont at Work in His Atelier
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 forth to protest against their real or imaginary 
 wrong. In former years, serious clashes with the 
 police and soldiers resulted in horrible tragedies; 
 but now the municipal government gives the stu- 
 dents much license, and the police often condone of- 
 fenses that would be condemned in another quarter. 
 The students rarely take advantage of this elasticity 
 of the law, although many hilarious pranks are in- 
 dulged in at the expense of an unpopular professor, 
 the government officials and the police. 
 
 The inner life of this Bohemia has changed little 
 since Murger's day, although many of its outward 
 signs have been razed or moved over to Montmartre 
 to make way for the onward march of the much- 
 hated, though thrifty, well-to-do bourgeois class. 
 The Quartier has just as many Collines, Rodolphes, 
 Schaunards and Marcels with their good little com- 
 rades — Mimis, Francines, Musettes and Maries — as 
 in Murger's time, all of whom are just as careless, 
 light-hearted, loyal and prodigal, who pawn a pair 
 of new boots and shuffle gaily along in carpet slip- 
 pers for a fortnight that they may celebrate a fete 
 with Monette or Francine; who sell their winter 
 coats to lend the money to a comrade in distress ; who 
 
 118
 
 Grisette
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 break up unnecessary 
 chairs on a cold winter 
 night to add fuel to the 
 dying flame in the little 
 chimney of the sixth 
 Stage in order to continue 
 in comfort the celebration 
 of a feast in honor of 
 Louise's or Suzanne's fete 
 day. There are just as 
 many unkempt care-free 
 students, artists and poets 
 in the Quartier as when 
 Thackeray visited it and made fame for the little 
 Restaurant Thirion in the boulevard St. Germain. 
 This afterward became a rendezvous for artists and 
 singing poets, who often found themselves with- 
 out money to pay for a gala supper, and the pro- 
 prietor as often canceled the debt in exchange for a 
 panel picture painted on the wall above the table or 
 on the table top where the supper was served. 
 
 In the little rue Leopold-Robert — named for a 
 celebrated artist — between the boulevards Mont- 
 parnasse and Raspail, is a tiny restaurant popular 
 
 120
 
 ARTIST LIFE IN THE QUARTER 
 
 with the Anglo-Saxon 
 artists because of its de- 
 licious beefsteak smoth- 
 ered in onions. One of 
 the little dining-rooms 
 has a mural decoration 
 representing a humor- 
 istic poem of "The 
 Queen of Hearts Who 
 Made Some Tarts." It 
 bears the date 1898, 
 and stands for sixty 
 dinners eaten by an American artist. The little res- 
 taurant has been known ever since as "The Queen 
 of Hearts." 
 
 In order to understand this gay, care-free, irre- 
 sponsible artist life of Latin Bohemia, you must 
 summer and winter in the heart of it, and let its 
 surcharged atmosphere penetrate, absorb and en- 
 velop you. It will produce a change in you, but the 
 change will be so gradual you will be unconscious 
 of it. You must breath it, eat it, drink it, live it; 
 you must attend the Sorbonne and the Bullier, fre- 
 quent the taverns and cafes along the boulevard St. 
 
 121
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Michel, find your way into the favorite little restau- 
 rants hidden in some narrow street, spend evenings 
 at the Cabaret des Noctambules near the Place de la 
 Sorbonne and listen to the seventy-year-old singing 
 poet of Montmartre; attend the expositions at the 
 Beaux-Arts, be present on the varnishing days of 
 the autumn and spring salons; visit or become a 
 member of the croquis life classes of the ateliers in 
 the rue Grand Chaumiere; have the entree to the 
 ateliers of the new-art pretenders, known as "Cub- 
 istes" ', "Pointillistes" , and " T artiniste s" , where the 
 conversation is as "screaming" as the pictures — these 
 latter have the appearance of being crocheted in 
 wool and done with painted blocks ! You must also 
 make friends among the very poor artists who have 
 their ateliers in the roofs of houses in some narrow 
 crooked street, where they work and have only a 
 toy stove to keep off the frost, but view the most 
 gorgeous sunsets from a tiny balcony, or look out 
 over a zigzag sky-line of quaint mellow-tinted chim- 
 ney pots, the like of which is seen in no other city. 
 
 These struggling artists never lose hope, for they 
 have ever in mind some grand conception, some chef- 
 d'oeuvre, which they will produce some day and with 
 
 122
 
 ARTIST LIFE IN THE QUARTER 
 
 which they will startle the world. The greater num- 
 ber of them are young, and their youth buoys them 
 up through all their disappointments and misfor- 
 tunes. They are philosophers, subtle and shrewd, 
 and have divers ingenious ways of holding off an 
 importunate proprietor and the concierge when their 
 rent is two months in arrears. 
 
 They often dine luxuriously on thirty sous. They 
 are healthy young animals, always possessed of a 
 desert thirst that they satisfy with bocks for four 
 sous each. Their Chateaubriand is often horse meat, 
 but is disguised by a savory onion or herb sauce, the 
 secret of which is known only to Alphonse, who 
 serves it. Their snails are often only snails in name 
 and shell, for the shells are deftly filled and refilled 
 with soft cat meat by the use of an ingenious ma- 
 chine which is the invention of a Frenchman. The 
 imitation is so perfect that epicures do not know the 
 difference, and the artists and students smack their 
 lips over it as though it were the choicest delicacy. 
 
 When the artists have money, Musette, Manon 
 and Louise share the fete dinner with them, and 
 they eat it in an atmosphere of gaiety interspersed 
 with songs, impromptu speeches, hand-pressures and 
 
 123
 
 smoke. They then pro- 
 ceed to the Bullier where 
 they dance until twelve, 
 then they rush off to the atelier of Jean, where there 
 is a battered piano, and the revelry is kept up until 
 night gradually drifts into gray dawn before they 
 separate, chacun avec sa chacune. It is a merry life 
 without responsibility, unkempt and often dirty, 
 lived in a cloud of reekng tobacco smoke. 
 
 The artist-to-be arrives in Paris from his peasant 
 home, in the north or south of France, ignorant of 
 the life he is to live. He often has an income of a 
 thousand francs. He finds a room among the chim- 
 ney pots in the heart of Bohemia where he installs 
 
 124
 
 ARTIST LIFE IN THE QUARTER 
 
 his few belongings and proceeds to gain experience 
 and knowledge of the Quartier life and of his art. 
 
 He tries all the different schools, visits the croquis 
 life classes of the numerous ateliers, and if his art 
 is with the brush, settles down, through the advice 
 of a comrade, to study under Simont or Julian, or, 
 if his ambition is for sculpture, with Rodin. 
 
 He goes to his atelier at ten A. M. and works 
 with comrades of his own type and fortune. Each 
 one has a pipe in his mouth, and the work goes on in 
 a cloud of smoke and a roar of fun and jokes inde- 
 scribable. 
 
 His piece de resistance in attire is his waistcoat,
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 his jilet, which he reserves for gala occasions. It is 
 often of bright scarlet, pumpkin-yellow or emerald- 
 green with broad stripes or big checks. It is but- 
 toned up tight to the throat or worn in "V" fashion 
 if he happens to be rich in shirts. The velvet coat is 
 then left open to display this gorgeous splash of 
 color, which attracts as much attention on varnish- 
 ing day at the salon as the latest inspiration of the 
 Cubistes, P ointilliste s , or Scotchplaidistes. 
 
 The grisette, the good comrade of these unkempt, 
 often dirty artists, no longer exists as Du Maurier 
 painted her in his Trilby. She is rarely seen to-day 
 without a hat. On the contrary she is in startling 
 contrast to the shabby artist. She wears the latest 
 mode in hats, and her skirt always is more extreme 
 than Paul Poiret's dernier cri. Her feet are shod in 
 patent leather pumps, gray or brown suede, with 
 extreme French heels. Her big bag of gold em- 
 broidery is hung over her right shoulder, and she 
 often carries the latest idea in parasols. On close 
 inspection the materials of her hat and gown will 
 prove to be of the least expensive, but the cut is the 
 latest. She always manages to wear lace stockings 
 of a good quality, often silk. Her hats are exagger- 
 
 126
 
 ARTIST LIFE IN THE QUARTER 
 
 ated as to form and feather, but she wears them 
 with a piquancy only known to a Quartier grisette. 
 She is often pretty, now and then beautiful, invari- 
 ably kind and vivacious, full of fun and good nature. 
 Her make-up is sometimes glaring, though quite as 
 often her lips, hair and eyes display only nature's 
 tinting. 
 
 You wonder at her fondness for the society of 
 those shabby careless artists and students. The se- 
 cret lies in the artists themselves. They have talent, 
 and the grisette is at times devoted to the arts. She 
 is extremely proud of her picturesquely shabby 
 Pierre or Gaston, often becomes his very shadow, 
 is disinterested at times in her affection and remains 
 true and faithful at least during the spring course 
 of lectures at the Sorbonne. 
 
 Now and then you will notice a vrai amour. A 
 serious artist, distinguished for his Vandyke beard 
 and yellow boots, may be seen every day from five 
 to six, promenading under the trees in the Luxem- 
 bourg Gardens, arm in arm with a Juno-like girl, 
 her head regally poised on her slender white throat. 
 She, too, is serious, without a hat — this true type — 
 in a simple black gown, cut low in the neck, her 
 
 127
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 beautiful bare feet in san- 
 dals. She is the sculptor's 
 model, his inspiration, his 
 amour. They are happy in 
 each other's society, serenely 
 unconscious of the curious 
 world gazing at them. Day 
 after day, they promenade 
 with the same wrapped-up- 
 in-each-other air, always 
 gay, smiling into each oth- 
 er's eyes, the impersonation of joy, contentment and 
 love — for they live for art — and for each other. 
 
 These Bohemian artists are ever generous and 
 unselfish with comrades in distress and prodigal as 
 long as money lasts. When Jacques is reduced to a 
 franc or two he applies himself diligently for a day 
 or more to the making of half a dozen "new-art" 
 sketches in flaming colors. Then he sets up a folding 
 stand on the Boul' Miche', and arranges the 
 sketches to catch the eyes of tourists in the cosmo- 
 politan crowd, constantly passing and repassing. He 
 assumes a serious rapt expression. His corduroy 
 
 128
 
 ARTIST LIFE IN THE QUARTER 
 
 jacket is buttoned up to the throat. He is without 
 collar or tie and possibly without a shirt. His flat 
 broad-brimmed hat, which in happy days rests 
 jauntily on the back of his head, exposing a plastered 
 Spanish bang, to-day is tilted far down over his 
 eyes. He affects the immovable attitude of a statue, 
 with his arms folded across his breast and his blue 
 hands tucked under his armpits for warmth — for it 
 is a raw December day and he has been standing 
 here since ten o'clock and has sold only two of the six 
 sketches. 
 
 He looks upon this 
 work of his with 
 contempt, for he is a 
 serious artist when 
 he works, and these 
 sketches are mere 
 trumpery painted to 
 catch the eye and to 
 bring in a few francs 
 to shut out actual 
 misery for a week 
 until his next remit- 
 
 129
 
 tance arrives. The remittance is already spent, but 
 its arrival will gain for him a ten day's credit at his 
 favorite restaurant and with his marchand du bois. 
 A petite connaissance stops in wonder to see in 
 such a serious mood Jacques, who usually is so gay. 
 Then sympathy looks out of her blue eyes. She, too, 
 knows les jours noirs, for did not Antole leave her 
 without a word one day and go over to Marie, who 
 lives in the mansard opposite. "Helas! il n'y a plus 
 de soleil pour moi," she said, one night as she stood 
 on the -Pont Neuf and contemplated the black water 
 below. Ah, yes, little Monette is full of sympathy 
 for Jacques that he must stand here in the cold, 
 without his greatcoat — which is in pawn at the 
 friendly Mont de Pitie — and sell his sketches. Then 
 she tells him of her black days — of the night on the 
 Pont Neuf and how it was Antole who chanced to 
 
 130
 
 ARTIST LIFE IN THE QUARTER 
 
 be near and saved her — and how happy they now 
 are. "Un beau soleil se levera pour vous demain," 
 she says to Jacques, as she presses his cold hand 
 and nods au revoir. 
 
 At five o'clock Jacques, who has disposed of all of 
 his sketches, is the gayest of a gay quartette of com- 
 rades seated at a table at the Pantheon Tavern, 
 smoking and drinking bocks, creating an appetite for 
 one of Adolph's ragouts de lapin to be served with a 
 savory sauce. Suzanne will dine with him to-night, 
 and there will be serviettes and du vin blanc, for 
 Jacques has been very successful with his sketches 
 and he feels .himself a Crcesus for this evening at 
 least. 
 
 On Sunday Jacques and Suzanne will spend the 
 day in the country ; take a petit bateau mouche down 
 the serpentine, sage-green river to Bellevue or Rob- 
 inson, villages perched along its banks, where they 
 will eat their luncheon in a vine-covered bower built 
 in the very top of a big tree, on a high hill, and look 
 out over the Elysian fields far below, in the heart of 
 which rise the wonderful sun-kissed monuments of 
 blue-gray Paris. They will return on the last boat 
 
 131
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 at nine in the evening, then wander hand in hand 
 along the Quai Voltaire to the Pont Neuf and watch 
 the moon shedding its silver rays over the dark 
 water, in which are reflected thousands of rainbow- 
 colored lights which outline the numerous bridges 
 and quays. 
 
 Beautiful Paris ! the Mecca of youth and love, and 
 of folly and wickedness, for wickedness plays an im- 
 portant part in life, and nowhere in the world is it 
 given more open expression than in Paris. 
 
 W '""P'hi r
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 The vast garden of the Luxembourg, redolent 
 with flowers and gleaming with statues, with its 
 cool groves of chestnut trees and avenues of trimmed 
 sycamores, where Marie de Medici held her garden 
 fetes four centuries ago, is to-day the outdoor salon, 
 the social rendezvous of the Latin Quarter, where 
 all the heterogeneous types circulate. Here is the 
 Musee, filled with famous modern paintings, and the 
 historical Palais du Luxembourg, where, in the in- 
 ner courtyard, the most celebrated victims of the 
 Revolution took their exercise and jested about 
 death. 
 
 On an April morning at eight o'clock these gar- 
 dens of the Luxembourg are entrancing in the un- 
 folding of flower and leaf, enveloped in a vague blue 
 haze after a night's refreshment of warm rain. 
 Thousands of buds on the branches of the great syca- 
 mores and chestnuts lift their delicate green tips, still 
 
 133
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 sparkling with rain-drops, and nod greeting to the 
 dazzling sun-rays. Birds are twittering and building 
 nests in the swaying branches, which, in wild delight 
 at the warmth and gentle breeze, interlace and em- 
 brace. The blue and gray doves coo and flutter from 
 one marble monument to another, where they revel 
 in sun baths ; the brilliant sunshine lights up the tulip 
 beds into streaks of red and yellow flame; the vel- 
 vet-eyed pansies are awake and lift their heads to 
 suck in the light, air and warmth; the narcissus and 
 honeysuckle mingle their delicious perfume with the 
 balmy air; the bees and humming birds are busy 
 culling sweets from each flower-heart 
 
 Robin redbreasts strut about proudly and fear- 
 lessly in search of a wiggling ver for dejeuner. The 
 grass and shrubs glisten like rose-cut diamonds set 
 in nests of emeralds. 
 
 In the azure blue above, great banks of soft pearl- 
 white clouds form a chain of fluffy mountains, at the 
 base of which a tiny blue bay is outlined with a 
 fleecy white streak. The fantastic lattice of shadows 
 cast by the interlaced budding branches clothes the 
 nude white marble statues in robes of lace adorned 
 with golden fringe. The Bacchus of the Medici 
 
 134
 
 IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 fountain stands out boldly from his shadowy niche 
 arrayed in tattered sun glints. 
 
 The marble steps leading to the sunken gardens 
 gleam white in the golden light; the great dome 
 of the Pantheon, rising loftily above the tree-tops, is 
 enveloped in a glittering halo ; the limpid water in 
 the octagon basin has amber and silver patches of 
 tiny fish basking in the warm rays, while the grace- 
 ful jet of water, spouting from the midst of a group 
 of marble cupids, falls in tinted spray as the breeze 
 wafts it over a tiny red sail drifting near. 
 
 At this hour all nature is awake with love, har- 
 mony, music, warmth and perfume. The songs of the 
 birds, the cooing of the doves and the hum of the 
 bees, which have been the only sounds in this perfect 
 solitude of happy budding nature, are suddenly 
 drowned in the joyous shouts of red, green and 
 white-coated human mites armed with spades, rakes 
 and tiny buckets, who have come pell-mell into the 
 gardens to dig up the sand at the base of a seven- 
 teenth-century marble queen and transfer it to the 
 feet of Sainte Genevieve, where a fort is quickly 
 constructed. 
 
 Poulette, with her skipping-rope, suddenly spies 
 
 135
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 little Coq and calls out gaily, "Viens ici vite, j'ai 
 quelque chose belle tu peux voir," and little Coq, in 
 velvet jacket and lace collar, lifts his hat from a mop 
 of blond curls, extends a tiny hand in greeting and 
 smiles the most adorable of smiles. Poulette raises 
 her short skirt and takes from her muslin pocket 
 underneath a small red box which she secretly un- 
 covers to him. 
 
 No children in the world are so fascinating and 
 adorable as these mignon French children at play. 
 If you live near the Luxembourg Gardens you will 
 consider no day quite complete unless you have spent 
 an hour or two watching these mites with their 
 hoops, tops, diabolos, buckets and spades, busy as 
 bees, digging, and building, and playing house, or 
 grande-dame, hop-scotch, or "coo-coo" among the 
 trees and statues. 
 
 In the sun-garden are the babies, animated bisque 
 dolls, surrounded by an army of picturesque bonnes 
 — Alsatian, Norman, Breton, Spanish, African, 
 Roumanian — all in native dress — wearing caps of 
 the finest hand-embroidered linen and lace, and 
 many with yards and yards of wide sash-ribbon 
 quilled round the dainty crowns, ending in long 
 
 136
 
 Machiavellian Types
 
 flowing streamers. Here, too, is where the children 
 sail their boats in the big basin under the fountain. 
 And about the whole circle stand green-tubbed, pink 
 and white oleanders in their blooming circumfer- 
 ence. 
 
 Over on the west side you enter the gardens from 
 the boulevards Montparnasse and Raspail, the Eng- 
 lish and American artists' quarter, and traverse the 
 section of the gardens laid out in English fashion 
 with shrubs and flower-beds, foliage-bordered 
 walks, statues and trees. Here are innumerable 
 bourgeois family groups. Madame, with her sew- 
 ing or millinery, often makes and trims a hat in an 
 afternoon or constructs a little gown for Marie while 
 she chats with a neighbor and breathes in the de- 
 
 138
 
 IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 licious air. Little Marie is seated near with a piece 
 of work pinned to her short skirt. She is busy bast- 
 ing the hem of a big sailor collar which will adorn 
 her tiny frock. At four o'clock she puts aside her 
 work, picks up her diabolo, and with her reward of 
 three sous, she hastens over to the old woman of the 
 children's booth, and buys a croissant or cake of 
 chocolate and calls out, "Coo-coo," to a playmate as 
 she dodges behind the monument of George Sand. 
 On the south wall of the Gardens, fruit trees are 
 so trained that the fruit may catch every ray of sun- 
 shine. When the fruit begins to ripen, a small paper 
 sack is tied over each pear or peach to protect it 
 from the countless birds that make their home here. 
 
 The Octagon Basin
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 A beautiful thought of the government is to dispose 
 of the ripe fruit among the miserable poor sick peo- 
 ple at the Hopital de la Pitie. 
 
 You thread your way through the maze of wind- 
 ing walks and flower-beds and come out into long 
 wide avenues of fantastically trimmed trees whose 
 green umbrella tops form cool and shady prome- 
 nades. Boys and girls, expert with the diabolo, are 
 here, throwing to great heights their balls, which 
 they keep in motion, each time sending them higher 
 and higher with the dexterity of a professional Jap. 
 Great crowds of interested grown-ups surround 
 them and applaud. At the edge of a shady grove 
 to the left is the Punch and Judy show, where tiny 
 children seated on benches in front of the miniature 
 stage shout with joy and clap their hands at the an- 
 tics of Mr. Punch, while outside the roped-ofT space 
 a crowd of equally delighted bonnes, Mesdames and 
 Messieurs smile and nod approval. 
 
 This little Theatre Guignol is very popular and 
 has been the joy of children for centuries. Here, 
 too, are the many varieties of swings always in mo- 
 tion and always occupied by little ones and sur- 
 rounded by the bonnes. Across the way are the 
 
 140
 
 IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 merry-go-rounds of grinning wild animals in their 
 new spring coats of gay colors, set in motion by a 
 genial perspiring man. Round and round they 
 whirl to the accompaniment of a squeaky grapho- 
 phone or hand-organ ; but inharmonious as is the 
 music, it adds to the joy of the children as they clasp 
 ecstatically the neck of a giraffe or laughing tiger. 
 Farther on is the Jeu de Paume, the favorite pastime 
 of the court ladies during the reign of the Louis. 
 Here, too, are the tennis-courts, all occupied by Sor- 
 bonne students. 
 
 In the croquet grounds beyond, happy old men are 
 playing this passe game, while other old men outside 
 the stretched wire between the avenues of trees, 
 laugh and chuckle at every bad shot. Ten, fifteen 
 and twenty years ago old men were playing here and 
 other old men were looking on, and so they will 
 continue to the end of time. Babies are born in the 
 Luxembourg Gardens; they grow up here, become 
 old men, wandering here to their final day of ac- 
 tivity, and at last their bodies are laid away in Pere- 
 Lachaise. 
 
 Around the horse-shoe curve above the sunken 
 garden in the northeast corner, with its sorti on the 
 
 141
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 boulevard St. Michel, 
 is Artists' Row, where 
 the more serious artists 
 sit on sunny afternoons 
 with their backs to the 
 marble balustrade and 
 sketch and paint ani- 
 mated bits of moving 
 color, with green trees 
 and the Pantheon dome 
 as a background. 
 
 Here, too, the femme 
 du Quartier, more seri- 
 ous than the grisette, 
 seats herself with a 
 book or strip of em- 
 broidery and carries on 
 a mild flirtation with 
 the artist in mustard- 
 brown velvet seated 
 next to her, who is 
 painting a group of children on a bit of canvas 
 stretched over the cover of his open paint box. 
 The femme du Quartier is always demure in man- 
 
 142 
 
 Poulette
 
 IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 ner, chic, and dressed in the latest mode. Her lit- 
 tle girl, playing under the trees near by, wears a 
 quaint gold embroidered cap on her bushy dark curls 
 and her short red skirt displays her bare fat legs 
 and feet in white sandals. This femme du Quartier 
 is usually her own bonne and guards on a chair be- 
 side her Volette's numerous playthings. 
 
 It is often through admiration for the child, who 
 is dressed to catch the artist's eye, that the mother 
 and the artist become acquainted, and as Madame 
 spends her afternoons 
 day after day with Vo 
 lette in the Gardens, 
 Artists' Row becomes a 
 rendezvous. Now and 
 then, when Monsieur 
 unexpectedly arrives, it 
 is the book or embroi- 
 dery which occupies 
 all of Madame's atten- 
 tion, or she calls Vo- 
 lette to her, adjusts her 
 cap, wipes her face, 
 and gives her two sous 
 
 143
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 with which to buy a petit pain. Monsieur looks on 
 in pleased content at this domestic picture. He has 
 turned his back on the artist in mustard-brown, but 
 Madame gives the artist a discreet glance out of the 
 corner of her eye and smiles demurely. 
 
 Presently Monsieur calls Volette to him, kisses 
 her and hurries away to his business, his favorite 
 cafe or his own rendezvous. At five o'clock, Ma- 
 dame, Volette and the artist, with Volette's sack of 
 playthings and his paint box tucked under his 
 arm, stroll down the marble steps near the Medici 
 fountain into the rue de Vaugirard and are lost to 
 view. These little intrigues give a flavor to the 
 otherwise monotonous life of the femme du Quarticr. 
 
 Many artists who are resting their big black 
 sketch-books on the balustrade, and with their backs 
 to the Pantheon dome are sketching a corner of the 
 Palace, the basin, sailboats and fountain, with the 
 twin towers of St. Sulpice rising like stately sentinels 
 above the green tree-tops in the distance. There are 
 many humoristic artists seated or standing about, 
 who, with a few strokes of the pencil, rapidly sketch 
 the many types strolling under the trees. 
 
 144
 
 IN THE. LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 For this northeast corner of the Gardens is the 
 heart of Bohemia, the rendezvous of types and 
 grisettes. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons be- 
 tween four and five, when the military band is play- 
 
 ing, you will find all nations, colors and shades of 
 color walking in the Allee des Veuves, or seated on 
 benches or chairs, chatting and listening to the mu- 
 sic. All Bohemia strolls here, washed-up, brushed- 
 up, smoking its longest pipes and wearing its stran- 
 gest hats at a more rakish angle than usual. A group 
 of inscrutable cafe-au-lait Japs pass to and fro un- 
 der the trees, their much-too-large European clothes 
 
 145
 
 MAGNETIC PARI^ 
 
 quite in tune with the bizarre costumes affected by 
 many who aim at originality. And here are com- 
 monly seen the most startling of racial combina- 
 tions, a pink and white Albino walking with a 
 coal-black type of South Africa; an Egyptian, in 
 white turban, hand in hand with a jolly grisette in 
 high-crowned hat and stand-up feather, her extreme 
 skirt slashed at the left side to show her pretty leg 
 in a lace stocking; a little, alert chestnut-brown 
 Turk, in red fez, followed by an olive-hued haughty 
 Spaniard with a corner of his cloak carried proudly 
 over his left shoulder. 
 
 As the last notes of the Hungarian Rhapsody, 
 which the band has been playing, die away, the gri- 
 settes rush about from group to group shaking hands 
 or giving their cheeks in greeting to the types sit- 
 ting or standing under the trees, busy making jokes 
 at the expense of the gardien who always keeps his 
 official eye on them. Lucille is kissed by one and 
 given a hand-pressure by another, while a third 
 makes room for her on the bench and a fourth, on 
 pretense of inspecting her locket, kisses her on the 
 throat. She takes the cigarette from Jules' mouth, 
 and dexterously expelling the smoke through her 
 
 146
 
 IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 nostrils, after a puff or two, throws it on the ground 
 and takes to her heels. 
 
 She rushes swiftly down an avenue of trees 
 around which an old woman is now laboriously pi- 
 ling the chairs from the concert. As Lucille runs she 
 scatters the chairs in the path of Jules, who is pur- 
 suing her, to impede his progress. Jules finally 
 catches her and drags her back, holding her until 
 she picks up the cigarette, lights it and places it be- 
 tween his lips. He then pulls her down on the bench 
 beside him, where they sit with hands interlaced and 
 discuss plans for spending to-morrow, the fete day 
 of Sainte Genevieve, together. 
 
 At the tiny restaurant under the trees, girls and 
 students are sitting, eating little stacks of crisp brown 
 waffles, hot from the griddle in the rear, while wait- 
 ers are slipping about among the tables, their hands 
 filled with blue, green, red and amber bottles from 
 which every one drinks a strop or a bock. 
 
 The bourgeois family groups have taken seats 
 along the Allee des Veuves to watch the procession 
 of types who, arm in arm with their little comrades, 
 stroll up and down after the concert is over. It is an 
 interesting and amusing show, and Madame Bour- 
 
 147
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 geois, although she 
 herself is straight- 
 laced, is convulsed 
 with laughter at a tiny 
 black-eyed houri not 
 over sixteen who 
 rushes up to a type, 
 seats herself on his 
 I' knee, kisses him, then 
 boxes his ears and 
 rushes off to greet a 
 group seated at the restaurant. Madame Bourgeois 
 does not cavil, for she is a true Parisienne and looks 
 upon the grisette as an organized institution. 
 
 A gray-bearded philosopher, too, strolling up and 
 down with his hands clasped behind him, pauses and 
 smiles at the childish tricks of the grisette. He has 
 walked here in the Gardens every afternoon for 
 eight years and knows all the grisettes by name. 
 
 Merovak, a poet of fame in the Quartier, lived 
 three years in one of the towers of Notre Dame that 
 he might realize Bohemia and write his sonnets in 
 atmospheric solitude. He was a noted "original" 
 and strolled in the Gardens arrayed in high boots, a 
 
 148
 
 IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 big black Rembrandt hat and a military cape lined 
 with scarlet. He wore a ruffled shirt and a sword 
 dangling at his side. He often read his poems aloud 
 as he walked up and down. 
 
 The marble bust of Paul Verlaine, the most cele- 
 brated French Bohemian poet, was recently unveiled 
 in the Luxembourg Gardens, and all the great lit- 
 terati of France were present to do him honor. He 
 wrote his exquisite rhymes at a little cafe near Notre 
 Dame — "Cafe du Soleil" — and it was there he spent 
 his evenings in an absinthe delirium, often waking 
 in the morning in prison. When he was not in the 
 cafe, he was in a hospital under treatment for a mor- 
 tal disease. The po- 
 lice were always kind 
 to him and treated 
 h i m with respect, 
 and the Bohemians 
 of the Q u ar ti e r 
 adored him, for he 
 was of the type 
 called the "pure," 
 and all France re- 
 vered him deeply. 
 
 149
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 The Spanish, Russian, Roumanian and French 
 artists all fraternize and outrival each other in their 
 attempts at originality in dress, style of hair, length 
 of pipes and cut of beards. All wear beards, and the 
 variety is infinite, for although nature limited the 
 Latin race to five-feet-five or six inches in stature, 
 she was bountiful with hair. The budding artist of 
 seventeen sports a heavy growth of hair on his chin, 
 while a boy of fourteen in knee trousers is often the 
 proud possessor of a stubby black mustache. 
 
 All of the little girls are remarkable for their 
 luxuriant growth of hair and often Madame's most 
 fascinating mark of beauty, according to the French- 
 man's idea, is her jet-black impiriale, in marked 
 contrast to her white skin and rouged lips.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 S YOU stroll along the busy 
 streets of Paris you will no- 
 tice that nearly every tenth 
 shop is a coiffeur, teinturerie 
 or patisserie. 
 
 Every conceivable tint and 
 style of coiffe is exhibited on 
 wonderful lace-draped wax 
 figures in the one big window of the coiffeur. Mar- 
 velous satin and tulle gowns that have been through 
 the more marvelous cleaning process for which Paris 
 is world-famed, are suspended in the big plate-glass 
 window of the teinturerie, and mountains of the 
 greatest variety of little cakes ever seen in one city 
 are temptingly and artistically arranged as to form 
 and color in the window of the patisserie. 
 
 These three tiny shops are perhaps the busiest of 
 all the small shops. The coiffeuse is a great artist 
 
 151
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 and guards well the secret of her numerous dyes, 
 which she modifies to produce the many modish 
 colors and shades of color which the Parisienne 
 adopts for her coiffe to harmonize with her gowns, 
 her eyes, or her jewels, or to produce striking con- 
 trasts. 
 
 As she never permits her hair to show gray until 
 she has attained the age of sixty-five or seventy, it 
 is one continual struggle against the ravages of old 
 age and the gray hair which softens and refines it. 
 The Parisienne studies minutely all the artifices of 
 the toilet and achieves artistic results. She knows 
 just what tint of powder is suited to her and applies 
 it liberally. If her dye is Titian-red she uses a red- 
 brown eye pencil, and knows the value of the rouge 
 stick and thin veneer of enamel. She uses the same 
 beauty soap and face cream year after year and 
 never experiments with new productions. She pays 
 great attention to detail and often spends two hours 
 on her coiffe and face make-up. 
 
 You see very few old faces in Paris as the beauty 
 artistes have long since arrived. They remove your 
 old skin, not all at once, but gradually. The process 
 requires six weeks, at the end of which time a new 
 
 152
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 skin forms as soft and pink as a baby's. During the 
 six weeks of regeneration the suffering is as exqui- 
 sitely fine as the new skin. After the new skin is 
 grown, the coiffcuse proceeds to try effects with dif- 
 ferent tints of hair until a startling contrast or per- 
 fect harmony is achieved. If you have hair, that is, 
 hair grown to your scalp, under this artiste's brush 
 in an hour's time the dull dead color takes on the 
 most gorgeous Titian-red, blue-black, chestnut- 
 brown, ash or burnished-gold tint with a luster like 
 Liberty satin. 
 
 If your hair is thin or straggling she cuts it off 
 close to the scalp and fits to your head a simply- 
 coifed wig which an observing person never fails to 
 detect at a glance. It is thus that all feminine Paris 
 holds her own against the world, in seeming youth 
 and beauty, really startling and often ghastly effects. 
 
 Paris is conspicuous for the absence of barber 
 shops, but there is usually a tiny room at the coif- 
 feuse's given over to Monsieur, where he is shaved, 
 tonsored, massaged and often dyed to contrast or 
 harmonize with Madame's tints. This tonsorial art- 
 ist's equipment is as crude and uncomfortable as the 
 coiffense's is elaborate. 
 
 153
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 To save time and expense, the grande dame gives 
 her negligees, blouses, guimpes, jabots, fichus and 
 peignoirs to the teinturiere, who puts them through 
 a quick-clean process and returns them promptly the 
 second day. The teinturiere is thus a keen rival of 
 the laundress, and often more popular, as the latter 
 keeps articles eight days and is a trifle more ex- 
 pensive. 
 
 You can have a pair of long evening gloves 
 cleaned for six cents, and a pair of short gloves for 
 three cents. The teinturiere is always a woman and 
 does a rushing business. Usually she is suave and 
 very polite. She greets you with, "Bon jour, Ma- 
 dame." "Merci, Madame," she says as she receives 
 your three sous, and again, "Bon jour, Madame," 
 as she opens the door for you to depart. Always 
 wily, the French shopkeeper expends much breath 
 and time over polite nothings which often are only a 
 cover for her many tricks. 
 
 The patisseries, also presided over by women, do 
 a record business every afternoon between four and 
 five. For this is the hour when every Parisian — 
 boulevardier, grande dame, bonne and child — eats 
 his goilter, and the mountains of bewildering cakes 
 
 154
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 rapidly disappear. You help yourself to a plate and 
 fork — more often a spoon, select your cakes and eat 
 them standing, as usually the choicest cakes are dis- 
 played in the tiniest of shops. There are, however, 
 many elaborate shops with suites of rooms and tea 
 tables where you go from one tray to another, and 
 
 after choosing your cakes, sit down and drink in- 
 different tea. Although masters of so many arts, the 
 French fail miserably when they essay tea. If you 
 enter one of these patisserie tea-shops after the 
 magic hour, you will find only an array of empty 
 trays, and Madame, elaborately coifed, powdered 
 and rouged, will greet you with her most distant 
 manner. Her "Ma-dame" rings out before you have 
 closed the door, and it never fails to annoy you and 
 
 155
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 give you quite a start. "Ma-dame" with snappy em- 
 phasis on the dame means in English, "Hurry up — ■ 
 choose your cakes and go." This is the one shop in 
 all Paris you hate to patronize, and yet it always at- 
 tracts you because of the tempting arrangement of 
 the dainty fresh cakes. 
 
 These little patisserie shops are usually crowded 
 with French people and are great money-makers, a 
 fact that accounts for Madame's distant air and 
 snappy tongue. With a nonchalant air, she will 
 sound your five-franc piece on her inlaid brass plate 
 to see if it rings true silver or falls with a dull lead 
 thud. You may return a half-hour later with a bad 
 two-franc piece which you discover in the change 
 she gave you only to be told in her haughtiest man- 
 ner that she never has bad money — not she, and 
 you go away one degree wiser, promising yourself 
 to pass it back to her a week later when her desk is 
 surrounded with clientele and she is too rushed to 
 inspect the money closely. 
 
 Leaving the bad money and turning again to the 
 streets and the women workers, your attention is at- 
 tracted as you stroll along by two women seated in 
 a window, their heads bowed low over a piece of 
 
 156
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 work. They are weaving threads in and out of a 
 square and triangle rent in a coat and skirt. You 
 read on a sign over the window, "A I' Art Pratique, 
 Stoppage, Reprises Perdues." The stoppeuse is the 
 woman whose business it is to mend a rent so clev- 
 erly, no matter how jagged, that with the aid of 
 a magnifying-glass you can not possibly detect it. 
 
 A seam is raveled and the necessary threads ob- 
 tained. The pattern is found by the aid of a power- 
 ful glass and the wonder of the twentieth century 
 is accomplished by a fine weaving in and out of 
 threads until the hole is stopped by a square or tri- 
 angle of cloth so nearly perfect that it defies detec- 
 tion. A rent two inches across in a chiffon cloth 
 gown, mended, will cost you three dollars, but it 
 really is worth fifteen or twenty dollars when an 
 accident happens to a garment in perfect condition. 
 The stoppeuses are numerous all over Paris and are 
 always women under forty years of age. After forty 
 they are half blind and must retire. 
 
 A little farther on you come upon an old and 
 withered woman seated in the shade of a paper 
 kiosk at a busy corner of the boulevard Hausseman, 
 her hand-made laces spread over a tiny wooden rack 
 
 157
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 and her poor old trembling hands working rapidly 
 with a dozen or more bobbins and numerous pins, 
 which hold in place on the cushion the beautiful 
 Point d'Alencon lace she is making. She is an artist 
 and knows well her metier, for she has been making 
 lace for forty years. She displays samples of Cluny, 
 Bruges, and Belgium filet. There are even speci- 
 mens of Brussells Point, that most intricate of all 
 laces, in which you can see no beauty if you have, 
 been in Belgium and watched its manufacture by the 
 old lace makers, sitting in badly lighted rooms, 
 straining their eyes, often through two pairs of 
 glasses, and working all day for a pittance of two 
 francs fifty. It is only those old in experience who 
 can master the intricate patterns of this lace, which 
 happily is no longer the mode. 
 
 The shrewd old weather-beaten woman of the pa- 
 per kiosk chats with the lace woman and keeps her 
 business eye on the cylindrical glass house and box- 
 booth which are completely hung over with papers, 
 penny magazines and periodicals. Here are illus- 
 trated papers, comic and gruesome, in a bewildering 
 mass of flaming color which always attracts the 
 crowd. There are papers printed for all classes and 
 
 158

 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 conditions : political, industrial and economic re- 
 views : scientific and socialistic papers; sporting and 
 dramatic weeklies; humoristic papers and daily 
 journals; papers with obscene jokes for the cocotte; 
 penny fashion papers whose modes are copied by the 
 clever fingers of the lady's maid ; penny romances of 
 a risque character, which are the special delight of 
 the bonne and the cook; detective stories for young 
 boys; and stories of suicides and gruesome murders 
 for the Apaches. The latest fashions and scandals 
 in high life are furnished for the grande dame and 
 haute dcmi-mondaine. Even the little boy of five 
 has his illustrated papers, which he purchases for a 
 sou at the kiosk. Everybody reads ; even the daugh- 
 ter of the laundress peruses her penny sheet as she 
 delivers her freshly ironed linen. 
 
 Paris swarms with women workers, the majority 
 of whom are past middle age, many old and feeble. 
 The chairwomen of the parks, gardens and Champs 
 Elysees, must walk all day and collect sous from the 
 people who spend an hour or two, morning or after- 
 noon, under the trees, where they go to chat and 
 watch the passing show. 
 
 The ten-centimes ticket for your chair entitles you 
 
 1 60
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 to a seat for the entire day and you can change 
 about, go and come at will, provided you retain your 
 ticket. These chairwomen usually are the widows of 
 the common soldiers and earn two francs fifty a day. 
 They drink wine only on Sundays and often sup- 
 port one or two children. On sunny days the daugh- 
 ter of twelve accompanies her mother in her rounds, 
 knitting, or making lace as she walks, or, seated on 
 a camp stool, which she carries over her arm, tends 
 the baby in his go-cart. 
 
 These women must spend ten francs a month for 
 shoes, which they change three times a day to rest 
 their tired feet. The extra shoes are kept in a trap 
 at the bottom of the big bronze street lamps. 
 
 You will see the old woman of the flower booth 
 stationed at a popular corner where she sits the year 
 round. She smiles and is chatty in the summer time, 
 when the sun shines, and her booth is redolent with 
 great bunches of red roses, tall lilies and violets, but 
 in winter she sits inside her booth, with a black 
 shawl wrapped across her breast. Occasionally there 
 is a tiny brazier of charcoal at her feet, but more 
 often she is without this little comfort. She is pa- 
 tient but sad at this season, for it rains very much 
 
 161
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 and is often very cold. Then she is miserable 
 enough, looking out between her branches of var- 
 nished autumn leaves, dried grasses, bitter-sweet 
 and holly. If her booth is located near a popular 
 cafe, she does a good business, for the Parisienne 
 loves flowers. The grande dame wears expensive or- 
 chids, and the little laundress goes tripping about 
 with a penny bunch of violets or mimosa pinned to 
 her blouse. No day is quite perfect in which Ma- 
 dame fails to receive from her favorite flower shop 
 a fresh nosegay as a graceful compliment from her 
 lover or particular friend. She anticipates it with as 
 much joy as Monsieur anticipates his dinner. The 
 student spends five sous for a bunch of flowers which 
 he gives to his little comrade, as he kisses her au 
 revoir until his hours are over at the Sorbonne. 
 Armfuls of flowers are carried away from the beau- 
 tiful flower markets which are a street feature twice 
 a week in many quarters of Paris. 
 
 The flower women take possession of the streets 
 for a week previous to All-Saints' Day, the first of 
 November. Then you will see miles of beautiful 
 chrysanthemums in pots, dahlias, mimosa and vio- 
 lets in huge bunches, arranged on shelves, one above 
 
 162
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 the other; and row after row of portable booths, 
 completely smothered in flowers, are presided over 
 by bareheaded old women wrapped in shawls, for 
 the weather at this time of year, is often foggy and 
 cold. 
 
 You often see a woman attached to a cart by a har- 
 ness, pulling a heavy load, while the man walks be- 
 hind, cracks his whip and calls out the vegetables. 
 It is old women who sweep the water through the 
 gutters to cleanse them in the early morning hours ; 
 women who manage and run the small shops and 
 markets all over Paris. There are women cab-driv- 
 ers, women hod-carriers, women chauffeurs and 
 women customs inspectors, and an army of ninety- 
 six thousand washerwomen — blanchisseuses — who 
 are a very busy though always gay people, working 
 early and late along the banks of the Seine and in 
 the Paris lavoirs, scrubbing and beating the linen of 
 the great city. 
 
 Paris has its public lavoirs in every quarter. For 
 eight sous the laveuses may have hot water and the 
 use of tubs, and for thirty sous all the linen of their 
 clientele swirled and pounded in a machine run by 
 steam. But the greater number prefer to beat and 
 
 163
 
 Tomb of Marie Bashkirtseff 
 
 scrub the linen with brushes as it is cheaper for them 
 and they take eight days to wash and iron a patron's 
 linen. Besides, it affords them better opportunity for 
 gossip, as the tubs are arranged in double rows 
 throughout the immense room. 
 
 The proprietor of the lavoir sells each a piece of 
 soap for four sous, a bit of blue, done up in a piece 
 of muslin, for two sous, and a bottle of javelle water 
 — chloride of potassium — which they use in great 
 quantities and which after a short lime, causes the 
 linen to drop to pieces. 
 
 There are from eighty to two hundred women 
 washing, laughing, joking and singing in one big 
 
 164
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 room. The floor is covered with water, and they 
 wear wooden shoes and stand on slat racks. The 
 owner averages seventy-five francs net a day, and 
 is one of the best-paid small proprietors in Paris. 
 He is always jolly and has a pleasant word for each 
 laveuse, whom he calls by name — Lorette, Jeanne or 
 Marie. The ironing shops, repasseuses, blanchis- 
 seuses, are numerous all over Paris ; often two and 
 three in one street. Here six or eight expert girls, 
 often young and good-looking, stand on spring 
 boards in heelless slippers and iron from eight a. M. 
 until six P. M.
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 There are artists among 1 them, for to iron some 
 
 of the fine lingerie of Paris requires an artist. Noth- 
 
 i 
 ing is too intricate or too delicate in texture for 
 
 them to master. They will take a soiled white 
 chiffon and lace gown and return it to you like new. 
 The process is a secret known only to them. There 
 are those who iron only sleeves, others the body of 
 a blouse, others are expert with skirts and others 
 with collars, and still others with laces and embroi- 
 deries. These specialists are paid by the piece and 
 earn from six to eight francs a day. 
 
 A young girl who irons towels and slips earns two 
 francs and a half a day, and an apprentice must 
 give her services six months before she can earn one 
 franc a day. 
 
 No matter where you go or what shop you enter, 
 the work seems to be directed, managed and accom- 
 plished by women, until you wonder how French- 
 men occupy themselves. You see as many men rid- 
 ing out in limousines as women — men quite alone. 
 
 At the theaters, it is a woman who sells you your 
 ticket, but from her you can gain no information. If 
 you purchase your ticket in advance she will demand 
 two francs extra from you for that privilege, and 
 
 1 66
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 again ten per cent, of the price of your ticket, which 
 is supposed to go to the poor, but which I am told, 
 the poor never receive. The opera and many of the 
 theaters are government institutions, and in that fact 
 is found the reason why one seldom hears good 
 opera and is continually annoyed by an army of 
 ouvreuses. 
 
 When you arrive at the theater, a man in uniform, 
 who opens your cab door, blocks the way until you 
 give him two sous. In the lobby, a boy with pro- 
 grams bawls at you. You buy one for five sous, 
 and then take your place in line to await your turn of 
 having your ticket inspected by the three silk-hatted 
 men in evening clothes who are seated behind a 
 long narrow desk. One receives and observes your 
 ticket and passes it to his neighbor, who writes down 
 the number. He in turn passes it to the third man 
 who makes a few inaudible remarks and returns it 
 to you. You then are ready to pass into the "chcre" 
 ouvrense's hands, the advance guard of whom calls 
 out to you, "Debarrassez-vous an vestiaire, Mes- 
 sieurs — Dames!!!" 
 
 You move along and another one calls to you, 
 "Votre chapeau, Madame"; another, "Voire man- 
 
 167
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 teau, Madame," and still another tells you, "Je vais 
 conduire Madame a sa place." If you have paid her 
 in advance, which naturally you did while you had 
 space to move in, she will leave you half-way, point 
 to your seat in a vague manner, and hurry off to 
 gather up another five sous from a newcomer. 
 
 After getting yourself nicely fitted into the un- 
 comfortable seat you are requested by a very in- 
 dignant Frenchman to move. He tells you you are 
 occupying his seat, although it is a mystery to you 
 how he knows the seat belongs to him as you can 
 see no number corresponding to his coupon. He is 
 French, however, and must know, so you move two 
 seats farther on, and again adjust 3'ourself to the 
 cramped space, when you see that smiling rose- 
 bedecked ouvreuse piloting a man toward you. The 
 man she thought would prove worth while, so she 
 brings him all the way and tells you, "Mais, Ma- 
 dame, j'ai dit le septieme a gauche." Of course, you 
 have slid into the neuvieme and are compelled to 
 move again. 
 
 In the middle of the first act, another rose-capped 
 nuisance appears, and smilingly insists in putting 
 under your feet a stool which you do not want, but 
 
 168
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 which she calmly proceeds to place. Then you must 
 rearrange yourself all over again, because you are 
 sitting on your purse and she is waiting for sous. 
 You calmly smile back at her, for every one near you 
 
 is gaping at you, and you are trying desperately to 
 be comme il faut. 
 
 Long before the play is over, you are in a semi- 
 conscious stupor from the bad air and overpowering 
 perfumes of every variety which always envelop a 
 French audience. French theaters are badly venti- 
 
 169
 
 lated and, with a few modern exceptions, uncomfort- 
 able. The clack nuisance is still in vogue. The in- 
 ternal service of the theater is sold to the highest 
 bidder, who in turn demands from two to three 
 francs a day from each ouvreuse, for the right to 
 annoy the public, out of whom each ouvreuse suc- 
 ceeds in making from seven to eight francs every 
 evening. 
 
 It is usually a woman who ignores your request 
 for stamps in the numerous demi-post-offices in 
 every quarter. She will continue with her co- 
 worker her conversation about last night's amuse- 
 ment, assuming that you do not understand French. 
 You renew your request for stamps and finally she 
 will tell you in an impudent way that she does not 
 
 170
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 occupy herself with the selling of stamps. It is al- 
 ways difficult to know just who does occupy himself 
 with the selling of stamps, in these dingy dirty 
 sub-offices, where the nervous, perspiring or freez- 
 ing employees stare at you blankly, and wait upon 
 you when they feel so inclined. Often an ex-cook 
 or maid, through the influence of a friend in the 
 post-office, will be given a position without even the 
 form of an examination. 
 
 This untrained service results badly. You never 
 can be sure that a letter will reach its destination 
 unless it is registered or is a pncumatiquc. At 
 Christmas time many letters are lost. The envelopes
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 SOITL 
 LETTRU 
 
 are opened; the contents, 
 often a trifling gift or hand- 
 decorated card, are extracted, 
 and if it is too much trouble to 
 seal the letter again, it is torn 
 up and thrown aside. If you 
 complain to the postal author- 
 ities they will tell you they are 
 not responsible for careless or 
 dishonest employees. Postal 
 reforms in France never will 
 be effective until the em- 
 ployees can have more space 
 to work in, good ventilation and sanitary conditions, 
 and until the postal officials put in operation a sys- 
 tem whereby the wholesale rifling of letters can be 
 traced to the guilty persons. 
 
 The carrier of the registered mail is quite differ- 
 ent from the daily facteur. He wears more gold 
 braid and fairly bristles with importance. If you 
 are ill in bed and give a friend permission to sign 
 for you he will not consent. He insists upon seeing 
 you. He then must be assured that you are your- 
 self, and you must prove in some way that you are 
 
 172
 
 WOMAN TURNS THE WHEEL 
 
 not some one else before he will give you the official 
 book to sign. He often wears a medal of some sort 
 and scorns tribute under a franc. 
 
 During the post carriers' strike in Paris three or 
 four years ago, the most changeable government, and 
 at the same time the most resourceful in the world, 
 called the soldiers to take the place of the striking 
 facteurs. The result was that no one received his mail 
 regularly so long as the strike lasted. The soldiers 
 either could not read the addresses or they got tired 
 of their long routes and deliberately tore up the mail 
 and threw it into the gutters, where the old women 
 swept it along in the running water, down the wide 
 mouths of the sewers, while the soldiers refreshed 
 themselves with bocks at the cafes along the route. 
 
 You can buy stamps in all the tobacco shops, and 
 there is usually one on every other corner. You can 
 mail letters outside of the sub-offices and now and 
 then on an avenue if you are initiated into the mys- 
 terious ways of the deftly-hidden post-boxes, which 
 are small and flat, painted coal-black and nailed to 
 an equally black post. You may pass and repass 
 these boxes, and if by chance you see one, it will 
 never occur to you that it is a post-box, for you have 
 
 173
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 in mind a big cardinal-red or green iron box posted 
 up at one side of a street lamp marked in plain let- 
 ters "U. S. Mail". Just why Americans expect to 
 find American postal conveniences in Latin France 
 is a mystery — but they do. 
 
 Many of the most expert workers in the postal 
 service are women, and without them the service 
 would be even worse than it is. Paris has a greater 
 number of women workers than any other city. The 
 women take the lead in social and domestic affairs 
 and many of them a leading part in shaping business 
 and politics. Indeed, it is the women who make 
 Paris what it is, who keep things moving — who, in 
 short, make the wheels go round. 
 
 Pt. 1 - ~~4*lL Mm., WZ &_ | I, ■■I'll 
 
 " *** 
 
 ^ V-ft *M**JK 
 
 
 . _..,_. __^_ '..aMS^V- 2 flfc 
 
 wm
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 PARIS IN MAY 
 
 Paris is a paradise in the spring — when the sun 
 shines and the sky is Italian blue; when the trees 
 in the wide avenues are in leaf and bud, and the gar- 
 dens and parks are brilliant with variegated flow- 
 ers; when the streets are gay with bunches of flags 
 pendent from tall poles, over the announcement of 
 the Salon exhibition, and the innumerable street 
 fairs, the dog show, flower fete and automobile show 
 are being held ; when the cafe terrasse audiences 
 wax critical of the street show in the latest mode, 
 and the races are on at Longchamp, and the French 
 Derby is being run at Chantilly; when the rulers of 
 Europe, grand dukes and eastern potentates, with 
 their tame lions, are seen driving in the Champs 
 Elysees; when cafe life in the Bois blossoms forth 
 and the chic Parisiennes step out of winter garb into 
 exquisite new creations; when life along the banks 
 of the murky serpentine Seine is active, and the 
 petits bateaux mouches scurry up and down laden 
 
 175
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 with gay and happy people going to the country for 
 the day; when all Paris exhales joy, gaiety and love, 
 for the Parisienne and amour walk bras-dessus, 
 bras-dessous and hand in hand ; when the thousands 
 of balconies are brilliant with awnings, birds, flow- 
 ers, and vines, and the dainty Mimi Pinsons are flit- 
 ting about; when the long-haired poet, in wide vel- 
 vet trousers and green neck-scarf, comes down from 
 Montmartre to read his sonnets in the avenue du 
 Bois, and numerous air-ships are circling the Tour 
 Eiffel; when the cockers don their spring khaki, 
 white varnished hats and scarlet waistcoats ; when 
 troops of soldiers in their blue and red uniforms are 
 passing and repassing and squads of cuirassiers, in 
 shining brass helmets and breastplates, trot briskly 
 by ; when the haute monde is promenading under 
 the trees with toy dogs in jackets, bells and ribbons; 
 when the picturesque Alsatian and Normandy 
 bonnes, with the most adorable babies and most fas- 
 cinating children in the world, are sitting or playing 
 under the trees in the Champs Elysees ! 
 
 Now, in the month of May, one sees the real Paris 
 ■ — the Mecca of the world for all that is -beautiful, 
 gay, chic and happy. 
 
 176
 
 Children's Booth
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 One understands why the working Parisian is 
 satisfied with his Paris. It is beautiful and its beau- 
 ties are free for him to enjoy. He appreciates it and 
 has his own personal pride in the wide tree-lined 
 avenues, the noble architecture, and wonderful mon- 
 uments, the miles of pictures and the numerous mu- 
 seums. Although born and bred in this atmosphere 
 of beauty and art, he never wearies of it — it is ever 
 new and interesting to him. 
 
 It is this appreciative Parisian who has children, 
 loves his dog last, lives en famille, and spends his 
 Sundays and fete days in the country with his fam- 
 ily, carrying the lunch basket for a picnic under the 
 sweet-smelling pines. He returns in the evening 
 tired, but happy, he and his wife each carrying a 
 worn-out sleepy child while the older children pack 
 the lunch basket and push the baby cart. It is to 
 this hard-working appreciative bourgeois class that 
 La Belle France must look for her future posterity. 
 
 It is the fashion to drive, ride and promenade in 
 the Bois between ten and eleven in the morning. At 
 this hour all fashionable Paris is abroad in smart 
 walking costume. 
 
 178
 
 PARIS IN MAY 
 
 The motors and carriages stop inside the Porte- 
 Dauphine, and the celebrity of the opera and theater, 
 the grande dame and the haute demi-mondaine , with 
 their dogs, get out and promenade slowly in the 
 avenue to the left, to see and be seen. Distinguished 
 officers in sky-blue and scarlet uniforms, riding sleek 
 prancing horses, turn into the bridle allee at the 
 right, while the bonnes in their gray and scarlet 
 capes and beribboned caps, follow down the tree- 
 lined avenue, pushing the high white perambulators 
 and babies, and the little girls in peach-basket hats 
 hold up their finger-length embroidered skirts, for 
 even these mites are imbued with the true Parisian 
 spirit. 
 
 Young men in English shooting clothes saunter 
 along, accompanied by three or four fine bird dogs. 
 Monsieur walks arm in arm with his tall daughter 
 of twelve who looks down upon him as she talks, 
 for nearly all the children of to-day tower above 
 their petits peres. 
 
 You follow the procession to its objective point, 
 the Lac Inferieur, circled by a beautifully shaded 
 walk, with many chairs and benches along the bor- 
 der. The grande s dames seat themselves for a chat, 
 
 179
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 while the celebrities of the theatrical and half-world, 
 stroll about with their toy dogs and display their 
 smart gowns. 
 
 The children play games under the trees; the 
 bonne takes the baby out of his cart, and by the as- 
 sistance of a white-silk-knitted harness, he toddles 
 a few steps, she holding him up by the reins. All 
 the while through the trees on the drive beyond, 
 you hear the subdued murmur of the champing 
 bubbling motors awaiting the pleasure of the folk 
 of fashion. In contrast a half-dozen men are loung- 
 ing along the shore of the lake trying their luck with 
 the rod. 
 
 It is all wonderfully peaceful and beautiful and 
 not unlike a French resort in miniature — the limpid 
 water with the floating ducks and graceful swans; 
 the pretty boat-houses hung with flags; the gaily 
 painted boats against a background of vivid emerald 
 green ; the splashes of red, white and mauve of the 
 gowns and parasols; the wistful tiny dogs in their 
 gay jackets frisking about; the wood-green island 
 in the center of the lake with its flag-bedecked res- 
 taurant and flower hedges gleaming through the 
 mass of green shrubbery and tall trees, together with 
 
 1 80
 
 PARIS IN MAY 
 
 the picturesque old woman walking from group to 
 group with her big tray of bread strapped round her 
 neck, selling to the children for a sou pieces which 
 they throw on the water to the swans, — all this con- 
 tributes toward a charming restful picture on a 
 sunny spring morning. 
 
 At five o'clock, on a May afternoon, it is interest- 
 ing to take a chair under the trees in the Champs 
 Elysees, just opposite the Grand Palais, and feast 
 your eyes on the wonderful vista of architecture and 
 sculpture, extending across the magnificent Pont 
 Alexander III, on to the gilded dome of the In- 
 valides, which finally obscures the horizon, making 
 one of the grandest perspectives to be seen in the 
 world. 
 
 At this hour all fashionable Paris is passing and 
 repassing on wheels, as, indeed, is pretty much all the 
 fashion of Europe, for republican Paris is the piv- 
 otal point for all Europe in the spring. A luxurious 
 victoria passes with a little old white-haired woman 
 and a snow-white French poodle sitting up very 
 proudly in the seat beside her. Beautifully-ap- 
 pointed carriages drawn by high-stepping per- 
 fectly-matched horses trot briskly by. Smart carts 
 
 181
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 are driven by Englishmen, with the grooms in the 
 rumble. There are hundreds of swiftly-moving mo- 
 tors, ivory, violet, gray, yellow, scarlet and marine- 
 blue. You catch only splashes of color and glimpses 
 of gowns as they dash by without order or care 
 and with many hair-breadth escapes. 
 
 The benches and the hundreds of chairs are all 
 occupied at this hour. Beautifully-gowned women, 
 with men in silk hats, short coats and absurd waist- 
 coats, are seated in groups chatting and holding the 
 dogs by the leash. Children in short lace frocks are 
 playing in the sand heaps, astride the horses of the 
 merry-go-rounds, driving up and down in the goat 
 carts, or seated on tiny benches under the trees 
 watching the Punch and Judy show, while the 
 bonnes sit near by gossiping, knitting and guarding 
 the babies. 
 
 The smiling old women of the children's booth 
 do a thriving business, for besides the hoops, mills, 
 balls and diabolos, they have little stacks of crois- 
 sants and petits pains, ginger cakes, chocolate and 
 pop which they dispose of for the children's petit 
 g outer. 
 
 You will often see Madame in her chic gown, also 
 
 182
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Monsieur, sans-gene, nibbling at a big piece of dry 
 bread, alternating each bite with a bite of chocolate, 
 which the bonne produces from her deep sack. 
 Often the bonne carries two or three camp chairs 
 across the handle of the perambulator, for a wire 
 chair in the avenue costs ten centimes and twenty or 
 thirty centimes a day is an item in Madame's econo- 
 mies. 
 
 After the races at St. Cloud or Longchamp, the 
 gay race world rendezvous at the restaurants Ar- 
 menonville and Madrid in the Bois where they 
 drown their losses in a cup of weak tea, talk over 
 the favorite that came in third, inspect more closely 
 one another's gowns, and listen for an hour to the 
 red and gold-uniformed band among the green 
 palms in the mirrored inner court. 
 
 The Frenchman who follows the races is quite 
 another genre from his brother boulevardier. He 
 is often younger, wears only a mustache, is better- 
 looking, taller, wears correct English clothes and 
 is very polite. He has retained his polish but he al- 
 ways stares with interest. 
 
 A woman in a fetching Suzanne Talbot hat, wear- 
 
 184
 
 PARIS IN MAY 
 
 ing a black satin gown slashed on the left side, 
 showing a yellow panel embroidered in black, is met 
 half-way in the court by two men who kiss her hand 
 and lead the way to a table. Everybody observes the 
 gown in detail and pronounces it "Chic, n'est-ce- 
 pas?" Suddenly you hear a charmingly-gowned 
 woman exclaim to a friend seated at a table : "Mais, 
 mon Dieu, regardez!" You follow the direction of 
 her eyes, and see another equally attractive woman 
 approaching a table, accompanied by two English- 
 looking Frenchmen and arrayed in a gown matching 
 in color and detail the one worn by the woman just 
 seated. You hear many subdued "Ah's! Helas! 
 c'est toujour s comme go" among the teacups. 
 
 You can hardly believe your eyes, but a little later 
 another chic woman strolls in, in a facsimile gown, 
 although she is quite unconscious of the existence 
 of another such in all Paris. Everybody is quite 
 scandalized at this third gown, and, "Oh! la, la, en- 
 core une troisieine; c'est stupide ca," is audible on 
 all sides, and a magpie chatter is kept up under 
 cover of 77 m'aime beaucoup, which the band is 
 playing. 
 
 Now all eyes turn toward the entrance as the 
 
 185
 
 graceful and beauti- 
 ful Princesse G 
 
 enters, wearing a 
 black charmeuse coat 
 with wide revers of 
 white chiffon velvet, a 
 big black hat covered 
 with white paradise 
 Prince and Princess G- feathers, and carry- 
 ing a black and white parasol. She is accompanied 
 by the adoring boy prince. Ten years ago the prin- 
 cesse was pronounced the most beautiful woman in 
 the world; to-day she is just as beautiful. Her hair 
 is the same anthracite-coal-black; her dark velvet 
 eyes enhance the creamy tint of her skin, and she 
 has lost none of her gliding gracefulness. You can 
 understand the worship in the eyes of the boy 
 prince who sacrificed family and country for her. 
 
 The grandes dames envy her, copy her gowns and 
 show themselves at her musicales and garden parties 
 
 1 86
 
 PARIS IN MAY 
 
 — for the moral fence in fashionable Paris is not 
 formidable and is always climbed over gracefully. 
 All Paris is tolerant of the half-world. To say that 
 the demi-mondaine plays a most important role is 
 not exaggeration. Like the boulevardier, she is om- 
 nipresent. Live in what avenue or street you may, 
 she is just above you or below you, or her hotel is 
 next door to your hotel. 
 
 She often carries the title of baronnc or comtesse, 
 for she wins her way by seductive graces, charm of 
 manner and savoir-faire. Now and then the grandc 
 dame exchanges confidences with her about her own 
 husband who has become derelict. 
 
 They meet at garden parties and musicales and, 
 side by side, often discuss the merit or demerit of the
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 ji_ 
 
 iEiLaiELaiHa:uaii:-fl o ; 
 
 latest new model at Pa- 
 quin's or Worth's. 
 They dine vis-a-vis at 
 the Ritz and touch el- 
 bows at the Salle Ga- 
 veau and opera where 
 the lorgnettes are all 
 focussed upon this 
 sumptuous queen of the 
 half-world. Only a little step intervenes between 
 this celebrity and the grande dame, since the latter 
 never wishes to be distinguished from her in grace, 
 chic, or clothes ; to be so would be to her own loss. 
 
 It is these graceful Camilles who maintain the 
 fashions and often create them. The great dressmak- 
 ers vie with each other in constructing original 
 gowns for them. They are accorded high rank and 
 are never declassee as in England and America ; they 
 belong to a society here in Paris which stands out 
 like a bas-relief. They have the most expensive toy 
 dogs, the smartest limousines and carriages, the best- 
 trained servants and often the finest establishments, 
 and they are the most envied and admired as they 
 
 1 88
 
 PARIS IN MAY 
 
 bowl along the Champs Elysees at the fashionable 
 hour, en route to the Bois. 
 
 A clever boy of twelve, walking with you in the 
 avenue du Bois, will tell you that a fashionably- 
 gowned woman whom you see passing, accompanied 
 by a man, is not the man's wife and then will pro- 
 ceed to tell you who and what she. is and how you 
 can distinguish the difference. A little baby boy of 
 four, a darling in curls with roguish eyes, will tell 
 a young lady who has lifted her skirt to tie her 
 shoe, that he sees her beautiful leg — belle jambe. 
 
 It is simply the call of the blood crying out this 
 early. Often it is the mother who selects the fur- 
 niture and arranges the first menage for her son 
 — when he has arrived at a certain age — in a little 
 coquet appartement in some quiet street in Paris.
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Here she writes out an agreement which is signed by 
 a healthy naive young girl whom she has found in 
 the country or who is apprenticed to a modiste. 
 
 She installs her son here, as she considers this the 
 best method to pursue and will frankly tell you it 
 is necessary to the preservation of her son's happi- 
 ness and health. The son adores his mother and goes 
 
 every day to walk or ride with her. 
 
 When the question of marriage becomes a serious 
 
 one, the girl is paid the sum agreed upon. She re- 
 turns to her home and with this dot is able to con- 
 tract a marriage with a man of her own class. 
 
 The grande dame often entertains one of Mon- 
 sieur's favorites at dinner, for in not a few menages, 
 it is Monsieur who dictates and is obeyed. It is 
 often Monsieur who accompanies Madame to the 
 dressmakers to choose a gown. He will select the 
 material and the model, say what will look well, and 
 what he will pay. Madame looks on with a disin- 
 terested air and nods an indifferent approval. 
 
 One can only account for Monsieur's meddling 
 with what should not concern him on the theory that 
 Madame's exquisite taste is too expensive for Mon- 
 sieur's pocketbook.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 HOUSEKEEPING 
 
 OUSEKEEPING in Paris is 
 always fascinating and a very 
 simple matter, if you do not 
 mind the impudence of the con- 
 cierge and can cope with her 
 Mephisto-like tricks. She is 
 often the one dark spot in the 
 brilliant sunshine. 
 She is the inevitable feature of every apartment 
 house. Why the Parisian submits to such autocratic 
 service is a mystery. She is located with her hus- 
 band and often one or two children in two rooms at 
 the right or left of the entrance. She sees every one 
 who goes in and out and knows every move on your 
 private chess-board. She is familiar even with your 
 garbage, which she pokes over and comments on to 
 the maids as an indication of your extravagance. 
 She knows how much meat you eat and just how 
 often it is veal or chicken, and whether you pay one 
 
 191
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 franc fifty a dozen for eggs or buy the oeuf du jour 
 at three francs. She knows who your friends are 
 and does not hesitate to insult them. She looks over 
 your correspondence and recommends the laundress 
 of her acquaintance. 
 
 When you return late from the theater you ring 
 and after a time she opens the door by pulling a 
 cord or touching a button near her bed. If she has 
 something against you — and you never know just 
 when she has — she will recognize your ring and let 
 you stand in the cold or rain while she speculates 
 on how many times you have been out that week, 
 and deciding you have been out too much, she will 
 let you wait another five minutes while you continue 
 your ringing. 
 
 When you finally enter, you find yourself in total 
 darkness. The doors are locked at eleven, often half 
 after ten, and the lights are out. You stumble up 
 one, two or three flights of stairs, according to the 
 Stage in which you live — for if there is a lift it is 
 usually resting at the top of the fifth floor, and you 
 climb the stairs to save time and trouble. To em- 
 phasize the fact that you are in her bad graces, she 
 will hold your next day's mail till night. 
 
 192
 
 HOUSEKEEPING 
 
 Should a friend call after ten a. m. carrying a 
 home-made cake for you, the concierge will spring 
 out of her door and order your friend up the escalier 
 de service. If your friend defies her and enters the 
 grand stairway she heaps upon her French insults 
 and cuts one more notch in her stick against you. To 
 such an extent is this abuse of visitors carried, that 
 a lady remarked the other day, "I am glad it is my 
 friends she insults and not me, as they come only oc- 
 casionally." 
 
 The concierge is the scandal-monger of Paris, 
 and the concierge system is a little blackmailing 
 scheme to which you pay tribute according to the 
 amount of your rent. If your tribute is worth while, 
 and she can find nothing against you, she will beam 
 on you in a superior way every time you go in and 
 out, a practise which is even more exasperating than 
 her insults. However, experience teaches that it is 
 best to pay the tribute, smile, chat, admire the cat, 
 kiss the children, ignore the insults to your friends 
 and live in the liberie, egalite, fraternite atmosphere 
 which the Parisian exhales only with his concierge. 
 You are completely at her mercy and she can annoy 
 you in a thousand ways, as everything goes through 
 
 193
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 her hands. The Parisian, who pays half what the 
 foreigner pays, is wise. He hates the system, but 
 since he has never known any other, he smiles philo- 
 sophically, is amiable and often kisses his concierge 
 on both cheeks with a great show of entente cordiale 
 when he leaves his birds with her, before starting 
 on his big journey — a matter of two or three hours 
 by train — for his summer outing. 
 
 Now and then you have a concierge whom the 
 French designate as gentille, but with the best of 
 them you always feel like a thief sneaking in and 
 out of your own house, hoping that this time, at 
 least, you will escape her sharp eyes. But you never 
 do — if she is not outside in the court, she is peeking 
 through her large-mesh lace curtains at you. 
 
 A concierge near the Bois died recently of heart 
 disease caused from intense anger, because a gentle- 
 man, escorting an American lady to her apartment, 
 left the outside door unlatched. This was done to 
 save trouble as he expected to go out again imme- 
 diately. The concierge ran out into the passage and 
 screamed at him with such fury that she dropped 
 dead. When the gentleman came out he stumbled 
 over the body of the concierge and he, too, nearly 
 
 194
 
 Bread Boy
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 dropped dead — but from fright. The next day the 
 authorities tried to fix the blame of the concierge's 
 death on him, and it took an American lawyer to 
 convince them of his innocence. 
 
 Yet in spite of the concierge, if you come to Paris 
 for six months, or a year or two, housekeeping is 
 always more enjoyable and interesting than living 
 in pensions or hotels. If you rent from the pro- 
 prietor, you pay your rent for three months in ad- 
 vance — also your tribute to the concierge. The 
 fifteenth of January, April, July and October are 
 the dates for moving in and out and paying your 
 rent. Notice to leave must be given six months in 
 advance when there is a lease, and three months 
 where there is none. 
 
 But you can often rent an apartment belonging to 
 an Englishman or an American, making your ar- 
 rangements with him and paying your rent direct 
 to his agent and thus escape much fuss and trouble. 
 
 If you want to see the real French side of Paris, 
 take a furnished apartment in the Latin Quarter. 
 Here you can have a snug apartment, belonging to 
 an American, for six months or a year, for fifty 
 dollars a month, linen, silver, and china included. 
 
 iq6
 
 HOUSEKEEPING 
 
 Every room in this apartment is flooded with sun- 
 shine at some time during- the day — even the kitchen, 
 which is unusual in apartments even in America. 
 You have good air, no dust, no flies, spiders or mos- 
 quitoes — not even a mouse. You climb stairs to be 
 sure, but the stairs are easy and the climbing splen- 
 did exercise. On each stairway is a sunny stained- 
 glass window, which opens only to the touch of the 
 concierge. You have an entrance hall, salon and 
 dining-room en suite, with triple glass doors and 
 paneled walls, fireplaces and big mirrors. Your 
 triple windows open, French fashion, on a long 
 stone balcony, which by the aid of awnings, dwarf 
 trees and flowers, you convert into a tea terrasse. 
 You have two sleeping rooms and two rooms in the 
 sixth Stage for maids, three closets, a trunk-room, 
 lavatory, and a tiny pink and blue tiled kitchen hung 
 around with shining copper cooking utensils. A 
 gauze wire-box is built out of the window in which 
 is kept the food for the day. 
 
 No French kitchen has cooked food left over. 
 You have a small refrigerator, although French 
 families never use ice. Everything is purchased in 
 the morning for the day only and every morsel is 
 
 197
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 consumed. This is French economy. Nothing is 
 thrown out but the bones, and they go only after 
 they have done double service. 
 
 The French really live from hand to mouth. This 
 is made possible and easy, for in nearly every street 
 is a butcher, a baker, a milk, butter and cheese shop, 
 a vegetable shop and a grocer. In addition, twice a 
 week in every quarter a market is held where you 
 buy everything needed. The cook in moderate 
 apartments is usually a bonne a tout faire, which 
 means that she does everything from marketing, 
 running errands, cooking, polishing floors, dusting 
 rugs, caring for the boots and often the mending. 
 You pay her twelve dollars a month and she is usu- 
 ally a good cook, extremely curious, but often hon- 
 est and faithful. 
 
 Two people can live nicely in an apartment of this 
 kind on one hundred and fifty dollars a month, en- 
 tertain their friends in a modest way and always 
 have quantities of beautiful flowers for decoration. 
 
 In Paris one does not ask how much money you 
 have — money does not count. It is your personality, 
 your seriousness in what you are doing and your 
 amiability and tact. You can live in a small apart- 
 
 198
 
 HOUSEKEEPING 
 
 ment of this kind, and the American consul general 
 and his wife will deem it a pleasure to climb your 
 stairs to assist at one of your musical teas. You can 
 surround yourself with artistic, musical and literary 
 people, create an atmosphere and make your little 
 
 The Concierge 
 
 salon attractive and popular — it all depends upon 
 you and your personality. 
 
 This morning, the first of May, I went with my 
 femme de menage — who comes in for eight cents 
 an hour — to see the market a few steps from my 
 
 199
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 apartment on the boulevard Edgar Ouinet, where 
 she purchased a pound of delicious strawberries for 
 twelve cents, a bunch of large white asparagus for 
 ten cents, a head of romaine for salad, six cents; 
 Spanish oranges — the red kind — three cents, two 
 pounds of new potatoes, six cents; and a pound of 
 button mushrooms for fifteen cents. 
 
 All vegetables are excellent, fresh, crisp and very 
 cheap; but you pay forty-five and fifty cents a 
 pound for good butter, seventy-five cents a pound 
 for fillet of beef, twelve and a half cents each for 
 lamb chops; the pre sale chops, fifteen cents. 
 Strictly fresh eggs, ceuf du jour, are always sixty 
 cents a dozen, but there are four or five doubtful 
 grades known as the a la coq, moyen-coq, demi-coq, 
 and so forth, ranging in price from thirty to forty 
 cents. Good coffee is fifty and sixty cents a pound, 
 although tea is reasonable because Lipton has made 
 it so. Bananas are small, inferior and expensive. 
 You get hygienic milk in sealed bottles from a so- 
 ciety called "Maggi" which has its white marble and 
 white enameled shops all over Paris. 
 
 You can have a liter of Munich beer or a bottle 
 of red wine, vin ordinaire, for eight cents. Chickens 
 
 200
 
 HOUSEKEEPING 
 
 and game are reasonable and rabbits, of which the 
 middle class eat many, are very cheap. This cuisine 
 is varied by prime steaks of departed cab horses or 
 mules of whose meat an enormous quantity is con- 
 sumed. 
 
 Of the fifty thousand cab horses in Paris, twelve 
 years ago only about seven thousand remain. The 
 others have been pushed out of commission by the 
 motors and eaten by the masses. You often see in 
 the window of the horse butcher shop the brass disk 
 "Occasion" pinned to a prime mule steak, which an- 
 nounces a bargain at greatly reduced price. It is 
 forbidden to sell horse or mule meat at any of the 
 street markets or in shops where beef or mutton is 
 sold. Inspectors often condemn and seize thousands 
 of pounds of meat on the markets in one day in sum- 
 mer, as no ice is used and the meat is carried from 
 one -market to another and exposed all day. 
 
 The butcher shops are very small, but usually 
 neat and often dainty. In summer they are deco- 
 rated with flowers and foliage plants and are wide 
 open to the street. The open spaces are hung with 
 legs of mutton or lamb in lace-frilled paper panta- 
 lettes caught up at one side, in Parisian fashion, 
 
 201
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 with a rose or small bunch of violets. A brass disk 
 is pinned to each leg- announcing the price. The 
 ghastly mask of a skinned calf's head is hung up by 
 one ear and a rose drawn through its nose. 
 
 The butcher is a very red-faced individual with 
 knives and chains hanging to his waist, and he wears 
 a smeary apron which is the one blot on this other- 
 wise wholesome-looking shop. However, he is mild 
 of speech and very accommodating. And while you 
 make your selection Madame, elaborately coifed, 
 in her glass box at the desk behind you, is calculat- 
 ing to a nicety on how many pieces of bad money 
 she can safely mix with the change she gives you in 
 exchange for your gold piece. 
 
 It is the rule, and not the exception, in the small 
 shops all over Paris to hand out bad money to the 
 stranger. Often in changing a fifty-franc note after 
 you have bought a trifle which costs fifty centimes, 
 the shopkeeper will try to give you forty-four 
 francs and a fifty centime piece, thinking you will 
 not notice you are five francs short, since she has 
 given you a fifty centime piece in your change. 
 However, you learn after one or two experiences 
 to become as keen as your French neighbor, whom 
 
 202
 
 HOUSEKEEPING 
 
 you often see bite the franc piece if she is in doubt 
 about its silver quality. 
 
 Only a month since, a half-dozen counterfeiters 
 successfully put into circulation forty thousand 
 francs in five and two-franc pieces and the govern- 
 ment made no effort to collect them in. The result of 
 
 these practises is that one is rarely without one of 
 these pieces of bad money. 
 
 It has been estimated that were all the bad money 
 floating in Paris melted and converted into cart- 
 ridges it would make several million rounds of am- 
 munition. The giving out of bad money at the rail- 
 way stations, sub-post-offices and even banks 
 amounts to a scandal. 
 
 The American physicians here pronounce the milk 
 
 203
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 received in rusty cans by the small creameries unfit 
 for use. It is poured from these cans into an open 
 receptacle, which stands on the floor during the day, 
 to be peddled out from time to time to customers. 
 These tiny creameries also have mountainous lumps 
 of butter exposed to the dust or whatever is floating 
 in the air. The butter is cut off with a string and 
 whatever overbalances the scale is broken off with 
 the fingers and tossed back. Everything is handled 
 and patted, turned over and patted again. You often 
 see the big Angora cat taking a nap in the window 
 near the big cheese or stretched at full length among 
 the vegetables. 
 
 The cat is to the concierge and small shopkeeper 
 what the toy dog is to the grande dame. Frequently 
 you see the big cat looking out of the open window 
 of a cab on Sunday, or occupying a seat on one of 
 the little Seine boats going with the family to the 
 country for the day. As the cat is often trained to 
 live in the fourth or fifth etage, this Sunday outing 
 is a necessity and is enjoyed and looked forward to. 
 
 Often you will see the cat walk in from the court 
 and lick the shining crust of the metre-length bread 
 standing on end at the door of the concierge. But 
 
 204
 
 HOUSEKEEPING 
 
 even the cat does not escape her sharp eyes — 
 "Qu'est-ce que tu fais la-bas, ma grosse Fifi?" and 
 the cat and bread are snatched up and deposited on 
 her table. Fifi sits at the table, often on the table, 
 and eats from the same plate with the concierge. 
 There are no mice in Paris, because there are more 
 cats and dogs than children. 
 
 The Parisian is very kind to all animals except the 
 horse. This poor intelligent beast is cruelly treated 
 and poorly fed. It is a relief to know that over forty 
 thousand of them have been eaten and are out of 
 their misery.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 NAPOLEON 
 
 T IS the fifth of May, 191 2 — and 
 though dead ninety-one years, Napo- 
 leon lives and breathes in the Paris at- 
 mosphere of to-day. 
 
 He is first in the minds of every 
 stranger who visits Paris, except, per- 
 haps, the English. The Paris of Na- 
 poleon ! You see him everywhere, cast 
 in bronze, sculptured in marble and stone, molded in 
 plaster, carved in ivory, gold, silver, wood and bone. 
 Great artists are continually painting new and won- 
 derful pictures of him on battle-fields, which are ex- 
 hibited in art-shop windows and always surrounded 
 by interested crowds. His head, covered with the 
 world-famed sou-bras hat, decorates calendars, 
 menu and favor cards and represents chess-men in 
 carved ivory, and the hat is folded into pen-wipers. 
 There are Napoleon paper-weights and paper- 
 
 206
 
 NAPOLEON Ier 
 
 Empereur des Frangais, Roi d'ltalie 
 
 Ne a Ajaccio le 15 Aout 1769. 
 
 fils de Charles Bonaparte et Loetitia Rammolino, il entra 
 
 a l'ecole d'Autun, puis a l'ecole de Brienne (1779) 
 
 a l'ecole Militaire (1784), Sous-Lieutenant en 1785, 
 
 Capitaine (1793), General de Brigade (1794), Divisionnaire 
 
 (1795) et General de l'armee d'ltalie (29 Fevrier 1796). 
 
 Renverse le Directoire le 18 Brumaire (9 Novembre 1799) 
 
 Se fait nommer Premier Consul, puis Consul a vie (1803) 
 
 Sacre Empereur le 18 Mai 1804 sous le nom de Napoleon Ier; 
 
 il abdique a Fontainebleau le 10 Avril 1814 et se 
 
 retire a Hie d'Elbe. Rentre en France le Ier Mars 1815, 
 
 mais vaincu a Waterloo il se rend aux Anglais, est emmene 
 
 a Sainte-Helene ou il meurt le 5 Mai 1821.
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 knives, medals, letter-openers, and plates in all met- 
 als — snuff-boxes, match-boxes and cigarette-cases in 
 colored enamels — miniature bisque figures in big 
 boots and gray coat. Every tourist carries away 
 with him a reminder of Napoleon. Fifteen years 
 ago Paris was flooded with souvenirs, to-day there 
 are just as many and they are even more popular. 
 
 There are grand reviews being given at the the- 
 aters — "Napoleon Distributing the Legion d'Hon- 
 neur" — an order he created; "Napoleon Reviewing 
 the Soldiers" and "Napoleon Crossing the Alps". 
 The battle of Marengo is being fought again at the 
 Odeon to packed houses, while the battle of Rivoli 
 is in progress at the Chatelet 
 
 The French peasant reveres Napoleon's name, 
 the shopkeeper acknowledges him as France's great- 
 est and most just ruler, and all soldiers love his 
 memory. 
 
 If you go to the Hotel des Invalides and watch 
 the visitors you will notice that they all hurry by the 
 statue of Louis XIV., the founder of the Invalides, 
 without even a glance. Their objective point is Na- 
 poleon's tomb, under the big dome and then the 
 rooms of the Musee, in which are his personal be- 
 
 208
 
 NAPOLEON 
 
 longings. Nothing else is of great interest, and as 
 they approach the tomb all seem deeply moved by 
 the solemnity and grandeur of the scene. Men and 
 little boys instinctively remove their hats. Some 
 young provincial soldiers on their first visit to Paris 
 are standing near the marble railing, gazing down 
 in speechless wonder and profound reverence, and 
 as they turn away tears fill their eyes. One can not 
 define the feeling that wells up in the heart of the 
 thinking visitor as he looks upon this sumptuous 
 sarcophagus and dwells upon the remarkable history 
 of this genius. One is deeply affected ; the atmos- 
 phere is awesome. 
 
 As you gaze down upon the numerous memorials 
 of his wonderful victories on the battle-field, they 
 bring vividly before you Napoleon as a poor, proud, 
 friendless boy of sixteen at the military school in 
 Paris. Then you see him walking rapidly along the 
 quay on that tenth of August, when the mob rushed 
 on the Tuileries, impatient that there is no man 
 to command that poor Swiss guard and conquer 
 the fierce rabble. You see him raising the siege 
 of Toulon, driving the English out of the harbor, 
 and then made a general of brigade at twenty-four; 
 
 209
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 again you see him putting 
 down that same mob in the 
 streets of Paris; you see him 
 cutting his way across the 
 snow-covered icy Alps and ta- 
 king command of the army of 
 Italy at twenty-seven ; you see 
 him crossing the terrible bridge 
 of Lodi into the very cannon's 
 mouth with the flag in his 
 hand; you see him before the 
 majestic pyramids of Egypt; 
 you see him on the victorious battle-fields of Ma- 
 rengo, Rivoli, Jena, Ulm, Friedland, Wagram and 
 Austerlitz. 
 
 You see him in Russia, watching the burning of 
 Moscow by the Russians, then making his terrible 
 deadly retreat at the mercy of the elements which 
 his genius could not conquer. You see him at Elba. 
 You see him again land on the shores of France, 
 and with the very soldiers sent out by Louis XVIII. 
 to capture him, retake France by the mere force of 
 his genius, his wonderful personality and the love 
 which he inspired in all soldiers. 
 
 210
 
 NAPOLEON 
 
 mp** 
 
 You see him at 
 Waterloo where 
 chance and fate were 
 in league against 
 him. You see him, 
 for the last time, as 
 England's prisoner 
 on the sunburnt rock 
 of St. Helena, eigh- 
 teen hundred feet 
 above the sea, where 
 he meditated and 
 suffered for six years 
 until death released him. Then you see the most 
 gorgeous and marvelous funeral spectacle of modern 
 times conveying his ashes for final rest under the 
 great gilded dome, in fulfilment of his last message 
 to France: 
 
 "Je desire que mes cendres reposent sur les bords 
 de la Seine au milieu de ce peuple francais que j'ai 
 tant aime." 
 
 The Musee Historique is full of memories and in- 
 teresting souvenirs of Napoleon and his brave mar- 
 shals for whom many avenues in Paris have been 
 
 211 
 
 St. Helena
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 named. In one room is the little Arabian horse given 
 him by the sultan of Turkey ; the dog that was his 
 faithful friend at Elba and his famous sou-bras hat 
 — just a year ago so much the fashion for women. 
 Here, too, are his renowned gray coat and the field- 
 glass that he often rested on the shoulder of one of 
 his marshals as he surveyed the field of battle. 
 
 In another room, in a glass case, is the simple 
 camp-bed used in all his campaigns, his dressing- 
 gown and the table cut full of notches with his pen- 
 knife while meditating at Saint Helena. Here is his 
 favorite settee with one stick in the back removed 
 that he might pass his arm through and be more 
 comfortable while he sat, ever gazing out over the 
 vast Atlantic toward France. 
 
 In a glass case in the center of one room is a lock 
 of his hair, his lorgnettes, death-mask and a cast of 
 his beautiful hand. Here, too, are other souvenirs : 
 the bullet that wounded him in the foot at Ratisbon, 
 his silver and diamond-studded pistols and sword, 
 the flag, stick and hat he used at Saint Helena, the 
 railings from his tomb, a model of the Saint Helena 
 sarcophagus, an oak leaf from the tree he planted, 
 and dozens of other most intimate souvenirs. 
 
 212
 
 At Austerlitz
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 The sight of the Longwood house, in which he 
 lived during the six years of his imprisonment, 
 should make his most relentless enemy shed tears at 
 the thought of his dying so far from the country he 
 so much loved, denied even a last look upon his son 
 whom he adored, irritated by a thousand petty an- 
 noyances in his cramped household. It was all mon- 
 strous and brutal. And yet his martyrdom at Saint 
 Helena was a unique revenge for France against vic- 
 torious England, and added to his fame. 
 
 It is extraordinary that England should keep Na- 
 poleon's favorite armchair and the skeleton of his 
 horse, Marengo, on exhibition in London's White- 
 hall Museum, for by right they belong, among the 
 other personal souvenirs, to the Invalides. One can 
 but wonder why a nation so magnanimous in other 
 matters should not speedily return these historical 
 souvenirs to France. 
 
 At the entrance of the corridor leading to the 
 dome under which reposes the sarcophagus, stands 
 a very straight, white-haired old man* of eighty 
 years, buttoned up in his military coat, decorated 
 with two silver medals won at Sebastopol in 1855, 
 who calls out to the crowds as they enter, "Messieurs 
 
 •Since dead. 
 
 214
 
 NAPOLEON 
 
 et Mesdames, laissez vos Cannes et vos parapluies a 
 gauche, s'il vous plait." He is the senior of the 
 thirteen old soldier pensioners now left in the In- 
 valides. 
 
 Parisians show great respect and affection for the 
 dead. They pour out en masse to the various ceme- 
 teries on All-Saints' Day and the tombs disappear 
 beneath floral blankets and wreaths of choice flow- 
 ers. The interiors of the tombs are often decorated 
 with carpets of carnations, bordered with violets, 
 while the tiny altars are massed with variegated 
 chrysanthemums. Every Parisian calls at the tomb 
 of his dead friend and leaves a visiting card and a 
 bunch of flowers or a wreath. 
 
 The modest grave of Marshal Ney — the "bravest 
 of the brave", as Napoleon called him — is quite neg- 
 lected, while the grave of Heinrich Heine is always 
 covered with flowers, for the illustrous German poet 
 has many admirers in Paris. The graves, too, of 
 Victor Masset, Jules Simon, Alfred de Musset, Of- 
 fenbach, Talma and many other celebrities, are never 
 forgotten. 
 
 The tomb of little Marie Bashkirtseff, in the Passy 
 
 215
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 cemetery back of the Trocadero, is tawdry and spa- 
 cious. On one side between a row of carved palettes 
 and gold roses is inscribed the following beautiful 
 verse by Andre Theuriet : 
 
 "O Marie, o lys blanc, radieuse beaute 
 Ton etre entier n'a pas sombre dans la nuit noir; 
 Ton esprit est vivant, vibrante est ta memoire 
 Et I'immortel parfum de la fleur est reste. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Son nom est immortel et luit comme un flambeau 
 
 dans les siecles. 
 J'entende sa memoire bcnis, car il a tant produit son 
 
 precoce genie, 
 Que tous les arts en deuil pleurent sur son tombeau." 
 
 The interior of the tomb is filled with personal "be- 
 longings. Opposite the big iron-grilled door is a 
 large unfinished painting which covers one side of 
 the wall. Below it is a dressing-table with white 
 muslin cover and two candle-sticks with the candles 
 half used. There is a photograph of Marie in a gilt 
 frame, her prayer-rug, favorite armchair, a chest 
 of drawers, a marble bust of her on a pedestal, her 
 easel, brushes, paint box and palettes, with little 
 heaps of paint clinging to them. Her long black- 
 cotton work apron and over-sleeves are hanging 
 
 216
 
 Trocadero 
 
 from a hook, and several half-worn cushions are 
 heaped on the floor. 
 
 Her mother, who lives at Nice and is no longer 
 in affluence, makes the pilgrimage to Paris on All- 
 Saints' Day and places a wreath of china roses in- 
 side the tomb near the marble bust. The china roses 
 — Marie's favorite flowers — tell the heart-broken 
 pathetic story. Marie's chef-d'oeuvre, The Meet- 
 ing, still hangs in the Luxembourg Musee. She 
 died at the age of twenty-four. 
 
 Two days previous to All-Saints' Day, Madame 
 Sara Bernhardt, if she is in Paris, makes a pilgrim- 
 age to the tomb which she has had built for herself 
 
 217
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 in Pere-Lachaise, drops a great bunch of violets on 
 the grave of Marguerite Gautier in passing, and 
 then strews La France roses over and around the 
 spot where, at some future time, life's curtain will 
 be rung down on this most remarkable woman, ac- 
 tress, artist and sculptor, whose greatest and most 
 fascinating role is that of Sara Bernhardt.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 VERSAILLES 
 
 N A June morning, you take a 
 seat on the imperiale of a 
 tram on the Quai Passy, at 
 the Pont Iena opposite the 
 Tour Eiffel to visit sumptu- 
 ous Versailles. You have 
 been there before, but never in June, when the gar- 
 dens and parks are gorgeously beautiful. 
 
 You do not enter the great palace with its heavy 
 many-windowed facade stretching for a quarter of 
 a mile across the wonderful gardens, and its halls of 
 sculpture and galleries of paintings; neither do you 
 visit the Grand Trianon, erected for Madame de 
 Maintenon by Louis XIV., nor the Petit Trianon, 
 which, although elected by Louis XV. for Madame 
 du Barry, was the favorite resort of Marie Antoi- 
 nette. 
 
 No, you remain outside and take your enjoyment 
 
 219
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 in the wonderful 
 park, to create which 
 cost so many mill- 
 ions of francs and 
 the lives of so many 
 men. You walk in 
 the lovely gardens of 
 flowers, among the 
 statues and along the 
 border of the lakes — 
 
 in the beautiful ave- 
 Madame du Barry nueg of f antastica H y . 
 
 trimmed trees; you linger near the great fountain 
 whose gigantic bronze figures discharge great jets 
 of water a hundred feet in the air that fall in beau- 
 tiful rainbow bouquets, sheaves and torrents; you 
 wander on the fine grass avenues, running in every 
 direction, lined on each side with trees whose 
 branches meet and' form a perfect leafy archway 
 through which the sun rarely penetrates. 
 
 A view of the Jeu de Paume brings to your mind 
 memories of the Revolution. You wander along the 
 banks of the Grand Canal and call to mind the fleet 
 of miniature craft always moored there in waiting 
 
 220
 
 VERSAILLES 
 
 for the gay water parties of the court ; you pass the 
 Allee de la petite Venise and picture the gondolas 
 gliding about under the master hand of the dark- 
 eyed Venetian gondoliers; you hear the silvery 
 laughter of the beautiful court dames and the thrum 
 of the lute. Finally, you sit down and indulge in 
 retrospection of this pageantry of court life enacted 
 under these same trees three and four centuries ago. 
 Now you see the autocratic Louis XIV., who called 
 
 ^%, 
 
 Madame Pompadour
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 himself the "representative of God on earth"; 
 then Louis XV. strolling about with his favorite, 
 Pompadour, whose prodigality cost France forty 
 millions in gold. You picture one of these leafy 
 avenues stretching away in the distance as far as the 
 eye can see, covered to the depth of a foot with sugar 
 and salt that this favorite of a great king might ex- 
 perience the novel sensation of a ride in one of the 
 many quaint sleighs on a hot August morning while 
 the poor of Paris were clamoring for bread. 
 
 Then, after the death of Pompadour, you see the 
 beautiful blond wanton, Du Barry, playing her tricks 
 on the king, the cardinal and the court, and in the 
 lovely English gardens of the Petit Trianon among 
 the exotic trees, charming Marie Antoinette flitting 
 among the flowers which she so much loved, playing 
 at the simple life; you observe her, wandering in 
 and out of the Temple of Love in her white muslin 
 gown, lace fichu and cap. 
 
 Then you see the blood-thirsty mob clamoring in 
 the Cour de Marbre for her life. 
 
 You see the royal prisoners conducted to Paris 
 by the screaming mob, carrying on their pikes the 
 heads of the faithful Swiss and German royal body- 
 
 222
 
 Quai Passy
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 guard. You see this proud lovely queen in the hor- 
 rible cell of the prison Conciergerie, separated from 
 her children, always so sad and sweet. Again you 
 see her in the common charette sitting, proudly and 
 stately, surrounded by the mocking reviling mob, 
 en route from the prison to the guillotine, erected in 
 what is now the beautiful Place de la Concorde. And 
 you wonder what manner of men were they who 
 condemned her. 
 
 You shudder with horror at your reverie of a past 
 reality and hurry to catch your tram, which leaves 
 on the hour, and as you swing along over the wide 
 fine road, built by one of these prodigal kings, you 
 are compelled to give him due credit.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 WHERE TO LIVE 
 
 Americans visiting Paris for the first time often 
 are puzzled to know where they can find home com- 
 forts outside of the big hotels and furnished apart- 
 ments. 
 
 I here recommend several houses that I have 
 found comfortably heated and conveniently lighted, 
 with excellent food, artistic and practical furniture 
 and furnishings and with a complete absence of pen- 
 sion atmosphere. 
 
 The apartment-houses built in the last three or 
 four years are supplied with baths, having hot water 
 day and night, electric lifts and electric lights, often 
 badly arranged. They have hot water or steam heat, 
 but frequently one or two bedrooms in the most ex- 
 pensive apartments are without radiators. 
 
 The apartments built ten years ago are more 
 often without baths than with them. Generally they 
 are installed with hydraulic lifts, which often stop 
 
 225
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 between floors'. They have chanffage central, which 
 means that only the stairways and corridors are 
 heated, the radiators never being more than warm. 
 The proprietors permit very little coal to be burned 
 during the day and at night just enough fire is kept 
 to hold over until morning. They depend upon the 
 concentration of heat expelled during the day to do 
 duty for the evening and throughout the night, for 
 a breath of fresh air never is permitted to enter the 
 corridor of the grand stairway. Should you happen 
 to leave the door open an inch or two the alert and 
 impudent concierge will call out to you and ask you 
 if you were bred in a cave — eleve dans une cave. 
 In the most expensive apartments that luxury of 
 warmth to which Americans are accustomed is to- 
 tally lacking. However, I discovered three years 
 ago, a small hotel which accommodates from forty 
 to sixty people where one can be absolutely com- 
 fortable; where the furniture is sensible, the food 
 is excellent and the decorations harmonious and ar- 
 tistic. Every corner is delightfully warm. There is 
 nothing to offend the eye or nose, and there is every- 
 thing to charm and please. 
 
 I was so agreeably surprised to find "all the com- 
 
 226
 
 WHERE TO LIVE 
 
 forts of a home" in what appeared to be a French 
 hotel, that I asked the manager if Monsieur, the 
 proprietor, had spent some years in New York. 
 Then he explained that the proprietor was Madame 
 T , an American. 
 
 I sank into a luxurious chair in the reception hall 
 and waited for Madame. I glanced at an elaborate 
 wrought-iron grill which occupied twelve feet of 
 space opposite me, and decided that a lift on the 
 American plan was behind it. Alas ! when the tele- 
 phone rang this ponderous iron grill opened up, 
 disclosing ten feet of the space converted into a writ- 
 ing-room and telephone booth, leaving a two-foot 
 triangle for the lift. 
 
 An American, evidently just arrived, who had en- 
 gaged rooms on the fourth floor, walked toward this 
 interesting mass of grill and waited. He was of the 
 practical good-natured type, conspicuous for lack 
 of nervousness. Five minutes passed ; then a boy in 
 buttons came hurriedly toward him and announced, 
 "But one leetle minute, Monsieur, and he descends." 
 The American good-naturedly smiled at the boy and 
 waited. He was in no hurry; he had come to Paris 
 to amuse himself. Another three minutes passed. 
 
 227
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 Still no lift The American began to look interested; 
 he could not keep his eyes from the regions of the 
 second floor. He tapped the grill lightly with his 
 cane. Buttons, at the door of the bureau, was 
 trembling with excitement. " Ah, voilaf he descends," 
 and the boy almost burst his buttons with satisfac- 
 tion as the lift came slowly into view, for the boy 
 was a true Parisian type. But lo! something was 
 wrong; the lift suddenly stopped, and then But- 
 tons leaped up the stairs to the second floor, de- 
 scended triumphantly in the lift and threw wide the 
 little door for Monsieur to enter. He entered and 
 waited, but the power was gone — all used up in the 
 descent, no doubt. "Encore one leetle minute, Mon- 
 sieur," pleaded Buttons. But the American ve- 
 neer of calm had now melted. "D the lift!" 
 
 said this human American, and with an apology to 
 me, he walked up the stairs. 
 
 Presently the proprietor made her appearance, 
 issuing orders in French to a maid above, as she de- 
 scended the stairs — a charming woman with a Pa- 
 risian command of the French language. She was 
 divinely tall, willowy and very chic. She had a re- 
 ,gal air and wore a wonderful coijfe of Titian hair 
 
 228
 
 and a Sevres-blue 
 11 i foulard. She said 
 she would show me 
 ^ around and grace- 
 fully waved me to- 
 e*'.-»es««s»~"3BiV ward the lift. 
 I remarked, "These French lifts must be bad for 
 the nerves and temper." 
 
 "Oh, no," she replied, "they work very well; of 
 course, not as they do in the States, but they are very 
 well." 
 
 We entered; she pulled at the cord, but we re- 
 
 229
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 mained stationary. She tugged again and showed 
 just a little impatience. One more tug at the cord, 
 and then Buttons was called. He looked pale and 
 frightened; it was no doubt his responsibility that 
 the lift should ascend and descend promptly. 
 
 "Qu 'y a- t-il avec cet ascenseur?" demanded Ma- 
 dame. "Je tie sais, Madame, il manque de la force," 
 gulped Buttons. 
 
 She was annoyed. We stepped out and walked 
 up. On reaching the grand suite of rose-pink salons 
 on the first floor she espied two enormous electrolier 
 shades awry, and this proved the last straw. She 
 suddenly dropped her Parisian manner and con- 
 fessed that there are many expressive American 
 words more applicable in France than America. She 
 added that if she remained under this strain much 
 longer, she would become a disagreeable, wrinkled 
 old woman. 
 
 . She is one of the most superb women in Paris. 
 Her successful efforts fascinate you, and when she 
 "lets herself loose" — as the Georgian would express 
 it — you can not resist her. I recommend her and 
 her hotel, its location, food, service, everything — ■ 
 even the lift. Evening dress is de rigueur, and you 
 
 230
 
 WHERE TO LIVE 
 
 can be perfectly comfortable in it without cold chills 
 running up and down your spine. It is a beautifully 
 appointed, exclusive and refined French-American 
 hotel with genuine New York heat — eighty degrees 
 if you like — for Madame believes in burning coal, 
 tons and tons of it, a quantity which would appal 
 a French proprietor and cause him to dream of bank- 
 ruptcy. 
 
 The only tragedy is the lift and Buttons. But 
 they are the sauce which gives a gout to Paris life. 
 Besides, one does not mind stairs ; they are good for 
 indolent Americans who always ride. But Madame 
 confided to me that this year, 19 12, would find her 
 with a real American lift. 
 
 The number is 1 1 avenue MacMahon and, for 
 Madame's sake, don't forget that the Mahon is pro- 
 nounced Ma'on ; otherwise the word would grate on 
 your charming hostess and might be the cause of a 
 tiny wrinkle. 
 
 Another very comfortable and well-appointed 
 
 house is 4 rue Gounod — conducted by Madame de 
 
 Korsak, a charming French lady who has lived 
 
 eighteen years in Cincinnati and understands the 
 
 comforts and requirements of Americans, and takes 
 
 231
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 pleasure in catering to their tastes. The house has 
 steam heat, electricity, baths and electric lift, with 
 a perfect French butler to serve you. Not more than 
 ten can be accommodated. It is an excellent, exclu- 
 sive and delightful home for young ladies alone in 
 Paris, with conversation strictly French. 
 
 Still another very luxuriously-furnished house is 
 at 155 rue de la Pompe. The furniture installation 
 was done by Maple. Here you will never be at a loss 
 to know what to do with big hats, shoes, gowns and 
 lingerie — all are provided for. The house is con- 
 ducted by a French woman, and there are comfort- 
 able luxurious salons and lounging rooms. You can 
 buy your stamps and cigarettes and post letters in the 
 house — an unheard of convenience. Electric lights 
 are placed conveniently over the beds for reading. 
 There is hot water heat, there are baths and an elec- 
 tric lift — a lift that works seventy-five times out 
 of a hundred. The food is excellent, the maids are 
 typical and the butler is attentive — for francs. Not 
 more than twelve people are accommodated. 
 
 A very pleasant, well-furnished and artistic house 
 at 11 avenue MalakofF, is conducted by a wonder- 
 
 232
 
 WHERE TO LIVE 
 
 fully vivacious little 
 French widow who is 
 extremely entertain- 
 ing. She is one of 
 those clever and ver- 
 satile Parisiennes who 
 can make anything 
 1 with her fingers from 
 a delicious souffle to a 
 corset. She is distin- 
 gnce and conducts the 
 house incognito, as she 
 is in society and main- 
 tains her old home on 
 the Ouai Voltaire. 
 She is one of the 
 most fascinating Pari- 
 siennes. She has a fine 
 wit, knows the the- 
 aters from A to Z, can 
 John Calvin's House te \\ y OU " w ho is who" 
 
 in society, and is well informed in art and litera- 
 ture. She receives ten or twelve people and her 
 
 233
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 house has all modern conveniences. It is located near 
 the Trocadero. 
 
 A very old picturesque house on the left bank of 
 the Seine, near the Pantheon and the Luxembourg 
 Gardens, is 12 rue Valette. The house proper, with 
 entrance through the court, has a fine old garden 
 with ancient bas-reliefs taken from the ground, 
 which previous to 1500, was a cemetery. The gar- 
 den facade of the house has been restored and is 
 very modern-looking in its face of pink bricks and 
 cut-stone trim. A gallery or lounge room, eighty 
 feet long, has the garden side entirely in glass and 
 makes a very comfortable and cheerful room in 
 which to read or write in winter, as it is well heated 
 by an American base-burner. 
 
 The house was built in 1500 and has many wind- 
 ing corridors and quaint nooks. A fine old stone 
 stairway winds up to the upper floors, but there are 
 no modern conveniences except the bath. The rooms 
 are heated by grates or little coal stoves and lighted 
 with lamps and candles adorned with pretty shades. 
 
 The price is very moderate and the food good. 
 The proprietor is Mademoiselle Guillier, who is 
 
 234
 
 WHERE TO LIVE 
 
 charming. She has conducted the house for thirty 
 years. 
 
 In summer the place is filled with college boys 
 from England and America, foreign students of the 
 Sorbonne — both girls and boys — and often students 
 of the Beaux Arts. In April or May, before the in- 
 flux of vacation students, it is a charming place in 
 which to pass a quiet month to study the life of the 
 Luxembourg Gardens and the boulevard St. Michel. 
 Always procure one of the large rooms in the house 
 proper, as the rooms in the street-annex are not de- 
 sirable. 
 
 It was in the narrow high house next door, at 
 number 10, in the little square-box room at the very 
 top, that John Calvin lived in 1560, before he fled to 
 Geneva, to escape the wrath of Charles IX. and 
 Catherine de Medici who endeavored to extermi- 
 nate the Huguenots, the name given to the disciples 
 of Calvin, on that terrible night of August 24, 1572, 
 known as the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. 
 
 A china madonna, which was placed in a niche 
 over the door of the entrance — for purification — 
 after Calvin's departure, can be seen to-day in the 
 inner court.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 AFFIRMATIONS 
 
 Woman is the power that moves the industrial 
 and artistic wheel of Paris. She is superior to the 
 man in every way. 
 
 One dines in Paris because dining is a pleasure. 
 
 The boulevards are inexhaustible theaters of en- 
 tertainment. 
 
 The aristocracy of the Faubourg St. Germain sits 
 behind the blinds of its exclusive dull interiors and 
 sighs for better days. 
 
 The only difference, outwardly, between the haute 
 dcmi-mondaine and the gratide dame is six inches in 
 width of skirt. 
 
 The Parisienne is a fascinating mother, always 
 smiling, and proud of her daintily-dressed doll. 
 
 No city in the world is so beautiful and fascinat- 
 
 236
 
 AFFIRMATIONS 
 
 ing as Paris when enveloped in her blue-gray mist, 
 out of which rise the gigantic monuments. 
 
 In Paris the saying that the greater number of 
 Frenchmen are true to other men's wives is literally 
 true. 
 
 The Parisian home is sacred if there are children. 
 But many of the homes have only toy dogs. 
 
 Multitudes visit Paris every year without becom- 
 ing acquainted with the real city, for they never 
 deviate from the cosmopolitan center. 
 
 The French maid usually stands with Madame 
 against Monsieur, although she is not above taking 
 a bribe from her master and revealing one of Ma- 
 dame's secrets. 
 
 Paris is irresponsible. It is a city full of injustice, 
 a medley of joy, sorrow and wickedness. Balzac has 
 called it a monster. 
 
 The menage a trots is discussed openly. Madame 
 shrugs her shoulders at it and pursues her own in- 
 trigues. 
 
 The middle-class bourgeois is the true Parisienne 
 
 237
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 type. She is clever with her fingers, chic and full 
 of movement. 
 
 The French government does much for the es- 
 thetic education of the people. 
 
 The problem of the very poor is passed over. 
 They are left to themselves and the police, and are 
 more miserable than those in London or New York. 
 
 Parisians are growing more like Londoners since 
 the younger element has taken to golf, polo and 
 tennis. 
 
 Paris refines and polishes and makes every woman 
 essentially feminine by a thousand seductions. 
 
 The soldiers shuffle along and mimic their su- 
 perior officers, although just now there is a tendency 
 toward patriotic revival. 
 
 The clever Parisienne of moderate means buys 
 from Paul Poiret or Callot a model gown from 
 which her intelligent maid copies lines for several 
 gowr\s. 
 
 Shopkeepers smile, and play their tricks openly. 
 
 238
 
 AFFIRMATIONS 
 
 The beautiful window curtains are one of Paris' 
 great attractions; the meanest little wine-shop has 
 its hand-embroidered and real lace-trimmed linen 
 square across the lower pane. 
 
 The Parisian lives to gratify his five senses. 
 
 French girls of the middle class aspire to higher 
 education. 
 
 Paris has no censor over the indecent and de- 
 moralizing performances at the theaters and the 
 cafe concerts. 
 
 The third commandment is broken by every one 
 who uses French matches. 
 
 It is a city of cafes and of art treasures, the for- 
 mer suited to all characters, and the latter to all 
 tastes. 
 
 The art of the Cubistes, Pointistcs and Tarlanistes 
 is mere buffoonery. 
 
 "The Futurists" are the latest monkeys to arrive. 
 They aim to paint sentiment, vibration and move- 
 ment. 
 
 239
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 "Chacun pour soi 
 
 Et Dieu pour nous tous, 
 
 Le Viable n'aura rein" 
 is the Parisian's maxim and yet in the end the devil 
 will sieze the greater number. 
 
 The Parisienne dresses to please Monsieur. She 
 judges all other women by their clothes and their 
 manner of wearing them. 
 
 Paris was built for kings and for the children of 
 pleasure and folly. 
 
 The streets are paved with interesting history and 
 romance — the romance of Dumas, Victor Hugo and 
 Balzac. 
 
 The fascinating shops smile, bow and beckon to 
 you. 
 
 Paris is tremendously decorative, artistic and har- 
 monious. Although the most brilliant city in the 
 world it is also the most blood-stained. 
 
 A French crowd is rude, often brutal. 
 
 The double-decked trams so much enjoyed by 
 
 240
 
 AFFIRMATIONS 
 
 sight-seers are rapidly being superseded by shut-in 
 auto-buses. 
 
 Paris has a new sensation every hour. 
 
 The Parisian is often either over-refined or de- 
 generate. 
 
 Government ownership is unpopular and a failure. 
 
 The French girl of twenty dreams of ideal love 
 and often realizes after marriage that ideal love was 
 a bundle of illusions tossed into her lap by Cupid 
 when she departed on her honeymoon, lune de miel. 
 
 The Paris of to-day has retrograded in many 
 ways from the Paris of ten or twelve years ago. 
 
 The Parisienne's home life is unsatisfying. She 
 marries for emancipation; but she often finds only 
 neglect and indifference and takes refuge in intrigue. 
 
 The nervous temperament of the Parisian is what 
 makes the cafe chantant the popular and paying in- 
 stitution it is. 
 
 American contamination has made the shops ex- 
 pensive and their keepers insolent. 
 
 241
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 The little traffic policeman is insulted and buffeted 
 about and rarely succeeds in holding in check a 
 riotous crowd. 
 
 Picturesque Paris is rapidly disappearing; the 
 old landmarks soon will be no more. 
 
 French women are thrifty, are wonderful domes- 
 tic managers, and excel in charm, grace and chic. 
 
 Paris is always gay and frivolous. She gets 
 through mountains of work, but takes her time. 
 
 The falling off in the population of France con- 
 tinues ; children are unwelcome in most families. 
 
 From May to October Paris is one immense out- 
 of-door salon. 
 
 Notwithstanding Paris is a city without a hearth- 
 stone, in every room there is a tiny fireplace. 
 
 Paris is either mocking and sneering or bubbling 
 over with laughter. 
 
 The Parisian is not given to ostentation. He is 
 considered more for what he is than for what he 
 possesses. 
 
 242
 
 AFFIRMATIONS 
 
 Often the Parisienne coddles the dog while an ig- 
 norant peasant nurse shakes and scolds the child. 
 
 French taxpayers grow more bitter. They are 
 tired of ministerial scandals and incompetence, and 
 all France is wishing for another Napoleon to 
 gather up the loose reins of government in an iron 
 hand, clean up the streets, ventilate the theaters, call 
 in the bad money, reorganize the telephone service, 
 discharge dishonest and insolent post-office em- 
 ployees, check tobacco monopoly abuses, enforce the 
 law, manufacture matches that will light, abolish 
 the Apaches, produce good opera, prohibit the dis- 
 play of improper books, cards and pictures, instil 
 enthusiasm, dignity and patriotism into the soldiers, 
 and in short create a new France. And yet, when 
 everything is cleaned up and set in staid proper 
 motion, it no longer will be the Paris which charms 
 and fascinates, for its very tumultuousness and im- 
 perfections make you hold your breath and gasp, 
 and you love it because there is no other city in the 
 world that can make you gasp. 
 
 Dear glorious Paris ! With all your overwhelm- 
 ing imperfections, I love you, and I shall regret 
 
 243
 
 MAGNETIC PARIS 
 
 you, and long for you, until I see you again. I be- 
 lieve with Victor Hugo, to breathe your atmosphere 
 preserves the soul — dear, dear Paris ! 
 Au revoir!