Ria Sea es ce ecueaieeee oe : : ee yee ee ; ly i 7 a eon Ne Jo a a as wakesanys | 2 Yt Le ala ate ea % erg eae oe niet ae ee la nie npeaee gp ee eR foe Srey fear Cae Gea pitas gps aiae ey er Sqaey brent Tuite arediny sare le Ss Sh cane La ea fog ce ant oy a ltr ae =e Sant ae ig Bho haRe a pee ee Jew para = eee = oI Se 8 phase ae See pe Venera elie ne Se bee tert oi S 2 ooubrueratren see are ts peta er alee: sas ese ete Seeder ana ma ireare te ise saa rok aaa Seabee: sbratle te es aaiet Bi Saag or area 2s the tus si ray aire siabaer eae eee 2 i iS Sian ee oe Leroka be eaten ve baer Xs a Spperan e, enue aay a er oe aA ¢ beta a K nes pik a hore Seat Sow: 2 vale arya pa arte a Ee =) ( oe aoe i ey Sas Le bid as 2 ee aH i: ah ce. — SotaEn a i £3 rea a iene a cule weer ae e es ya eeaet ra aie whee eerwetoae vobrs eae > eae nore ae San z ee cee Sone ay aire eer we ue patton en ah airs ets ia Si y eae ay . ue iaRareeeee a near Sian Ste Rew ewees iat te Ey 262 bese eacs ee IS pckiser Saceae se tuPyo sae grin sea seaaeate te eke ae ache sngen aS ess ee Retiard i Bevis bie mae pss University of Virgi i rginia Library DC715 .W7 1926 ALD pene ao aoe aaa Yeaes’ are see eBgit we a tes eS eae eniabe seus seesttiste fst Rpsesapey seat ere teeae Soe eis eh Bie Tease abe de geese aesea Spar d gee re PESEE S cay ea Caeae) a eee iy £7 ae PAPaice by pees estar tte Rabeoe pth eri LIBRARY OF THE sashetais UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA ie seth ce sLosr srt resis Lo may! =r, PRESENTED BY Ss. James M. Rothwellts Pee ieee Pere site diSeTeC str yese i . (er pee samQur 2 be saabe lott 178 at 4 \ a ] D r 8] acer Me ayreter= oid J che ane 32 ee EeT ys te ee re ee ed Raaq es ‘The PARES that’s not in the Guide “Books ba, A fi i 5 ' y ‘ er er eer TT ob peayeeta trie in} wirAS tet eae tel tore) beee ate VL St be P| re hed ee t U: } i; tr pases fet hor Soa aoe onl joes bony 4 peels ee Pe ee Cone le eet oes ige 4‘The PATS that’s not in the Guide “Books ‘By BASIL WOON Author of “The ‘Real Sarah Bernhardt” with e(me. ‘Pierre “Berton New York BRENTANO’S Publisherspe a Sees pee ete Trees bre eth feet bot ke eat ae ALT h | Ab 6 & OCT IT ‘ag Copyright, 1926, by BRENTANO’S INC. > @ All Rights Reserved including that of translation into foreign languages including the Scandinavian First Printing, April, 1926 Second Printing, May, 1926 Third Printing, June, 1926 Fourth Printing, October, 1926 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA“60 MY WIFE who made this book possible by letting me out o’nightsoer Free yp prey ra en raha ebb ratte Are | 4 b ul r 5 bona a te eles! Cope ete.|. = —E * CONTENTS CHAPTER I Il iil IV Vi Vil Vill IX XI XII XII XIV XV _ Xvi A Cocktail at the Ritz to Start Drop Around at Five . Have One on Me at Henry’s . Let’s Stroll up the Champs-Elysées And Then Drop in at Ciro’s for Lunch . What the Well- Tice “Young Man Is Drinking. See: Thus the Money Goes . Here the Styles Are Really Made The Sport of Kings. Where the Stakes Are High Fashion Takes to the Bois Where Are You Stopping? Tonight We’ll Dine at the Chateau de Madrid Known as the _ Best-Dressed Woman in the World Don’t Forget to Dance at the Ritz Then Just One Bottle of Wine at the N. Y. Bar : PAGE 14 23 39, 57 69 82 92 103 116 127 136 148 156 166CONTENTS (continued) reerbes res taeettbcicseroretttal eee amit ences secs ee ee : “ aa ea eae Sg po cae pees gee ee ca aE peeteteed suede) ehitkume Ute 2.) PEIN Lectin ty tate eta Metal \eereah fat ty prety Memeo PT re REEL: Fhe i 5 Als EoMl \ietee Pirie ay! ¥ = Bs CHAPTER XVII The Saxophone Captures Paris xvill_ And They Keep at It ene After Night ee xIX The Strangest Genius in All Paris xX The Man Who Runs Half of France Xx! Gaby’s Partner XXII The Unhappiest Woman in Paris XXII A Quick Swing Around the Night Clubs XXIV Let’s Make a Night of 2, XXV Joe and Jed XXVI Naughty-Naughty Paris XXVII The Latin Quarter and—Home, Francois! | PAGE 174 183 191 202 215 221 230 DST, 247 257 263Pests tes ‘The that’s not in the Guide “Books € Pe i ame cf = Seat al tie toa ee esein hist te te rt nore t D 3 r t: J Syd oiTpbacn 4 Set eats Se aty taht eT rete toes] eeeTHE PARIS That’s Not in the Guide Books CHAPTER I A COCKTAIL Al THE RITZ LO" START E PASSED through the swinging doors of the expensive side of the Ritz and my friend, a Broadwayite of pre-Volstead vintage on his first visit to Paris, clapped a hand to his forehead. “Tell me,” he said in an anguished voice, seeing things or—who is that man over there?” He indicated a rubicund personage whose cherubic cheeks were bent over a lovely lady’s hand. Dates li said, ysis) Hlantyeleehts “My good gosh!” he whispered. “And that man over there by the door—don’t tell me ¢ “T will,” I replied firmly. “That is Berry Wall.” Hardly had we penetrated into the hencoop, as the tea-and-before-lunch-cocktail room is picturesquely denotated, than my friend again clutched my arm, and this time a spasm of real anxiety shook him. “Tt’s these Paris drinks,” he muttered. ‘I won’t ask I é¢ aioe2 PHE PARIS. Tit ATES NN Ow you. It can’t be. Why, forty years ago I remember sitting in the front row of Hammerstein’s and-———” “If,” said I severely, “you are referring to Fanny Ward, it is she in person. And over there is Maybelle Gilman Corey, talking to Marquis Boni de Castellane. While if you look closel fe “I have had enough—enough!” he said hoarsely. “Where is this place you were talking about?” When we got to the bar, on what by a misnomer is called the cheap side of the Ritz, comfortably seques- tered by a block-long passageway from the hencoop, my bald-headed friend got another jolt. He was introduced in quick succession to: Jack Dean, Dana Pond, Lou Hauser, Ben Ali MacAfee, Jo Davidson, Clifford Harmon, William Hogg, Gil Boag, Al Jolson and Gilbert White. “What did you say the name of this place was?” he demanded. “This is the Ritz bar.” “In my day,’ and now he spoke reverently, very reverently indeed, “it would have been called the Knickerbocker.”’ The glamour and the light of Broadway, mayhap a little dimmed by torpid liver and stomachs that know their lobster but too well, but glamourous and lumi- nous still, with the fires of tradition alight at the altar of a Good Time, are visible in the Paris of today. Why, even Old King Cole, ye famous painting that thousands mellowly regarded from the other side of theIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 3 Knickerbocker mahogany, is here in duplicate in Paris. You can see it at the Ermitage bar, and, as if to make the picture perfect, there too is old Charley, who broke in his profession at Forty-second Street and Broadway, shaking ’em with the same old art of yore. The thing is that, just as on the old Broadway, there is no caste here. You may go the limit—and then some. There is no uniformed Irish arbiter to tell you to go home o’ nights. Even over the filthy but venerable Saint Lazare prison for women you may, if you have good eyesight, discern the words “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité” indelibly carven on the archway through which Mata Hari walked to death. The fanciful American who last summer ordered a table for eight at the fashionable Sunday night Ritz dinner, and nearly gave the manager and head waiter apoplexy by turning up with seven shapely pension- naires of a famous establishment allegedly a rendezvous of kings—a flighty lot, these kings who visit Paris— was only carrying out to its logical conclusion the rule of laissez-faire which distinguishes Paris. From the day you step from your train at the St. Lazare Station you may—and do—cast prejudice, decorum and what’!l-the-folks-say-t’home to the winds. Whatever you do these French will only smile and say, “Tust another of these crazy Americans.” Everything the Americans do the French do too, but only the Americans are cra-zee. That is one of the lessons you learn.- p " - Spin ae « obs sith 4 eo vt . Pet eeebhad sy erhsettaebeeiheetio yar cetthal Lob BUTS abesas At La tAllay 13 setae eeateeds teak aL ete pint aa tata eri eete theta hierar ainiu rate ert, ©; t tt 4 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT There is only one solemn and inviolate command- ment. That is: Don’t bother your neighbor! Walk into Claridge’s in broad daylight attired in a dinner jacket and a tin can in lieu of a hat if you desire, and they will only smile. But should you bump into some- one on your way in, he will call you “cochon” and menace you with his umbrella, for you have com- mitted a crime. This feeling of freedom is undoubtedly the dominat- ing ingredient in the tantalizing, definition-defying thing that is the charm of Paris. Your first introduction to it is when you step from the St. Lazare or Nord Station into a taxicab bound for your hotel. Before you have quite settled in your seat the cab is out of the station and into the stream of traffic and is apparently running a race with another cab alongside. You watch the speedometer creep up until it marks approximately thirty miles an hour and you start apprehensively when you perceive a ser- geant-de-ville directing the traffic a little way ahead. But instead of slowing down when he sees the police- man your chauffeur accelerates. Any fears as to his sanity you may have, however, are instantly transferred to the policeman when you realize that that individual, instead of bellowing to your driver to stop, is actually and with emphatic pantomime beckoning him onward. After you have crossed the Boulevards at twenty miles an hour and have traveled part way down the Rue de la Paix on the wrong side of the street, missingIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 5 disaster at every ten yards, you are convinced of two things: first, that the Parisian taxicab driver is the best and the worst driver in the world—best because of his dexterity and worst because of the reliance he places in his brakes—and second, that this thing Liberty can be overdone. One of your very first thrills is the discovery that there are no speed-limits whatever in Paris. Ladies and gentlemen and automobiles may go as fast as they like, providing they don’t run over someone else. And French workmen, barbers, salesmen, orchestras, trains and telephones may go as slowly as they like with no restrictions whatever. If that isn’t Liberty, what is? But since the Americans took charge of international society there have been some slight amendments made in the general scheme of freedom. Paris provided no constraint, so they made some themselves. It is thus that certain fixed and unalterable rules govern the be- havior in Paris of the American who would be in the swim. Principal among these rules are the periods when he may safely be seen in public. Four times during the day you may see the Amer- icans of Paris, and four times only. If one of them showed up at any other hour he would be hounded out of respectable society forever. Every morning you may see a long line of thirsty citizens lined up outside the Cambon entrance to the Ritz, waiting for twelve o’clock to strike so they may enter.DAE PARES THATS: NOR The bar within has been open since ten o’clock. Six waiters have been in residence since eleven. But no real American would ever dream of entering before twelve. It is one of the few things in Paris that really isn’t done. At 11:55 the big comfortable bar will be empty ex- cept for the waiters and maybe a lone pariah who has just got over and doesn’t know the rules. But the waiters have a strained, expectant look, like runners awaiting the pistol’s crack. At 11:5914, the swing door begins to revolve. At 12, eight cocktails are being drunk. At 12:02, the bar is filled. At 12:05, eleven friends know all about what you did at Kiley’s or Zelli’s last night. And so it goes. The man who said that the Ritz bar reminded him of the Knickerbocker “in the good old days” was not far wrong. And one of the amazing things about this is that the people you used to know ’way back on Broad- way, whom you have vaguely classed with Eva Tan- guay, Jim Brady, Lillian Russell, et al. and who should, if not be buried, at least have “one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel’—as young Erskine Gwynne remarks twice or three times a day—the amaz- ing thing about them is that they don’t look old at all. Take Harry Lehr for instance. How many years back was it that he was the darling of Newport? You wouldn’t answer that for fear of incriminating your- self. And if I tell you that Harry doesn’t look a day over forty-five and hasn’t a gray hair on his head, youIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 7 may not call me a liar, but you will think it just the same. So, the only thing for you to do is to come over and look—see for yourself, and you'll find I am right. We will leave Fanny Ward out of this argument. Fanny looks twenty-two years younger than her own daughter, and this may be because the latter married an English peer, or because Fanny married Jack Dean, or, then again, it may not. But Fanny is—well, she is. You can’t hold her up as an example. She is the only woman in the world who ever suc- ceeded in growing younger year by year, and at last season’s baby party she was the success of the night. The story goes that Jack MacVicker walked up to her and chucked her under the chin. Suppose you take a selection of the club-and-bar hounds of Manhattan or, say, 1910 and pass it through the sieve of good fellowship. Pick out of the remainder every man who not only could tell a good after-dinner story but also happened to have his money invested in securities which weren’t swamped in 1920. Then choose from these the die-hards who, not having business or other interests to keep them in the United States, were sufficiently enraged over prohibition to make their homes elsewhere. Add to these the ones who had to attend to their business, but were able to spare from three to six months away. When you have the mixture finished write a very kind obituary notice for one-third of the contents ; then shake up and serve, slightly warm, in the Ritz bar! |ss wi a. Paine = ¢ err, aa tie heeibetl ss? ete oe Fit [Ther TA OT re Lie eerie ute cE ee et Lo i couagetabe talbro nes bar th rec cn e Dial hiee ot ere aa “4 ar) TPE SeARIS EATS, NO The Ritz bar is not really a bar at all; it is an institu- tion, an academy of libations, an old-timer’s club. It is the headquarters of male society and the natural level of the wide-trousered fraternity, sought generally within an hour of arrival. It is situated on the discreet side of the Ritz, “Coté Cambon,” as you will soon learn to tell the chauffeur. There is a tremendous difference between the two en- trances of Paris’s smartest hotel. On the Place Ven- dome side you meet the Drexels, the Morgans, the Vanderbilts, the ex-kings, the marquises, the Cortlandt Bishops, the “are ins” and the “would-be ins.” On the Rue Cambon side you encounter the Peggy Joyces, the Gilda Grays, the Jed Kileys, the Lou Housers and the “outs” and the “don’t care if we are ins.” On the Vendome side a bearded veteran of a chief concierge, who is reputed to own a large minority of the shares in the Hotel Ritz Corporation—if he doesn’t he ought to—gives you a keen, wise, summing-up as you enter. It’s only a second’s glance but it is suffi- cient for him to place you. Before you have reached the glass door of the inner lobby the guardian knows whether you are millionaire or journalist, prince or bill collector, or both. But on the Cambon side the concierge’s desk is sepa- rated from the street door by inner portals and the visitor is welcomed only by a chasseur who always says: “And how do you do this morning, sir?” in a tone of significant portent, as if he knew where you were lastIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 9 —_—_— night and what time you got to bed. It is part of this man’s tact that he continues to say “morning” all the afternoon until night makes him definitely a liar. Between the two entrances is a series of lobbies, tea- rooms and salons and a long passageway lined with vitrines filled with ladies’ gowns, undies, pa jamas, neck- laces, shoes and accessories. There is also a news- stand run by a remarkably pretty girl whom rumor says to be a Russian princess incognito. If you are headed for the bar, as of course you will be some time or other, you may, if you wish, enter by the Vendome entrance and walk through. This is a short cut but is not to be recommended during the period between five and six-thirty in the afternoon. Those hours comprise tea-time, and the Ritz tea-room ‘5 a combination babel and nursery. The way to the Cambon side lies through the middle of the tea-room except in summer, when the ceremony occurs in the garden. The bar itself is in two portions. On the right of the street entrance is the tiny cubbyhole, the Black Hole of Calcutta, as Richard Klegin calls it, or the steam room, as it is more commonly called, where ladies may sip their cocktails. About six o’clock at night the place +s filled to suffocation and has a delicate perfume faintly reminiscent of attar of roses in a bottle of old Bourbon. Since it became fashionable to boast a Paris divorce, the Ritz ladies’ room has been headquarters for the Alimony Sisterhood, who meet there and compare notes‘ 7 eee etl, 8 = . - MIMD ELIS TTC a TVIT TFET HMI RTT CITT yy LST eee en Sidi t OE Tl ter eee bo ecu ree Can’ ibeit eel lo ieee bet a5 A! ATT a et tie reat ee] suey, shi Laseyts [Ps hat Hoe 4 5 ae eat F * b mit et tlets. or ; : - cf a 10 THE PARIS THARS NOT about past and future husbands, lawyers’ fees, their dearest friends and the increasing popularity of pearl necklaces. Some of the veteran alimony leaguers seem perpetually in a state of expectancy—of divorces or new husbands. There are ladies making the Ritz bar a nightly ceremony who are at their fourth husband and who won't admit to thirty years of age. The atmosphere is positively impregnated with divorce, and there is no lack of evidence that the disease is catching. In America the germ is weaker, more deliberate in its process. The period of incubation is long. But the divorce germ rampant in the Ritz ladies’ room is one of the galloping variety. I have seen a perfectly happy married couple enter the place tremendously in love with each other, stay for but one drink and emerge fighting like French deputies. That is, calling each other names. And before you have time to think much about it—lo, and behold! back comes the wife again with another husband. In many years of society reporting I never found my work so tiring as it is today. ‘How do you do, Mrs. Gallagher,” you will say to her, “and how is Bill?’ After a cold stare the lady will reply, “My name is not Mrs. Gallagher ; it is Mrs. Boone. And Bill may be in China for all I know or care.” A year later you call her Mrs. Boone and discover that she is Mrs. Montague, having passed the intervening twelve-month by acquiring and getting rid of a Mr. Smith. On the left of the entrance is the bar proper, whereIN THE GUIDE BOOKS II ladies are not admitted—nor anyone who does not wear trousers. This is a fact well known to married men, with whom the place is justly popular. Only two women I know have ever beaten the barrage. One is Fanny Ward, who will stop every friend of Jack Dean entering or leaving the bar with the command, “Go tell Jack I’m waiting,’ and the other is a lady who is a friend of a friend of mine. This lady is a genius in her own way. She has a large white Russian wolfhound. When my friend is in the bar and won’t come out, the wolfhound, prompted by his mistress, enters the sacred precincts, plants him- self just behind his master, throws back his head and yowls. That’s the only word for it—yowls. “Make that dog shut up!” calls the bartender, exasperated. “I can’t,” returns my friend despairingly. “Then take him out o’ here!’ orders Frank, and out my friend has to go, leading the dog. The bar is a large oblong room lined with tables, with a serving bar at the farther end. The cream-tinted walls would perhaps be more in place in a parlor, but then Frank’s bar is no common ordinary pothouse. It is a “meeting place for gentlemen,” as used to be advertised on Broadway. Certainly no saloon in the world has its distinguished clientele. Few can boast a more distinguished bartender. Presiding over the mahogany is Frank Meyer, the man whose friendship is more courted than that of many a president. About him is something redolent of12 THE PARIS, THALES NOF Broadway. You are not surprised to learn that he began at the old Hoffman House. That was more years ago than Frank cares to admit. Frank Meyer is possibly the best-known drink shaker in the world, not excluding the individual who does it at the Savoy in London. He might not have merited that distinction before prohibition but since the Vol- stead Act all the wet lanes lead to Paris. Meyer has a speaking acquaintance with most of the great of the earth, and has acted as guide and ad- viser to many whose names mean front-page news. J. P. Morgan calls him by name, and he knows the favorite drink of every diplomat in Europe. His personality has little of servility in it, despite the fact that, as he will tell you, “My clients are my god.” He chats with bankers and social leaders as if they were his equals. Besides being the most courted, Frank is also the most feared man in Parisian society. If women tell their secrets to the manicure girl—which always I some- how have doubted—it is certain that Frank is the repository of many a secret that would mean a special edition. Once I came in the bar late—there is seldom anyone there after nine o’clock at night—and found Frank in earnest consultation with a thin, shrunken, bulbous- nosed gentleman with eye-glasses whom | recognized as a senator. The senator was a little wobbly and he was carrying on his conversation in a loud voice.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 13 “Gimme fifty francs, Frank, ol’ man,’ he was Say- ing, “an’ I’ll—hic—never forget you! An’ jus’ one l’il more drink!” Frank glanced apprehensively at me and shook his head. The distinguished senator’s voice became louder and slightly indignant. ‘Was’matter, Frank?” he asked injuredly. “You know me, huh? You know who I am. Ain’t my credit good here? Why say’—with righteous indigna- tion—‘“I’ll never come in this place again!’ “TI won’t lend you any money,” said Frank positively, “and I won’t give you a drink. You didn’t get like that here. Now, you come on up to bed.” Saying which, Frank took the senator upstairs and put him to bed. A mere description of the Ritz is no good, however, unless you can meet these people crowding about you. Let us see whether we can introduce you to a few.THE PARIS THATS NOE CHAPTER II DROP AROUND AT FIVE pe society, as these pages will show, is a queer mixture of brains and futility, of personal achieve- ment and prestige of birth. If in New York society is inclined to be snobbish, it is not so in Paris, except in the case of a few old dowagers and some of the titled French set. Jed Kiley, Montmartre café-keeper, floats into it as easily as does Anthony J. Drexel, because Kiley is well born, has an agreeable personality, good manners and a fund of excellent stories. Little else is requisite in a so- ciety which after all is merely an Anglo-American colony in a foreign city. Jews who couldn’t get in the New York social register, although their ancestral roots go back a thou- sand years, are accepted—nay, eagerly sought—by cer- tain sections of Paris society, not only because they have money but because they talk a common language. Artists and writers are sometimes admitted into New York social circles but, unless they have money, their role is often that of performing poodles. It is natural, on the other hand, that in Paris, the home of the arts, society should welcome those of creative gifts,IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 15 not only to their dinner but to their bridge tables. It is true that few of them accept. Acceptance of the foregoing depends, of course, on one’s definition of the word “society.” Many have told me, “These people you write about are not real ‘society’ ; you never see the real ones.”’ I beg to differ. My definition of the word would read : Society (member of) : One who is a frequenter of smart resorts, seen often in the company of others who are the same. After all, one can’t be “‘social” unless one 1s social, and I fail to concede that an obscure castellan is a member of society unless he is actually in and about that society. A well-known New York woman was once pointed out to me with the awing information, “She is one of the leaders; they say her circle is limited to ten people.” Leader of what? Of ten people, perhaps ; not of society. I recall the spirited retort of Colette, the great French authoress, replying to someone who, referring to a certain noted woman, said: ‘Pooh! she is not in society ; she is only an actress.’”’ “Ah, yes,” said Colette, “and you, you are only a banker, are you not eae The snob reading this book will grind his teeth many times, I am afraid, for I am going to be very compre- hensive. My two questions will be, “Is he worth know- ing,” and “Do you see her around?” Satisfactory an- swers to these will suffice for their introduction to you, the larger society who read this book.16 THEVRARTS THATS NOd And if I tread on a corn or two on my way from the Ritz to Montmartre, may I be excused, for there are more corns in Paris than anywhere else in the world. On an old piece of Devonshire crockery I possess is in- scribed: “If ye can’t be chariteeble, be as chariteeble as ye can.” Let that stand as my device. To start this business of introduction right, we will begin with Jack MacVickar. Jack you may see some- times lunching in the Ritz bar answering questions about his last-born. His vocation has for some time been fatherhood. Like Roosevelt, he believes that ac- tions speak louder than words. At the Ritz they keep score on Jack and his family. At opposite ends of the bar but not glaring at each other—now—are Frederick Prince and his son, Fred- erick, Junior. Both have been through the marriage and divorce mill. The son was an aviator during the war and a good one. He now devotes his time to golf. The father hunts, watches the polo he once played so well, and continues to be a prime favorite with the ladies. There is John R. Drexel, aged sixty-three. Drops in for “Just one—you know what, Frank.” Then he goes out. Frank is the only man who has ever found out what “what” is. But it is of a burned-amber color and looks fine. Anthony Drexel has also been known to enter the Ritz bar, though chiefly his habitat is the tea-room at the other end.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 17 Poor Tony has not been well of late. Appendicitis and other things. His fine house on the Rue de Gre- nelle, almost in the shadow of Napoleon’s tomb, is closed and deserted. Sic transit—what marvelous par- ties he used to give there! Every one of them a free gift to the society correspondents. Talking about old men—beg pardon, Anthony—there is a gentleman sitting over there in the corner, second table from the screen, who claims to have drunk the first cocktail. He is Marmaduke (“Duke’’) Richardson, and he is eighty-three years old. One of the spriest old gentle- men who ever wore white spats. Mr. Richardson is that dearest of all men to a bartender’s heart: he never warns the boys about booze. “When I was a youngster,” he told us once, “I never could begin the day without my three cocktails. Then I would have one or two whiskys at lunch and maybe a brandy afterwards. I never drank in the afternoon, however, unless possibly it was another whisky or so. But about six in the evening I would always take my two Martinis. “During dinner I never touched more than four or five glasses of claret or burgundy, and maybe a glass or two of champagne, and a benedictine afterwards. From then on until bedtime I drank no more, except a hot toddy or half a bottle of Roederer.” _ “And what,” we asked him, “is your program today, Mr. Richardson?”THE PATS THATS, NOR 18 “Oh,” said the youth smiling, “I’ve modified it a lot. I’ve cut out the whiskys in the afternoon!” “Never use a glass!’ was Lily Langtry’s advice to beauty-seeking girls. “Never be without one!’ is the counsel of “Duke’’ Richardson, who incidentally knows more about Europe than any living man now that Baedeker is dead. They are an amusing lot of folk who gather around the mahogany just before lunch. There are, for in- stance, the Kingsland brothers. Not Harold—he is not often seen—but Walter and Arthur. Two tall, blond men usually in riding breeches. Letting our eye rove a little longer about the hos- pitable circle, it lights inevitably on Herman Oelrichs. Now, Herman Oelrichs is a much-liked man. There are those who apply the definition “regular guy” to him. He is a good buyer. He plays an almost-par game. He steps out occasionally, which is the hall- mark of the good fellow. No higher praise could be found for Herman than to say that he is a true son of his mother, the famous Tessie, without whom no Grand Prix could be run. Talking to Herman very likely will be Laddie San- ford. Laddie has just left his latest fiancée, or the girl who has some reason to hope that she may be his fiancée in the not too far distant future. Who she is would be telling, and besides, we go to press too far in advance. Laddie is drinking Evian water. If Peggy couldIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 19 only see him now! Which Peggy? Well, the one who springs readiest to mind is Peggy Marsh, the same who has just reappeared on the scene with a new husband, a Captain Fenwick of the Ga’ds. They say that Laddie has entered a business career. That will be rather a pity. According to a yarn I heard, the Prince of Wales said to him one day in Lunnon: “Laddie, how many girls do you know anyway?” “Look who’s asking,” returned Laddie in his dry fashion. Slanting obliquely we arrive at—it was bound to happen sooner or later; he belongs in every chapter of this book—William Hurley. William, who surprised his friends recently by mar- rying, is nevertheless the same old “Uncle Bill” as of yore. He must be getting along now but he looks just the same as ever. A few more of those kindly crinkles in the corners of his eyes; maybe a hundred hairs or so less on his head; otherwise the same lovable character who has turned half the beautiful heads of Washing- ton, New York and Paris. Bill is a detective. Not for the police but for Uncle Sam. He is a special agent of the Department of Justice—a very special one if all the tales I hear are true. Considering his job, he is about the least secre- tive-looking man you ever saw. He always seems bursting to tell you his most sacred confidence.20 THE PARIS THAT'S NOT ’ But when you say, “Yes, yes,” encouragingly, you find that it is only another of his stories. Rarely do you get anything out of him except a laugh. As I say, he up and married without even Frank knowing any- thing about it, and when Frank doesn’t know anything you may be sure that it is a pretty deep, dark secret. Hurley has a peculiar past—for a diplomatic detec- tive, that is. He made his début in a circus. After that he was a champion trick bicycle rider. From that he graduated into the daredevil division. It was Bill Hurley who originated the stunt of driving a motor- cycle around the inner edge of a vast bowl, defying death every second. He has been in many a tight place since his days of the Bowl of Death, not a few of them during the late war, and probably no one on earth knows so much about plotters and plotting as Bill does. Also, he knows most of the great of the earth. Some of them are still living due to Bill’s timely little warnings. Between Theodore Roosevelt and William Hurley it was, Hey, Bill!’ and, “Ho, Ted!” The man you will see flitting from group to group, pausing a little while here and a little while there, and who has a drink on at least five tables, is Lou Hauser. Hauser comes of a famous New York family, known in sporting resorts from one end of Gotham to an- other. One of his brothers went down on the Titanic. Lou has been over here some thirteen or fourteen years and has not missed a day at the RitzIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 21 ————— since it opened. Hauser knows every man in Paris with money and several who have no money know Lou. He was a friend of Reginald Vanderbilt Esquire, and was always taking Reggie down to the Pharamond Restaurant in the central markets, where both sat and indulged in their favorite and common vice—tripe. The Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady may have been sisters under the skin, but I can assure you that there is neither breed nor birth when two strong men sit down to a bowl of tripe. Tripe is a common leveler. There is Governor Beekman of Rhode Island who came here to recuperate; Theodore Rousseau, pillar of the Guaranty Trust Company and formerly secretary of a New York mayor; Fritz Brookfield, whose ven- erable appearance allows him to get away with a lot of that “I remember when” stuff until you learn that he acquired his white hair when only eighteen years old; James MacVickar, over on one of his flying trips ; Harold McCormick, dashing in for a moment on his way to luncheon with his latest wife, Ganna Walska ; Commander Ousley, who, during the famed Zeebrugge raid, had charge of the boat commissioned to pick up the wounded; Eddie Walskow, former Wyoming cow- boy who arrived in Paris via the motion-picture route; Sinclair Lewis, minus monocle, talking very loudly and wearing a hunted look as though dodging pub- Jishers; Harry Arnold, who brought New York realty methods to custom-bound Paris; Tarn McGrew, the22 THE PARIS THATS NOR banker Beau Brummel, wearing yellow gloves and cream-colored spats; Maurice Mouvet, talking with his brother Oscar; William Goetz, formerly of New York, who has such hard work being retired from business that one feels sorry for him—these and many more. But, more than likely, we shall meet them again farther along the road, when we have more time. Just now it is one o’clock, and we must dash over to Henry’s to see the boys there before continuing down the Rue Daunou to Ciro’s and déjeuner.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS CHAPTER Tit HAVE ONE ON ME AT HENRY’S HE banks, bars and restaurants are the meeting- places of foreigners in Paris. This is natural in a city where most of the foreign population is domi- ciled in hotels. Mr. Smith, staying at the Continental, will telephone to Mr. Brown: ‘Come on over and have a chat?’ “You come on over here,” objects Mr. Brown, who is at the Claridge a mile away. “Tl tell you what,’ says Smith, looking at his watch; “it’s ten now. Meet you in the bar at noon.” Most of the entertaining in Paris is done in the restaurants and hotels. Even the permanent residents with their own homes usually give their dinners “out.” There is something in the atmosphere of Paris which makes one reluctant to accept an invitation in a private home. Add to this the regulations in Paris which state that no music may be played or other noise made in private flats after ten o’clock at night except once each month, when merriment may be kept up until midnight providing the concierge (janitor) has been formally notified, and for once each year, when an all- night permission is granted.EiLu Lt tiees ts eee e tire) 24 THE PARIS THATS NOT This is why in any description of the real Paris the bars and restaurants must need play such a large part, and why I am continuing our morning promenade from the Ritz in the Rue Cambon to Henry’s in the Rue Volney. People who don’t drink at all nevertheless frequent the Paris bars. A great deal of business is transacted in them. And each has its own individuality. The Ritz is the bar of the men about town, smart set and sycophants generally. Millionaires, actors and Yale juniors over for vacation give it its “atmosphere.” It is more expensive than the other bars; its patrons are better dressed and about them hovers the aura of prosperity. Henry’s, three short blocks away, is a place of a totally different kind. During the war Henry’s was frequented by the American Ambulance unit drivers and by American aviators. It is now exclusively inhabited by persons who remember when the Eiffel Tower was only knee- high to the Trocadero. Anyone can walk into Henry’s bar, but only a select few can get a smile out of Ernest or John, the two bartenders. There may be a roaring fire in the an- thracite stove, but the stranger strolling into Henry’s for the first time needs his coat-collar well turned up to ward off the chill. Apart from the Chatham, which antedates it by a few years, Henry’s is the oldest American bar inIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 25 _—— Europe. It is a cozy enough place, its very air redolent of by-gone eras, from its living inhabitants themselves to the quaintly garbed ladies who stare down on the convivial crowd from portrait frames on the walls. Henry’s bar, or more properly speaking Henry’s Hotel, was founded by Henry Tépé in 1890, and at least eight of the gentlemen who may be seen there daily at noon can remember its opening, an event in the sporting world of that day. Henry himself had been a bartender at the Chatham Hotel in the Rue Daunou around the corner before he decided to go into business for himself. When he left the Chatham he took with him most of his clientele. From the first he made a strict rule that no women were to be permitted either in the hotel or bar, and the only exception ever made to this rule is in respect to the little back room aforesaid. It is in Henry’s that one finds the older generation of American business men who have been established in Paris since many years before the war. They may feel uncomfortable in other bars in the presence of the younger upstarts, but Henry’s is their home. Here they gather twice a day, from twelve until one-thirty and from five until seven, to swap stories of other and gladder days, to entertain their business ac- quaintances and sell them things, or to play dominoes. For Henry’s is the only place in Paris where the an- cient and honorable profession of domino playing still survives the assaults of a mahjongistic civilization.re 7 peeethes thos’ «rts cetehal Loi “ , x 1 . . <> <1 dite 7 - * 7 Te a were tts. cL ohe oa To vA OT Sa eile tie aie oy ean Dz os the heads spe ib aot tte 1s ter ees Se ae SELES EAR S| SERA Ts Se INO The present owner of the place is one Rudolph Borgo, nephew of two—may we say greater ?—Borgos, Joseph and Achilles. The first opened the Cecil in London, was owner of the Lotti Hotel in Paris and now keeps the Pavillon Royale in the Bois de Boulogne, and the second will probably be remembered as the man who knows more diners-out than any restaurateur in New York. Borgo succeeded to the ownership of the bar in 1924 after Mrs. Henry decided that supervision of her three barmen was too much for her. Henry himself had been indelicate enough to commit suicide in 1917 by jumping out of a second-story window, landing on the glass roof of the restaurant. A vast number of rumors were current at the time of this sensational notion of Tépé’s. One, the most popular, which was quite erroneous but which still per- sists, was that the French secret police believed Henry was a spy and were coming for him on the morning he jumped. As a matter of fact the truth was that poor Henry had been steadily losing his mind, so that when he lost his life it was not such a great tragedy as the one which had preceded it. Henry had been known to be counting the night’s receipts, with a huge pile of gold and notes on a table in front of him, and then to walk off absent-mindedly to bed, leaving the heap of cash lying on the table for the first bystander to help himself from.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 27 The bartenders themselves in Henry’s were and are among the antiques of the place. The head man of old was Alphonse, called ‘“Rabbit’’ because he looked that way, and was known for his very remarkable skill in shooting dice. Alphonse left Henry’s shortly after Borgo took charge and is now at another establishment down the street. But Ernest and John remain, and it is from these two white-aproned monarchs that a smile means so much to the newcomer because it is so rare. ~ It is reliably reported that Ernest and John have exactly one hundred smiles each; no more, no less. There are just one hundred habitués of the place. The remainder are merely customers. As you turn around into the Rue Volney, passing Boyd Neel’s bank, the standby of the sporting and newspaper fraternity because it is open when other banks are closed, you will probably hear a noise faintly resembling the fabled roar of the dragon when it was treated so inconsiderately by Siegfried. This will be Bob Lloyd laughing. There is only one other laugh in the world remotely resembling the one Bob Lloyd can turn loose when occasion seems to demand it. This single rival is Bertie Hollander, as well known in his line as Bob is in his. But Bertie holds forth at the Ritz and Bob at Henry’s, and when they laugh together those laughs career down the Rue Cambon on one side and the Rues Volney and Capucines on theeee ere tl ORT ier eT ee a eee o\tR ey Peet PR PPM PT TAT Ce ’ rope . oe ty). fl Babioerytilsts tent ed ed aa bee bed ara rete oy) mr yy 28 DHE PARLS WitAdS: NO other and meet at the corner of the boulevards, at which point they drown every autobus within earshot. Bob, beside being the champion laugher in the world is also, with the possible exception of Cap’n Pleyel, the oldest and most veteran of all the ancients who inhabit Henry’s. I am not any more certain of Bob Lloyd’s exact age than he is himself, but it must be around eighty-five or ninety at least. He is even getting gray hair now. Lloyd is a buyer, one of that horde of rapacious indi- viduals who come semi-annually to France and go back to New York with every real novelty we have. He is not only a buyer but the dean of all the buyers, unless Sam Zucker or Charles C. Kurzman want to dispute the claim. As far as I can remember it, the score now stands: DOD USLO Vd aise cree Git oie alblcicle aves clcrevatecohormtehenayarers 212 @hanles) Ga Kournzmanis i cise «i oie oe Steue ieee ie sions 194 Sat Aucketysrercn ue siseicls clelesveleie certo svete ciate ste 175 These are crossings of the Atlantic. We come now to Fred Lambrecht, who is to Lloyd what Damon was to Pythias, or what Bugs Baer is to Damon Runyon. Lambrecht, or “Ferdy” as he is affectionately called by 1,987,000 persons of the 2,000,000 in Paris, began going to Henry’s when he was a boy, since when he has had no other. Besides being a domino player, Ferdy’s second claim to fame is the fact that he is one of the most acute business men in Paris. He is manager ofIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 29 — Meyrowitz, which to persons hunting a monocle is somewhat like ice-water to an American with a hang- over. Traveling gently down the bar we find Norman Coster, formerly European manager of the United States Steel Corporation. Coster is one of the Costers, “New York and Newport,” although he hates to have it known. Frank Jacott, a bibliophile, has just come in. Frank is a monument to American enterprise in France, and looks it, being at least seven feet tall and four broad. Frank remembers when Tom Sharkey’s was a society place, this being when he left New York. He has one of the most commanding presences known since William Howard Taft was in his prime. Sitting over there in the corner, his brown derby at an angle of only 97 degrees, is George Bowles, the oldest newspaperman in the world, who has by turns been reporter, advance agent of the Big Top, theatrical agent, playwright, producer and painter. We have referred to George’s hat. No one could write of George with any justice without mentioning the hat. It has a history, like George. It is a brown derby. It came over with Bowles some fifty years ago and has been with him consistently ever since. During that time it has become not only a legend, along with its wearer, but—well, it has acquired what one might call an exclusive look. When George sets forth in the morning for his—y mee yet 20 THE PARIS: THATS NOL opening cocktail the hat is perfectly straight, slightly tilted forward. As George swallows the cocktail, he absent-mindedly reaches up, takes off his hat, wipes his brow, and replaces the hat—but this time two degrees toward the left ear. When you enter Henry’s and see George telling stories he heard from Big Bill Barnum, with his hat in imminent danger of falling off, you know to a sur- prising point of accuracy just how many George has had. Almost every one of the old-timers in Henry’s is worth a story, and several have lived lives which would make interesting books. Such a one is Harry Playle, who was driving pacers around the Middle Western tracks when Barney Schreiber was a boy and Harry Sinclair not even born. Playle made a vast fortune in the sugar business. His name survives in Havana to this day, for much of the development of the city was due to his family. Along about thirty years ago he decided that he had enough money and told his friends that it was time to retire. “T’m an old man now,” he said, “and haven’t much longer to live.”’ That, as I say, was thirty years ago, and Harry Playle shows no signs of dying yet. Sugar has always been his business but horses and mankind have been his hobbies, and few men can equal his knowledge of either. He will talk of horses just as he will of men. “I remember her orand-IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 31 mother,”’ he said to me quite seriously at Auteuil one day, pointing to a horse being led off to be saddled for the next race. Playle is not an American. He is an Englishman, and time was when he drove his coach from London to Brighton, while every “Drags Day” in Paris saw him, white hatted and costumed, holding the reins atop of a gilded coach setting forth from the Place de la Concorde. Then there is John Powers, as well-known in Paris as in New York; but perhaps better known, like Lloyd and Kurzman, on the broad Atlantic lanes, on which he has been a consistent traveler for thirty-five years. Powers, ruddy-faced and lovable, is responsible for many of those funny little gee-gaws you buy in the Woolworth stores. He has a brain for novelties, and many an article expensive in Europe has been brought by him to America for wholesale duplication on the five- ten-twenty-five cent counter. There are many more. There is Raoul Thevenin, the most American Frenchman in Europe; and Bock Barrelet, of United States Rubber, who was thought- ful enough to have a bank president for a brother; and Galen Bogue, an actor who turned newspaperman and who is still acting; and Frank Delves, who must be distinguished because he has a Rolls-Royce; and Marcel Claude, who knows more about transportation than anyone living ; and Sid Horner—never knew what had become of old Sid, did you? And Brooks Larnard,32 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT whose hobby is saving beautiful ladies from robbers; and Henry Ash, who once dressed King Edward— Henry is a tailor, not a valet; and Jack Stone, who will find himself spoken of in future pages; and George Lewis, who is not afraid to say that he is “in” oil; and Frank Gillihan, who is; and Doctor Miller, the oldest American doctor in France and probably in Europe; and Doctor White, a famous osteopath and even more famous raconteur; and Richard Garrick, one of the most veteran actors and moving-picture directors in America—Dick tells of when he used to make three one-reelers a day! And Count Ernest von Schmolk, whose Missouri wife got a divorce a few years ago—she came over with Peggy Joyce and possi- bly acquired the infection from her; and Major Lanni- gan, who has written a book on the Russian Revolu- tion; and Marbury Taylor, who was once married to Mrs. Hanan of New York; and Julian Thomas, the lawyer who handles all the theatrical business here ; and E. C. White, movie baron; and Gerald Wallace, an- other man with a Rolls; and Tudor Wilkinson, who married Dolores; and Charley Mattin, so far removed from Boston that he is about to be elected mayor of the town of Sevres; and many others, all worth mention if we had space. The crowd in Henry’s is a striking illustration of the strange method Fate follows in sending us our friends. A few years ago and Ryan was in Mexico, Pleyel‘IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 33 in Cuba, Coster in London, Pierce in Galveston, Bowles in Chicago, Wilkinson in Kansas City, Taylor in New York. Now here they are, friends in the circle of Henry’s bar. Of the other bars, the Chatham like Henry’s is not the most homelike place in the world for the stranger. It is largely crowded with race-track people—jockeys, trainers, bookmakers and hangers-on. The Chatham is the oldest “American” bar in Europe. Once in a while George Pattullo, Sir William Orpen, Spike Hunt, Percy Phillip or someone like that strolls into the Chatham, and one William Halligan, the New York actor, has been known to take a hasty drink there. But generally the bar is filled with florid, heavily mus- tached gentlemen who talk in husky undertones and consult little leather-bound books or read The Jockey. At noon there are very often eighty or ninety per- sons in the Chatham, fully a dozen of whom are giving business to the bar. Racing folk combine with American business men to make business for Luigi, an Italo-American who runs a place on the Rue Edouard VII, just off the Boulevard des Capucines. Luigi’s upstairs room, formerly an all-night cabaret, has now been transformed into a gaming club called the “Franco-American Association,” whose baccarat and chemin de fer are played mostly by Americans. The French government takes about seventy percent34 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT of the nightly receipts, so it is likely that Luigi is not making any considerable fortune. Some well-known characters have hung around Luigi’s but we will take only one of them. He was Charles McCarthy, one of the most marvelous old men of his time. He died in 1925. Charlie McCarthy was originally an actor and te- mained one until his dying day, although it was many, many years since he had set foot on a stage. In his time Charlie played Shylock, Romeo and Little Eva, but the best part he ever played was the role of Charles McCarthy. Realizing perhaps that he was not exactly fitted to step into the shoes of Sir Henry Irving, Charlie quit the “legit” when still a young man and went into the promotion end of the game. Thirty-five years ago he came to Paris, making a grand tour of Europe with an amusement park side- show that he owned. Following this he went back to New York, where the late Tom Foley put him in charge of Foley’s sideshow Fighting the Flames, at Luna Park, Coney Island. A few years found McCarthy partner with former Senator Reynolds of Long Beach in the launch- ing of Dreamland, another Coney amusement park. McCarthy became a big man in the amusement game and was well on his road to millions when am- bition caused him to listen to the offer of a London promoter who proposed that Charlie should invest inIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 35 an amusement park in London. He went to London, the venture was a moderate success, and McCarthy was dreaming of wider fields to conquer when a deputation of Frenchmen came to him and sold him the idea of taking over Luna Park, Paris, during the 1900 Exposition. McCarthy listened to the voice of temptation and signed a contract involving several hundred thousand dollars. The exposition, from a sideshow angle, was a failure, and McCarthy lost everything he had in- vested. In 1906 we find him at San Francisco, to which city he came just in time to feel the earthquake which killed his mother. Several years later he returned to France, again took over Luna Park and again failed to make a go of it. In 1914 he conceived the idea of staging a battle in Paris between Jack Johnson, just then fleeing from justice in the United States, and Frank Moran, the Irish-American battler. The fight was arranged between the different man- agers and the lessees of the Cirque d’Hiver, Paris’s boxing arena. As promoter Charlie McCarthy was to get a percentage of the gate, a percentage of the share of each fighter, and a percentage of the profits of the house. It looked pretty good to Charlie. Just before the fight, however, McCarthy heard that there was a plot afoot to double-cross him. Johnson, so the report went, had declared that he would notDiner ee eciretl at Shes oy ceetnbl Pebarres sr el ets MEL siRlhy | see ease ee Cela tee Teo PEM AT oat Ee eae a ete eee ae tt eee eT PETS vr ps¥iy) - = 3 5 5 aL Rede! a wy eieah on 34 | 36 THE PARIS THATS NOX give McCarthy a cent “for doin’ nothin’.”” Actually McCarthy had put in seven or eight months’ hard work on the proposition and all the preliminary publicity arrangements had been his. As soon as he heard the report, McCarthy deter- mined that it was true. So he went to a lawyer. The same day—the day of the fight—the deposits put up as forfeits by the parties to the contract, a matter of 200,000 francs, were tied up by court order on McCarthy’s petition. After the fight the other promoters tried to argue with McCarthy but the old man stood to his guns. He would either be paid in full, or nobody would get any money at all. The two hundred thousand francs, grown now by compound interest to nearly double the original amount, remained in the Paris bank, and neither Johnson, Moran nor the other promoters saw a cent of it until Charlie died. The irony of the situation was that Charlie Mc- Carthy in his later days was broke. His share of that four hundred thousand francs would have given him a competence sufficient for the remainder of his life. He was nearly eighty years old. A word from him that he would accept the settlement proposed in 1914 by the Cirque d’Hiver lessees would have untied that money and poured gold into Charlie’s hands. “But I shall never say it,” Charlie told me. “They shall pay me in full or none of us shall get anything.”IN THE GUIDE BOOKS Or ——_—_—— Since the war Charlie McCarthy never missed a fight, whether it was in a legitimate arena or an un- official scrap in Zelli’s or Kiley’s establishments in Montmartre. Six nights out of every week he was to be seen occupying his accustomed stool at the bar of one or other of these establishments, a bottle of the invariable Johnny Walker in front of him, after having started the evening earlier at Luigi’s. The seventh day he slept the clock round—his recipe for arriving at a ripe old age. The young ladies who work in Kiley’s and in Zelli’s called him Pop, and the male habitués called him Dad, and his snow-white, lion-like, handsome old head was often to be seen in confidential communication with that of some American whose name is a household word back in the States. His knowledge of Montmartre was probably equaled by no man. Once when dancing in a Montmartre café a newspaper man lost his watch. He described the girl to Charlie who recognized her from the description. The next day he called on the newspaperman and gave him his watch. “How did you do it?” demanded thhe astonished scribe. Charlie McCarthy’s face softened. “T went to her and told her that she oughtn’t to do things like that to friends of mine,” he said. “And of course she gave the watch back right away!”* : és eT est tts ASS _ en . Sa pstebtb elke ees the dal Rema Lee tase ietodae ral etelbeetadi ae nite Mane rriet eee Sel eed biaet Esato eek LTS Ta es heel aa TANTS pe at te! Papdits Sipe) ri t $5 i nh bat ' at i a ether ta id eee ry ei her TE SPARIS TEATS NOW What he did not add was that the girl had sobbed and pleaded for forgiveness and kissed his wrinkled old hand. He died in June, 1925, from apoplexy, in bed, and his funeral a few days later was one of the most impressive spectacles I have ever seen. Bankers and bartenders, lawyers and sports, ladies of easy virtue from Montmartre and many an honest wife, who had known and respected the old man, walked side by side through the streets of Paris, united in a common grief, The funeral expenses were paid mostly by Joe Zelli, proprietor of the Montmartre joy-palace where Charlie had spent most of his nights. Zelli and Luigi, the other café proprietor who had kept Charlie in drinks and food during the last two or three years of his life, were chief mourners. Tear-stained filles de joie crept silently into Trinité Church during the burial service, and there were men in silk hats and cutaways and men without collars sit- ting reverently in the pews. In the memory of living man no one had ever heard Charlie McCarthy speak ill of a human being—and | know of no better praise wherewith to leave him.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS CHAPTER IV LET’S STROLL UP THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES 1 WE have been up late the night before, and if we are true “Parisians’’ we have probably come home about six in the morning, it is probable that two cocktails have not been sufficient to give us the desired appetite. Let us therefore take a stroll through the most beautiful section of the most beautiful city, from the Tuileries across the Place de la Concorde, through the leafy Champs-Elysées, formerly flanked by the homes of the wealthy and now the bailiwick of trade- de-luxe, and on to the Arch of Triumph. I know of only one street on earth with pretensions to rival the Champs-Elysées. This is the Paséo de la Reforma in Mexico City. There is the same border of majestic mansions, the same fringe of trees in leaf, the same sparkling tingle in the air on the Paséo as on a spring morning in Paris. But there the resemblance ends. For the Paséo cannot boast of the beautiful ladies, the faultlessly attired men, the bewitching youth that throng the Champs-Elysées at the first hint of sunshine. In New York to smile at a strange woman is to be branded as a “masher” and more than likely to pay for40 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT the vulgarity in a police court. In Paris strange womankind invites your smile and pouts when you do not yield. The ancient enmity of the sexes vanishes in Paris with the first caress of spring. I have seen an elderly judge of an American Court deliberately wink at a little midinette in Paris, and this in broad daylight, with a brazen shamelessness which probably amazed himself. When you smile at a girl in Paris she does not rush over to the nearest policeman; she smiles gaily back. You have entered that mysterious freemasonry to which age, in Paris, is no longer an impassable barrier. The sidewalk smiles of Paris have nothing of insolence in them; they are friendly little gestures condoned by a mysterious god of informality, who touches Youth with its wand and makes it kin. On our way to the Tuileries we pass down the Rue de la Paix, where hundreds of girls are pouring from the dressmakers’ shops that line the richest short street in the world. They are hurrying over to one of the little cafés in the neighborhood, where their lunch will consist of a croissant, a cream-puff and a glass of beer. We pass by Doucet’s, Cartier’s, with its windows ablaze with priceless jewels; Worth’s, Paquin’s and then Coty’s—the perfume shop that stands a monu- ment to a poor Corsican boy who, choosing woman’s vanity as a short cut to wealth, rose to dominate an industry. On our left as we enter the Place Vendéme, with the bronze Napoleon column in the center, is Morgan, ee TaeIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 41 Harjes Bank, J. P. Morgan’s branch in Paris. On our right is the Ritz Hotel, inconspicuous in its fidelity to the architectural symmetry of the square. Farther along on one side is the Bankers Trust Company, built on the site of the once famous Hotel Bristol, where King Edward VII was accustomed to live, and on the other side the new Hotel du Rhin, leased and managed by the Old Colony Club of Boston as a means of assur- ing accommodation for its members when they visit Paris. Now we are in the Rue Castiglione, passing the Hotel Lotti, crossing the Rue du Mont Thabour, where is the entrance to the Hotel Meurice, and so on to the corner of the Rue de Rivoli, where the Continental Hotel offers its huge bulk. Crossing the Rue de Rivoli we enter the Tuileries Gardens, built for a queen and now the property of whosoever cares to stroll along its shaded avenues. Just now the benches are crowded with working-girls eating their lunch and reading paper-backed love- stories. Here and there lovers walk, arms entwined about each other’s waists, now and then stopping fora kiss; alone, quite alone in a universe of dreams. And so on to the Place de la Concorde, flanked on the left by the Seine and on the right by the Navy Ministry and the Crillon Hotel. Across the Seine to the left is the Chamber of Deputies, the French lower house of parliament. Next to the Chamber on the Quai d’Orsay is visible the Foreign Office, familiarly re-42 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT nein popeeiaathee Shotts ap coats oh ~egktH . Oe , 5 : MH . {TLE I 2; tar Mae ils SMe yee Te Vp el n i reabllehesslelr 3 pees ete heertbete ted bee) Coe aes ae et LL iets ae lalb odes pa tule tm rene y: Ont re hR eds Ny td a , . be hte md “4 ae ferred to as ‘““The Quai,” and if we look closely we can discern through the trees the windows of the famous Clock Room, where the Big Five drew up the Treaty of Versailles. Emerging from the Champs-Elysées to the avenue of that name, we perceive the meticulously garbed figure of Marquis Boni de Castellane, taking his morn- ing constitutional with Bou-Boule, his aged bulldog, at his heels. Boni’s morning walk up the Champs-Elysées from the Rond Point near where he lives, to the Etoile and back, is just as much entitled to be called a “sight” of Paris as is the Chamber of Deputies or the Quai d’Orsay. At eight o’clock every morning Boni is called by his valet for his scented bath. By twelve o'clock he is fully dressed and ready for his constitutional. He has on light striped trousers of impeccable cut and crease; a dark morning coat braided down the seams and around the collar ; a light fawn-colored over- coat; pointed shoes of black patent leather with un- usually high heels, and spats of such brilliant white- ness that they dazzle the eyes. Around his neck is the famous Boni collar, as famous in its own field as Henri Letellier’s collar is at night, or as Berry Wall's is at the races. It is a tall one-ply collar with large points that seem to bury themselves in the folds of the Marquis’s chin. Around the collar is a bow-tie of polka-dot design.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 43 Above this is Boni’s gracefully curling mustache of the exact hue of his waistcoat, and on the noble head is a gray derby poised at just the correct angle. “Bou-Boule!” exclaims the Marquis, as he gathers up the platinum-trimmed leash of red leather. The odd, wrinkled, old-mannish little bull-dog with the wise eyes looks up expectantly at his beautiful master. “Bou-Boule!” continues the Marquis, “marchons Bou-Boule and the Marquis are off. For years it has been an invariable procedure of the Marquis—his morning parade up the avenue. At almost every step there is a halt, hat raised slowly and gracefully to an acquaintance, a caution to the dog— “Bou-Boule, doucement!’—and a continuation of the stately stroll. I shall not soon forget the one and only occasion on which I accompanied the honorable Marquis on his promenade. There was Bou-Boule on one side, and I on the other, and of the two the dog was decidedly the more at ease. But it was an interesting walk at that, for Boni knew the history of every ancient build- ing that flanks the avenue—knew the history of the old and deplored the new. “Quelle horreur!” he exclaimed, pointing with his cane to the great building of the Crédit Commercial de France, which was built before the war as the Elysée Palace Hotel and which housed the Quarter- master’s Department of the A. E. F. during the war. p??bier ee pebiahersl oasis ceatbal Dees rete x ate aires ei i wae ; ; heap Emr Sabi Sas AGSAL aaLdhY scat oehnetbukerth bedbebehiiet Sede anes heist Lohse tel treat fats [tect Mereen Gey OraBREd | M u - re dita bm 4 od “yy wT ETelinitite te te a 4A THE PARIS THAT’S NOT “Do you remember,” he continued, “the charming little houses that were there before they built that— that monstrosity ?” I hastily assured him that I did not. Boni sighed. “Once,” he said, “we French had the best sense of perspective in the world. Now all that is gone. Paris is changing from a beautiful city into an ugly one. Good taste is departing and vulgarity has crept in.” There are three big hotels on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, Claridge’s on the right and the Carle- ton and Chambord on the left. Claridge’s is a flam- boyant palace which can be counted upon at any season of the year as housing at least one motion-picture star. Just now she is Mae Murray. A year ago it was Peggy Joyce. Jack Dempsey and Fatty Arbuckle have lived there. So does Jake Shubert when he is in Paris, and Archie Selwyn, and Arthur Hopkins, and Pola Negri, and Gilbert Miller, and Avery Hopwood, and that wonderful little old man, Adolph Zukor. Towering at the top of the avenue is the Arch of Triumph, in a great circular space called by the French the “Etoile” or Star, from which radiate nine stately avenues. If we are not tired we may walk up the Avenue du Bois, most opulent of all, passing on our way the marble home of Anna Gould, Duchess of Talley- rand, and continue as far as the Bois de Boulogne, open-air playground of Paris.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 4s Smart people canter by on horseback; nurses and prettily dressed children are out in force. But by this time we are hungry and over there at the Porte Dauphine is a taxicab waiting to take us to Ciro’s.- er pemibeetheetlosrs ap \e ceeibal Loa Te. Werey nT ee a - = ‘stom ok = ares ts poet ee etabett odie tous ite ee DC eE as abt Lee ase tae Tel tt ogeag | - . Tr ’ 7 wr tel edit Tere wort. ; A Ys 3 } ORE ati tet teeta ys - oy! bent ¥ Xe ‘ ‘ ees THE PARIS THAT’S NOT CHAPTER V AND THEN DROP IN AT CIRO’S FOR LUNCH IRO’S restaurant is on the Rue Daunou, most American street of Paris. It is a white-and-gold- fronted establishment with a not too imposing entrance, a carpeted lobby and two main dining-rooms. We have timed our arrival for one-thirty, when the restaurant is just filling up. There are one or two things one may not do at Ciro’s—not, that is, if one is a member of the social flock, obeying the mysterious instinct which keeps blind minnows together in shallow water. First, one should not arrive before one o'clock. One-thirty is better and two o'clock is not too late. You should reserve your table, however, for—espe- cially during the spring season—they are at a premium after one-thirty. Secondly, always supposing that you desire to do what is “the” thing, you should refuse all attempts of the maitre d’hotel to lead you in to the “big’’ room, and firmly insist upon a table in the smaller one, called the “bar” because the bar is situated at one end of it. The small room isn’t really small at all; it can ac- commodate thirty-five tables comfortably. But society likes to be as crowded as possible, so it chooses this room in preference to the other, slightly larger.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 47 Three years ago, however, the chic thing was to eat in the “big’’ room, but suddenly and mysteriously the rule changed. The fact of the matter is that the scramble for tables in the ‘‘small’’ room when the other is practically empty—the two are separated only by a partition three feet high—is a pathetic sidelight on the sad struggle of society to go where one sees and is seen. Many the American with pretensions to social dignity who has walked out of Ciro’s sooner than be seen lunching “among the tourists.” Americans are never really at home in Paris or else- where unless somebody’s elbow is jammed into their ribs and the leg of a neighboring chair is entangled with their feet, the while smoke from somebody’s cigar wafts across their omelet. The best band in Montmartre, for instance, is in a place where hardly “anybody” ever goes. Your true stepper-out glances in, sees a perfect floor with yards of space for dancing, hears perfect jazz, then clutches his girl tightly by the arm and hurries her to a tiny and stuffy place upstairs where the band is bad, the air worse and the floor so over-crowded with Argen- tines and what-not that anything like dancing is an utter impossibility. Ciro’s has a curious history. Some years before the war old Commodore James Gordon Bennett was in the habit of taking a morning chop at a certain restaurant in Monte Carlo, then a smart place to be seen in.48 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT The head waiter in this place was a little Italian- born Egyptian named Ciro. I have never heard what his first name was and doubt whether anyone else has. James Gordon Bennett liked the little fellow so well that he insisted upon being served by him in person. So when one day Ciro counted his accumulated tips and decided that he had sufficient to open an establish- ment of his own, Gordon Bennett became his first customer. Now Monte Carlo, then as now, was peculiar in that the fashionable section was confined to a narrow radius of a hundred yards or so around the square fronting on the Casino. Hotels and restaurants estab- lished outside that charmed circle, no matter how well advertised and run, never succeeded in attracting wealthy custom. A modern instance of this peculiarity is to be found in the huge Capitol Restaurant and dance-café, one of the most beautiful resorts of its kind on the European continent, which has been a con- sistent failure because it is perhaps fifty feet away from the beaten track. Ciro, therefore, had bided his time until the building adjoining the restaurant in which he worked became vacant. It was a small building, but Ciro believed in modest beginnings. When he opened, not only Gordon Bennett but many other society people forsook the old restaurant and gave him their patronage. The new place put one over on its more affluent neighbor by installing tables on the terrace in front,IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 49 where people could eat their lunch in the sunshine and watch strollers on the promenade. From the beginning Gordon Bennett had his table on this terrace, and so regularly was he to be seen there eating his habitual chop that he became a sort of noon-time landmark. So that when one day a police official arrived and told Ciro that he must remove his tables from the terrace because they were obstructing the sidewalk—an excuse prompted by the rival next door—Commodore Bennett flew into one of his characteristic tempers. It is recounted by those who were there that he threw one of Ciro’s best plates at the policeman and then ranted up and down the sidewalk for an hour, calling down anathema upon the restaurant next door, upon the chief of the police, upon the casino authorities, upon the Prince of Monaco—who happened to be his very good friend—and even upon Monte Carlo itself. Presently, when the excited and irascible old gentle- man had calmed down he informed Ciro that he would return the next day for lunch and would sit on that terrace at his usual table and eat his usual chop, and he defied all the policemen on the Riviera to stop him. But when he arrived the next day he found the terrace demolished under police order. The spectacle then became tragic. James Gordon Bennett would eat his chop on the sidewalk or he would eat no chop at all, no, not now or ever afterward, which to a man who had eaten a chop daily for forty years was quite a threat.50 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT Ciro was in despair. He did not want to lose his best customer, but then also he was afraid lest the Commodore start throwing things again. It had cost Ciro something to have had one policeman hit, and he had no burning desire to subsidize the entire force of Monaco. Finally he approached Bennett, stepping very warily, and said deprecatingly: “It is not my fault, Commodore. If I only owned that restaurant next door, now, I i “Then,” roared Bennett at the top of his voice, “why the devil don’t you own it? Come on with me, I'll settle this matter for good and all.” So saying Commodore Bennett, Ciro walking on his toes a safe distance behind, entered the neighboring eating-place and bought it on the spot. “Now,” he bellowed to Ciro, thrusting the receipt in his hands, “now you own the durn place. Where’s my chop?” A few days later the two restaurants were amalga- mated and Ciro’s of today at Monte Carlo stands upon the site of one of them. Ciro himself sold out before Bennett died, and the place was acquired by an English syndicate, following which Bennett was instrumental in the founding of another restaurant, the Reserve at Beaulieu, one of the finest in the world, and Ciro’s saw him but rarely. The new syndicate was ambitious and sought about for wider fields to conquer. A few years before, aIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 51 restaurant had been opened on the ground floor of the Hotel Daunou, but the enterprise had not been very successful. Ciro’s took the place over and scored al- most an instantaneous success. Later on the same syndicate established a restaurant- club in London, but the restaurant of the same name in New York has no connection with the European estab- lishments, which now number four—one at Monte Carlo, one at Paris, one at London and one at Deau- ville. A fifth is under way at Biarritz. The original syndicate that owned Ciro’s has long since changed hands. There was some clever financing shortly after the war, the company was reorganized, and when the smoke cleared away the original syndi- cate’s secretary, Clement Hobson, was discovered to be principal owner. Hobson and his eyeglass are prominent landmarks in social Paris. Today Ciro’s is more than a mere restaurant. It is a center of fashionable Parisian life. American and English people use it as they would, at home, a club. Here they entertain, talk business and meet their friends. In fact, Ciro’s is a club—of unlimited membership but with a cachet all its own. Here society and the stage find a common level. Indian maharajahs mingle with real-estate promoters from California and college boys from Springfield, Illinois. The broad accent of a Manchester cotton magnate blends with a melodious flow of cultured52 THE PARIS THAT'S NOT: Italian, spoken by a marchese. At one table is a notorious Parisian beauty talking gossip with a Rus- sian grand duke, while the next table is occupied by the dignified wife of a New England senator and her two débutante daughters. Across the room is a Polish- born princess from Hollywood, lunching with the nephew of a deposed king. A famous editor calls a greeting to a noted lawyer whose specialty is Paris divorce. Surrounded by satellites at the bar is a young Londoner who has been busy for a year gambling away the fortune left him by an uncle; casually nodding to him, a concealed scorn in his eyes, is the man who owns the casinos and club where most of the money has gone. It is colorful and enchanting, a combination of the famous restaurants of New York, London, Rome, Madrid, Port Said, Constantinople, Moscow, San Fran- cisco and—Kansas City. Watching these people, one is convinced that they have come more to watch, show themselves and talk than to eat and drink, despite the excellent cuisine. Through the lines of tables walk two incongruous figures—a Bahamas negro in Turkish garb who will tell you that he is Egyptian and pretend to speak a broken English as he serves the Turkish coffee ;anda native of British India, a solemn old man in turban and horn-rimmed glasses, who, you can see, thinks these white folk he serves a mighty inferior lot, and who might be a swami in disguise.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 53 The genius of Ciro’s is Julian, head maitre d’hotel. A modern fakir of the caravansary, he can wave his hands and make two tables blossom where only one grew before. There somehow always seems room for just one more table in Ciro’s, but you must be as a blood-brother to Julian in order to obtain it. Julian is pretty much of an autocrat and rules his little kingdom with an iron hand. His experienced eye, darting everywhere, spots the smallest error in service. He is the only man I have ever seen who can swear in a whisper. Second in command is Maurice. Julian’s worried face but rarely twists into a reluctant smile; Maurice is the jolly member of the reception committee. He is small, dark, slender and has two black twinkling eyes which endear him to you the instant you see him. He never forgets a name and has an uncanny faculty for remembering when he saw you last—though it may have been years before. Maurice runs the Monte Carlo restaurant in winter and Julian runs Ciro’s at Deauvilly in August, and be- tween times both direct the main restaurant in Paris. Under them they have two chief aids, Gaillard, who is shepherd of the little room, and Gaspard, who is in charge of service in the big room. Then there are Henri, chef de personnel, Marius, Michel and Jean, three perfect waiters, and André, the bartender. - You will find their names very useful to you when you come to Paris.54 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT If memory is an important qualification for a waiter, it is an essential for the smart young men who adopt the profession of chasseur. As we enter Ciro’s the head chasseur will call us by name if he has seen us before; if not he will have learned it before we come out. Likewise with the man who looks after the cloakroom, for it’s the smart thing in Paris not to accept a check for your overcoat and hat but to say your name instead, which reminds me of a féte at Poiret’s last New Year’s Eve, when people demanding their overcoats were met by the reply, “But, monsieur, we have had no overcoats left since half-past twelve !’”’ Turning to the left after giving up our outer cover- ing we arrive at the bar, a small one now lined by ladies and gentlemen who are awaiting companions for luncheon. This being a convenient place we will pause for the proverbial “just one more—make it a Bronx this time, please, Joe,” and watch our victims as they come in. As might be expected, the first man to come blunder- ing towards us, his; smife taking up the entire four- foot passage, is Flevenéé O’ Neil. Now, Florence O’Neil is the ex-Pittsburgher with the widest acquaintance in France. It is a fact worth recording that most Pittsburghers come from Pitts- burgh. Some of them even go back there. Florence did, once, after twenty-three years, but he stayed only a week. O’Neil’s father founded a Pittsburgh newspaper,IN THE GUIDE BOOKS gc and ever since then Florence has been a newspaperman. If he could set down all the stories he tells he would be a good one too. He is a pal of Alexander P. Moore, United States Ambassador to Spain. In appearance O’Neil is about five feet eight inches tall, two feet nine inches broad at the broadest part, and has a complexion like that of an English hunting squire. Also the vocabulary. Long before the Sarajevo signal Florence was in Europe, working as a correspondent for his father’s paper. In the meantime he was building up a reputa- tion as a teller of smoke-room stories to this day rivaled only by Gilbert White and a few others. When Florence cleared his throat before the war there would be an expectant hush and an exodus of ladies through the door. Now there is still the ex- pectant hush. Florence, or Florry as he is usually called, has an unvarying preamble to his tales. He will rush up to you with that tremendous smile of his, tap you on the shoulder, clear his throat and start: “Drexel was telling me last night and I were dining and he said e They are always good stories. The only man who says he has heard them before is Lou Hauser and he does not count. It is worth watching Florence O’Neil’s progress through Ciro’s on a crowded day. He will stop at each table and tell a story, and so remarkable are his ” Or, eAStori - ry ¥ < J i" - 7 vy -. Tt yy; . “ ~ 7 Te ed ~~ hilt [Patten ta VAT a ee PU AV re) see al toc Lait ceaedh care tel bea TONES ot tt ryt bed My Sones F ft Ee : 3 . 4 es = : bet AR iad oad 14 be * y t i & Ht 56 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT powers that once we checked up on him and found that in seventeen tables he had repeated himself only twice! If you don’t know Florence in Ciro’s, or if Florence doesn’t know you, which is not quite exactly the same thing, you are very small potatoes indeed.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS CHAPTER VI WHAT THE WELL-DRESSED YOUNG MAN IS DRINKING ITH the arrival of Florence O’Neil, business is beginning for the day at Ciro’s. Muriel Miles, one of the loveliest American women on the Continent, is immediately behind Florence. She is attired in a Callot creation of black crépe de Chine, black toque with green feathers, green jade earrings, green jade hatpins and green jade brooch. This combination of black and jade is habitual to Muriel. She is a creature from the hotbeds of luxury. From the tip of her golden head to the diamond- studded heels of her slippers she is the supreme illus- tration of what some women can get out of life if they really try—and care to. The next lady to come within our orbit is Viola Cross, whose New York name was Vi Kraus. Viola is a youthful and wistful beauty and a charming con- versationalist. But her principal claim to fame is that she is one of the few American women who can legiti- mately claim to have set the styles in Paris. It is to Vi Cross, more than to any other woman," ep Mee aE | rise in Re TAT ep is acres THE PARIS THAT'S NOT : Y wy bd The >? _ . * . Pr - cree. kl yeeysYite Tite] shel acct Loi be dodk alte ted Looted ae Sh EE ot porebe £44 ~" 4 ~ a o 4 bs A : i Fads tf) eile neg the thal fear Ya: ime ARS BAITS: NOE: 62 actually no alternative; William does toddle—Mr. Cromwell, bowing profoundedly, said: “Your Majesty - Queen Marie bent her gaze steadily on a point in the stone wall of the garden. “Your Majesty,“ began William again, coughing discreetly. Then Marie walked away, having never shifted her gaze to the unfortunate lawyer. She had seen him, however, and the tale continues that she asked her court chamberlain who the “strange old gentleman downstairs is.” “Your Majesty,” replied the chamberlain, “that is Mr. William Nelson Cromwell, who recently gave a million leis to the Rumanian poor.” What the Queen said is not on record, but what is positively known is that Mr. Cromwell and the Queen lunched together the very next day. Even queens are not precisely mad. With all his royalty complex, Cromwell is a very warm-hearted old man. He is, however, as absent- minded as he is generous. Some time ago, he gave a sum of money running into the millions of francs to the Museum of the Legion of Honor at Paris. Largely by Cromwell’s donation the museum was completed and opened. The commit- tee in charge thought a dinner in his honor would be proper. Accordingly the dinner was organized and Cromwell, much gratified, sent his acceptance.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 63 Came nine o’clock on the night of the dinner, and Cromwell had not arrived. Nine-thirty—still no guest of honor. The dinner had been scheduled for eight o’clock. When ten o’clock arrived the chairman gave the signal to proceed and meanwhile sent a messenger to call Cromwell’s hotel. At eleven o’clock the eccentric philanthropist arrived, beaming all over with the vast friendliness for everyone that is his distinguishing trait. He was still in his day clothes and explained that he had only just remembered the appointment. The notable company of Frenchmen, which included the President of France, bowed politely. They had heard of the strange customs of these rich Americans— and their present guest was very rich indeed. And when the next day a letter from Cromwell’s secretary arrived stating that the venerable lawyer had decided to double his subscription, they forgave him entirely. Lord Castlerosse, smoking the inevitable cigar, has the jolliest party in the room at a corner table. It is always jolly wherever Castlerosse is; he is the happiest Irish peer J] have ever seen. He is constantly seen in the presence of Americans, and is reputed—although this I cannot affirm—to understand their jokes. The languid, severe but rather fine-looking man in that remote corner, all alone and looking bored to death, is none other than Count Salm von Hoog- straeten, the “Ludy” who sprang into prominence when~ - — ¢ dine x = oaee AG ttt. - ribeseeeeethat thos ar ret is vata Lond Ae etrbs aa) nT ae aS Seats denen bAboces ba loaerteacieesitecints: itiieale porihbaphTak » ~ en ¥ ao 64 __ THE PARIS THAT’S NOT he jilted his fiancée, Mrs. Grace Sands Coffin, and married Millicent Rogers, heiress to a Standard Oil fortune estimated at forty million dollars. Whatever may be said about Salm—and there’s plenty being said, no doubt about that—there isn’t any question but that, at forty-two, he is still the very picture of an Austrian cavalry officer. An appealing air of romance hangs about him. Ah! He is no longer alone; Samuel Goldwyn, the film merchant, has joined him. They talk earnestly. Perhaps some day we shall hear of a new star in the firmament of Hollywood. The extremely American-looking man over near the door, puffing a cigar and talking to Julian is Pierre Wertheimer, the owner of Epinard and Bourjois. Bourjois is a perfume, epinard is a vegetable, but the one Pierre owns is a horse. Americans remember the international races in the United States in 1924, when Epinard attempted to wrest the world’s championship from Zev, owned by Harry Sinclair. It cost a lot of money to transport Epinard and his jockey, my friend Everett Haynes, to America, but Pierre Wertheimer is not a man to let money stand in the way of consideration of sport. He took the horse to America and if it was fairly consistently beaten, it was probably because a French horse is like a Frenchman or Frenchwoman—never at its best away from its native soil. Pierre Wertheimer is as at home in New York as heIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 6s is in Paris, where he possesses a magnificent home on the plutocratic Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. He speaks English without an accent and is a favorite among the ladies of the American colony. When, one Christmas, eight Ziegfeld beauties were stranded in Paris after having been fired from the Moulin Rouge, it was Pierre Wertheimer who, in col- laboration with Henri Leteillier, proprietor of the Journal, and the Lillaz brothers, owners of a big de- partment store, came to their rescue and saw that a big Christmas tree loaded with presents cheered them up. It was probably this occasion that made beautful Helen McDonald, one of the eight, rush into print with the opinion: “French millionaires are ever so much nicer than American millionaires.’ Though just why, the dark and pulchritudinous Helen did not state. The handsome couple begging for a table in the small room are the Eugene Kellys of New York. You will remember that young Kelly drew an exceptionally lucky chance in the marriage lottery when he courted and wed Marie-Louise Baldwin, one of “Lucky” Bald- win’s heiresses, who was as beautiful as she was rich— a combination, by the way, fiction notwithstanding, that is not nearly so rare as formerly. This in some cases at least, may be thanks to the many operations which create artificial beauty: skin-lifting, line-erasers, nose and eyebrow straightening, chin-molding, mouth shortening and what-not, most of which are within the reach only of the wealthy.66 THES PARIS TAATCS NOT ee There is one beauty surgeon in Paris who even cuts fat from portly people with a knife. It would be edify- ing, no doubt, to learn how many valiant women have offered up their bodies to this sacrifice. Henri Dutay and his Broadway wife, Grace Field, are at their usual table on the right of the entrance. Henri is a dark and wealthy young Frenchman who married the sprightly and charming Grace after a whirlwind courtship that took him twice across the Atlantic ocean. Grace at that time was an actress. They now live at Fontainebleau, whence Henri drives every morning to Paris in a snorting racing-car of American make. Besides Grace, Henri’s passion in life is the discovery, in association with A. de Veil- Picard, of a non-puncturable pneumatic tire. Veil- Picard is the old gentleman who was absinthe king of France before the war. Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Munn of Philadelphia have a table near the Dutays. Mrs. Charlie Munn is the lady with whom the Prince of Wales spent most of his time dancing in Paris. It was difficult to avoid noticing this, Mrs. Munn being five feet nine and the P. O. W. (as they call him here), only five feet three and a quarter. Even if his Highness had worn his crown Mrs. Munn would have been visible over the top of it.- But the Prince always dances with tall women. I remember another man, General Funston, who had the same preference. The beautiful blonde sitting with the Italian-lookingIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 67 nobleman at a front table is June Day, the dancer— not the Los Angeles June Day but the London one. She is the lady who was named by the Duchess of Westminster in her suit for divorce against the Duke. “T was never more than a friend to the Duke,” June told me one day at Nice. The Duke himself will make a book for somebody one of these days. The richest peer in England, he is also much disliked by his noble brethren because they think he is far too flighty in his friendships and too democratic in his ways. Elsa Maxwell has a party of eight. Elsa, as we shall see later on, is the most solid Parisienne of us all. Just now she is entertaining Mr. and Mrs. Axel Wickfeld. Mr. Wickfeld was a diplomat in Washington and married Mrs. Mabel Moore, once Mabel Swift of Chicago, while at the Capital. She is the first woman who ever smoked a cigar in the Ritz. The Ritz— and especially the head waiter—was a lot longer get- ting over it than Mrs. Wickfeld was. The Wicktelds maintain a lodge in Scotland and when Mrs. Wickfeld, née Swift, is through shocking Paris she travels to the highlands to give the laddies a thrill. The small room is filling up slowly with people we shall certainly meet somewhere on the road from the Ritz to Montmartre. There is Laura Carter Gould, divorced wife of George J. Gould, Junior, rushing in breathless to an engagement with one of the Bassualdo. ‘ . * “~~ we 1m s < . = - o og ets od eaeenihes tbo sir setihel Lo TTT) RNS TT he as pee eo ibe ed ee Prati tt ha eee en Abed ees o SMa ial Meta ott 4 ee 68 TILE ARIS TITATES NOW boys, brother of the one who married Leonora Hughes. Here is Erskine Gwynne, lunching with Mae Murray. There is his mother, Mrs. Helen Gwynne, cousin of Cornelius Vanderbilt. Jake Shubert has a corner table with other theatrical folk. Fanny Ward and Jack Dean are talking to Florence O’Neil. Mrs. Jerome Preston, Erskine Gwynne’s sister, who used to be Mrs. Horace Allen, is there with her new husband. Countess Loranda Piccio is with another party—wot of Italian race, as is her husband. Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Selwyn are lunching Mary Lewis, the lyric soprano who amazed Paris with the beauty of her voice and figure, when she starred in the revival of “The Merry Widow.” Quite an ordinary day at Ciro’s, heart of American Paris,IN-THE GUIDE BOOKS CHAPTER VIL THUS THE MONEY GOES WA TER lunch the current emerging from Ciro’s, Delmonico’s, Henry’s, the Café de Paris and other restaurants divides into two streams. Most of the men go to the races and nearly all the ladies go shopping. Shops in Paris may broadly be divided into two classes: those where Americans buy and those where they don’t buy. Just as every foreigner in Paris, after a week or so, has discovered his own “‘best little restaurant in town,” so every American woman longs to find her own small couturiére and milliner who will make her clothes ““Sust like in the big places” for a minimum cost. There is a perpetual fiction that Paris is full of these small shops where philanthropists are apparently ready to sell gowns and hats at ridiculous prices, but several years’ experience in going the rounds with my wife, who is French, convinces me that where prices are low quality is very apt to be low also. The small cheap milliner is likely to be a copyist, and while you may buy Paquin or Worth models in some places for a small percentage of what the original creators charge for them, the materials are usually of inferior quality.oy epee ceili srt catia] Lol on pe hOiba a: ap ACSA” SiLiiy | 4 geec tee oasis Voted TiC ieee Crm eel al seat an a eee aol a er rebres ts. . ts beep eeee i - hia a, beth ety Yi feo RY = rs 70 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT This is not to say that there is not a grading of shops where quality may be identical and prices widely different. In these cases you will find that the expen- sive places pay higher rents and charge for their name and location. A hat bought on the Rue de la Paix will inevitably be higher-priced than one bought, let us say, on the Rue des Petits-Champs a few yards distant. In fact, the variations in prices are sometimes sur- prising. It is exceedingly unwise to buy an expensive article in Paris without first comparing prices in a few shops differently situated. Under the new rent law many pre-war houses are still paying a bare fiity percent increase over the old rent, which gives them a tremendous advantage over newer establishments in the matter of price. As far as hats go the principal price-fixing considera- tions are rent, taxes and salaries. Cost of materials figure for very little in the ultimate price of even the smartest creations. What is far more important than the material is the loyalty of the designer to the house, for clever hat modelists capable of creating styles do not number more than twenty or thirty all told, and their services are furiously competed for. As it is the dream of every newspaper writer some day to earn independence from editorial ukase by his pen, so it is the ambition of every hat and dress modelist to own some day her own establishment. They are perpetually seeking commanditavres, orIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 71 backers—generally, it should be confessed, rich men whose interest in them is more sentimental than com- mercial—and when they find them, they do not rest until they are in business for themselves. Thus it is true that occasionally one runs across a small millinery establishment on a side street where exclusive models can be bought at a quarter the price of the Rue de la Paix because the proprietress herself has just emigrated from that street. I would not waste your time looking for these rare oases in a desert of high prices. For every small milliner whose hats are original creations there are hundreds who are rank copyists. “The actual materials in many hats I sell do not cost me twenty francs,’ said pretty Madeleine Lemaire frankly to me one day. Her shop near the Rue Tronchet on the Rue des Mathurins is one of the few small establishments where styles are definitely set. “I can take a square of felt—like this,” explained Madeleine, suiting the action to the words, “and— like this’ —with a deft twist or two—“produce a shape which’’—here a strip of ribbon dexterously twisted and pinned—“I can sell for two hundred francs.” “Sounds like rank robbery to me,” I said, candidly, thinking of my wife’s hat bills. “Yes? Well, I'll tell you a secret. If I charged any less I wouldn’t pay my expenses. My rent here is five times what it was before the war. My em- ployees are paid well, and I have to feed several ofwe sa r x x ae ee Pre li. Perry ee peebeetb esl ott sur cee eal lon kL hens a ACNE, Wardle. | ane Rtin Sed Eis PLA WA ci TTA gh sets aoe het ily Frey rey ial lalieeen ete , . f 72 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT ee them. And you must remember that the selling season for hats and dresses is very short—scarcely six months out of twelve.” The hat that Marie-Madeleine, as she calls herself, sells for two hundred francs would cost a thousand, five hundred yards nearer the Opera. There are three dressmaking seasons in Paris. One is January and February, when spring and summer novelties are shown; one is in May, when late summer innovations are introduced; and one—the most im- portant—is in August when fall and winter fashions are revealed. During these months Paris is filled with buyers from all over the world. The United States and England lead with Germany a close third. Approximately two thousand American buyers visit Paris three times an- nually. Many have been traveling backwards and for- wards across the Atlantic for twenty and thirty years. Their purchases run into the hundreds of millions of francs yearly. Principally they buy from the big houses, but there are scores of instances where a shrewd American buyer has discovered genius in an out-of-the-way spot, and by consistent buying, elevated an unknown establishment into the first ranks. During the war Charles C. Kurzman, who has now retired, was in charge of entertainment sections of the Y. M.C. A. His duties took him to the British front, where he was billeted in a small village behind the lines. Walking down the main street he passed a tinyIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 73 milliner’s shop and, habit being strong upon him, he entered and glanced over the collection. Immediately Kurzman, who possesses the sixth “style sense’ as it is called to the mth degree, knew that he had stumbled across something big. He in- quired and found that two sisters ran the establish- ment. Explaining his identity to them he said that, if they would move to Paris, he would guarantee suffi- cient orders to pay their expenses. The sisters took his advice, opening first in a tiny flat on the top floor of a building on the Rue Louis-le- Grand. Kurzman was as good as his word and gave them orders running into more than a hundred thousand francs. Since then the sisters have moved several times and are now established in a magnificent location over- looking the Louvre. They are among the five or six first houses of Paris. Similarly, many of the largest dressmakers owe their initial success to the courage and acumen of American buyers. Jean Patou, who caused a huge controversy in the dressmaking world by bringing mannequins from New York to his establishment in the Rue St. Florentin, told me that his styles were “frankly Parisian, with an eye to America.” “Which means “That American women now exert an undeniable in- fluence on the world’s fashions,’ he admitted. ‘‘We 3)74 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT dressmakers like to dress American women. They have a certain flair for wearing clothes that the Pari- sienne herself cannot boast. Where the Frenchwoman scores is in the expression of her individuality through her clothes. American women buy and wear what they are given to wear. Parisiennes never buy a model without changing it in some way so that it becomes a dress created in appearance especially for them. “Long ago we realized that the American women will not wear the extreme Paris styles, so we were forced to consider their tastes. And it is undeniable that the result has been in favor of a cleaner, more supple line. American girls are born clothes-carriers. Unlike the Parisiennes, they insist upon one thing—their gowns must be practical. If the American influence had been felt preponderantly before the war such fashions as the hobble-skirt would almost certainly never have been in- troduced.” There are some hundred or so dressmaking houses in Paris which hold regular openings. Of these a bare dozen are definite creators of styles. Of these in turn several will go down into fashion history as originators of fashions which revolutionized the business. During this century there have been only five radical changes in style. The first of these was in 1909 or 1910 and came about in a curious way. Attempts were being made by several dressmakers to introduce the Directoire fashion, but they met withIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 70 little success until Margaine Lacroix, an old established firm, sent several mannequins to the races dressed in long, graceful Directoire gowns which were so tight that they split at the side when the mannequins tried to walk. Huge crowds surrounded them and the manne- quins were forced to flee, for a woman’s leg was rarely to be seen in those days. The incident obtained tremendous publicity through- out the world; Margaine Lacroix and other dress- makers seized their chance and the slit skirt came into being. Following the Directoire style period came Paul Poiret, who leaped into world-wide prominence as the creator of the “minaret” style. This, too, was due to hazard, for Poiret did not dream originally of asking ordinary women to wear the minaret dresses. They were created by Cora Laparcerie in a play at the Renais- sance Theatre. The play was a success, and women in the audience, noting the beautiful effect of the minaret gowns, besought Poiret to make them some on the same lines. It was done, and Poiret found that he had made style history. In one airy bound he had leaped from the ranks of the costumers into those of the dress- makers. Since that day Poiret has often tried to repeat his triumph but has always failed. Creating a style is something like painting a chef-d’oeuvre or writing a best-seller. One always tries to do it again and seldom succeeds.76 THE PAGS THATS NOT Poiret’s concern, which has moved from its old quar- ters in the Rue Victor-Emmanuel to more spacious and imposing premises on the Rond Point des Champs- Elysées, has now been taken into the group controlled by George Auber, the same which controls the houses of Agnes, Lenief and several others. As regards Americans Poiret will go down into his- tory as the man who said that American women could not dress properly. “They can buy clothes, but they don’t know how to wear them,” he asserted. This was an obviously untrue statement deliberately made for publicity purposes. Poiret’s bitterness against Amer- icans has increased since then. He never loses an op- portunity of telling his opinion of them—which is a curious state of affairs considering that what success Poiret has had in his business has largely been due to the support of American buyers. During the war Poiret went in the army as a chauffeur. Jean Patou, who was to take Poiret’s place after the war as the “leading” dressmaker, was an infantry officer on the Balkan front. After the minaret style came the pannier style. This was a genuine creation of the house of Chéruit, which has since maintained its place in the very front rank of dressmakers. The next innovation, which arrived two years before the war, was due to the Baroness de Vaughan, mor- ganatic wife of Leopold I of Belgium. Baroness de Vaughan was at that time the reigningIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 77 queen of Parisian society. During the high season at Trouville—Deauville was not yet fashionable—she was the only woman permitted to drive down the Rue de Paris at noon. The Rue de Paris, like the Rue Gon- taut-Biron in Deauville now, was the fashionable pro- menade of the apéritif hour, and white cords were stretched across either end to stop traffic. But the Baroness de Vaughan was allowed to drive imperiously along the street in her open victoria, accompanied by the two children that had been born to her and his majesty, bowing right and left just as if she had been a real queen. One day, the Baroness was sitting in her accustomed chair beneath the trees at the races in Deauville. She was wearing a gown sent that day to her by Callot Sceurs, the Paris dressmakers. The gown was an in- novation in that the slit had been transferred from the side to the front, so that when the Baroness crossed her knees or walked she showed a good portion of her legs. Now, the Baroness was proud of her legs, and with reason. They were said to be the most shapely limbs in France. So that when a crowd gathered about her chair at the races and gazed, fascinated, the morganatic wife of the Belgian king felt pleased. As soon as she reached home she telegraphed Callot Sceurs to make all her gowns with the same slit. And soon fashionable women all over the world were showing their legs too. From that to the short skirt and the chemise gown was quite a step, but a logical one. Chief credit for thewey tw, PAW TAR PARIS THATS NOX LURE f= MMA TA FAT ase hs Ls pe ap a eT VLA sts 7 ed eet hm ape RYT Vg T | ele DdagleLa 4 i , . — 7 N . . ra rt 4 - a ' “1 4 ¥ os eer introduction of the chemise gown must be given to Gabrielle Chanel, the beautiful couturiére who once was reported fiancée to Grand Duke Dmitri of Russia and who now, it is said, expects to marry the Duke of Westminster. For ten years or more there have been no startling changes in fashions, even the abolition of the straight line, due to Jeanne Lanvin and Viola Cross, as al- ready related, being nothing more than a natural evolu- tion. Many of the largest Paris dressmakers do not pre- tend to be style innovators. Jean Patou, for instance, will tell you that he is a business man and prefers to interpret the styles instead of changing them. Paquin and Worth have never been responsible for a definite change in style, but both houses enjoy an ever-increas- ing patronage. Madame Paquin actively directs the business now that her husband is dead. Worth is principally known for his court gowns. It would be needless and pretentious to name here all the large dressmakers. They can be found listed in any number of guides. But a few hints may not be out of place. Admission to many of the large houses can be ob- tained only on invitation. These invitations are easy to obtain by writing for them. It is especially difficult to visit the collections during the two or three high weeks of each buying season, and the best months for the ordinary woman to purchase her wardrobe areIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 79 April, May and June; and September, October and November. The months of December and July are sales months, when the remnants of collections are sold out at bar- gain prices for cash. Anyone can attend these sales, the dates of which are announced in the newspapers. Some of the dressmakers now hold rehearsals of their collections the day before the formal opening and these rehearsals are attended by the press and the élite of Parisian society. Champagne and light sup- pers are served, and occasionally there is music and a dance to follow. Patou originated this custom in 1921. Invitations are difficult to obtain. It is useless for a woman desiring a dress in a hurry to attempt to purchase one during the buying months. Professional buyers and commissionnaires always have first call, Even if a woman succeeds in ordering a dress early in August she will probably not receive it until late in September, because the dressmaker will be too busy filling the orders of professionals, When a woman enters a big dressmaking establish- ment she will find herself in a large room lined with chairs. She will be lucky to find a place to sit down if she arrives later than two o’clock in the afternoon. She is handed a catalog in which all the dresses shown are numbered and named. As a mannequin en- ters the room the number of the dress she is wearing is called out and it is up to the prospective purchaser to make her choice. When she has settled upon one orrfrh bit teeciesntbes Lots) «1 eetea) Debaienes ir eee shee sALLby | penetrate no Lethe tee) La alt bet oe tabte tel od TE Vala Ol Erp th Tes sePred , ~ ‘ 4 ix, tay : eh Meet on 4 “+ * = AF 80 THE PARIS THATS WOT, more gowns she gives their numbers to her vendeuse— at nearly all the big houses the vendeuses speak English —and she may then, if she likes, see them again and discuss their merits. Prices vary according to the fame of the house and the materials and embroidery used. An average price for a frock for morning and afternoon wear might be placed at one hundred and fifty dollars. Evening gowns run from two hundred to five hundred dollars. During the sales the same gowns are sold at discounts running from fifty to eighty percent. Some Americans persist in the notion that it is proper to wrangle over prices. Yet it is rare that a really big dressmaker will consent to come down in his price. Dressmaking in Paris since the war has become more and more of a business and less and less of an art. To get a comprehensive idea of the newest Paris styles it is not necessary to visit all the dressmakers in turn. A better way is to visit the paddock at Long- champs or Auteuil on a Sunday or other smart race day. Here the panorama of fashion unfolds itself in all its color and brilliance. It is important too to have a view of the ensemble before buying clothes. Merely because a gown was bought in Paris is not to say that it is the style of Paris. This is a fact that many women do not seem to pay sufficient attention to. Choosing a bright, sunny day, therefore, let us joinIN THE GUIDE BOOKS SI the procession that wends its way through the leafy Bois de Boulogne to Longchamps—if it is flat racing time—or to Auteuil, if we are to watch them “‘go over the sticks.”THE PARIS THALS NOT eat hanes aT NT arb 2Le Destecsisee) aba heat aie baat Pee bly ards aan eet : ate ; % CHAPTER Vill HERE THE STYLES ARE REALLY MADE HE best definition of a race-track I ever heard came from the daughter of Horatio Bottomley when she was the wife of Jefferson Davis Cohn. ‘““A race-track,” she said, “‘is a place where one loses money.” As far as the English and American tracks are con- cerned she was probably right; the societies for “the encouragement of the equine race’ would soon be out of existence if betting were totally suppressed. But in France a race-track is not alone a place where one loses money—nor, indeed, where one goes merely to see a horse-race. The importance of the racing itself is dominated here by the fascinating fashion parade in the paddock. I know a woman who in five years has not missed one of the really big race days. She is a patron of the paddock on every Sunday during the spring and autumnal seasons. Since the war, she has yet to miss a Grand Prix, a Grand Steeplechase, an Omnium, a Prix de Diane, a Derby, an Oaks or a Prix du Prési- dent de la République. Yet I don’t believe that she has ever so much asIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 83 glanced at a race program or put down a bet. I would not be surprised to learn that during these five years she has not even actually seen a race! Certainly this lady is one of the best known habituées of the track. Her stroll through the leafy paddock is a series of bows, nods, salutes, stops for chats. But you would not ask her opinion on the next race. She knows all the jockeys, but has never thought it worth while to beseech a bit of inside information. Nobody demands of her, ‘“Who’s riding Bahadur in the next?” or, ““What’s Winkfield up on in the fourth?” What people do ask her, though, are questions such as: “Who’s that woman over there with the pink fox?” .. . “Did you see that coat Mistinguett is wear- ing?” ... “From what matson came that so-en- chanting robe that is carried by la petite Maud Loty?” She is a dressmaker’s scout. Her job is to be on the lookout for novelties introduced by other houses. Fashion is as inseparable a part of the ensemble of the French race-course as the horses themselves! Hun- dreds of people who are not in the faintest degree interested in racing nevertheless religiously attend Longchamps, Auteuil and St. Cloud, either because it is the chic thing to do or because they are interested in the advance presentation of styles. No American buyer would think of being absent from a Prix du Drags any more than a smart woman of society would dare stay away. In the spring and early fall it is at the races thatTHE PARIS THATS: NOL 84 the dressmakers try out their novelties before adding them to their collections. Professional mannequins and in some cases stars of the stage wear them. You may walk up to almost any woman in the pesage at Longchamps and ask her where she bought her gown. It will please, not insult her. The vital rivalry of styles seethes and clashes at the races. Here are launched the gowns and novelties that make fashion history—and those novelties also that disappear into the discard the next day. There is no secret council of leading dressmakers which fixes what women shall wear. I know that this is a belief quite commonly held, but it is founded on fallacy. If it were true then Paris would begin to lose its mastery over the world’s fashion, for the very essence of the Paris gown is the individuality of the dressmaker who has made it. An expert can take a dozen gowns from different houses and unerringly place their labels where they belong. To those who make fashion their business a Callot gown is as distinct from one made by Jenny or Beer, as a suit made in Saville Row is distinguishable from one manufactured wholesale in Schenectady or Rochester. In this individual touch lies the supremacy of Paris, and in it is to be found the reason why that supremacy will be forever safe from the assaults of New York. The appearance of a novelty at Longchamps or Auteuil is spotted instantly. Buyers discreetly question the mannequin who poses for photographers. If theIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 8x novelty scores a hit the dressmaker in question is aware of it early the next morning when the flood of orders rushes in. Generally a mannequin wearing a new gown is watched and followed at a discreet distance by its creator, the modelist, and sometimes even by the dress- maker himself. Its measure of success is carefully noted. An ear is lent to criticism from competent sources which may result in slight modifications. Usually the modelists are women; sometimes they are men. A modelist in a big establishment is given her own room and her own staff of seamstresses and midinettes, and she is allowed to draw on the stock- room for any material she needs. No superior power stands over and says, ‘Make that skirt shorter!” or, “That color is too light.” If such a thing was said to her the modelist would be likely to quit her job on the spot, for most of them are as temperamental as any other creative artist. Sometimes a modelist, like a poet, will go for days without doing any work to speak of. Then one night will come the great Idea. She is seized with the divine fire of inspiration, followed by the fervor of creation. Next morning she hastens to her workroom, gathers her little staff around her and briefly explains her idea. Great bolts of material are brought up to her. The door is locked and the scissors and the pins called into play. For hours the modelist will stand before herSettee beedh cts cr* esta Lote p =, a ra - oer eT ee _ , A we yap ty, ot Lake Fas cedhish WaskLAd? "4 paetetto cas PUsJis LY see renee eect pe deta tke elt anu pes Sule e Vege 11 ges reed ‘I 2 : : ant ~ : ; r} 5 Ne eet oe ty he) mr 86 THE PAWS. THATS NOR —a mannequin—she has a call on any mannequin in the house—hanging silks and crépes on her, ruthlessly slic- ing with her scissors, fastening and unfastening hun- dreds of steel pins. Eventually she is satisfied. The staff gathers around and comments with awe or rhapsody, according to tem- perament. A final touch is given here and there. A pin is taken out—stuck in again. A fold is straight- ened; the waistline lowered the merest fraction of an inch. Voila! “Go,” says the modelist to her smallest midinette, “so say to the patron to mount!’ The head of the house comes at once. It is likely that he will take one look at the creation and then turn to the modelist, his arms outstretched. “Ma petite! Ma chére petite!’ he will sob, kissing her tenderly on both cheeks. “It is a miracle! You are a genius! You are the greatest designer in Paris! It will be a sensation. I am overwhelmed. See—I weep!” If it is in winter-time the gown is a summer one. It is therefore wise to send a mannequin to wear it at Nice and Monte Carla. If it is in spring or summer the creation appears the following Sunday at the races, and there it stands or falls according to the verdict of the fast fashion jury there assembled. A mannequin may be sent to Longchamps to display nothing more than a slight alteration in a gown already launched—a ribbon here, a feather there, a change inIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 87 the embroidery, maybe, or perchance an alteration in the color scheme. These are possibly tiny, subtle alter- ations which only the expert can recognize, but they may nevertheless make the whole creation look dif- ferent. Many an American dressmaker or buyer has made a fortune by keeping his eyes open at Longchamps or Auteuil. Once during the high season of 1922 I was at Auteuil with a famous buyer. We were standing in line at the pari-mutuel booth for a moderate bet when suddenly my companion clutched my arm. “That woman,” he said, urgently, pointing, “who is she?’ I looked. The woman, sitting on a near-by bench, was neither particularly pretty nor extravagantly dressed. But even to my profane eyes there was something about her—something that I could not put my finger on—which was novel; which was new. Excusing himself, my companion left his bet with me and went to talk to the girl. Soon he came back, his face wearing a satisfied air. “She bought it at S——’s,” he said, naming an ob- scure novelty shop. “Bought what?” I asked. ‘“What—can’t you see? The scarf!” And then I saw that a colored handkerchief, tied cowboy fashion around her neck, was what made the woman seem different.ba "i fae i RET ECE: ee ee ee : vaeen et yey ter reer Tey sits} eeeeeal led bad Co aed Sg RENEE a5] Uy sae eae i ie et Lad ae eral eed ed ot te itso ny i 88 THE PAKS DHAES NOE “There,” said my friend, “is a real novelty.” I thought him extravagant, but within a month at Deau- ville every woman there was wearing one of the cow- boy scarfs. And by that time my astute friend had sent his first shipment of them to America. He told me afterwards that he had “got in” ahead of everyone else and had made thousands of dollars thereby. Fashions in every article of women’s wear except underclothing—which is so negligible nowadays that the lingerie makers complain of hard times—are set at the races—hats, gowns, coats, shoes, stockings, sunshades, handbags. If skirts are to be short next winter you will have the first hint at Longchamps or Auteuil or Chantilly. If the waist is to be higher in the fall you may know it in advance by closely studying the smartly dressed women in the pesage. Not every woman can set a style, however, as Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson—now dead—found out to her cost. Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson burst upon Paris like a thun- derbolt a few seasons back. She took the royal suite at the Claridge Hotel and registered from London. She was short, dumpy, fat-faced and talked exactly like a Bayswater cook. In three weeks she had spent a sum variously esti- mated as from two hundred thousand to three-quarters of a million dollars. “Mrs. Monte Cristo,” she was promptly dubbed in the New York chronicles, and with reason. It is noIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 89 easy thing to spend three-quarters of a million dollars in three weeks. If you doubt it, try some time. The first extravagance of Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson was to order the entire redecoration of her suite at Claridge’s. This although she intended to stay only a few weeks. She hired five limousines, each with a differently colored upholstery, so that her car would always harmonize with her gown. She ordered a hundred gowns from eight of the most expensive dressmakers, only to discard them all unworn in favor of those made by a famous London dressmaker who thought so much of his client that he came to Paris with her. She bought lavishly of every item of luxury, includ- ing magnificent jewels and a real crown studded with diamonds and pearls. She bought the famous Shrews- bury pearls from a British museum. She purchased jewelry for all her friends, including a diamond brace- let for Harry Pilcer, who taught her to dance. The first time that I saw her was during a gala at Pré Catelan. She was wearing the crown, the Shrews- bury necklace and brooch, and a gown with eight hun- dred diamonds sewn into the hem. Add to this her short, dumpy figure and her cockney accent and you will have a slight idea of the sensation she created. Well, this Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson, who had made her fortune in the hotel business, determined to set a style at Longchamps. Her dressmaker went back to London and worked2) tate un Aer TET ey Pe TT 90 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT . A * . . - ee Sn le x * - Poe Cte RD exc cee rartne crit oss ete Preyer yee) eas a ect rade tet dal od ante RE OEE Tot ot eer ar ty a 5 5 5 J . 2 a aa ca fervently on a creation that was to be the triumph of Regent Street over the Rue de la Paix. The day of the race he came from London by air- plane, bringing not only the dress but six of his most shapely mannequins. The gown was in black and white, and each of the six mannequins wore gowns in these colors. Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson’s gown was white with huge black stripes, zebra-wise. She wore a black hat with an immense ostrich feather. Her gloves were white with black fingers. A diamond gleamed in the ivory of her teeth. One of her stockings was white, the other black. Likewise her shoes, which were studded with diamonds. Around her neck was a necklace of black and white pearls. In one hand she carried an enormous sunshade, with a handle so long that it towered six feet in the air. The sunshade, needless to say, was also black and white, as was the poodle she carried in the crook of her other arm. To and fro in the pesage she walked, followed by her six mannequins. From all over the track you could see those seven tall sunshades. Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson was more than a sensation— she was a riot. Crowds gathered about her and loud remarks, with the frankness of the Frenchwoman, passed. “Quelle horreur!’ exclaimed one mannequin amusedly.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS QI “What did she say?” inquired Mrs. Smith-Wilkin- son, turning to her dressmaker. “She said: ‘How beautiful she is!’ ” the dressmaker interpreted callously. And Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson beamed. But not all who saw her with amazement were amused. Many of the women pressing about her were frankly indignant. If there is one thing Paris cannot stand, it is an exhibition of wanton bad taste. “And the foreigners will think that this is French art!’ commented one woman, bitterly. In the end the attitude of the crowd became so threatening that Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson had to take shelter in the ladies’ retiring-room, from which she did not dare to emerge until long after the races. Black and white went decidedly out of fashion that year !ore tis! Cake say Tt Le. . I TR eS Te eee | “s x - = ee ws vee eA os Ppeeecesheesh csr sir 's cediesl opie isAetets: Ses Actar saith 's octets RCL Vee Poy eran oa eee eed re eel Leta Pak Sa eet er Tes eed - = a 3 : a ie , : ert Fa as en | 4 THE PARIS THATS NOF : —— — CHAPTER. ix THE SPORT OF KINGS HERE is an air of restful refinement about the races in France strongly contrasting with the noisy race-tracks of England and the United States, and one of the first things to strike the average tourist is the almost complete absence of the “horsy” individ- ual without whom apparently a race in Sandown Park or on Epsom Downs could not be run. Principally the change is wrought by the absence of the bookmaker—his official absence, that is. To be sure, a few of the species are on hand, but they are very much under cover and will do business only with people they know. This is because betting in France is controlled by the State, which takes about twelve-and-a-half percent of all bets made over the pari-mutuel machines, which are operated by the societies owning the tracks. Scattered about the vast enclosures are scores of tiny betting-booths, where sums varying from five francs in the pelouse (field) or ten francs in the pesage (paddock or weighing enclosure) may be wagered by unit. Each booth has its unit figure prominently displayed. Thus, if you want to bet a hundred francs on aIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 93 horse, you first seek the horse’s number in the program. Then you approach one of the booths marked 100 francs and ask a winning ticket for that number. Since this betting operation in France is rather com- plicated for the newcomer who does not speak French, I am willing to assist the pari-mutuel totals to the extent of telling you how. We will suppose that you have a tip on Number Six in the third race. You wait until the results of the second race are posted and then approach a booth, having previously decided how much you want to bet and whether you desire to put it all “on the nose” for a win, or for the horse to place, or both. A horse places when it is one-two in a field of less than seven horses and when one-two-three in a field of seven or more. You decide to put a hundred francs on Number Six’s chances to win and fifty francs on the hazard of his placing. You therefore approach a fifty-franc unit booth. When your turn in line comes you tell the man behind the counter first the number of the horse, then the number of units you wish to bet to win and finally the number of units you are betting to place. In this case, therefore, you will say: “Six—deux fois gagnant—une fois placé.’ In exchange for your money you will be handed three tickets, two for the units you have bet to win and one for the fifty francs to place. If the horse wins you win all bets. If it places you lose the hundred-franc bet and cash in on the fifty-franc one.PAV Sibe ena Tp Lie ideret ptale! sh yim pepe ey abt) PG bet eth be Cc): ae ot . 4 ’ 7S woh PERT) pracy TA aT rippin sie Pe et peebethcetL csr eric eeitbal Loe 04 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT At the start of each race the total number of tickets sold at each booth is added up by the totalizator— father of the adding machine—and the percentages of the State and the racing society deducted. The re- mainder is then apportioned among the winners, the amount to go to each ticket holder being determined by the number of tickets issued on the winning horse. This system naturally makes odds in French racing considerably less on the aggregate than those in Eng- lish and American races where bookmakers make the odds before the race. Frequently a favorite will pay as low as one to ten, or eleven francs returned for each ten francs bet, and odds greater than eighteen or twenty to one are unusual. The biggest odds paid since the war in France were 345 to one and the record for all time is 410 to one. Totting up the winning odds during the first three Sundays of the 1925 season, I find that the average paid to holders of winning tickets was only a little more than two to one. It is evident that few fortunes are to be won by betting through the pari-mutuel machines. In America and in England these machines are often called ‘“Paris- mutuels” under the impression that they were thus labeled because they were first used in Paris, whereas the word “pari” in reality means “bet.” There is no noise or shouting on a French track, except perhaps during some particularly exciting race. Riots are practically unknown, though a force of resplendent Republican Guards is on duty.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 95 The pesage, or paddock, is the exclusive enclosure where the stands are located. Entrance to this en- closure is about a dollar and a half, and seats in the stand are free. Behind the stands, where the fashion parade unfolds itself, green lawns and beautiful flower- beds present a charming picture quite at variance with one’s ordinary idea of what a race-track should look like. Restaurants and rest rooms are provided, and on all the big days the President himself attends to congratulate the winning owners. There are three seasons at Auteuil, the principal steeplechase track, and two at Longchamps, where rac- ing is flat. The first Auteuil season generally begins in March and ends in April, to begin and end again in June during the high season. Longchamps and the other flat tracks run from April to July and from September to the end of October, when Auteuil begins again and continues almost until Christmas. During the severe winter months there is trotting at a track in the Bois de Vincennes. Longchamps and Auteuil are located within ten min- utes of Paris in the Bois de Boulogne, about a mile from each other. Chantilly, one of the most beautiful race-courses in the world, is at the town of that name, a training center one hour’s train ride from Paris. Maisons-Lafftte, where Frank Gould lives, has both flat and jumping races and is the most important center of training in France. Another beautiful track is at St. Cloud, high up above the Seine half an hour’s ride froms 5 a" “ee voy? eee? ry ry . Y - Ps , a 2 — . a : rs - hd oat petite eed ehcierhe ct Lets) credieee) Leber es ised AS Sly (5 jest a CAT eg Tee En eC Ta AT eT teT er Pn pert ot MEMO Teeth, AN ef vy 96 TRE PATS GAATS NO} Ee Paris in a taxicab, while Enghien, once famous for its casino, has a steeplechasing track. These tracks alternate daily during the different seasons. The principal races are the Grand Prix at Long- champs, the Grand Steeplechase at Auteuil, both during the last week in June, and the French Derby at Chan- tilly. When racing ends in Paris, about the middle of July, it moves to the big resorts, first to Vichy and Vittel and Aix-les-Bains and then to the coast, to Dieppe and Deauville. After Paris, the Deauville season, at the beautiful Touques track, is the most important in France. In winter the horses run at Nice, Cannes and Biarritz. Practically every American in Paris attends the races during the summer and no tourist would think of miss- ing them. The French have a charming way of hiding the sordidness in sin, and if betting is a sin the French race-tracks certainly do not look like dens of dissipa- tion. Invariably society is out in force. Standing under the big chestnut tree in front of the private stand you are sure to see Berry Wall, with the collar, the tie and the square gray hat that have made him a traditional figure on both sides of the Atlantic for half a century. The former “King of the Dandies” is still supreme in his own particular line. He wears exactly the same sartorial get-up now that he wore on Fifth Avenue thirty years ago.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 97 He is the most consistent race-follower in France, but bets for amusement only. He knows everyone in the racing world and could be on the “‘inside’”’—if there is such a place—did he so choose. He is a very kindly old man who has a ready smile and greeting for friends and acquaintances. I doubt if anyone has ever heard Berry Wall utter a discourteous word. He is the last—the very last— of the old school, a grand old ghost from the days when gentlemen drove coaches down Fifth Avenue; he has his own particular niche in society, and when he dies there will be nobody to take his place. I might add a word about Mrs. Wall, his wife and old-fashioned companion—old-fashioned as a wife and not otherwise—who is one of the principal reasons, I think, why Berry Wall grows old so gently and so beautifully. In a day when rumors of divorce fly around like so much chaff in the wind, nobody has ever thought fit to start such a report about the Berry Walls. Which is really noteworthy, when you consider that they are always in the forefront of everything. Preston Gibson, author and playwright and dapper man-about-town, carefully dresses for the races, to which he escorts his new and very charming Boston wife. His latest book, ““The Spider,” portraying New York life, was first published in the French language, and earned considerable success. Charlie Wacker, Jeffery Crane of Pittsburgh, Jerryieribespekbeabhee soit «rt ceed La) - - ~ ms n oe a F " a e 7" “> I= net bas by Vesberedae Vedtr vic Pied J panel el telat ti tise dita etl ae it pes ta tee che “ at ie RS TAT ST ps Pied ayo ri i 7 be f - WPS eife ays ri 98 THEVMPARTS: THATS (NOP —flhesieea Winken, Louis le Monthon, Philip Plant, Howard Sturges and others are generally to be seen in the neighborhood of the thousand-franc booth. Racing in France undoubtedly owes much of its prosperity to American sportsmen. The French association of owners here includes many well-known Americans whose views on racing, from their disinterestedness, are carefully taken into account by the French members. American methods of training and riding are scru- pulously followed by the French. Most of the well- known jockeys are Americans. There have been scores of instances where French owners have decided not to run a horse because they could not secure the services of an American jockey. They have a proud record on the French turf, have American owners, trainers and jockeys. The most prominent American owner at the present time is A. K. Macomber, of California, who married into the Standard Oil. Macomber was one of the first to bring horses from America, chiefly for breeding purposes. When W. K. Vanderbilt died Macomber purchased the entire Vanderbilt stud, as well as his model estab- lishment at St. Louis de Poissy, an hour’s ride from Paris. Vanderbilt himself was the largest single owner in France during his lifetime. Money was never an object with him. His sole ambition was to breed the‘IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 99 finest thoroughbreds in France, and this he succeeded in doing, winning every important race in the country. To Vanderbilt also was due the introduction of American riders to France. It was said of him that he was never a heavy gambler, and mostly his horses ran without stable backing. He built a track of his own at Poissy merely to accustom his horses to French tracks. The establishment has been continued by Macomber on the lines laid down by Vanderbilt. Like the latter, Macomber brought from America his own trainer, T. Murphy, who resigned two years ago owing to ill health. While in France Murphy was considered a past-master in his craft, and like his predecessor, W. Duke, will long be regretted by the French racing world. Macomber retained the services of Frank O’Neil, Vanderbilt’s jockey, who despite his long record here is still the star rider in Europe. Frank, at this writ- ing, having quarreled with Macomber’s trainer, is a free-lance. Another American owner in France to whom suc- cess has come rapidly is Joe Widener, whose horses are trained by Jerry Welsh, also an American, and ridden by F. Keogh, who last year, while on vacation in Amer- ica, rode Wise Counsellor to beat Epinard. Harry La Montagne has a big string, mostly jump- ers, in the care of a young Frenchman, J. Cazebielle. Others are W. A. Chanler, F. R. Hitchcock, and J. L.I0o TAEAPARIS LAAT S- NOT ma Smee TT aa | ot — C rie Ore ot ee eT — ginwee . : x ’ 2 Letty aris Reber tiie ae bed hn lle |s tte ate Le te Peel oa Le radia ieae rece teeth iret Maren beter Bl : ql Xs ~ ~ a iris am v, Replogle—who became famous here following his pur- chase of Captain J. D. Cohn’s Optimist as a two-year- old for the record figure of half a million francs. Optimist is now due to appear on American tracks. R. B. Strassburger, veteran opponent of prohibition, has a few horses being trained by the former English jockey Claude Halsey. Frank Jay Gould, who at one time intended to go in for racing on a big scale, met so many disappointments in the beginning that of late years he has taken little interest in the sport, devoting most of his energies to breeding. There are signs now, however, that Frank means to race again, and he has placed a number of horses in the care of A. Manby, former steeplechase jockey. Smaller American stables are those of R. Bam- berger, B. H. Seward and W. T. Wilkinson. The latter’s thoroughbreds are cared for by Delbert Reiff, brother of the famous jockey Johnny Reiff. Prominent American trainers here besides those al- ready mentioned include H. E. Leigh, better known as “Gene,’’ whose remarkable success with Epinard is still fresh in the memory of the sporting world. W. Davis, a trainer who has had many ups and downs, is in charge of the stable owned by A. Veil Picard, the former absinthe king. There are two colored American trainers in France, J. Winkfield and S. Bush, both of whom are also jockeys—Winkfield on the flat and Bush over the jumps.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 101 For many years Winkfield rode with remarkable success in Russia, notably for Léon Mantacheff, for whom he rides now in France. It is said that it was largely owing to the little negro’s open heart that Mantacheff was able to return to France with his stud, following the revolution. The story goes that Mantacheff sent his horses by way of Odessa while he himself took the Northern route, landing in Warsaw one day practically broke. One of the first persons he met in the Polish capital was Winkfield, who, when he heard of his former owner’s misfortunes, immediately offered what little financial help he could. Mantacheff accepted and promised Winkfield that if ever again he raced in France the colored boy should be his jockey. This came sooner than he thought, for shortly after his arrival in Paris he disposed of his Caucasian oil interests for millions. Winkfield would probably have ridden the winner of the Grand Prix last year had he not quarreled with Mantacheff the day before. Other American jockeys who have made big reputa- tions here include G. Garner, who for many years rode for W. K. Vanderbilt and later for the Aga Khan, whose service he has left now to ride for French owners. Matt MacGee rides for Baron Edouard de Roths- child and after O’Neil is probably the most fortunate rider in France. Both MacGee and O’Neil have riddenas 102 THE PARIS THATS NOT the winners of the English Derby and the Grand Prix de Paris. Then there is Everett Haynes, brought from America by Gene Leigh to be jockey for Pierre Wertheimer. Haynes was jockey for the famous horse Epinard. There was probably never any better understanding between horse and jockey than between Haynes and Epinard. Haynes had only to walk into Epinard’s stall and say “Hello, Johnny,’ and the famous horse would come and nestle his head on Everett’s shoulder. Another American rider who rapidly rose to fame here is Freddie Williams, who first rode over the sticks but who is now holding an important flat con- tract for G. Wattine, a big French owner. Probably in no branch of Parisian life has the American influence been felt as much as in horse-racing.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS CHAPTER X WHERE THE STAKES ARE HIGH AMBLING in and around Paris is by no means confined to the race-tracks. A full score of clubs, some of them very elaborate, exist with the approval —a better word would be connivance—of the govern- ment, which takes the lion’s share of the receipts. This condition is of recent origin and was caused by the refusal of parliament to allow the reopening of Enghien after the war. Until 1913 the casino at En- ghien, an hour’s automobile ride from Paris, was a smart resort where society gambled, danced and drank very much as it does now on the Riviera and at Deauville. Too many absconding bank cashiers forced parlia- ment in 1913 to pass a law forbidding public gambling within one hundred kilometers of Paris, and Enghien died. The law defeated its own purpose because private clubs immediately sprang up in Paris itself, for bac- carat playing in duly constituted clubs has never been against French law. The result is that the bank cashier of today who wishes to juggle his bank’s funds can do so merely by going to any one of a number of clubs where the formalities for admission are a farce.104 TE ARIS iiiAdeS: NOd oe The nature of these clubs varies from the palatial establishment where one may eat, dine and dance as well as gamble, to the small dive where card-playing is the only object. None of these clubs are avowedly gambling places, most of them claiming as a raison @ étre literary or social pursuits. The most exclusive gambling club, the Travelers, on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, is a social club for the advancement of travel and exploration. The most distinguished of the French clubs, Les Epatants, has a fine situation on the Place de la Concorde and is mostly a home for old men who have nothing to do but loaf. On the Place de la Concorde also is the Automobile Club, which is one of the rare institutions in which gambling, although allowed, is not in itself the sole reason for existence. The largest and most luxurious club in Paris is the Sporting Club de France, on the Avenue Gabriel op- posite the residence of the President. This club is only a few years old and occupies the beautiful Portales mansion, once one of the show houses of Paris. The club has the finest swimming bath in Europe, but al- though the club is avowedly existent only to further the sacred interests of “sport,” and although boxing bouts are sometimes held in the gymnasium specially built for that purpose, the Sporting Club members mostly sport in the card-rooms and days go by when the bath is empty of anything but water. A rather funny situation, which has in it the ele-IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 105 ments of tragedy, has arisen out of that swimming bath. It has to be heated, of course, and it appears that when it is filled the temperature of the houses sur- rounding is raised by several degrees. So the neighbor- ing proprietors have dug up a law which says that any building on that street must be inhabited “in a bour- geois manner,” and on the ground that it is most cer- tainly not bourgeois to exploit an immense tank the testy people are trying to compel the Sporting Club to destroy its bath. Time will tell whether they succeed or not, but I don’t think that the disappearance of the bath would much affect ninety percent of the gentle- men to be found, white-shirted and tired-eyed, around the green tables every night. The most notorious Paris club is the Haussmann Club, so-called because it was originally situated on the Boulevard Haussmann. The Haussmann Club is now at the corner of the Boulevard des Italiens and the Rue de la Michodiére, and very palatial quarters it has. An inscrutable man with Chinese eyes named André is general manager of this club. André, once a croque- mort, or funeral mummer, is a very big figure in the world of gambling. He is associated with Eugene Cornuché and Henri Letellier in the management of Deauville Casino, and he personally superintends the gaming salons. Discovering the huge profits made at Deauville, André conceived the idea of founding a club in Paris. I believe the Haussmann Club’s stated aims are the encouragement of music and art in general. If106 THE PARIS THATS NOD it fails in these aims it will probably be because musi- cians and artists do not form a majority of the crowd which flings fortunes nightly on the baccarat tables. At the Haussmann Club in spring you find all the old stagers of the Deauville Casino. Greeks, Levan- tines of all sorts, Turks, Armenians, Russians, Span- iards and Argentines form a majority of the member- ship. They are generally short, squatty men with dis- agreeable greasy faces, thick lips and beady eyes, and they roll fat cigars around in their mouths while their pudgy, bediamonded fingers are ceaselessly busy count- ing and recounting sheaves of thousand-franc notes, snapping rubber bands around each ten of them. They have an amazing psychological outlook on the money question, have these men. Money literally means money to them and nothing else. It does not mean comfort, refinement, elegance. Vagliano, the chief of the Greek syndicate which will take any bet— one of twelve millions was accepted last year—Vagliano himself is one of the worst-dressed men during the daytime I have ever seen. They run a lot to jewelry of course; their kind does. Their hands are covered with rings, and their women display fortunes in pearl and diamond necklaces. But this is only because jewels have a definite value intrin- sically, not because they are beautiful or of a fine purity. The iridescence of a pearl or the water of a diamond means only so much money to them. Some of these men who gamble fortunes everyIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 107 night, who make baccarat their profession, live in hum- ble lodgings. They treat themselves to expensive cigars and eat and drink copiously, because with them the lust for money goes with the greed of self-indul- gence. But of the other things that could be achieved with this money they play with, of the worth-while happi- ness that money can bring if it is rightly spent, these men know nothing. They live only for eating, drinking and gambling. Love and sleep are incidentals. Money literally means to them only something to gamble with. Incredible sums are wagered, won and lost nightly at the Haussmann, as well as at the Sporting Club and lesser institutions. Play for the day begins at three o’clock in the afternoon and continues until eight o'clock. After two hours for dinner the games resume until dawn and often later. The clubs are always crowded. I should not like to risk an estimate of the amount staked at cards every night in Paris, but it must be enormous. Seldom a night goes by at the Haussmann or Sporting without somebody winning or losing a million francs. Tables are graded according to the minimum stake allowed. The smallest permissible stake is five francs and the minimum at the biggest table is fifty louis, or one thousand francs. In baccarat the louis, twenty francs, is a common unit. Ordinarily the maximum stake is 20,000 france, but in all the clubs there is one108 EE VEAS: PILATES NOM table where the sky is the limit. The “big” table at Deauville is in a large room all to itself. For some obscure reason ladies are not permitted to enter. At the “no-limit’’? and 20,000-francs-maximum tables curiously large iron chips worth ten thousand francs are used. Counterfeiting of casino chips is carried on to such an extent that the big casinos and clubs calculate to lose several hundred thousand francs annually through forged money being put into circulation in the rooms. The house must pay all chips played with in a game. Once played with, a fake chip is as good as a real one. The gambling clubs of Paris are the cause of endless tragedy of course. Dozens of Americans, young and old, are broken by them. I know a Broadway actor who came over last summer with twenty thousand dollars, planning a three months’ trip around Europe. He ar- rived on a Tuesday and the same night met one of the numerous American touts who, a shame to their na- tionality, hang about the big bars for victims to throw to the wolves. The next day I met him at a steam- ship office booking his passage home on the first boat to sail. He had just enough left for his ticket. Several of the clubs are purely set-ups for tourists. They are not supposed to admit anyone except after his name has been posted on the bulletin board for three weeks and after his formal election. But any American can get into the shadier clubs whenever he wants to.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 109 Some of the clubs exist on one or two “suckers” a night. At a given hour of the evening there will not be a single client in the place; the croupiers and waiters will be off in a corner chatting among themselves. Then the chasseur downstairs rings a secret bell. The word flies forth, “Sucker mounting!’ And when John Charles Come-On arrives in the actual gaming-rooms, after the “formalities” of relieving him of a hundred francs in membership fees, he finds half a dozen games going full-tilt and what appear to be large sums being won and lost. If he doesn’t know the game they will always oblige with a croupier who, at a vacant table, will show how it is played. At Deauville, Cannes and Monte Carlo a special corps of instructors is aways on hand. In very truth, there is nothing so alarmingly com- plicated about chemin de fer, the variation of baccarat that is played in preference to the real game because it is quicker and yields higher profits. Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight or nine persons may play sitting down; any number that can find places may play stand- ing up. The players sitting down have the preference of bancos and alone take the “shoe,” or instrument in which the cards are held, which is pushed around the table slowly or speedily according to how often a losing bank is played. The play is simplicity itself. The player with the “shoe” pushes the stake of his bank over to the croupier who announces its total. The player on theIIO TiS Eats TTA TS NOM bank’s right has the privilege of taking the whole amount if he desires; otherwise the “banco”’ is offered each player in turn and finally to those standing up, after which, if nobody takes the whole stake, bets are declared open and each player may venture any portion. The banker then deals four cards, two to himself and two to the player with the highest stake. The face cards count ten, and nine is the highest winning num- ber. The player with the highest stake uses his own judgment about demanding another card, which he may have if he desires it. If he has, say, two deuces in his hand, making a total of only four, he will ask for a card. If the card is four or five he turns his cards up at once, and wins unless the banker with two cards has an eight or nine. Should his card be six he loses, be- cause the total is ten. If he has a face card in his hand together with, let us say, a three, his total is only three. There are many complicating rules, of course, but the general lines of the game are as above described. I give them for the benefit of those of my readers who visit Deauville or a gambling club and want to under- stand the play. Americans form the majority of the plungers, if not of the gamblers, in France. Men and women alike, they are the best clients of the casinos and the tripots as the French euphoniously term the gaming den. Thousands have been ruined by baccarat. The totalIN THE GUIDE BOOKS III of letters of credit on American banks reposing in the Deauville safe in August would amaze could it be known. Hundreds of bad checks are given, of course. Unless they are for big amounts their signers are seldom bothered. But they stand no chance whatever of get- ting again into either a casino or a club. One desperate youngster of a famous American fam- ily wrote checks for nearly half a million francs one summer at Deauville. They came back. The family paid. Suicides are numerous. An American girl walked into the sea with all her clothes on at Biarritz last October—walked on and out until the undertow got her. Only one paper—printed in Bordeaux—devoted three lines to the incident. The girl was unknown. She was buried in unconsecrated ground. Nobody talked—for publication. Casinos know how to hush up news. And it has to be a big suicide to gain more than an hour’s gossip at the tables. But, for all the sordid tragedies connected with the game, baccarat is increasingly popular among Amer- icans. Huge sums are wagered at Cannes in winter by persons who would never touch a card at home. There is a potency in the air that leads to folly. Down at Cannes a sleek, dark-haired man and a stout woman play alongside a fair boy and a girl. - The men are the Sudreaus, father and son. Theas pet ede peice tL nats ar ye veel eal Lok at Le heaed Saad oi he a Tie mova err) Leeda Li2 THE PARIS LHATS NO te Yiee Ss renei ad ec itio i ise dete M tre ta Pal bar ta fees ier geen Set ore hhebs Se ri - ; ee eg woman was the common-law wife of Jacques Le- baudy, the ‘““Emperor of the Sahara,” for whose slaying she was tried in New York and acquitted. The girl is her daughter, Jacqueline. They are mar- ried to the Sudreaus. Sudreau pére was a detective. He called himself “Detective Harris,” and his piercing eyes gleamed at you from advertisements on the walls of every métro station. The Lebaudy millions are going across the green table at Cannes with fair frequency. Sudreau, for all his detecting ability, cannot know whether his opponent holds a seven, an eight, or a nine. Sometimes a table at Deauville will be entirely Amer- ican, except for the croupier. Often the only French they know is the jargon of the game: “Faites vos jeux. we 40s yeux sont fas? .... Kien ne vai plus. are Sept! ... Hmt!... Ilya mille lous a la banque. ae Oncol: You will see Housman, the broker; Jerry Preston, a jolly youth; Roddy Wanamaker; Julian Sloan; Tom Hitchcock; Laddy Sanford; Herbert Pulitzer—maybe all sitting around the “minimum-cinquante-louis’ table, trying to win each other’s money. It is a merry sight: You will see Baroness:Erlanger, once Peggy BrugéreIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 113 and formerly Mrs. Peter Cooper Hewitt, yawning be- hind an emerald-ringed hand, another immense emerald gleaming on her brow. She has her own place every night. When they were friends her husband, the baron, used to stand behind her chair. Nobody stands behind it now. She is a daring gambler. She will beat a strong man at nerve in going “‘banco.’”’ She wins incredible sums. Rarely she loses. I have watched her by the hour and have never seen those hazel eyes change ex- pression. There is Newman of New Orleans—he who was talked of once as Irene Bordoni’s future husband. Newman is a stockholder in Deauville Casino. I think he is cotton—or sugar—or maybe timber. He is a shrewd gambler, but I often wonder whether his Deau- ville dividends cover his losses there. A pair that love to gamble are Replogle, the steel man, and Florenz Ziegfeld. Ziegfeld hikes for a casino the moment his ship touches land. He is a nervous player. Every once in a while he will pause in his game and take out his pocketbook. But not for money. He takes a long look at some- thing in the pocketbook, then replaces it and bets again. It is a photograph of Billy Burke and their baby. He is ludicrously fond of that baby and will talk about it by the hour. _A pale-faced youngster, with deep circles under his eyes, a restless hand forever fingering his tie, and ayh yee ee) 114 THE ARES TAAL Se NOd cough he should take care of, is the Earl of Chester, known across the channel as His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. @he BP. ©. W., as. the chorus girls ‘call him’ in Lunnon, is a bad gambler. He is nervous, misjudges his cards and generally loses. When the P. O. W. has the bank he never has to wait for a “banco.” No matter what the stake—and it is generally the maximum—somebody is always ready to “banco” the Prince of Wales—and talk about it afterwards. There is nearly as much competition in this regard as there is among American girls to be his partner in a foxtrot. His famous smile is absent at the gaming table. I misdoubt me that he may not lose it if he keeps on playing “chimmy.” Joe Whitehead, of Coca-Cola, plays a lot. He wan- ders from table to table shouting “banco” at every sizable stake. Generally when you see him he is winning. Another player of the same name is Mrs. Wilbur Whitehead. Jack O’Day of the famous Standard Oil family is a cheerful little player. He is not a plunger. There were twelve or thirteen in the family that divided the O’Day millions. One daughter married Jack Stone. Jack Tanner, Mrs. Felix Doubleday’s brother, is a conspicuous figure. So is Felix himself and his new bride from Vienna. Doubleday is a silent player,IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 115 speaking only the phrases of the game. As he is very rich he usually wins. In the Cercle Privé, where women are barred, real gambling goes on. From this big room with its one large baccarat table come the tales of prodigious win- nings which amaze America every August. Here the Greek syndicate holds forth. There are three in this ring, led by Vagliano, allegedly a ship- owner. Only one of the three plays at a time, and they never play except to take the bank. To take the bank in the Cercle Privé one must be very rich indeed. Generally three hundred thousand francs is regarded as a minimum. Often I have seen a million francs on the table. In the private room the unit of one thousand francs, used on the chemin-de-fer tables, is disregarded. In- stead, the square iron counters, each representing ten thousand francs, are used. They will shovel these iron counters about as though their value was only intrinsic. André Citroen, the French Ford—he who dreamed a tourist route across the Sahara and who illuminated the Eiffel Tower—won twelve million francs in a fortnight at Deauville. Herbert Pulitzer has won his million. Jefferson Davis Cohn is lucky. The three Muriels—Miles, Allison and Spring—are often seen in the baccarat rooms. They have their own separate talents. - But you will not learn about women from me.THE PAGES THATS (NOt CEAP TE Ra FASHION TAKES TO THE BOIS HE French have a way of carrying artificiality into the realm even of fundamental things. The sea for them is a place to build pretty villas and display their new gowns—also, on the beach, their figures. A mineral source is scarcely authorized by the Academy of Medicine before some enterprising syndicate has built a casino, while the very sight of a mountain on the Cote d’Azur makes a hotel builder’s eyes glisten. In the same way the Parisians have succeeded in turning the beautiful Bois de Boulogne, on the western fringe of the city, into a very paradise of artistic artificiality. The trees themselves have a human look about them and one becomes convinced that the grass only grows because it is in league with the gardeners. The Bois is a large wooded area stretching from the western fortifications to the Seine. It has the effect of a wilderness built to order. Through tangles of undergrowth run smooth driveways and equestrian paths, and scattered within its leafy fastnesses are a dozen or so restaurants and cafés, some of which are smart at times and some the reverse. As we return from the races at Longchamps towardIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 117 the Porte Maillot—so-called after the man who in- vented the bathing-suit—we travel down a broad avenue three miles long and perfectly straight. Near- ing the city, we notice hundreds of smart cars drawn up along the curb while their owners parade along the sidewalk or sit on seats at the edge of the woods. This is the Avenue des Acacias, and the time—5 :30 P. M.— is the fashionable hour for the Bois. Starting at the Pavillion d’Armenonville and stretching to Long- champs, the Avenue des Acacias is both the shortest way home from the races and the world’s most distinguished foregathering place. Every inch along both sides of the avenue is taken up from five o’clock by luxurious automobiles, while others parade up and down ata snail’s pace. The beau- ties of Paris and their elegant hommes du monde are taking their “morning” constitutional. They are all there—princesses from the Avenue du Bois or the Rue de la Pompe, famous demi-mondaines from flats in equally exclusive neighborhoods, million- aires from their palaces in the Park Monceau, actresses from the Varietés, the Casino de Paris or the Comédie Francaise. Here you may see the famous actress who wears a coat made from the skin of her pet baboon, now unfor- tunately no more; it is chic to have baboons for pets in Paris. _ There is the princess who has eleven dogs of various hues to match each gown she wears. There, again, isrm] ee base aed kd eebeebbeetiosl: apts eettbal Lob SEALs ts besas Medd MLSE | peered tree Peel TeCcIt Tl aa dicate tae pee Tee TTT Bek eR Leas 5 2 pb m4 rhs tomy o rh pet oye rare - : aq , ee i ee) 118 THE PARIS THATS NOP the well-known beauty who is famous for being bru- nette in the daytime and blonde at night! Here is Cecile Sorel, with Count Guyon de Ségur, scion of Napoleon, sitting opposite her because Cecile’s gown is so wide it takes up the whole back seat. There is Micheline Séres, not with Phil Lydig, but with a hook-nosed South American who is said to be lavishing millions on her. The Belgian beauty looks perfect in a Rolls-Royce. Pearl White, driving her own Hispano, goes past with the cut-out open, a youthful nobleman sitting by, holding on with both hands. Pearl looks exceptionally well since the enforced rest in an Auteuil hospital when her appendix was removed. Pearl’s appendicitis followed on a heroic effort to get thin. She is not the first nor the last to suffer from drastic reducing. There’s Elsa Maxwell, who con- tracted pernicious anemia. It affects them all differ- ently. If Pearl is driving faster than she should, it may be because she is conscious of a 40-horsepower Renault just behind her—a huge limousine modeled after the one designed by King Alfonso of Spain. In the Renault is apt to be another famous screen star, Gloria Swanson, with her new husband, Marquis Henri de la Falaise de la Coudraie, sitting beside her. Before Gloria came to France in 1924, Henri de la Falaise was Pearl White’s particular chum. In fact, it is said that she jilted the Duke of Vallombrosa forIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 119 young Henri, who is a nephew of the Hennessy who first put three stars on a cognac bottle. Duke de Vallombrosa, who is a power in the Paris banking world, became interested in Pearl White several years ago, following his divorce from the Duchess, a beautiful blonde. Somehow, however, the duke’s interest in pretty Pearl languished after several years, and Pearl revenged herself with Marquis de la Falaise, who is an excellent dancer and quite likable. It was with La Falaise that Pearl went to Deauville last summer, when ensued the regrettable incident of the permanganate of potash bath. Pearl told me about that bath recently. It was not henna, as reported at the time. It seems she never could get up in time to get a real sunburn—and there wasn’t any sun anyway, because it rained all the time— so she inquired of a beauty expert how she could simulate a healthy tan. “Permanganate of potash,” said the beauty expert and Pearl incautiously took the advice, but put too much in the bath, the result being that while her din- ner guests waited two maids scrubbed two hours in an endeavor to take off the stain which had made Pearl look like a lobster. The effort was entirely vain, and finally Pearl went to the casino anyway. If she had been inspired she might have put feathers in her hair and moccasins on her feet. However, that’s an aside. Pearl has since got the120 TPES PARLS, HATS NOd synthetic sunburn off, and her complexion is as won- derful as ever. The money? She lost that playing chemin de fer. Chemin de fer is the variant of baccarat played in the French casinos. It is called “railway” because it is so fast. If you don’t think it is, ask Pearl. They say she won for a long time, but finally luck turned, and when the money started to go it slid pretty rapidly. Estimates vary as to the total amount Pearl lost, but I have heard it put at $500,o00—and the tragedy of it was that as her roll decreased her weight increased, until she was forced to the heroic measures hereinbefore mentioned. However, Deauville only lasts a month, and La Falaise, before he met Gloria, sometimes not so long. When the Paramount outfit arrived in the fall to make “‘Madame Sans Géne,”’ La Falaise, who had always had a sneaking desire to get in the pictures, heard that Forrest Halsey, the continuity man, was looking for a secretary. Halsey has a great passion for titles, so he engaged the marquis at once, and a few months later Gloria became marchioness. At all times of the year Paris has its quota of Holly- wood stars. At one and the same time the Avenue des Acacias has held, besides Gloria and Pearl, Norma Talmadge and Joe Schenck, Rex Ingram, Parker Reed —in the same old Rolls in which he used to swank around Hollywood; Betty BlytheIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 121 ae The Jap over there? Sessue Hayakawa, naturally. He lives in Paris now. Hollywood has been coming over here for several years now and is very much at home. Sometimes they come for a divorce and sometimes for a drink, and as a general rule both are easily found. We have had the effervescent Mabel Normand, who used to drive about the Bois at night; Douglas Fair- banks and Mary Pickford usually have the imperial suite at the Crillon Hotel; and only recently diminutive Mae Murray got her freedom here from Robert Z. Leonard. It is not much use continuing the list, be- cause every screen artist, in fact everyone in any way connected with the pictures who has the cash and the money makes an annual trip to Paris. The only big star who said he did not care for Paris was Charlie Chaplin. But what can you expect of a man who talks communism at Maxim’s at one o’clock in the morning? Passing the throng in rapid review we notice Princess Cito-Filomarino di Betto, who was once Mrs. Stuart Taylor and who is considered one of the most intense young women in Paris. Not very far away are Mr. and Mrs. James M. Reynolds, and strolling on the other side, chatting to James Hazen Hyde, the jolly exile, is the liveliest grandmother in Paris, Mrs. Helen Gwynne, whose two trials in life consist of her off- spring, and the fact that she is a relative of Mrs. Cor- nelius Vanderbilt. One of the said offspring, Kiki,122 TEES PARES TEA TES NOs who used to be Mrs. Horace Allen, has just married Jerome Preston and settled down in Paris. The other is Erskine Gwynne. In a smart open Delage is another member of Man- hattan’s expatriated aristocracy—the Countess de Graffenreid, once Dorothy Gould. She is now a Swiss subject, like her sister Helen. The girls attended boarding-school in Geneva and fell in love almost simul- taneously with two Swiss noblemen. Their mother, now Princess Vlora, who was Helen Kelly, was pleased, but it was quite a while before Frank Gould, their father, would give his consent. Their Royal Highnesses Prince and Princess Nicho- las of Greece are over there, sunning themselves in an old-fashioned brougham—the only one visible on the avenue. Dashing hurriedly into town from the races is Mrs. W. E. Corey, better known once as Maybelle Gilman, who was reported engaged to Infant Don Luis, expelled last year from France. I never believed that report, because Don Luis is not the marrying sort. Anyway, Mrs. Corey has a big heart and is an excel- lent hostess. Her chateau on the outskirts of Paris, Villegenis, which she turned into a Red Cross con- valescent home for wounded officers during the war, has now been converted by her wish into a hostelry for Russian refugees. Her divorce from W. E. Corey did not surpriseIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 123 Paris. She and the steel king had been more or less separated for many years. By now we have almost reached the Café d’Arme- nonville, so we may as well go in there for some tea. The first familiar face we see is that of Régine Flory, the actress who once jumped into the Seine— some say because she had seen some other woman garbed in the identical gown she was wearing herself, and some because of an unfortunate love-affair. Mr. and Mrs. Jacques Balsan, the latter a daughter of Mrs. W. K. Vanderbilt, and a former Duchess of Marlborough, are having a quiet cup of tea at a secluded table. They often come to this corner of the Bois when in town and they are seldom recognized. With the strange beauty in the corner, vividly con- trasting with the blonde Jean Nash, his usual vis-a-vis, is Marquis de Medici. Nobody knows who the beauty is. It is a fad of the marquis to unearth lovely women from Heaven knows where and bring them to Paris, hang wonderful clothes and jewels on them and then sit back with an amused smile while Paris gasps. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, either. He is a dried-up little man about fifty-five, with numerous wrinkles and a lack-luster eye. He is worth several million lire. It is rather surprising to come on all these people at Armenonville, for Armenonville is not the smartest place for tea, although it is fashionable in summer for luncheon.124 THE PARIS THATS. NOE Society’s favorite tea place is the Chateau de Madrid, in Neuilly just across from the Bois, while on big race days there are many elaborate parties at Pré Catelan, a restaurant in the very heart of the woods which was inaugurated by Marquis Boni de Castellane when he was husband of Anna Gould. Frequently to be seen dancing at the Chateau de Madrid—which is under the same management as the restaurant Henry in town—is Jay O’Brien, who recently married the former Mrs. Julius Fleischman. Grand Duke Boris keeps a suite overlooking the garden, since poverty compelled him to sell his Bellevue Chateau. Boris was the greatest spendthrift in Europe before the war and he must regret it now. It ts said that immediately after the war he was in dire straits and sold his most cherished possession, a necklace that had belonged to his mother, to a famous jeweler on the Rue dela Paix. The price paid was a million francs. Two days later, so the story goes, the jeweler disposed of the necklace to a Balkan king who wanted it for his Rumanian bride. The King paid two million and a half francs. Boris has not quite got over that yet. Another Grand Duke often seen at the Madrid is Dmitri, the champagne agent. Dmitri is a blord young fellow who is seldom seen on successive occa- sions with the same dinner partner. Only a year or so ago he was reported engaged to marry Gabrielle Chanel, the beautiful dressmaker, but it was said that he stipulated the marriage should beIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 125 “morganatic” in the event of a restoration of the throne in Russia, in which case his uncle Grand Duke Cyril would logically become Tsar. Gabrielle objected to this and her romance with the handsome young brother of the Grand-Duchess Marie is a part of the history of things that might have been. Paris is a city of such tales. A bright young pair frequently in gay parties at the Madrid are Mrs. Gurnee Munn, formerly Marie Louise Wanamaker, and Mrs. John Wanamaker Junior, formerly Pauline Disston, both of Philadelphia. They never have to sit out a dance. Coming in from Polo, where a fashionable crowd usually gathers after the races, Mrs. Oliver Belmont arrives at the Madrid with her usual retinue of young people. Mrs. Belmont is known here as the “Silent Matron” because she so seldom talks, The Bois is not at its best on Sundays, when it is littered with picnic parties from La Villette and else- where. On the Sabbath society prefers to go farther from Paris, and the various hostelries in the environs are generally well patronized. In fact, except for the Madrid, Pré Catelan and Armenonville, and in the mornings, for horseback promenades, the Bois is fast becoming passé. Even the evening rendezvous along the Avenue des Acacias has not the glitter and gilt of former years. But that €ra passed with the horse and carriage. ‘In recent years the automobile has been responsible126 DAE PARTS THATS NOG at le el iy er ane a PY aa Tt . 4 iss a seca Aire Ae sAbtbe | semen el cediteur 2) eal eect iea tae Ta eon Perec eet sine oi ee ee 4 al | for society moving farther afield during the summer months. A number of excellent restaurants have opened in the environs. Such places as the Pomme Api at Bougival, the Pavillion Henri IV at Saint- Germain (overlooking one of the most entrancing panoramas in the world), the Trianon Palace at Ver- sailles, or the Hotel Condé at Chantilly are generally smart for tea and dinner during the week. With the vulgarization of the automobile, however, I have a notion that society will come back to town again. In an epoch when anybody can own a small car it is scarcely a social advantage to be able to drive out.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS CHAPTER XII WHERE ARE YOU STOPPING? A? WE run into town to change for dinner it is worth while speculating where all these Americans and other folk we have seen are headed for. Where do they live? If you are coming to Paris for the season, where should you live? In order to save you carrying tiresome guides around with you I am willing to vouchsafe a few words on that point. There are three classes in Paris for the tourist: de-luxe, first and low. There is no half-way between first-class and low-class. Either you live decently or you don’t. Either you have a bath and a radiator in your rooms, which means that you also have an ex- pensive restaurant and bar and grill-room and con- cierge to pay for—or you don’t. There are several de-luxe hotels in Paris and hundreds of first-class ones. The lower-class hotels accommodate thousands. One hundred and twenty- five thousand Americans visited Paris in 1923, to quote Statistics. It is safe to assert that ninety thousand of them lived in hotels of the first two categories. Heading the list, for Americans anyway, is the Ritz,128 THE PARIS RAAT SN GOT — epieeteesL sar sirt ceatal (Si A = ae 3 i Lb eth et: Ho ok LeReeeen! SUBS ar at Te arid tye ey 4 5 4 - rite . 7F ila aoekeeerts tibbembtbe tiie se o.s SURI Loui L oc ies t eta iee Loli et aria terac) oa i et eee heed 0 > ewe - in bites edb EeT CD Seay ri we Pe ite oy The Ritz, they say, won’t give you a room until they have assured themselves that you are either in the Social Register, Debrett’s or the Congressional Directory. A great many well-known Americans such as Tony Drexel, Cortland Bishop, who is trying to be a Munsey to the Paris Times, Mrs. Belmont, Mr. and Mrs. Axel Wickfeld, Mrs. William E. Corey, Clifford Harmon, and others, keep suites all the year around at the Ritz. It is their Paris home. There they see every- body they know. There they may get their first glimpses of the latest fashions, both in human beings and in gowns. Royalty, when it is not at the Meurice, stays at the Ritz. The Queen of Rumania, the ex-King of Portu- gal, the King of Serbia, the Duke and Duchess of York and Mr. Pierpont Morgan stay at the Ritz. The Prince of Wales, like the Shah of Persia, prefers the Meurice. King Alphonso of Spain always lives at his own Embassy. President Calles of Mexico had a suite at the Majestic. President Wilson and Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Fairbanks liked the Crillon. Charles Chaplin lived at Claridge’s; Gloria Swanson at the Plaza-Athénée. And that disposes of the kings and queens. Since nobody is paying me for this, I may as well be frank. If you are on the stage or in the movies, go to the Claridge, the Crillon or the Majestic. If you want to make a splash in society, go to the Ritz, theIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 129 Crillon or the Majestic. If you really are in society, or pine for the quiet life, go to the Crillon or the Plaza- Athenee. If you like a big, airy hotel with large rooms, good service and no bar, go to the Majestic, which is the largest hotel in Paris. If you are a buyer of the first degree, go to the Crillon or the Meurice. If you are a theatrical impresario or a manager, the Grand is a grand place. Morris Gest always goes there. On the other hand, Archie Selwyn uses the Meurice, Charlie Cochran and Mrs. Al Wood the Crillon, and Belasco the Ritz, not to speak of Adolph Zukor, who “‘prevers ze Claridge.” The writers are a weird lot as regards their choice of hotels. You cannot give a certain hotel and assert that one will see them there. Elinor Glyn always stays at the Ritz. It’s her line. Peter B. Kyne hangs out at the Plaza~-Athénée. Sinclair Lewis has found some peculiar hotel over on the Left Bank, close to his beloved Latin Quarter. Ray Long and George Pattullo are at the Plaza. Frazier Hunt lives at the Chatham. Homer Croy has a villa in the suburbs. I am not going to be drawn into making a list of the authors who make Paris their headquarters, however, because this is only a book, not a library. If you are Grade A society and are thinking of getting a divorce, you will go to any of the afore- mentioned hotels, or maybe to the Lotti, the Deux Mondes, the Edouard VII, the Carlton or the Cham- bord.ri betreebenibeesLosesiy vesthal epee catttic eacere ott tae ; : : + WE ckaaibkasikat |) peeeet eas abi seblslehbel sede Palani add tet icet aco e Walthall tee , , aie dee ate 130 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT Then there are a number of smaller but very swag- ger hotels like the Pérouse, the Princess—where Mary Garden keeps a suite—the Washington Palace, the Metropolitain, the Brighton, the Wagram, the San Régis, the France & Choiseul, the Lord Byron, the Champs-Elysées, and the Elysée-Bellevue, which used to be the Hotel Alexandre III and which has one of the finest situations in all Paris, fronting on the Champs- Elysées gardens. Would-be divorcees frequently live in furnished apartments in one of four buildings in the Square Trocadéro, especially conceived for their benefit. Whenever a married woman tells you that she lives in the Square Trocadéro you can put it down that sooner or later she is going to apply for a divorce. The Mere Tourist will live at any of these hotels and a hundred others, according to his pocketbook. But he will find that there is no vast difference be- tween the de-luxe hotel of the Ritz, the Crillon or the Plaza type, and the first-class hotel of the Lotti, the Continental or the Carlton type. The weekly bills will be approximately the same. The Ritz and the Du Rhin, by their placid situation in the Place Vendome, a stone’s throw from the Rue de la Paix and the Tuileries, are probably the best situated of all the hotels. The Claridge, the Carlton, the Majestic, the Pérouse, the Princess and other hotels in their neighborhood are in the up-town district, approximating the region around Fifty-ninth Street orIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 131 upper Park Avenue. They are a four-franc taxicab ride from the center. The Crillon has a wonderful situation on the Place de la Concorde. Most salesmen in the ordinary course choose either the Continental, the Grand or the Meurice. Big busi- ness men select as a rule the Crillon or the Plaza. If they are very big they edge in at the Ritz. Chorus girls, unaccompanied, will go to the Daunou, the Fournet or the London Palace. None of these are hard and fast rules. Every tourist has his preference, both as to hotels and as to restaurants, a week after his arrival. I have yet to meet the tourist on his first visit to Paris who has not told me of his great discovery—the little restaurant where the food is so good and where—invariably— “no other Americans go.” Artists and their ilk generally make a bee-line for the Latin Quarter where there are several very good hotels and a lot of frightful ones. The Lutetia on the Boulevard Raspail is an excellent hostel. Lavenue opposite the Montparnasse Station has a fine reputa- tion both for rooms and for cooking. There are some two thousand others. Where do they eat? Flere the quest is somewhat narrowed. The regular- meal restaurants are not so numerous. We have al- ready spoken of Ciro’s. Then there is Delmonico’s, managed by Henrivebbeebihets del RP al seule laa Leelee lee tals og esy tarts oer ee aiaitsibeg lal ithe ' aed azide aaseeaaait | eee * eel eee ona Saal car" car eeenta | eal Lond 132 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT Dufour, in the Hotel Edouard VII on the Avenue de Opéra. This place was opened two years ago with a staff chiefly recruited from the Café de Paris, and has since become very popular. KH is the favorite restaurant of the Maharajah of Kapurthala and of Charles C. Kurzman. The Café de Paris, one of the oldest and best-known Paris cafés, is to move from its time-honored site at the corner of the Avenue de !’Opéra and the Rue Daunou, and is, I understand, to take larger and more flamboyant premises on the Place de l’Opéra, where Cook’s Agency is now, and underneath the Cercle Militaire. Philippe’s is next door to Ciro’s and is run by the former maitre-d’hotel-chef of the latter place. It is very expensive, as is Montagné Traiteur, run by an artist turned cook—which is not so incongruous as you may think (and as you will believe when you have tasted some of his creations)—at the corner of the Rue de I’Echelle and the Rue St. Honoré. Go into Montagné’s once, put yourself in his hands, spend a learned hour discoursing on the subject of what you are going to eat, and then finally accept his judgment, and you are down in the old man’s books forever. Five years later you may stroll into the place again, and Montagné will not oniy call you by name but will remember, item for item, just what you had to eat on the first occasion. Journeying westward we pass Prunier’s, the famousIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 133 fish place on the Rue Duphot, and Larue’s on the Place de la Madeleine, famous restaurant beloved of Aristide Briand, Gaillard Boag and Gilda Gray. The shimmy queen and her well-known husband, by the way, are now residents of the Paris district. They have purchased a house in Neuilly. Gilda is to make pictures here. Down the street is Maxime’s, which is usually full at luncheon time with deputies from the House of Parlia- ment, and with automobile people. On the Champs-Elysées are two famous restaurants. One is the Hermitage, recently opened as an annex to the well-known Bois restaurant of that name, and the other is the Champs-Elysées Grill, just opposite, which needs an additional word. The Champs-Elysées Restaurant was founded by Jules Ansaldi and Marc Brésil. Marc Brésil is a well- known dramatic critic. Only in Paris can dramatic critics own restaurants. Jules Ansaldi needs little introduction to American readers. He was the originator of the present-day cabaret on Broadway. As manager of the Sans- Souci—after having directed Louis Martin’s down- town place—his was the genius which suggested the Little Club, and his the acumen which picked as future stars Maurice and Joan Sawyer, and afterwards Maurice and Florence Walton. The Castles first danced for Jules Ansaldi. After the war, in which he won the Legion of Honor134 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT for exceptional gallantry, Jules ran the Grande Bre- tagne Hotel, in the Rue Caumartin. In 1920 he turned the restaurant of the Grande Bretagne into Maurice’s Club, which was an instan- taneous success. Then he set about organizing a new restaurant, which was to be to up-town Paris what Ciro’s is to down-town. It opened at 63 Avenue des Champs- Elysées in July, 1923, and registered success from the start. He has now turned the affair into a company, of which he is the administrator and of which a New York broker holds a large share of the stock. The bar in the basement is the largest in Paris and the most comfortable. At six o’clock on any evening it is packed and people wait on the stairs to gain admission. It is the place of rendezvous par excel- lence, and both the restaurant and the bar are dis- tinguished by the fact that women may safely go there alone without fear of annoyance. In the avenue Victor Emmanuel, just across from the flat inhabited by Marquis Boni de Castellane, is the Cabaret Restaurant, another but smaller grill of the same type. Paul Poiret lunches there regularly. In the Place Gaillon, just off the Avenue de l’Opéra, is Henry’s Restaurant, one of the most distinguished eating-places in Paris. For special occasions there are Foyot’s, near the Luxembourg Gardens, frequented by senators; La Pérouse, on the Quai des Grands- Augustins, where they show you the room MarieIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 135 Antoinette ate in; and La Tour d’Argent, where Fred- erick’s pressed duck, beloved of Samuel Goldwyn and others, makes it the time-honored place of pilgrimage; it is the oldest restaurant in Paris, and has been run- ning continuously since the seventeenth century. Re- cently they pressed and sold their 150-thousandth duck. These places will be found to be those principally patronized by the social world of Paris today. There are several hundred others to be discovered by the visitor on exploration bent.PAE PARIS) THATS NOG CHAPTER XIII TONIGHT WE'LL DINE AT THE CHATEAU DE MADRID C OCKTAILS and the fact that between dinner and supper there are so few places to go are respon- sible for the lateness of the third hour of Paris—the hour of dinner. The pre-dinner-cocktail hour at the Ritz and the large bars on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées com- mences at 5.30 and finishes at 7.30. There being a constant and never-failing supply it is not necessary to gulp down as many as you can—such Gothamesque habits are frowned upon in Paris. The phrase cing a sept (five to seven) has a mean- ing of its own significance to the French people. A married lady, when she refers to her cing a sept, means the gentleman whom, unbeknownst to her lawful husband, she has a habit of meeting between those hours. They are supremely the hours of rendezvous, guilty and otherwise—and nobody is ever really guilty of infidelity in Paris. They merely uphold tradition. During this time too the tea-rooms are crowded. There are three kinds of tea-rooms. One kind is fre- quented by the Americans, and here tea is replaced byIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 537 cocktails; one kind is resorted to by the French, who sip porto and vermouth and flirt with their neighbors; the third category, being English, really serve tea. In parenthesis the tea-lover might be warned against ordering tea and toast in a French thé-dansant. The waiter, after a reproachful look, will bring your order, but the tea will be little better than colored hot water, and the toast is certain to be cold. Paris dines then at 9 o’clock. So if one is going to the theater it is preferable to dine at home. The theaters open uniformly between 8.30 and 9 o'clock. During the winter dining is a comparatively simple matter. There are only two hard and fast rules to be observed—Ciro’s on Saturday night and the Ritz on Sunday. Reservations for tables on these nights should be made several days in advance. On other nights, if nothing special is going on, there is a wide choice of excellent restaurants, some of which we have mentioned. For excursion purposes there are the open-air places on top of the Butte of Montmartre, overlooking Paris, and the queer eating- places of the Latin Quarter. But in summer, and especially during the high season beginning about May 15 and continuing until the end of June, the gastronomic boundaries are more rigidly defined. If it is a cold summer the down-town places will retain a lot of their winter chic, and the Ritz is always smart on Sundays, no matter what the season.138 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT But if it is a hot summer a regular program must be followed night by night. The crowd of spenders which Paris facetiously calls “Tout Paris” and which more justly might be named “Tout Etranger” is limited in number, so that the restaurants in the Bois have to take their turn in entertaining them. Americans and English form a majority of the spendthrifts during the season, with South Americans and Spaniards next in numbers. The French only succeed in keeping a short jump ahead of the Italians, the Swiss and the Germans. Once during a gala at Pré Catelan on a Friday night during the season the telephone boy approached the head waiter with the information that a certain Monsieur Gaston Francois was wanted on the tele- phone. “Who?” said Louis, running a puzzled eye over the four hundred revelers. And then—“Oh yes, you mean the Frenchman!” There are several reasons apart from a community of language which make Americans like to go where other Americans go. Chief among these is the cook- ing. French restaurants catering to Americans have learned that Americans as a whole do not like rich cooking. Innumerable friends have begged me to show them the “real French atmosphere.’ When I have taken them to some place French in clientele and manage- ment as well as in name they have confessed themselvesIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 139 thrilled, but a minor note of disappointment has been visible and they have not returned. Certain little comforts, like ice in the water or a plate for the bread, have been lacking, and the food, cooked in pure olive oil and plentifully seasoned with white wine, has a taste too rich by far for their un- accustomed palates. Similarly in the few ‘“dancings” where French people predominate the orchestral attempts are usually impossible for American feet. No matter how big the season in Paris, no matter how many hundreds of thousands of tourists visit France, the crowd of people who will go the social pace is always limited to a mere thousand or so. The reason for this is that going the pace in Paris during the high season calls for a vast expenditure of money, and unless one is socially ambitious or knows plenty of people in the swim it isn’t worth the price. Gala dinners have a deadly similarity. Go to one and you have seen all. The same faces greet you everywhere. And these people work so hard at pleasure that they are tired, bored and fretful. Women jeal- ously sum up the gowns of their neighbors or store up malicious notes for future gossip, and men wait resignedly the hour to go home—or to the next place. There is always a “next place’ in Paris. No one ever starts an evening and finishes it in the same restaurant. The prices are stupendous if they are considered from the point of view of a man called upon to pay matrd, Dove Paver tht 140 TES PARIS DAATS NOE scr seta | Dall i jiRBRey TAT Tatars eT Yur ite eT Paleo al Lory oa de tahoe tel tcaPiy tar Saft eer et PeT Tet mebred - - 1 > re hee i. |] RY arte ae x TF ~ d them every night for a month. This is why one sees so few Frenchmen, except in parties given by other nationalities. I can count the Frenchmen who are out every night and all night—the die-hards whom we shall discuss later—on the fingers of my two hands. I said that a rigid program confined social plans during the summer. During June there are four smart restaurants in the Bois which take their turn in giving galas—the Pré Catelan, the Chateau de Madrid, Armenonville and the Hermitage. Armenonville is on the Paris side of the Bois, not far from the Porte Maillot. Chateau de Madrid is just outside the Bois in Neuilly. Pré Catelan is situated right in the middle of the woods, in its own grounds of several acres, and the Hermitage is on the far fringe of the Bois, on the banks of the Seine near Longchamps race-course and the Porte de Suresnes. Unless unexpected changes occur the following is a safe guide for evenings during the Season: Sunday—Hotel Ritz. Monday—Opera (starts at 8, but you must always miss the first act!) Tuesday—Pré Catelan. Wednesday—Armenonville. Thursday—l’ Hermitage. Friday—Pré Catelan. Saturday—Chateau de Madrid. This can be varied by little excursions out into the country—to beautiful Cabassud, facing a lake on the road to Versailles; to the Trianon Palace at Versailles;IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 14! to the Pomme d’Api, Viel’s place on the way to St. Germain; or to any one of a dozen others. The season in Paris constitutes the extreme peak of organized pleasure hunting. People are obliged to be so gay that it is a little sad. Let us go, this being Saturday night, to the Chateau de Madrid, and bully a table in vantage position out of the head waiter, who has already turned down two hundred similar requests but who knows us—so he says, and maybe it is true. At first glimpse the scene is of such fairylike en- chantment as almost to take one’s breath away. The colored lights on the trees, the soft strains of a perfect orchestra, the glistening of hundreds of immaculate shirt-fronts, the flashing of a ransom in jewels, the kaleidoscopic vision of beautiful face after beautiful face, lovely gown after lovely gown, daring décolleté after daring décolleté; olive skins, white skins, yellow skins—even black skins; glimpses of features you re- member from the illustrated newspapers; and over all, dominating all, the soul-dwarfing impression of wealth, the wealth the normal spending of which would be reckless extravagance elsewhere. Looking the diners over we find that they are divided into thirds One third is Ritz. One third is tourist and the other third is composed of buyers, who are here for business. At such places as this they pick up in advance the novelties which will form part of the fall collections, to be shown in August.THE PARIS THATS NOT It was at the Chateau de Madrid that the Russian style of three years back was originated—quite inno- cently, as a matter of fact. One of the numerous poverty-stricken Russian princesses in Paris had been invited out to dinner, and as she was really very poor she had no clothes except some gowns she had worn before the war in St. Petersburg, vivid for their exquisite embroidery. So she put one of these on. At the Chateau she was the sensation of the even- ing and she had to ward off a score of discreet in- quiries as to the name of the dressmaker responsible for the innovation. Finally, remembering that a cousin of hers, the Grand Duchess Marie, had opened an em- broidery establishment on the Rue Francois Premier, she gave one American acquaintance this address, more in a spirit of fun than anything else. The very next day Grand Duchess Marie, to her vast amazement, received an order from an American buyer which literally took her breath away. It en- tailed an enlargement of her workrooms and _ the doubling of her force of refugees, all former members of the Tsar’s court. Some of the designs, I remem- ber, used to be drawn by Grand Duke Dmitri—the Grand Duchess’s brother—and others by Prince Poutiapine, her husband. I met the Grand Duchess shortly after that in Henry Russell’s flat in the avenue Camoens, and she told me of the experience, smiling wryly.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 143 “I am afraid I am not a very good business woman,” she said, “for I forgot to ask him for a deposit.” She was much relieved when I told her that the buyer in question was part-owner of one of the largest stores on Fifth Avenue. It was also at the Chateau de Madrid that the lattice- work skirt, made of strands of silk, usually black and white, first came out. The gown was worn, if I am right, by Alice Cocéa, the creatrice of Phi-Phi. It was another instantaneous hit, and, like the Russian fashion, was the sensation of New York a few weeks later. One of the most poignant memories I have of the Chateau de Madrid is that of Gaby Deslys, dancing at a fete there a few months before she died. She was even then feeling badly, her partner Harry Pilcer told me. Tonight there is a good-sized sprinkling from the stage, most of them having motored out here directly from the theater. There is Jane Renouardt, beautiful and resplendent, with Jacques Wittouck; there is Spinelly with a gay party from the Variétés which includes the efferves- cent Max Dearly; there is Jane Danjou, whose splendid figure shows up to advantage in a clinging gown from Paquin; there is Jane Marnac, the delightful musical- comedy star who is said to be Lemarchand’s choice for leading woman in the next revue at the Folies Bergére —que de Janes!144 THE PARIS’ PHATES NOU Cecile Sorel sweeps in, her superb carriage remind- ing one of the prints of duchesses which illustrate the rare editions of Thackeray’s works. As usual, Cecile is accompanied by Comte Guyon de Ségur and by a court of six other men, all young. Cecile is never seen in public without her court. In the way of society, too, there is a goodly sprink- ling at the Chateau de Madrid tonight. Mr. and Mrs. W. K. Vanderbilt Junior, with the two girls, have for once consented to show themselves, overcoming their predilection for Deauville in the off- season. Mrs. Tessie Oelrichs is there, in black lace and her usual smile. Mr. and Mrs. Harry Lehr and the Berry Walls have tables next to each other. Mr. and Mrs. Freddy Bate, the former a Chicago boy and the latter the daughter of an English peer, are with a gay party. The Prince of Wales usually stays with the Bates when he is in Paris. Manuel, the former King of Portugal, and his nice- looking wife have a front table, while opposite is the Maharajah of Kapurthala and two of his sons, one of whom, Karem, is considered the finest male dancer in Paris. Usually the Kapurthalas are seldom seen except with European women—the former Maharanee, di- vorced some years ago, was a Spanish dancing-girl— but on this occasion they have some visiting Indian ladies with them—wives or daughters, probably, of other maharajahs, who continually visit Paris. TheseIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 145 women are small, very dark, round-cheeked, beautiful in a dusky fashion, and wear the most extraordinary jewels. Over their heads are shawls of spider-silk worth fortunes. At another table, entertaining an American dancer from the Perroquet, is the Shah of Persia, fat, small- eyed and slightly ridiculous, especially when he dances. His hands are covered with jewels. The Shah can never lose his throne, no matter how many revolutions in Persia. He always brings it with him whenever he visits Europe. To say that there is a fortune in jewels on the dancing floor would be to put it not only tritely but mildly. The total value of all the precious stones framing beauty here tonight would sound familiar in the ears of Louis Barthou, president of the Repara- tions Commission. Several women present are wearing each at least a million francs’ worth of jewels. Mrs. Jean Nash over there has ’em all on. If you have time, and your smoked glasses handy, you may count them. Start with the diamond diadem in her blond hair. Count in the emerald headache band around her forehead. Unlike Mrs. Smith-Wilkinson, she has no diamonds in her teeth—though that may come later. But one pearl necklace is not enough for her—she wears two. One, of great big pearls, fastens tightly around her throat; on the Rue de la Paix they call this the “dog collar.’ The other necklace, of four hundredTHE PARIS THAT S NOT and fourteen graduated pearls, is strung in three great loops about her beautiful neck and is worth an oil king’s ransom. Shifting our eyes downward—if we are not yet blind—we note a diamond brooch and a diamond girdle, and count—perhaps not quite accurately—six- teen flashing bracelets on the left arm and nine on the right. Apart from these and the diamond anklet and the ruby-studded heels, Mrs. Jean Nash wears no jewels whatever. Then there is that ash blonde over there. Familiar, her face? Yes, that’s who she is—Princess Fahmy Bey, who has been more Parisienne than ever since she killed her husband in a London hotel and was set free by a British jury. Princess Fahmy, who is dancing with the divorced but still noble husband of one of the Morgan girls, is also ablaze. From head to feet she is clothed in jewels and little else. She wears even more bracelets than Mrs. Nash, which Mrs. Nash will probably remedy tomorrow, for the number of bracelets is the outward and visible sign of a lady’s success in life. Fahmy and Nash are great friends, of course, and their innocent little rivalry has nothing cattish about it. The Princess is one up on Mrs. Nash, anyway. She disposed of her husband far more effectively than does Jean, who merely and in quite prosaic fashion divorces them.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 147 But I can see you are interested in Mrs. Nash. I don’t blame you, for you are not the first, and she is one of the most effective women I know. Let us see whether we cannot deal with her more at length.THE PARIS THATS NOT CHAPTER XIV KNOWN AS THE BEST-DRESSED WOMAN IN THE WORLD EAN NASH’S life is spent in getting engaged, marrying, divorcing and signing theatrical con- tracts. That is, a quarter of her life is spent in looking after such minor details as these. The other three quarters are occupied rather frantically in the exercise of her profession, that of being the Best-Dressed Woman in the World. Two specially reserved rooms at the Claridge are insufficient to hold all of Mrs. Nash’s new gowns, and five drawers in a safety vault are too small to contain all of her fine lingerie, which, to persons acquainted with the quantity and size of what women wear under- neath nowadays, means much more than may appear at first glance. Mrs. Nash was once sitting outside the Potiniere at Deauville when a chasseur from the Royal Hotel dashed over and handed her an envelop. She uttered a cry of joy. “Ah, there it is at last!” she exclaimed. “What?” I inquired. It looked to me like an ordi-IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 149 nary letter—in shape and size resembling the multitude you receive on the first of the month. “Feel it!’ she suggested. I felt. It had a soft, evasive touch about it. “What is it, a check?” I demanded. “Silly boy! That’s my new chemise.” When Mrs. Nash is not eating, sleeping, dancing, fiancing, marrying, divorcing or visiting her lawyers she is changing her gown. Other women occasionally have frocks and dresses, and I believe in America certain females in the heathen districts of the Middle West even wear skirts. But Mrs. Nash never wears anything but gowns. If I told you precisely how many of them she has you would get needlessly excited, and there is a possi- bility that you would call me a liar. Therefore I limit myself to round numbers. Mrs. Nash has more than a thousand gowns. Neither Mary Pickford nor Peggy Joyce—I hope both will forgive me—can beat that. Then there are the fur coats. If those Norwegian explorers ever reach the North Pole; if, when they arrive at the Pole, they discover slumbering there a fur-bearing animal of an entirely new and exceptional species, and if they slay said animal while it sleeps; given all these ifs, it is a moral certainty that that unique hide will shortly thereafter become Mrs. Jean _Nash’s newest coat. There are certainly furs in existence which have150 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT not been made into coats for Jean Nash. But they are the inferior, common or garden kind, like rabbit and cat. Every time a bunny crosses Jean’s path she shudders. It is not probable that Jean has more than three chinchilla coats. I know she has one, for she wore it last night. It was soft and snuggly, as Jean looks as 1f she might be, herself. As to jewels—well, Peggy Joyce in all her glory was—no, we won't go as far as that. Peggy certainly has a nice collection. But Mrs. Nash has only one rival in Europe that I wot of. She is Her Formerly Royal Highness the Maharanee of Kapurthala. The Z-R 3 would be scarcely buoyant enough to keep the beautiful though plump Maharanee in the air should she be wearing them all at once. Jean burst on an unoffending Paris several years ago and since then has been consistently with us except for the few weeks she recently put in at the Ritz- Carlton in New York. She was born in New York. They didn’t seem to remember her there, however, and she soon came back to Paris, where New Yorkers are appreciated. Even at school she gave evidence of exceptional talent, such as when she daringly wore a skirt which exhibited slightly more than her ankles. Jean Nash’s ankles are well worth exhibiting. This may have been the reason Stanley Kerwin fell in love with her. At any rate, Jean’s mother did notIN THE GUIDE BOOKS IST fall for Stanley, which necessitated an elopement, cleverly carried out from her dormitory at school. Jean Nash has always adored married life, but not invariably with the same husband. Variety in the lesser half is the spice of marriage, she believes. Be that as it may, she rapidly divorced Mr. Kerwin and shortly thereafter married Winfield Sifton, who was Canadian and had millions. It was with Mr. Sifton that Jean first acquired her taste in chinchilla. Jean’s reason for divorcing Mr. Sifton was ex- tremely original. She complained that he loved her too much. Whatever the song-writers may have tried to foist upon a gullible public, no woman really likes to be loved to death, and Mrs. Nash was no exception. So she went to London and acquired her third, to wit a tall young army officer by the name of Nash. Whatever else Jean did to him she certainly made his name famous. Nash was a very tall man and towered over his wife, although Jean is not a small woman by any means. This finally irked her to such a degree that she felt a holiday and a change were necessary. The holiday was taken in France and the change was one of the handsomest of the young Argentine set of Paris. We will call him Sefior A. Shortly thereafter Mr. Nash brought suit for di- vorce, carrying into court a large bag filled with unpaid dressmakers’ bills. He told ihe sympathetic judge that, while he appreciated the honor of being the152 THESPARIS THATS NOR husband of the best-dressed woman in the world, he was neither Henry Ford nor Paul Poiret. The judge saw the point and gave him his divorce, whereafter the bag of bills was left to the dressmakers to hold. Meanwhile the gay and volatile Jean was vigorously entertaining herself and Cannes. Cannes is on the Riviera. It is the de-luxe spot of the Dollar Coast, which is why Jean went there. Something in the Riviera climate, perhaps, made Senor A. seem inadequate. However that may have been, another ardent South American, Sefior O., placed his name, his fortune, his baccarat chips at her feet. It was Senor O. who was found clinging to the cornice of the Carlton Hotel one day, his-position on the cornice being exactly two yards from the window of Mrs. Nash’s room. It might have been two miles for all Sefior O. could make it, and when rescued by a volunteer squad headed by Erskine Gwynne he was about to let go, which would have caused a regrettable splash on the cement walk three floors below. On another occasion Senior O. inadvertently pointed a new revolver at himself and pulled the trigger. He was not greatly hurt, and it is not on record that Mrs. Nash nursed him back to health. About the same time Senor A., who had not yet been cured, grappled with one Oritz Etchaguay in the middle of the Cannes casino, and homicide was only prevented by the stout hat-check lady, who is the Casino bouncer.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 153 Transferring her affections across the Atlantic again, Mrs. Nash was next engaged to Prince Sabit Bey, a presumed sheik who is a near relative to the Khedive. Almost at the same time, although not quite, a Washington politician who had once been a senator fell a victim. This did not last very long. Followed a German, one Baron Lederman von Wart- berg, said to be a nephew of Otto Kahn. The baron was twenty years old and looked about seventeen. He was handsome, and understood that. He paid ardent court to Jean on the Riviera and fol- lowed her to Paris, where the two announced their engagement. Two days later they announced their disengagement. Von Wartberg was a nice boy, as boys go, but the chances are that he was a leetle bit too young for Jean. At any rate the two parted quite amicably, each issuing courteous communiques to the papers. Prince Sabit came back into the charmed circle atter that, elbowing away in the process the venerable but quite enormously rich Marquis de Medici. They went to Egypt, and there something romantic about the country got the best of Jean. She has told me the story of Prince Sabit’s proposal thrice. The first time the proposal was in the dining-room at Shepherd’s Hotel. The second time she told it to me was a moonlit night at Deauville, and it appeared Sabit had proposed out on the mystic desert, looking up at the Sphinx, his strong arm about his beloved’s154 TE ARES TEATS: NOW waist as he poured out his love for her. The third time she told me about it she and Sabit had had a little squabble, and Jean said, irritably, “I’m sure I don’t know why I was so mad as to tell him to marry me.” Just like that. Mrs. Jean Nash was Princess Sabit Bey for nearly a whole month. They returned to Paris and took a room at the Ritz while Jean got used to her title. She really made a quite striking princess. But the marriage was not wholly successful; the American woman and the Egyptian sheik could not see eye to eye in a number of things. We had them to dinner at Ciro’s, Erskine and J, and they carried on just as any ordinary married couple would have done. They disagreed about every- thing from the temperature of the soup to Mrs. Nash’s taste in dancing partners. A few days later, I met Jean at Henri Letellier’s house and she said to me: “Well, that’s that!’ ““That’s what?” I asked. “T divorced him this morning—TI mean, that is, he divorced me.” I was slightly puzzled. “But I thought it took 3) three months to div “Not for us. We were married under Moslem law. All he had to do was to point his finger at me and say: ‘I divorce you—you are no longer my wife.’ Then we had lunch,” explained Jean.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS Iss As may be imagined, Jean Nash is not only charm- ing and best dressed but is also intelligent. When she enters a room all eyes turn upon her, to be at once blinded by the little trick she has of raising one graceful arm to smooth her hair. The arm is the one with the bracelets. She is a wonderful dancer and as a charter member of the die-hards she has no equal. Added to all this, she works harder than any woman in her set. It is no cinch to be the Best-Dressed Woman in the World.THES PARES TitATaS. NOW CHAPTER XV DON’T FORGET TO DANCE AT THE RITZ TP YOU would be smart in Paris on a Sunday night you must attend the Ritz dinner-dance, and if you would attend the Ritz dinner-dance you must know Olivier. Olivier is not the least of the potentates to be found in the Ritz of a Sunday night. He is more than the head waiter. The director of the hotel himself is not more pandered to by the very wealthy. Think of the enormous power in the hands of a man who can place your table one yard nearer the dancing floor than the table at which sits a king and queen! Olivier is a man of probably fifty years of age who is suavity itself. Not even Antoine, the famous barber, can boast a larger acquaintance with the great than can Olivier. He is as competent an expert on the Protocol as Becq de Fouquiéres, the master of ceremonies for the French presidency. At some time or other he has had in his care all the crowned heads of Europe and most of the considerable uncrowned heads of America. Did he so choose he could wear yards of decoration across the breast of his London- tailored habit, and kings have pinned medals on himIN PHE GUIDE BOOKS 157 with their own hands, while queens have thanked him with a smile. True greatness is revealed in his attitude towards his clients—who are also his gods. A clothing sales- man from New York once, with a grandiloquent ges- ture, tipped him a silver dollar for reserving him a table. Olivier took it with a courteous smile of thanks because he didn’t want to show his man up, but Olivier is one of the highest-paid hotel men in the world and is a wealthy man in his own right. Having reserved a table early in the week let us put on a white waistcoat and tie—the Ritz is the only restaurant in Paris which requires full-dress for those who wish to dance—and hail us there on—say—the night of the Grand Steeplechase. It is the last big gala of the season, for next Sunday is the Grand Prix and with the running of the Grand Prix the season ends. Before the sporting papers are out with the winner many fashionables are already motoring south- ward to Vichy or eastward to Evian or Aix-les-Bains, having brought their baggage fully packed in their cars to Longchamps. A blaze of white shirt-front greets us as we enter the hotel. Here, at last, is Society with a big S. Mrs. Smith, of Middleton, United States, sits at her table and tries hard to look blasé and unconcerned. Through the brain of Mrs. Smith keeps beating and beating a single thought. It has come to her, the thought, as she entered the dining-room, and ever since158 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT it has been recurring with ever-increasing frequency: “If the folks back home could only see me now!” May this somewhat inglorious, albeit triumphant wish be pardoned Mrs. Smith. She has reason enough. On her left sits a reigning king, his queen opposite him. On her right sits the heir to a famous throne. In front of her the richest banker in the world is eating alone. At his habitual table in the corner is the famous deposed king of a small European kingdom turned republic, whose adventure with a French dancer oc- cupied the chronicles of fifteen years ago. Around and all about Mrs. Smith are persons whom she has recognized instantly from having seen their photographs in the Middleton Gazette. Over there is a poverty-stricken marquis and a once- famous beauty who has just divorced a steel kings There is a beautiful-looking man who, the Gazette has informed her, is the Arbiter of Elegance. There is the head of the greatest jewelry house in the world. There is a dowdy old dowager in the corner who is credited with being Number One of the Four Hundred. Mrs. Smith has noted with some astonishment that the dowager eats asparagus with a fork—not as she had learned to eat it, between thumb and forefinger. There is a table as yet empty, but which bears the name of the richest young man in the world. Yes, decidedly there is some excuse for wishing that on this Sabbath evening some of her friends fromIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 159 Main Street could see Mrs. Smith partaking of dinner at the Ritz. For the Ritz on a Sunday night is, I suppose, the most cosmopolitan gathering of notables in the world. Nowhere else can a monarch dine comfortably, with his wife, without having a crowd looking at him. The Ritz is very likely the only public dining-room which has held as many as four sovereigns at one time. The kick in this for Americans is that the place 1s public. The big attraction, naturally, is that this is the habitat of international Society. These people talk a common language, wear a common livery. The majority of them are as much at home in Paris as in London or New York. But you will not get them all under one roof anywhere except in Paris. It is not a particularly elevating sight to see the scramble among Americans to get tables at the Ritz on a Sunday night during the season. On this night members of Society are on show— as most of them love to be, no matter what they may say to newspaper reporters. The dinner and the danc- ing are dreary enough affairs, in themselves—even when enlivened by “Buddie’s” miraculous drums. As we make our way to the vestiaire we are certain to see four men chatting with different groups. One is Marquis de Castellane, one is Berry Wall, one is Harry Lehr, and the fourth is André de Fouquieres. André de Fouquiéres must find his self-imposed job of being the “arbiter of elegance” very trying at times.160 TE PARLS DEALS NOg He usually wears a bored expression on these occa- sions, and only those who have surprised André in a different milieu know that he is at bottom a very lively, human sort of fellow. But here at the Ritz he is working. It is his place in life—Society. He makes his living by it. He has achieved the pinnacle—he is constantly referred to as the “best-dressed man in Paris’—and he has to live up to it. It is harder to live up to that sort of reputation than to achieve it. Although seen everywhere where money is, André de Fouquiéres is not himself a rich man. His brother, who is Chef du Protocole to the French Government, possibly is wealthier than he. I am not revealing any secret when I say that Society is André’s job. He makes no bones about it. He uses his position in an honorable way to live, and he makes it pay him toll from every conceivable angle. Principally, André’s business is that of an organizer. Having the entrée everywhere in France and knowing everyone whom it is worth anybody’s while to know, he is called upon by hostesses to assist them when they contemplate giving a fete, or a dinner, or a particularly exacting reception. Depending upon the occasion, de Fouquiéres knows exactly whom to invite and whom not to. He knows the order of precedence in which they should be placed at table. Just as his brother knows precisely where a Secretary of State of the United States should be placedIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 165 at the table in relation to the President of the French Republic and the British Ambassador, so André de Fouquiéres knows whether the Marquise de Polignac should be seated nearer the hostess than—let us say— Mrs. J. Pierpont Morgan. To gain this knowledge has taken a good twenty years of André’s life and one cannot blame him if he knows the value of his services and prices them accordingly. Every year there is a violent competition among the various watering-places to get André de Fouquiéres to honor them with a visit, and here again his own preferences are usually discernible in his choice. Deauville, for instance, has tried for years to get de Fouquiéres to spend the month of August there— tried, and failed. André remains faithful to Dinard. This is a matter of serious moment to Deauville, for it means that a great many society folk who would otherwise go to Deauville visit Dinard instead. I do not say that it is entirely owing to this prefer- ence of André’s that Deauville is essentially not a society resort, and that Dinard, on the contrary, is. But it is a fact that of recent years Deauville has become more and more a resort for gamblers, for actresses, for professional beauties, for dress buyers, for tourists, for business men; and less and less a resort patronized by the élite of Newport and the Fau- bourg St. Germain. True, the visit of the Prince of Wales last year and that of Alphonso XIII two years ago helped the sit-162 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT uation a little. But the Prince only came over for the week-end and spent his real holiday in Le Touquet, a charming beach not far from the mouth of the Somme River, where the British peerage likes to spend the summer. A luncheon, a dinner or a reception attended by André de Fouquiéres immediately attains an impor- tance it would not otherwise have. Don’t ask why André should have the power to affix the cachet to such gatherings. It is one of the mysteries of Paris. Probably it is because everyone knows that De Fouquiéres would not attend any occasion unless the hostess and the guests were “right.” Many an American woman has reason to be grateful to this dapper Frenchman for having come to her rescue at a troublesome turn of her social road. In addition to his regular work as referee of fash- ionable society André de Fouquiéres is a writer of no mean talent. He has some books and a play to his credit, and he contributes to several newspapers and magazines, including one society publication printed in New York. There is a lot of common sense in whatever he has fo say and his fiat on men’s dress is as closely followed in France as that of the Prince of Wales is followed in England. He does not approve of the radical in men’s dress so often affected by Frenchmen and above all by Span- iards and South Americans. Like Chesterfield, heIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 163 ——— thinks that the art of good dressing 1s to pass unper- ceived. A large number of American women who have married into the French aristocracy attend the Ritz Sunday night affairs. Among them are the Princess de Polignac, the Marquise de Breteuil, the Duchess d’Ayen, Countess de Lesseps, Countess Jacques d’Ara- mon, née Fisher; Marquise de Chambrun, née Nichols; Countess de Rougemont, and Countess Lépic. The venerable but still sprightly Duchess of Oporto, formerly the Ten-Million-Dollar Widow of Philip Van Valkenburgh, looks in occasionally, wearing the long, clinging dresses for which she is noted and which she wears in royal disregard of style, and accompanied by half a dozen young fetch-and-carry men who are generally impecunious noblemen. The Duchess of Oporto is regal in her carriage and in her manner. Once she was a spinner in a cotton mill, but now she is a royal duchess, and might be Queen of Portugal one day if the republic were over- thrown and King Manuel and his Queen were not in- vited to return. Another certain to be among the hosts on Sunday night is Clifford B. Harmon. Harmon is the author of the “Why Pay Rent?” sign which once adorned thousands of billboards and newspaper advertising space in the United States. Harmon has built more homes than anyone in the world, and it is the irony of ‘a strange fate that he has no home of his own.164 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT Born at Urbana, Ohio, in 1867, Harmon was one of the pioneers of the West. When he was only two years old he was riding horses at Fort Sill, Indian Territory. When he was ten he was riding ’em wild at Fort Davis in Texas. After the funeral of his father, who died leaving as sole wealth an uncashed treasury check for one month's pay, Clifford went to Cincinnati, arriving there possessor of the large sum of one dime. A year from that date he and his brother had a successful real- estate business, known as Harmon Brothers. Clifford’s brain has always been fertile with ideas and it worked well for him when he conceived the notion of subdividing farms and selling lots on them by the instalment plan. “Why pay rent?” he thun- dered, and the people of Cincinnati saw the point. Not many years later Harmon’s firm was the largest real-estate concern in the United States, with branches in twenty-six cities. More than two hundred and fifty- six subdivisions were marketed by the Harmons. The brothers eventually split, Clifford calling his com- pany the Clifford B. Harmon Co., and his brother his the W. E. Harmon Co. Moving to New York Clif- ford built the town of Harmon on the Hudson, and married the beautiful daughter of Commodore E. C. Benedict, Louise. They were divorced recently. A tall, stoop-shouldered, gray-headed man, Clifford Harmon is one of the best-known figures around the Ritz when he is not living in his apartment at theIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 165 Savoy, at Nice. He is something of a pioneer in humanity as well as in real estate, and has made two very remarkable discoveries—one a talented, young American singer, Madeleine Keltie, who will one day be a prima donna, and the other a young, beautiful and clever Russian sculptress, the Princess Molvani. Princess Molvani is the very clever designer of trophies offered by Harmon to competitors in an air race he has founded in France in honor of the Lafay- ette Escadrille. Harmon was a pioneer member of the Lafayette Escadrille, holds one of the earliest pilot’s licenses in the Aero Club of America, and has been a famous balloonist. If you can beat that for a life, go to it.THEA PARTS THATS NOt CHAPTER XVI THEN JUST ONE BOTTLE OF WINE Ad iE INS Y. (BAIR eo rEN the end of dinner and 11.30, when the supper-dancing establishments open, there is only one thing “doing” in Paris, and that is the cabaret underneath the New York Bar on the Rue Daunou. This is the “Jumping-off Place.” There is nothing more devastating than to dine with a charming companion and, when the coffee has been served, to look at your watch and discover that it is only ten o’clock, with nearly two hours to spend before you can dance and nowhere to spend those two hours in. Before 1921 people solved the difficulty by popping into some theater for the last act, or by dining extra late and dawdling over their food. But it was an unsatisfactory compromise. Then came the New York Bar with its tiny cabaret, and whatever objections the word “bar” may have prompted in some quarters, the place was accepted because there was actually nowhere else to go. There still isn’t. Thus, for its size, the New York Bar cabaret has possibly seen more distinguished people come and goIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 167 than any other entertainment in Paris. People who would not dream of setting foot inside a bar in the daytime go there cheerfully, diamonds and sables and all, at night. The “N. Y.” as it is familiarly known by residents of Paris, has an interesting history. It was first opened as considerable of a venture by Mrs. Milton Henry, wife of the well-known jockey, on Thanksgiving Day, 1911. A character from New York, Bart Clancy, was manager; Harry Perry was chief bartender and “Chips” Brighton his assistant. Of this combination only cheerful little “Chips” re- mains. “Chips” is a former jockey who knows the sporting world of Paris as well as anyone living here now. Just before the war Mrs. Henry sold the bar to F. H. Manders, of the delicatessen store Appenrodt, which has now disappeared. Manders took as his manager a brave little man whose memory has not yet completely passed—Tod Sloan. That famous rider was off the tracks at the time and prior to his being given the job at the New York Bar had very little cash or property to call his own. ‘od was an inveterate gambler and a great en- tertainer when he had money. They tell about how Tod once won a big race on the Riviera, for which he was to receive a fee of five thou- sand francs. Without waiting, Tod went off to Monte Carlo, where the owner was staying, to collect. At the »168 THE BATTS THALES NOG behead babar ue Lusk Coat * roe eer Ye eka - ; h Mibes wie SE ei see tt Ash ALdhy |, sae teeta CT Tv Sy Pet ee - pari Laat ‘eet! helenih bina ha hal fh) pal te wi ea acd trl aee 1 eh le pleat prays pag) mr er ee eed iH = j | tt ihre) Peery T 5 a 4 wT Py ruts Hotel de Paris he was told that the man expected to return about twelve o’clock that night. Tod went over to the casino restaurant and ordered a dinner for eighteen to which he invited that many of his friends. The dinner was everything that a dinner could be. The food was the choicest and the wines were the most expensive on the list. At midnight came the bill. It was for sixteen hundred francs. “Wait a minute,” said Tod, and rushed over the street to the hotel for his five thousand. There he found a suave concierge with the information that the owner had called up and said that he would not be home until morning. Tod went back to his banquet, humming gaily. Nothing ever feezed Tod Sloan. Arriving at the table, he turned out his pockets. He had forty-two francs. “Stand up!’ he commanded. “Turn out your pockets !”’ The guests did as they were bid, but either they cheated or Tod’s friends, like himself, were ‘‘broke.”’ The latter possibility is the more likely. It had been a bad day for the boys at the races. When the combined capital of the company had been added together it was found that Tod had two hundred francs with which to pay a sixteen-hundred- franc bill. Tod called the head waiter and explained the situa- tion. The head waiter, who knew Tod, threw up hisIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 169 . rs befiy ian SO Ar siees at Abs he siilhy |, seve oaioe Le Poe TTA TV eT Pee ere ee OE ery Ton RMT er sty, ti 5 + hm 74 ir < ay athe ewe Ny ve 5 a printing and selling the unorthodox programs pedlers offer you outside the doors of theaters, and who now owns the Casino de Paris, the Theatre de Paris, and the Perroquet cabaret—the “Half-Way House.” Anyone who tries to be big in the cabaret business in Paris has to keep a decidedly watchful eye on these Volterras. For years they successfully kept newcomers out. It is therefore a singular commentary on the prowess of Oscar Mouvet that the Volterras should have come to Jum. Oscar is manager of the Abbaye de Théléme now. The glories of the Jardin de ma Soeur have ended and the place is closed. And Oscar dreams of retiring, too, soon : “Just a little restaurant that I could close at ten p.m. and be home at midnight!” That’s the dream of Oscar, who has seen the break of dawn every morning for years. To never have to go out again at night! I wonder will he have the same ambition after a few months of the quiet life? I wonder whether some day his ears will not again hearken to the music of the popping cork? Let’s wish him well, anyhow.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS =— | CHAPTER XVIII AND THEY KEEP AT IT NIGHT AFTER NIGHT NE of the saddest possible experiences Paris offers is a night with a party of those incorrigible noctambules who make night-trotting their profession. To the average tourist the supper clubs of the Rue Caumartin, Montmartre and the Etoile merely mean a hectic night or two and a week on the boat to get over it, but with the noctambules of Paris ’tis their whole existence. How often do you ask a friend when he is going home, to receive the reply, “Aquitania, on Wednesday—thank God! Now I'll get some rest.” What then of the small band of men and women of all nationalities who live—lI believe they call it that —in Paris all the year around, when they are not in Deauville or Cannes or Biarritz, and who during three hundred and sixty nights of the year never see bed before dawn nor rise to their languid toilette until the street-lamp lighter begins his round? Strong men and women with the precedent of Broad- way or Leicester Square behind them have crumpled up like last week’s newspaper after only a few weeks of the night life of Paris—the fastest, the most hectic and still the saddest of any capital on earth.184 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT And yet these people of whom I talk trot precisely the same round, night after night, lugubriously sipping the inevitable champagne, with melancholy dancing the “Boredom Blues,” impatient as soon as they arrive to be off and on to the next place, their tongues busy with gossip and scandal—sometimes salacious and always malicious—their eyes ringed with the ineffable distress of those who are sated, their hands toying restlessly with the mosser that stirs their champagne—a tool usually more familiar to them than the pen, the chisel or the hay-fork. Surfeited with sexual pleasure, their stomachs ruined by bad champagne, their brains feverish from insom- nia, their principal occupation in life a knowledge of “the” people, ‘“‘the’’ places and the way to wear the “right” clothes, these sheep on their self-imposed Sacrificial altar yet show tremendous ability as stayers. Then there are what I call the “Die-Hards.” These are Americans, French, Argentines, English and people of other nationalities who have adopted Paris as their second home, who simply don’t know when to go home at night. There was George Burton, née Bernheimer, of New York brewery renown. George was a sort of high priest of the die-hards. He lived in Paris, where he maintained an apartment fitted up like a moving-IN PEE GUIDE” BOOKS 185 picture harem. Nine months of the year, and every night, would see him out dining and wining some- where, usually triple-ringed by beauty. Once I saw George Burton sitting with Sem, the caricaturist. They afforded an interesting contrast. Both die-hards of the first water, no two men could have been more dissimilar. Alongside the enormous bulk of Burton, glowing with apparent health and vigor, Sem looked like some venerable Lilliputian mummy come to life—but not very much life. His face, scarred with innumerable wrinkles and cast in a perpetually querulous mold, looked the negation to George’s boisterous joviality. His tiny head did not come to Burton’s shoulder. His thin arms and bony hands looked like straws alongside the meaty limbs of the American. Sem is the cartoonist of society. He is the most feared and yet the most courted man in that society. Any woman in the swim would give her soul to be included in the great album that Sem gets out every year. International Society is led by the people who appear in this album. And it is an interesting commentary on present Parisian life that Sem’s last album had six Americans in it to every five of other nationalities. Sem’s work is a living record of Paris qui s’amuse et qui meurt. Asa blinding satire on the pretenses of the fast set it has no equal. Asa mirror of contemporary fashion it is unique.Cee nt ait PET I+ wee o on a or — arts eailiea | To a: SURYA TS a a tradi ada MAL eeit Las colada tattle See ia. Sa et or ieT ne ey tren, Perv TL st 186 LEE RARLS TUPATSAS NOM Sem has seen his sixtieth year, and forty of them have been passed as a die-hard. He is at every place where gathers society or that cosmopolitan agglomera- tion known as Tout Paris. No Sunday night at the Ritz, no gala at the Acacias or the Abbaye or the Jardin de Ma Sceur, no Saturday at Ciro’s, no party at Henri Letellier’s or Paul Lillaz’s, no ultra-fashion- able soirée at Paul Poiret’s would be complete without him. The little man moves unobtrusively around, watch- ing the faces of his victims. When he catches an expression or a feature that impresses him, he will pull out a tiny pad of paper and a stub of pencil and swiftly transfer it to his collection. He will spend an entire evening sometimes in fol- lowing one woman around, trying to get her exactly as he thinks she should be done. Sem’s cartoons are never complimentary, but they are always accurate. Witha stroke of his pen he can reproduce any well-known character in Paris. There is no crowned head in Europe that Sem has not caricatured, and he has done more than a dozen likenesses of the present Prince of Wales, just as he drew his grandfather, the Prince’s predecessor, as a royal die-hard. Sem was born in a small village south of Perigueux in the country where pigs chase truffles. His talent manifested itself as a youngster, and he went to school in Marseilles.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 187 After a youth spent in the Mediterranean port Sem, poor and unknown, came to Paris, where on the eve of a Grand Prix he ascended the stairs at Le Journal with a portfolio and asked to see the editor. Henri Letellier, then a youngster, had just been appointed to this position by his father, who preferred to occupy himself with his construction work. Letel- lier’s secretary was a man of no imagination and he failed to discern the flame of genius that burned in the tiny artist’s eyes. He refused to admit Sem to Letel- lier’s presence. Sem thereupon handed him his magnus opus—a series of striking caricatures of the horses in Letel- lier’s and other stables, most of which were runners in the Grand Prix. The secretary took the drawings in to Letellier and put them on his desk. “A man left these. I told him you were too busy to see him,” he said casually. Letellier glanced at the sketches and then jumped to his feet, berating his secretary for an imbecile. “Go—run after that man, and bring him back or don’t come back yourself!” he cried. Sem was made art director of Le Journal and has ever since been one of Letellier’s inseparable compan- ions. He is known for his careless attire and for his intense hatred of all things that are not French. In four years in London he refused to utter a word of English. He has declined scores of offers to go to the United States.188 Mele, 12 AUS. Ihakalih sy INKO)IE —_—_—- “T can see all I want of America here in Paris,’ he told me once. “They are spoiling our Paris, these Americans.” But they buy his albums, and he gets his revenge. Another die-hard whose success has been intimately associated with Letellier is Yves Mirande, the famous playwright, author of Ta Bouche, Le Chasseur de Chez Maxime, Simone est comme ca, La Merveilleuse Jour- née and scores of other great successes, nearly all of which have been translated, to repeat their success on the stages of New York and London. Mirande hails from Brittany and was destined for a maritime career. Once he ran away from home and when he returned his father shanghaied him aboard a fishing schooner and compelled him to spend half a year on the Newfoundland banks. That was enough of the sea for Mirande. When the voyage was over, he vanished again, and came to Paris. The first few nights he slept on park benches and lived on frites, the potatoes fried in olive oil that are the meal of the homeless. Finally he landed a job on the Journal as a reporter, where his fervid imagination first showed itself. He has always had a humor of a morbid turn, and there is something in all of his plays reminiscent of death. The thing he most loves to make fun of is the funeral hearse, a tendency that resulted from the fact that when he was a reporter on the Journal, havingIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 189 a call each morning at. a police station near Pére Lachaise cemetery, he would ride downtown on a hearse to save the expense of a cab. This weird habit became notorious, and Mirande’s arrival at work every morning on the box of a hearse became a favor- ite subject in the humorous chronicles. With such a sense of humor it was natural that Yves Mirande should turn his talents to the creation of one-act plays for the Grand Guignol, then in the heyday of its success. His name and celebrity were made by a Grand Guignol farce that had to do with a man who had only one piece of property in the world—the family tomb in a cemetery. So he had a bed and cook-stove put in there and gave wild parties to his friends. Mirande is the most-played man writing in the French language. Four theaters are now playing him, and another, the Variétés, will shortly open with a play in which he has collaborated with Erskine Gwynne. It is said that Mirande refused this play for a long time because nobody died in it. ‘‘People love to laugh at death,” he says. “It makes them seem so brave.” Mirande is a charter member of the die-hards. He is one of the most extravagant men on earth and spends every cent of the considerable fortune he earns in entertaining his friends. His parties are proverbial. Since he is too lazy to suffer the responsibility of a home, he lives in a hotel.190 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT Saal He never works except when Quinson, Giroux or some other of his friends drags him out of bed, puts him on a train and carries him off willy-nilly to a lonely chateau where he is deprived of all gaiety until he finishes the job. He is married to Rolande, the dressmaker, who has been wed before and is a large and striking lady of thirty-five with a wonderful taste in evening gowns. Yves Mirande ran for election to the Chamber of Deputies at the last election, and was defeated. The only political speech he ever made consisted of the following: ‘“Messieurs! When I am elected I will have laws passed to protect the authors, the playwrights, the theater owners, the——’’ “What about the audiences?” howled somebody. “The audiences!” repeated Mirande, with a large gesture of disdain. “Je m’en fiche d’eux!—Who cares a jot about them?”IN THE GUIDE BOOKS CH APA Ry px THE STRANGEST GENIUS IN ALL PARIS ONARCH of the die-hards is Henri Letellier, the richest, the saddest and in some ways the most pathetic figure in Parisian life. Letellier is a sort of combination of Haroun-al- Raschid, Solomon and Flo Ziegfeld, with the editorial ability of a Munsey and the sartorial invulnerability of a Brummel thrown in for good measure. Rich beyond even the dreams of a Spanish lottery fiend, Letellier has so many sides to what is, on the whole, a pleasant character that he remains a man difficult to describe. Physically he is a spare, thin-waisted man of some- what under middle height, with black hair curving on either side of his forehead and an enormous nose jutting forth like a promontory. I mention the nose because no pen-picture of this man would be complete without it, and as I am only doing in words what his friend the caricaturist Sem has twenty times done in pen and ink I hope he will forgive me. It is a graceful nose; an arching, slightly bony nose; a healthy, full-sized nose, longitudinally a master- piece, latitudinally possibly a mere shade deficient. Byorbs eeeaher heey crt redial ee Mrs idles Aasidly | eee ee [pated peeled asd imcatloaticrs econ tet eT tee rete PE ‘ fh s oe co “4 192 THE RARIS THATS WoT far the best-known nose in France it has accompanied Monsieur Letellier into a variety of places and projects, some of which I wot of and some of which I can hazard only a private guess at. As in the case of Jack Dean’s chin, Letellier’s nose has made the fortune of many a struggling cartoonist who might otherwise have blushed unseen. Apart from the nose Letellier owns a pair of very engaging dark-brown eyes, with a hint of the quizzical in them. Letellier has never been known to laugh, but on occasion he can reveal a smile as candid and as warming as you would want. He has a rather thin- lipped mouth and his ears flatten against his head. He does not wear a beard or a mustache. Henri is about fifty-five years old, but looks and would love to have you believe that he is only forty. He is seen everywhere but is seldom heard and when he does speak he usually has something definite to say. He is invariably faultlessly dressed and owns twelve hundred and sixty suits of clothes, more than two thousand neckties and some hundred-odd pairs of shoes. It is not on record how many hats he has, but the one he wears always looks brand-new. A corporal’s guard of valets looks after his clothes, and it takes the whole squad to dress him in the morning. Henri Letellier takes five hours to dress, ninety min- utes of which are used in choosing his tie. After he has chosen he wears the one his valet has already laid out.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 193 Every morning the palatial home of Henri Letellier at number 3 Rue Spontini is invaded by a small army of persons whose only mission in life is to make Henri look beautiful. The army is made up of mas- seurs, manicures, pedicures and their like. It would perhaps take more than an army to make Henri really beautiful, but they do succeed in turning out a finished product of all that money may achieve in the way of personal adornment. Neither Boni de Castellane nor André de Fou- quieres has anything whatever on Henri Letellier. When he leaves the Rue de Spontini in one of his eleven automobiles about twelve o’clock in the morn- ing, he is perfect from head to foot, a study in sartorial harmony. Henri Letellier is a hard worker, whether he is working at play or playing at work. Both require an equal amount of stamina, and Letellier has a lot of that. Often and often I have seen him in Montmartre at four o'clock in the morning, only to hear that he has left for somewhere by car or train at nine or ten o'clock. He has told me that he never sleeps more than six hours and seldom more than five. This is one of the reasons Letellier keeps so many automobiles. He can wear out three chauffeurs in a day. An inveterate traveler, he spends a good half of his life on the cushions of his Farman, or his Voisin, ‘or his Hispano-Suiza.194 TIT EAPATES THAT SeNOd Once when I was lunching with him somebody re- marked that it was chilly. “So it is,” said Henri. “T tell you what—let’s go to Biarritz!” Two hours later Letellier and his party were speed- ing southward. Deauville and back in a day is child’s play to him. One day you are apt to hear of him in Nice and a week later you will get a card from him dated London or Budapest. Any one of a hundred things may excuse these constant travels, for Letellier has his finger in succulent financial pies throughout Europe. He is, in fact, noted for the number of affairs he can carry on at one and the same time. He has a coal mine on the Northern frontier, an oil well or two in Mexico, a rubber plantation in Honduras, a railroad in Morocco, a restaurant in Sofia, hotels in France, Spain, Italy and Belgium, some more oil wells in Rumania, a building on the Rue de la Paix, a mark of champagne, an antiquities shop, two or three theaters, a share in the newly rebuilt Moulin-Rouge, one or two Montmartre cafés, the largest factory for the manufacture of bathroom porcelain in France, and last but not least, an interest in almost every gambling proposition of any size in Europe. Gambling is his passion. Not that he likes to gam- ble himself. He is too wise for that. No, he lets other people gamble, and takes their money. That letter of credit you cashed at Deauville lastIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 195 summer, the product whereof lasted you perhaps fifteen minutes at the big table, probably bears Letellier’s endorsement. He is a great capitalist of human frailty. The hundred-dollar bill you exchanged at Cannes was probably divided between Letellier and Eugene Cornuché. Cornuché likes to be called “The King of Cannes,” and Letellier has been dubbed his Richelieu. Letellier has a casino in Riga and one in the Balkans. You can feel the impress of the Letellier hand, smell the indescribable perfume of the Letellier breath, but you can’t see the man himself. That is, you can't see him taking the cash. He is far too subtle for that. The line of Letellier (which is a common enough French name with nothing aristocratic about it) began with his father, Eugéne Letellier, one of the real geniuses of the past decade. Eugéne Letellier was a contractor and began life as an architect of a public building in Trouville, where he was born. Later he designed and built the first Trouville casino, and was made mayor of the town. His son Henri is now mayor of Deauville. Coming to Paris, Eugéne worked hard, played polli- tics and saved. When the question of cutting a canal through Panama came up, Father Letellier got, if not the lion’s share, at least a healthy portion of the money ‘raised by public subscription. It was not Eugéne196 | THE PARIS THAT’S NOT Letellier’s fault that the French failed to dig that ditch. The world knows that they had the money and the engineering genius. What wrecked the French plans was the mosquito; they had thought of everything but him. Before and after the Panama business, which was responsible for a bigger scandal in France than that created by the wrongful detention of Dreyfus, Eugene Letellier was busy in other parts of the world. His name is on public and other buildings in every French city and in many of the towns of South America, More than a dozen edifices in Buenos Aires stand as a monument to his name. He built railroads too and was responsible for one of the first lines to be constructed in Northern Africa. When he became so rich that everyone began to attack him, as is the lot of every wealthy man in France, he sought about for means to protect himself and finally decided on a newspaper. So he founded Le Journal, which now has the third largest circulation in the world, about 1,280,000 daily. He had two sons, Henri and a younger one named Pierre. Pierre was a wild youngster. He was always getting into trouble and drove an automobile three times faster than he had any right to. Father frequently sent Pierre on long journeys around the world, and each time Pierre came back with some new vice, acquired generally at great cost to the parental bank-roll.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 197 In the end, Pierre drove to Deauville one night with some friends and ended his career and that of the friends against a tree by the wayside. The Journal had many vicissitudes. It is the paper that was allegedly bought by Senator Humbert with the money of Bolo Pasha, who lies in the military cemetery at Vincennes with six bullets in his skull. When the Bolo Pasha scandal was at its height, the elder Letel- lier began to fade and, in his name, his son Henri regained proprietorship of the paper and became its active manager. Letellier senior died in 1924. There are larger newspaper buildings in the world than that of Le Journal, but there is none stranger. To begin with, there are four entrances. One is Kept locked and used only by Letellier and his imme- diate entourage. Another goes to the business offices. Another is used by the reporters and editorial staff, and the fourth by the printers and pressmen. Entering the Maison Letellier with young Erskine Gwynne, who is Letellier’s private secretary, we find the exclusive entrance unlocked for us by a footman. Ascending a wide, heavily carpeted stairway decorated with gilded banisters and heavy mural paintings, we find ourselves in the antechamber to Majesty. The double doors immediately in front of us are heavily padded with leather over mattress stuffing, as are all the doors in Letellier’s private apartments. It serves the double purpose of keeping noise out and of keeping private conversation in.THE PARIS HATS NOT Gwynne pushes open the door, and we enter after a preliminary nod from the guide. Inside is a large room, comfortably furnished and heavily carpeted. A wide fireplace at one end frames a fire of wood—pine logs specially imported from one of Letellier’s estates south of Bordeaux. A large flat desk occupies the middle of the room, and at this desk Letellier is working. For Letellier does work. Let nobody tell you he doesn’t. Half of his work consists in refusing people money for various enterprises and the other half in looking after the cash he has already lent. Presently he takes you upon a tour of inspection, and you discover that Le Journal boasts many things besides the actual workshops where the paper is pro- duced. At three o’clock in the morning, if you stay to supper, Henri will insist on your going down and looking at his presses. First, you go through the picture-gallery, and peep- ing through a door discover a fully equipped theater. Mounting some more stairs, the walls surrounding which are decorated with frescos by a famous artist, you penetrate into the restaurant, capable of seating four hundred, where employees of the Journal and their friends may lunch or dine at rates that are so reason- able they seem absurd. This is the editorial-staff lunch-room. The printers, pressmen and circulation staff have their own little bar and restaurant in an- other room.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 199 On the left of the restaurant is the bar. You can imagine what would happen to a New York newspaper if it had a bar one flight up from the City Room, can’t you? Well, nothing of the kind has ever happened here. A reporter writing some big story and lacking in- spiration has only to dash upstairs, throw down a ver- mouth-citron or an export-cassis, and return to his desk with his brain refreshened. The secret seems to be that one vermouth-citron suffices. They never have two. Letellier has often been called the King of Deau- ville and other gambling resorts. I don’t think that he is exactly that. But it was certainly his vision and his money which originally backed Eugéne Cornuché when the latter had the idea of teaching the town of Trouville a lesson by building a smart resort two miles away. The smart resort evolved into the Deau- ville of today. Three or four men were connected with the financing of the original Deauville. One was the Duke de Morny, one was Désiré le Hoc and another was Eugene Letellier. But the Deauville they built was a place of exclusive villas and even more exclusive clubs. Under the Second Empire Deauville was a fashionable place. But it was not the Deauville that we know today. The man who really put the “deaw’’ into Deauville —or rather, took it out—was Eugene Cornuché,ae Sea aL ohaeel os ee - iene _ - afr tr, Des siAlet kasi? | saris Pd dic ie esa tT cleo ets rele ie te ate sire : - - nl cn TS a “1s iy 200 DEES S: TAT Sy NOM master-wizard of the green cloth, who already had held sway in the casino at Trouville. The Trouville municipality projected to build their own casino, and as this threatened to interfere with Cornuché’s business he decided to have his revenge. So thinking, he thought of Deauville. He went to Paris and talked with a number of rich men, among them Eugene and Henri Letellier. They listened, and thought his plan was good. So Cornuché went back to Deauville, formed a com- pany and built a casino. Then he hired a number of professional beauties to absent themselves from Trouville, which was then the fashionable place, and go to Deauville. It is a little game he has played often, always with success. He learned it when he quit washing dishes to go into partnership with a chasseur named Maxime, who had an idea that a restaurant-bar with a lot of pretty women in it would be a great success. Well, you know about Maxime’s. Until a few years ago Letellier was principal owner of the company which owns Deauville. I say “owns Deauville’ advisedly, for the company not only owns the casino but the two big hotels besides, and many of the villas. Recently, I believe, Letellier’s portion in Deauville has been diminished, many of the shares having been acquired by Cornuché. The latter, by the way, has just bought an interest in Le Journal.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 201 Letellier owns a racing stable which costs him a lot of money every year and is worth several million francs. His oil fields in Mexico and Le Journal supply him with his biggest income. If you come to Paris you will surely see him—at Ciro’s, or at Le Jardin, or at the Opéra—where he maintains two boxes with their own entrances, dress- ing room and housekeeper—or possibly at Montmartre, chez Oscar at the Abbaye de Théléme, or at Kiley’s or Zelli’s. Wherever you see him he will be sitting between the two most beautiful girls in the room, looking as sad as it is conceivable for a man to look. He will be sur- rounded by the “Maison Letellier’”—Erskine Gwynne, Yves Mirande, the indefatigable playright; Sem, the cartoonist.Ne eee oar a rset eaibal See ” 5 , PF wat S oe 4 3 ca hy se Ori yr Ve — * betes iro De Arid oad biethetlibll sie ee TT eT eT eT ene me ! c ty J pep blain bitte leit hee ars od os - ) os PEE OPATUS “DTELATs) NOT CHARTER XX THE MAN WHO RUNS HALF OF FRANCE UGENE CORNUCHE, the former dishwasher, has risen from that humble employment to the eminence of monarch of the casino world of France. True, Letellier may be behind the throne, pulling wires, but I am among those who believe that Cornuché stands pretty solidly on his own feet now. Cornuché’s life is one of those real romances that deserve to be written. His parents were poor folk who had a little bistro in some obscure part of the Apache quarter. Little Eugéne, from the age of five onward, learned how to sweep the sawdust from the floors, polish the zinc counter, empty the slops and generally make himself useful. When he was thirteen young Eugéne thought it was time to launch out for himself. So he got a job in another restaurant around the corner and learned to be a dishwasher. When he had thoroughly mastered the intricacies of the dishwashing trade he ventured to apply for the job of expert plongeur at the fashionable Restaurant Weber, on the Rue Royale near the Madeleine. ThereIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 203 he remained ten years, climbing from dishwasher to bus-boy, from bus-boy to waiter, from waiter to cap- tain, and finally from captain to head waiter. During all this time his two great friends were Chauvot, the cook of Weber’s, and Maxime, the chas- seur. When he received an offer to direct the Cas- cades Restaurant he took both with him. In the early nineties the three of them put their Savings together, took a lease of a building on the Rue Royale near the Place de la Concorde—not far from Weber’s—and opened a café-restaurant which contained the finest bar Paris had ever seen. Cornuché had long since realized that fortunes are quickest made by pandering to the vanities and frail- ties of human nature. Wine and women have always gone together, since earliest days, and Cornuché saw no reason why he should follow the lead of the Cha- tham or of Henry’s and exclude women from the bar. On the contrary, he judged rightly that the more women he had sitting around, and the prettier they were, the more male customers he would get. So he went forth into the smart resorts of Paris, to the promenoirs of the theaters, and selected a baker’s dozen of the prettiest girls he could find. To these he made a startling proposition—startling for that day and age in Paris, although Rickard and his partners were even then doing the same thing in Reno and Goldfield and Tonopah. “You come in my place and you may eat for noth-Ptr Tea h iy ley] Rae Tee te ml - ahha nd edad Piers | desets Pa by agit pdaert pew bet} cyart, pac] a 56. (10 Shee) : 4 ; rh a hath raat a - in < j M amet bd Sicieee aeAbvac aula cette ahs - ws ePRey Teta Tart eee] ns ire) + 204 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT ing,” he promised. “All that you must do is to some- times bring somebody—one or two of your admirers, who will buy the wine. For that, of course, I cannot afford to give away.” In a very short while Maxime’s was famous, and Franz Lehar, when he wrote “The Merry Widow,” made Danilo sing: “Da geh’ ich zu Maxim Dort bin ich sehr intim. Ich dutze alle Damen, Nenn’ sie bel Kozennamen Lolo, Dodo, Joujou, CloClo, Toto, Froufrou, Die lassen mich vergessen Das teure Vaterland!” It is not the only play written around Maxime’s. There have been others, and notably Mirande’s Le Chasseur de Chez Maxime’s, which knew a vast suc- cess in Paris at the Palais-Royal Theatre and was taken to America under the title “The Blue Kitten.” Not long after the restaurant was a pronounced success, and an orchestra had been added, Maxime, whose name had been used for publicity purchases, retired because of ill-health and afterward died. The naughtiest place in Paris—at least, gossip and the popular press thus named it—Maxime’s soon be- came the best-paying establishment of its kind in the city, a position it has since retained. Cornuché bought out the interests of Chauvot, his remaining partner, and became sole proprietor.oe IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 205 His brother, Gustave, he took in as his head waiter, Gustave having followed much the same path as he. Shortly before the war Eugene became restless with the desire to do greater things. He was rich now, felt age creeping upon him, and decided that he would set his mark on the world before he died. Accordingly, he sold out his interest in Maxime’s to an English syndicate, stipulating merely that the restaurant was to be continued in exactly the same manner as heretofore with his brother Gustave as sole manager, in perpetuity. Gustave is there yet—a little snub-faced man with whitening hair. He is the traditional maitre d’hotel-en- chef. Unless he knows you he will not condescend even to glance in your direction, while he has to know you so well that you might have gone to school with him before he will unbend sufficiently to smile or talk. They have an original way in Maxime’s of estimat- ing the length of time anyone has been in Paris. If you come in at seven or before to dinner, the waiters press on you the most expensive, unpriced arti- cles on the bill of fare, and the choicest wines, for they know you are only a tourist, just over, and don’t know any better, and ought to be made to pay for your ignorance. If you come in at the proper time—g :30—and the chasseur at the door doesn’t call you by name, you have been over possibly a year—maybe two. If the chasseur knows your name but Gustave, on= AER, io eA ee - aa zi Sues aber t U 5 pee dye pee Tepe oti eon ea ere rege at tata eee mee ett. Of : 14 Paces, i ial eesaker ese ert, S - a 206 THE PARES LEAS: NOU seeing you, doesn’t crack even an eyelid, then you have been in Paris three years—maybe four. If the barman sets up your drink without asking what you will have, the head waiter conducts you to a table in the center room, disdaining the “omnibus” (reserved for the tourist), you have been a resident of Paris for five years. If Cornuche himself, on passing, looks at you and —still without smiling—gives a fleeting glance of recognition, you have been in Paris since the war. If Gustave sees you and smiles, it is a signal for all hands to make a great fuss over you, for you are a vieux patron, and have lived in Paris since 1915 any- way. But if Gustave not only smiles but actually stops by your table and talks, or personally superintends your order, or even sits down—then you have lived in Paris all your life and are either the Prime Minister or the Chief of Police. Never since I have known him have I seen Gustave sit down at the table of an American. Maxime’s is a gay enough place now, and the tradi- tions of excellent cooking have been faithfully up- held. It is the one place in Paris, where, on no matter what night, at no matter what season, you are certain to find good food, good wines and a gay time. True, the orchestra, which allegedly is the only one that ever played there, is still playing the same tunes that impassioned Paris in the days of “The MerryIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 207 Widow”—one of Eva Tanguay’s hits is their favorite —but you don’t mind that. Modern American jazz would not be in keeping with the atmosphere of the place. In fact, in Maxime’s you can still see preserved the Parisian atmosphere of before the war. Everything there is the same. The bartender, the chasseur, Gus- tave, the waiters, the musicians—all were there in IQI4. So—but let us whisper this—were one or two of the beautiful ladies who lavish languishing glances on you as you enter. After leaving Maxime’s Eugéne Cornuché leased from the city the Ambassadeur Restaurant in the Place de la Concorde. To the original restaurant he added a theater and a dance-hall, both in the open air, and made an instantaneous hit. His next venture was the purchase of the Concert Mayol, a tiny theater near the Porte St. Denis, which he transformed from a café concert into a house of revue, thereby introducing the revue to Paris. True, the Folies-Bergére had been open some time, but their show, though termed a revue, had been until then a thing principally of dancing and singing. Cornuché was the first man to realize the advertis- ing value of an undraped woman on the stage. Al- ways that shrewd pandering to the frailties! After acquiring an interest in other theatrical prop- erties in Paris Cornuché went to Trouville, where heTHE PARIS THAT Se NOG 208 took a lease on a building which he transformed into a casino. This was his first venture into the gambling game, and it was such a success that he immediately pre- pared to drop all his other interests and devote himself exclusively to the green table. Cornuché made so much money in Trouville that the city fathers grew jealous. They piled tax on tax on him, but Eugene merely smiled and made his cus- tomers pay the tax. They tried every dodge they could think of to hinder him, but Cornuché triumphantly surmounted every difficulty, so at last the municipality decided that if Cornuché could make money at this game, why, so could they, and accordingly they sent for an architect and an engineer and forthwith commenced construction of a municipal casino which was to be the grandest and most beautiful edifice ever constructed as a temple to the goddesses of chance. This put a decided nick in Cornuché’s plans. But it only made him more stubborn than ever. He knew better than to hold on to his casino in Trouville, but across the little Trouville river was the aristocratic settlement called Deauville, and Cornuché fixed his eye on that pretty place with a determination to make Trouville pay dearly. I have told in a preceding chapter how Letellier backed him in the formation of the first Deauville company.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 209 With the ground purchased, Cornuché built a hotel, the Normandy, along lines suggested by the dilettante, Letellier, who has his father’s architectural good taste if not the old man’s engineering ability. Then he proceeded to build a casino which was to be larger than that being built by Trouville two miles away. The Trouville Casino was big, and it looked big. Deauville Casino, while bigger, looks much smaller. This is because Cornuché followed another of Letellier’s suggestions and built the casino in the image of the Petit Trianon of Versailles, that master- piece of an age when they understood proportion and harmony in architecture. From the sea—you get a good view of it when you enter Havre harbor on one of the French Line boats— Deauville Casino, glistening white in the sun, looks hardly large enough to contain a restaurant. But actually it contains a huge central dance-hall and theater, with a stage where an entire opera ballet can perform comfortably; another theater in which are given operas and plays with full stage setting; a mov- ing-picture theater, a grill, a restaurant, two bars, a tea-room, a dozen small shops, and the largest suite of gambling rooms in existence with the single exception of Monte Carlo. In Cornuché’s project to transform Deauville into a chic resort Letellier had found the very thing he wanted to play with. He entered into the affair with tremendous zest, and backed Cornuché on every point.ioe 210 PME PARIS: LAATES NOR In a short while it became necessary to build another large hotel, the Royal, and to add other attractions. Ciro’s scented money and bought in. With Deauville an assured success and Trouville transformed into a sort of adjacent Coney Island—and kept at a safe distance—Cornuché began seeking around for other worlds to conquer. He went to Biarritz, where he started a hotel and restaurant and planned a big casino which was to rival the decrepit municipal one. In this, however, Cornuché saw his aim defeated. Citizens of Biarritz raised sufficient money to build the casino themselves. The casino has just been opened. It is called the Bellevue and is one of the finest in France. That it is a thorn in the side of Cornuché is made evident by the fact that he has recently acquired control of the former Queen of Serbia’s home, Sacchino, near Bidart, a few miles south of Biarritz, and has already obtained gambling rights from the Government. Last year the Bidart place opened as a smart dancing place under the direction of Harry Pilcer, and was conceded by society to be probably the most beautiful of its kind in the world. Four hundred guests may dance on an illuminated glass floor perched on a high cliff overlooking the ocean. There is reason to suppose that Cornuché—if he lives—will make of Bidart a second Deauville, for the Basque coast is preparing for the greatest develop- ment it has known.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 211 His plans foiled at Biarritz, however, Cornuche went rambling along the Riviera. He took a look at Hyeres, and decided that it couldn’t be made smart enough. No, he wanted some place from which Monte Carlo would be an easy ride. The canny idea was not, of course, that his clients might go to Monte Carlo, but that Monte Carlo’s cus- tomers might come to him. Finally he decided on Cannes, perhaps the most beautiful spot on the littoral. Cannes fulfilled all requirements. It was an hour from Nice; an hour and a half from Monte. It pos- sessed a splendid beach, great hotels, possibly the most enchanting drive in the world—the Croisant—and it already had a casino. Until Cornuché got there the casino was not doing much business. Cannes itself was filled at winter-time, but the smart people who lived in villas along the Croi- sant or up in the Californie section, when they wanted to gamble, would go to Nice or Monte Carlo, where the stakes were high and bancos certain. There is nothing more disconcerting at chemin de fer than to have a run of luck and find, after the third successful coup, that there is not enough money around the table to cover your stake. But soon after Cornuché came, things were dif- ferent. He brought Poiret and the portrait-painter Jean Gabriel Doumergue, who devised and executed great casino night fétes of bewildering beauty.212 THE PARIS THATS NOG “Chinese” nights succeeded “Grecian” nights, and “Days of Old Seville” followed on “Nights of Venice.” All was done in the true Letellier-Cornuché manner, with a lavishness that kept no account of expense. Next Cornuché made overtures to the Greek syn- dicate of bankers who had already been operating at Deauville. These men, four in number, pool their winnings and their losses. They operate only at the Cercle Privé at Deauville and at the Big Table—roped off—at Cannes. With one of them holding the bank the sky is the limit. You may bet any amount your fevered imagina- tion and your pocketbook allow. I have often seen a million francs won or lost on the turn of a card at Deauville and at Cannes. André Citroén, the French Ford, for instance, won twelve million francs at Deauville. The Greek syn- dicate lost. When the syndicate loses at Deauville, it makes up for it at Cannes. The syndicate is headed by two professional gam- blers, by name Gregoire Vagliano and A. Zographos. They are both Greeks. Vagliano is said to be a great Greek ship-owner, but I should much like to see the ships that fly his flag. It should perhaps read ‘‘chip- owner.” Certainly he has done nothing for years but play baccarat, and he has made such a good thing out of it that he is now, with Sir Basil Zaharoff, the Mystery Man of Europe, majority owner of the shares of theIN THE GUIDE BOOKS Zits Société des Bains de Mer, which owns Monte Carlo casino. Cornuché is a good publicity man and he under- stands the value of great names. Three years ago he persuaded King Alfonso to pass the month of August at Deauville. The Paris press made nasty remarks and asked how much Cornuché’s latest employee was getting per week. Then there was the little matter of the Cannes Con- ference. The Cannes Conference was originally to have been held in Belgium, but Belgium artfully suggested that, it being winter, it might be better to go farther south. This struck all the delegates as a bright idea, so they settled on Italy. But Italy protested at this. She had the Genoa Conference to think of, she said, and thought England should be the goat. I may explain that delegates to a conference, to- gether with their enormous retinues, are the guests of the country where the conference is held. Opportunely enough for England, a thick fog set- tled down on London, and this decided Lloyd George that he must go South. So France had to give the party. Briand having proffered the invitation, nothing re- mained but to settle the date and place. The date, it was decided, would be in January. They were consid- ering the place when a flunky entered the Prime Min- ister’s office and laid a visiting card on his desk.214 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT The card said ‘““Eugéne Cornuché.” Cornuché was admitted—as the largest taxpayer in France he is entitled to see the Prime Minister if anyone is. “Mr. President,” said the Tsar of Cannes, “have you decided on a place to hold the conference ?”’ “We were just discussing that now.” “Has it occurred to M. le Président that it would be desirable to hold the conference somewhere where there is a good golf course—to keep M. Lloyd George in a good humor?” “Tiens!” quoth Briand. “He’s right!” So Cannes was where they held the conference. Cornuché has lately branched out in other directions. He is owner of the bar and restaurant privilege on most of the race-tracks, and he has lately become half-owner of the world-famous string of restaurants composed of the Café de Paris, Fouquet’s, Armenonville and Pré Catelan. And, as I have said, he has acquired a large interest in Le Journal itself, so that these two men, Letellier and Cornuché, whose fortunes have been so curiously and intimately bound together, will henceforth, if not sleep, at least work and eat beneath the same roof.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS CHAPTER XxT GABY’S PARTNER ARIS has two problems. One of them is Harry Pilcer. I don’t know of any other man of whom I have heard so many despicable, sneaky remarks as I have of Pilcer. I don’t know any man who merits them less. I don’t know of anyone more deserving of the modicum of success that has been his than Pilcer. [| don’t know of any man whom I would rather call friend—because I know that he can be a real friend in need, Pilcer is a Parisian character. He is almost a Parisian type. He has carved himself a niche in the hearts of the gay camaraderie that is Tout Paris which few men will equal. Full of faults, he is never vicious. He mixes arro- gance with tenderness, boastfulness with talent. Though he wears impossible shirts, the heart beneath them is solid gold. Of an extreme vanity, he yet has not the presumption to ask men to take him as other than he is—but he demands recognition on that basis, and gets it. Pilcer was an accomplished dancer, although yet216 THE PARIS, THATS NO” unknown, when Gaby Deslys was a minor actress at the Capucines Theater in Paris. It is a kindly custom of the French government not only to provide shelter and food for royal guests at the Foreign Office, but to see that they are entertained as well. Sometimes it happens that the royal visitor is young and a bachelor. It is probable that he comes to Paris as many another young man comes here—to enjoy himself. To the French mind enjoyment is unthinkable except with a beautiful vis-a-vis. So a certain official keeps a list of lovely ladies, some of rank and some famous before the footlights, who are willing to while away the weary hours of princes. Before a bachelor prince or king visits Paris on an Official visit, his tastes and desires are discreetly obtained. I do not say that they go so far as to ask His Majesty whether he likes blondes or brunettes, but the principle is there. At any rate he may be certain of never having to pass a lonely hour. Thus it happened that when the youthful Manuel of Portugal visited France for the first time the pro- tocol set itself to please him to the utmost. The short, swarthy, rotund little king liked to dance. He loved to listen to lively music. He had just emerged from a particularly ticklish near-revolution and needed a thorough change. So he came to Paris. The story goes that the Fixer Extraordinary calledIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 217 up a famous opera singer, Marthe Somebody, on the telephone. “The King of Portugal arrives tomorrow. Would you care to dine with him?” Marthe consented, but at the last minute was taken ill, Officials were in dismay. Flurried diplomats scanned the list of available ladies and telephoned feverishly. All by some chance were otherwise busy. Finally someone remembered: “Dites donc! There is that little Gaby Deslys of the Capucines Theater. You know she made a tour- née in Portugal last year. It was rumored that His Mayjest i They called up Gaby. Gaby was willing, nay, eager to dine with a king. Manuel returned to Portugal, and then came the revolution. A brilliant correspondent in Paris, one Vance Thompson, now dead, remembered the gossip that con- nected Gaby’s name with that of the fallen monarch. He put two and two together and made four columns. Gaby leaped into celebrity over night. From a minor actress, almost a figurante at a Boule- vard theater, she became a world figure. More ink was spilled on her than on the deposed King himself. Impresarios flocked to Paris, dangling tempting offers. She accepted the one that promised the most money, calling for an appearance in the Winter Garden Revue.ward etiam ce Sh oars ay conta Lunt . + Tikes TA} es epee = pi ee —— ; , VE Seete!s A sdiddt 3 rest oad) eibbeet be ttebel peddle lal ice litt lidiccate tale tell tca rit ter at pret Per ected : ' rh 2 = ; } Teel rrrae oe" ; 218 THE PATTS TAARS NOR On her arrival in New York an astute press-agent let forth a clever yarn which stated that Gaby was dis- mayed at the discovery that she was being billed “big,” merely because she was said to have cost a king his throne and not because of the intrinsic worth of her art. Therefore, said the press-agent, assiduously copied by the great and untrammeled press, Gaby refused to allow her name to appear on the program. She would appear as a member of the chorus—only that, and nothing more. If Broadway recognized her and gave her her due, incognito as she was, then she would have proved that she was a great artiste. If she went un- applauded, then the critics would have been right. Scores of agents planted in the auditorium burst into a riot of applause as the lovely French girl—garbed as the rest of the chorus except for diamonds and huge ostrich feathers!—stepped on the stage. But after the first bloom of success had worn off her managers became alarmed. Gaby, in the risqué plays of the Capucines, when every word and every gesture had a double meaning, had perhaps been a great actress. But here on Broadway she meant noth- ing. Her quaint accent, the cute way she talked her broken English, her thin voice were not sufficient to keep the people in their seats. So they decided that she should dance. The trouble was to find anyone who could teach her to dance as stage dancing was understood in America.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS Finally they found Harry Pilcer, then just coming to the fore on Broadway. . Harry Pilcer taught Gaby to dance. He found her pliable material. She was a natural acrobat, amazingly supple, adorably pretty. Together they danced themselves into the heart of Broadway, and subsequently into that of Main Street farther west. They became lovers. Caby was shrewd, foxy and businesslike. | Harry was a marvel at dancing but understood nothing of finance. All the contracts were made by Gaby. She even kept the money. When they made their great tour of Europe and brought the audience at the largest theater in Vienna to its feet, Gaby was still keeping Harry’s money. She gave him just sufficient for his daily needs, banking the rest. It was an ideal partnership. Gaby became wealthy and famous—and, thanks to Harry’s patient tuition, a great dancer. Harry became a secondary personality, but had no wealth at all. Together they designed and built the wonderful apartment in the Avenue de Tourville that Harry still occupies. They tore out the maids’ rooms on the seventh floor and put in marble floors and hard, artistic seats, and bear skins, and arched windows from which one of the finest views of Paris may be had. Everything is marble in this flat. It is the coldest ‘and most beautiful apartment in Paris.220 TE (PARIS TiHiAieS NOL _ Petpet bh os aE cas crs cet] To — ae fi reperei bar iles: “ “sere TRO PAST ye Tea a ; oe : barbell by ‘hie OTR a artis fetus t 2) Dei La edt Last Lac TENTS trent peg Pat Eay aS gee 5 © ett. i - - rege ADEE Toor oes eed a ‘ - : a *} om F a 4 Then Gaby died, and the light of Pilcer’s life seemed to go out. For months he was not seen in public. Once I went to see him. He took me in a little darkened room, walking softly and talking with a hushed reverence. At one end of the room was a sort of altar, with a picture framed on black velvet and lighted candles before it. Pilcer pointed to the picture. “Gaby!” he said, and choked. Tears streamed down his face. For more than two years he never looked at another woman—dquite a record in fidelity to a memory when the world is taken as it is today. Since then Harry has had various little affairs. He is now said to be engaged to Marthe Regnier, the fa- mous actress, whois as kind as she is lovely. In fact, I spoke to them both in Ciro’s this morning. But though the altar may have disappeared it is still, I am sure, enshrined in the little Jewish boy’s heart. He is like that. Harry is now lessee of the Acacias dancing-place in Paris and concessionaire of the smart society resort at Sacchino, south of Biarritz, which several French millionaires are trying to make a colony for rich men only.IN THE GUIDE BOOKS CHAPTERS Xai THE UNHAPPIEST WOMAN IN PARIS ee second of the great problems of Paris is Ganna Walska, now the wife of Harold F. Mc- Cormick. With every material possession, she is still bereft. Beauty—and the love, the adulation and the flattery that go with it. Wealth—and the luxury and comforts the wealth brings. Experience—and the knowledge and superiority that only experience can bestow. Such are the possessions of the unhappiest woman in Paris. For happiness is the fulfilment of dreams, and this is denied her. Some women dream of riches, some of love, some of children, some of the worship of the multitude, some of peace on a quiet farmside. This woman’s dream is of none of these. If you count success by the accumulation of material things she is no failure, for she is wealthy beyond any suspicion of want. If you count it by the adoration of strong men, then she has succeeded, for four separate times men have taken her to the altar and vowed the vow that only love may honestly excuse.222 TEE PARIS THATS NOT ———— If you count by a secure social position—that she could have for the asking, but she does not ask. Two mansions filled with servants; a theater bearing her name; one of the wealthiest men of the New World for a husband; cars; friends; luxuries innumer- able—these things she has. But the thing toward which her soul strives eludes her grasp. And tragedy of tragedies, she has found that it is a thing that money cannot buy. She was a Polish girl, a toast of the café-concerts of St. Petersburg. She was born with a resolve, the child of a conviction. The conviction was that she could sing. The resolve was to become a great singer. Masters had told her that she had a “‘voice.”” They said to her, “Work, and you will become as great as Tettrazini! But you must work.” Ganna Walska has worked. Her God knows how much. Only she herself could tell of the long, unsatis- fying, desperate hours that she has worked—worked— worked—always with the one end in view. Every- thing in her life has been subordinated to that one ambition. Ambition is an empty thing if its achievement is awaited with folded hands and complacent belief in luck. Ganna Walska knew this. Hers has never been a passive role. She has seized on life with both hands in a frantic grip, living, breathing, hoping but for the one thing. Success!IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 223 The roar of applause from the mob out beyond the footlights—the mob of diamond-covered women and fat, smug, white-waistcoated men; the mob that is every singer’s jury. The bouquets showered on the stage. The bows. The director leading her to the front, tears in his eyes. The hush. The deep, indrawn breaths. The gushing of the flatterers. The tap of orchestral batons. The tired vocal cords singing just one more encore. The flush of achievement. The sweet music of suc- cess! That is the dream that Ganna Walska had, and holds. That is the beacon light that dangles before perhaps the most persistent woman of our decade. That is the mirage that has meant despondency, tears, bitterness, tragedy. That is the epic to which will one day be written the final line: the line that will spell despair or—fame. For nothing this woman has but has been taken by her and put to the uses of her project. Every single thought, every single action, yes, and I dare say every single love—has been with the one end in view. Consider a moment. This woman has been married four times. Once to a Pole—a brilliant nondescript forgotten now. Once to a famous doctor, who saved her life. Once to a man who was thought unattainable —the richest bachelor in America. And finally to the man who makes plows and scrapers and steam-shovels, and yet whose ears are tuned to the224 THE PARIS PHATTS NOR Sony Speer Th rp aya be A “ - P : = bt! Aras TTBRAS TATRA ST rp ts eer) owe ee . r of : can v ne ela} Set mebbabeitt dle luc tee) erwin Perec yt Tay Sent ee etelttateiiiart; : okie 9 "i : m res. es J teat - eee 7 tT ‘ dad bh ore ry “Ae ; of masterpieces of opera and not to the whir of the harvest. A woman of great beauty, of a sweet, simple nature —and yet of what inordinate character! When she married Alexander Cochran she had the Four Hundred at her feet. His money could have put her in the first rank of the socially supreme. He could have forced her acceptance by the snobs whose boun- daries are the four walls of the Ritz. He did not understand her. He married her, first, because he fell in love; but back of it was his ambition to have this wonderful woman grace his position in society. He wanted a hostess; someone at whom great people would point and say, “That is Alexander Coch- ran’s bride!” She wanted them to say: ‘There goes the husband of Ganna Walska!” Her dream was the Metropolitan Opera—the Opéra Comique—the Scala. His was the brilliance of the receptions which she would grace as his wife in his home. Two natures—one wilful; the other determined. As far apart as the poles. As impossible to mix as fire and water. As hopeless to consolidate as mercury and sand. Because of who she was and what he was and what newspapers are today, the flare-up when it came was magnificent. It illuminated the scurrilous chronicles of two continents. Not a midinette in Paris nor aIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 225 pepsin-mouthing stenographer in Topeka who does not know in its intimate details the story of that divorce and Ganna’s subsequent marriage to Harold McCor- mick. More than anything else this was a weight on the fulfilment of her dream. When she sang she faced the scornful atmosphere of unthinking curiosity. They did not go to hear her. They went to see her. They did not go to listen; they went to laugh. What a tragedy ! As with Cochran, Ganna brought no social aspira- tions to Harold McCormick when she became his bride. Perhaps he did not mind that. He has always hated the mimicry of fashion. But she brought him the glorious intelligence of a full-blooded woman to whom life meant something more than merely play. McCormick understands his wife. He has sounded the depths of her determination to succeed. He has helped her as much as he may. Never, unlike Coch- ran, has he exacted the performance of the trivial duties of hostess. When he took her to Chicago following their mar- riage in Paris, the city where his fortune was built lay divided into two camps. One camp, composed of the sincere friends of Mc- Cormick, was willing to be friendly, to receive this foreign woman, this strange, exotic creature whom none of them understood. The other camp was larger. In it were those self-226 satished rich people whose narrow existence was roped tightly by their own selfish standards. They agreed that they would not receive this woman—planned the haughty form wherein they would decline her invita- tions—practiced the bland stare and the cold smile and the meaning sniff with which they would greet her whenever they chanced to meet. Both camps were confounded. Ganna Walska went to Chicago and—she ignored them all! Not an invitation did she accept, nor send. Not once were the haughty ones given an opportunity to vent their pigmy disdain. None of the well-meaning ones saw aught of her. She entertained her own small circle of friends; was gracious to the family into which she had entered; but not at all did she permit her position as wife of one of America’s wealthiest men to entice her from her work —the work that alone meant success. She had known the brilliant life of imperial courts; of fashionable Berlin, Paris and London; of cosmopoli- tan Monte Carlo and Cannes. She knew Society in five countries—knew it and despised it for what it was. She, who had refused the satin of Paris and the silks of London, was not to be seduced by the cotton of Chicago. She returned to Paris, to the home Cochran had given her on the Rue de Lubeck, where she could sur- round herself again with the circle of those tried and THE PARIS THATS NOFIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 227 true friends whose belief in her had not faltered be- cause they understood the spur that drove her on and because they appreciated the genuine physical sacrifices she continued to make under the pressure of that spur. I heard her sing at the Paris Opera. A more ignoble evening I have never spent. When I came out it was with a burning shame that I should have attended at a manifestation of the cruelty that is in society. They—these cultured people—called ribald phrases at her as she sang. They whistled. They stamped their feet. We were back in the Middle Ages, watch- ing a woman in the stocks. Two nights previously there had been a charity ball in this same Opera, for some pet project of a princess. The same crowd had been there—suave, polished, delightful. On that occasion they danced and féted and drank for the starving orphans. And two nights later they pilloried a woman. The tragedy of Ganna Walska is not that she cannot sing. I have heard her sing to select audiences of masters—of men who know each delicate vibration of the human voice. And she has sung well. They have applauded her. They have been enthusiastic. “But for one thing she would be one of the greatest prima donnas living,” declared a famous conductor to me. And that thing? Nerves!ibs ieee eth caesar cee a Ba a aus ASLDLALiby |, ieee eat Te tee Peter iad ecuiitc ipa Torre tery nn eaten . reer ON - r : ; - Seieeel dbs ited bier tart raf") - 228 THE PARIS THATS NOT — = aie << Ganna Walska is afflicted with the disease that is known as stage-fright. Nearly every great performer on the stage has suffered from the same malady. In some cases it has proved curable; in others it has meant torture to the end of careers. Sarah Bernhardt was a famous case in point. Rachel was another. With an actress stage-fright—the trac as they term it here—is rarely fatal to success. The swing of the play carries the player along until she recovers. But with Ganna Walska it is different. When she faces a hostile audience—as almost invariably she has been obliged to do—her stage-fright attacks her throat. It strangles her. The tones that should be full-throated emerge thin, weedy—a mockery. Lay your hand on the strings of a piano and strike a chord and you will see what I mean. Such is the terrible handicap under which this bril- liant, intelligent woman is struggling. Such is the grisly specter that stands between her and her chosen destiny. When, under the name of Anna Navarre, she sang in provincial French towns, unknown to anyone, none of this fright was visible. The audiences were friendly; the critics kind. She sang, and she sang well. If ever she can go before the sneering concourse of those who have set themselves up as her judges, if ever her ten hours’ daily labor and her constant efforts toward self-mastery allow her to face unfalteringlyIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 229 an audience that knows her name and her history—then they who came to scoff will remain to applaud. The world loves a game sport. Ganna Walska is game. May I be there when her dream ceases to be a dream and becomes a splendid fact.eet a THE PARIS THAT'S NOT CHAPTER XXIII 4 QUICK SWING AROUND THE NIGHT-CLUBS ayehe evolution of the Paris night-club—which of late years has not been a club in the strict sense of the word at all—has been a curious if a logical one, since the war. Before 1914 there was little or no dancing in Paris cafes. Singers instead of dancers held the center of the floor at Montmartre, although the traditional can- can was practiced at such places as the Bal Tabarin and the Moulin Rouge. During the war there was neither dancing nor music in Paris restaurants, which closed at 9.30. After the Armistice Jed Kiley of Chicago opened several clandes- tine night dancing-places which the French police more or less tolerated at first because they were supposed to be strictly limited to American soldiers. Bill Henley’s soldier orchestra, later to become the “White Lyres,” played the first jazz ever heard in Paris at one of Kiley’s secret dances. The musicians were all privates from various American organizations stationed in Paris. The orchestra is now at the Café de Paris, with three of the original members. Another directs anIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 231 orchestra on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. Another has won renown as a solo pianist. With the exception of one man all the original members remained in France and most of them married French girls. When Kiley abandoned jazz to go into the ice- cream business—the dire results of which are described in another chapter—a man named Joe Zelli opened a clandestine club on the Rue Caumartin. One paid thirty francs for a “card of membership” which, needless to say, was obtainable by anyone at the entrance. Unlike the London clubs of the same epoch he did not trouble to have the memberships sold at a tobacco shop down the street. Zellis was crowded every night. The police made several raids, and when after a year dancing became legal, Zelli closed his Caumartin club to go into the business on a legitimate scale in Montmartre. Few Americans visit Paris without a traditional call on “Saint Joe,” as he is known. The next club to open was the Clover Club, on the same Rue Caumartin but a little higher up. The White Lyres played here. Peggy Joyce was often seen there with her third husband, and it was at the Clover Club that she first met Letellier. I remember that Henry Oliver “Pop” Rea, of Pitts- burgh, a cousin of the steel Cranes, was one of the lively boys of the old Clover Club. A lot of the Crane wealth was lavished there. His Paris friends were . aghast when ‘‘Pop” married and settled down.232 THE PARIS: THAT?S, NOT Billy Allen was an habitué. He used to insist on playing the piano. Duncan Cameron, whose daughter has now been married to Juan Mayer, New York shipping magnate, was seen with her at the Clover Club frequently. The first really smart club on the Rue Caumartin was Harry Pilcer’s Sans Souci, which he opened in Zelli’s old place after redecorating it. Pilcer’s was crowded from the beginning with society folk. At that time there were not enough spenders in Paris to support more than one night-club, so when Maurice and Leonora Hughes, under the direction of Oscar and Ansaldi, opened the Maurice Club just across the street Pilcer’s closed up. The next place was the Acacias, run originally by Maurice Chevalier and Saint-Grenier, the two famous comedians of the Casino de Paris. The Acacias was a hall built in the rear of the Hotel Acacias on the street of that name near the Bois de Bologne. Decorations had been done by the scenic artists of the theater, and a garden had been provided for hot weather. Chevalier and St. Grenier entertained. The place was a success, but its real début as a society “dancing” was the following summer, when Elsa Maxwell opened it with Oscar Mouvet as director. Elsa Maxwell was fresh from her remarkable career in London society, whither she had gone by frontal attack following her war activities in New York. She is a small, stout San Francisco woman with the mostIN THE GUIDE BOOKS 233 ———— remarkable organizing talent I have ever known in a woman. Society is her life—and her profession. She probably knows more titled people than the King of England himself—which is readily understandable when the incident of the Prince of Wales is recalled. The Prince was in Paris on a holiday and a society reporter on a Paris paper, seeing him seated at a table in the Embassy Club, printed a notice about it, together with the information that he had dined with Lord So-and-So, Lady Thimajig and a French count. When he read the paragraph, the Prince flew into a democratic temper. You may not know it—his in- timates do—but the Prince has one of the finest tem- pers in captivity—and occasionally it isn’t. “My Heaven!” he gasped, when he had read the paragraph. “What would mother say if she read that !” Lord So-and-So is a genuine peer, and so is Lady Thimajig, while the Count is a veritable member of the aristocracy of France. But, though they are in Debrett, they will never set foot in Buckingham Palace. Not while Queen Mary is there to draw the line. The poor Queen would far rather have her son be seen talking to a cab driver than to certain members of Europe’s titled families. We were talking about Elsa Maxwell. Well, Elsa had not been in London many moons before she or- ganized a charity ball for which she obtained royal - patronage. At one bound she had gained the mostPer Q - 3 ee - . er a er — . - tds a i iedoe hantheedh ost) cr Se cette Lom Lohan enshhed a sALibe \, cxeeat te eatee ate cette 2a] comer Orit ico, Tees ny tre eee Vaubrituleit dell LD b : u = - a a + « +4 A Pooh . 4 oe wre} Pa 234 THE PARIS THAT’S NOT inaccessible fastness of the hidebound British Upper Ten. She was favored, of course, by the fact that it was war-time. She gave charity ball after charity ball, and these were widely patronized by all that was best and swank- iest in London. It ended by the little San Francisco woman from nowhere in particular gaining an entrée into society that many a duchess would have regarded with envy. She quite frankly uses her wide acquaintance in her profession, which is that of hostess. The American woman who allows Elsa Maxwell to make her Paris arrangements is fortunate. Dinners and balls or- ganized by the redoubtable Elsa are literally packed with titles, from heirs-apparent and grand dukes down to the merest baron. Paris society is full of people willing to bargain their titles for a good dinner, and many a Russian prince would have gone hungry to bed o’nights but for the bounty of Elsa Maxwell. You can’t blame them. Only fifteen years ago they were giving such parties themselves. They gratefully snap up the meager crumbs falling from the tables of the new aristocracy today. I know a prince of a house which reigned as re- cently as three years ago who has his pet “charity,” a donation to which will insure his attendance at any banquet. There used to be a grand duke—he is gone now—IN THE GUIDE BOOKS 235 who insisted on five thousand francs being handed him ‘“‘for my refugees” before he sat down to dinner. Queens have been known to attend ceremonies be- cause the hostess had cleverly bribed them by sponsor- ing a charity in which they are intimately interested. The royal road to society eminence is charity. It is the business of clever social “introducers’ to point out how such philanthropy may be best employed. One of the kindest-hearted of women, Mrs. W. E. Corey, has just given her chateau at Villegenis for a home to Russian refugees. A magnificent gesture, when one considers, and I will venture a guess that the Russian nobility in Paris will know how to render service for service. Well, the Acacias was a great success with Jenny Dolly, who introduced “Some Sunny Day” to Paris there. When it closed down, Maurice’s Club reopened the old Clover Club, with Maurice and Leonora Hughes downstairs and Tommy Lyman and Roy Barton of Kelly’s entertaining upstairs. Micky Nielan used to go to this place frequently. Fanny Ward and Jack Dean were regular customers, as were the Dolly Sisters, Erskine Gwynne, et al. Later on, Albert Latscha, Elsa Maxwell and others opened the So-Different, across the street from the Maurice. This enjoyed a whole season’s popularity, until the French owner thought she could run it by her- self, when of course it ended by being No Different, _ and flopped gracefully.Tate) ee Thier Tite evee ee . os 2 _— ghahe °