I have encountered there grave American business men and government officials, and famous actresses and _prima donnæ_, bent on investigating the gilded vice for which the Mabille has become notorious. Indeed, the experience was said to be one without which one’s knowledge of Paris was incomplete, and as long as the Jardin Mabille existed, it never lacked patrons to make its sugared infamy profitable. God be thanked that this vile institution is of the past, and it is our regret that some French Parkhurst does not arise and clean out the similar establishments whose gilded doors are open as the reader is perusing this. [Illustration: A PAIR OF FRENCH DANCERS.] Ballet Dancers. The reader may be supposed to be familiar with the architectural splendors of the Paris Opera House. To some minds these splendors will perhaps become more vivid when it is said that they cost 40,000,000 francs, say $8,000,000. I omit all general description and pass at once behind the scenes to the _foyer de la danse_ or green-room of the ladies of the ballet. It is a splendid room, decorated with allegorical panels and mirrors. All around the room run bars fixed against the wall, and covered with red velvet. The dancing “subjects” use these bars to stretch and twist their legs, and to exercise the muscles of their backs. Before the fireplace stand the children and small fry of the ballet. On each side of the fire, dozing and gossiping are the mothers of the figurantes, armed with baskets and knitting needles. In the middle of the room is a little group of men, hats in hand, carefully dressed, chatting, laughing, and apparently waiting for something. They are the _habitues_, and they are waiting for the arrival of the _premiers sujets_. Soon these ladies appear, one by one, walking with that movement of the hips that only dancers have, the foot turned outward and enveloped in loose gaiters, which make them look like Cochin China hens. These gaiters are destined to preserve their satin shoes and stockings from dust and dirt. With a little watering-pot that they carry with their finger tips, like shepherdesses in Watteau’s pictures, they proceed to water about three square feet of floor; then flinging into the glass a general and collective ogle at the group standing behind them, they go through a variety of steps, pirouettes, smiles and capers for five minutes. Then comes a little repose. The group of men breaks up, and those who are intimate enough approach and talk to the dancers. What they say to them is a secret. Meanwhile, the call man cries with a voice like a rattle, “Gentlemen and ladies, they are beginning.” This is not true. It is like saying dinner at six for half past. The incident, however, is useful to those ladies who wish to cut short a tiresome conversation. The reply is a caper. After a few minutes the call man returns: “Gentlemen and ladies, they have begun.”