A Month in Paris

A Month in Paris

A Month in Paris

A Month in Paris


Have a tiny room right under the eaves.

Most of the seventh floor of this busy hotel has been reclaimed from couriers and servants who, not so very long ago, used to accompany their masters and mistresses on the Grand Tour of Europe. I am told that it has become extremely rare for a guest to bring a servant. Those who still have homes and servants arrange to do their travelling when their servants are on vacation. Couriers, of course, went out with the family berline. Wealthy women clung rather longer to their personal maids, but now we dress so simply that even the richest, rarest South American woman has no hooks to be done up in her back, hardly anything to iron.

So the rooms on the seventh floor, though small, have been made gay and modern to lodge quite famous people. Paris actresses dispose of their town houses to live under the eaves. My room, for instance, is Bohemian and full of character, and though I have running water and the telephone, I must go a few yards away, as in a private house, to have a bath.

This building is, indeed, two hotels--one delightfully luxurious which I like to cross, coming and going, listening to the high-pitched music of Cuban Spanish; the other modest, truly Parisian, on the roof-tops of the city.

At the beginning, I was always making violent contact with my own roof. I used to bang my head against the slanting wall. I have become more prudent.

I spend hours at the open window, brushing my long . . .

Search by... Author
Show... All Results Primary Sources Peer-reviewed


An unknown error has occurred. Please click the button below to reload the page. If the problem persists, please try again in a little while.