And if your Paquerette is gone forever, there is Zinette--some
other fellow's Paquerette--in her place. And to him new worlds are born
in her lips even as new worlds were born to you in the kisses of
another's yesterday ... and the music and the perfume of Zinette's youth
shall, too, be rosemary some day to this other.

The only thing that changes in Paris is the Paris of the Americans,
that foul swelling at the Carrara throat of Youth's fairyland. It is
this Paris, cankered with the erosions of foreign gold and foreign itch,
that has placed "souvenirs" on sale at the Tomb of Napoleon, that vends
obscenities on the boulevards, that has raised the price of
bouillabaisse to one franc fifty, that has installed ice cream at the
Brasserie Zimmer, that has caused innumerable erstwhile respectable
French working girls to don short yellow skirts, stick roses in their
mouths, wield castanets and become Spanish dancers in the restaurants.
It is this Paris that celebrates the hour of the aperitif with Bronx
cocktails and "stingers," that has put Chicken a la King on the menu of
the Soufflet, that has enabled the _ober-kellner_ of Ledoyen to purchase
a six-cylinder Benz, that has introduced forks in the Rue Falguiere,
that has made the _beguins_ at the annual Quat'-z-Arts ball conscious of
the visibility of their legs. It is this Paris that puts on evening
clothes in order to become properly soused at Maxim's and cast confetti
at the Viennese Magdalenes, that fights the cabmen, that sings "We Won't
Go Home Till Morning" at the Catelan, that buys a set of Maupassant in
the original French (and then can't read it), that sits in front of the
Cafe de la Paix reading the New York _Morning Telegraph_ and wondering
what Jake and the rest of the gang are doing back home, that gives the
Pittsburgh high sign to every good-looking woman walking on the
boulevards in the belief that all French women are in the constant state
of desiring a liaison, that callouses its hands in patriotic music hall
applause for that great American, Harry Pilcer, that trips the turkey
trot with all the Castle interpolations at the Tabarin. It is this Paris
that changes year by year--from bad to worse. It is this Paris that
remembers Gaby Deslys and forgets Cecile Sorel, that remembers Madge
Lessing and arches its eyebrow in interrogation as to Marie Leconte.
This is the Paris of Sniff and Snicker, this the Paris of New York.

But the other Paris, the Paris of the