The next day being Sunday, we went to hear mass at the Russian church. The singing was beautiful, but our priest, with his hair cut short, did not at all harmonise with the rest of the Orthodox surroundings. After lunch, we had a nice trip by boat to St. Cloud. We had lunch there at a small inn over the entrance door of which we read with eager eyes, “Lait Frais,” (Fresh Milk). A simpering red-armed and rosy-cheeked servant girl in a pink print dress, appeared wiping her hands with her blue apron; she spread a brown cloth upon a table standing in a green harbour under a big walnut tree, and served us a frugal repast, consisting of milk and eggs. A few steps from us stood a pair of scales with a placard saying, “Come and see how much you weigh before and after dinner,” serving, surely, as a catchword to this inn, as over the door there was a painted hand pointing to the scales. After our cosy meal, we walked gaily through the grounds of St. Cloud, enjoying our walk as two big school children out for a holiday. On our return to Paris we were not yet too tired to go to the “Musée Grévin,” where we made a long halt before a group of wax figures representing the Coronation of our Emperor. All the personages were unrecognisable, the cadets of the “Corps de Pages” were arrayed in costumes dating from the time of Louis XV. Another group also represented a Russian scene, the capture of a band of anarchists at work in a secret printing office, in which it was the police agents who looked like villains, and the anarchists like innocent victims. It interested me greatly to listen to the opinions of the passers-by upon this group, they made such funny comments! Not wanting to disclose my nationality, the idea came to me to give myself out for an Englishwoman, and I asked Sergy, who didn’t speak English fluently, to answer only in the negative or the affirmative to all I should say, and catching his eye I passed the signal, making him understand when he was to say “yes” or “no.” He acted his part fairly well, and two French ladies were taken in. They endeavoured to make me understand the meaning of the criminal printing office, and one of them said to me in the very worst English, “This scene takes place in Russia, here is the Russian God,” (pointing out to an Ikon of St. Nicholas hung in one corner of the printing office). Then, this well-informed person, wanting to flatter my national pride, added, that this Museum could not be compared to Madame Tussaud’s wax-work-figures in London.