Who can ever forget the first intoxicating impression of this queen of cities? The channel trip, the bustle of arrival at Boulogne, the fussy little foreign train tugging us unwillingly over the lovely meadows--all I retain of that is a blur. But it seems like yesterday that the spruce little conductor poked his merry face into the compartment and gurgled joyfully: "Par-ee!" Every nerve in my body tingles now when I recall the excitement of it all. We drove first to a small family hotel which had been recommended by some of our fellow passengers on the Armenian. I at once took charge of the party, and, in a halting harangue in French, told the landlady what rooms we wanted and how much we wished to pay. "If you will only tell me in English," said the landlady helplessly, speaking my native tongue perfectly, "I can understand you better." After this crushing rebuke to my French, I let my mother arrange all details. We remained but a few days here--only until we could install ourselves in an apartment in the Latin Quarter, very near the lovely gardens of the Luxembourg and close to the omnibus stations. It cost then three sous to ride on top of a bus--"_l'imperial_," as it is called--and six sous to ride inside. By constant patronage of _l'imperial_ during pleasant weather, it was possible to lay aside enough for a drive Sunday in the Bois. In those days there was no taximeter system to disconcert, and if one found an amiable _cocher_ (and there have been many, bless them!), it was quite within the reach of the modest purse of a grand-opera aspirant thus to join the gay throng of smart Parisian turnouts. The first thing of importance was to search for a good teacher. While I had letters to various well-known instructors I never used them, preferring to be judged on my merits. At last one day I called upon Trabadello, the Spaniard who had numbered among his pupils Sybil Sanderson and Emma Eames. I studied with Trabadello from October, 1899, until the spring of 1900; and, to dispose of unauthorized assertions, I may add that Trabadello is the only vocal teacher I had in Paris. [Illustration: PHOTO OF CAMILLE SAINT-SAENS WITH HAND-WRITTEN DEDICATION A MADEMOISELLE GERALDINE FARRAR SOUVENIR DE L'ANCETRE MONTE-CARLO 1906 C. SAINT-SAENS] I also had a course of _mise-en-scene_, or preparation for the stage, with an excellent teacher, Madame Martini, an artist of repute and an excellent instructor in the traditional sense of the word. For instance, Madame would say: "After ten bars, lift the right hand; two more, then point it at the villain; walk slowly toward the hero; raise your eyes at the twentieth bar toward heaven; and conclude your aria with a sweeping gesture of denial, sinking gently to the floor."