at his makeup.

"To the left!" cries the jury, and you pass in to the ball.

But if you are unknown they will say simply, "Connais-pas! To the
right!" and you pass down a long covered alley--confident, if you are a
"nouveau," that it leads into the ball-room--until you suddenly find
yourself in the street, where your ticket is torn up and all hope of
entering is gone.

It is hopeless to attempt to describe the hours until morning of this
annual artistic orgy. As the morning light comes in through the
windows, it is strange to see the effect of diffused daylight,
electricity, and gas--the bluish light of early morning reflected on the
flesh tones--upon nearly three thousand girls and students in costumes
one might expect to see in a bacchanalian feast, just before the fall of
Rome. Now they form a huge circle, the front row sitting on the floor,
the second row squatting, the third seated in chairs, the fourth
standing, so that all can see the dancing that begins in the morning
hours--the wild impromptu dancing of the moment. A famous beauty, her
black hair bound in a golden fillet with a circle wrought in silver and
studded with Oriental turquoises clasping her superb torso, throws her
sandals to the crowd and begins an Oriental dance--a thing of grace and
beauty--fired with the intensity of the innate nature of this
beautifully modeled daughter of Bohemia.

As the dance ends, there is a cry of delight from the great circle of
barbarians. "Long live the Quat'z' Arts!" they cry, amid cheers for the
dancer.

The ball closes about seven in the morning, when the long procession
forms to return to the Latin Quarter, some marching, other students and
girls in cabs and on top of them, many of the girls riding the horses.
Down they come from the "Moulin Rouge," shouting, singing, and yelling.
Heads are thrust out of windows, and a volley of badinage passes between
the fantastic procession and those who have heard them coming.

Finally the great open court of the Louvre is reached--here a halt is
made and a general romp occurs. A girl and a type climb one of the
tall lamp-posts and prepare to do a mid-air balancing act, when
rescued by the others. At last, at the end of all this horse-play, the
march is resumed over the Pont du Carrousel and so on, cheered now by
those going to work, until the Odeon is reached. Here the odd
procession disbands; some go to their favorite cafes where the
festivities are continued--some to s