At first glance this _falaise_ reminds you of the familiar Palisades, only made of Caen stone, but on closer examination, you are astonished to find that there are doors and windows cut out of the solid rock! The blacksmith shop is a former quarry, as are many of the homes of the humbler and poorer, their people having taken up their habitations in the same manner as the hermit crab—in the shell of a former owner. On the other side is the village, looking like an old-fashioned jewel in a rough setting, while farther along, on the outskirts of the town, are the fields of cabbages and beets. You must be very careful in wandering over these stretches of growing vegetation, for at any moment you may come to a hole like a rabbit burrow almost concealed by the grass. If you have the Alice in Wonderland instinct (and you will certainly have acquired it by this time), you will plunge down this rough tunnel to see what mysteries the underground holds. Men have dug out this rock, from which Paris has been made, leaving a labyrinth of paths and chambers. Every once in a while there are flashes of light very much like the glimpses of the sky that one gets from the train when going out from New York at the Grand Central Station. Over the edge of these openings hang blackberry vines, and the singing of birds can be heard. You are reminded of that story told by Wells, of the race of people that lived under the earth and came out at night to feed upon those who lived on top. There is one long tunnel which leads to an amphitheater larger than the Hippodrome. It is dark as the night, and you feel as if this must be the cathedral of these underground men. All at once, out of the dampness comes a new odor, something of the earth, but not of the deep earth. It is as if the plowshare had just turned over a bit of sun-warmed humus, and as your eyes become accustomed to the darkness you see that this vault, so much like a stage setting of Gordon Craig’s, has small apertures in its sides where beds of mushrooms are pushing their way out of the ground. It is in places like this that the supply for Paris is grown. Turning to the left, you will find a continuous passage, and if you have the courage to traverse its three miles of length you will come out to the light at the site of another red-roofed village—this one called Montessan—and strange to relate, there again is the Seine, which has coiled itself around like a snake and met you at the other side. Across the river at this point is a large and formidable building which seems by its modernity to deny the facts of all you have seen, for this is the Pavilion Henri Quatre, and Paris is but twenty miles away.