Down the rue de Faubourg Saint-Honore swarmed a cheering mob of ragged Parisian children. As les enfants hurried past the famed emporiums of oriental pearls, certified antiques and exorbitantly priced Russian knickknacks which line that haughty thoroughfare, shop-keepers looked out and prayed to le bon Dieu that He would spare their windows the contamination of too many noses.
Arrived opposite the forbidding stone gateway of No. 55, the 200 ragamuffins sobered to an expectant hush. The Palais before them once served the exquisite Pompadour as a jeweled setting for dalliance. It provided the...
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