T HIS volume is written to show the life of the students in the Paris of to-day. It has an additional interest in opening to inspection certain phases of Bohemian life in Paris that are shared both by the students and the public, but that are generally unfamiliar to visitors to that wonderful city, and even to a very large part of the city's population itself. It depicts the under-side of such life as the students find,—the loose, unconventional life of the humbler strugglers in literature and a

W E were in wonderful Paris at last—Bishop and I—after a memorable passage full of interest from New York to Havre. Years of hard work were ahead of us, for Bishop would be an artist and I a sculptor. For two weeks we had been lodging temporarily in the top of a comfortable little hotel, called the Grand something (most of the Parisian hotels are Grand), the window of which commanded a superb view of the great city, the vaudeville playhouse of the world. Pour la première fois the dazzle and glit

I T is about the fifteenth of October, after the long summer vacation, that the doors of the great École des Beaux-Arts are thrown open. The first week, called " la semaine des nouveaux ," is devoted to the initiation and hazing of the new students, who come mostly from foreign countries and the French provinces. These festivities can never be forgotten—by the nouveaux . Bishop had condescendingly decided to become un élève de Gérôme —with some misgivings, for Bishop had developed ideas of a lar

E VER since New Year's, when Bishop began his great composition for the Salon, our life at the studio had been sadly disarranged; for Bishop had so completely buried himself in his work that I was compelled to combine the functions of cook with those of chambermaid. This double work, with increasing pressure from my modelling, required longer hours at night and shorter hours in the morning. But I was satisfied, for this was to be Bishop's masterpiece, and I knew from the marvellous labor and spi

O F course the proper name for the great thoroughfare of the Quartier Latin is the Boulevard Saint-Michel, but the boulevardiers call it the Boul' Mich', just as the students call the Quatre Arts the Quat'z' Arts, because it is easier to say. The Boul' Mich' is the student's highway to relaxation. Mention of it at once recalls whirling visions of brilliant café s, with their clattering of saucers and glasses, the shouting of their white-aproned garçons, their hordes of gay and wicked damsels dre

V ERY often, instead of having dinner at the studio, we saunter over to the Maison Dar-blay, passing the wall of the dismal Cimetière du Montparnasse on the way. The Maison Darblay is in the little Rue de la Gaieté, which, though only a block in length, is undoubtedly the liveliest thoroughfare in the Quartier. That is because it serves as a funnel between the Avenue du Maine and five streets that converge into it at the upper end. Particularly in the early evening the little street is crowded w

I T is only the name of the Cabaret of the Golden Sun that suggests the glorious luminary of day. And yet it is really brilliant in its own queer way, though that brilliancy shines when all else in Paris is dark and dead,—at night, and in the latest hours of the night at that. My acquaintance with the Golden Sun began one foggy night in a cold November, under the guidance of Bishop. Lured by the fascinations of nocturnal life in the Quartier Latin, and by its opportunities for the study of life

I N the short, busy little street, the Rue de l'Ancienne-Comédie, which runs from the Boulevard St. Germain, in a line from the Théâtre National de l'Odéon and connecting with the Rue Mazarin, its continuation, the heavy dome of the Institut looming at its end, is to be found probably the most famous café in Paris, for in its day it has been the rendezvous of the most noted French littérateurs, politicians, and savants. What is more, the Procope was the first café established in Paris, originati

B ISHOP had been industriously at work upon a large black-and-white drawing. The subject was a ball-room scene,—of evident low degree, judging from the abandon of the whirling figures and the queer types that were depicted. White lace skirts were sweeping high in air, revealing black-stockinged ankles and gauzy lingerie in a way unknown to the monde propre. In contrast to the grace and abandon of the female figures were the coarseness and clumsiness of their male partners. The work was nearly fi

N EAR the end of a recent December Bishop received a note signed "A. Herbert Thomp-kins," written at the Hôtel de l'Athénée, saying that the writer was in Paris for four days with his wife before proceeding to Vienna to join some friends. It closed by asking, "Could you call at the hotel this evening, say at seven?" This note created great excitement at our studio early one morning, the facteur having climbed six flights of stairs (it being near to New Year) to deliver it; for Mr. Thompkins was

T HE Quartier Latin takes on unwonted life about the fifteenth of July, when the artists and students change their places of abode under the resistless pressure of a nomadic spirit. Studios are generally taken for terms ranging from three months to a year, and the terms generally expire in July. The artists who do not change their residence then go into the country, and that means moving their effects. It is a familiar fact that artists do not generally occupy a high position in the financial wo