We went almost every day to the Exhibition and sacrificed a whole afternoon to the French colonies: Tunis, Algiers, Dahomey and other transmarine countries, all clustered together near the Trocadero. In front of them were the cafés belonging to them. Here you could listen to the different national airs, see the different national types and costumes, and eat the different national foods. The section named “Habillement des deux Sexes” is marvellous, with Paquin’s and Worth’s most divine combinations. I did not know how our purses were going to hold out. There was a dress I had been dying for, and Sergy, dear man, made me a present of it immediately. The “Palais des Machines,” a monstrous gallery full of machines, with glass walls and roof, was very fatiguing to go through. Sergy took great interest in all sorts of engines, and our guide bothered me with his technical explanations of which I understood nothing. On the top galleries a moving electric bridge, full of people, advanced towards us from the opposite side of the gallery, moving very slowly in order to permit the visitors to see all the machines at work. We were dying of thirst, and entered the English Dairy to drink a glass of milk, after which we visited the Cow-House, exhibiting superb animals, who stood in comfortable stalls with new clean straw under their feet. Whilst I petted a beautiful fat cow named “Every Inch a Queen,” a milkmaid appeared with a stool and a pail and began to extract what the cow chose to give her. Directly opposite the “Palais des Machines” is the “Vieux Paris.” To visit it is to step back into the past. In the street La Huchette, the houses, the shops, the citizens, everything, transports you to the seventeenth century; the anachronism was ourselves in our modern clothes, which did not harmonise with the picture. Soldiers with their bands at the head, wearing white wigs, marched in the streets. On a raised platform the Mandolinists of the Duc de Guise played pretty gavottes and minuets. A few steps further the so-called “Sans-Chagrins” (street singers), standing on a table, sang popular airs. Through an open window we saw a dainty “Marquise” singing old-time love-ditties, to the accompaniment of a smart “Marquis” wearing a white wig and buckled shoes, who played a harpsichord. The illusion was complete, we had gone back a hundred years to Louis XVI. time. In the Rue Sainte Antoine we saw the exact copy of the church Sainte Marie, with a museum inside, where you could see the atrocities of the French Revolution, represented with horrid realism, and calculated to give even a strong man the creeps. Soldiers wearing pig-tailed wigs bellowed: “Come and see the execution of the Royal Family!” In dark alcoves different scenes of the French Revolution were represented. We saw the wax figure of Robespierre presiding at the Jacobin Club; of Charlotte Corday in the act of murdering Marat, etc., etc.