When the calm was restored it was seen that his action had had the desired affect, for several arms were broken and one or two Frenchmen were completely knocked out; but for an exhibition of true heroism and Americanism, it was gorgeous. A great event was the Bal Bullier—the students’ ball; everyone went, and it was “artist” all through. Things always went well unless some one broke one of the unwritten laws. For instance, all the women who amounted to anything wore masks, and to take them off was an invitation to everyone. One evening at one of these affairs I suddenly heard: “Any Americans here?” In the middle of the floor, surrounded by dozens of Frenchmen and fighting with his fists, was an upstanding male in a cowboy hat—a fashion then unknown in Paris. Some one had broken the rule and taken his girl away from him. In a flash I recognized him as Charley White, a man I had known in the north of California. I looked about me and yelled to each corner of the room: “_À moi, Julian! À moi, Julian!_” Instantly dozens of men sprang from all sides with cries of: “_À toi, Simmons! À toi, Simmons!_” In a second they were upon their brother Frenchmen, had downed them, and had hustled Charley White out of the room. No matter where one is in France, he can always call his class to his side; architects stick to architects, actors to actors, painters to painters, and so on. I could never convince my friend, however, that I did not employ private police. These nights of revelry were few and far between; our evenings were spent in the studio, and I always see them in “black and white.” Black were the shadows in the recesses not reached by the big gas flame, black were the heads of the Europeans, strange beings to me at that time, some of them with beards; while the body of the model, the straining faces of the students, and the paper on the easels before us were a gleaming, glaring white. We did drawing alone at night. Up to this time there had been one and only one real influence upon my artistic life, and that was Doctor Rimmer. While at the Boston Art Museum I used to go over to the Institute of Technology to his classes in art anatomy. Dr. William Rimmer, who is only to-day being given any recognition, probably occupies in the artistic world somewhat the same position that Samuel Butler does in the literary world. Rimmer’s work is being dragged out of obscurity to-day by men like Gutzon Borglum, as Butler’s was by Bernard Shaw. He was a large man with a foreign accent, a crank, but an enthusiast and very excitable. His absorption in his work was that of a crazy genius, but his knowledge of the structure of the human figure, combined with his delicate sense of beauty and vigor of execution, was of inestimable value. In his life he was absolutely impersonal and cared for no man. Doctor Rimmer did me more good than any other man except one—Boulanger.