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Chapter 1
IN the spring of the Paris Exhibition of 1878 my father was in charge of the Indian Section of Arts and Manufactures there, and it was his duty to arrange them as they arrived. He promised me, then twelve or thirteen years old, that I should accompany him to Paris on condition that I gave no trouble. The democracy of an English School had made that easy.
Our happy expedition crossed the Channel in a steamer, I think, made of two steamers attached to each other side by side. (Was it the old
Calais-Douvres
designed to prevent sea-sickness which even the gods themselves cannot do?) And, late at night, we came to a boarding-house full of English people at the back of the Parc Monceau. In the morning, when I had waked to the divine smell of roasting coffee and the bell-like call of the
marchand-d’habits
, my father said in effect, “I shall be busy every day for some time. Here is ——” I think it was two francs. “There are lots of restaurants, all called Duval, where you can eat. I . . .
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