In fact, a customary
evening in Bucharest is not very far removed, in its gaiety and abandon,
from a New Year's Eve celebration in New York. Not even Paris can offer
a gayer night life than the Rumanian capital, for at the Jockey Club it
is no uncommon thing for 10,000 francs to change hands on the turn of a
card or a whirl of the roulette wheel; out the Chaussee Kisselew, at the
White City, the dance floor is crowded until daybreak with slender,
rather effeminate-looking officers in beautiful uniforms of green or
pale blue and superbly gowned and bejewelled women. Indeed, I doubt if
there is any city of its size in the world on whose streets one sees so
many _chic_ and beautiful women, though I might add that their jewels
are generally of a higher quality than their morals. As long as these
bewitching beauties behave themselves they are not molested by the
police, who seem to have an arrangement with the hotel managements
looking toward their control. When Mrs. Powell and I arrived at our
hotel the proprietor asked us for our passports, which, he explained,
must be vised by the police. The following morning my passport was
returned alone.
"But where is my wife's passport?" I demanded, for in Southern Europe in
these days it is impossible to travel even short distances without one's
papers.
"But M'sieu must know that we always retain the lady's passport until he
leaves," said the proprietor, with a knowing smile.
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