After dinner, when the lights are lit, and the music is playing, and all the seats

taking their petit déjeuner on their way to work. Each reads his morning journal as he sips his coffee at the bar, and here and there one may hear a political discussion, with voices raised in Latin excitement. During the rest of the morning a strange calm prevails, though of course there are occasional visitors who come in merely to read the paper or write a letter. It is then that the "mopping up" process is in force, and the damage of the night before is miraculously repaired. But at twelve o'clock the café is alive once more

are taken, one sees the café at its best. It is like a flower that has suddenly bloomed into glorious life. René stands here, or rushes there, with a keen, observant eye. He misses nothing. He even anticipates one's wants; and always there is a cheery greeting, a word of warm welcome, whilst madame, seated behind the caisse, like a proud cockatoo, deftly rakes in the waiters' chips, makes rapid change, and yet somehow manages to chatter animatedly with some friend of the house.

René's café, as I have come to call it,

was so obviously French, and for the French-so different from the places manufactured to suit the American palate -that it interested me at once; and, after having met Monsieur Raoul, my excellent hotel proprietor, I moved to the Bon Séjour, and luckily found therein a certain

the chauffeurs who . . . drop in for a verre de vin. . .-Page 294.

homelike atmosphere. In the distance, the Arc de Triomphe towers through the haze and clouds, and stands out like some huge battlement destined to preserve something great and intangible from encroachment and defilement. Day by day, its moods change. In the clear sunlight, when the beauty of its lines is most apparent, and with all the broad avenues radiating from the centre, it seems truly to represent the very spirit and soul of France. In the clean moonlight the marble strength of it is magnified; and stolidly it stands there, a symbol of the indomitable courage and the will to sacrifice of the French people. The meaning of the Arc, as conceived by Napoleon, has grown and expanded. It is more than a monument to himself and his vast armies; today it represents the feeling and ideas of the people as a whole. It seems to say, in a voice of thunder, since the terrible World War, "Ils ne passeront pas." For the Unknown Soldier, resting peacefully,

yet simply and imposingly under the Arc, has given a new religion to the French people. Even the taxi chauffeurs, who pass and repass many times a day, never fail to salute that mysterious lad who lies there in the dignity of death. The flambeau, kept eternally alight, seems like a beacon showing the world a better way to live.

Paris is ever a city of contrasts. This morning, as I looked from my window, there came to my ears a violent babel of voices, and curses filled the air. I saw a large cart filled with heavy iron bars, pulled by two horses in tandem formation, which completely blocked the whole avenue. For the horses had managed to straddle the tracks sideways, and as it had just rained, they could go neither up nor down hill. A crowd gathered, and words and arguments were fast and furious. There was a perpetual waving of arms, and for a moment it seemed as if the street were filled with jumping-jacks.

The driver and two gendarmes were in the centre of the mob, the former big and swarthy, looking as if he could easily hold his own. Suddenly, however, after a few ineffectual attempts to move the cart, an enormous individual made his way through the crowd. He was imposing and important in lavish gold lace. Grandiloquently he waved his hand for the crowd to disperse, and he swooped down upon the driver and the gendarmes, like an eagle, and bore them off in his talons to the nearest Poste de Police for an explanation. The horses and cart were left in full and triumphant possession of the avenue, their monopoly being disputed by honking motor-horns and clanging street-car bells.

Two silent but interested spectators of all that went on were a little boy, aged about four, and a yellow cat of monstrous size and no known breed. The boy, I happened to know, was the son of the electrical store, and the cat was the scion of the pharmacy en face. They were both well known to the quartier, and both, although great friends, had strong individual feelings of possession to their side of the avenue. The boy was a sunnyhaired, sturdy little rascal, and his playground was the streets, and his friends and playmates were the passers-by-and

the cat. At all hours of the day he ran up and down, always smiling; and even when he fell down because of the speed with which he tried to get nowhere, he invariably picked himself up, or was picked up. by some kind person, smiled, cheerfully nodded, cried "Merci!" and ran away again. All the world was his friend.

The cat, on the other hand, approached his daily battles and the Avenue Wagram from a different point of view. When the sun was out, his radius of action was greatly minimized, and consisted in sitting before the drug-store, dozing, never interrupting the stream of traffic-which does not exist. However, if the sun was not out, activity ensued. First, there was an ancient and deadly enemy to be taken care of in the form of a big black cat, that made its habitat in the café half a block below. After many careful and serious moves the black offender was always chased away, and his post of vantage on a chair taken triumphantly by Sir Yellow.

At the other end of the promenade there was a little grocery-store, where once in a while a fish could be stolen. Sir Yellow knew this. I saw him, only a moment since, in the very act of his thievery, and I felt that if the rough and tumble of the boy and the silent, sinuous, yet effective method of the cat could be galvanized into one organic whole, the block caused by the abandoned horses could be moved and the cart set in motion, and once more the affairs of the Avenue be permitted to resume and function.

It is a kaleidoscope of characters that pass and repass, every hour of the teeming day. I see Cossacks in their flowing uniforms of the time of the Czar; native French soldiers in their typical blue khaki; now and then a desertriding Arab in his loose burnoose and widesweeping trousers; and oc

casionally a religious man of the East quietly passing, in sandals and with long hair, oblivious of his surroundings.

"Polisson" goes by every day, and he is known to all. If he should fail to put in an appearance, we should be sure that something was wrong, and wonder would be expressed. His clothes are of his own peculiar sartorial conception, consisting of a well-worn pair of heavy tweed trousers, patched in innumerable places with bits of sacking, and a very loose, very greasy, very shiny frock-coat of ancient vintage, which serves not only as coat, but as overcoat and blanket. But his chief glory is his hat, which sets off his sly face and twinkling eyes. This hat serves as a distinct means of livelihood for our old gamin of the quartier, because, as it

consists of nothing but a piece of loose felt which may be turned into any shape desired, coupled with a black eye patch, it affords "Polisson" any number of disguises. His shoes may be a sadly worn pair that he has filched from some ashbarrel; but more often he stumbles along, his feet encased only in newspapers.

His day begins by his going the rounds of all the cafés and deftly picking up cigarette-butts with a sharp-pointed stick, and stuffing them away in an old bag. He starts not later than five A. M., and with his ancient felt hat set at a rakish angle perhaps he imagines himself a fop of the Boulevards!-he imitates the very character of a typical young man just returned from Montmartre, dropping in for a cup of coffee before turning in. "Polisson" is always ready to sing you a song, give you his latest bit of political information -ah! it is very special, monsieur !-make a speech, or even go so far as to do a pas seul, in return for which you offer him a café bien arrosé, with cognac. In no sense is this to be construed as begging; it is merely a fair exchange. "Polisson" would be outraged if he thought you considered him a mendicant. As the hour of seven approaches, most of his audience must go to work; so, with a cheerful "Bon jour," and his bag of cigarette-ends under his arm, the old fellow shuffles out.

At eight o'clock, if you are awake and perhaps opening the shutters, a most decrepit-looking figure hobbling up the street will catch your eye. The gray hat has turned into an imitation top hat, the black patch covers the left eye, the gait is very slow and a walking-stick is heavily leaned upon, and masses of papers protrude from under the arm. "Polisson" is now enacting the part of a "mutilé" of soixante-dix. And now he is frankly a beggar, in a new group of cafés. With the help of a few pencils for sale, and his well-worn story, the Innocent are caught unaware, and coffee touched with cognac often finds its way down his ever-willing throat. The rest of the day is passed peering into ash-barrels for articles useful to him, perpetually filling his bag with the butts of cigarettes and cigars. At night, if a loud, raucous voice is heard singing in the streets, or an oration is being delivered which forces the attention of the

passers-by, one may be sure that "Polisson" is in his element, and that he is wishing "Bon soir" to the quartier.

The avenue is ever a seething caldron of motion. Jacques, the garçon of the café called "Le Bon Goût," which lies adjacent to the big garage, is certainly the most active exponent of the strenuous life. Le Bon Goût is a typical little estaminet, much in favor with the chauffeurs who, before going out, or just after finishing a day's work, drop in for a verre de vin or a cup of coffee. The official duties of Jacques are those of garçon, and they are myriad; but his unofficial duties are far more numerous, and much more to his liking, as he is unofficial aide-de-camp to all the chauffeur clientèle.

Jacques' uniform, of which he is inordinately proud, consists of a blue apron and the inevitable serviette; the latter never upon his arm-oh, no!--but always around his neck. It is difficult to tell whether the serviette around the neck is reminiscent of the ancient badge of servitude, as symbolized by the iron collar worn by the serfs of old England, or is a mark of Jacques' distinguished unofficial position, and therefore a certain form of decoration. The clientèle arrive, and park their taxis wherever there is space along the curb, and it is Jacques' unofficial duty, little by little, to bring these taxis down and place them in front of the café, so that the owners may step from the door of the café to the driver's seat with the least possible effort. The joy with which Jacques approaches his motor charges, and drives them down the tortuous curbing of the Avenue, is apparent in every gesture and move. If sheer personal contact with numbers of machines could count for anything, Jacques should be president of the company.

Some time during the year every quartier of Paris elects a queen; but few quartiers may boast an uncrowned, unelected queen, who rules through force of personality alone, almost by divine right.

Hers is a curious case. Beauty is not one of Madeleine's strong points, for she is more or less round in body, and certainly very round in the face, and her hair is closely akin to the tousled mane of the lion. But these physical blemishes are not regarded as disadvantages-neither

by Madeleine nor by her loyal subjects in the quartier. Her always cheery greeting of "ça va," calls forth a hearty response from any one to whom she has deigned to toss it. Hats are her dissipation; they might even be called her vice; and the wonderful creations in which she invariably appears, bring the hearty admiration. -or at least the openmouthed wonder-of the gaping multitudes. But thereby hangs a tale.

A friend of mine, Captain B., before sailing for America wished to make Madeleine a present, and, knowing her weakness for hats, decided that a new one would be the most acceptable gift he could offer her majesty. He was more or less shy, yet he had no wish to wound Madeleine's feelings by refusing to escort her in broad daylight to the hat-shop in our quartier; therefore, very cleverly, I thought, he made an appointment to meet her at a modiste's, where the hats were large and the prices. small. The rendezvous was kept, and Madeleine was as eager and nervous as a débutante before her first ball. Captain B., knowing her atrocious taste in hats, had told her that she must accept his judgment before she made a final selection. A large white creation, with sewn or painted flowers, was chosen as the tour de force. Never having seen Madeleine with her hat off, my friend imagined that she was a peroxide blonde; but, to his amazement, when her hat was removed, he saw that while part of her hair was indeed a vivid yellow, much of it was jet black! His consternation knew no bounds; but he manfully kept a stiff upper lip while the hat was selected he was too weak to protest-and Madeleine was overjoyed, and walked out of the shop proud in the possession of her newest atrocity. Afterward,

in telling me of the episode, Captain B. remarked: "I always said she looked like a lion. I was wrong. I meant a zebra." There comes a certain great day.

...

"Fête, c'est le Quartorze Juillet," rings in one's ears long before that holiday.

Although confined to my room, the news is brought in ever-increasing tones of excitement as the time approaches. Marguerite, de avoir-du-pois, is panting heavily as she brings the café au lait. She is full of the thought of how she is going to tread heavily upon the toes of "mon ami Paul," and she considers the amount of soupe à l'oignon they will swallow chez le Père Tranquille. Marie-Louise, the