We had been privileged to enjoy an experience such as Liszt described in his book on Chopin, when the other great Polish composer-pianist let his friends hear his own works interpreted by himself; but at Riond-Bosson there was no jarring note of Philistinism such as Liszt found in the aristocratic salons in which Chopin played. [Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF THE SEINE] PARIS BY THEODORE DREISER Author of “Sister Carrie,” “Jennie Gerhardt,” etc. WITH PICTURES BY W. J. GLACKENS When the train rolled into the Gare du Nord, it must have been about eight o’clock in the evening. X. had explained to me that, in order to make my entrance into Paris properly gay and interesting, we were to dine at the Café de Paris, then visit the Folies-Bergère, and afterward have supper at the Abbaye Thélème. Now, as usual, X. was alert and prepared. He had industriously piled all the bags close to the door, and was hanging out of a window, doing his best to signal a _facteur_. I was to stay in the car and hand all the packages down rapidly while he ran to secure a taxi and an inspector, and in other ways to clear away the impediments to our progress. With great executive enthusiasm he told me that we must be at the Hôtel Normandy by eight-fifteen or twenty, and that by nine o’clock we must be ready to sit down in the Café de Paris to an excellent dinner, which he had ordered by telegraph. I recall my wonder in entering Paris--the lack of any extended suburbs, the sudden flash of electric lights and electric cars. Mostly we seemed to be entering through a tunnel or gully, and then we were there. The noisy facteurs in their caps and blue aprons were all about the cars. They ran and chattered and gesticulated, wholly unlike the porters at Paddington and Waterloo, Victoria and Euston. The one we finally secured, a husky little enthusiast, did his best to gather all our packages in one grand mass and shoulder them, stringing them on a single strap. The result of it was that the strap broke right over a small pool of water, and among other things the canvas bag containing my blanket and magnificent shoes fell into the water. The excited facteur was fairly dancing in anguish, doing his best to get the packages strung together. Between us we relieved him of about half of them, and from about his waist he unwrapped another large strap and strung the remainder on that. Then we hurried on, for nothing would do but that we must hurry. A taxi was secured, and all our luggage piled on it. It looked half suffocated under bundles as it swung away, and we were off at a mad clip through crowded, electric-lighted streets. I pressed my nose to the window and took in as much as I could, while X., between calculations as to how much time this would take and that would take and whether my trunk had arrived safely, expatiated laconically on French characteristics. “You smell this air? It is characteristic of Paris.” “The taxis always go like this.” We were racing like mad.