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We spent some busy, turbulent weeks in this
city, where the year before Sonia had been
overwhelmed with honours and flattery, but
where she seemed almost forgotten now. She
had had her ‘quart d’heure.’
We visited friends, made new acquaintances,
and were on the move from morning till
midnight. Yet I saw nothing of the place, no
curiosities, not even the Eiffel Tower. We only
hurried from one excitement to the other, and
frequented the most heterogeneous circles—a
most interesting mixture of types and
nationalities: Russians, Jews, Poles, French,
Scandinavians, people of the ‘haute finance,’ of
science and of literature, exiles, conspirators,
etc., etc. Sonia, of course, paid visits to
mathematical celebrities, and received invitations
from them, but she took less interest in these
people now, as her mind was occupied with
anything but mathematics. We spent one
delightful day at the house of the Norwegian
author Jonas Lie. Indeed, he was the only
person who fully understood Sonia. We were
invited to dinner to meet Grieg and his wife,
who were just celebrating their great triumph in
Paris. Lie made a speech in honour of Madame
Kovalevsky, which touched her to tears. There
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