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diff --git a/30981-h/30981-h.htm b/30981-h/30981-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19bf5cf --- /dev/null +++ b/30981-h/30981-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5414 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Real Latin Quarter, by F. Berkeley Smith. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + body {margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 15%; + } + + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + h1,h2,h3 {text-align: center; + clear: both; + } + h2.chptrimg {clear: none;} + h3.chptrimg {clear: none;} + + hr { width: 100%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + hr.hr33 {width: 33%;} + hr.dshd {width: 100%; + border-top: thin dashed silver; + } + + .starrow {text-align: center; + margin-left: 3em; + letter-spacing: 5em; + font-size: x-large; + } + + table.toc {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; + border-style: solid; + border-width: thin; + border-color: gray; + } + + table.img {margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + text-align: center + } + + a:link {color: navy; text-decoration: none} /* unvisited link */ + a:visited {color: maroon; text-decoration: none} /* visited link */ + a:hover {text-decoration: underline} /* mouse over link */ + a:active {color: navy} /* selected link */ + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + color: gray; + text-indent: 0; + } + + .blockquot {margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: smaller; + } + + .hoverlink {border-style: none;} /* mousehover box */ + .hoverbox {border-bottom: .07em dotted gray;} /* underlined typos */ + + .center {text-align: center;} + .right {text-align: right;} + .left {text-align: left;} + + .dropcap {margin-left: 0; text-indent: -0.5em;} + .frstltr {display: none;} + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .smfont {font-size: smaller;} + .lgfont {font-size: larger;} + .serfont {font-family: serif;} + .wdltrs {letter-spacing:.2em} + + .toctitle {letter-spacing: .2em; + font-size: x-large; + border-bottom: solid thin; + } + + .caption {font-size: smaller;} + .clearlft {clear: left;} + .clearrt {clear: right;} + .nowrap {white-space: nowrap;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; + text-align: center; + } + .figcenter p {text-align: center; + font-size: smaller;} /* to enable hoverbox w/i caption */ + + .figleft {float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0em; + margin-right: 1em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; + width:auto; + } + + .figright {float: right; + clear: right; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0em; + margin-right: 0; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; + width: auto; + } + + .tranotes {border: solid 1px #8b4513; /* saddle brown */ + font-size: smaller; + width: 85%; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + padding-left: 1em; + padding-right: 1em; + background: #fbf5e6;} /* cream */ + + .rightfloat {float: right; + clear: left; + width: auto} + + </style> + </head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Real Latin Quarter, by F. Berkeley Smith + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Real Latin Quarter + +Author: F. Berkeley Smith + +Illustrator: F. Berkeley Smith + F. Hopkinson Smith + +Release Date: January 20, 2010 [EBook #30981] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REAL LATIN QUARTER *** + + + + +Produced by RenĂ© Anderson Benitz, Suzanne Shell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image001.jpg" width="362" height="450" alt="THE REAL LATIN QUARTER Book Cover" title="" /> +</div> + +<br /><br /><br /> +<div class="tranotes"><p><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Note</span>: Variations in hyphenation, +capitalization, and spelling have been retained as in +the original. Minor printer errors have been amended +without note. Obvious typos have been amended and are +underlined in the text: original text appears in a +mouse hoverbox over each amended typo, like <span +title=" thsi " class="hoverbox">this</span>. Some +illustrations have been relocated for better flow, +causing some page numbers to be removed. Other +missing page numbers are due to blank pages being +removed.</p> +</div> +<br /><br /><br /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image002.jpg" width="283" height="450" alt="THE REAL LATIN QUARTER" title="" /> +</div> + +<br /> +<hr class="dshd" /> +<br /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 660px;"> +<img src="images/image003.jpg" width="660" height="398" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">IN THE GARDENS OF THE LUXEMBOURG<br /> +<span class="smfont"><i>WATER COLOR DRAWING BY</i></span><br /> +F. HOPKINSON SMITH<br /> +<span class="smfont">PARIS, 1901</span></span> +</div> + +<br /><br /> +<hr class="dshd" /> +<br /><br /> + +<h1 class="wdltrs serfont">THE REAL<br /> +LATIN QUARTER<br /></h1> +<br /> +<h3 class="wdltrs">By F. BERKELEY SMITH</h3> +<br /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image004.jpg" width="140" height="200" alt="(portrait of woman)" title="" /> +</div> +<br /> + +<div class="center"> +<div class="smfont wdltrs">WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR<br /> +INTRODUCTION AND FRONTISPIECE BY<br /> +<table class="img" summary="name"> + <tr> + <td align="left"><img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /></td> + <td> F. HOPKINSON SMITH </td> + <td align="right"><img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /></td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> +<br /> +FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY +<br /> +<span class="smfont">NEW YORK <span class="lgfont">·</span> NINETEEN HUNDRED AND ONE</span> +</div> + +<br /><br /> +<hr class="dshd" /> +<br /><br /> + +<p class="right smfont">Copyright, 1901<br /> +by<br /> +Funk & Wagnalls<br /> +Company<br /> +<br /> +Registered<br /> +at<br /> +Stationers’<br /> +Hall<br /> +London, England<br /> +<br /> +Printed in the<br /> +United States of America<br /> +<br /> +Published in<br /> +November, 1901<br /> +</p> + +<hr class="dshd" /> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/image005.jpg" width="200" height="165" alt="(teapot with cup)" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="center clearrt"> +<table class="toc" border="0" cellpadding="2" width="65%" cellspacing="0" summary="CONTENTS"> + <tr><th align="center" colspan="3" class="toctitle" >CONTENTS</th></tr> + <tr><td> </td> + <td> </td> + <td align="right" class="smfont">Page </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="left" colspan="2"> <a name="INTRO" id="INTRO" href="#Page_7">Introduction</a></td> + <td align="right">7 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right" class="smfont">Chapter</td> + <td> </td> + <td> </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_11">I.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC1" id="TOC1" href="#Page_11">In the Rue Vaugirard</a></td> + <td align="right">11 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_29">II.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC2" id="TOC2" href="#Page_29">The Boulevard St. Michel</a></td> + <td align="right">29 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_52">III.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC3" id="TOC3" href="#Page_52">The “Bal Bullier”</a></td> + <td align="right">52 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_70">IV.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC4" id="TOC4" href="#Page_70">Bal des Quat’z’ Arts</a></td> + <td align="right">70 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_93">V.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC5" id="TOC5" href="#Page_93">“A Déjeuner at Lavenue’s”</a></td> + <td align="right">93 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_113">VI.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC6" id="TOC6" href="#Page_113">“At Marcel Legay’s”</a></td> + <td align="right">113 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_129">VII.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC7" id="TOC7" href="#Page_129">“Pochard”</a></td> + <td align="right">129 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_151">VIII.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC8" id="TOC8" href="#Page_151">The Luxembourg Gardens</a></td> + <td align="right">151 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_173">IX.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC9" id="TOC9" href="#Page_173">“The Ragged Edge of the Quarter”</a></td> + <td align="right">173 </td> + </tr> + <tr><td align="right"><a href="#Page_194">X.</a></td> + <td align="left"><a name="TOC10" id="TOC10" href="#Page_194">Exiled</a></td> + <td align="right">194 </td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image006.jpg" width="600" height="351" alt="(wine bottles with glass)" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr class="dshd" /> + +<p class="clearlft"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">- 7 -</a></span></p> +<br /> +<h2><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION" href="#INTRO"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">INTRODUCTION</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>“Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière”—this +in my best restaurant French.</p> + +<p>The man with the varnished hat shrugged +his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in +doubt. He evidently had never heard of +the rue Falguière. “Yes, rue Falguière, +the old rue des Fourneaux,” I continued.</p> + +<p>Cabby’s face broke out into a smile. “Ah, +oui, oui, le Quartier Latin.”</p> + +<p>And it was at the end of this crooked +street, through a lane that led into a half +court flanked by a row of studio buildings, +and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that +I found a door bearing the name of the +author of the following pages—his visiting +card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves—the +thermometer stood at 90° outside—working +at his desk, surrounded by +half-finished sketches and manuscript.</p> + +<p>The man himself I had met before—I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">- 8 -</a></span> +had known him for years, in fact—but the +surroundings were new to me. So too were +his methods of work.</p> + +<p>Nowadays when a man would write of +the Siege of Peking or the relief of some +South African town with the unpronounceable +name, his habit is to rent a room on an +up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and +pad, and a collection of illustrated papers +and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue +Falguière chose a different plan. He would +come back year after year, and study his +subject and compile his impressions of the +Quarter in the very atmosphere of the +place itself; within a stone’s throw of the +Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; +near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, +if you please, to the public laundry where +his washerwoman pays a few sous for the +privilege of pounding his clothes into holes.</p> + +<p>It all seemed very real to me, as I sat +beside him and watched him at work. The +method delighted me. I have similar ideas +myself about the value of his kind of study +in out-door sketching, compared with the +labored work of the studio, and I have most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">- 9 -</a></span> +positive opinions regarding the quality +which comes of it.</p> + +<p>If then the pages which here follow have +in them any of the true inwardness of the +life they are meant to portray, it is due, I +feel sure, as much to the attitude of the +author toward his subject, as much to his +ability to seize, retain, and express these +instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures +caught on the spot, as to any other +merit which they may possess.</p> + +<p>Nothing can be made really <i>real</i> without +it.</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap rightfloat">F. Hopkinson Smith. </span><br /> +<span class="smfont"> Paris, August, 1901.</span><br /></p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> + +<!--[blank page]<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">- 10 -</a></span></p>--> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">- 11 -</a></span></p> +<br /> + +<div> +<img class="figleft" src="images/image008a.jpg" width="620" height="300" alt="(city rooftop scene)" title="" /> +<img class="figleft" src="images/image008b.jpg" width="294" height="212" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h2 class="chptrimg"><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I" href="#TOC1"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER I</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3 class="chptrimg">IN THE RUE VAUGIRARD</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Like a dry brook, +its cobblestone bed zigzagging past quaint +shops and cafés, the rue Vaugirard finds its +way through the heart of the Latin Quarter.</p> + +<p>It is only one in a score of other busy +little streets that intersect the Quartier +Latin; but as I live on the rue Vaugirard, +or rather just beside it, up an alley and in +the corner of a picturesque old courtyard +leading to the “Lavoir Gabriel,” a somewhat +angelic name for a huge, barn-like structure +reeking in suds and steam, and noisy +with gossiping washerwomen who pay a +few sous a day there for the privilege of +doing their washing—and as my studio windows<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">- 12 -</a></span> +(the big one with the north light, and +the other one a narrow slit reaching from the +floor to the high ceiling for the taking in +of the big canvases one sees at the Salon—which +are never sold) overlook both alley +and court, I can see the life and bustle below.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 278px;"> +<img src="images/image009.jpg" width="278" height="375" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">LAVOIR GABRIEL<br /><br /></span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">This is not the Paris</span> of Boulevards, +ablaze with light and thronged with travelers +of the world, nor of big hotels and chic +restaurants without prices on the ménus. +In the latter the maître d’hôtel makes a +mental inventory of you when you arrive; +and before you have reached your coffee +and cigar, or before madame has buttoned +her gloves, this well-shaved, dignified personage +has passed sentence on you, and you pay according +to whatever he thinks you cannot afford. I +knew a fellow once who ordered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">- 13 -</a></span> +a peach in winter at one of these +smart taverns, and was obliged to wire +home for money the next day.</p> + +<p>In the Quartier Latin the price is always +such an important factor that it is marked +plainly, and often the garçon will remind +you of the cost of the dish you select in +case you have not read aright, for in this +true Bohemia one’s daily fortune is the one +necessity so often lacking that any error +in regard to its expenditure is a serious +matter.</p> + +<p>In one of the well-known restaurants—here +celebrated as a rendezvous for artists—a +waiter, as he took a certain millionaire’s +order for asparagus, said: “Does monsieur +know that asparagus costs five francs?”</p> + +<p>At all times of the day and most of the +night the rue Vaugirard is busy. During +the morning, push-carts loaded with red +gooseberries, green peas, fresh sardines, +and mackerel, their sides shining like silver, +line the curb in front of the small +shops. Diminutive donkeys, harnessed to +picturesque two-wheeled carts piled high +with vegetables, twitch their long ears and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">- 14 -</a></span> +doze in the shady corners of the street. +The gutters, flushed with clear water, flash +in the sunlight. Baskets full of red roses +and white carnations, at a few sous the +armful, brighten the cool shade of the alleys +leading to courtyards of wild gardens, many +of which are filled with odd collections of +sculpture discarded from the ateliers.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image010.jpg" width="450" height="383" alt="(donkey cart in front of market)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Old women in linen caps and girls in felt +slippers and leather-covered sabots, market +baskets on arm, gossip in groups or hurry +along the narrow sidewalk, stopping at the +butcher’s or the baker’s to buy the déjeuner. +Should you breakfast in your studio and do<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">- 15 -</a></span> +your own marketing, you will meet with +enough politeness in the buying of a paté, +an artichoke, and a bottle of vin ordinaire, +to supply a court welcoming a distinguished +guest.</p> + +<p>Politeness is second nature to the Parisian—it +is the key to one’s daily life here, +the oil that makes this finesse of civilization +run smoothly.</p> + +<p>“Bonjour, madame!” says the well-to-do +proprietor of the tobacco-shop and café to +an old woman buying a sou’s worth of snuff.</p> + +<p>“Bonjour, monsieur,” replies the woman +with a nod.</p> + +<p>“Merci, madame,” continues the fat patron +as he drops the sou into his till.</p> + +<p>“Merci, monsieur—merci!” and she secretes +the package in her netted reticule, +and hobbles out into the sunny street, while +the patron attends to the wants of three +draymen who have clambered down from +their heavy carts for a friendly chat and a +little vermouth. A polished zinc bar runs +the length of the low-ceilinged room; a narrow, +winding stairway in one corner leads +to the living apartments above. Behind the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">- 16 -</a></span> +bar shine three well-polished square mirrors, +and ranged in front of these, each in +its zinc rack, are the favorite beverages of +the Quarter—anisette, absinthe, menthe, +grenadine—each in zinc-stoppered bottles, +like the ones in the barber-shops.</p> + +<p>At the end of the little bar a cocher is +having his morning tipple, the black brim of +his yellow glazed hat resting on his coarse +red ears. He is in his shirt-sleeves; coat +slung over his shoulder, and whip in hand, +he is on the way to get his horse and +voiture for the day. To be even a cocher +in Paris is considered a profession. If he +dines at six-thirty and you hail him to take +you as he rattles past, he will make his +brief apologies to you without slackening +his pace, and go on to his plat du jour and +bottle of wine at his favorite rendezvous, +dedicated to “The Faithful Cocher.” An +hour later he emerges, well fed, revives his +knee-sprung horse, lights a fresh cigarette, +cracks his whip like a package of torpedoes, +and goes clattering off in search of a customer.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image011.jpg" width="343" height="450" alt="(rooftop)" title="" /> +</div> + +<!--[image 11]<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">- 17 -</a></p>--> + +<p><span class="nowrap">The shops along the</span> rue Vaugirard are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">- 18 -</a></span> +marvels of neatness. The butcher-shop, +with its red front, is iron-barred like the +lion’s cage in the circus. Inside the cage +are some choice specimens of filets, rounds +of beef, death-masks of departed calves, +cutlets, and chops in paper pantalettes. +On each article is placed a brass sign with +the current price thereon.</p> + +<p>In Paris nothing is wasted. A placard +outside the butcher’s announces an “Occasion” +consisting of a mule and a donkey, +both of guaranteed “première +qualité.” And the butcher! A thick-set, +powerfully built fellow, with blue-black +hair, curly like a bull’s and shining in +pomade, with fierce mustache of the +same dye, waxed to two formidable +points like skewers. Dangling over his +white apron, and suspended by a heavy +chain about his waist, he carries the long +steel spike which sharpens his knives. All +this paraphernalia gives him a very fierce +appearance, like the executioner in the +play; but you will find him a mild, kindly +man after all, who takes his absinthe +slowly, with a fund of good humor after<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">- 19 -</a></span> +his day’s work, and his family to Vincennes +on Sundays.</p> + +<p>The windows, too, of these little shops +are studies in decoration. If it happens to +be a problem in eggs, cheese, butter, and +milk, all these are arranged artistically with +fresh grape-leaves between the white rows +of milk bottles and under the cheese; often +the leaves form a nest for the white eggs +(the fresh ones)—the hard-boiled ones are +dyed a bright crimson. There are china +hearts, too, filled with “Double Cream,” +and cream in little brown pots; Roquefort +cheese and Camembert, Isijny, and Pont +Levéque, and chopped spinach.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image012.jpg" width="478" height="450" alt="(overloaded cart of baskets)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Delicatessen shops display galantines of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">- 20 -</a></span> +chicken, the windows banked with shining +cans of sardines and herrings from Dieppe; +liver patés and creations in jelly; tiny sausages +of doubtful stuffing, and occasional +yellow ones like the odd fire-cracker of the +pack.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image013.jpg" width="500" height="450" alt="(women at news stand)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Grocery shops, their interiors resembling +the toy ones of our childhood, are +brightened with cones of snowy sugar in +blue paper jackets. The wooden drawers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">- 21 -</a></span> +filled with spices. Here, too, one can get +an excellent light wine for eight sous the +bottle.</p> + +<p>As the day begins, the early morning cries +drift up from the street. At six the fishwomen +with their push-carts go their +rounds, each singing the beauties of her +wares. “Voilà les beaux maquereaux!” +chants the sturdy vendor, her sabots clacking +over the cobbles as she pushes the cart +or stops and weighs a few sous’ worth of +fish to a passing purchaser.</p> + +<p>The goat-boy, piping his oboe-like air, +passes, the goats scrambling ahead alert +to steal a carrot or a bite of cabbage from +the nearest cart. And when these have +passed, the little orgue de Barbarie plays +its repertoire of quadrilles and waltzes +under your window. It is a very sweet-toned +organ, this little orgue de Barbarie, +with a plaintive, apologetic tone, and a flute +obbligato that would do credit to many a +small orchestra. I know this small organ +well—an old friend on dreary mornings, +putting the laziest riser in a good humor +for the day. The tunes are never changed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">- 22 -</a></span> +but they are all inoffensive and many of +them pretty, and to the shrunken old man +who grinds them out daily they are no +doubt by this time all alike.</p> + +<div class="figright"> +<img src="images/image014.jpg" width="246" height="325" alt="(cat on counter)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">It is growing late</span> and time for one’s +coffee. The little tobacco-shop and café +around the corner I find an excellent place +for café au lait. The coffee is delicious and +made when one chooses to arrive, not +stewed like soup, iridescent in color, and +bitter with chicory, as one finds it in many +of the small French hotels. Two crescents, +flaky and hot from the bakery next door, +and three generous pats of unsalted butter, +complete this morning repast, and all for +the modest sum of twelve sous, with three +sous to the garçon who serves you, with +which he is well pleased.</p> + +<p>I have forgotten a +companionable cat who +each morning takes her +seat on the long leather +settee beside me and +shares my crescents. +The cats are considered +important members of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">- 23 -</a></span> +nearly every family in the Quarter. Big +yellow and gray Angoras, small, alert tortoise-shell +ones, tiger-like and of plainer +breed and more intelligence, bask in the +doorways or sleep on the marble-topped +tables of the cafés.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image015.jpg" width="239" height="450" alt="(woman carrying shopping box)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">“Qu’est-ce que tu</span> veux, ma pauvre +Mimi?” condoles Céleste, as she approaches +the family feline.</p> + +<p>“Mimi” stretches her full length, extending +and retracting her claws, rolls on her +back, turns her big yellow eyes to Céleste +and mews. The next moment she is picked +up and carried back into the house like a +stray child.</p> + +<p>At noon the streets seem deserted, except +for the sound of occasional laughter and the +rattle of dishes coming from the smaller +restaurants as one passes. At this hour +these places are full of workmen in white +and blue blouses, and young girls from the +neighboring factories. They are all laughing +and talking together. A big fellow in a +blue gingham blouse attempts to kiss the +little milliner opposite him at table; she +evades him, and, screaming with laughter, +<!--[image 15]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">- 24 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">- 25 -</a></span>picks +up her skirts and darts out of the +restaurant and down the street, the big fellow +close on her dainty heels. A second +later he has overtaken her, and picking her +up bodily in his strong arms carries her +back to her seat, where he places her in +her chair, the little milliner by this time +quite out of breath with laughter and quite +happy. This little episode affords plenty of +amusement to the rest of the crowd; they +wildly applaud the good-humored captor, +who orders another litre of red wine for +those present, and every one is merry.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image016.jpg" width="546" height="460" alt="(city house)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>The Parisian takes his hour for <span +title=" déjeûner " class="hoverbox">déjeuner</span>, +no matter what awaits him. It is the hour +when lovers meet, too. Edmond, working +in the atelier for the reproduction of Louis +XVI furniture, meets Louise coming from +her work on babies’ caps in the rue des +<span title=" Saints-Péres " class="hoverbox">Saints-Pères</span> at +precisely twelve-ten on +the corner of the rue Vaugirard and the +Boulevard Montparnasse. Louise comes +without her hat, her hair in an adorable +coiffure, as neatly arranged as a Geisha’s, +her skirt held tightly to her hips, disclosing +her small feet in low slippers. There is a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">- 26 -</a></span> +golden rule, I believe, in the French catechism +which says: “It is better, child, that +thy hair be neatly dressed than that thou +shouldst have a whole frock.” And so +Louise is content. The two breakfast on +a ragoût and a bottle of wine while they +talk of going on Sunday to St. Cloud for +the day—and so they must be economical +this week. Yes, they will surely go to St. +Cloud and spend all day in the woods. It +is the second Sunday in the month, and the +fountains will be playing. They will take +their déjeuner with them. Louise will, of +course, see to this, and Edmond will bring +cigarettes enough for two, and the wine.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">- 27 -</a></span> +Then, when the stars are out, they will +take one of the “bateaux mouches” back +to Paris.</p> + +<p>Dear Paris—the Paris of youth, of love, +and of romance!</p> + +<hr class="hr33" /> + +<p>The pulse of the Quarter begins really to +beat at 6 <span class="smfont">P.M.</span> At this hour the streets +are alive with throngs of workmen—after +their day’s work, seeking their favorite +cafés to enjoy their apéritifs with their +comrades—and women hurrying back from +their work, many to their homes and children, +buying the dinner en route.</p> + +<p>Henriette, who sews all day at one of the +fashionable dressmakers’ in the rue de la +Paix, trips along over the Pont Neuf to her +small room in the Quarter to put on her +best dress and white kid slippers, for it is +Bullier night and she is going to the ball +with two friends of her cousin.</p> + +<p>In the twilight, and from my studio window +the swallows, like black cinders against +the yellow sky, dart and swoop above the +forest of chimney-pots and tiled and gabled +roofs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">- 28 -</a></span></p> + +<p>It is the hour to dine, and with this +thought uppermost in every one’s mind +studio doors are slammed and night-keys +tucked in pockets. And arm in arm the +poet and the artist swing along to that +evening Mecca of good Bohemians—the +Boulevard St. Michel.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image017.jpg" width="350" height="242" alt="(basket of flowers)" title="" /> +</div> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">- 29 -</a></p> +<br /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II" href="#TOC2"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER II</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3>THE BOULEVARD ST. MICHEL</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<div> +<img class="figleft" src="images/image018a.jpg" width="140" height="144" alt="F" title="" /> +<img class="figleft" src="images/image018b.jpg" width="50" height="105" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="dropcap"><span class="frstltr">F</span>ROM the Place St. +Michel, this ever gay and crowded boulevard ascends a long +incline, up which the tired horses tug at the traces of the fiacres, +and the big double-decked steam trams crawl, until +they reach the Luxembourg Gardens,—and +so on a level road as far as the +Place de l’Observatoire. Within this +length lies the life of the “Boul’ +Miche.”</p> + +<p>Nearly every highway has its popular +side, and on the “Boul’ Miche” it is the +left one, coming up from the Seine. Here +are the cafés, and from 5 <span class="smfont">P.M.</span> until long +past midnight, the life of the Quartier pours<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">- 30 -</a></span> +by them—students, soldiers, families, poets, +artists, sculptors, wives, and sweethearts; +bicycle girls, the modern grisette, the shop +girl, and the model; fakirs, beggars, and +vagrants. Yet the word vagrant is a misnomer +in this city, where economy has +reached a finesse that is marvelous. That +fellow, in filth and rags, shuffling along, his +eyes scrutinizing, like a hungry rat, every +nook and corner under the café tables on +the terrace, carries a stick spiked with a +pin. The next instant, he has raked the +butt of your discarded cigarette from beneath +your feet with the dexterity of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">- 31 -</a></span> +croupier. The butt he adds to the collection +in his filthy pocket, and shuffles on to +the next café. It will go so far at least +toward paying for his absinthe. He is +hungry, but it is the absinthe for which +he is working. He is a “marchand de +mégots”; it is his profession.</p> + +<table class="img" border="0" cellpadding="10" summary="caption"> + <tr> + <td class="caption">TERRACE<br />TAVERNE<br />DU<br />PANTHÉON</td> + <td align="right"><img src="images/image019.jpg" width="438" height="450" alt="" title="" /></td> + </tr> +</table> + +<p>One finds every type of restaurant, tavern, +and café along the “Boul’ Miche.” There +are small restaurants whose plat du jour +might be traced to some faithful steed finding +a final oblivion in a brown sauce and +onions—an important item in a course dinner, +to be had with wine included for one +franc fifty. There are brasseries too, +gloomy by day and brilliant by night (dispensing +good Munich beer in two shades, +and German and French food), whose rich +interiors in carved black oak, imitation +gobelin, and stained glass are never half +illumined until the lights are lit.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 271px;"> +<img src="images/image020.jpg" width="271" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A “TYPE”<br /><br /> +</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">All day, when the</span> sun blazes, and the +awnings are down, sheltering those chatting +on the terrace, the interiors of these +brasseries appear dark and cavernous.</p> + +<!--[image 20]<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">- 32 -</a></p>--> + +<p>The clientèle is somber too, and in keeping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">- 33 -</a></span> +with the place; silent poets, long haired, +pale, and always writing; serious-minded +lawyers, lunching alone, and fat merchants +who eat and drink methodically.</p> + +<p>Then there are bizarre cafés, like the +d’Harcourt, crowded at night with noisy +women tawdry in ostrich plumes, cheap +feather boas, and much rouge. The d’Harcourt +at midnight is ablaze with light, but +the crowd is common and you move on up +the boulevard under the trees, past the +shops full of Quartier fashions—velvet +coats, with standing collars buttoning close +under the chin; flamboyant black silk +scarfs tied in a huge bow; queer broad-brimmed, +black hats without which no +“types” wardrobe is complete.</p> + +<p>On the corner facing the square, and opposite +the Luxembourg gate, is the Taverne +du Panthéon. This is the most brilliant +café and restaurant of the Quarter, +forming a V with its long terrace, at the +corner of the boulevard and the rue Soufflot, +at the head of which towers the superb +dome of the Panthéon.</p> + +<!--[image 21]<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">- 34 -</a></p>--> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image021.jpg" width="620" height="467" alt="(view of Panthéon from Luxembourg gate)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>It is 6 <span class="smfont">P.M.</span> and the terrace, four rows +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">- 35 -</a></span> +deep with little round tables, is rapidly filling. +The white-aproned garçons are hurrying +about or squeezing past your table, as +they take the various orders.</p> + +<p>“Un demi! un!” shouts the garçon.</p> + +<p>“Deux pernod nature, deux!” cries another, +and presently the “Omnibus” in his +black apron hurries to your table, holding +between his knuckles, by their necks, half a +dozen bottles of different apéritifs, for it is +he who fills your glass.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 507px;"> +<img src="images/image022.jpg" width="507" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">ALONG THE “BOUL’ MICHE”</span> +</div> + +<p>It is the custom to do most of one’s correspondence +in these cafés. The garçon brings +you a portfolio containing note-paper, a bottle +of violet ink, an impossible pen that spatters, +and a sheet of pink blotting-paper that +does not absorb. With these and your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">- 36 -</a></span> +<span title=" apératif " class="hoverbox">apéritif</span>, +the place is yours as long as you +choose to remain. No one will ask you to +“move on” or pay the slightest attention +to you.</p> + +<p>Should you happen to be a cannibal chief +from the South Seas, and dine in a green +silk high hat and a necklace of your latest +captive’s teeth, you would occasion a passing +glance perhaps, but you would not be a +sensation.</p> + +<div class="figright"> +<img src="images/image023.jpg" width="188" height="350" alt="(hotel sign)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">Céleste would say</span> to Henriette:</p> + +<p>“Regarde ça, Henriette! est-il drôle, ce +sauvage?”</p> + +<p>And Henriette would reply quite assuringly:</p> + +<p>“Eh bien quoi! c’est pas si extraordinaire, +il est peut-être de Madagascar; il y +en a beaucoup à Paris maintenant.”</p> + +<p>There is no phase of character, or eccentricity +of dress, that Paris has not seen.</p> + +<p>Nor will your waiter polish off the marble +top of your table, with the hope that your +ordinary sensibility will suggest another +drink. It would be beneath his professional +dignity as a good garçon de café. The two +sous you have given him as a pourboire, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">- 37 -</a></span> +is well satisfied with, and expresses his contentment +in a “merci, monsieur, merci,” +the final syllable ending in a little hiss, +prolonged in proportion to his satisfaction. +After this just formality, you will find him +ready to see the point of a joke or discuss +the current topics of the day. He is intelligent, +independent, very polite, but never +servile.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image024.jpg" width="400" height="361" alt="(woman walking near fountain)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">It is difficult now</span> to find a vacant chair on the long +terrace. A group of students are having a +“Pernod,” after a long day’s work at +the atelier. They finish their absinthe and then, arm +in arm, start off to Madame Poivret’s for dinner. +It is cheap there; besides, the little “<span +title=" boite " class="hoverbox">boîte</span>,” +with its dingy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">- 38 -</a></span> +room and sawdust floor, is a favorite haunt +of theirs, and the good old lady, with her +credit slate, a friendly refuge in time of +need.</p> + +<p>At your left sits a girl in bicycle bloomers, +yellow-tanned shoes, and short black socks +pulled up snug to her sunburned calves. +She has just ridden in from the Bois de +Boulogne, and has scorched half the way +back to meet her “officier” in pale blue. +The two are deep in conversation. Farther +on are four older men, accompanied by a +pale, sweet-faced woman of thirty, her blue-black +hair brought in a bandeau over her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">- 39 -</a></span> +dainty ears. She is the model of the gray-haired +man on the left, a man of perhaps +fifty, with kindly intelligent eyes and strong, +nervous, expressive hands—hands that +know how to model a colossal Greek war-horse, +plunging in battle, or create a nymph +scarcely a foot high out of a lump of clay, so +charmingly that the French Government +has not only bought the nymph, but given +him a little red ribbon for his pains.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image025.jpg" width="515" height="450" alt="(omnibus)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>He is telling the others of a spot he knows +in Normandy, where one can paint—full of +quaint farm-houses, with thatched roofs; +picturesque roadsides, rich in foliage; bright +waving fields, and cool green woods, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">- 40 -</a></span> +purling streams; quaint gardens, choked +with lavender and roses and hollyhocks—and +all this fair land running to the white +sand of the beach, with the blue sea beyond. +He will write to old Père Jaqueline that +they are all coming—it is just the place in +which to pose a model “en plein air,”—and +Suzanne, his model, being a Normande herself, +grows enthusiastic at the thought of +going down again to the sea. Long before +she became a Parisienne, and when her +beautiful hair was a tangled shock of curls, +she used to go out in the big boats, with +the fisherwomen—barefooted, brown, and +happy. She tells them of those good +days, and then they all go into the Taverne +to dine, filled with the idea of the +new trip, and dreaming of dinners under +the trees, of “Tripes à la mode de Caen,” +Normandy cider, and a lot of new sketches +besides.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image026.jpg" width="350" height="450" alt="(shop front)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">Already the tables</span> within are well filled. +The long room, with its newer annex, is as +brilliant as a jewel box—the walls rich in +tiled panels suggesting the life of the Quarter, +the woodwork in gold and light oak, +<!--[image 26]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">- 41 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">- 42 -</a></span>the +big panels of the rich gold ceiling exquisitely +painted.</p> + +<p>At one of the tables two very chic young +women are dining with a young Frenchman, +his hair and dress in close imitation +of the Duc d’Orleans. These poses in +dress are not uncommon.</p> + +<p>A strikingly pretty woman, in a scarlet-spangled +gown as red as her lips, is dining +with a well-built, soldierly-looking man in +black; they sit side by side as is the custom +here.</p> + +<p>The woman reminds one of a red lizard—a +salamander—her “svelte” body seemingly +boneless in its gown of clinging scales. +Her hair is purple-black and freshly onduléd; +her skin as white as ivory. She has +the habit of throwing back her small, well-posed +head, while under their delicately +penciled lids her gray eyes take in the +room at a glance.</p> + +<p>She is not of the Quarter, but the Taverne +du Panthéon is a refuge for her at +times, when she grows tired of Paillard’s +and Maxim’s and her quarreling retinue.</p> + +<p>“Let them howl on the other bank of the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">- 43 -</a></span> +Seine,” says this empress of the half-world +to herself, “I dine with Raoul where I +please.”</p> + +<p>And now one glittering, red arm with its +small, heavily-jeweled hand glides toward +Raoul’s open cigarette case, and in withdrawing +a cigarette she presses for a +moment his big, strong hand as he holds +near her polished nails the flaming +match.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 590px;"> +<img src="images/image027.jpg" width="590" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">ALONG THE SEINE</span> +</div> + +<p>Her companion watches her as she +smokes and talks—now and then he leans +closer to her, squaring his broad shoulders +and bending lower his strong, determined +face, as he listens to her,—half-amused, +replying to her questions leisurely, in short,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">- 44 -</a></span> +crisp sentences. Suddenly she stamps +one little foot savagely under the table, +and, clenching her jeweled hands, breathes +heavily. She is trembling with rage; +the man at her side hunches his great +shoulders, flicks the ashes from his cigarette, +looks at her keenly for a moment, +and then smiles. In a moment she is herself +again, almost penitent; this little savage, +half Roumanian, half Russian, has +never known what it was to be ruled! She +has seen men grow white when she has +stamped her little foot, but this big Raoul, +whom she loves—who once held a garrison +with a handful of men—he does not tremble! +she loves him for his devil-me-care +indifference—and he enjoys her temper.</p> + +<p>But the salamander remembers there are +some whom she dominated, until they +groveled like slaves at her feet; even the +great Russian nobleman turned pale when +she dictated to him archly and with the +voice of an angel the price of his freedom.</p> + +<p>“Poor fool! he shot himself the next +day,” mused the salamander.</p> + +<p>Yes, and even the adamant old banker in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">- 45 -</a></span> +Paris, crabbed, stern, unrelenting to his +debtors—shivered in his boots and ended +in signing away half his fortune to her, +and moved his family into a permanent +chateau in the country, where he keeps +himself busy with his shooting and his +books.</p> + +<hr class="hr33" /> + +<p>As it grows late, the taverne becomes +more and more animated.</p> + +<p>Every one is talking and having a good +time. The room is bewildering in gay color, +the hum of conversation is everywhere, and +as there is a corresponding row of tables +across the low, narrow room, friendly greetings +and often conversations are kept up +from one side to the other. The dinner, as +it progresses, assumes the air of a big +family party of good bohemians. The +French do not bring their misery with +them to the table. To dine is to enjoy +oneself to the utmost; in fact the French +people cover their disappointment, sadness, +annoyances, great or petty troubles, +under a masque of “blague,” and have +such an innate dislike of sympathy or ridicule<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">- 46 -</a></span> +that they avoid it by turning everything +into “blague.”</p> + +<p>This veneer is misleading, for at heart +the French are sad. Not to speak of their +inmost feelings does not, on the other hand, +prevent them at times from being most +confidential. Often, the merest exchange +of courtesies between those sharing the +same compartment in a train, or a seat on +a “bus,” seems to be a sufficient introduction +for your neighbor to tell you where he +comes from, where he is going, whether he +is married or single, whom his daughter +married, and what regiment his son is in. +These little confidences often end in his +offering you half his bottle of wine and extending +to you his cigarettes.</p> + +<div> +<img class="figright" style="margin-bottom: -1em;" src="images/image028a.jpg" width="184" height="180" alt="" title="" /> +<img class="figright" style="margin-top: 1em;" src="images/image028b.jpg" width="306" height="259" alt="" title="" /> +<p class="figright" style="margin-right: 4em; padding-left: 3em; margin-bottom: .5em;"><span class="caption">LES BEAUX MAQUEREAUX</span></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">If you have</span> finished dinner, you go out on +the terrace for your coffee. The fakirs are +passing up and down in front, selling their +wares—little rabbits, wonderfully lifelike, +that can jump along your table and sit on +their hind legs, and wag their ears; toy +snakes; small leaden pigs for good luck; +and novelties of every description. Here +one sees women with baskets of écrivisse<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">- 47 -</a></span> +boiled scarlet; an acrobat tumbles on the +pavement, and two men and a girl, as a +marine, a soldier, and a vivandière, in silvered +faces and suits, pose in melodramatic +attitudes. The vivandière is rescued alternately +from a speedy death by the marine +and the soldier.</p> + +<p>Presently a little old woman approaches, shriveled and +smiling, in her faded furbelows now in rags. She sings +in a piping voice and executes between the verses a +tottering pas seul, her eyes ever smiling, as if she +still saw over +the glare of the footlights,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">- 48 -</a></span> +in the haze beyond, the vast audience +of by-gone days; smiling as if she still heard +the big orchestra and saw the leader with +his vibrant baton, watching her every movement. +She is over seventy now, and was +once a premier danseuse at the opera.</p> + +<p>But you have not seen all of the Taverne +du Panthéon yet. There is an “American +Bar” downstairs; at least, so the sign reads +at the top of a narrow stairway leading to a +small, tavern-like room, with a sawdust +floor, heavy deal tables, and wooden stools. +In front of the bar are high stools that +one climbs up on and has a lukewarm whisky +soda, next to Yvonne and Marcelle, who +are both singing the latest catch of the day +at the top of their lungs, until they are +howled at to keep still or are lifted bodily +off their high stools by the big fellow in the +“type” hat, who has just come in.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image029.jpg" width="620" height="393" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">MOTHER AND DAUGHTER</span> +</div> + +<p>Before a long table at one end of the room +is the crowd of American students singing +in a chorus. The table is full now, for many +have come from dinners at other cafés to +join them. At one end, and acting as interlocutor +for this impromptu minstrel show, +<!--[image 29]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">- 49 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">- 50 -</a></span>presides +one of the best fellows in the world. +He rises solemnly, his genial round face +wreathed in a subtle smile, and announces +that he will sing, by earnest request, that +popular ballad, “’Twas Summer and the +Little Birds were Singing in the Trees.”</p> + +<p>There are some especially fine “barber +chords” in this popular ditty, and the words +are so touching that it is repeated over and +over again. Then it is sung softly like the +farmhand quartettes do in the rural melodrama +outside the old homestead in harvest +time. Oh! I tell you it’s a truly rural octette. +Listen to that exhibition bass voice +of Jimmy Sands and that wandering tenor +of Tommy Whiteing, and as the last chord +dies away (over the fields presumably) a +shout goes up:</p> + +<p>“How’s that?”</p> + +<p>“Out of sight,” comes the general verdict +from the crowd, and bang go a dozen beer +glasses in unison on the heavy table.</p> + +<p>“Oh, que c’est beau!” cries Mimi, leading +the successful chorus in a new vocal +number with Edmond’s walking-stick; but +this time it is a French song and the whole<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">- 51 -</a></span> +room is singing it, including our old friend, +Monsieur Frank, the barkeeper, who is +mixing one of his famous concoctions which +are never twice quite alike, but are better +than if they were.</p> + +<p>The harmonic beauties of “’Twas Summer +and the Little Birds were Singing in +the Trees” are still inexhausted, but it +sadly needs a piano accompaniment—with +this it would be perfect; and so the whole +crowd, including Yvonne, and <span title=" Celeste " class="hoverbox">Céleste</span>, +and Marcelle, and the two Frenchmen, and the +girl in the bicycle clothes, start for Jack +Thompson’s studio in the rue des Fourneaux, +where there is a piano that, even if +the candles in the little Louis XVI brackets +do burn low and spill down the keys, and +the punch rusts the strings, it will still +retain that beautiful, rich tone that every +French upright, at seven francs a month, +possesses.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">- 52 -</a></p> +<br /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image030.jpg" width="600" height="436" alt="(Bullier)" title="" /> +</div> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III" href="#TOC3"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER III</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3>THE “BAL BULLIER”</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>There are all types of “bals” in Paris. +Over in Montmartre, on the Place Blanche, +is the well-known “Moulin Rouge,” a place +suggestive, to those who have never seen it, +of the quintessence of Parisian devil-me-care +<span title=" gayety " class="hoverbox">gaiety</span>. +You expect it to be like those +clever pen-and-ink drawings of Grevin’s, of +the old Jardin Mabille in its palmiest days, +brilliant with lights and beautiful women +extravagantly gowned and bejeweled. You<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">- 53 -</a></span> +expect to see Frenchmen, too, in pot-hats, +crowding in a circle about Fifine, who is +dancing some mad can-can, half hidden in +a swirl of point lace, her small, polished +boots alternately poised above her dainty +head. And when she has finished, you +expect her to be carried off to supper at +the Maison Dorée by the big, fierce-looking +Russian who has been watching her, +and whose victoria, with its spanking team—black +and glossy as satin—champing +their silver bits outside, awaiting her +pleasure.</p> + +<p>But in all these anticipations you will be +disappointed, for the famous Jardin Mabille +is no more, and the ground where it +once stood in the Champs Elysées is now +built up with private residences. Fifine is +gone, too—years ago—and most of the old +gentlemen in pot-hats who used to watch +her are buried or about to be. Few Frenchmen +ever go to the “Moulin Rouge,” but +every American does on his first night in +Paris, and emerges with enough cab fare +to return him to his hotel, where he arrives +with the positive conviction that the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">- 54 -</a></span> +red mill, with its slowly revolving sails, +lurid in crimson lights, was constructed +especially for him. He remembers, too, his +first impressions of Paris that very morning +as his train rolled into the Gare St. Lazare. +His aunt could wait until to-morrow +to see the tomb of Napoleon, but he would +see the “Moulin Rouge” first, and to be in +ample time ordered dinner early in his +expensive, morgue-like hotel.</p> + +<p>I remember once, a few hours after my +arrival in Paris, walking up the long hill to +the Place Blanche at 2 <span class="smfont">P.M.</span>, under a blazing +July sun, to see if they did not give a +matinée at the “Moulin Rouge.” The place +was closed, it is needless to say, and the +policeman I found pacing his beat outside, +when I asked him what day they gave a +matinée, put his thumbs in his sword belt, +looked at me quizzically for a moment, +and then roared. The “Moulin Rouge” is +in full blast every night; in the day-time it +is being aired.</p> + +<p>Farther up in Montmartre, up a steep, +cobbly hill, past quaint little shops and +cafés, the hill becoming so steep that your +<!--[image 31]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">- 55 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">- 56 -</a></span>cab +horse finally refuses to climb further, +and you get out and walk up to the +“Moulin de la Galette.” You find it a far +different type of ball from the “Moulin +Rouge,” for it is not made for the stranger, +and its clientèle is composed of the rougher +element of that quarter.</p> + +<div class="figright"> +<img src="images/image031.jpg" width="312" height="450" alt="(street scene)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">A few years ago</span> the “Galette” was not +the safest of places for a stranger to go to +alone. Since then, however, this ancient +granary and mill, that has served as a ball-room +for so many years, has undergone a +radical change in management; but it is +still a cliquey place, full of a lot of habitués +who regard a stranger as an intruder. +Should you by accident step on Marcelle’s +dress or jostle her villainous-looking escort, +you will be apt to get into a row, beginning +with a mode of attack you are possibly +ignorant of, for these “maquereaux” fight +with their feet, having developed this “manly +art” of self-defense to a point of dexterity +more to be evaded than admired. And while +Marcelle’s escort, with a swinging kick, +smashes your nose with his heel, his pals will +take the opportunity to kick you in the back.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">- 57 -</a></span></p> + +<p>So, if you go to the “Galette,” go with +<span title=" a a " class="hoverbox">a</span> +Parisian or some of the students of the +Quarter; but if you must go alone—keep +your eyes on the band. It is a good band, +too, and its chef d’orchestre, besides being +a clever musical director, is a popular composer +as well.</p> + +<p>Go out from the ball-room into the tiny +garden and up the ladder-like stairs to the +rock above, crowned with the old windmill, +and look over the iron railing. Far below +you, swimming in a faint mist under the +summer stars, all Paris lies glittering at +your feet.</p> + +<hr class="hr33" /> + +<p>You will find the “Bal Bullier” of the +Latin Quarter far different from the “bals” +of Montmartre. It forms, with its “grand +fête” on Thursday nights, a sort of social +event of the week in this Quarter of Bohemians, +just as the Friday afternoon promenade +does in the Luxembourg garden.</p> + +<p>If you dine at the Taverne du Panthéon +on a Thursday night you will find that the +taverne is half deserted by 10 o’clock, and +that every one is leaving and walking up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">- 58 -</a></span> +the “Boul’ Miche” toward the “Bullier.” +Follow them, and as you reach the place +l’Observatoire, and turn a sharp corner to +the left, you will see the façade of this +famous ball, illumined by a sizzling blue +electric light over the entrance.</p> + +<p>The façade, with its colored bas-reliefs of +students and grisettes, reminds one of the +proscenium of a toy theater. Back of this +shallow wall bristle the tops of the trees in +the garden adjoining the big ball-room, both +of which are below the level of the street +and are reached by a broad wooden stairway.</p> + +<p>The “Bal Bullier” was founded in 1847; +previous to this there existed the “Closerie +des Lilas” on the Boulevard Montparnasse. +You pass along with the line of waiting +poets and artists, buy a green ticket for +two francs at the little cubby-hole of a box-office, +are divested of your stick by one of +half a dozen white-capped matrons at the +vestiaire, hand your ticket to an elderly +gentleman in a silk hat and funereal clothes, +at the top of the stairway sentineled by a +guard of two soldiers, and the next instant +you see the ball in full swing below you.</p> +<!--[image 32]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">- 59 -</a></span>--> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image032.jpg" width="292" height="450" alt="(portrait of man)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">- 60 -</a></span> +<span class="nowrap">There is nothing</span> disappointing about the +“Bal Bullier.” It is all you expected it to +be, and more, too. Below you is a veritable +whirlpool of girls and students—a vast sea +of heads, and a dazzling display of colors +and lights and animation. Little shrieks +and screams fill your ears, as the orchestra +crashes into the last page of a galop, quickening +the pace until Yvonne’s little feet slip +and her cheeks glow, and her eyes grow +bright, and half her pretty golden hair gets +smashed over her impudent little nose. +Then the galop is brought up with a quick +finish.</p> + +<p>“Bis! Bis! Bis! Encore!” comes from +every quarter of the big room, and the conductor, +with his traditional good-nature, +begins again. He knows it is wiser to +humor them, and off they go again, still +faster, until all are out of breath and rush +into the garden for a breath of cool air and +a “citron <span title=" glaçé " +class="hoverbox">glacé</span>.”</p> + +<p>And what a pretty garden it is!—full of +beautiful trees and dotted with round iron +tables, and laid out in white gravel walks, +the garden sloping gently back to a fountain,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">- 61 -</a></span> +and a grotto and an artificial +cascade all in one, with a +figure of Venus in the center, +over which the water +splashes and trickles. There +is a green lattice proscenium, +too, surrounding the fountain, +illuminated with colored +lights and outlined in tiny flames of gas, +and grotto-like alcoves circling the garden, +each with a table and room for two. The +ball-room from the garden presents a brilliant +contrast, as one looks down upon it +from under the trees.</p> + +<div class="figright"> +<img src="images/image033.jpg" width="156" height="225" alt="(portrait of woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">But the orchestra</span> has given its signal—a +short bugle call announcing a quadrille; +and those in the garden are running down +into the ball-room to hunt up their partners.</p> + +<p>The “Bullier” orchestra will interest you; +they play with a snap and fire and a tempo +that is irresistible. They have played together +so long that they have become known +as the best of all the bal orchestras.</p> + +<p>The leader, too, is interesting—tall and +gaunt, with wild, deep-sunken eyes resembling +those of an old eagle. Now and then +<!--[image 34]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">- 62 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">- 63 -</a></span>he +turns his head slowly as he leads, and +rests these keen, penetrating orbs on the +sea of dancers below him. Then, with baton +raised above his head, he brings his orchestra +into the wild finale of the quadrille—piccolos +and clarinets, cymbals, bass viols, +and violins—all in one mad race to the end, +but so well trained that not a note is lost in +the scramble—and they finish under the +wire to a man, amid cheers from Mimi and +<span title=" Celeste " class="hoverbox">Céleste</span> +and “encores” and “bis’s” from +every one else who has breath enough left +to shout with.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 336px;"> +<img src="images/image034.jpg" width="336" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A TYPE OF THE QUARTER<br /> +By Helleu.—Estampe Moderne</span> +</div> + +<p>Often after an annual dinner of one of the +ateliers, the entire body of students will +march into the “Bullier,” three hundred +strong, and take a good-natured possession +of the place. There have been some serious +demonstrations in the Quarter by the +students, who can form a small army when +combined. But as a rule you will find them +a good-natured lot of fellows, who are out +for all the humor and fun they can create at +the least expense.</p> + +<p>But in June, 1893, a serious demonstration +by the students occurred, for these students<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">- 64 -</a></span> +can fight as well as dance. Senator +Beranger, having read one morning in the +“Courrier Français” an account of the +revelry and nudity of several of the best-known +models of the Quarter at the “<span title=" Quatz " class="hoverbox">Quat’z’</span> +Arts” ball, brought a charge against the +organizers of the ball, and several of the +models, whose beauty unadorned had made +them conspicuous on this most festive occasion. +At the ensuing trial, several celebrated +beauties and idols of the Latin +Quarter were convicted and sentenced to +a short term of imprisonment, and fined a +hundred francs each. These sentences were, +however, remitted, but the majority of the +students would not have it thus, and wanted +further satisfaction. A mass meeting was +held by them in the Place de la Sorbonne. +The police were in force there to stop any +disturbance, and up to 10 o’clock at night +the crowd was held in control.</p> + +<div class="figright"> +<img src="images/image035.jpg" width="277" height="450" alt="(portrait of woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">It was a warm June</span> night, and every student +in the Quarter was keyed to a high +state of excitement. Finally a great crowd +of students formed in front of the Café +d’Harcourt, opposite the Sorbonne; things +<!--[image 35]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">- 65 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">- 66 -</a></span>were +at fever heat; the police became +rough; and in the row that ensued, somebody +hurled one of the heavy stone match-safes +from a café table at one of the policemen, +who in his excitement picked it up +and hurled it back into the crowd. It struck +and injured fatally an innocent outsider, who +was taken to the Charity Hospital, in the +rue Jacob, and died there.</p> + +<p>On the following Monday another mass +meeting of students was held in the Place de +la Sorbonne, who, after the meeting, formed +in a body and marched to the Chamber of +Deputies, crying: “Conspuez Dupuy,” who +was then president of the Chamber. A +number of deputies came out on the portico +and the terrace, and smilingly reviewed the +demonstration, while the students hurled +their anathemas at them, the leaders and +men in the front rank of this howling mob +trying to climb over the high railing in front +of the terrace, and shouting that the police +were responsible for the death of one of +their comrades.</p> + +<p>The Government, fearing further trouble +and wishing to avoid any disturbance on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">- 67 -</a></span> +the day of the funeral of the victim of the +riot in the Place Sorbonne, deceived the +public as to the hour when it would occur. +This exasperated the students so that they +began one of those demonstrations for +which Paris is famous. By 3 <span class="smfont">P.M.</span> the next +day the Quartier Latin was in a state of +siege—these poets and painters and sculptors +and musicians tore up the rue Jacob +and constructed barricades near the hospital +where their comrade had died. They +tore up the rue Bonaparte, too, at the Place +St. Germain des <span title=" Près " class="hoverbox">Prés</span>, +and built barricades, +composed of overturned omnibuses and +tramcars and newspaper booths. They +smashed windows and everything else in +sight, to get even with the Government and +the smiling deputies and the murderous +police—and then the troops came, and the +affair took a different turn. In three days +thirty thousand troops were in Paris—principally +cavalry, many of the regiments +coming from as far away as the center of +France.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image036.jpg" width="620" height="396" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">ÉCOLE DES BEAUX ARTS</span> +</div> + +<p>With these and the police and the Garde +Républicaine against them, the students +<!--[image 36]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">- 68 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">- 69 -</a></span>melted +away like a handful of snow in the +sun; but the demonstrations continued spasmodically +for two or three days longer, and +the little crooked streets, like the rue du +Four, were kept clear by the cavalry trotting +abreast—in and out and dodging +around corners—their black horse-tail +plumes waving and helmets shining. It +is sufficient to say that the vast army of +artists and poets were routed to a man and +driven back into the more peaceful atmosphere +of their studios.</p> + +<p>But the “Bullier” is closing and the +crowd is pouring out into the cool air. I +catch a glimpse of Yvonne with six students +all in one fiacre, but Yvonne has been +given the most comfortable place. They +have put her in the hood, and the next +instant they are rattling away to the Panthéon +for supper.</p> + +<p>If you walk down with the rest, you will +pass dozens of jolly groups singing and +romping and dancing along down the +“Boul’ Miche” to the taverne, for a bock +and some écrivisse. With youth, good humor, +and a “louis,” all the world seems gay!</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">- 70 -</a></p> +<br /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV" href="#TOC4"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER IV</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3>BAL DES QUAT’Z’ ARTS</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Of all the balls in Paris, the annual “Bal +des Quat’z’ Arts” stands unique. This +costume ball is given every year, in the +spring, by the students of the different ateliers, +each atelier vying with the others in +creation of the various floats and cortéges, +and in the artistic effect and historical correctness +of the costumes.</p> + +<p>The first “Quat’z’ Arts” ball was given +in 1892. It was a primitive affair, compared +with the later ones, but it was a success, +and immediately the “Quat’z’ Arts” Ball +was put into the hands of clever organizers, +and became a studied event in all its artistic +sense. Months are spent in the creation +of spectacles and in the costuming of +students and models. Prizes are given for +the most successful organizations, and a +jury composed of painters and sculptors +passes upon your costume as you enter the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">- 71 -</a></span> +ball, and if you do not come up to their artistic +standard you are unceremoniously turned away. Students who +have been successful in getting into the +“Quat’z’ Arts” for years +often fail to pass into this +bewildering display of beauty and +brains, owing to their costume +not possessing enough artistic originality +or merit to pass the jury.</p> + +<div> +<img class="figright" src="images/image037a.jpg" width="313" height="180" alt="(coiffeur sign)" title="" /> +<img class="figright" src="images/image037b.jpg" width="258" height="140" alt="" title="" /> +<img class="figright" src="images/image037c.jpg" width="166" height="80" alt="" title="" /> +<img class="figright" src="images/image037d.jpg" width="63" height="39" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">It is, of</span> course, a difficult matter for one +who is not an enrolled member of one of the +great ateliers of painting, architecture, or +sculpture to get into the “Quat’z’ Arts,” +and even after one’s ticket is assured, you +may fail to pass the jury.</p> + +<p>Imagine this ball, with its procession of +moving tableaux. A huge float comes +along, depicting the stone age and the +primitive man, every detail carefully studied +from the museums. Another represents<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">- 72 -</a></span> +the last day of Babylon. One sees +a nude captive, her golden hair and white +flesh in contrast with the black velvet litter +on which she is bound, being carried by a +dozen stalwart blackamoors, followed by +camels bearing nude slaves and the spoils +of a captured city.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 263px; margin-top: 1em;"><!--Firefox pad--> +<img src="images/image038.jpg" width="263" height="350" alt="(photograph of woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">As the ball continues</span> until daylight, it +resembles a bacchanalian fête in the days +of the Romans. But all through it, one is +impressed by its artistic completeness, its +studied splendor, and permissible license, +so long as a costume (or the lack of it) produces +an artistic result. One sees the mise +en scène of a barbaric court produced by +the architects of an atelier, all the various +details constructed from carefully studied +sketches, with maybe a triumphal +throne of some barbaric king, with his +slaves, the whole costumed and done +in a studied magnificence +that takes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">- 73 -</a></span> +one’s breath away. Again an atelier of +painters may reproduce the frieze of the +Parthenon in color; another a float or a +decoration, suggesting the works of their +master.</p> + +<p>The room becomes a thing of splendor, +for it is as gorgeous a spectacle as the +cleverest of the painters, sculptors, and +architects can make it, and is the result of +careful study—and all for the love of it!—for +the great “Quat’z’ Arts” ball is an +event looked forward to for months. Special +instructions are issued to the different +ateliers while the ball is in preparation, and +the following one is a translation in part +from the notice issued before the great ball +of ’99. As this is a special and private +notice to the atelier, its contents may be +interesting:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="right" style="margin-right: 2em;"> +<span class="smcap">Bal des Quat’z’ Arts</span>, <br /> +Moulin Rouge, 21 April, 1899. +</p> + +<p>Doors open at 10 <span class="smfont">P.M.</span> and closed at midnight.</p> + +<p>The card of admission is absolutely personal, +to be taken by the committee before +the opening of the ball.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image039.jpg" width="600" height="300" alt="(admission card)" title="" /> +</div> + +<!--[image 39]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">- 74 -</a></span>--> + +<p>The committee will be masked, and comrades +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">- 75 -</a></span> +without their personal card will be +refused at the door. The cards must carry +the name and quality of the artist, and bear +the stamp of his atelier.</p> + +<p>Costumes are absolutely necessary. The +soldier—the dress suit, black or in color—the +monk—the blouse—the domino—kitchen +boy—loafer—bicyclist, and other nauseous +types, are absolutely prohibited.</p> + +<p>Should the weather be bad, comrades are +asked to wait in their carriages, as the +committee in control cannot, under any +pretext, neglect guarding the artistic effect +of the ball during any confusion that might +ensue.</p> + +<p>A great “feed” will take place in the +grand hall; the buffet will serve as usual +individual suppers and baskets for two +persons.</p> + +<p>The committee wish especially to bring +the attention of their comrades to the question +of women, whose cards of admission +must be delivered as soon as possible, so +as to enlarge their attendance—always +insufficient.</p> + +<p>Prizes (champagne) will be distributed to +the ateliers who may distinguish themselves +by the artistic merit and beauty of +their female display.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image040.jpg" width="307" height="450" alt="(photograph of woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<!--[image 40]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">- 76 -</a></span>--> + +<p>All the women who compete for these +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">- 77 -</a></span> +prizes will be assembled on the grand staircase +before the orchestra. The nude, as +always, is <span class="smfont">PROHIBITED</span>!?!</p> + +<p>The question of music at the head of the +procession is of the greatest importance, +and those comrades who are musical will +please give their names to the delegates of +the ateliers. Your good-will in this line is +asked for—any great worthless capacity in +this line will do, as they always play the +same tune, “Les Pompiers!”</p> + +<p class="right" style="margin-right: 2em;"> +<span class="smcap">The Committee</span>—1899. +</p> +</div> + +<p>For days before the “Quat’z’ Arts” ball, +all is excitement among the students, who +do as little work as possible and rest themselves +for the great event. The favorite +wit of the different ateliers is given the +task of painting the banner of the atelier, +which is carried at the head of the several +cortéges. One of these, in Bouguereau’s +atelier, depicted their master caricatured +as a cupid.</p> + +<p>The boys once constructed an elephant +with oriental trappings—an elephant that +could wag his ears and lift his trunk and +snort—and after the two fellows who +formed respectfully the front and hind legs<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">- 78 -</a></span> +of this knowing beast had practised +<span title=" sufficently " class="hoverbox">sufficiently</span> to proceed with him safely, +at the head of a cortége of slave +girls, nautch dancers, and manacled +captives, the big beast created a success in +the procession at the +“Quat’z’ Arts” ball.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image041.jpg" width="220" height="300" alt="(portrait of man)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">After the ball, in</span> the gray +morning light, they marched it back to the +atelier, where it remained for some weeks, +finally becoming such a nuisance, kicking +around the atelier and getting in everybody’s +way, that the boys agreed to give it +to the first junk-man that came around. +But as no junk-man came, and as no one +could be found to care for its now sadly +battered hulk, its good riddance became a +problem. What to do with the elephant! +that was the question.</p> + +<p>At last the two, who had sweltered in +its dusty frame that eventful night of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">- 79 -</a></span> +“Quat’z’ Arts,” hit upon an idea. They +marched it one day up the Boulevard St. +Germain to the Café des deux Magots, followed +by a crowd of people, who, when it +reached the café, assembled around it, +every one asking what it was for—or rather +what it was?—for the beast had by now +lost much of the resemblance of its former +self. When half the street became blocked +with the crowd, the two wise gentlemen +crawled out of its fore and aft, and quickly +mingled, unnoticed, with the bystanders. +Then they disappeared in the crowd, leaving +the elephant standing in the middle of +the street. Those who had been expecting +something to happen—a circus or the rest +of the parade to come along—stood around +for a while, and then the police, realizing +that they had an elephant on their hands, +carted the thing away, swearing meanwhile +at the atelier and every one connected +with it.</p> + +<p>The cafés near the Odéon, just before +the beginning of the ball, are filled with +students in costume; gladiators hobnob at +the tables with savages in scanty attire—Roman<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">- 80 -</a></span> +soldiers and students, in the garb of +the ancients, strut about or chat in groups, +while the uninvited grisettes and models, +who have not received invitations from the +committee, implore them for tickets.</p> + +<p>Tickets are not transferable, and should +one present himself at the entrance of the +ball with another fellow’s ticket, he would +run small chance of entering.</p> + +<p>“What atelier?” commands the jury +“Cormon.”</p> + +<p>The student answers, while the jury +glance at his makeup.</p> + +<p>“To the left!” cries the jury, and you +pass in to the ball.</p> + +<p>But if you are unknown they will say +simply, “Connais-pas! To the right!” +and you pass down a long covered alley—confident, +if you are a “nouveau,” that it +leads into the ball-room—until you suddenly +find yourself in the street, where +your ticket is torn up and all hope of entering +is gone.</p> + +<p>It is hopeless to attempt to describe the +hours until morning of this annual artistic +orgy. As the morning light comes in through<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">- 81 -</a></span> +the windows, it is strange to see the effect +of diffused daylight, electricity, and gas—the +bluish light of early morning reflected on +the flesh tones—upon nearly three thousand +girls and students in costumes one might +expect to see in a bacchanalian feast, just +before the fall of Rome. Now they form a +huge circle, the front row sitting on the floor, +the second row squatting, the third seated +in chairs, the fourth standing, so that all can +see the dancing that begins in the morning +hours—the wild impromptu dancing of the +moment. A famous beauty, her black hair +bound in a golden fillet with a circle wrought +in silver and studded with Oriental turquoises +clasping her superb torso, throws +her sandals to the crowd and begins an +Oriental dance—a thing of grace and beauty—fired +with the intensity of the innate nature +of this beautifully modeled daughter of +Bohemia.</p> + +<p>As the dance ends, there is a cry of delight +from the great circle of barbarians. +“Long live the Quat’z’ Arts!” they cry, +amid cheers for the dancer.</p> + +<p>The ball closes about seven in the morning,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">- 82 -</a></span> +when the long procession forms to +return to the Latin Quarter, some marching, +other students and girls in cabs and on +top of them, many of the girls riding the +horses. Down they come from the “Moulin +Rouge,” shouting, singing, and yelling. +Heads are thrust out of windows, and a +volley of badinage passes between the fantastic +procession and those who have heard +them coming.</p> + +<p>Finally the great open court of the +Louvre is reached—here a halt is made and +a general romp occurs. A girl and a type +climb one of the tall lamp-posts and prepare +to do a mid-air balancing act, when +rescued by the others. At last, at the end +of all this horse-play, the march is resumed +over the Pont du Carrousel and so on, +cheered now by those going to work, until +the Odéon is reached. Here the odd procession +disbands; some go to their favorite +cafés where the festivities are continued—some +to sleep in their costumes or what +remains of them, wherever fortune lands +them—others to studios, where the gaiety +is often kept up for days.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">- 83 -</a></span></p> + +<p>Ah! but life is not all “couleur de rose” in +this true Bohemia.</p> + +<p>“One day,” says little Marguerite (she +who lives in the rue Monge), “one eats and +the next day one doesn’t. It is always like +that, is it not, monsieur?—and it costs so +much to live, and so you see, monsieur, life +is always a fight.”</p> + +<p>And Marguerite’s brown eyes swim a +little and her pretty mouth closes firmly.</p> + +<p>“But where is Paul?” I ask.</p> + +<p>“I do not know, monsieur,” she replies +quietly; “I have not seen him in ten days—the +atelier is closed—I have been there +every day, expecting to find him—he left +no word with his concierge. I have been +to his café too, but no one has seen him—you +see, monsieur, Paul does not love me!”</p> + +<p>I recall an incident that I chanced to see +in passing the little shop where Marguerite +works, that only confirms the truth of her +realization. Paul had taken Marguerite +back to the little shop, after their déjeuner +together, and, as I passed, he stopped at +the door with her, kissed her on both +cheeks, and left her; but before they had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">- 84 -</a></span> +gone a dozen paces, they ran back to embrace +again. This occurred four times, +until Paul and Marguerite finally parted. +And, as he watched her little heels disappear +up the wooden stairs to her work-room +above, Paul blew a kiss to the pretty +milliner at the window next door, and, +taking a long whiff of his cigarette, sauntered +off in the direction of his atelier +whistling.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 335px;"> +<img src="images/image042.jpg" width="335" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A MORNING’S WORK</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">It is ideal, this</span> student life with its student loves +of four years, but is it right to many an honest little +comrade, who seldom knows an hour when she is away from +her ami? who has suffered and starved and slaved with +him through +years of days<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">- 85 -</a></span> +of good and bad luck—who has encouraged +him in his work, nursed him when ill, and +made a thousand golden hours in this poet’s +or painter’s life so completely happy, that +he looks back on them in later life as never-to-be-forgotten? +He remembers the good +dinners at the little restaurant near his +studio, where they dined among the old +crowd. There were Lavaud the sculptor +and Francine, with the figure of a goddess; +Moreau, who played the cello at the opera; +little Louise Dumont, who posed at Julian’s, +and old Jacquemart, the very soul of good +fellowship, who would set them roaring +with his inimitable humor.</p> + +<p>What good dinners they were!—and how +long they sat over their coffee and cigarettes +under the trees in front of this little +restaurant—often ten and twelve at a time, +until more tables had to be pushed together +for others of their good friends, who in +passing would be hailed to join them. And +how Marguerite used to sing all through +dinner and how they would all sing, until it +grew so late and so dark that they had to +puff their cigarettes aglow over their plates,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">- 86 -</a></span> +and yell to Madame Giraud for a light! +And how the old lady would bustle out +with the little oil lamp, placing it in the +center of the long table amid the forest of +vin ordinaires, with a “Voilà, mes enfants!” +and a cheery word for all these good boys +and girls, whom she regarded quite as her +own children.</p> + +<p>It seemed to them then that there would +never be anything else but dinners at +Madame Giraud’s for as many years as +they pleased, for no one ever thought of +living out one’s days, except in this good +Bohemia of Paris. They could not imagine +that old Jacquemart would ever die, or that +La Belle Louise would grow old, and go +back to Marseilles, to live with her dried-up +old aunt, who sold garlic and bad cheese +in a little box of a shop, up a crooked street! +Or that Francine would marry Martin, the +painter, and that the two would bury themselves +in an adorable little spot in Brittany, +where they now live in a thatched farm-house, +full of Martin’s pictures, and have a +vegetable garden of their own—and a cow—and +some children! But they <span class="smfont">DID</span>!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">- 87 -</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image043.jpg" width="620" height="448" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A STUDIO DÉJEUNER</span> +</div> + +<p>And those memorable dinners in the old +studio back of the Gare Montparnasse! +when paints and easels were pushed aside, +and the table spread, and the piano rolled +up beside it. There was the buying of the +chicken, and the salad that Francine would +smother in a dressing into which she would +put a dozen different things—herbs and +spices and tiny white onions! And what +a jolly crowd came to these impromptu +feasts! How much noise they used to +make! How they danced and sang until +the gray morning light would creep in +through the big skylight, when all these +good bohemians would tiptoe down the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">- 88 -</a></span> +waxed stairs, and slip past the different +ateliers for fear of waking those painters +who might be asleep—a thought that never +occurred to them until broad daylight, and +the door had been opened, after hours of +pandemonium and music and noise!</p> + +<p>In a little hotel near the Odéon, there +lived a family of just such bohemians—six +struggling poets, each with an imagination +and a love of good wine and good +dinners and good times that left them continually +in a state of bankruptcy! As they +really never had any money—none that ever +lasted for more than two days and two +nights at the utmost, their good landlord +seldom saw a sou in return for his hospitable +roof, which had sheltered these six +great minds who wrote of the moon, and +of fate, and fortune, and love.</p> + +<p>For days they would dream and starve +and write. Then followed an auction sale +of the total collection of verses, hawked +about anywhere and everywhere among +the editeurs, like a crop of patiently grown +fruit. Having sold it, literally by the yard, +they would all saunter up the “Boul’ Miche,” +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">- 89 -</a></span> +and forget their past misery, in feasting, to +their hearts’ content, on the good things of +life. On days like these, you would see +them passing, their black-brimmed hats +adjusted jauntily over their poetic locks—their +eyes beaming with that exquisite +sense of feeling suddenly rich, that those +who live for art’s sake know! The keenest +of pleasures lie in sudden contrasts, and +to these six poetic, impractical Bohemians, +thus suddenly raised from the slough of +despond to a state where they no longer +trod with mortals—their cup of happiness +was full and spilling over. They must not +only have a good time, but so must every +one around them. With their great riches, +they would make the world gay as long as +it lasted, for when it was over they knew +how sad life would be. For a while—then +they would scratch away—and have another +auction!</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 293px;"> +<img src="images/image044.jpg" width="293" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">DAYLIGHT</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">Unlike another</span> good fellow, a painter +whom I once knew, who periodically found +himself without a sou, and who would +take himself, in despair, to his lodgings, +make his will, leaving most of his immortal +<!--[image 44]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">- 90 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">- 91 -</a></span>works +to his English aunt, go to bed, and +calmly await death! In a fortunate space +of time his friends, who had been hunting +for him all over the Quarter, would find him +at last and rescue him from his chosen +tomb; or his good aunt, fearing he was +ill, would send a draft! Then life would, +to this impractical philosopher, again become +worth living. He would dispatch a +“petit bleu” to Marcelle; and the two +would meet at the Café Cluny, and dine at +La Perruse on filet de sole au vin blanc, +and a bottle of Haut Barsac—the bottle all +cobwebs and cradled in its basket—the +garçon, as he poured its golden contents, +holding his breath meanwhile lest he disturb +its long slumber.</p> + +<p>There are wines that stir the soul, and +this was one of them—clear as a topaz and +warming as the noonday sun—the same +warmth that had given it birth on its hillside +in Bordeaux, as far back as ’82. It +warmed the heart of Marcelle, too, and +made her cheeks glow and her eyes sparkle—and +added a rosier color to her lips. +It made her talk—clearly and frankly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">- 92 -</a></span> +with a full and a happy heart, so that she +confessed her love for this “bon garçon” +of a painter, and her supreme admiration +for his work and the financial success he +had made with his art. All of which this +genial son of Bohemia drank in with a +feeling of pride, and he would swell out +his chest and curl the ends of his long mustache +upwards, and sigh like a man burdened +with money, and secure in his ability +and success, and with a peaceful outlook +into the future—and the fact that Marcelle +loved him of all men! They would linger +long over their coffee and cigarettes, and +then the two would stroll out under the +stars and along the quai, and watch the +little Seine boats crossing and recrossing, +like fireflies, and the lights along the Pont +Neuf reflected deep down like parti-colored +ribbons in the black water.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image045.jpg" width="350" height="270" alt="(pair of high heeled shoes)" title="" /> +</div> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">- 93 -</a></p> +<br /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V" href="#TOC5"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER V</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3>“A DÉJEUNER AT LAVENUE’S”</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>If you should chance to breakfast at +“Lavenue’s,” or, as it is called, the “Hôtel +de France et Bretagne,” for years famous +as a rendezvous of men celebrated in art +and letters, you will be impressed first with +the simplicity of the three little rooms forming +the popular side of this restaurant, and +secondly with the distinguished appearance +of its clientèle.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 333px;"> +<img src="images/image046.jpg" width="333" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">MADEMOISELLE FANNY AND HER STAFF</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">As you enter the</span> front room, you pass +good Mademoiselle Fanny at the desk, a +cheery, white-capped, genial old lady, who +has sat behind that desk for forty years, +and has seen many a “bon garçon” struggle +up the ladder of fame—from the days when +he was a student at the Beaux-Arts, until +his name became known the world over. +It has long been a favorite restaurant with +men like Rodin, the sculptor—and Colin, +the painter—and the late Falguière—and +<!--[image 46]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">- 94 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">- 95 -</a></span>Jean +Paul Laurens and Bonnat, and dozens +of others equally celebrated—and with +our own men, like Whistler and Sargent +and Harrison, and St. Gaudens and Macmonnies.</p> + +<p>These three plain little rooms are totally +different from the “other side,” as it is +called, of the Maison Lavenue. Here one +finds quite a gorgeous café, with a pretty +garden in the rear, and another room—opening +into the garden—done in delicate +green lattice and mirrors. This side is far +more expensive to dine in than the side with +the three plain little rooms, and the gentlemen +with little red ribbons in their buttonholes; +but as the same good cook dispenses +from the single big kitchen, which serves +for the dear and the cheap side the same +good things to eat at just half the price, the +reason for the popularity of the “cheap +side” among the crowd who come here +daily is evident.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 360px;"> +<img src="images/image047.jpg" width="360" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">RODIN</span> +</div> + +<p>It is a quiet, restful place, this Maison +Lavenue, and the best place I know in +which to dine or breakfast from day to day. +There is an air of intime and cosiness about +<!--[image 47]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">- 96 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">- 97 -</a></span>Lavenue’s +that makes one always wish to return.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image048.jpg" width="550" height="450" alt="(group of men dining)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>You will see a family of rich bourgeois +enter, just in from the country, for the +Montparnasse station is opposite. The fat, +sunburned mama, and the equally rotund +and genial farmer-papa, and the pretty +daughter, and the newly married son and +his demure wife, and the two younger children—and +all talking and laughing over a +good dinner with champagne, and many +toasts to the young couple—and to mama +and papa, and little Josephine—with ices, +and fruit, and coffee, and liqueur to follow.</p> + +<p>All these you will see at Lavenue’s on +the “cheap side”—and the beautiful model,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">- 98 -</a></span> +too, who poses for Courbel, who is breakfasting +with one of the jeunesse of Paris. +The waiters after 2 <span class="smfont">P.M.</span> dine in the front +room with the rest, and jump up now and +then to wait on madame and monsieur.</p> + +<p>It is a very democratic little place, this +popular side of the house of M. Lavenue, +founded in 1854.</p> + +<p>And there is a jolly old painter who dines +there, who is also an excellent musician, +with an ear for rhythm so sensitive that he +could never go to sleep unless the clock in +his studio ticked in regular time, and at +last was obliged to give up his favorite +atelier, with its picturesque garden——</p> + +<p>“For two reasons, monsieur,” he explained +to me excitedly; “a little girl on +the floor below me played a polka—the +same polka half the day—always forgetting +to put in the top note; and the fellow over +me whistled it the rest of the day and put +in the top note false; and so I moved to the +rue St. Pères, where one only hears, within +the cool court-yard, the distant hum of the +busy city. The roar of Paris, so full of +chords and melody! Listen to it sometimes, +<!--[image 49]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">- 99 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">- 100 -</a></span>monsieur, +and you will hear a symphony!”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 311px;"> +<img src="images/image049.jpg" width="311" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“LA FILLE DE LA BLANCHISSEUSE”<br /> +By Bellanger.—Estampe Moderne</span> +</div> + +<p>And Mademoiselle Fanny will tell you +of the famous men she has known for years, +and how she has found the most celebrated +of them simple in their tastes, and free from +ostentation—“in fact it is always so, is it +not, with les hommes célèbres? C’est toujours +comme ça, monsieur, toujours!” and +mentions one who has grown gray in the +service of art and can count his decorations +from half a dozen governments. Madame +will wax enthusiastic—her face wreathed +in smiles. “Ah! he is a bon garçon; he +always eats with the rest, for three or four +francs, never more! He is so amiable, and, +you know, he is very celebrated and very +rich”; and madame will not only tell you +his entire history, but about his work—the +beauty of his wife and how “aimables” his +children are. Mademoiselle Fanny knows +them all.</p> + +<p>But the men who come here to lunch are +not idlers; they come in, many of them, +fresh from a hard morning’s work in the +studio. The tall sculptor opposite you has<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">- 101 -</a></span> +been at work, since his morning coffee, on +a group for the government; another, bare-armed +and in his flannel shirt, has been +building up masses of clay, punching and +modeling, and scraping away, all the morning, +until he produces, in the rough, the +body of a giantess, a huge caryatide that +is destined, for the rest of her existence, to +hold upon her broad shoulders part of the +façade of an American building. The +“giantess” in the flesh is lunching with +him—a Juno-like woman of perhaps twenty-five, +with a superb head well poised, her +figure firm and erect. You will find her +exceedingly interesting, quiet, and refined, +and with a knowledge of things in general +that will surprise you, until you discover +she has, in her life as a model, been thrown +daily in conversation with men of genius, +and has acquired a smattering of the knowledge +of many things—of art and literature—of +the theater and its playwrights—plunging +now and then into medicine and +law and poetry—all these things she has +picked up in the studios, in the cafés, in the +course of her Bohemian life. This “vernis,” +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">- 102 -</a></span> +as the French call it, one finds constantly +among the women here, for their days are +passed among men of intelligence and +ability, whose lives and energy are surrounded +and encouraged by an atmosphere +of art.</p> + +<p>In an hour, the sculptor and his Juno-like +model will stroll back to the studio, where +work will be resumed as long as the light +lasts.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 317px;"> +<img src="images/image050.jpg" width="317" height="400" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A TRUE TYPE</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">The painter breakfasting</span> at the next +table is hard at work on a decorative panel +for a ceiling. It is already laid out and +squared up, from careful pencil drawings. +Two young architects are working for him, +laying out the architectural balustrade, +through which one, a month later, looks +up at the allegorical figures painted against +the dome of the blue heavens, as a background. +And so the painter swallows his +eggs, mayonnaise, and demi of beer, at a +gulp, for he has a model coming at two, and +he must finish this ceiling on time, and ship +it, by a fast liner, to a millionaire, who has +built a vault-like structure on the Hudson, +with iron dogs on the lawn. Here this +<!--[image 50]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">- 103 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">- 104 -</a></span>beautiful +panel will be unrolled and installed +in the dome of the hard-wood billiard-room, +where its rich, mellow scheme of +color will count as naught; and the cupids +and the flesh-tones of the chic little model, +who came at two, will appear jaundiced; +and Aunt Maria and Uncle John, and the +twins from Ithaca, will come in after the +family Sunday dinner of roast beef and potatoes +and rice pudding and ice-water, and +look up into the dome and agree “it’s +grand.” But the painter does not care, +for he has locked up his studio, and taken +his twenty thousand francs and the model—who +came at two—with him to Trouville.</p> + +<p>At night you will find a typical crowd of +Bohemians at the Closerie des Lilas, where +they sit under a little clump of trees on the +sloping dirt terrace in front. Here you will +see the true type of the Quarter. It is the +farthest up the Boulevard St. Michel of any +of the cafés, and just opposite the “Bal Bullier,” +on the Place de l’Observatoire. The +terrace is crowded with its habitués, for it +is out of the way of the stream of people +along the “Boul’ Miche.” The terrace is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">- 105 -</a></span> +quite dark, its only light coming from the +café, back of a green hedge, and it is +cool there, too, in summer, with the fresh +night air coming from the Luxembourg +Gardens. Below it is the café and restaurant +de la Rotonde, a very well-built +looking place, with its rounding façade on +the corner.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image051.jpg" width="316" height="400" alt="(studio)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">At the entrance of</span> every studio court and +apartment, there lives the concierge in a +box of a room generally, containing a huge +feather-bed and furnished with a variety of +things left by departing tenants to this +faithful guardian of the gate. Many of +these small rooms resemble the den of an +antiquary with their odds and ends from the +studios—old swords, plaster casts, sketches +and discarded furniture—until the place is +quite full. Yet it is +kept neat and clean by +madame, who sews all +day and talks to her +cat and to every one +who passes into the +court-yard. Here your +letters are kept, too, +<!--[image 52]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">- 106 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">- 107 -</a></span>in +one of a row of boxes, with the number +of your atelier marked thereon.</p> + +<p>At night, after ten, your concierge opens +the heavy iron gate of your court by pulling +a cord within reach of the family bed. He +or she is waked up at intervals through the +night to let into and out of a court full of +studios those to whom the night is ever +young. Or perhaps your concierge will be +like old Père Valois, who has three pretty +daughters who do the housework of the +studios, as well as assist in the guardianship +of the gate. They are very busy, these +three daughters of Père Valois—all the +morning you will see these little “femmes +de ménage” as busy as bees; the artists +and poets must be waked up, and beds +made and studios cleaned. There are +many that are never cleaned at all, but +then there are many, too, who are not so +fortunate as to be taken care of by the +three daughters of Père Valois.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image052.jpg" width="620" height="362" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">VOILÀ LA BELLE ROSE, MADAME!</span> +</div> + +<p>There is no gossip within the quarter +that your “femme de ménage” does not +know, and over your morning coffee, which +she brings you, she will regale you with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">- 108 -</a></span> +latest news about most of your best friends, +including your favorite model, and madame +from whom you buy your wine, always concluding +with: “That is what I heard, monsieur,—I +think it is quite true, because the +little Marie, who is the femme de ménage +of Monsieur Valentin, got it from Céleste +Dauphine yesterday in the café in the rue +du Cherche Midi.”</p> + +<p>In the morning, this demure maid-of-all-work +will be in her calico dress with her +sleeves rolled up over her strong white +arms, but in the evening you may see her +in a chic little dress, at the “Bal Bullier,” +or dining at the Panthéon, with the fellow +whose studio is opposite yours.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image053.jpg" width="620" height="419" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A BUSY MORNING</span> +</div> + +<p>Alice Lemaître, however, was a far different +type of femme de ménage than any of +the gossiping daughters of old Père Valois, +and her lot was harder, for one night she +left her home in one of the provincial towns, +when barely sixteen, and found herself in +Paris with three francs to her name and +not a friend in this big pleasure-loving city +to turn to. After many days of privation, +she became bonne to a woman known as +<!--[image 53]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">- 109 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">- 110 -</a></span>Yvette +de Marcie, a lady with a bad temper +and many jewels, to whom little Alice, +with her rosy cheeks and bright eyes and +willing disposition to work in order to live, +became a person upon whom this fashionable +virago of a demi-mondaine vented +the worst that was in her—and there was +much of this—until Alice went out into the +world again. She next found employment +at a baker’s, where she was obliged to +get up at four in the morning, winter +and summer, and deliver the long loaves +of bread at the different houses; but the +work was too hard and she left. The +baker paid her a trifle a week for her labor, +while the attractive Yvette de Marcie +turned her into the street without her +wages. It was while delivering bread one +morning to an atelier in the rue des Dames, +that she chanced to meet a young painter +who was looking for a good femme de +ménage to relieve his artistic mind from +the worries of housekeeping. Little Alice +fairly cried when the good painter told +her she might come at twenty francs a +month, which was more money than this +<!--[image 54]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">- 111 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">- 112 -</a></span>very +grateful and brave little Brittany girl +had ever known before.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image054.jpg" width="620" height="426" alt="(brocanteur shop front)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>“You see, monsieur, one must do one’s +best whatever one undertakes,” said Alice +to me; “I have tried every profession, and +now I am a good femme de ménage, and I +am ‘bien contente.’ No,” she continued, +“I shall never marry, for one’s independence +is worth more than anything else. When +one marries,” she said earnestly, her little +brow in a frown, “one’s life is lost; I am +young and strong, and I have courage, and +so I can work hard. One should be content +when one is not cold and hungry, and I have +been many times that, monsieur. Once I +worked in a fabrique, where, all day, we +painted the combs of china roosters a bright +red for bon-bon boxes—hundreds and hundreds +of them until I used to see them in +my dreams; but the fabrique failed, for the +patron ran away with the wife of a Russian. +He was a very stupid man to have done +that, monsieur, for he had a very nice wife of +his own—a pretty brunette, with a charming +figure; but you see, monsieur, in Paris it is +always that way. C’est toujours comme ça.”</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">- 113 -</a></p> +<br /> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 213px;"> +<img src="images/image055.jpg" width="213" height="350" alt="J" title="" /> +</div> +<br /> +<h2 class="chptrimg"><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI" href="#TOC6"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER VI</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3 class="chptrimg">“AT MARCEL +LEGAY’S”</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="dropcap"><span class="frstltr">J</span>UST off the Boulevard +St. Michel +and up the narrow +little rue +Cujas, you will +see at night the +name “Marcel +Legay” illumined +in tiny gas-jets. +This is a cabaret of chansonniers known as +“Le Grillon,” where a dozen celebrated +singing satirists entertain an appreciative +audience in the stuffy little hall serving as +an auditorium. Here, nightly, as the pièce +de résistance—and late on the programme +(there is no printed one)—you will hear the +Bard of Montmartre, Marcel Legay, raconteur, +poet, musician, and singer; the author +of many of the most popular songs of Montmartre, +and a veteran singer in the cabarets.</p> +<!--[image 56]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">- 114 -</a></span>--> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 299px;"> +<img src="images/image056.jpg" width="299" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">MARCEL LEGAY</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">- 115 -</a></span> +<span class="nowrap">From these cabarets</span> of the student quarters +come many of the cleverest and most +beautiful songs. Here men sing their own +creations, and they have absolute license to +sing or say what they please; there is no +mincing of words, and many times these +rare bohemians do not take the trouble to +hide their clever songs and satires under a +double entente. No celebrated man or +woman, known in art or letters, or connected +with the Government—from the soldier +to the good President of the République +Française—is spared. The eccentricity of +each celebrity is caught by them, and used +in song or recitation.</p> + +<p>Besides these personal caricatures, the +latest political questions of the day—religion +and the haut monde—come in for a +large share of good-natured satire. To be +cleverly caricatured is an honor, and should +evince no ill-feeling, especially from these +clever singing comedians, who are the best +of fellows at heart; whose songs are clever +but never vulgar; who sing because they +love to sing; and whose versatility enables +them to create the broadest of satires, and,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">- 116 -</a></span> +again, a little song with words so pure, so +human, and so pathetic, that the applause +that follows from the silent room of listeners +comes spontaneously from the heart.</p> + +<p>It is not to be wondered at that “The +Grillon” of Marcel Legay’s is a popular +haunt of the habitués of the Quarter, who +crowd the dingy little room nightly. You +enter the “Grillon” by way of the bar, and +at the further end of the bar-room is a +small anteroom, its walls hung in clever +posters and original drawings. This anteroom +serves as a sort of green-room for +the singers and their friends; here they +chat at the little tables between their songs—since +there is no stage—and through this +anteroom both audience and singers pass +into the little hall. There is the informality +of one of our own “smokers” about the +whole affair.</p> + +<p>Furthermore, no women sing in “Le Grillon”—a +cabaret in this respect is different +from a café concert, which resembles very +much our smaller variety shows. A small +upright piano, and in front of it a low platform, +scarcely its length, complete the necessary<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">- 117 -</a></span> +stage paraphernalia of the cabaret, +and the admission is generally a franc and +a half, which includes your drink.</p> + +<p>In the anteroom, four of the singers are +smoking and chatting at the little tables. +One of them is a tall, serious-looking fellow, +in a black frock coat. He peers out through +his black-rimmed eyeglasses with the solemnity +of an owl—but you should hear his +songs!—they treat of the lighter side of +life, I assure you. Another singer has just +finished his turn, and comes out of the +smoky hall, wiping the perspiration from +his short, fat neck. The audience is still +applauding his last song, and he rushes +back through the faded green velvet portières +to bow his thanks.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 343px;"> +<img src="images/image057.jpg" width="343" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A POET-SINGER</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">A broad-shouldered,</span> jolly-looking fellow, +in white duck trousers, is talking earnestly +with the owl-like looking bard in eyeglasses. +Suddenly his turn is called, and you follow +him in, where, as soon as he is seen, he is +welcomed by cheers from the students and +girls, and an elaborate fanfare of chords on +the piano. When this popular poet-singer +has finished, there follows a round of applause +<!--[image 57]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">- 118 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">- 119 -</a></span>and +a pounding of canes, and then +the ruddy-faced, gray-haired manager +starts a three-times-three handclapping in +unison to a pounding of chords on the piano. +This is the proper ending to every demand +for an encore in “Le Grillon,” and it never +fails to bring one.</p> + +<p>It is nearly eleven when the curtain parts +and Marcel Legay rushes hurriedly up the +aisle and greets the audience, slamming his +straw hat upon the lid of the piano. He +passes his hand over his bald pate—gives +an extra polish to his eyeglasses—beams +with an irresistibly funny expression upon +his audience—coughs—whistles—passes a +few remarks, and then, adjusting his glasses +on his stubby red nose, looks serio-comically +over his roll of music. He is dressed in +a long, black frock-coat reaching nearly to +his heels. This coat, with its velvet collar, +discloses a frilled white shirt and a white +flowing bow scarf; these, with a pair of +black-and-white check trousers, complete +this every-day attire.</p> + +<p>But the man inside these voluminous +clothes is even still more eccentric. Short,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">- 120 -</a></span> +indefinitely past fifty years of age, with a +round face and merry eyes, and a bald head +whose lower portion is framed in a fringe of +long hair, reminding one of the coiffure of +some pre-Raphaelite saint—indeed, so striking +is this resemblance that the good bard +is often caricatured with a halo surrounding +this medieval fringe.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, while this famous singer +is selecting a song, he is overwhelmed with +demands for his most popular ones. A +dozen students and girls at one end of the +little hall, now swimming in a haze of pipe +and cigarette smoke, are hammering with +sticks and parasols for “Le matador avec +les pieds du vent”; another crowd is yelling +for “La Goularde.” Marcel Legay +smiles at them all through his eyeglasses, +then roars at them to keep quiet—and +finally the clamor in the room gradually +subsides—here and there a word—a giggle—and +finally silence.</p> + +<p>“Now, my children, I will sing to you the +story of Clarette,” says the bard; “it is a +very sad histoire. I have read it,” and he +smiles and cocks one eye.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">- 121 -</a></span> +His baritone voice still possesses considerable +fire, and in his heroic songs he +is dramatic. In “The Miller who grinds +for Love,” the feeling and intensity and +dramatic quality he puts into its rendition +are stirring. As he finishes his last encore, +amidst a round of applause, he grasps his +hat from the piano, jams it over his bald +pate with its celestial fringe, and rushes for +the door. Here he stops, and, turning for a +second, cheers back at the crowd, waving +the straw hat above his head. The next +moment he is having a cooling drink among +his confrères in the anteroom.</p> + +<p>Such “poet-singers” as Paul Delmet and +Dominique Bonnaud have made the “Grillon” +a success; and others like Numa Blés, +Gabriel Montoya, D’Herval, Fargy, Tourtal, +and Edmond Teulet—all of them well-known +over in Montmartre, where they are +welcomed with the same popularity that +they meet with at “Le Grillon.”</p> + +<p>Genius, alas, is but poorly paid in this +Bohemia! There are so many who can +draw, so many who can sing, so many +poets and writers and sculptors. To many<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">- 122 -</a></span> +of the cleverest, half a loaf is too often +better than no bread.</p> + +<p>You will find often in these cabarets and +in the cafés and along the boulevard, a man +who, for a few sous, will render a portrait +or a caricature on the spot. You learn that +this journeyman artist once was a well-known +painter of the Quarter, who had +drawn for years in the academies. The +man at present is a wreck, as he sits in a +café with portfolio on his knees, his black +slouch hat drawn over his scraggly gray +hair. But his hand, thin and drawn from +too much stimulant and too little food, has +lost none of its knowledge of form and line; +the sketch is strong, true, and with a chic +about it and a simplicity of expression that +delight you. You ask why he has not +done better.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 294px;"> +<img src="images/image058.jpg" width="294" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE SATIRIST</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">“Ah!” he replies, “it is</span> a long story, +monsieur.” So long and so much of it that +he can not remember it all! Perhaps it was +the woman with the velvety black eyes—tall +and straight—the best dancer in all +Paris. Yes, he remembers some of it—long, +miserable years—years of struggles +<!--[image 58]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">- 123 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">- 124 -</a></span>and +jealousy, and finally lies and fights and +drunkenness; after it was all over, he was +too gray and old and tired to care!</p> + +<p>One sees many such derelicts in Paris +among these people who have worn themselves +out with amusement, for here the +world lives for pleasure, for “la grande +vie!” To the man, every serious effort he +is obliged to make trends toward one idea—that +of the bon vivant—to gain success +and fame, but to gain it with the idea of +how much personal daily pleasure it will +bring him. Ennui is a word one hears +constantly; if it rains toute le monde est +triste. To have one’s gaiety interrupted +is regarded as a calamity, and “tout le +monde” will sympathize with you. To +live a day without the pleasures of life in +proportion to one’s purse is considered a +day lost.</p> + +<p>If you speak of anything that has pleased +you one will, with a gay rising inflection of +the voice and a smile, say: “Ah! c’est gai +là-bas—and monsieur was well amused while +in that beautiful country?” “ah!—tiens! +c’est gentil ça!” they will exclaim, as you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">- 125 -</a></span> +enthusiastically continue to explain. They +never dull your enthusiasm by short phlegmatic +or pessimistic replies. And when you +are sad they will condone so genuinely with +you that you forget your disappointments +in the charming pleasantry of their sympathy. +But all this continual race for pleasure +is destined in the course of time to end +in ennui!</p> + +<p>The Parisian goes into the latest sport +because it affords him a new sensation. +Being blasé of all else in life, he plunges +into automobiling, buys a white and red +racer—a ponderous flying juggernaut that +growls and snorts and smells of the lower +regions whenever it stands still, trembling +in its anger and impatience to be off, while +its owner, with some automobiling Marie, +sits chatting on the café terrace over a cooling +drink. The two are covered with dust +and very thirsty; Marie wears a long dust-colored +ulster, and he a wind-proof coat and +high boots. Meanwhile, the locomotive-like +affair at the curbstone is working itself +into a boiling rage, until finally the brave +chauffeur and his chic companion prepare<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">- 126 -</a></span> +to depart. Marie adjusts her white lace +veil, with its goggles, and the chauffeur +puts on his own mask as he climbs in; a +roar—a snort, a cloud of blue gas, and they +are gone!</p> + +<p>There are other enthusiasts—those who +go up in balloons!</p> + +<p>“Ah, you should go ballooning!” one +cries enthusiastically, “to be ‘en ballon’—so +poetic—so fin de siècle! It is a fantaisie +charmante!”</p> + +<p>In a balloon one forgets the world—one +is no longer a part of it—no longer mortal. +What romance there is in going up above +everything with the woman one loves—comrades +in danger—the ropes—the wicker +cage—the ceiling of stars above one and +Paris below no bigger than a gridiron! +Paris! lost for the time from one’s memory. +How chic to shoot straight up among the +drifting clouds and forget the sordid little +world, even the memory of one’s intrigues!</p> + +<p>“Enfin seuls,” they say to each other, as +the big Frenchman and the chic Parisienne +countess peer down over the edge of the +basket, sipping a little chartreuse from the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">- 127 -</a></span> +same traveling cup; she, with the black hair +and white skin, and gowned “en ballon” in +a costume by Paillard; he in his peajacket +buttoned close under his heavy beard. +They seem to brush through and against +the clouds! A gentle breath from heaven +makes the basket decline a little and the +ropes creak against the hardwood clinch +blocks. It grows colder, and he wraps her +closer in his own coat.</p> + +<p>“Courage, my child,” he says; “see, we +have gone a great distance; to-morrow +before sundown we shall descend in Belgium.”</p> + +<p>“Horrible!” cries the Countess; “I do +not like those Belgians.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! but you shall see, Thérèse, one +shall go where one pleases soon; we are +patient, we aeronauts; we shall bring +credit to La Belle France; we have courage +and perseverance; we shall give many +dinners and weep over the failures of +our brave comrades, to make the dirigible +balloon ‘pratique.’ We shall succeed! +Then Voilà! our déjeuner in Paris and our +dinner where we will.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">- 128 -</a></span> +Thérèse taps her polished nails against +the edge of the wicker cage and hums a +little chansonette.</p> + +<p>“Je t’aime”—she murmurs.</p> + +<hr class="hr33" /> + +<p>I did not see this myself, and I do not +know the fair Thérèse or the gentleman +who buttons his coat under his whiskers; +but you should have heard one of these +ballooning enthusiasts tell it to me in the +Taverne du Panthéon the other night. His +only regret seemed to be that he, too, could +not have a dirigible balloon and a countess—on +ten francs a week!</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">- 129 -</a></p> +<br /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image059.jpg" width="600" height="301" alt="(woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII" href="#TOC7"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER VII</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3>“POCHARD”</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Drunkards are not frequent sights in the +Quarter; and yet when these people do +get drunk, they become as irresponsible as +maniacs. Excitable to a degree even when +sober, these most wretched among the poor +when drunk often appear in front of a café—gaunt, +wild-eyed, haggard, and filthy—singing +in boisterous tones or reciting to +you with tense voices a jumble of meaningless +thoughts.</p> + +<p>The man with the matted hair, and toes +out of his boots, will fold his arms melodramatically, +and regard you for some moments +as you sit in front of him on the +terrace. Then he will vent upon you a +torrent of abuse, ending in some jumble of +socialistic ideas of his own concoction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">- 130 -</a></span> +When he has finished, he will fold his +arms again and move on to the next table. +He is crazy with absinthe, and no one pays +any attention to him. On he strides up the +“Boul’ Miche,” past the cafés, continuing +his ravings. As long as he is moderately +peaceful and confines his wandering brain +to gesticulations and speech, he is let alone +by the police.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image060.jpg" width="379" height="450" alt="(portrait of woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">You will see sometimes</span> a man and a +woman—a teamster out of work or with +his wages for the day, and with him a +creature—a blear-eyed, slatternly looking +woman, in a filthy calico gown. The man +clutches her arm, as they sing and stagger +up past the cafés. The woman holds in +her claw-like hand a half-empty bottle of +cheap red wine. Now and then they stop +and share it; the man staggers on; the +woman leers and dances and sings; a crowd +forms about them. Some years ago this +poor girl sat on Friday afternoons in the +Luxembourg Gardens—her white parasol +on her knees, her dainty, white kid-slippered +feet resting on the little stool which the old +lady, who rents the chairs, used to bring +<!--[image 60]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">- 131 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">- 132 -</a></span>her. +She was regarded +as a bonne camarade in +those days among the +students—one of the idols +of the Quarter! But she +became impossible, and +then an outcast! That +women should become +outcasts through the +hopelessness of their position +or the breaking down of their brains +can be understood, but that men of ability +should sink into the dregs and stay there +seems incredible. But it is often so.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image061.jpg" width="243" height="300" alt="(portrait of woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">Near the rue Monge</span> there is a small café +and restaurant, a place celebrated for its +onion soup and its chicken. From the +tables outside, one can see into the small +kitchen, with its polished copper sauce-pans +hanging about the grill.</p> + +<p>Lachaume, the painter, and I were chatting +at one of its little tables, he over an +absinthe and I over a coffee and cognac. I +had dined early this fresh October evening, +enjoying to the full the bracing coolness of +the air, pungent with the odor of dry leaves<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">- 133 -</a></span> +and the faint smell of burning brush. The +world was hurrying by—in twos and threes—hurrying +to warm cafés, to friends, to +lovers. The breeze at twilight set the dry +leaves shivering. The sky was turquoise. +The yellow glow from the shop windows—the +blue-white sparkle of electricity like +pendant diamonds—made the Quarter seem +fuller of life than ever. These fall days +make the little ouvrières trip along from +their work with rosy cheeks, and put happiness +and ambition into one’s very soul.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 281px;"> +<img src="images/image062.jpg" width="281" height="350" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A GROUP OF NEW STUDIOS</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">Soon the winter</span> will come, with all the +boys back from their country haunts, and +Céleste and Mimi from Ostende. How gay +it will be—this Quartier Latin then! How gay +it always is in winter—and then the rainy season. +Ah! but one can not have everything. Thus it +was that Lachaume and I +<!--[image 63]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">- 134 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">- 135 -</a></span>sat +talking, when suddenly a spectre passed—a +spectre of a man, his face silent, white, +and pinched—drawn like a mummy’s.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 263px;"> +<img src="images/image063.jpg" width="263" height="400" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A SCULPTOR’S MODEL</span><br /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">He stopped and</span> supported his shrunken +frame wearily on his crutches, and leaned +against a neighboring wall. He made no +sound—simply gazed vacantly, with the +timidity of some animal, at the door of the +small kitchen aglow with the light from +the grill. He made no effort to approach +the door; only leaned against the gray +wall and peered at it patiently.</p> + +<p>“A beggar,” I said to Lachaume; “poor +devil!”</p> + +<p>“Ah! old Pochard—yes, poor devil, and +once one of the handsomest men in Paris.”</p> + +<p>“What wrecked him?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“What I’m drinking now, mon ami.”</p> + +<p>“Absinthe?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—absinthe! He looks older than I +do, does he not?” continued Lachaume, +lighting a fresh cigarette, “and yet I’m +twenty years his senior. You see, I sip +mine—he drank his by the goblet,” +and my friend leaned forward and poured +the contents of the carafe in a tiny trickling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">- 136 -</a></span> +stream over the sugar +lying in its perforated +spoon.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 322px;"> +<img src="images/image064.jpg" width="322" height="350" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">BOY MODEL</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">“Ah! those were</span> great days when Pochard +was the life of the Bullier,” he went on; +“I remember the night he won ten thousand +francs from the Russian. It +didn’t last long; Camille Leroux had her +share of it—nothing ever lasted long with +Camille. He was once courrier to an Austrian +Baron, I remember. The old fellow +used to frequent the Quarter in summer, +years ago—it was his hobby. Pochard was +a great favorite in those days, and the Baron +liked to go about in the Quarter with him, +and of course Pochard was in his glory. He +would persuade the old nobleman to prolong +his vacation here. Once the Baron stayed +through the winter and fell ill, and a little +couturière in the rue de Rennes, whom the +old fellow fell in love with, nursed him. He +<!--[image 65]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">- 137 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">- 138 -</a></span>died +the summer following, at Vienna, and +left her quite a little property near Amiens. +He was a good old Baron, a charitable +old fellow among the needy, and a good +bohemian besides; and he did much for +Pochard, but he could not keep him +sober!”</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 301px;"> +<img src="images/image065.jpg" width="301" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">BOUGUEREAU AT WORK</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">“After the old man’s</span> death,” my friend +continued, “Pochard drifted from bad to +worse, and finally out of the Quarter, +somewhere into misery on the other side +of the Seine. No one heard of him for +a few years, until he was again recognized +as being the same Pochard returned again +to the Quarter. He was hobbling about on +crutches just as you see him there. And +now, do you know what he does? Get up +from where you are sitting,” said Lachaume, +“and look into the back kitchen. +Is he not standing there by the door—they +are handing him a small bundle?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said I, “something wrapped in +newspaper.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know what is in it?—the carcass +of the chicken you have just finished, and +which the garçon carried away. Pochard +<!--[image 66]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">- 139 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">- 140 -</a></span>saw +you eating it half an hour ago as he +passed. It was for that he was waiting.”</p> + +<p>“To eat?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“No, to sell,” Lachaume replied, “together +with the other bones he is able to collect—for +soup in some poorest resort down +by the river, where the boatmen and the +gamins go. The few sous he gets will buy +Pochard a big glass, a lump of sugar, and +a spoon; into the goblet, in some equally +dirty ‘boîte,’ they will pour him out his +green treasure of absinthe. Then Pochard +will forget the day—perhaps he will dream +of the Austrian Baron—and try and forget +Camille Leroux. Poor devil!”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image066.jpg" width="620" height="398" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">GEROME</span> +</div> + +<p>Marguerite Girardet, the model, also told +me between poses in the studio the other +day of just such a “pauvre homme” she +once knew. “When he was young,” she +said, “he won a second prize at the Conservatoire, +and afterward played first violin +at the Comique. Now he plays in front of +the cafés, like the rest, and sometimes +poses for the head of an old man!</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image067.jpg" width="620" height="410" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A. MICHELENA</span> +</div> + +<p>“Many grow old so young,” she continued; +“I knew a little model once with +<!--[image 67]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">- 141 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">- 142 -</a></span>a +beautiful figure, absolutely comme un +bijou—pretty, too, and had she been a +sensible girl, as I often told her, she could +still have earned her ten francs a day +posing; but she wanted to dine all the +time with this and that one, and pose too, +and in three months all her fine ‘svelte’ +lines that made her a valuable model among +the sculptors were gone. You see, I have +posed all my life in the studios, and I am +over thirty now, and you know I work hard, +but I have kept my fine lines—because I go +to bed early and eat and drink little. Then +I have much to do at home; my husband and +I for years have had a comfortable home; +we take a great deal of pride in it, and it +keeps me very busy to keep everything in +order, for I pose very early some mornings +and then go back and get déjeuner, and +then back to pose again.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 450px;"> +<img src="images/image068.jpg" width="450" height="320" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A SCULPTOR’S STUDIO</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">“In the summer,”</span> she went on, “we +take a little place outside of Paris for a +month, down the Seine, where my husband +brings his work with him; he is a repairer +of fans and objets d’art. You should come +in and see us some time; it is quite near<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">- 143 -</a></span> +where you painted last summer. Ah yes,” +she exclaimed, as she drew her pink toes +under her, “I love the country! Last year +I posed nearly two months for Monsieur +Z., the painter—en plein air; my skin was +not as white as it is now, I can tell you—I +was absolutely like an Indian!</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image069.jpg" width="620" height="400" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">FRÉMIET</span> +</div> + +<p>“Once”—and Marguerite smiled at the +memory of it—“I went to England to pose +for a painter well known there. It was +an important tableau, and I stayed there +six months. It was a horrible place to +me—I was always cold—the fog was so +thick one could hardly see in winter +mornings going to the studio. Besides, I +could get nothing good to eat! He was a +celebrated painter, a ‘Sir,’ and lived with +<!--[image 69]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">- 144 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">- 145 -</a></span>his +family in a big stone house with a garden. +We had tea and cakes at five in the +studio—always tea, tea, tea!—I can tell +you I used to long for a good bottle of +Madame Giraud’s vin ordinaire, and a +poulet. So I left and came back to Paris. +Ah! quelle place! that Angleterre! J’étais +toujours, toujours triste là! In Paris I +make a good living; ten francs a day—that’s +not bad, is it? and my time is taken +often a year ahead. I like to pose for the +painters—the studios are cleaner than those +of the sculptor’s. Some of the sculptors’ +studios are so dirty—clay and dust over +everything! Did you see Fabien’s studio +the other day when I posed for him? You +thought it dirty? Tiens!—you should have +seen it last year when he was working on +the big group for the Exposition! It is +clean now compared with what it was. +You see, I go to my work in the plainest +of clothes—a cheap print dress and everything +of the simplest I can make, for in +half an hour, left in those studios, they +would be fit only for the blanchisseuse—the +wax and dust are in and over everything! +<!--[image 70]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">- 146 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">- 147 -</a></span>There +is no time to change when +one has not the time to go home at mid-day.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image070.jpg" width="620" height="400" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">JEAN PAUL LAURENS</span> +</div> + +<p>And so I learned much of the good sense +and many of the economies in the life of this +most celebrated model. You can see her +superb figure wrought in marble and bronze +by some of the most famous of modern +French sculptors all over Paris.</p> + +<p>There is another type of model you will +see, too—one who rang my bell one sunny +morning in response to a note written by +my good friend, the sculptor, for whom this +little Parisienne posed.</p> + +<p>She came without her hat—this “vrai +type”—about seventeen years of age—with +exquisite features, her blue eyes shining +under a wealth of delicate blonde +hair arranged in the prettiest of fashions—a +little white bow tied jauntily at her throat, +and her exquisitely delicate, strong young +figure clothed in a simple black dress. +She had about her such a frank, childlike +air! Yes, she posed for so and so, +and so and so, but not many; she liked +it better than being in a shop; and it was +far more independent, for one could go about +<!--[image 71]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">- 148 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">- 149 -</a></span>and +see one’s friends—and there were many +of her girl friends living on the same street +where this chic demoiselle lived.</p> + +<p>At noon my drawing was finished. As +she sat buttoning her boots, she looked up +at me innocently, slipped her five francs for +the morning’s work in her reticule, and said:</p> + +<p>“I live with mama, and mama never +gives me any money to spend on myself. +This is Sunday and a holiday, so I +shall go with Henriette and her brother to +Vincennes. It is delicious there under the +trees.”</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 283px;"> +<img src="images/image071.jpg" width="283" height="375" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">OLD MAN MODEL</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">It would have been</span> quite impossible for +me to have gone with them—I was not even +invited; but this very serious and good little +Parisienne, who posed for the figure with +quite the same unconsciousness as she would +have handed you your change over the +counter of some stuffy little shop, went to +Vincennes with Henriette and her brother, +where they had a beautiful day—scrambling +up the paths and listening to the band—all +at the enormous expense of the artist; and +this was how this good little Parisienne +managed to save five francs in a single day!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">- 150 -</a></span> +There are old-men models who knock at +your studio too, and who are celebrated for +their tangled gray locks, which they immediately +uncover as you open your door. These +unkempt-looking Father Times and Methuselahs +prowl about the staircases of the +different ateliers daily. So do little children—mostly +Italians and all filthily dirty; +swarthy, black-eyed, gypsy-looking girls +and boys of from twelve to fifteen years of +age, and Italian mothers holding small +children—itinerant madonnas. These are +the poorer class of models—the riff-raff of +the Quarter—who get anywhere from a few +sous to a few francs for a séance.</p> + +<p>And there are four-footed models, too, +for I know a kindly old horse who has +served in many a studio and who has carried +a score of the famous generals of the +world and Jeanne d’Arcs to battle—in many +a modern public square.</p> + +<p>Chacun son métier!</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">- 151 -</a></p> +<br /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII" href="#TOC8"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER VIII</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3>THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 190px;"> +<img src="images/image072.jpg" width="190" height="300" alt="I" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="dropcap"><span class="frstltr">I</span>N this busy Quarter, +where so many +people are confined +throughout +the day in work-shops +and studios, +a breathing-space +becomes a necessity. +The gardens +of the Luxembourg, +brilliant in +flowers and laid +out in the Renaissance, +with shady +groves and long +avenues of chestnut-trees +stretching up to the Place de +l’Observatoire, afford the great breathing-ground +for the Latin Quarter.</p> + +<p>If one had but an hour to spend in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">- 152 -</a></span> +Quartier Latin, one could not find a more +interesting and representative sight of student +life than between the hours of four and +five on Friday afternoon, when the military +band plays in the Luxembourg Gardens. +This is the afternoon when Bohemia is on +parade. Then every one flocks here to see +one’s friends—and a sort of weekly reception +for the Quarter is held. The walks about +the band-stand are thronged with students +and girls, and hundreds of chairs are filled +with an audience of the older people—shopkeepers +and their families, old women in +white lace caps, and gray-haired old men, +many in straight-brimmed high hats of a +mode of twenty years past. Here they sit +and listen to the music under the cool +shadow of the trees, whose rich foliage +forms an arbor overhead—a roof of green +leaves, through which the sunbeams stream +and in which the fat, gray pigeons find a +paradise.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image073.jpg" width="620" height="392" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE CHILDREN’S SHOP—LUXEMBOURG GARDENS</span> +</div> + +<p>There is a booth near-by where waffles, +cooked on a small oven in the rear, are +sold. In front are a dozen or more tables +for ices and drinkables. Every table and +<!--[image 73]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">- 153 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">- 154 -</a></span>chair +is taken within hearing distance of +the band. When these musicians of the +army of France arrive, marching in twos +from their barracks to the stand, it is always +the signal for that genuine enthusiasm +among the waiting crowd which one +sees between the French and their soldiers.</p> + +<p>If you chance to sit among the groups at +the little tables, and watch the passing +throng in front of you, you will see some +queer “types,” many of them seldom en +evidence except on these Friday afternoons +in the Luxembourg. Buried, no doubt, in +some garret hermitage or studio, they +emerge thus weekly to greet silently the +passing world.</p> + +<p>A tall poet stalks slowly by, reading intently, +as he walks, a well-worn volume of +verses—his faded straw hat shading the +tip of his long nose. Following him, a boy +of twenty, delicately featured, with that +purity of expression one sees in the faces +of the good—the result of a life, perhaps, +given to his ideal in art. He wears his hair +long and curling over his ears, with a +long stray wisp over one eye, the whole<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">- 155 -</a></span> +cropped evenly at the back as it reaches +his black velvet collar. He wears, too, a +dove-gray vest of fine corduroy, buttoned +behind like those of the clergy, and a +velvet tam-o’-shanter-like cap, and carries +between his teeth a small pipe with a long +goose-quill stem. You can readily see that +to this young man with high ideals there is +only one corner of the world worth living +in, and that lies between the Place de l’Observatoire +and the Seine.</p> + +<p>Three students pass, in wide broadcloth +trousers, gathered in tight at the +ankles, and wearing wide-brimmed black +hats. Hanging on the arm of one of the trio is +a short snub-nosed girl, whose Cleo-Merodic +hair, flattened in a bandeau over her ears, +not only completely conceals them, but all +the rest of her face, except her two merry +black eyes and her saucy and neatly rouged +lips. She is in black bicycle bloomers and +a white, short duck jacket—a straw hat +with a wide blue ribbon band, and a fluffy +piece of white tulle tied at the side of her +neck.</p> + +<p>The throng moves slowly by you. It is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">- 156 -</a></span> +impossible, in such a close crowd, to be in +a hurry; besides, one never is here.</p> + +<p>Near-by sit two old ladies, evidently concierges +from some atelier court. One holds +the printed program of the music, cut carefully +from her weekly newspaper; it is +cheaper than buying one for two sous, and +these old concierges are economical.</p> + +<p>In this Friday gathering you will recognize +dozens of faces which you have seen at +the “Bal Bullier” and the cafés.</p> + +<p>The girl in the blue tailor-made dress, +with the little dog, who you remember dined +the night before at the Panthéon, is walking +now arm in arm with a tall man in black, a +mourning band about his hat. The girl is +dressed in black, too—a mark of respect to +her ami by her side. The dog, who is so +small that he slides along the walk every +time his chain is pulled, is now tucked +under her arm.</p> + +<p>One of the tables near the waffle stand is +taken by a group of six students and four +girls. All of them have arrived at the table +in the last fifteen minutes—some alone, some +in twos. The girl in the scarlet gown and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">- 157 -</a></span> +white kid slippers, who came with the queer-looking +“type” with the pointed beard, is +Yvonne Gallois—a bonne camarade. She +keeps the rest in the best of spirits, for +she is witty, this Yvonne, and a great favorite +with the crowd she is with. She is +pretty, too, and has a whole-souled good-humor +about her that makes her ever welcome. +The fellow she came with is Delmet +the architect—a great wag—lazy, but full +of fun—and genius.</p> + +<p>The little girl sitting opposite Yvonne is +Claire Dumont. She is explaining a very +sad “histoire” to the “type” next to her, +intense in the recital of her woes. Her +alert, nervous little face is a study; when +words and expression fail, she shrugs her +delicate shoulders, accenting every sentence +with her hands, until it seems as +if her small, nervous frame could express +no more—and all about her little dog +“Loisette!”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 603px;"> +<img src="images/image074.jpg" width="603" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">AT THE HEAD OF THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS</span> +</div> + +<p>“Yes, the villain of a concierge at Edmond’s +studio swore at him twice, and +Sunday, when Edmond and I were breakfasting +late, the old beast saw ‘Loisette’ +<!--[image 74]<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">- 158 -</a></p>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">- 159 -</a></span>on +the stairs and threw water over her; +she is a sale bête, that grosse femme! She +shall see what it will cost her, the old miser; +and you know I have always been most +amiable with her. She is jealous of me—that +is it—oh! I am certain of it. Because +I am young and happy. Jealous of me! +that’s funny, is it not? The old pig! Poor +‘Loisette’—she shivered all night with fright +and from being wet. Edmond and I are +going to find another place. Yes, she shall +see what it will be there without us—with +no one to depend upon for her snuff and her +wine. If she were concierge at Edmond’s +old atelier she would be treated like that +horrid old Madame Fouquet.”</p> + +<p>The boys in the atelier over her window +hated this old Madame Fouquet, I remember. +She was always prying about and +complaining, so they fished up her pet +gold-fish out of the aquarium on her +window-sill, and fried them on the atelier +stove, and put them back in the window +on a little plate all garnished with carrots. +She swore vengeance and called in the +police, but to no avail. One day they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">- 160 -</a></span> +fished up the parrot in its cage, and the +green bird that screamed and squawked +continually met a speedy and painless death +and went off to the taxidermist. Then the +cage was lowered in its place with the door +left ajar, and the old woman felt sure that +her pet had escaped and would some day +find his way back to her—a thing this garrulous +bird would never have thought of +doing had he had any say in the matter.</p> + +<p>So the old lady left the door of the cage +open for days in the event of his return, and +strange to tell, one morning Madame Fouquet +got up to quarrel with her next-door +neighbor, and, to her amazement, there was +her green pet on his perch in his cage. She +called to him, but he did not answer; he +simply stood on his wired legs and fixed his +glassy eyes on her, and said not a word—while +the gang of Indians in the windows +above yelled themselves hoarse.</p> + +<p>It was just such a crowd as this that initiated +a “nouveau” once in one of the +ateliers. They stripped the new-comer, +and, as is often the custom on similar festive +occasions, painted him all over with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">- 161 -</a></span> +sketches, done in the powdered water-colors +that come in glass jars. They are cheap +and cover a lot of surface, so that the gentleman +in question looked like a human picture-gallery. +After the ceremony, he was +put in a hamper and deposited, in the morning, +in the middle of the Pont des <span title=" Artz " class="hoverbox">Arts</span>, +where he was subsequently found by the +police, who carted him off in a cab.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 273px;"> +<img src="images/image075.jpg" width="273" height="425" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE FONTAINE DE MEDICIS</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">But you must see</span> more of this vast garden +of the Luxembourg to appreciate truly +its beauty and its charm. Filled with beautiful +sculpture in bronze and marble, with +its musée of famous modern pictures bought +by the Government, with flower-beds brilliant +in geraniums and fragrant in roses, +with the big basin spouting a jet of water +in its center, where the children sail their +boats, and with that superb “Fontaine de +Medicis” at the end of a long, rectangular +basin of water—dark as some pool in a forest +brook, the green vines trailing about its +sides, shaded by the rich foliage of the trees +overhead.</p> + +<p>On the other side of the Luxembourg +you will find a garden of roses, with a +<!--[image 75]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">- 162 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">- 163 -</a></span>rich +bronze group of Greek runners in the +center, and near it, back of the long marble +balustrade, a croquet ground—a favorite +spot for several veteran enthusiasts who +play here regularly, surrounded for hours +by an interested crowd who applaud and +cheer the participants in this passé sport.</p> + +<p>This is another way of spending an afternoon +at the sole cost of one’s leisure. It +takes but little to amuse these people!</p> + +<p>Often at the Punch and Judy show near-by, +you will see two old gentlemen,—who +may have watched this same Punch and +Judy show when they were youngsters,—and +who have been sitting for half an hour, +waiting for the curtain of the miniature +theater to rise. It is popular—this small +“Théâtre Guignol,” and the benches in +front are filled with the children of rich and +poor, who scream with delight and kick +their little, fat bare legs at the first shrill +squeak of Mr. Punch. The three who compose +the staff of this tiny attraction have +been long in its service—the old harpist, +and the good wife of the showman who +knows every child in the neighborhood, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">- 164 -</a></span> +her husband who is Mr. Punch, the hangman, +and the gendarme, and half a dozen +other equally historical personages. A +thin, sad-looking man, this husband, gray-haired, +with a careworn look in his deep-sunken +eyes, who works harder hourly, +daily, yearly, to amuse the heart of a child +than almost any one I know.</p> + +<p>The little box of a theater is stifling hot +in summer, and yet he must laugh and +scream and sing within it, while his good +wife collects the sous, talking all the while +to this and to that child whom she has +known since its babyhood; chatting with +the nurses decked out in their gay-colored, +Alsatian bows, the ribbons reaching nearly +to the ground.</p> + +<p>A French nurse is a gorgeous spectacle +of neatness and cleanliness, and many of +the younger ones, fresh from country homes +in Normandy and Brittany, with their rosy +cheeks, are pictures of health. Wherever +you see a nurse, you will see a “piou-piou” +not far away, which is a very belittling word +for the red-trousered infantryman of the +République Française.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">- 165 -</a></span> +Surrounding the Palais du Luxembourg, +these “piou-pious,” less fortunate for the +hour, stand guard in the small striped +sentry-boxes, musket at side, or pace stolidly +up and down the flagged walk. Marie, +at the moment, is no doubt with the children +of the rich Count, in a shady spot +near the music. How cruel is the fate of +many a gallant “piou-piou”!</p> + +<p>Farther down the gravel-walk strolls a +young Frenchman and his fiancée—the +mother of his betrothed inevitably at her +side! It is under this system of rigid chaperonage +that the young girl of France is +given in marriage. It is not to be wondered +at that many of them marry to be free, and +that many of the happier marriages have +begun with an elopement!</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image076.jpg" width="620" height="395" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE PALACE OF THE LUXEMBOURG</span> +</div> + +<p>The music is over, and the band is filing +out, followed by the crowd. A few linger +about the walks around the band-stand to +chat. The old lady who rents the chairs +is stacking them up about the tree-trunks, +and long shadows across the walks tell of +the approaching twilight. Overhead, among +the leaves, the pigeons coo. For a few moments +<!--[image 76]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">- 166 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">- 167 -</a></span>the +sun bathes the great garden in a +pinkish glow, then drops slowly, a blood-red +disk, behind the trees. The air grows +chilly; it is again the hour to dine—the hour +when Paris wakes.</p> + +<p>In the smaller restaurants of the Quarter +one often sees some strange contrasts +among these true bohemians, for the Latin +Quarter draws its habitués from every part +of the globe. They are not all French—these +happy-go-lucky fellows, who live for +the day and let the morrow slide. You will +see many Japanese—some of them painters—many +of them taking courses in political +economy, or in law; many of them titled +men of high rank in their own country, +studying in the schools, and learning, too, +with that thoroughness and rapidity which +are ever characteristic of their race. You +will find, too, Brazilians; gentlemen from +Haiti of darker hue; Russians, Poles, and +Spaniards—men and women from every +clime and every station in life. They adapt +themselves to the Quarter and become a +part of this big family of Bohemia easily +and naturally.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">- 168 -</a></span> +In this daily atmosphere only the girl-student +from our own shores seems out of +place. She will hunt for some small restaurant, +sacred in its exclusiveness and +known only to a dozen bon camarades of +the Quarter. Perhaps this girl-student, it +may be, from the West and her cousin from +the East will discover some such cosy little +boîte on their way back from their atelier. +To two other equally adventurous female +minds they will impart this newest find; +after that you will see the four dining there +nightly together, as safe, I assure you, +within these walls of Bohemia as they +would be at home rocking on their Aunt +Mary’s porch.</p> + +<p>There is, of course, considerable awkwardness +between these bon camarades, to +whom the place really belongs, and these +very innocent new-comers, who seek a table +by themselves in a corner under the few +trees in front of the small restaurant. And +yet every one is exceedingly polite to them. +Madame the patronne hustles about to +see that the dinner is warm and nicely +served; and Henriette, who is waiting on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">- 169 -</a></span> +them, none the less attentive, although she +is late for her own dinner, which she will sit +down to presently with madame the patronne, +the good cook, and the other girls +who serve the small tables.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 314px;"> +<img src="images/image077.jpg" width="314" height="450" alt="" title="" /> +<span class="caption">WHAT IS GOING ON AT THE THEATERS</span> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">This later feast</span> will be augmented perhaps +by half the good boys and girls who +have been dining at the long table. Perhaps +they will all come in and help shell +the peas for to-morrow’s dinner. And yet +this is a public place, where the painters +come, and where one pays only for what +one orders. It is all very interesting to the +four American girls, who are dining at the +small table. “It is so thoroughly bohemian!” +they exclaim.</p> + +<p>But what must Mimi think of these silent +and exclusive strangers, and what, too, +must the tall girl in the bicycle bloomers +think, and the little girl who has been ill +and who at the moment is dining with +Renould, the artist, and whom every one—even +to the cook, is so glad to welcome +back after her long illness? There is an +unsurmountable barrier between the Americans +at the little table in the corner and +<!--[image 77]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">- 170 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">- 171 -</a></span>that +jolly crowd of good and kindly people +at the long one, for Mimi and Henriette +and the little girl who has been so ill, +and the French painters and sculptors +with them, cannot understand either the +language of these strangers or their views +of life.</p> + +<p>“Florence!” exclaims one of the strangers +in a whisper, “do look at that queer +little ‘type’ at the long table—the tall girl +in black actually kissed him!”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean it!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I do—just now. Why, my dear, I +saw it plainly!”</p> + +<p>Poor culprits! There is no law against +kissing in the open air in Paris, and besides, +the tall girl in black has known the +little “type” for a Parisienne age—thirty +days or less.</p> + +<p>The four innocents, who have coughed +through their soup and whispered through +the rest of the dinner, have now finished +and are leaving, but if those at the long +table notice their departure, they do not +show it. In the Quarter it is considered +the height of rudeness to stare. You will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">- 172 -</a></span> +find these Suzannes and Marcelles exceedingly +well-bred in the little refinements of +life, and you will note a certain innate dignity +and kindliness in their bearing toward +others, which often makes one wish to +uncover his head in their presence.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">- 173 -</a></p> +<br /> +<div> +<img class="figleft" src="images/image078a.jpg" width="252" height="270" alt="T" title="" /> +<img class="figleft" src="images/image078b.jpg" width="196" height="129" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<br /><br /><br /> +<h2 class="chptrimg"><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX" href="#TOC9"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER IX</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3 class="chptrimg">“THE RAGGED EDGE<br /> +OF THE<br /> +QUARTER”</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="dropcap"><span class="frstltr">T</span>HERE are many streets +of the Quarter as quiet +as those of a country +village. Some of them, +like the rue Vaugirard, +lead out past gloomy +slaughter-houses and stables, through +desolate sections of vacant lots, littered +with the ruins of factory and foundry whose +tall, smoke-begrimed chimneys in the dark +stand like giant sentries, as if pointing a +warning finger to the approaching pedestrian, +for these ragged edges of the Quarter +often afford at night a lurking-ground +for footpads.</p> + +<p>In just such desolation there lived a +dozen students, in a small nest of studios +that I need not say were rented to them at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">- 174 -</a></span> +a price within their ever-scanty means. It +was marveled at among the boys in the +Quarter that any of these exiles lived to +see the light of another day, after wandering +back at all hours of the night to their +stronghold.</p> + +<p>Possibly their sole possessions consisted +of the clothes they had on, a few bad pictures, +and their several immortal geniuses. +That the gentlemen with the sand-bags +knew of this I am convinced, for the students +were never molested. Verily, Providence +lends a strong and ready arm to the +drunken man and the fool!</p> + +<p>The farther out one goes on the rue Vaugirard, +the more desolate and forbidding +becomes this long highway, until it terminates +at the fortifications, near which is a +huge, open field, kept clear of such permanent +buildings as might shelter an enemy +in time of war. Scattered over this space +are the hovels of squatters and gipsies—fortune-telling, +horse-trading vagabonds, +whose living-vans at certain times of the +year form part of the smaller fairs within +the Quarter.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image079.jpg" width="278" height="450" alt="(factory chimneys along empty street)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">- 175 -</a></span> +<span class="nowrap">And very small</span> and unattractive little fairs +they are, consisting of half a dozen or more +wagons, serving as a yearly abode for these +shiftless people; illumined at night by the +glare of smoking oil torches. There is, +moreover, a dingy tent with a half-drawn +red curtain that hides the fortune-telling +beauty; and a traveling shooting-gallery, +so short that the muzzle of one’s rifle nearly +rests upon the painted lady with the sheet-iron +breastbone, centered by a pinhead of +a bull’s-eye which never rings. There is +often a small carousel, too, which is not +only patronized by the children, but often +by a crowd of students—boys and girls, +who literally turn the merry-go-round into +a circus, and who for the time are cheered +to feats of bareback riding by the enthusiastic +bystanders.</p> + +<p>These little Quarter fêtes are far different +from the great fête de Neuilly across the +Seine, which begins at the Porte Maillot, +and continues in a long, glittering avenue +of side-shows, with mammoth carousels, +bizarre in looking-glass panels and golden +figures. Within the circle of all this throne-like +<!--[image 79]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">- 176 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">- 177 -</a></span>gorgeousness, +a horse-power organ +shakes the very ground with its clarion +blasts, while pink and white wooden pigs, +their tails tied up in bows of colored ribbons, +heave and swoop round and round, +their backs loaded with screaming girls and +shouting men.</p> + +<p>It was near this very same Port Maillot, +in a colossal theater, built originally for the +representation of one of the Kiralfy ballets, +that a fellow student and myself went over +from the Quarter one night to “supe” in a +spectacular and melodramatic pantomime, +entitled “Afrique à Paris.” We were invited +by the sole proprietor and manager of +the show—an old circus-man, and one of the +shrewdest, most companionable, and intelligent +of men, who had traveled the world +over. He spoke no language but his own +unadulterated American. This, with his +dominant personality, served him wherever +fortune carried him!</p> + +<p>So, accepting his invitation to play alternately +the dying soldier and the pursuing +cannibal under the scorching rays of a +tropical limelight, and with an old pair of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">- 178 -</a></span> +trousers and a flannel shirt wrapped in a +newspaper, we presented ourselves at the +appointed hour, at the edge of the hostile +country.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image080.jpg" width="473" height="450" alt="(street scene)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Here we found ourselves surrounded by a +horde of savages who needed no greasepaint +to stain their ebony bodies, and many +of whose grinning countenances I had often +recognized along our own Tenderloin. Besides, +there were cowboys and “greasers” +and diving elks, and a company of French +Zouaves; the latter, in fact, seemed to be +the only thing foreign about the show. Our +friend, the manager, informed us that he +had thrown the entire spectacle together<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">- 179 -</a></span> +in about ten days, and that he had gathered +with ease, in two, a hundred of those +dusky warriors, who had left their coat-room +and barber-shop jobs in New York +to find themselves stranded in Paris.</p> + +<p>He was a hustler, this circus-man, and +preceding the spectacle of the African war, +he had entertained the audience with a +short variety-show, to brace the spectacle. +He insisted on bringing us around in front +and giving us a box, so we could see for +ourselves how good it really was.</p> + +<p>During this forepart, and after some +clever high trapeze work, the sensation +of the evening was announced—a Signore, +with an unpronounceable name, would train +a den of ten forest-bred lions!</p> + +<p>When the orchestra had finished playing +“The Awakening of the Lion,” the curtain +rose, disclosing the nerveless Signore in +purple tights and high-topped boots. A +long, portable cage had been put together +on the stage during the intermission, and +within it the ten pacing beasts. There is +something terrifying about the roar of a +lion as it begins with its high-keyed moan,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">- 180 -</a></span> +and descends in scale to a hoarse roar that +seems to penetrate one’s whole nervous +system.</p> + +<p>But the Signore did not seem to mind it; +he placed one foot on the sill of the safety-door, +tucked his short riding-whip under +his arm, pulled the latch with one hand, +forced one knee in the slightly opened door, +and sprang into the cage. Click! went the +iron door as it found its lock. Bang! went +the Signore’s revolver, as he drove the snarling, +roaring lot into the corner of the cage. +The smoke from his revolver drifted out +through the bars; the house was silent. +The trainer walked slowly up to the fiercest +lion, who reared against the bars as he approached him, +striking at the trainer with +his heavy paws, while the others slunk into +the opposite corner. The man’s head was +but half a foot now from the lion’s; he +menaced the beast with the little riding-whip; +he almost, but did not quite strike him +on the tip of his black nose that worked convulsively +in rage. Then the lion dropped +awkwardly, with a short growl, to his forelegs, +and slunk, with the rest, into the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">- 181 -</a></span> +corner. The Signore turned and bowed. It +was the little riding-whip they feared, for +they had never gauged its sting. Not the +heavy iron bar within reach of his hand, +whose force they knew. The vast audience +breathed easier.</p> + +<p>“An ugly lot,” I said, turning to our friend +the manager, who had taken his seat beside +me.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he mused, peering at the stage +with his keen gray eyes; “green stock, but +a swell act, eh? Wait for the grand finale. +I’ve got a girl here who comes on and does +art poses among the lions; she’s a dream—French, +too!”</p> + +<p>A girl of perhaps twenty, enveloped in +a bath gown, now appeared at the wings. +The next instant the huge theater became +dark, and she stood in full fleshings, in the +center of the cage, brilliant in the rays of a +powerful limelight, while the lions circled +about her at the command of the trainer.</p> + +<p>“Ain’t she a peach?” said the manager, +enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said I, “she is. Has she been in +the cages long?” I asked.</p> + +<!--[image 81]<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">- 182 -</a></p>--> + +<div class="figright"> +<img src="images/image081.jpg" width="358" height="450" alt="(portrait of woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">- 183 -</a></span> +<span class="nowrap">“No, she never</span> worked with the cats before,” +he said; “she’s new to the show +business; she said her folks live in Nantes. +She worked here in a chocolate factory +until she saw my ‘ad’ last week and joined +my show. We gave her a rehearsal Monday +and we put her on the bill next night. +She’s a good looker with plenty of grit, and +is a winner with the bunch in front.”</p> + +<p>“How did you get her to take the job?” +I said.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he replied, “she balked at the +act at first, but I showed her two violet +notes from a couple of swell fairies who +wanted the job, and after that she signed +for six weeks.”</p> + +<p>“Who wrote the notes?” I said, queryingly.</p> + +<p>“I wrote ’em!” he exclaimed dryly, and +he bit the corner of his stubby mustache +and smiled. “This is the last act in the +olio, so you will have to excuse me. So +long!” and he disappeared in the gloom.</p> + +<hr class="hr33" /> + +<p>There are streets and boulevards in the +Quarter, sections of which are alive with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">- 184 -</a></span> +the passing throng and the traffic of carts +and omnibuses. Then one will come to a +long stretch of massive buildings, public +institutions, silent as convents—their interminable +walls flanking garden or court.</p> + +<p>The Boulevard St. Germain is just such a +highway until it crosses the Boulevard St. +Michel—the liveliest roadway of the Quarter. +Then it seems to become suddenly +inoculated with its bustle and life, and from +there on is crowded with bourgeoise and +animated with the commerce of market +and shop.</p> + +<p>An Englishman once was so fired with a +desire to see the gay life of the Latin Quarter +that he rented a suite of rooms on this +same Boulevard St. Germain at about the +middle of this long, quiet stretch. Here he +stayed a fortnight, expecting daily to see +from his “chambers” the gaiety of a Bohemia +of which he had so often heard. At +the end of his disappointing sojourn, he +returned to London, firmly convinced that +the gay life of the Latin Quarter was a +myth. It was to him.</p> + +<!--[image 82]<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">- 185 -</a></p>--> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/image082.jpg" width="330" height="450" alt="(crowded street market)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">But the man from</span> Denver, the “Steel +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">- 186 -</a></span> +King,” and the two thinner gentlemen with +the louis-lined waistcoats who accompanied +him and whom Fortune had awakened in +the far West one morning and had led them +to “The Great Red Star copper mine”—a +find which had ever since been a source of +endless amusement to them—discovered +the Quarter before they had been in Paris +a day, and found it, too, “the best ever,” +as they expressed it.</p> + +<p>They did not remain long in Paris, this +rare crowd of seasoned genials, for it was +their first trip abroad and they had to see +Switzerland and Vienna, and the Rhine; +but while they stayed they had a good time +Every Minute.</p> + +<p>The man from Denver and the Steel King +sat at one of the small tables, leaning over +the railing at the “Bal Bullier,” gazing at +the sea of dancers.</p> + +<p>“Billy,” said the man from Denver to the +Steel King, “if they had this in Chicago +they’d tear out the posts inside of fifteen +minutes”—he wiped the perspiration from +his broad forehead and pushed his twenty-dollar +Panama on the back of his head.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">- 187 -</a></span> +“Ain’t it a sight!” he mused, clinching +the butt of his perfecto between his teeth. +“Say!—say! it beats all I ever see,” and +he chuckled to himself, his round, genial +face, with its double chin, wreathed in +smiles.</p> + +<p>“Say, George!” he called to one of the +‘copper twins,’ “did you get on to that +little one in black that just went by—well! +well!! well!!! In a minute!!”</p> + +<p>Already the pile of saucers on their table +reached a foot high—a record of refreshments +for every Yvonne and Marcelle that +had stopped in passing. Two girls approach.</p> + +<p>“Certainly, sit right down,” cried the +Steel King. “Here, Jack,”—this to the +aged garçon, “smoke up! and ask the ladies +what they’ll have”—all of which was unintelligible +to the two little Parisiennes and +the garçon, but quite clear in meaning to +all three.</p> + +<p>“Dis donc, garçon!” interrupted the taller +of the two girls, “un café glacé pour moi.”</p> + +<p>“Et moi,” answered her companion gayly, +“Je prends une limonade!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">- 188 -</a></span> +“Here! Hold on!” thundered good-humoredly +the man from Denver; “git ’em a +good drink. Rye, garsong! yes, that’s it—whiskey—I +see you’re on, and two. Deux!” +he explains, holding up two fat fingers, “all +straight, friend—two whiskeys with seltzer +on the side—see? Now go roll your hoop +and git back with ’em.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, non, monsieur!” cried the two Parisiennes +in one breath; “whiskey! jamais! +ça pique et c’est trop fort.”</p> + +<p>At this juncture the flower woman arrived +with a basketful of red roses.</p> + +<p>“Voulez-vous des fleurs, messieurs et +mesdames?” she asked politely.</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” cried the Steel King; “here, +Maud and Mamie, take the lot,” and he +handed the two girls the entire contents +of the basket. The taller buried her face +for a moment in the red Jaqueminots and +drank in their fragrance. When she looked +up, two big tears trickled down to the corners +of her pretty mouth. In a moment +more she was smiling! The smaller girl +gave a little cry of delight and shook her +roses above her head as three other girls<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">- 189 -</a></span> +passed. Ten minutes later the two possessed +but a single rose apiece—they had +generously given all the rest away.</p> + +<div class="figright"> +<img src="images/image083.jpg" width="174" height="225" alt="(portrait of woman)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="nowrap">The “copper</span> twins” had been oblivious +of all this. They had been hanging over +the low balustrade, engaged in a heart-to-heart +talk with two pretty Quartier brunettes. +It seemed to be really a case of +love at first sight, carried on somewhat +under difficulties, for the “copper twins” +could not speak a word of French, and +the English of the two chic brunettes was +limited to “Oh, yes!” “Vary well!” “Good +morning,” “Good evening,” and “I love +you.” The four held hands over the low +railing, until the “copper twins” fairly +steamed in talk; warmed by the sun of +gaiety and wet by several rounds of Highland +dew, they grew sad and earnest, and +got up and stepped all +over the Steel King and +the man from Denver, +and the two Parisiennes’ +daintily slippered feet, in +squeezing out past the +group of round tables<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">- 190 -</a></span> +back of the balustrade, and down on to the +polished floor—where they are speedily lost +to view in the maze of dancers, gliding into +the whirl with the two brunettes. When the +waltz is over they stroll out with them into +the garden, and order wine, and talk of +changing their steamer date.</p> + +<p>The good American, with his spotless +collar and his well-cut clothes, with his +frankness and whole-souled generosity, is +a study to the modern grisette. He seems +strangely attractive to her, in contrast +with a certain type of Frenchman, that is +selfish, unfaithful, and mean—that jealousy +makes uncompanionable and sometimes +cruel. She will tell you that these pale, +black-eyed, and black-bearded boulevardiers +are all alike—lazy and selfish; so unlike +many of the sterling, good fellows of +the Quarter—Frenchmen of a different +stamp, and there are many of these—rare, +good Bohemians, with hearts and natures +as big as all out-doors—“bons garçons,” +which is only another way of saying +“gentlemen.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">- 191 -</a></span> +As you tramp along back to your quarters +some rainy night you find many of the streets +leading from the boulevards silent and badly +lighted, except for some flickering lantern +on the corner of a long block which sends +the shadows scurrying across your path. +You pass a student perhaps and a girl, +hurrying home—a fiacre for a short distance +is a luxury in the Quarter. Now you hear +the click-clock of an approaching cab, the +cocher half asleep on his box. The hood +of the fiacre is up, sheltering the two inside +from the rain. As the voiture rumbles by +near a street-light, you catch a glimpse of +a pink silk petticoat within and a pair of +dainty, white kid shoes—and the glint of an +officer’s sword.</p> + +<p>Farther on, you pass a silent gendarme +muffled in his night cloak; a few doors farther +on in a small café, a bourgeois couple, +who have arrived on a late train no doubt +to spend a month with relatives in Paris, +are having a warming tipple before proceeding +farther in the drizzling rain. They +have, of course, invited the cocher to drink +with them. They have brought all their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">- 192 -</a></span> +pets and nearly all their household goods—two +dogs, three bird-cages, their tiny occupants +protected from the damp air by +several folds of newspaper; a cat in a stout +paper box with air holes, and two trunks, +well tied with rope.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image084.jpg" width="620" height="442" alt="(street market)" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>“Ah, yes, it has been a long journey!” +sighs the wife. Her husband corroborates +her, as they explain to the patronne of the +café and to the cocher that they left their +village at midday. Anything over two hours +on the chemin-de-fer is considered a journey +by these good French people!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">- 193 -</a></span> +As you continue on to your studio, you +catch a glimpse of the lights of the Boulevard +Montparnasse. Next a cab with a +green light rattles by; then a ponderous +two-wheeled cart lumbers along, piled high +with red carrots as neatly arranged as +cigars in a box—the driver asleep on his +seat near his swinging lantern—and the +big Normandy horses taking the way. It +is late, for these carts are on their route to +the early morning market—one of the great +Halles. The tired waiters are putting up +the shutters of the smaller cafés and stacking +up the chairs. Now a cock crows lustily +in some neighboring yard; the majority at +least of the Latin Quarter has turned in for +the night. A moment later you reach your +gate, feel instinctively for your matches. In +the darkness of the court a friendly cat +rubs her head contentedly against your leg. +It is the yellow one that sleeps in the furniture +factory, and you pick her up and +carry her to your studio, where, a moment +later, she is crunching gratefully the remnant +of the beau maquereau left from your +déjeuner—for charity begins at home.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">- 194 -</a></p> +<br /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X" href="#TOC10"> +<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">CHAPTER X</span></a></h2> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3>EXILED</h3> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image007.jpg" width="30" height="22" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Scores of men, celebrated in art and in +literature, have, for a longer or shorter period +of their lives, been bohemians of the +Latin Quarter. And yet these years spent +in cafés and in studios have not turned them +out into the world a devil-me-care lot of +dreamers. They have all marched and +sung along the “Boul’ Miche”; danced at +the “Bullier”; starved, struggled, and lived +in the romance of its life. It has all been a +part of their education, and a very important +part too, in the development of their +several geniuses, a development which in +later life has placed them at the head of +their professions. These years of camaraderie—of +a life free from all conventionalities, +in daily touch with everything about +them, and untrammeled by public censure +or the petty views of prudish or narrow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">- 195 -</a></span> +minds, have left them free to cut a straight +swath merrily toward the goal of their +ideals, surrounded all the while by an +atmosphere of art and good-fellowship that +permeates the very air they breathe.</p> + +<p>If a man can work at all, he can work +here, for between the working-hours he +finds a life so charming, that once having +lived it he returns to it again and again, as +to an old love.</p> + +<p>How many are the romances of this student +Quarter! How many hearts have +been broken or made glad! How many +brave spirits have suffered and worked on +and suffered again, and at last won fame! +How many have failed! We who come +with a fresh eye know nothing of all that +has passed within these quaint streets—only +those who have lived in and through +it know its full story.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 620px;"> +<img src="images/image085.jpg" width="620" height="374" alt="THE MUSÉE CLUNY" title="" /> +<p>THE <span title=" MUSEE " class="hoverbox">MUSÉE</span> CLUNY</p> +</div> + +<p>Pochard has seen it; so has the little old +woman who once danced at the opera; +so have old Bibi La Purée, and Alphonse, +the gray-haired garçon, and Mère Gaillard, +the flower-woman. They have seen the +gay boulevards and the cafés and generations +<!--[image 85]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">- 196 -</a></span>--> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">- 197 -</a></span>of +grisettes, from the true grisette of +years gone by, in her dainty white cap and +simple dress turned low at the throat, to +the tailor-made grisette of to-day.</p> + +<p>Yet the eyes of the little old woman still +dance; they have not grown tired of this +ever-changing kaleidoscope of human nature, +this paradise of the free, where many +would rather struggle on half starved than +live a life of luxury elsewhere.</p> + +<p>And the students are equally quixotic. I +knew one once who lived in an air-castle of +his own building—a tall, serious fellow, a +sculptor, who always went tramping about +in a robe resembling a monk’s cowl, with +his bare feet incased in coarse sandals; only +his art redeemed these eccentricities, for he +produced in steel and ivory the most exquisite +statuettes. One at the Salon was the +sensation of the day—a knight in full armor, +scarcely half a foot in height, holding in his +arms a nymph in flesh-tinted ivory, whose +gentle face, upturned, gazed sweetly into +the stern features behind the uplifted vizor; +and all so exquisitely carved, so alive, so +human, that one could almost feel the tender<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">- 198 -</a></span> +heart of this fair lady beating against +the cold steel breastplate.</p> + +<p>Another “bon garçon”—a painter whose +enthusiasm for his art knew no bounds—craved +to produce a masterpiece. This +dreamer could be seen daily ferreting +around the Quarter for a studio always +bigger than the one he had. At last he +found one that exactly fitted the requirements +of his vivid imagination—a studio +with a ceiling thirty feet high, with windows +like the scenic ones next to the stage +entrances of the theaters. Here at last he +could give full play to his brush—no subject +seemed too big for him to tackle; he would +move in a canvas as big as a back flat to +a third act, and commence on a “Fall of +Babylon” or a “Carnage of Rome” with +a nerve that was sublime! The choking +dust of the arena—the insatiable fury of the +tigers—the cowering of hundreds of unfortunate +captives—and the cruel multitude +above, seated in the vast circle of the +hippodrome—all these did not daunt his +zeal.</p> + +<p>Once he persuaded a venerable old abbé<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">- 199 -</a></span> +to pose for his portrait. The old gentleman +came patiently to his studio and posed for +ten days, at the end of which time the abbé +gazed at the result and said things which I +dare not repeat—for our enthusiast had so +far only painted his clothes; the face was +still in its primary drawing.</p> + +<p>“The face I shall do in time,” the enthusiast +assured the reverend man excitedly; +“it is the effect of the rich color of +your robe I wished to get. And may I ask +your holiness to be patient a day longer +while I put in your boots?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir!” thundered the irate abbé. +“Does monsieur think I am not a very +busy man?”</p> + +<p>Then softening a little, he said, with a +smile:</p> + +<p>“I won’t come any more, my friend. I’ll +send my boots around to-morrow by my +boy.”</p> + +<p>But the longest red-letter day has its +ending, and time and tide beckon one with +the brutality of an impatient jailer.</p> + +<p>On my studio table is a well-stuffed envelope +containing the documents relative to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">- 200 -</a></span> +my impending exile—a stamped card of my +identification, bearing the number of my +cell, a plan of the slave-ship, and six red +tags for my baggage.</p> + +<p>The three pretty daughters of old Père +Valois know of my approaching departure, +and say cheering things to me as I pass the +concierge’s window.</p> + +<p>Père Valois stands at the gate and stops +me with: “Is it true, monsieur, you are +going Saturday?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I answer; “unfortunately, it is +quite true.”</p> + +<p>The old man sighs and replies: “I once +had to leave Paris myself”; looking at me +as if he were speaking to an old resident. +“My regiment was ordered to the colonies. +It was hard, monsieur, but I did my duty.”</p> + +<p>The morning of my sailing has arrived. +The patron of the tobacco-shop, and madame +his good wife, and the wine merchant, +and the baker along the little street with +its cobblestone-bed, have all wished me +“bon voyage,” accompanied with many +handshakings. It is getting late and Père +Valois has gone to hunt for a cab—a “galerie,” +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">- 201 -</a></span> +as it is called, with a place for trunks +on top. Twenty minutes go by, but no +“galerie” is in sight. The three daughters +of Père Valois run in different directions to +find one, while I throw the remaining odds +and ends in the studio into my valise. At +last there is a sound of grating wheels below +on the gravel court. The “galerie” +has arrived—with the smallest of the three +daughters inside, all out of breath from her +run and terribly excited. There are the +trunks and the valises and the bicycle in +its crate to get down. Two soldiers, who +have been calling on two of the daughters, +come up to the studio and kindly offer their +assistance. There is no time to lose, and +in single file the procession starts down the +atelier stairs, headed by Père Valois, who +has just returned from his fruitless search +considerably winded, and the three girls, +the two red-trousered soldiers and myself +tugging away at the rest of the baggage.</p> + +<p>It is not often one departs with the assistance +of three pretty femmes de ménage, +a jolly old concierge, and a portion of the +army of the French Republic. With many<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">- 202 -</a></span> +suggestions from my good friends and an +assuring wave of the hand from the aged +cocher, my luggage is roped and chained to +the top of the rickety, little old cab, which +sways and squeaks with the sudden weight, +while the poor, small horse, upon whom has +been devolved the task of making the 11.35 +train, Gare St. Lazare, changes his position +wearily from one leg to the other. He +is evidently thinking out the distance, and +has decided upon his gait.</p> + +<p>“Bon voyage!” cry the three girls and +Père Valois and the two soldiers, as the +last trunk is chained on.</p> + +<p>The dingy vehicle groans its way slowly +out of the court. Just as it reaches the last +gate it stops.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” I ask, poking my +head out of the window.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” says the aged cocher, “it is +an impossibility! I regret very much to +say that your bicycle will not pass through +the gate.”</p> + +<p>A dozen heads in the windows above offer +suggestions. I climb out and take a look; +there are at least four inches to spare on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">- 203 -</a></span> +either side in passing through the iron +posts.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” cries my cocher enthusiastically, +“monsieur is right, happily for us!”</p> + +<p>He cracks his whip, the little horse +gathers itself together—a moment of careful +driving and we are through and into the +street and rumbling away, amid cheers from +the windows above. As I glance over my +traps, I see a small bunch of roses tucked +in the corner of my roll of rugs with an engraved +card attached. “From Mademoiselle +Ernestine Valois,” it reads, and on +the other side is written, in a small, fine +hand, “Bon voyage.”</p> + +<p>I look back to bow my acknowledgment, +but it is too late; we have turned the corner +and the rue Vaugirard is but a memory!</p> + +<p class="starrow">*****</p> + +<p>But why go on telling you of what the +little shops contain—how narrow and picturesque +are the small streets—how gay +the boulevards—what they do at the “Bullier”—or +where they dine? It is Love that +moves Paris—it is the motive power of this +big, beautiful, polished city—the love of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">- 204 -</a></span> +adventure, the love of intrigue, the love of +being a bohemian if you will—but it is Love +all the same!</p> + +<p>“I work for love,” hums the little couturière.</p> + +<p>“I work for love,” cries the miller of +Marcel Legay.</p> + +<p>“I live for love,” sings the poet.</p> + +<p>“For the love of art I am a painter,” +sighs Edmond, in his atelier—“and for +her!”</p> + +<p>“For the love of it I mold and model and +create,” chants the sculptor—“and for her!”</p> + +<p>It is the Woman who dominates Paris—“Les +petites femmes!” who have inspired +its art through the skill of these artisans.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur! monsieur! Please buy this +fisherman doll!” cries a poor old woman +outside of your train compartment, as you +are leaving Havre for Paris.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur!” screams a girl, running near +the open window with a little fishergirl doll +uplifted.</p> + +<p>“What, you don’t want it? You have +bought one? Ah! I see,” cries the pretty +vendor; “but it is a boy doll—he will be sad +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">- 205 -</a></span> +if he goes to Paris without a companion!”</p> + +<p>Take all the little fishergirls away from +Paris—from the Quartier Latin—and you +would find chaos and a morgue!</p> + +<p>L’amour! that is it—L’amour!—L’amour!—L’amour!</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/image086.jpg" width="282" height="400" alt="(burning candle)" title="" /> +</div> + +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Real Latin Quarter, by F. 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