The Palais du Danse is incomparably the most beautiful ballroom
in the world--so people who have been all over the world agree
--and it is spotlessly clean and free from brackish smells, which
is more than can be said of any French establishment of similar
character I have seen. At the Palais du Danse the patron sits at
a table--a table with something on it besides a cloth being an
essential adjunct to complete enjoyment of an evening of German
revelry; and as he sits and drinks he listens to the playing of a
splendid band and looks on at the dancing. Nothing is drunk except
wine--and by wine I mainly mean champagne of the most sweetish
and sickish brand obtainable. Elsewhere, for one-twentieth the
cost, the German could have the best and purest beer that is made;
but he is out now for the big night. Accordingly he saturates his
tissues with the sugary bubble-water of France. He does not join
in the dancing himself. The men dancers are nearly all paid
dancers, I think, and the beautifully clad women who dance are
either professionals, too, or else belong to a profession that is
older even than dancing is. They all dance with a profound German
gravity and precision. Here is music to set a wooden leg a-jigging;
but these couples circle and glide and dip with an incomprehensible
decorum and slowness.
When we were there, they were dancing the tango or one of its
manifold variations.
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