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diff --git a/old/63522-0.txt b/old/63522-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index fc81231..0000000 --- a/old/63522-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8021 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Amazing City, by John Frederick Macdonald - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Amazing City - - -Author: John Frederick Macdonald - - - -Release Date: October 21, 2020 [eBook #63522] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMAZING CITY*** - - -E-text prepared by MFR and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team -(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/amazingcity00macd - - - - - -THE AMAZING CITY - - - * * * * * * - - LA FAISANE - - _Mais tous ces objets sont pauvres et moroses!_ - - CHANTECLER - - _Moi, je n’en reviens pas du luxe de ces choses!_ - - LA FAISANE - - _Tout est toujours pareil, pourtant!_ - - CHANTECLER - - _Rien n’est pareil,_ - _Jamais, sous le soleil, à cause du soleil!_ - _Car Elle change tout!_ - - LA FAISANE - - _Elle... Qui?_ - - CHANTECLER - - _La lumière!..._ - - LA FAISANE - - _Alors tout le secret de ton chant?..._ - - CHANTECLER - - _C’est que j’ose_ - _Avoir peur que sans moi, l’orient se repose!..._ - _Je pense à la lumière et non pas à la gloire._ - _Chanter, c’est ma façon de me battre et de croire._ - _Et si de tous les chants le mien est le plus fier,_ - _C’est que je chante clair, afin qu’il fasse clair._ - - ROSTAND: Chantecler. - - * * * * * * - - -THE AMAZING CITY - -by - -JOHN F. MACDONALD - -Author of -“Paris of the Parisians” -“Two Towns—One City” etc. - - -[Illustration] - - - - - - -London -Grant Richards Ltd. -St Martin’S Street -MDCCCCXVIII - -Printed in Great Britain by the Riverside Press Limited -Edinburgh - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - PREFACE 7 - - I. IN THE STREET 19 - - II. IN A CELLAR 31 - - III. IN A MARKET-PLACE 38 - - IV. BOURGEOISIE 47 - - 1. M. DURAND AT MARIE-LE-BOIS - - 2. PENSION DE FAMILLE. THE BEAUTIFUL MADEMOISELLE - MARIE, WHO LOVED GAMBETTA - - 3. PENSION DE FAMILLE. FRENCH AND PIANO LESSONS. LES - SAINTES FILLES, MESDEMOISELLES PÉRIVIER - - 4. THE AFFAIR OF THE COLLARS - - V. ON STRIKE 69 - - 1. WHEN IT WAS DARK IN PARIS - - 2. BIRDS OF THE STATE AT THE POST OFFICE - - 3. AFTER THE STORM AT VILLENEUVE-ST-GEORGES - - VI. COTTIN & COMPANY 84 - - VII. THE LATIN QUARTER 92 - - 1. MÈRE CASIMIR - - 2. GLOOM ON THE RIVE GAUCHE - - 3. THE DAUGHTER OF THE STUDENTS - - VIII. MONSIEUR LE ROUÉ 114 - - IX. FRENCH LIFE AND THE FRENCH STAGE 122 - - 1. M. PAUL BOURGET, THE REACTIONARY PLAYWRIGHT, AND - M. PATAUD, WHO PUT OUT THE LIGHTS OF PARIS - - 2. M. ALFRED CAPUS. “NOTRE JEUNESSE” AT THE FRANÇAISE - - 3. M. BRIEUX, “LA DÉSERTEUSE,” AT THE ODÉON - - 4. PARIS, M. EDMOND ROSTAND, AND “CHANTECLER” - - X. AFTER “CHANTECLER” 187 - - XI. AU COURS D’ASSISES. PARIS AND MADAME STEINHEIL 192 - - XII. THE LATE JULES GUÉRIN AND THE DEFENCE OF FORT CHABROL 216 - - XIII. DEATH OF HENRI ROCHEFORT 235 - - XIV. ROYAL VISITS TO PARIS 246 - - XV. AT THE ÉLYSÉE. MESSIEURS LES PRÉSIDENTS 260 - - 1. M. LOUBET AND PAUL DÉROULÈDE - - 2. M. ARMAND FALLIÈRES. MOROCCO AND THE FLOODS - - 3. M. RAYMOND POINCARÉ AND THE RECORD OF M. LÉPINE - - XVI. MADAME LA PRÉSIDENTE, M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU AND THE - UNFORTUNATE M. PAMS 296 - - - - -PREFACE - - -This selection from the writings of the late John F. Macdonald—between -1907 and 1913—finds, naturally, and without any arbitrary arrangement, -its unity of character, as the middle volume of the book, in three parts, -that it was this author’s ruling desire—rather than his deliberate and -predetermined purpose—to spend many years in writing. The first volume -of this book was _Paris of the Parisians_, the last was the posthumous -volume recently published, under the title of _Two Towns—One City_. In -order to convey a clear idea of the motive and ruling method that give -literary and spiritual unity to this long book in three volumes, which -stands for the accomplished desire of a brief life, let me quote the -author’s own account of this desire given in his Preface to _Paris of the -Parisians_, where, at twenty years of age, he described himself as “a -student of human life, still in his humanities”: - -“The purpose of these sketches is not political nor yet didactic. No -charge is laid upon me to teach the French nation its duties, to reprove -it for its follies. Nor yet is it my design to hold up Paris of the -Parisians as an example of naughtiness, nor even of virtue, to English -readers. A student of human life still in my humanities, my purpose is -purely interpretative. I would endeavour to translate into English some -Paris scenes, in such a way as to give a true impression of the movement, -personages, sounds, colours and atmosphere pervaded with joy of living -which belongs to them. These impressions which I have myself received, -and now desire to communicate, are not the result of a general survey -of Paris taken from some lofty summit. I have not looked down upon the -capital of France from the top of the Eiffel Tower; nor yet from the -terrace of the Sacré Cœur; nor yet from the balcony among the _chimères_ -of Notre Dame; nor yet from Napoleon’s column on the Place Vendôme; nor -yet from the Revolution’s monument that celebrates the taking of the -Bastille. No doubt from these exalted places the town affords an amazing -spectacle. Domes rise in the distance and steeples. Chimneys smoke; -clouds hurry. Up there the spectator has not only a fine bird’s-eye view -of beautiful Paris: he has a good throne for historical recollections, -for philosophical reveries, for the development of political and -scientific theories also. But for the student of to-day’s life, whose -interest turns less to monuments than to men, there is this drawback—seen -from this point of view the inhabitants of Paris look pigmies. Far below -him they pass and repass: the bourgeois, the bohemian, the boulevardier, -all small, all restless, all active, all so remote that one is not -to be distinguished from the other. Coming down from his tower the -philosopher may explore Paris from the tombs at St Denis to the crypts of -the Panthéon, from the galleries of the Louvre to the shops in the Rue -de Rivoli, from the Opera and Odéon to the Moulin Rouge and sham horrors -of the cabarets of Montmartre—leaving Paris from the Gare du Nord he -may look back at the white city under the blue sky with mingled regret -and satisfaction—regret for the instructive days he has spent with her, -satisfaction in that he knows her every stone; and yet, when some hours -later in mid-Channel the coasts of France grow dim, he may leave behind -him an undiscovered Paris—not monumental Paris, not political Paris, not -Baedeker’s Paris, not profligate Paris, not fashionable cosmopolitan -Paris of the Right Bank, not Bohemian Anglo-American Paris of the Left -Bank, but Paris as she knows herself—Paris of the Parisians. - -“Virtues of which the mere foreign spectator has no notion are to be -found in Paris of the Parisians. And the Parisian does not conceal them -through _mauvaise honte_. Love of Nature, love of children, both absorb -him; how regularly does he hurry into the country to sprawl on the -grass, lunch by a lake, stare at the sunset, the stars and the moon; how -frequently he admires the view from his window, the Jardin du Luxembourg -and the Seine; how invariably he spoils his _gosse_ or another’s _gosse_, -anybody’s _gosse_, infant, boy or girl! He will go to the Luxembourg -merely to watch them. He likes to see them dig and make queer patterns in -the dust. He loves to hear them laugh at _guignol_, and is officiously -careful to see that they are securely strapped on to the wooden horses. -He does not mind their hoops, and does not care a jot if their balls -knock his best hat off. He walks proudly behind Jeanne and Edouard, on -the day of their first Communion, all over Paris; laughing as Jeanne -lifts her snow-white skirt and when Edouard, ætat. 10, salutes a friend; -and he worships Jeanne, and thinks that there is no better son in the -world than Edouard, and he will tell you so candidly and with earnestness -over and over again. ‘Ma fille Jeanne,’ ‘Mon fils Edouard,’ ‘Mes deux -gosses,’ is his favourite way of introducing the joy of his heart and -the light of his home. And then he knows how to live amiably, and how -to amuse himself pleasantly, and how to put poorer people at their -ease, as on fête days. He will go to a State theatre on 14th July (when -the performance is free) and joke with the crowd that waits patiently -before its doors, and never push, and never complain, and never think -of elbowing his way forward at the critical moment to get in. He will -admire the fireworks and illuminations after, and dance at street corners -without ever uttering a word that is rude or making a gesture that is -rough. He will trifle with confetti on Mardi Gras, and throw coloured -rolls of paper on to the boulevard trees. And he will laugh all the time -and joke all the time, and make Jeanne happy and Edouard happy, and be -happy himself, until it is time to abandon the boulevards and go home. -‘La joie de vivre!’ Verily, the Parisian studies, knows and appreciates -it. - -“There is something else he appreciates also, and reveres. And here -especially we find that his paternal affection for all children, -his courtesy and good-fellowship with all classes, his sense of -proprietorship and delight and pride in public gardens do not indicate -only a happy and amiable disposition, but spring from a deeper sentiment. -He is sauntering on the boulevards, it may be, with Edouard. The time is -summer—there is sunshine everywhere; the trees are in bloom, the streets -are full of movement and noise, _fiacres_ rattle, tram-horns sound, -camelots cry, gamins whistle. Suddenly there is a temporary lull. A slow -procession passes, a hearse buried in flowers; mourners on foot follow, -the near relatives, bareheaded, walking two by two; after them come, it -may be, a long line of carriages; it may be, one forlorn _fiacre_. It -does not matter. For the Parisian, a rich funeral or a poor one is never -an indifferent spectacle; never simply an unavoidable, disagreeable -interruption of traffic, to be got out of sight, and out of the way of -the busy world as quickly as possible. Here is one of those ordinary -circumstances when the Parisian’s attention to the courtesies of social -life is the outward and visible sign of his self-respecting humanity and -fraternal sympathy. His hat is off, and held off—so is Edouard’s cap, so -are the caps of even younger children, for from the age of four upwards -each _gosse_ knows what is due from him on such an occasion. _Cochers_ -are bareheaded, boulevard loafers also; the bourgeois stops stirring his -absinthe to salute; many a woman crosses herself and mutters a prayer. -‘Farewell!’ ‘God bless thee!’ The kind and pious leave-taking of the -Parisian enjoying to-day’s sunshine to the Parisian of yesterday whose -place to-morrow will know him no more, accompanies the procession step by -step on its way to the cemetery of Père Lachaise or Montparnasse.... - -“A kind critic of some of these sketches here reproduced from _The -Saturday Review_ has said of them that their tendency is to ‘counteract -the wrong-headed reports of French and English antipathies by which two -sympathetic neighbour-peoples are being estranged and exasperated.’ If -this be true—and to some extent I hope it may be—the result is surely -all the more gratifying because it does not proceed from any deliberate -effort on my part to serve that end, but, as I have said, from my -endeavour to convey to others the impressions I have received. The -immortal Chadband may be said to have established the proposition that -if a householder, having upon his rambles seen an eel, were to return -home and say to the wife of his bosom, ‘Rejoice with me, I have seen an -elephant,’ it would not be truth. It would not be truth were I to say -of the Jeunesse of the Latin Quarter that it is callous and corrupt, or -to deny that beneath the madcap, frolicsome temper of the hour can be -felt the justness of mind and openness to great ideas that will put -a curb on extravagance and give safe guidance by and by. And again of -Paul and Pierre’s little lady friends, Mimi and Musette, mirth-loving, -dance-loving daughters of Mürger—it would not be truth were I to report -them in any sense wicked girls, or to deny that taking them where they -stand their ways of feeling are straight though, no doubt, their way -of life may go a little zigzag. And of Montmartre and her cabarets and -_chansonniers_—it would not be truth were I to say that only madness and -perversion reign in her cabarets, or to deny that true poets and genuine -artists may be found amidst the false and hectic glitter of the ‘Butte.’ -And of the man in the street who is neither poet nor student, the average -Parisian of simply everyday life—it would not be truth were I to repeat -the hackneyed phrase that he would overthrow the Republican Government to -reinstate a Monarchy, being a Royalist at heart. True, storms rage about -him; scandals break out beside him; ministries fall; presidents pass—did -these storms and scandals represent Republican principles it might be -said with truth that he paid them little heed. What is true, however, is -that the qualities and principles he takes his stand by do not change or -fall with ministries or pass with presidents: cultivating still the art -of living amiably, rejoicing still over the beauties of his town, and not -merely rejoicing over them, but respecting and protecting them, believing -still, and with reason, in the greatness of his country, he succeeds -where his rulers often fail, not merely in professing, but in practising -the doctrine of liberty, equality, fraternity.” - -The point of view from which the author of _Paris of the Parisians_ -in 1900 studied French life remained the same down to 1915, when he -died. Nor did he ever change his interpretative methods into didactic -or political ones. But it was inevitable that, as years passed, fresh -knowledge and enlarged experience would come to the student of French -life who, at twenty, sought to convey his impressions as he at that time -received them. His impressions were not altered, nor, as a result of his -increased knowledge of life, did he ever become himself less appreciative -of the special virtues he discovered in the serious, as well as in the -joyous, sides of the French art of living. On his own side, he remained -to the end of his life (as so many of his friends testify) the same -unworldly, joyous being, of profound and tender sympathies, impatient of -all rules and systems save those that derive their authority from human -kindness. But as a result of his inborn power of vision and gifts of -observation and expression, his impressions became more lucid and were -given greater force by the exceptional opportunities he enjoyed. During -his residence in Paris, throughout the years when most of the essays in -criticism contained in this volume were written, he was dramatic critic -of French life and the French stage for _The Fortnightly Review_, and as -Paris correspondent, given more or less a free hand by other leading -periodicals to which he was a contributor; so that he could direct his -attention to the study of many aspects of Parisian life not exclusively -bounded by political interests. - -Looking through the list of subjects dealt with in these chapters, it -will be seen that the criticism of French life carried through by John F. -Macdonald (if by “criticism” we understand what Matthew Arnold defined -as “an impartial endeavour to see the thing as in itself it really is”) -covered, from 1907 to 1913, nearly all events in every domain of Parisian -life during this critical period. - -In other words, the present volume supplies the evidence which -not only confirms the impressions that he sought to convey to his -fellow-countrymen in _Paris of the Parisians_, but it lends the authority -that belongs to a judgment founded upon a right criticism to the sentence -which I may, in conclusion, quote from his article on the “Paris of -To-day,” originally published in _The Fortnightly Review_, July, 1915, -and reprinted (by the editor’s kind permission) in his posthumous book, -_Two Towns—One City_. - -“It has been repeatedly and persistently asserted, in hastily written -articles and books, that the war has created an entirely ‘new’ Paris. -Journalists and novelists have proclaimed themselves astonished at the -‘calm’ and the ‘seriousness’ of the Parisians, and at the ‘composed’ -and ‘solemn’ aspect of every street, corner and stone in the city; -and how elaborately, how melodramatically have they expatiated upon -the abolition of absinthe, the closing of night-restaurants, the -disappearance of elegant dresses, the silence of the Apaches, the hush in -the demi-monde, and the increased congregations in the churches! - -“‘A new, reformed Paris,’ our critics reiterate. ‘The flippancy has -vanished, the danger of decadence has passed—and in place of extravagance -and hilarity we find economy, earnestness and dignity.’ - -“Now, with these hastily conceived reflections and criticisms I beg -leave to disagree. It is not a ‘new’ Paris that one beholds to-day, but -precisely the very Paris one would expect to see. No city, at heart, is -more serious, more earnest, more alive to ideas and ideals: no other -capital in the world works so hard, creates so much, feels so deeply, -labours and battles so incessantly and so consistently for the supreme -cause of liberty, justice and humanity. Crises, and shocks, and scandals, -if you like—but what generous reparations, what glorious recoveries! -Stifling cabarets, lurid restaurants, rouge, and patchouli, and startling -deshabille, if you please; but all those dissipations were provided -for the particular pleasure and well-filled purses of Messieurs les -Étrangers—at least twenty foreigners to one Frenchman on the hectic hill -of Montmartre; and what a babel of English and American voices _chez_ -Maxim, until five or six in the morning, when the average Parisian was -peacefully enjoying his last hour’s sleep! The statues and monuments -of Paris, the free Sorbonne University, the quays of the Seine with -their bookstalls, the incomparable Comédie Française, the stately French -Academy, the Luxembourg Gardens, the Panthéon (with its noble motto: -‘Aux Grands Hommes, la Patrie Reconnaissante’), the Arc de Triomphe, -Notre-Dame; do these (and innumerable other) illustrious institutions, -so cherished by the Parisians, appear compatible with ‘flippancy,’ -‘incoherency’ and ‘the danger of decadence’? And the profound, ardent -patriotism of the Parisians—how else could it have manifested itself -save in the noble, supreme spectacle of courage, determination and -self-sacrifice which we are witnessing to-day? No; it is not a ‘new’ -Paris, but the very Paris one expected to see; hushed but proud; stricken -yet self-confident; wounded, even stabbed to the heart after eleven -months of war—but heroic, indomitable”—the Amazing City—the worthy -capital of, as Mr Kipling says, - - “the Land beloved by every soul that loves and serves its kind.” - -Before closing my preface to this Selection from the sketches, essays -and criticisms of Paris life, under its picturesque, popular, literary -and social aspects that represents John F. Macdonald’s interpretation -of the spirit of the “Amazing City,” between 1907 and 1914, I have to -acknowledge the kindness of the several Editors, to whom these different -articles were originally addressed; and who have allowed me to reprint -them in the present volume. _The Roué_, _In a Cellar_, and _The Affair -of the Collars_, appeared originally in _The Morning Post_. The three -articles, _On Strike_, the two pictures of the historical _Pension de -Famille in the Rue des Poitevins_ (haunted by the memory of Gambetta), -and of the other _Pension de Famille in the Shadow of St Sulpice_, -saddened by the memory of the pathetic story of the gentle and pious -old maids who died broken-hearted, as victims of the Rochette swindle, -appeared in _The Morning Leader_, in the days before its association with -_The Daily News_. The series of short sketches of French Presidents and -Leading Statesmen, and Personalities, who have helped to make, and are -still living influences in, French politics, were contributed, later, to -_The Daily News and Morning Leader_. I have to thank the Editor of _The -Contemporary Review_ for consenting to the reprinting of the articles -upon _Henri Rochefort_ and _Royal Visits to Paris_; and the Editor of -_The Fortnightly Review_ for allowing me to reproduce from the series of -articles on _French Life and the French Stage_, which appeared in this -_Review_ during several years, three special criticisms, illustrative of -the typical French national “virtue,”—a fundamental understanding of the -essential duty of man to be an intelligent and kindly human being—applied -to the correction and sweetening of faulty rules of “Bohemian” morality -and bourgeois respectability; and lending high ideals to what is -generally described as the “realistic” spirit of the modern French drama. -The articles descriptive of life in the Latin Quarter appeared originally -in _The Saturday Review_. - - FREDERIKA MACDONALD. - -_February 1918._ - - - - -I - -IN THE STREET - - -In my almost daily perambulations through the brilliant, through the -drab, and through the ambiguous quarters of Paris, I constantly come upon -street scenes that bring me inquisitively to a standstill. Not that they -are particularly novel or startling. Indeed, to the Parisian they are -such banal, everyday spectacles that he passes them by without so much as -a glance. But for me, familiar though I am with the physiognomy of the -Amazing City, these street scenes, amusing or pathetic, sentimental or -grim, possess an indefinable, a never-failing charm. - -For instance, I dote on a certain ragged, weather-beaten old fellow who -is always and always to be discovered, on a boulevard bench, under a dim -gas-lamp, at the precise hour of eleven. Across his knees—unfolded—a -newspaper. And spread forth on the newspaper, scores and scores of -cigarette ends and cigar stumps, which have been industriously amassed in -the streets, and on the terraces of cafés, during the day. Every night, -on this same boulevard bench, at the same hour of eleven, the old fellow -counteth up his spoil. - -“Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven,” he mutters. - -“Eh bien, le vieux, how are affairs?” asks a policeman. But the old -fellow, bent in half over the newspaper, hears him not. When—O joy!—he -comes upon a particularly fine bit of cigar, he holds it up to the -gas-lamp, measures it closely with his eye, then packs it carefully away -in his waistcoat pocket. But when—O gloom!—he has a long run of bad luck -in the way of wretched, almost tobaccoless cigarette ends, he breaks out -into guttural expressions of indignation and disgust. - -The night wears on. Up go the shutters of the little wine-shop opposite. -Rarely a passer-by. Scarcely a sound. - -“One hundred and two. One hundred and three. One hundred and four,” -counts the weather-beaten old fellow under the gas-lamp. - -Then, the street singers of Paris, with harmonium, violin and a bundle -of tender, sentimental songs. Four of them, as a rule; four men in -jerseys, scarlet waistbands and blue corduroy trousers. They, too, come -out particularly at night and establish themselves under a gas-lamp. And -all around them stand charming, bareheaded girls from the neighbouring -_blanchisseries_ and milliners’ shops; and the adorers of those -maidens—young, amorous MM. Georges, Ernest and Henri—from the grocer’s, -the butcher’s, the printer’s; and workmen and charwomen and concierges; -and probably a cabman or two, and most likely a soldier, a lamp-lighter, -a policeman. - -“_Love is Always in Season_, the latest and greatest of valse-songs, -created by the incomparable Mayol,” announces the vocalist. A chord from -the harmonium and violin, and the singer, in a not unmelodious voice, -proceeds to assure us that “though the snow may fall, or the skies may -frown, or the seas may roar, Love, sweet love, is Always in Season.” - -General applause. Cries of “C’est chic, ça” from the charming, bareheaded -girls. Sighs and sentimental glances from their faithful adorers. - -“Buy _Love is Always in Season_. Only two sous, only two sous! The -Greatest, the most Exquisite valse-song of the day,” cries the vocalist, -holding up copies of the song. “Buy it at once, and we will sing it all -together.” - -At least twenty copies are sold. “Attention,” cries the vocalist. And -then, under the gas-lamp, what a spectacle and what song! Everyone sings; -yes, even this huge, apoplectic cabman: “Though the snow may fall....” -Everyone sings: the soldier, the workmen, the decrepit old charwomen: -“Though the skies may frown....” Everyone sings: the very policeman’s -lips are moving. And how the charming, bareheaded girls sing and sing; -and how amorously, how passionately do their adorers raise their voices: -“Though the seas may roar.... What matter, what matter!... Since love, -sweet love, is always in season!” - -Of course children, with their lively, irresponsible games, provide -delightful street scenes. No piano-organs, alas! to which they may dance. -We have but three or four piano-organs in Paris, and these play only in -elegant quarters, for the pleasure of portly, solemn butlers. However, -the children hold theatrical performances on the pavement, which, if -animated and dramatic, are scarcely convincing; indeed they must be -pronounced bewildering, chaotic. René, aged six, proclaims himself -Napoleon; Jeanne, his sister, declares herself Sarah Bernhardt; André -strangely states that he is an Aeroplane; others most incoherently become -a Horse, the President of the Republic, Aunt Berthe, a Steamer on the -Seine, the Dog at the neighbouring chemist’s, and (this, a favourite, -amazing rôle) the Eiffel Tower! Then, when the parts have been duly -selected, after no end of wrangling, then, the play! Much extraordinary -dialogue between Napoleon and the divine Sarah; more between the -Eiffel Tower and the President of the Republic; still more between the -Aeroplane, the Seine Steamer and Aunt Berthe. And then dancing and -singing and skipping and—— - -Well, at once the most irresponsible and irresistible street scene in -Paris. Or, at least, second only in irresponsibility to the fêtes of -Mardi Gras and Mi-Carême. - -Year after year, the cynic is to be heard declaring that confetti -has “gone out” and that no one really rejoices at carnival time; but -year after year, when Mardi Gras and Mi-Carême come round, confetti -flies swiftly and thickly and gaily in Paris, and only a rare, elegant -boulevardier, or some dull, heavy bourgeois remains indifferent to the -excitement of the scene. - -Confetti, in fact, everywhere! Already at nine o’clock this -morning—blithe morning of Mardi Gras—it has got on to my staircase, and -from thence into the dining-room and on to the breakfast-table. Suddenly, -confetti in my coffee. A moment later, confetti on the butter. And when I -unfold the newspapers, a shower of confetti. - -“It is extraordinary,” I murmur to the servant. - -“Most certainly, confetti is extraordinary,” she assents. “It goes -where it pleases; it does what it likes; it respects nobody and -nothing—impossible to stop it.” - -“And only nine o’clock in the morning,” I remark, removing a new speck of -confetti from the butter. - -“At seven o’clock, when I went to Mass, it had got into the church,” -relates my servant. “It was also in the sacristy when I went to see M. le -Curé. Truly, it is the most astonishing thing in the world; and yet it is -only a little bit of coloured paper.” - -As time wears on the tradesmen’s assistants bring more confetti into the -house. Somehow or other it enters my boots, and finds a resting-place -in my pockets. At luncheon, lots of confetti. At dinner, pink, green, -yellow, orange and purple confetti with every course. And when at eight -o’clock I set forth to view the rejoicings on the Grands Boulevards, my -servant, leaning over the banisters, impudently pelts me with confetti. - -A cold night and occasionally a shower—but the boulevards are thronged -with I don’t know how many thousands of Parisians. Here, there and -everywhere electrical advertising signs dance and blink dizzily. Each -café is brilliantly illuminated. More pale, fierce light from the street -lamps. And, heavens! what a din of voices, and whistles, and musical -instruments! - -“Who is without confetti? Who is without confetti?” shout scores of -men, women and children, holding up long, bulky paper bags, supposed to -contain two pounds of the bright-coloured stuff. And the bags sell and -sell. And the little rounds of paper fly and fly. And down they fall in -their hundreds of thousands on to the ground, making it a soft, agreeable -carpet of confetti. - -Of course, no traffic. In the midst of the crowd groups of policemen; and -the policemen are pelted, and the policemen must shake confetti out of -eyes, and beards, and ears, and moustaches. However, they are amiable; -and, indeed, everyone is good-tempered. No rudeness and no roughness. -Here is Edouard, aged eight, in the crowd—dressed as a soldier, with -a wooden gun and a paper helmet. There is Yvonne, aged seven, in the -throng—all in white, with a wand tied at the top with a huge creamy -bow. And Edouard and Yvonne are perfectly safe. And that old married -couple—plainly from the provinces—are entirely safe. And—— - -A splash of confetti in my face. Then, a deluge of confetti over my hat. -And I am pleased, and I am flattered; for my assailant is an English -girl, with blue eyes, and gold hair, and an incomparable complexion. - -Despite the cold, every seat and every table on the terraces of the cafés -are occupied. Past the terraces surges the crowd, casting confetti at the -glasses of beer, coffee and liqueurs, which the consumers have carefully -covered over with saucers. But, always unconquerable, the confetti enters -the glasses; and thus one drinketh benedictine _à la_ confetti, and -chartreuse _à la_ confetti, and—— - -“Who wants a nose? Who wants a nose?” shouts a hawker, holding up a -collection of long, vivid red noses. And the red noses are bought; and -so, too, are false beards and moustaches, and artificial eyebrows, and -huge cardboard ears. - -Then, what costumes in the crowd! Of course, any number of pierrots and -clowns, who gesticulate and grimace; and ladies in dominoes, and men -in heavy scarlet mantles and black masks. Over there, an Arab; here, a -Greek soldier in the Albanian kilt—the picturesque “fustanella.” And -confetti—red, blue, yellow, green, white, orange, purple—sprinkled over, -and clinging to, all these different costumes, and flying above them and -all around them, a fantastic spectacle! - -Confetti, again, in the fur coats of chauffeurs; a whirl of it—bright -yellow—around three colossal negroes from darkest Africa; and a fierce -battle of it, waged by an admiring Parisian against two fascinating young -ladies from New York. Darkest Africa grins, displaying glistening white -teeth. New York utters shrill little cries. And Motordom—represented -by the three chauffeurs—imitates the many savage sounds emitted by -60-horse-power machines. - -“Your health!” cries a clown, plunging a handful of confetti into a glass -which, for only a second or two, has remained uncovered. - -“Vive la Vie! Vive la Vie!” shout a procession of students from the Latin -Quarter. - -“Who is without Confetti? Who wants a nose? Who desires a moustache?” -yell the hawkers. - -And now, rain. Down it comes, finely, steadily, soddening the carpet of -confetti, spotting the fantastic costumes, scattering the crowd. Edouard -(in his paper helmet) and Yvonne (with her wand) are hurried along -homewards—much against their will—by their parents; the hawkers disappear -with the remaining paper bags; the dizzy advertising signs give a last -blink and go out; the policemen congregate beneath the street lamps and -in doorways—the carnival is over. - -However, memories remain, and these memories are—confetti. - -It has flown, but it has not gone. Every hour of every day, for many a -week, it will turn up in one’s home, in one’s clothing, at one’s meals... -still bold, vivid, ungovernable, unconquerable.... - -And now, after colour and gaiety—ambiguity, gloom. Away to remote, -neglected corners of Paris; to the _terrain vague_—the waste ground—of -the Amazing City, which, this particular afternoon, lies steeped in a -damp fog, and strewn with sodden newspapers and broken bottles, and pots -and pans without handles, hats without brims, and battered old shoes. On -the waste, prowling about amidst the wreckage, a gaunt, vagabond cat. -Gathering together odds and ends, the aged, bent _chiffonnière_—a hag -of a woman, half demented, with fingers like claws, that go scraping -and digging about in the refuse. Then three ragged children—skeletons -almost—also interested in the rubbish, who are savagely snarled at by -the _chiffonnière_ when they approach her preserves. Fog, damp and -puddles. Mounds of overturned earth, subsidences, crevices. A rusty -engine lying disabled on its side. Quantities of coarse, savage thistles. -Gloom unrelieved. The _chiffonnière_ and the ragged children becoming -more and more ghostly and ghastly in the half-light. The kind of scene -depicted so tragically by the great-hearted Steinlen, and sung of so -despairingly by the humane poet, Rictus. Sung of, too, by lesser poets -than the author of the _Soliloque d’un Pauvre_. For _terrain vague_ is -a favourite theme with the _chansonniers_ of Montmartre, and in their -songs they are fond of describing how they have passed from comfortable, -bourgeois neighbourhoods on to “waste ground.” The bourgeois was dozing -in his chair; Madame la Bourgeoise was knitting a hideous woollen shawl; -Mademoiselles the three daughters were respectively tinkling away at the -piano, pasting picture cards into an album, absorbing a sickly novel. -As a heartrending, an overwhelming contrast, behold—after the snugness -of the bourgeoisie—the wretchedness, the _misère noire_ of the human -phantoms poking about on the waste ground! - -“Would that I had a bourgeois here on this _terrain vague_; a bourgeois -I might terrify and harrow!” declaim the realistic _chansonniers_ -of the Montmartre cabarets. “‘Bourgeois,’ I would cry, ‘what do you -see? Bourgeois, look well, look again, look always. Bourgeois, do you -understand? It is well, wretched, cowardly Bourgeois—you tremble!’” - -No less attracted by _terrain vague_ are the frail, wistful poets of -Paris, the poets (as they have been so admirably denominated) of “mists -and half-moons, dead leaves and lost illusions.” On to the waste they -bring Pierrot, their favourite, eternal hero. Midnight has long struck. -A half-moon casts silvery shafts on to the wreckage—and on to Pierrot, -who, as he stands there forlornly amidst the debris, proceeds to disclose -the secret: “Pourquoi sont pâles les Pierrots....” Only the cheeks of the -vulgar are rosy; for the vulgar cannot feel. But the artist is stung day -after day by ironies, cruelties, bitter awakenings—and so is frail, and -so is pale. How he suffers, how tragically is he disillusioned! There was -a blonde... but she was capricious. There was a brune... but she, too, -was fickle. There was a rousse, an auburn-haired goddess... but alas! -she also was false. And Pierrot sobs. And Pierrot goes on his knees to -the half-moon. And Pierrot prays. And suddenly a radiant figure appears -on the waste ground, and a sweet, melodious voice murmurs: “Why sigh -for the blonde? Why grieve for the brune? Why weep for the rousse? Am I -not enough?” And Pierrot, looking up with his pale, tear-stained face, -beholds his Muse, smiling down upon him— - - “Sur ce terrain va—aa—gue.” - -Farther away—away, this time, to one of the environs of Paris, and down -there, by the river-side, the annual fête. Not an empty corner, not a -vacant space; nothing but booths, “side-shows,” shooting-galleries, -roundabouts, caravans—“all the fun of the fair.” Confusion, exhilaration, -and a hundred different, frenzied sounds. All this babel lasts a week; -but at the end of the week, departure and gloom. Gone the caravans and -their picturesque inmates. Gone the “distractions.” There stood the -shooting-gallery, with its targets, grotesque dummies and strings of -clay pipes. One fired twice for a penny. If successful, one was rewarded -with paper flowers, or a shocking cigar, or (in exceptional cases) a -strident alarm clock; if a bad marksman, one was consoled with a slice of -hard, gritty ginger-bread. Farther on revolved the roundabout. One rode -a rickety steed, with only one stirrup. One turned to the accompaniment -of a husky, exhausted old organ. What appalling liberties it took with -the _Valse Bleue_! Next, one visited the palmist, inspected a seedy lion, -stared at optical illusions, shook hands with a dwarf, bought sticks of -nougat, rode again on the round about, returned to—— - -But all over now, and nothing but memories and souvenirs about: broken -clay pipes, splinters of bottles and wood, shavings, scraps of cloth, -hand-bills and rusty, bent nails, the eternal old battered hat, the -equally inevitable old boot, and a hoof or two from the rickety horses -that revolved to the haunting tune of the _Valse Bleue_. - -The usual mounds of refuse. Also, the turf damaged with ruts, and burnt -away in places by the fair people’s fires. The annual fête over, not a -soul but myself loiters on this portion of the Seine river-bank. Only -gloom and desolation. Nothing but waste. Again, _terrain vague_. - - - - -II - -IN A CELLAR - - -Bright things and sombre things, tarnished things and threadbare things, -frail things, fast-fading things; things and things, and all of them old -things.... The past in this cellar; in every nook and corner of it—the -past. Come here through a hole in the wall of a narrow, cobbled Paris -street—come down a number of crooked stone steps—I now look curiously -about me, and wonder what to do next. No one challenges me: the cellar -appears to be uninhabited. Yet above its crude, primitive entrance, on a -weather-beaten board, I discern the name—Veuve Mollard. - -An autumnal mist filled the street outside; and the mist, pouring through -the hole in the wall, has invaded the cellar and made it chilly and -ghostly. It is a rambling, chaotic place—suggestive of three or four -cellars having been thrown into one; for it twists and it turns, and -it bulges and recedes, and it slopes and ascends; and the grimy brick -ceiling—lofty enough at the entrance—suddenly dips towards the middle, -and almost precipitates itself to the ground at the far end. Here and -there an unshaded lamp, of the kitchen description, burns dimly. On -a stool I perceive a workbox, crowded with sewing materials—but not -a sign, not a sound of “Widow” Mollard. I cough loudly. I advance -farther into the cellar. And, as I advance, I pass bright things and -sombre things, tarnished things and threadbare things, frail things, -fast-fading—— - -“Monsieur?” - -An apparition, a spectre! There, in the background, appears a tall, gaunt -woman, with a pale, wrinkled face, large, luminous dark eyes and tumbled -white hair. In the dim light from the lamps Veuve Mollard looks a hundred -years old. There she stands, old and alone, in a rambling old cellar, -amidst old, discarded things. - -“Monsieur?” - -A deep, even a sepulchral voice—and then from myself an explanation. I -should like to examine the old things—all of them, not knowing myself -what I want. I have a fancy for old things; like to wonder over them; -like, O most respectfully, to handle them. No; unnecessary to turn up -the lamps; they give, just as they are, the very light for old things. -“Faîtes donc, faîtes donc,” assents the deep voice. Retiring to a corner, -Widow Mollard seats herself on a stool and proceeds to darn a rent in a -faded yellow velvet curtain. - -Silence in the cellar. Shadows, ambiguities, and the mist from the street. - -Against the walls, boards have been laid on the floor; and heaped on the -boards are tapestries, draperies, all kinds of stuffs. Then, tables, -wooden trays, and flat, open receptacles of wicker-work. Also pegs, for -gowns. Again, battered, lidless boxes of odds and ends. Thus, _embarras -de choix_: which of the old things shall I examine first? At last I -decide on the tapestries. They are of all shapes and sizes, but most -of them have been severed, are but parts—no head to this horse, no top -to the lance of this knight, and of that saint only the half. Next, a -circular piece of tapestry representing what might be a throne—but faded, -faded; and the figure on the throne as shadowy as a phantom. Gobelins? -Veuve Mollard no doubt knows: but I prefer to pursue my researches -alone, unaided; and then the gaunt widow is darning and darning away at -the yellow velvet curtain.... Whose velvet curtain? Where has it hung, -what fine window has it screened? Once, evidently, a rich, magnificent -yellow; now faded, crumpled, damaged. A curtain from the Faubourg St -Germain? from a ruined château? even from the palaces of Versailles or -Fontainebleau? Again I glance at Widow Mollard. Old, old. Her fingers -tremble, and a long lock of white hair has fallen over one pale, wrinkled -cheek. - -Out of this tray a snuff-box, enamelled, oval-shaped and delicate. A -Watteau peasant girl on the lid—but the pretty, pink-cheeked girl, fast -fading. Whose snuff-box? Then a shoe buckle. Whose massive, old-fashioned -silver buckle? And of whom this miniature: blue eyes, sensitive mouth, -delicate eyebrows and powdered hair? Then, a tiny Sèvres tea-cup; a -gilt key; a chased silver book-clasp; a string of coral; an ornament of -amethysts; bits of embroidery; stray pieces of velvet and silk; lace, -satins, furs, and spangled and soft and transparent stuffs. Whose finery? -Perhaps a débutante’s, a débutante of years ago—now old, like the things. - -Graceful, charming débutante of the past! Behold her dressing—or rather -being dressed—for her first, her very first ball, amidst what excitement, -what confusion! Her mother on her knees, the maids also on their knees, -putting the last touches; and the débutante turned round and round, -and exhorted to keep still, and told to walk a little, and ordered to -return, and commanded to remain “there,” and not to move, not to move! -Radiant, irresistible débutante of long ago. At once dignified and shy, -now flushed and now pale when in the ballroom she made her first bow to -the world, received her first compliments, achieved her first triumphs, -and experienced, no doubt, her first emotions, her first illusions, her -first doubts. Here in this cellar, in the half-light and the mist from -the street, here lies her first ball-dress; and here too, perhaps, are -the shoes in which she danced her first official waltz, her first real -_cotillon_—a pair of small satin shoes which repose on the top of a heap -of other frail shoes. - -Long, narrow shoes, tiny ridiculous shoes—some of them with loose, -dangling rosettes, others showing a bare place where the rosette or -a jewel had once been fastened. High heels, and the soles scarcely -thicker than a sheet of paper. Sometimes a rent in the satin, and the -maker’s name stamped in dim gilt letters. Shoes, no doubt, that long -ago stepped daring quadrilles at the _bal masqué_ of the Opera; the -shoes of Mademoiselle Liane de Luneville, a former blonde and brilliant -courtesan; and next to them remnants from Mademoiselle de Luneville’s -wardrobe. A white satin dress, sewn with artificial pearls, dismembered -silken sleeves, spangled stuffs, daring gauzes, and other extravagances -and audacities. Courtesan finery. Sold, no doubt, in the twilight of the -_demi-mondaine’s_ career; or seized roughly by the bailiffs when not a -shadow of the beauty or glory of Mademoiselle de Luneville remained. - -Now does a moth fly out of a piece of tapestry I have shaken. Now do -I behold a black cat, with lurid yellow eyes, perched motionless upon -a pile of draperies in a corner. Now do I perceive gigantic cobwebs -overhead. Thus, some life—but life of an eerie nature—in the cellar. - -“Je ne vous dérange pas, Madame?” - -“Faîtes donc, faîtes donc,” replies the deep, sepulchral voice of Veuve -Mollard. - -A cracked water-colour landscape signed, ever so faintly, “R. E. F.” -Disposed of, perhaps, for a five-franc piece; and to-day the painter -either dead, or a shabby, lonely, struggling old fellow? or a rich and -distinguished “master”? A sword—used in a duel? A small silver mug—from a -god-father? Pink, white and black dominoes: they should have been placed -amongst the courtesan’s finery. The _bâton_ of a _chef d’orchestre_, -silver-mounted, of ebony. A bunch of tarnished seals; chipped vases -and liqueur glasses; a cracked, frameless mirror; a collection of old -legal and medical books; a heap of dusty, fantastic draperies of the -kind used extensively by the students of the Latin Quarter. Deceptive -draperies that once turned a bed into a divan, discreet draperies that -hid the scars on the walls—the draperies of Paul and Pierre, of Gaston -and René, sons of Henri Mürger, genuine, veritable Bohemians, who, if -they lived recklessly and irresponsibly, were nevertheless full of -generous impulses, imagination, ideals, but who to-day are become stout, -bourgeois, double-chinned inhabitants of such dreary provincial towns as -Abbeville and Arras. - -Thus the past in this cellar; in every nook and corner of this rambling, -chaotic cellar, the past. Changes and changes—but not one change for -the better. All around me evidence of somebody’s indifference and -faithlessness to old possessions. On all sides, symbols of somebody’s -downfall and ruin. - -“Je vous remercie, Madame.” - -“C’est moi qui vous remercie, Monsieur.” - -On my way out—on the crooked stone staircase leading upwards to the hole -in the wall—I look back. - -And down there, in the dim light from the lamps, the gaunt, white-haired -woman darns away at the faded velvet curtain. Down there, from its -throne of draperies, the black cat watches the widow with lurid yellow -eyes. Down there in vague disorder—in an atmosphere of shadows and -ambiguities, of moth, cobweb and mist—down there, lie bright things and -sombre things, tarnished things and threadbare things, frail things, -fast-fading things; things and things, and all of them old, discarded, -forgotten things. - - - - -III - -IN A MARKET-PLACE - - -The market!... We holiday-keepers in Moret-sur-Loing have been -looking forward to it, imagining it, scanning the spot where it is -held, recalling other French market-places, ever since we first bowed -before the amiable _patron_ and _patronne_ of our hotel. Our immediate -inquiry was when is the market. “Tell us,” we cried, “when we, like the -villagers, may go forth in our newest clothes, in high spirits, as though -to some fine ceremony, to view fruits and vegetables, gigots and _rôtis_ -if we like, stalls of chiffons and trinkets, patent medicines, soaps, -scents and——” - -“A week hence, mon pauvre Monsieur,” interrupted the _patronne_. “The -market takes place on Tuesdays only: as it is Tuesday night, you have -just missed it.” - -“Then,” we replied, “the week will be empty, sombre; the week will be a -year, a century; but for you, Madame, and your admirable hotel, the week -would be intolerable.” And the _patronne_ bowed and smiled; we bowed and -smiled, “comme dans le monde,” in fact, “en mondains.” Never was there -sweeter smiling, better bowing, in Moret.... - -_Moret at the Market._—The time of day differs in Moret-sur-Loing; -differs, also, in neighbouring villages. For miles around, the clocks -strike independently, instead of in chorus, so that it is ten at the -station, when it is ten minutes to, in our hotel; a quarter to ten, -inside the local _bijoutier’s_—but all hours within. When these clocks -have done striking, the church clock starts; there is no corroboration, -no unanimity. However... who cares, who worries? It is “almost” eleven; -“about” twelve; a “little past” four; that suffices. We are late, or -we are early. We get accustomed to being strangely in three places -at the very same hour. Should a friend be pressed we can say: “That -clock is fast”; if he weary us, we need not hesitate to declare it -slow. And watches vary; time is of no moment, in Moret. Farther still -from Fontainebleau, in the village of Grez, the two or three hundred -inhabitants rely chiefly on the Curé for the hour. He alone controls the -church clock; but he, an irascible old gentleman, often quarrels with the -Mayor: and on these occasions stops the clock immediately, revengefully. -Once the quarrel lasted three whole months: for three whole months the -hands of the clock remained stationary. The Mayor protested: but the -Curé ignored him. When at last the Mayor withdrew his objection to the -point at issue, the Curé allowed the clock to go again. And now, if ever -the Mayor and the Curé disagree, the Curé stops the clock, the Mayor -protests, the Curé ignores him: and Grez has no church clock to tell the -time until the unhappy Mayor gives in. - -Fortunately for us in Moret, the Mayor and Curé are friends. We depend -more or less on the Curé’s clock—most dilapidated of dials—whose solemn -summons at ten on Sunday bids us attend High Mass; whose brisker chimes -at the same hour on Tuesday set us hastening towards the market. Indeed, -in our hotel, disdainful of its dubious timepiece, we wait for the -ten strokes and after counting them join the villagers outside: knots -of villagers, rows of villagers, solitary villagers, but all of them -fresh, immaculate. Each woman wears a print dress, or a print skirt -and camisole, a spotted handkerchief tied in a knot at the top of her -head. Each man has drawn on a clean cotton shirt and his newest coat, -or a blouse; his tie invariably is bright. Each girl is clad lightly, -charmingly, and has becomingly arranged her hair. As for us... well, we -do not seem shabby beside a painter, a Parisian in “le boating” costume: -our scarf is as silken as theirs, our waistcoat is equally white and -_piqué_, but our cane is undoubtedly handsomer, and we think we dangle it -more elegantly. - -Over the cobble-stones, avoiding the _ruisseau_, we go—smoking and -chatting—the peasants swinging their baskets, the girls giving a last -touch to their hair—an amazing spectacle. - -At the end of the narrow street—the “Grande Rue,” no less!—is installed -the first market-woman, with a vast basket of vegetables. And she, a -wizened old thing, wrinkled and bent in half, appears to be reflecting -over her poor potatoes, her shabby cauliflowers. Still, she refuses to -bargain. She has but one price, and she sniffs when a would-be customer -turns over her wares, inspecting them; and sniffs again when she is told -that they are “bien médiocres et bien chères.” So she sells nothing: -falls into reflection again, quite forgets the would-be customer, -who, turning up the next street, faces a double row of market-people -established on either kerbstone, and thus comes upon the chiefest -commerce. - -All Moret is present, all Moret is bargaining and buying, and all -the market-people are seamed with wrinkles, browned, bent; and all -of them wear blouses or camisoles or print dresses, handkerchiefs or -peaked caps—old, old people all of them; at all events seemingly old; -weather-beaten, of the earth. Each has his or her basket, so that there -are two uninterrupted lines of baskets, of little piles of paper, of -measuring utensils. Every vegetable is available, every fruit. There is -crying, croaking, quarrelling; there is laughter, the chink of sous. -Above the din one hears: - -“Trois sous, Madame.” - -“Non, Madame, deux sous.” - -And: “Regardez ces raisins.” - -“Voyez, voyez, les melons.” - -And always: “Cinq sous, Madame.” - -“Non, Madame, trois sous.... Sous, sous, sous.” - -Slowly we progress, meet the _patronne_ of our hotel, the postman, the -_garde champêtre_, the barber and, all of a sudden, a bevy of fair -Americans, daintily dressed, who inhabit a “finishing” school near by. In -the village it is hinted that they are heiresses, all of them. Certainly -their clothes are rich, but they carry paper bags of grapes, and eat the -grapes, and dawdle... just like Mesdemoiselles Jeanne and Marie, village -girls who “do washing” on the river bank every other day of the week. -Also, they utter little cries: - -“Isn’t that old woman the funniest thing that’s ever happened!” - -And: “My! Isn’t it all too quaint!” - -Here a foreigner sketches. Farther on, by the side of the church, a -painter has established his easel; next him, stands a group of village -women who have already done their shopping and bear their spoil. And they -compare their purchases, gesticulating over this cauliflower, that salad; -and soon we hear much about a certain Madame Morin who has gone home -furious because Madame Petilleau carried off an amazing melon she had her -eye on... just by a minute. But Madame Morin is always like that; Madame -Morin would flush, lose her temper, over a single bean. - -Now stalls rise—stalls of ribbons and jewellery, stalls of cheeses, -stalls of sheets, curtains, all stuffs. And the stuffs are held up to the -sun and considered in the shade, and compared with a complexion and wound -round a waist, so that we hear: - -“Ça vous va bien.” - -And: “Je trouve que c’est trop clair.” - -And, of course: “Trois francs, Madame.” - -“No, Madame, deux francs... francs, francs, francs.” - -Baskets become veritable burdens. Gesticulations grow wilder, the cries -louder, the exchange of francs and sous quicker and quicker. Everyone has -vegetables and fruits; many have coloured stuffs. - -To and fro go the _patronne_ of our hotel, the postman, the _garde -champêtre_, the barber, the Americans. To and fro go the village -girls—but pause all at once before a ragged fellow whose eyes are -crossed, whose face is unshaven, whose dirty hands clasp an accordion. -The church clock strikes eleven. But above all these sounds rises -suddenly and discordantly the voice of the man with the accordion. As -he sings he leers. The village girls titter. To them, impudently and -grotesquely, he addresses his eternal refrain: - - “Tu sais bien que je t’ai-ai-me.” - -Still we linger; soon we admire a group of women and children whose -home is on the barges of the river bank. Barefoot, with shining black -eyes and black hair, bright shawls and handkerchiefs, they add to -the picturesqueness of the spectacle as they wander to and fro with -wicker-work wares. A graceful English girl presents the children with -grapes, and the children smile, displaying the whitest teeth. The women -pounce upon stray slips of salad, broken atoms of cauliflower, and are -watched suspiciously by the market-people. The foreigner sketches them; -the painter evidently intends to include them in his scene—and we, also -fascinated, would follow them, were we not tempted to listen to a noisy -fellow who, flourishing a scrap of soap, boasts that it will blot out -every stain. - -How simple, how easy is it to stain your coat, he cries; then proceeds to -point out stains on various coats. Fear not, however. Be not cast down. -_He_ is here, he, the enemy of stains—_he_ with “The Miraculous Tablet.” - -And the “Miraculous Tablet” is held on high and flourished to and fro, -ready to render old clothes new, and soiled hats fresh, in exchange for -two vulgar sous. - -“Seize this surprising opportunity,” shouts the man. “Take out your -stains, all of you. The Miraculous Tablet will away with them all... -except stains on your conscience. I swear it, and I am honest.” - -And then, continuing, he announces that the “Miraculous Tablet” has made -him famous throughout the land; that clients return to him in thousands -to express their gratitude; that a certain mother once shed tears of -joy when he took an ink-stain out of her little boy’s white suit; that -only yesterday, in Orleans, the inhabitants cheered and cheered him and, -rushing forward, begged leave to shake his hand. “And,” he concludes, -“believe me, ladies and gentlemen, I had not hands enough.” - -Suddenly a tambourine sounds, and up the street come a man and a woman -with a dancing bear, another woman with a monkey. The monkey screams, -the bear on its hind legs bobs up and down, up and down, and the man -encourages him gruffly and the woman shakes the tambourine. - -Of course a crowd assembles, and of course cries go up. Cries rise -everywhere: from the market-place, from the crowd, from the enemy of -stains, from the man with the accordion, from the group around the bear; -all cries, the strangest cries, all languages also—English, French, many -a patois, “bargee,” the unknown tongue of the almost black people with -the bear—and all accents. - -Then several nuns issue forth from church and pause for a moment. The -Curé appears. A “Savoyard” with statues—as white as his statues, for his -clothes are white and his face is covered with chalk-dust—approaches. -And all these different people, in all their different costumes, with -different accents and different gestures, mingle together, elbow one -another, and all around them are the stalls of bright stuffs, the vast -baskets of vegetables and fresh fruits. In the background—grey and -quaint—stands the church. - -However, time is flying and luncheon hour is near. The purchases have -to be borne home, washed, prepared, and so the inhabitants of Moret -raise their baskets, exchange adieux. Off starts the _patronne_ of -our hotel; off go the postman, the _garde champêtre_, the barber and -the fair Americans—still eating grapes—to their “finishing” school. -The village girls disperse, and here and there the market-people are -already dislodging their baskets, counting up sous. Once again we hear -of the hot-tempered Madame Morin, the triumphant Madame Petilleau. Other -familiar sounds reach us as we near the end of the street: “This, then, -is the Miraculous Tablet... and only yesterday in Orleans...” and for the -last time, “Cinq sous, Madame,” “Non, Madame, trois sous,” and the hour -being told by the church. - -In the far distance, the bear is evidently dancing, for we faintly -hear the tambourine. But his audience must now be small: before us, up -the Grande Rue, moves a slow procession of men and women with baskets, -sometimes two baskets to each person. - -Still, the first market-woman does not appear to have provided them with -their spoil. She alone has done no business, and sits, wizened and bent -in half, over her shabby cauliflowers, her poor potatoes. Occasionally -she sniffs. - -But her sniff develops into a snort, when the cross-eyed, unshaven fellow -with the accordion slouches up and, pausing for a moment, winks ... a -fearful wink... leers, addresses her impudently and grotesquely with his -eternal refrain: - - “Tu sais bien que je t’ai-ai-me.” - - - - -IV - -BOURGEOISIE - - -1. M. DURAND AT MARIE-LE-BOIS - -A French friend, M. Durand, thus writes to me: - - “To-morrow morning at 11.47 my wife, myself, the three children - and our deaf old servant Amélie, all leave for Marie-le-Bois; - and to-morrow night, whilst you, _mon cher ami_, are eating the - rosbif and drinking the pale ale of _la vieille Angleterre_, - the Durand family will be dining off radishes, sardines, - chicken, and cool salad, in the garden of the Villa des Roses. - - “I have taken the villa for a month—our holiday. The Duvals and - the Duponts occupy villas near by; and we shall play croquet - together, and be amiable and happy. I, your stout friend, _le - gros_ Durand, will wear white shoes and no waistcoat, and I - shall also smoke many pipes and enjoy long siestas under my own - tree.” (What an idyllic picture—the large citizen Durand asleep - in a vast cane chair, under a tree!) - - “But to-day, _mon vieux_, what anxiety, what chaos, what - despair, in our Paris home! We are distracted, we are in - peril of losing our reason, so terrible, so sinister is the - work of moving to Marie-le-Bois. The packing, the labelling, - the ordering of the railway omnibus (it is engaged for ten - o’clock precisely, but will it—O harassing question—arrive in - time?), the emotion of the children, the ferocity of my wife, - the deafness of superannuated Amélie—all these miseries have - left me as weak as an old cat. You, who have travelled, will - appreciate the agony of the situation. No more can I say, for I - hear my wife crying: ‘Hippolyte, Hippolyte, what are you doing? - You must be mad to write letters in such a crisis.’ - - “Adieu, therefore. Here, very cordially, are the two hands of, - - “GEORGES AUGUSTE HIPPOLYTE DURAND.” - -Excellent, simple M. Durand! From his letter one would suppose that he -is about to make the long journey from Paris to the Pyrenees; and that -his luggage is proportionately considerable and elaborate. But, as a -matter of fact, Marie-le-Bois lies humbly on the outskirts of Paris. A -slow train from the St Lazare Station covers the distance in thirty-five -minutes. And once arrived there, one clearly perceives, from the top of -a small hill, the Sacré Cœur, the dome of the Panthéon, the sightseers -(almost their Baedekers) on the Triumphal Arch! Only five and thirty -minutes distant from Paris—and yet Madame Durand is “ferocious,” her -husband is as “weak as an old cat,” and the omnibus has been ordered one -hour and forty-seven minutes in advance, to drive over the mile that -separates M. Durand’s dim, musty little flat from the station! - -Luggage? As the Villa des Roses is let furnished, only wearing apparel -and little particular comforts are required, and so the Durand luggage -consists of no more than a shabby large trunk, two dilapidated valises, -a bundle, and a collection of sticks, umbrellas, spades for the children -and a fishing-rod for their father. - -Why spades? There is no sand at Marie-le-Bois. Why that fishing-rod? Not -a river floweth within miles and miles of the Villa des Roses. And it -must furthermore be revealed that the “wood” of Marie-le-Bois consists in -reality of a few acres of shabby bushes, dead grass and gaunt trees; that -the villa itself is a hideous, gritty little structure, rendered all the -more uninviting by what the estate agent calls an “ornamental” turret, -and that never a rose (never even a common sunflower) has bloomed in the -scrap of waste ground joyously designated by M. Durand a “garden.” - -No matter; M. Durand, a simple, small bourgeois, is happy, his good wife -rejoices, the three children run wild in the hot, dusty roads, deaf old -Amélie is to be heard singing in a feeble, cracked voice in the kitchen; -and the Duvals and the Duponts—also of the small bourgeoisie—are equally -happy and merry in the equally hideous and gritty villas named “My -Pleasure” and “My Repose.” - -Between them they have hired a rough, bumpy field, in which they play -croquet for hours at a time—the ladies in cotton wrappers and the -gentlemen in their shirt-sleeves. But not enough mallets to go round and -constant confusion as to whose turn it is to play. - -“It is Durand’s turn,” says Dupont. - -“No, it is Madame Durand’s,” states M. Duval. - -“No, it is my turn—I haven’t played for twenty minutes,” protests the -shrill voice of little Marie Dupont. - -“Apparently it is somebody’s turn,” says M. Durand ironically. - -And then do the three gentlemen respectively declare that the “situation” -is “extraordinary” and “abominable” and—yes, “sinister”; and then, -also, do the three wives proclaim their lords “egoists” and—Oh dear -me—“imbeciles,” and then (profiting by the dispute) do the many children -of the Duponts and the Durands and Duvals kick about the balls, and hop -over (or dislodge) the hoops, and (when reprimanded) burst into tears. - -“It’s mad,” cries M. Durand. - -“Auguste, you disgust me,” says Madame Dupont to her husband. - -“Mamma, Henri Durand has pulled my hair,” sobs little Germaine Duval. - -At length on goes the game. But ten minutes later the same confusion, the -same cries: “It’s my turn,” and “No, it is the turn of Madame Dupont,” -and “I’ve only played once in the last hour,” and “The situation is -becoming more and more sinister.” - -Still, in the scraps of garden of the three villas there is peace. -The gentlemen doze a great deal under their respective, their “own” -anæmic trees. Flies buzz about them—but, as M. Durand observes, they -are “country flies,” and therefore “innocent.” In the late afternoon M. -Durand puts on his glasses, opens his _Petit Parisien_ and says: “Let -us hear what is happening in Paris.” As a matter of fact, M. Durand can -almost hear what is happening in Paris from his chair; but he studies -his paper deeply and gives vent to exclamations of “Ah!” and “That dear, -extraordinary Paris—always excited, never tranquil!” as though he were an -exile in the remotest of foreign lands. - -As for M. Dupont, he is of the opinion that although newspapers are out -of place in the country, “still a good citizen should keep in touch -with affairs.” And says M. Duval: “A Parisian, wherever he be, should -never altogether forget that he is a Parisian. Therefore it is his -duty—I speak, of course, figuratively—to keep one eye on the capital.” -Figuratively, indeed! M. Duval has only to mount upon his chair to behold -Paris with both eyes, most clearly, most vividly. - -And now night-time, and a lamp burning on a table in the garden of the -Villa des Roses, and around the table, covered with coffee cups, the -Durands and the Duponts and the Duvals. Happily they lie back in their -chairs. Now and again the peevish, spiteful hum of the mosquito. Odd -green insects dash themselves against the glass of the lamp. - -“The air of the country, there is nothing like it; it is exquisite, -sublime,” says M. Durand rapturously. “Breathe it in, my friends, breathe -it in, with all your might.” - -“Durand is right,” assents M. Dupont. “Let us not speak; let us only -breathe.” - -“Are we ready?” inquires M. Duval. - -And the three M. D.’s and the three Madame D.’s, lying back in their -chairs, breathe and breathe. - - -2. PENSION DE FAMILLE. THE BEAUTIFUL MADEMOISELLE MARIE, WHO LOVED -GAMBETTA - -As a consequence of the death, in her ninety-third year, of Mademoiselle -Marie Rosalie Losset, many a successful French barrister, politician and -_littérateur_ is recalling the early, struggling days of the past. He -sees the Rue des Poitevins, a narrow little street in the heart of the -Latin Quarter. He remembers the board over one of its doorways: “Pension -Laveur. Cuisine Bourgeoise. Prix modérés.” He can almost smell the strong -evening odour of cabbage and onion soup that assailed him in the dim -entrance hall when he returned to the boarding-house exhausted, perhaps -depressed from his lectures at the Sorbonne, his studies in the medicine -schools, his first visits to the Law Courts. - -As I am nothing of a greybeard, I am only able to write of Mademoiselle -Marie Rosalie Losset and of the _pension de famille_ in the Rue des -Poitevins at second hand. It was as far back as 1838 that Mademoiselle -Marie, then a _jeune fille_ of eighteen, came up to Paris from tranquil, -beautiful Savoy to help her sister and brother-in-law, M. and Madame -Laveur, to conduct their new boarding-house. Tall, graceful, masses -of golden hair—the “Greek Statue,” the great Gambetta called her, and -the name clung. I must be excused from stating names and events in -chronological order—so much has happened since the year 1840! But I -can give the precise terms of the _pension_: five or six francs a day -for full board, including white or red wine. Also I am able to record -that whereas the sister and brother-in-law, M. and Madame Laveur, -were suspicious, severe and close-fisted, Mademoiselle Marie Rosalie -Losset—“Mademoiselle Marie” for short—was all gaiety and generosity, and -sympathised with the struggles, disappointments and financial ennuis of -the boarders. - -Fortunately for the latter it was Mademoiselle Marie who made up the -bills and had charge of the cash-box; the Laveurs occupied themselves -exclusively with the kitchen and the household arrangements. Inevitably, -the student boarders lost their hearts to the “Greek Statue”; but she -laughed at their gallantry, and gaily wanted to know how on earth they -could keep a wife when they couldn’t pay their own way. Bill of M. Paul -a month and thirteen days overdue. Laundry account of M. Pierre five -weeks in arrears, and the washerwoman making persistent “inquiries.” The -washing-basin of M. Jacques, broken an eternity ago, still standing -against him in the boarding-house ledger. And yet they wanted to marry -her, all of them—the foolish sentimentalists, the dear, simple imbeciles! -No, no; she would try to keep the Laveurs in ignorance of the unpaid -bills; she would sew buttons on to M. Paul’s shabby coat, and blot out -the stains from M. Pierre’s; she would say no more of the washing-basin; -she would reassure the angry _blanchisseuse_; she would, in a word, -do everything for the student boarders except marry them. “Tant pis,” -cried the latter dramatically, “you have broken my heart. I shall never -do anything in this world. You have ruined me!” Replied the radiant -Savoyarde: “Nonsense! Work hard, and make a name for yourself. And when -you are famous come and see me, and I promise not to remind you of the -washerwoman, or the basin, or your faded old coat.” - -Their studies finished, away from the narrow little Rue des Poitevins -went the “heartbroken” boarders to make a “name for themselves.” Not -so heartbroken but that they became either heroic or distinguished -“citizens” of France. At the end of the plain, bourgeois dinner -Mademoiselle Marie came to Gambetta’s table for dessert, and, amidst a -cracking of nuts and the drinking of sour wine, the future great and -noble Gambetta tempestuously held forth. A Republic for France was his -cry. How the glasses danced as he thumped with his fist on the table! -What cheers from the boarders; what a blush and a flush on the face of -the “Greek Statue”! Gambetta stirred that sombre, musty boarding-house -as later he roused the whole of France with his eloquence, enthusiasm, -his glorious patriotism. His Republican programme was first conceived, -his famous social battle-cry—“Le Cléricalisme, voilà l’ennemi”—was first -sounded in that _pension_ of the narrow, obscure Rue des Poitevins. -Emotion, we may be sure, of the “Greek Statue” whilst her hero was -away with the Army of the Loire. Gloom and hunger in the Pension -Laveur during the Siege of Paris; never a sniff of the strong onion -soup. Years later—1881—Gambetta Prime Minister, accession of “le Grand -Ministère,”—and joy and pride of the “Greek Statue.” But downfall of the -“Grand Ministère” after only two months’ power, and death of Gambetta in -the following year—and then, yes, then, so, at least, I surmise, grief -and tears of the Savoyarde, the “Greek Statue,” now become grey-headed, -now a sexagenarian, now known to her boarders as “Tante Marie.” - -So have we arrived at the twilight of the once radiant Savoyarde’s -career. She is sixty, and the golden hair has gone grey, and familiarly -and affectionately she is known amongst her boarders as “Auntie.” -Still, however, does she sew on the missing buttons of the _jeunesse_ -of the Latin Quarter, and allow the _pension_ bills to stand over, and -overlook the matter of broken washing-basins, and pacify the angry -_blanchisseuse_, and encourage her struggling boarders with the old -words of long ago: “Work hard, and make a name for yourself, and come -and tell me of your fame....” Years roll on—and “Tante Marie” becomes -deaf and frail, and holds a hand to her ear when the _pensionnaires_ -of the past return to the Rue des Poitevins—elderly, many of them -wealthy and distinguished—and pay her homage, and thank her emotionally -for her kindnesses, and leave behind them autographed photographs -bearing, amongst many other signatures, the names of Alphonse Daudet, -François Coppée, Waldeck-Rousseau (Gambetta’s disciple), Reclus, the -great physician, Millerand (ex-Minister of War), Pichon, the actual -French Foreign Secretary, and a former President of the Republic, Émile -Loubet.... More years roll by and “Tante Marie” becomes bent, shaky and -wizened—a nonagenarian. Against her will, she is removed from the sombre, -musty old Balzacian _pension_ to a small, modern, electric-lighted -apartment—where she dies. Dies, in spite of her beauty, brilliancy, -irresistibility, a spinster. Dies with the admission: “It was Gambetta I -loved. Impossible, of course. But he called me a Greek Statue!” - - -3. PENSION DE FAMILLE. FRENCH AND PIANO LESSONS. LES SAINTES FILLES, -MESDEMOISELLES PÉRIVIER - -Three years have elapsed since Henri Rochette, the dashing young French -financier with the handsome black beard, fell with a crash. - -“Le Krach de Rochette. Arrest of the Financier. Millions of Losses. Ruin -of Small Investors,” yelled the _camelots_ on the boulevards. It was -another _affaire_, a gigantic swindle reminiscent of Panama, in that the -greater part of the victims were small, thrifty people, who now stood in -thousands outside Rochette’s closed, darkened offices, weeping, raging, -pathetically or passionately demanding the return of their savings. - -“That Rochette, he came from nowhere—how did he manage it?” asked the -prudent bourgeois, who had steeled himself against Rochette’s alluring, -rattling circulars. - -Yes, Rochette had come from nowhere—or rather, he had come from the -country town of Melun, where he was a waiter in a greasy hotel; then -he passed as clerk into a financial establishment; next he opened -spacious offices of his own and successfully floated a dozen different -companies. I believe the chief factor in Rochette’s success was the -black beard he began to grow and to cultivate assiduously, elaborately, -after his departure from Melun. With ambition, audacity and, above -all, an ornamental black beard, no Frenchman should fail to make his -fortune. Lemoine, the alchemist, Duez, the liquidator of the Religious -Congregations, both of them had splendid black beards; and the first -lived in great style, at the expense of even so astute a financier as Sir -Julius Wernher, and the second kept up costly establishments on money -belonging to the State. True, MM. Duez and Lemoine were shorn of their -beards and sent to prison. But for a long while, at all events, a really -fine black beard in France can excite admiration, inspire confidence, -command capital and make millions. - -Well, Rochette fell with a crash—and so a panic, so ruin in Paris. -Cases of suicide. Other cases of death from the shock. Bailiffs in -possession of small homes and dim shops, and the small people expelled. -Up with the shutters in Rochette’s splendid offices; away to prison -with the swindling financier, and off with his beard. Victims and -victims—dazed, broken, distracted. Amongst the forlornest victims, the -two Mesdemoiselles Périvier. - -“Saintly creatures,” the stout, red-faced Curé of the church of St -Sulpice used to say of the Mesdemoiselles Périvier. For years and years -they had resided in his parish, attending a Low Mass and High Mass -every morning, and Vespers every evening; for years and years they had -subscribed to M. le Curé’s “good works,” and provided his favourite -dishes of _vol-au-vent_ and _poulet-au-riz_ upon those monthly occasions -when he dined with them in their dreary, six-roomed flat. It was the -most sunless, the most joyless of homes; and the Mesdemoiselles Périvier -were the frailest, the simplest, the most frugal of old spinsters, with -scarcely a friend and not a relative in the world, and with no experience -of the shocks and hardships of life until their small income was lost in -the Rochette crash. - -Their eyes stained with tears, the two lonely sisters sought out M. le -Curé. He consoled them as best he could; urged them to bear their loss -with resignation; exhorted them to seek relief in prayer. And day after -day, in shadowy St Sulpice, the Mesdemoiselles Périvier prayed long, -earnestly, humbly. Never did a complaint escape them. But they looked -frailer and lonelier than ever in their rusty black dresses, as they -crossed themselves with holy water on their way out of St Sulpice to -their sunless, stricken home. - -A few thousand francs invested in French _rentes_, but returning a sum -insufficient to satisfy even the Mesdemoiselles Périvier’s frugal needs, -was all that remained. Imperative, therefore, to do something. And one -morning the elder Mademoiselle Périvier (aged sixty-three) and her -sister, Mademoiselle Berthe Périvier (three years her junior) affixed a -black-edged visiting-card to their door. Under their joint names appeared -the intimation: “Pension de Famille. French and Piano Lessons. Moderate -Terms.” - -Then, in the Paris edition of _The New York Herald_, the Mesdemoiselles -Périvier offered a home to English and American girls desirous of -studying painting in the Latin Quarter; the six-roomed flat, in the -shadow of St Sulpice, being also in the neighbourhood of Julian’s and -Vitti’s art schools. A few flower-pots for the flat. The half-dumb, -yellow-keyed old piano repaired. Far into the night the Mesdemoiselles -Périvier studied French and English grammars; at intervals during the day -the elder Mademoiselle Périvier was to be heard practising feebly on the -piano... against the arrival of pupils and _pensionnaires_. - -“Saintly creatures!” repeatedly exclaimed M. le Curé in the houses he -visited. Earnestly he recommended the _pension_. Warmly, too, was it -spoken of by kindly, well-meaning people. - -But it was such a sunless, cheerless place, and the Mesdemoiselles -Périvier looked such dim, old-fashioned spinsters in their rusty black -dresses, that the recommendations proved fruitless. After a glance at -the piano and flower-pots, intending _pensionnaires_ took their leave, -and found attractive, sociable quarters _chez_ Madame Lagrange (“widow -of a diplomat”), or at the “Villa des Roses,” or the “Pension Select,” -where there were “musical evenings,” five-o’clock teas, electric light, -comfortable corners and gossip and laughter. - -A year went by; another twelvemonth—and then it became known round and -about St Sulpice that the Mesdemoiselles Périvier had been disposing -little by little of their Government stock. Yet they were never heard to -complain. When dust had dimmed the visiting-card on the door, the card -was replaced, and the advertisements still appeared in the Paris _New -York Herald_. - -It was noticed, however, that the eyes of the Mesdemoiselles Périvier -were often swollen and red, that their cheeks showed traces of tears, -and that the two lonely spinsters were more assiduous than ever in their -visits to St Sulpice. At all times, in all weathers, they made their way -to the church, and bowed their heads in prayer in the half-light, amidst -the shadows. - -It was on her return home from St Sulpice, one bitter afternoon, that -Mademoiselle Berthe Périvier, the younger by three years of the two -spinsters, contracted pneumonia, and died. - -“Une sainte fille, une sainte fille,” reiterated M. le Curé, himself -sobbing by the bedside. - -And to-day the black-edged visiting-card—“Pension de Famille. French and -Piano Lessons. Moderate Terms”—appears no longer on the door. With her -last remaining French _rentes_ passed the elder Mademoiselle Périvier. -Gone, without a complaint, are the frail, frugal old spinsters. And M. -Henri Rochette, on the eve of his release from prison, is growing a new -beard. - - -4. THE AFFAIR OF THE COLLARS - -It is a popular superstition that amongst the smaller French bourgeoisie -one day is like another day, and all days are empty, colourless and -banal. None of the joys of life—none of its shocks and surprises—up there -in the Durands’ gloomy and oppressive fifth-floor _appartement_. From -morning till night, infinite monotony, relieved only by Madame Durand’s -periodical altercations with the concierge, the tradespeople, and deaf -and dim-eyed old Amélie, the cook. The family newspaper is the _Petit -Journal_, because of its two _feuilletons_. In a corner a little, damaged -piano, upon which angular and elderly Mademoiselle Durand laboriously -picks out the _Polka des Joyeux_ and the _Valse Bleue_. In another -corner Madame Durand knits away at a pink woollen shawl. And from a -third corner M. Hippolyte Durand, in huge carpet slippers, tells his wife -what has happened to him during the day. - -The omnibus that took him to his office was full; his lunch consisted -of _navarin aux pommes_ and stewed pears; after leaving his bureau he -played two games of dominoes with Dupont in the Café du Commerce, and -the omnibus that brought him home was even fuller than that in which he -travelled to business. - -“There should be more omnibuses in Paris,” remarks Madame Durand. - -“And how odious are the conductors!” exclaims elderly and embittered -Mademoiselle Durand from the piano. - -Then lights out at eleven o’clock, and the dull, dreamless sleep of the -unimaginative, the worthy. - -However, this popularly conceived idea of the life and mind of the -smaller French bourgeoisie is something of a libel. Their existence is -not eternally uneventful, nor their temperament hopelessly colourless. -Now and again the dim, oppressive fifth-floor _appartements_ are shaken -by “Affairs” quite as exciting and incoherent in their own way as those -that have convulsed the Palace of Justice and Chamber of Deputies. There -was once a Dreyfus Affair. There were also the Syveton and Steinheil -Affairs. All three caused the Parisians (who dearly love imbroglios and -incoherencies) to exclaim: “C’est le comble!”—in colloquial English: -“It’s the limit!” - -But, in the Montparnasse quarter of Paris, there rages to-day an Affair -that must be awarded the first place amongst all other Affairs for sheer -confusion, dizziness and irresponsibility. - -Thus: - -Three weeks ago M. Henri Bouzon, a stout, middle-aged bourgeois, bought a -dozen new collars from a “general” clothing establishment known as “The -Joy of the Gentleman.” In due course the collars went to the laundry, but -twelve other collars were returned in their place, and these M. Bouzon -rejected. A second lot of collars—again somebody else’s. Then a third -wrong delivery, and a fourth. By the time a fifth contingent had arrived -M. Bouzon was collarless and desperate. - -“Once again, these are not my collars,” he cried. “But as they fit me, I -will keep them.” - -Next day, appearance of Madame Martin, the _blanchisseuse_, in a state -of emotion. The fifth contingent of collars belonged to a M. Aristide -Dubois, who was clamouring for them. He had acquired them only recently -at “The Paradise of the Bachelor,” and was furious at their loss. - -“Bother Aristide Dubois,” shouted M. Bouzon. “Where are my own dozen -collars from ‘The Joy of the Gentleman’? Return them and I will give up -the Dubois collars—which I am wearing.” - -Despair of the _blanchisseuse_. She searched and searched for the Bouzon -collars, but in vain; and tearfully, then frantically did she implore -Henri Bouzon to be “amiable” and “gentil” and surrender up the collars of -Aristide Dubois. - -“He is a terrible man—such a temper,” pleaded the _blanchisseuse_. “I had -to tell him you were wearing his collars, and he threatened to call on -you and tear them off your neck.” - -“Let him come,” cried M. Bouzon. Then, following Madame Martin out on to -the staircase he shouted over the banisters: “And tell Dubois from me -that he is a brigand and a bandit.” - -Inevitably, the concierges and tradespeople of Montparnasse got to hear -of the dispute. It was discussed in doorways and at street corners, -and in her steamy _blanchisserie_ Madame Martin held little levees of -the Montparnasse servants, who took the story home to their masters -and mistresses, who in their turn became garrulous and excited over -the Dubois and Bouzon collars. Then, one memorable afternoon, Aristide -Dubois—another stout and middle-aged bourgeois—called upon Henri Bouzon. -And the following dialogue took place:— - -“Sir, you are wearing the collars I bought recently at ‘The Paradise of -the Bachelor.’” - -“Sir, I have no wish to speak to you, and I beg you to withdraw.” - -“Monsieur, vous aurez de mes nouvelles.” - -That was all, but it caused a commotion in Montparnasse. Aristide Dubois’ -last words, “Sir, you will hear from me,” signified nothing less than -a duel. Yes; Bouzon and Dubois on the field of honour, sword or pistol -in hand, with doctors in attendance! “Both of them are terrible men,” -related Madame Martin, whose _blanchisserie_ now became a popular place -of rendez-vous. “Impossible to reason with them. They will fight to the -death.” Equally sought after were the respective concierges of the Dubois -and Bouzon families, and the tradespeople who served them. - -The discussion spreading, all Montparnasse soon found itself indirectly -and chaotically mixed up in the Affair of the Collars. It was Collars in -a hundred bourgeois homes, in cafés, in the shady Luxembourg Gardens, -even amongst the enormous, apoplectic _cochers_ on the cab-ranks. - -“I am for Dubois,” declared some. - -“Henri Bouzon has my sympathy,” announced others. “It is the most -distracting of affairs,” agreed everybody. Thus, fame of Henri Bouzon -and Aristide Dubois! After fifty years of obscurity, there they -were—suddenly—the Men of the Hour. Such was their importance, their -renown, that when they appeared in the Montparnasse streets people nudged -one another and whispered: - -“Here comes Henri Bouzon.” - -And: “There goes Aristide Dubois.” - -... Such has been the state of Montparnasse during the last three weeks, -and to-day that usually tranquil neighbourhood is literally convulsed by -the Affair of the Collars. No duel has taken place: but MM. Dubois and -Bouzon exchange lurid letters, in which they call one another “traitors,” -and “Apaches,” and “sinister assassins.” Thus, shades of the Dreyfus -Affair and of the Affairs Syveton and Steinheil! Here, in the Café du -Dôme, sits M. Bouzon, surrounded by Bouzonites. There, in the Café -de la Rotonde, M. Dubois and his own supporters are established,—and -in both places, night after night, hot controversies rage, the marble -tables are thumped, and MM. Dubois and Bouzon are severally applauded and -toasted by their admirers. Become celebrities, they have blossomed out -into silk hats and frock coats, and the waiters bow before them, and the -café proprietors actually address them as “cher maître.” At times they -dramatically exclaim: “Ah, my poor head! This affair is destroying me: -but I will fight to the last,” and there are murmurs of sympathy, which -MM. Bouzon and Dubois (always in their respective cafés) acknowledge -with the condescension of a Briand or a Delcassé or a Clemenceau. For, -most indisputably, they are great public characters. The post brings -them letters of congratulation or abuse; the policemen salute them: and -“The Paradise of the Bachelor” has named a collar after Aristide Dubois, -whilst “The Joy of the Gentleman” has issued the intimation: “For ease, -chic, durability, wear the Collar Bouzon.” Then, to live up to their -renown as the Men of the Hour, MM. Dubois and Bouzon go about with bulky -portfolios under their arms, and a grim, determined expression. “They are -doing too much. They will certainly collapse. It is even worse than the -Dreyfus Affair,” says Montparnasse. And, exclaims Madame Martin, in her -steamy and crowded _blanchisserie_: “Terrible men! I have tried to make -peace between them by offering them all kinds of collars. I have even -declared myself ready to buy them collars out of my own pocket. But they -only go red in the face, and shout, and won’t hear a word.” - -And now—in the words of the journalists—a “sensational development.” It -is announced, breathlessly, hysterically by Madame Martin, that at last -she has traced the dozen missing collars, bought by M. Bouzon at “The -Joy of the Gentleman,” to the bourgeois fifth-floor _appartement_ of a -M. Alexandre Dupont. He has been wearing them all these weeks. And he -refuses to surrender them. And he, too, is a “terrible man.” And he has -called M. Dubois a “convict,” and M. Bouzon “le dernier des misérables.” -And, if they come within his reach, he will hurl both of them into the -Seine. - -“Le comble” [the limit], gasps Montparnasse. All over the neighbourhood -goes the statement that M. Alexandre Dupont bought _his_ dozen collars at -that other Montparnasse clothing establishment, “The One Hundred Thousand -Supreme Shirts.” - -“The man Alexandre Dupont is as great a scoundrel as the man Aristide -Dubois,” cries M. Bouzon to his admiring supporters in the Café du Dôme. - -“It is impossible to determine which of the two is the more infamous and -diabolical, the creature Bouzon or the lunatic Dupont,” shouts M. Dubois, -amidst the cheers of his followers in the Café de la Rotonde. - -“Bouzon and Dubois—I consign them to the Seine and the Morgue,” storms -Alexandre Dupont, addressing his newly gathered partisans in the Café du -Repos. - -Out comes that other “general” clothing establishment, “The One Hundred -Thousand Supreme Shirts,” with the announcement: “The Only Collar in -Paris is the Collar Dupont.” - -“All three of them are terrible,” affirms Madame Martin to her audience -in the stifling _blanchisserie_. - -“The collars of Bouzon, then the collars of Dubois, and next the collars -of Dupont—but where have they all gone to? Where are we? What is going to -happen!” cries, emotionally and distractedly, Montparnasse. - -Nobody knows. Nobody will ever know. But Bouzon, Dubois and Dupont, so -obscure three weeks ago, are the Men of the Hour in Montparnasse to-day. -And one of the three will, almost indubitably, represent Montparnasse in -the Hôtel de Ville after the next Municipal Election,—then be promoted -to the Chamber of Deputies—then will eloquently, passionately inform the -Palais Bourbon that Incoherency is the Peril of the Present Age. - - - - -V - -ON STRIKE - - -1. WHEN IT WAS DARK IN PARIS - -Eight o’clock at night, and the electric lights burning brightly, and -the band playing gaily, and the customers chatting happily in this -large, comfortable café. Although it is the “dead” season, business -is brisk. Here and there an elegant Parisienne, eating an ice. In -corners, groups of card-players. And next to me, three stout, red-faced, -prosperous-looking bourgeois, to whom the proprietor of the café pays -particular attention. He hopes they are well. He hopes their ladies and -their dear children are well. He hopes their affairs are going well. From -their replies, I learn that the three bourgeois are important tradesmen -of the quarter. - -Suddenly their conversation turns to strikes—and naturally my three -neighbours are indignant with the strikers. The strikers spoil affairs; -the strikers should therefore be arrested, imprisoned, transported. -Half-a-dozen of them might be executed, as an example. The Bourse du -Travail and the offices of the General Confederation of Labour should -be razed to the ground. No other country but France would tolerate such -anarchy. One is on the verge of a revolution, and—— - -At this point the scores of electric lights jump excitedly—turn dim—go -out. And it is darkness. - -“The strikers!” exclaims the first bourgeois. - -“The electricians!” cries the second. - -“Ah, the scoundrels, the brigands, the assassins!” shouts the third. - -Mercy me, the excitement! The three bourgeois light matches, everyone -lights matches,—and in the light from the matches I see the proprietor -standing on a chair in the middle of the café. Loudly he claps his hands; -loudly he cries to the waiters: “Candles.” Then, for some mysterious -reason, the customers also mount chairs. The lights have gone out, so one -mounts chairs! If you don’t immediately mount a chair when the lights -have gone out, heaven only knows what will not happen to you. And so I, -too, stand on a chair, and light matches, and join in the cries of: “It’s -a strike; it’s a strike.” - -For my own part, I rejoice. I love the cries, the confusion, the -amazing aspect of Paris—when it is dark. Here, in this café, the band -is idle; the card-players have stopped their games; the proprietor -is still clapping his hands and clamouring for candles. However, no -candlesticks: so, vulgarly, as in low places, one uses bottles. A bottle -for every table and the grease (another low spectacle) trickles down -the bottles. The lady at the desk, whose highly important duty it is to -keep the accounts, is given a dilapidated old lantern. Very old and very -dilapidated, too, are the petroleum lamps brought up from the cellars -where they have remained hidden so long as to acquire a sinister coating -of verdigris. “It’s deadly poison,” says one of the bourgeois next to -me. “I won’t have it. Fetch me a candle.” So the waiter bringeth the -bourgeois a candle, and, no sooner has he placed the bottle on the table -than it topples over and falls against the breast of the bourgeois. - -“A cloth, a cloth!” he shouts. “I am covered with grease.” And he storms. -And he goes purple in the face. And violently he rubs his waistcoat, -making the stains worse. And as he rubs he cries furiously, of the -strikers: “Ah, the scoundrels, the brigands, the assassins.” - -In the street, only gas. And as I make my way to the _grands boulevards_, -I perceive waiters speeding about in all directions, and hear them asking -policemen for the nearest grocer’s shop. The waiters are in quest of -candles. The waiters dare not return to their cafés without packets and -packets of candles. But most of the grocers are closed: and so on speed -the waiters, flushed, breathless, through the gloom. - -No theatres to-night. Out went the lights just as the curtain was about -to rise, and on to the stage stepped the manager, lamp or candlestick in -hand—a sepulchral figure—to beg the audience to disperse in good order. -No telephones to-night. Out went the lights in the Exchange, to the -confusion, to the terror of the ladies. They are there in the darkness, -waiting for candles. Then, gloom in most of the newspaper offices. Out -went the lights, suddenly, unanimously. “Lamps, candles!” shouted the -editor. Thus, office-boys also in desperate quest of candles. And they -come into collision with the waiters. And there are tumultuous scenes in -the grocers’ shops. And the grocers cry desperately: “One at a time; one -at a time. I shall faint. I shall lose my reason. I shall die.” - -Thousands and thousands of candles in the handsome cafés of the _grands -boulevards_, and all of them in vulgar bottles. Thus, infinite candle -grease; also, more verdigris. But what a difference between the tempers -of the bourgeois and the boulevardier! M. le Boulevardier laughs, jokes, -rejoices. He is in search of a friend,—and so picketh up a bottle and -makes a tour of the café. “Clever fellows; they struck just at the right -hour,” he says, of the strikers. Amiable, too, are the English visitors -to Paris in Darkness. A charming young girl near me produces picture post -cards and writes hurriedly by candlelight. And I expect she is writing: -“MY DEAR,—Such fun, such excitement, I wish you were here. All the -electric lights have gone out and we’ve only got candles. It’s too funny. -I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow. Best love from ETHEL.” - -On the terraces of the cafés strings of Chinese lanterns are being -put up by the waiters; down the boulevards rush frantic hawkers with -revolutionary newspapers, _The Social War_ and _The Voice of the People_; -along them, at a trot, comes a detachment of cuirassiers. “The troops,” -cries a Parisian. “Clemenceau is at it again,” says another. “A few -years ago Clemenceau fiercely denounced the practice of sending troops -against the strikers,” remarks a third. “But to-day M. Clemenceau is -Prime Minister,” replies a fourth. - -Now, candles burn down and have to be replaced. Now, too, theatrical -managers, newspaper men and all those most affected by the darkness -discuss the probable length of the strike. “A couple of days at the -most,” says a manager. “Perhaps only twenty-four hours,” says his friend. -“Clemenceau is already taking measures to——” - -But even as he speaks the electric lights break into a dull glow,—jump -excitedly,—then flash. The strike is over; it was but a two-hours’ -strike, intended as a protest against the killing of three strikers -by the troops at Villeneuve-St-Georges and as a proof of what the -Electricians’ Trade Union can do. - -So away go the candles and the old lamps. The bands strike up; the -card-players resume their games; the newspapers go to press. “The -assassins had to give in,” says the bourgeois exultingly. “The -electricians will surprise us again,” says the boulevardier, with a -laugh. “I’m so sorry it’s all over,” says the charming young English -girl, glancing at her post cards. And so am I: for I love the cries, the -confusion, the amazing aspect of Paris, when it is dark. - - -2. BIRDS OF THE STATE AT THE POST OFFICE - -From a very fascinating English girl, domiciled in Yorkshire, I have just -received the following request:—“I hear you are having another postal -strike in Paris, and that carrier-pigeons are being used. How charming! -And what a lucky man you are to be living in such an exciting country! -Down here nothing ever happens. So do be a dear and send me a letter by a -pigeon—it would be lovely.” - -Thus news travels slowly to my very fascinating correspondent’s home -in Yorkshire. The postal strike, the general strike and all the other -strikes are over: and yet it is certain that if I could but gratify Miss -Ethel Grahame’s desire I should rise considerably in her esteem. Strike -or no strike, she would dearly love to have a pigeon, that had flown all -the way from the _grands boulevards_ to Scarborough, come tapping at her -window. To her friends she would say: “Look! A letter from Paris! And -brought all that long, long distance by a pigeon!” Naturally, cries of -astonishment from the friends. Then, great headlines in the local papers: -“Pigeon-Carrying Extraordinary,” and “Pigeon as Postman,” and “The Pigeon -from Paris.” Next, consternation of Miss Ethel Grahame’s innumerable -admirers, who would immediately proceed to fear and hate me as a -formidable rival. And finally, and best of all, my letter put carefully -away, and preserved for ever and for ever, in a scented desk. - -Dreams, only dreams! I know nothing about pigeons; and then it has been -stated that every pigeon in France, who is anything of a carrier, has -been requisitioned by the Government. The postal strike is over, but the -carrier-pigeons of Paris and of the provinces nevertheless remain at the -exclusive disposal of the Cabinet. They have become State birds; they may -fly only for the Republic. - -So, what a life! As I cross the Luxembourg Gardens (the pleasantest of -all the Paris parks), this fine, sunny afternoon, I reflect bitterly over -the absurdity and irony of things. Gorgeous, costly birds, such as the -parrot or the peacock, I could easily obtain; but a plain carrier-pigeon, -no! Since the French Government is responsible for my predicament, may it -fall! And may the State birds (if ever employed) play M. Clemenceau and -his colleagues false! And—— - -A pigeon! Yes—there, on the path before me—a fine, strong, handsome -pigeon; the very pigeon to make the trip from Paris to Scarborough. And -my heart beats. And my brow throbs. And I am all excitement, all emotion, -when—O bitter disappointment!—it suddenly occurs to me that this must be -an ordinary pigeon, one of those idle, good-for-nothing pigeons that hop -about public gardens in quest of crumbs. That is his life; that is all he -is capable of doing. O fool that I was, to have thought for a moment that -here was the very bird to go tapping at Miss Ethel Grahame’s window! - -Yes, what a life! As I make my way to the _grands boulevards_ it dawns -upon me that I have never seen a carrier-pigeon, and that therefore I -have no idea what he looks like. Also, suppose I wonderfully succeeded -in securing one, what should I say to him, what should I do with him? In -fact, how does one tell a carrier-pigeon where to go? And—— - -Two pigeons on the steps of this church, but of the before-mentioned -greedy, good-for-nothing kind. Then, more pigeons in this poulterer’s, -but dormant, dead. And next, on the menu of a café, the intimation in -bold, red letters: “This Day: Braised Pigeon and Green Peas.” - -In this café, in their accustomed corner, I find M. Henri Durand and M. -Marcel Bertrand, two amiable, chatty, middle-aged little Frenchmen with -whom I am on cordial, confidential terms. Thinking they may help me, I -tell them of my trouble, and extraordinary are their expressions when I -have finished. - -“My admirable but unfortunate friend, you are ill,” gasps M. Bertrand. -“My excellent but unhappy neighbour from Across the Channel, the heat has -disturbed you,” cries M. Durand. And then (after I have denied that I -am suffering either from illness or from the heat) M. Bertrand solemnly -holds forth: - -“You ask for a carrier-pigeon to take a letter to a very adorable miss -who lives in Yorkshire. But, my poor old one, French pigeons have -never heard of Yorkshire,—and neither have I and neither has our -friend Durand here, and neither, I am sure, has anyone in France. But I -will not insist: this Yorkshire is not the point. The point is, every -carrier-pigeon in France has been proclaimed a bird of the State. In -Paris, there are 15,000; in the provinces, 150,000, thus 165,000 in -all; and all of them have been mobilised—yes, mobilised by order of the -Government. In fact, a carrier-pigeon to-day occupies the same position -as a soldier or a sailor. True, he cannot fight; but upon command, he -must fly. And yet you ask for one of these State birds! Unfortunate -friend, you might as well ask for a regiment or a military balloon, or a -war-ship.” - -But still more extraordinary revelations follow. I hear, for instance, -that the 15,000 carrier-pigeons in Paris are housed in the various -ministries—yes, every ministry in Paris is a vast dovecot. Two thousand -pigeons for the Minister of War; three thousand pigeons for the Minister -of Justice, and six thousand pigeons for the Prime Minister. - -“He also keeps pigeons at his private residence,” states M. Bertrand. “If -he heard you wanted one of his State birds, he would have you arrested.” - -“So,” I sigh, “there is nothing to be done.” And sympathetically M. -Bertrand replies: “Alas, my poor, lovesick one, nothing. I regret it with -all my heart, but you must tell the blonde, adorable miss that birds of -the State may fly only for their own country.” - -Then up speaks M. Durand, and I learn that the 15,000 State birds -in Paris are being wonderfully looked after, even spoilt. Never such -comfortable, pleasant dovecots; never such plentiful, excellent fare! “It -is to be hoped,” concludes M. Durand, “that they are not being overfed, -and that they are not contracting idle, luxurious habits; for that would -be disastrous.” - -And here I rise. And after I have taken leave of MM. Durand and Bertrand, -I go to the nearest post office and send Miss Ethel Grahame the following -expensive telegram:— - -“Deeply sorry no pigeon available. Have done my very best. Writing full -particulars. Can only say meanwhile that every pigeon in France has been -proclaimed a Bird of the State.” - - -3. AFTER THE STORM AT VILLENEUVE-ST-GEORGES - -Down here at Villeneuve-St-Georges, the sandpit district ten miles away -from Paris, there has been a savage collision between the soldiers -and the strikers. The sandpit men—some five or six thousand powerful -navvies in all—raised barricades in the narrow, cobbled streets. When -the dragoons and cuirassiers advanced, they were met with shower upon -shower of flints, bottles, bricks. Revolvers, too, were fired at them. -From windows, guns were discharged. Rising in his stirrups, an officer -at last shouted forth the terrible official ultimatum: “Retire! Let all -good citizens withdraw, for we are about to use force and arms.” Then, -three bugle calls: the final warning. But still the officer hesitated -to give the order to open fire. Again, the three bugle calls; and yet -again. The horses plunged and reared; now and again a soldier, struck by -a huge brick, was thrown from his saddle to the ground. Fierce shouts of -execration from the strikers, the captain of the cuirassiers unsaddled -by half a paving-stone. For the last time, the three bugle calls. And -immediately after them the command: “Fire!” - -There were yells of agony, there were frightful oaths—and there was a -frantic retreat. The strikers fled to the open fields, a few hundred -yards away. The troops demolished the barricades, and occupied every -street. When darkness had descended upon Villeneuve-St-Georges it was -known that three strikers had been shot dead, and nearly a hundred more -or less seriously wounded. Four officers and a number of soldiers had -been injured. At nine o’clock a group of strikers, pushing a barrow -containing the body of one of the dead strikers, stopped before the -general commanding the troops, and said: “Salute your victim.” The -general gravely saluted. Away went the strikers with their barrow. All -night long the cuirassiers and dragoons patrolled Villeneuve-St-Georges -and the surrounding open country. In the town itself no one could sleep -for the clatter on the cobble-stones of the horses’ hoofs. - -Such were the scenes in the sandpit district yesterday; but to-day—the -day after—a comparative calm has succeeded the storm. When I enter -Villeneuve-St-Georges, officers and soldiers are walking and riding -about the streets, and now and again a patrolling party goes by. Here -and there, groups of strikers, in their baggy blue trousers. And in the -wine-shops, which are full, long, animated conversations. Who was in -the wrong? No one denies that it was the strikers who fired first; no -one disputes the patience of the troops, who remained imperturbable, -motionless in their saddles, amidst a storm of bricks and bottles, for -two whole hours. Then, most of the soldiers fired in the air: had they -fired on the men the slaughter would have been terrific. Here in this -wine-shop, I hear all this, and not only from the soldiers, but from the -strikers, who are present. Yes; the soldiers and strikers, twenty-four -hours after the conflict, are drinking and conversing together: -fraternising, resting their hands on one another’s shoulders. Very rough -and very large are the hands of the navvies: the hands that hurled the -bottles and bricks. And very grimy, very weary, very eyesore are the -dragoons and cuirassiers, after having patrolled the district all night. - -Extraordinary this “fraternising”! The enemies of yesterday sit at the -same table. The men in uniform and the men in the baggy blue trousers -clink glasses together. - -“Of course I have done my military service, but I was never sent to a -strike,” says one of the navvies. - -“You were lucky,” replies a dragoon, with a laugh. - -Who was at fault? “It is all the fault of les patrons—the masters,” -states a striker; and he proceeds to relate how he and his colleagues are -underpaid and overworked: how they are treated as slaves by the masters. -It is also “Clemenceau’s fault.” Why did he send troops? There was no -disorder: there was no need for soldiers. “Clemenceau has treated us as -he treated the miners at Courrières.” And the men in the blue trousers -mutter angrily against the French Premier. - -Another wine-shop, and the same scene: strikers and soldiers -fraternising. Says one of the former: “Let us have another coffee; -for to-night we may be fighting again.” Replies a cuirassier: “One -never knows. But remember we are the stronger.” Officers passing down -the street glance into the open doors of the wine-shops, and smile -indulgently at the strange spectacle. “The General!” suddenly cries a -navvy. And the General it is: a tall, slim man, keen-eyed, grey-headed, -dignified. After looking up and down the street, he enters a café with -three officers. Coffee and a liqueur for M. le Général. A penny cigar -for M. le Général. A dozen navvies crowd into the café, sit down, and -scrutinise M. le Général. He smiles, then resumes his conversation with -the officers. But he rises all of a sudden to shake hands warmly with -the Captain of the cuirassiers who was thrown off his horse by half a -paving-stone in yesterday’s conflict. The Captain’s head is bandaged; one -sees only his nose and his ears, and his left hand is in a sling. - -“Ça va mieux?” asks the General. - -“Ce n’est rien, mon Général,” replies the Captain. - -“It was not his fault. And he saluted the body of our comrade,” says a -navvy, of the General. - -“He must suffer, but he does not show it. And he looks sympathetic,” says -another striker, of the Captain. - -Amazing this good-fellowship! Only in France could it be witnessed, and -for the reason that in France every man is, or has been, a soldier. -The officers call their men “my children.” The officers also call the -strikers “my children”; how often, down at bleak, tragical Courrières, -did I hear them implore the miners to retreat, whilst the flints and -bricks were flying savagely about them; and how often were the three -bugle calls sounded, when, according to stern military law, they should -have been sounded but once! “My children,” cried an old Colonel at -Courrières, “for the love of heaven, retire. It will break our hearts to -shoot. Once again, for the love of heaven, retire.” - -Such then is the condition, the temper of Villeneuve-St-Georges to-day: -twenty-four hours after the battle. Nor will the battle be resumed. The -strike of the sandpit men—like all strikes in France—has been quashed -by the soldiers. Only memories remain, and relics, and landmarks. By the -side of the street lies the debris of the barricades. On the walls are -dents, scratches, holes made by the bullets. Now and again an injured -man, soldier or striker, more or less bandaged, passes by. In the -wine-shops and cafés, the men in uniform and the men in the baggy blue -trousers continue to discuss yesterday’s conflict over their coffee, and -fraternise. - - - - -VI - -COTTIN & COMPANY - - -Here, under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, congregate old -actors and old actresses, who are engaged either at vast, shabby, -outlying theatres (Batignolles, Ternes, Belleville, Bouffes du Nord), or -who are only awaiting an engagement somewhere, anywhere. - -Old actors and actresses on the kerbstone, old actors and old actresses -in this dingy little café, with the hard benches, grimy windows and dusty -floor. Among the old actors, old Cottin. - -How, as he stands dejectedly on the kerbstone or sits gloomily before his -glass of coffee, how, if he liked, could old Cottin amuse and surprise -us with his tales! His Majesty King Edward VII., when Prince of Wales, -was pleased to compliment old Cottin on his humorous expression and -wink and grin; old Cottin who has lost that grin, and whose expression -is more tragic than comic, and whose dim eye winks no longer. The -name—“Cottin”—appeared in gigantic characters on the bills; the entrance -of Cottin was the signal for laughter and applause. But if ever the -name of Cottin again appear on a theatrical poster it will be in some -obscure, out-of-the-way theatre; and if ever Cottin again addresses an -audience it will be feebly, unspontaneously, from a rough, draughty old -stage. And if we could witness the awakening and rising of old Cottin -in his chilly little attic, we should not see him attended by a valet -as in former days: but assist at the spectacle of old Cottin brushing -vehemently away at his threadbare clothes, and stitching up a rent with a -darning needle, and clipping the fray from off his collars and cuffs with -blunt, rusty scissors, and generally aspiring to smarten himself up, with -the object of obtaining an engagement somewhere, anywhere. - -Under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, on the kerbstone or in the -dingy little café, in his greasy hat and threadbare clothes, old Cottin -awaits the arrival of small suburban or provincial managers. It is their -practice to come here when in need of an actor who will play innumerable -rôles, at forty or fifty francs a week; and they pick out their actors -brusquely, roughly, and with many a coarse joke. But once old Cottin -dealt only with renowned, illustrious managers. - -“Mon bon Cottin,” said the renowned, illustrious managers. - -“Mon cher directeur,” said the renowned, illustrious Cottin. - -“Epatant, étourdissant, extraordinaire,” was the boulevardier’s -enthusiastic appreciation of Cottin. - -Poor old Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre! - -Let us not go prying into the secrets of Cottin’s life; the cause of his -gloom and downfall is not our affair. Nor are we entitled to search the -careers of these other old actors and actresses who, perhaps in their -day, were almost as famous as Cottin; and who, like him, have very much -come down in the world. Anyhow, there is genuine, friendly sympathy -between these shabby, clean-shaven old fellows—and also between their -sisters, who are over-stout or over-thin, over-“made-up” or over-pale, -over-garrulous or over-still. In this café, they are _chez eux_, they are -_en famille_. In this café, they speak frankly, easily of themselves. -Madame Marguerite de Brémont, for instance: a woman of sixty, with great -black eyebrows, a powdered face, and a deep, deep voice. Enormous is -Madame Marguerite de Brémont, who is cast for the part of _chiffonnière_, -mad-woman, hideous, unnatural mother, at the Batignolles Theatre, at -forty-five francs a week. With her, a shabby black bag, and also, as a -last _coquetterie_, a black satin reticule, from which she occasionally -produces an old powder puff, and a handkerchief edged (by her own hand) -with coarse yellow lace. Such a deep, deep voice, and such sweeping, -melodramatic gestures with, alas! rough, large hands. Forty-five francs -a week, but, honour of honours, a benefit performance this summer. -And Madame Marguerite de Brémont is telling a group of superannuated -comedians that, upon this glorious occasion, the manager will allow her -to have the pick of the Batignolles wardrobe. She will appear in no fewer -than five melodramatic rôles, “created” by her twenty, thirty years ago; -and, in looking over the Batignolles wardrobe, she has been particularly -impressed by a heavy, yellow velvet dress trimmed lavishly with pearls. - -“Yellow was my colour,” says Madame Marguerite de Brémont, “and, for -jewellery, I always wore pearls.” - -“Our Marguerite,” observes an emaciated old fellow, “will have an -extraordinary reception. We shall all cry: ‘Vive la de Brémont!’” - -“Ma chère,” puts in a faded, wrinkled woman, with bright (and bad) gold -hair, “I have always said that yellow was your colour. All women have -their hair, but the actresses of to-day wear any colour, and the result -is deplorable.” - -“Yes, yes,” says the de Brémont, “I shall appear in yellow.” And she -powders her face feverishly, at the prospect of once again appearing in -yellow and pearls. - -“C’est bien, ça”: exclaims old Cottin, at the conclusion of an anecdote. -A charming anecdote, related thus, by a little imp of a man, with the -comedian’s large mouth and ever-changing expression.... In an actor’s -charitable home the doyen of them all is an old fellow of eighty-four, -who was a favourite in his day. He passes the time pleasantly enough, in -toddling about the garden on a stick, and in reading faded, yellow Press -criticisms of years and years ago that describe him as “marvellous,” -“incomparable,” “irresistible.” But, one morning, he hears that his -sister-in-law—once a brilliant vaudeville actress—is homeless and -penniless, at the tragic age of seventy-nine, and he becomes gloomy -and silent: and he asks to see the manager of the home. “We are full,” -replies the manager, “and so we cannot receive your sister-in-law.” The -old fellow’s eyes become dim, and at last the old fellow explains: “I -wish to marry my sister-in-law.” Gently the manager observes: “But even -if you marry her, there will be a difficulty. Our rations are limited, -and if you marry her there will only be one portion for the two.” A -meeting between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old woman of -seventy-nine. And a marriage between the old fellow of eighty-four and -the old woman of seventy-nine, attended by all the old actors and old -actresses of the Home, not one of whom tells less than sixty, not one of -whom can toddle about without a stick. Bottles of champagne, from the -manager of the Home. An address, from the aged inmates of the Home. And -to-day the old couple toddle about together in the garden, and together -read the Press criticisms of years and years ago, and together recall the -days when the one was a brilliant vaudeville actress, and the other was a -“marvellous, an incomparable, an irresistible” comedian. - -A flashy-looking young man in a check suit and pink shirt looks in, and -tells old Cottin and others that “there is nothing to-day”—an agent for -the suburban, the provincial theatres. - -“By all means, yellow,” he says carelessly, in reply to Madame Marguerite -de Brémont’s anxious question as to what colour she should wear. Then, -more amiably: “I subscribe for twenty francs, and if you receive a -bouquet of roses, yellow roses, preserve it in memory of your devoted -Jules.” - -“Ce bon Jules!” exclaims the de Brémont, as Jules, the agent, hurries -out of the café. “Il a du cœur, celui-là.” And opens the black bag. And -scribbles down something—probably “20 francs”—in a little greasy book, -with a stump of a pencil. And heaves a deep sigh of satisfaction. And -expresses the hope that she will not be too _émotionnée_ on the night of -her benefit. - -At least thirty old actors and old actresses in the café: and most of -them with empty glasses. A lull, during which many look vacantly before -them, while others tap with their boots on the floor and drum with their -fingers on the tables. Great yawns, and occasional stretching of arms, -and often the exclamation: “Mais je m’ennuie, je m’ennuie!” In a corner, -a dingy waiter is sprawled over a racing paper, and behind the counter, -the burly proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, dozes. Outside, the hoarse -shouts of the _camelots_, selling the evening papers. Outside, the -animation of the boulevards. - -“Messieurs, Mesdames.” - -A quick, brusque voice, and a short, stout little man, with a huge -watch-chain, an umbrella, a thick black moustache, a double chin and a -great swollen neck. - -“Has Jules been here? What is the use of Jules? What is the use of any -agent? I call at his office; he is not there. I ask where he is; no one -can tell. I come here—although I have not a moment to spare.” - -A manager; at last, a manager! And the manager of one of the vast, -shabby, outlying theatres, who also sends companies out on tour. - -“I have need of four men, two ladies, and a child, for _The Terror of -the Fortifications_. Tour starts at St Quentin on Monday week, and lasts -twenty-one weeks. I want workers. Salary for men, not more than fifty -francs; for women, forty to fifty; for the child, twenty-five.” - -“Mais c’est bien, c’est très bien, Monsieur le Directeur,” says old -Cottin, say old Cottin’s comrades. And old Cottin and three of his -friends, and the faded, wrinkled lady with the bright (and bad) gold -hair, and one of her friends, all rise before Monsieur le Directeur. - -“I will try to find the child,” says the faded woman. - -“Girl,” says the director. “Small, thin and not over eleven. Come to see -me to-morrow morning at twelve.” And the stout director waddles out. - -“They say it is _épatant_, the _Terror of the Fortifications_,” observes -an old actor. - -“Ah,” replies old Cottin absentmindedly: old Cottin, late of a boulevard -theatre. - -“Au revoir,” says Madame Marguerite de Brémont, picking up her reticule -and bag. “Au revoir, and good luck. I shall tell the director to-night -that I have chosen the yellow and pearls.” - -Four old actors, and two old actresses, at one table, with their heads -together. - -“The curtain rises in a hovel,” says one of the old actors, and proceeds -to narrate the plot of _The Terror of the Fortifications_. - - - - -VII - -THE LATIN QUARTER - - -1. MÈRE CASIMIR - - “Il était une fois.” - -After weeks of summer idleness the students of the Latin Quarter return -in October to the Boul’ Mich’ more exhilarated, more extravagant, more -garrulous than ever. They are delighted to be back; they are impatient to -_conspuer_ certain professors; to parade the streets with lanterns and -guys; to disturb the sleep of the bourgeois; to run into debt with their -landlords, to embrace the policemen—to commit a hundred other follies. -Clad in new corduroys, covered with astonishing hats, they call for big -_bocks_—then question the waiter. But ere he can give a recital of what -has taken place on the Rive Gauche during the holidays, the waiter—_ce -sacré_ François—has to hear how Paul (of the Faculty of Medicine) has -been bathing, Pierre (of the Law) bicycling, Gaston (of the Fine Arts) -gardening; and how all three of them wore “le boating” costume (whatever -that may signify), with white shoes, pale blue waistbands and green -umbrellas; and how their food was of the simplest, and their drink, pure, -babylike milk. - -Adventures? Romances? - -Well, for an entire month, Paul was as sad, as lovesick, as pale as a -pierrot. _She_ was a blonde ... in a cottage... as sweet and fresh as -a rose... as modest as the violet... as innocent as a child... who got -up with the lark and retired with the sun. And Paul rose equally early, -to peep over the hedge of her garden and to hear her sing, as she fed -greedy, speckled poultry; and, from a lane, watched her window—then -wandered sentimentally and wistfully abroad—at night. Suddenly, she -vanished. And when Paul learnt that she had departed for Normandy to -become the bride of a cousin, Paul of the Faculty of Medicine—Paul, the -gayest character in the Latin Quarter and the hero of many an affair -of the heart—Paul, lost his appetite, Paul, experienced the agonies of -insomnia, Paul, aged at least a hundred years all at once. - -Thus Paul. No less reminiscent Pierre and Gaston. So that their -lady friends, Mesdemoiselles Mimi and Musette—at once jealous and -impatient—proceed to relate their own experiences; which, by the way, are -but flights of imagination, conceived with the idea of infuriating the -students. - -_He also_ was blonde—and wore an _incomparable_ suit of “le boating.” -How _he_ swam—far more magnificently than Paul! How _he_ bicycled—far -more swiftly than Pierre! How _he_ gardened: producing infinitely choicer -flowers than Gaston’s! - -“Enough! You have never left Paris. All those wonderful friends of yours -do not exist,” cry the students. And the _sacré_ waiter François (who has -been toying all this time with his napkin) at last is permitted to relate -what has been happening in the Latin Quarter during the summer holidays. - -As a rule, however, he has little to say. Of course, the Boul’ Mich’ -has been dull. Tourists from “sinister” Germany and from _la vieille -Angleterre_ have “looked” for students and amusements—naturally in vain. -Mademoiselle Mimi owes nine francs for refreshments. And Mademoiselle -Musette two francs eighty centimes for a cab fare. That is all. - -But when the students “ushered” in the present autumn season, François -the waiter had important, solemn news to impart. And it was with sincere -sorrow that they learnt that death, in their absence, had claimed the -queer little old woman who carried a match-tray in her trembling, bony -hands; who performed feeble, vague dances; who piped old-time airs, and -related old-time anecdotes; and who had lived amongst Mürger’s sons, ever -since they could remember, under the name of Mère Casimir.... - -No city but Paris could have produced the little old woman: and no -other community would have put up with her. Were there a Mère Casimir -in London, she would be living in a work-house, strictly superintended, -constantly reprimanded, and constantly, too, she would appear in the dock -of the police court, and the magistrate would say: “I don’t know what to -do with you. You are perfectly incorrigible.” Then this headline amidst -the evening newspaper police reports: “Her Seventy-Seventh Appearance. -Magistrate Doesn’t Know What To Do With Her. But She Gets One Month All -the Same.” - -In Paris, however, Mère Casimir was free. A shabby old creature, bent -over her tray of matches, no taller than your walking-stick. Like her -amazing friend, Bibi la Purée, she rarely strayed from the Latin Quarter. -Just as he spoke of himself as “Bibi,” so she invariably referred to -herself as “la Mère Casimir.” But whereas “Bibi” had ever led a vagabond -life, Mère Casimir had known luxurious times, triumphant times: times -when worldlings ogled and worshipped her, as she posed on the stage of -the Opera and drove out in semi-state to the Bois. - -And she laughed in a feeble, cracked voice, when she described those -brilliant days; and rubbed her withered, trembling old hands; and nodded -and nodded her bowed, white head; and piped the first line of that -haunting, melancholy refrain: - - “Il était une fois.” - -Il était une fois. Once upon a time! But the descent from luxury to -poverty had neither saddened nor hardened Mère Casimir. Deeply attached -to the students and to Mesdemoiselles Musette and Mimi, she professed -a greater affection for them than ever she had borne M. le Marquis or -Monseigneur le Duc. - -“Des idiots,” she said of the latter. - -“Des cœurs—real hearts,” was her favourite way of describing the kindly -Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. - -Many years have elapsed since first I saw Mère Casimir in the Café -Procope—“le café de M. de Voltaire,” now, also, no more. It was one -o’clock in the morning. The olive-man and the nougat-merchant had paid -their last call; the flower-woman had said good-night; the next visitor -was Mère Casimir. So feeble was she that she could scarcely push open the -door: and when a waiter let her in, she curtsied to him, then curtsied to -the customers. No one bought her matches: but she was given _bock_. Sous -were collected on her behalf by a student; they were to persuade her to -dance. But Mère Casimir had grown stiff with time. She could do no more -than hop and curtsy, bob and bend, smile and crow, kiss and wave her -withered old hand. - -“Il était une fois,” she protested, at the end. - -“Once upon a time.” Invited to seat herself at my table, Mère Casimir -told me how she had shone at the Opera; how she had attended notorious, -extravagant suppers and balls; how she had broken hearts; how Napoleon -III. himself had noticed her; how she used to sing Béranger ditties.... -She would sing one now ... one of her favourites.... “Listen.” Rising, -she piped feebly again. - -Ah, the Elysée! Mère Casimir compared it contemptuously to the Tuileries, -and sighed. What was a President to an Emperor? What was the Opera -to-day? and the Bois? and the Jockey Club? “The vulgar Republic has -changed all that,” she complained. “It disgusts me—this Republic.” - -Suddenly the old woman became silent. Bent in half behind the table, she -was scarcely visible. Minutes went by, but she remained motionless. And -at last the waiter, thinking her asleep, called out: - -“Eh bien, la vieille?” - -Then, Mère Casimir started, and nodded her head, and rose, and thanked -the customers with a last curtsy, and told them she hoped to dance to -them on another occasion; and, before going out into the darkness, -murmured again: - -“Il était une fois.” - -A few nights later I met her on the Boul’ Mich’ whilst she was passing -from table to table on the terrace of the Café d’Harcourt. - -The students were kind to her; so were Mürger’s daughters, Mesdemoiselles -Musette and Mimi. And she was given olives and nougat, and a number of -sous, and even a rose. And the waiters were friendly also; and so was the -stout, black-coated proprietor. - -In return, Mère Casimir sang her song and danced her dance, and was -applauded and encored—even by the policeman at the corner. - -At two o’clock in the morning, when the Latin Quarter cafés close, the -old woman disappeared. - -No one knew where she lived. But she could be seen feebly making her way -up the Boul’ Mich’ and, turning, to pass the Panthéon. There the streets -soon become narrow and dim. Apaches and _chiffonniers_ abound. One or -two sinister-looking wine-shops remind one of those in the _Mystères de -Paris_. Through the grimy windows, one can watch the customers, seated at -rude tables within. - -And once, while exploring this neighbourhood, I perceived Mère Casimir -seated next to Bibi la Purée behind one of those windows; with a bottle -of wine in front of them. And I entered and approached them, apologising -for my intrusion. - -Bibi was the host: Bibi, “the original with an amazing past,” who in days -gone by had been Verlaine’s valet and friend: and who—after the death -of the “Master”—became obsessed with an unholy passion for umbrellas; -anyone’s umbrellas—all umbrellas—new, middle-aged, decrepit. Bibi, tall -and gaunt, with sunken cheeks, lurid green eyes, an eternal, wonderful -grin, and—— But Bibi cannot be described in passing. Bibi deserves a -chapter to himself, and Bibi has had that chapter elsewhere.[1] - -Well, Bibi was the host, and Mère Casimir his guest. Several nights a -week they met in this manner. There in the grimy wine-shop they exchanged -reminiscences: Bibi, of Verlaine; Mère Casimir, of M. le Marquis and -other _roués_ under the Empire. There they drank sour red wine and took -pinches of snuff: Bibi provided the wine, Mère Casimir the snuff. There -they chanted Béranger ditties: Bibi huskily, Mère Casimir in her feeble, -cracked voice. There they were happy and at peace: an extraordinary -couple. - -At intervals rough-looking men slouched in and out. Whispering went on -in corners. But no one heeded Bibi and Mère Casimir, and they themselves -paid no attention to the dubious drinkers in the place. - -“He is gay, isn’t he, my Bibi?” the old woman would inquire. - -“She is still young, isn’t she, la Mère Casimir?” the old fellow demanded. - -Then Mère Casimir laughed in her feeble, cracked voice, and rubbed her -withered old hands, and nodded her bowed white head, and piped the first -line of the sad refrain: - - “Il était une fois.” - -[1] _Paris of the Parisians._ - - -2. GLOOM ON THE RIVE GAUCHE - -Sometimes in the Latin Quarter come grave moments, grim and gloomy -moments—moments when the students shun the cafés; when their lady -friends, Mesdemoiselles Mimi and Musette—Mürger’s daughters, Daughters of -Bohemia—look pale and anxious, and whisper together as though alarmed; -when the spectator, observing this depression, becomes himself depressed. -At such a time the women whose clothes are shabby, whose faces are -tragical (the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years ago) come out of those -corners to which their unattractiveness has condemned them; come out, -and congregate—skeletons some of them, swollen, shapeless creatures the -rest—all, considering their usual comparative obscurity, ominous. When -the temper of the Quarter is blithe, they must look on forlornly from -the background. No one heeds them; no one invites them to accept an -olive or sip a _bock_. But when the Quarter has been horrified by some -tragedy, some crime, they, on account of their memories and experiences, -on account, too, of their own connection with tragedy—they, then, are -sought after; they, then, talk the most; they, then, hold the longest and -completest version of the matter that has brought on the gloom. - -Recently, at three o’clock in the morning, I heard these shabby, -solitary women chattering more ominously than usual in Madame Bertrand’s -hospitable milk-shop. There, after the cafés have been closed, the -students assemble to devour sandwiches, _brioches_, hot rolls; but -upon the occasion in question the only customers present were Mürger’s -elderly, unattractive daughters. And whilst sipping hot milk or coffee, -and biting hungrily into a penny roll, they listened to the tale of a -woman—the palest, the most wasted of this forlorn group of women, whose -coat and skirt were red, whose boots were muddy, whose gloves betrayed -stitching done upstairs in her dim back room. - -Occasionally her narrative was interrupted by a short, sharp cough. She -lost her breath; pressed her hand to her breast; cleared her throat. - -“Continue,” said the others impatiently. “I continue,” she replied. - -And then, whilst listening also, I learnt that a certain Marcelle played -the chief rôle in the story: Marcelle, blithest of Mürger’s younger -daughters, Marcelle the _vraie gamine_, Marcelle the lively little lady -who always wore a bicycling suit, yet never bicycled; who appeared -seventeen, but in reality was twenty-two; who danced down the Boul’ Mich’ -arm-in-arm with the students—she the gayest of the party, her step the -lightest, her Chinese lantern the largest; who was liked by one and all, -and to whom everyone was _mon cher_.... Marcelle the Candid! A brunette, -she took it into her head to become a blonde. “C’est chic d’être blonde,” -she cried: then some days later appeared on the Boul’ Mich’ with flaxen -hair. And she drew attention to this striking metamorphosis, exclaiming: -“Inspect me; stare at me! Am I not ravishing? Isn’t it a success? Such a -dye! Only five francs a bottle—a large bottle—also perfumed!” And drank -a toast... “to the new colour!” And vowed that, with it, began a new -era. And afterwards, when relating reminiscences, naïvely explained: -“That was in the days when I was a brunette.” And constantly sang, in -a shrill voice, that favourite sentimental ballad, _Les Blondes_.... -Marcelle the Sympathetic! Each student found in her a patient, a friendly -listener. She was ready to bear with chaotic, interminable narratives of -jealousies, worries, woes. She would propose a drive, a long drive, in an -open cab—the grievance to be unfolded on the way. “Tell the _cocher_,” -she would say to the student, “to choose a deserted route—so that you may -rage and despair, and weep as much as you please. Open your poor heart, -_mon cher_. Keep nothing back. _Allez_, you can trust Marcelle.”... -Marcelle the Sentimental, the Nature-loving! After a noisy luncheon-party -in the country, she would command an adjournment to the wood. Childlike -she sought for flowers, running hither and thither, uttering shrill -little cries of astonishment and rapture. And lingered and lingered in -the wood. And vowed she would not return to Paris before the departure -of the very last train. And asked naïve questions about the moon and the -stars. And murmured: “How sweet is the country, how exquisite!”—shrinking -nevertheless from the bats and mosquitoes. And went to bed immediately -upon reaching Paris—so as not to spoil “the impression” of the country. -And dreamt happily, dreamt as she had never dreamt before—“mon cher!” - -Bright Marcelle; and, in spite of her follies, admirable Marcelle! The -shabby, solitary women—the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years ago—had in -her a friend. - -Had?... Had; but have no longer. - -“_Murdered!_” said the woman in the red dress—huskily—in Madame -Bertrand’s hospitable milk-shop, of Marcelle the Blonde. Murdered; but -no matter how. Murdered; and lying in a room, round the corner, with -candles burning by the death-bed. - -“Tall, tall candles,” continued the woman. “They burn brightly; and she -is not alone. To-day I have seen her three times. There were only two -wreaths this morning, but there must be more than twenty now. To-morrow -the concierge will do nothing but take up wreaths.” - -And the woman coughed, the other women murmured; then the husky voice was -heard again:— - -“They have telegraphed for her brother; her parents are dead. He is a -peasant. He has never been to Paris. He is twenty-three. He adored her. I -have seen letters of his which called her ‘ma petite sœur bien aimée.’ He -would have cut himself into pieces for Marcelle.” - -A husky, husky voice. Gestures accompanying each word, and now and again -the short, sharp cough. - -As the hour advanced, Madame Bertrand’s stout, bearded manager (installed -behind the counter) began to doze. The servant who distributed the cups -of milk and coffee settled herself on a stool in the background and -closed her eyes. From the coffee urns, the urns of milk, arose fumes; -the urns of boiling water hissed. Past the shop, crawled a market-cart, -packed thick and high with vegetables, and, on the top of the vegetables, -sat a sturdy peasant woman, her head enveloped in a handkerchief. -Through the windows one might see two policemen gossiping over the way; a -vagrant limping by; the eternal _chiffonnier_, stooping over the gutter -in quest of stumps of cigars and cigarettes. Only in the milk-shop was -there light, a pale, unbecoming light from the lamp overhead. Only here -was there colour, the colours of the shabby women’s dresses: faded blue, -dingy yellow, red. Only _chez_ Madame Bertrand was there a group—a group -of frightened, haunted women, fifteen or so. No woman went her way. None -felt strong, secure enough to endure the solitude of her dim _chambre -meublée_. Perhaps they remained there until dawn. Perhaps they were still -there, when the first workman passed. And no doubt he, after glancing -through the windows, shrugged his shoulders and soliloquised: “There they -are, the abandoned ones, making another merry night of it.” - -Gloom, next day. Gloom, on the day after. And greater gloom on the -gloomiest day of all—the day of the funeral. - -A sombre day: clouds hanging close over the Latin Quarter. A damp day; -in the air, mist. A day when the householders of a certain narrow street -came to their doors; when other residents appeared at their windows; when -spectators assembled on the kerbstone; when a group of shabby, forlorn -women stood silently beside a hearse—the shabbiest, the most wasted, a -woman in red. - -She had no other dress. Those in faded blue and dingy yellow, had no -other dresses. In Paris, black failing... “one does one’s best.” - -The hearse had just received its light burden, and the coffin was being -covered—thrice covered—with flowers: mere nosegays, bouquets, wreath -after wreath. By the doorstep, stood Marcelle’s concierge—a stout -woman—crying. Farther away, three policemen—erect and motionless. Few -students to be seen. But they had sent their tributes of affection, for -the flowers continued to come—came and came—accompanied by cards and -ribbons: one card bearing the inscription: “To Our Blonde Marcelle.” -Then, after the last flower had been laid, Mürger’s young and charming -daughters, Mürger’s elderly and tragical daughters, gathered behind -the hearse. Slowly it advanced, slowly it disappeared—the policemen -saluting, the concierge weeping, the spectators removing their hats, -the bourgeoise householder crossing herself, the Daughters of Mürger -following immediately behind the hearse; the woman in red, still the most -noticeable. - -The most noticeable, perhaps, because her arm was drawn through the arm -of a young man: bareheaded, dressed in a coarse black suit: red-eyed, -red-eared, ungainly, uncouth: of the fields, of the earth, unmistakably, -a peasant. With stooping shoulders and bowed head; stupefied, wrecked; -Marcelle’s peasant brother followed his “petite sœur bien aimée” to her -grave—in the compassionate charge of the shabby, husky-voiced woman in -red. - -Across the bridge, past Notre-Dame: past theatres, banks, cafés and fine -shops: past hospitals, past hovels, past drinking dens. On and on, on -and on—the mourners silently and sorrowfully following Marcelle. Still -on: the mourners accompanying Marcelle, once most blithe of Mürger’s -daughters, farther and farther from Mürger’s land. Onward always, through -the gloom, through the mist, to Marcelle’s last destination. Then back -again, through the mist, through the gloom, without Marcelle: and -Marcelle the Blonde, Marcelle the _Vraie Gamine_, only a memory, only a -name. - - -3. THE DAUGHTER OF THE STUDENTS - -The month of July—eleven years ago. The year was one of those dear, -amazing years when, in Paris, everybody has a foe, a feud and a fear; -everybody a flush on his face and a gleam in his eye; everybody a -little adventure with the plain police, the mounted police or the Garde -Républicaine. We are on the march, on the run. - -The Ministry of the moment is—well, who _is_ Prime Minister this morning? -Never mind his name; he is sure to be a swindler, a “bandit.” Nothing -but “bandits” among the public men. No purity among the public men; they -have all, all “touched” money in the Panama affair. No; M. Duval is -_not_ an exception. He is as villainous as the rest. If you persist in -your declaration that he is an exception, you must have some sinister, -interested reason. _You_, Monsieur, are no better than M. Duval. You, -too, are a bandit. I say it again, bandit, bandit, bandit. Come out and -fight. Come out and—— - -Such a tumult, such a panic in Paris! Houses searched by the police, and -hundreds of suspected persons arrested. And in the midst of the panic the -good Bohemians of the Latin Quarter also rise, and march with sticks and -lanterns to the house of Senator Bérenger, and smash his windows, and -groan, and call upon him to come out and be slain on the spot. - -Unhappy Senator Bérenger, who deemed that the Quat-z-Arts ball—the great -annual ball of the students—was improper! - -“It was Art,” shout the students. - -“It was a shocking spectacle,” pronounces the Senator. - -“Come out and be slain,” shout the students. - -“Arrest them,” orders the Senator. And then—O then—a revolution in the -Quarter; then, the wild, terrifying “Seven Days’ Bagarre.” - -There blaze bonfires; there, arise barricades; there, lie omnibuses -overturned on the Boul’ Mich’; there, march furious bands of students -who charge and are charged by the police. Mercy, how we march and how we -run! On the fifth day, we are bandaged, and we limp, but we resume our -manifestations. - -“Come out and be slain,” we yell, below the Senator’s window. - -“Arrest them,” orders the Senator. “It was Art,” we almost sob, in the -ear of the interviewer. - -“It was a shocking spectacle,” declares the Senator. - -“You must, you shall be slain,” we cry in frenzy. And then, in the -Quarter, appears the Army; and the Army goes for us; and before such -overwhelming odds, we fly; and twenty of us who fly and fly find -ourselves at last, dishevelled and breathless, in a dim, deserted side -street. - -Not a sound; we are too much exhausted to speak. - -A moon and stars, silence and peace. Twenty dishevelled and exhausted -students, who sit on the kerbstone, on doorsteps, to rest. And then, -all of a sudden, a Cry. A feeble, plaintive Cry from a doorstep: and on -the doorstep, a bundle. Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students before -the bundle; a bundle—that cries. An amazing discovery, a sensational -surprise! The bundle is a Child; the bundle is a _Gosse_; the bundle is a -bud of a Girl. - -Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students strangely in possession of a baby; -and who nurse the baby, and who seek to win her confidence, with awkward -caresses, and by swinging her to and fro, and by assuring her that she is -safe and sound. And, finally, twenty good Bohemians who resolve to adopt -the Child, and introduce her formally to their colleagues, and proclaim -her before all the good Bohemians of the Rive Gauche: “The Adopted -Daughter of the Students of the Latin Quarter.” But, the name, the name? -The Saint for the day is Lucie: so, Lucie. The _gosse_ was found on the -last night of the Bagarre: so, Bagarre. Thus, with the polite prefix, we -get: - -Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre. - -Does Paul buy books on the nursing of infants, or the bringing up of -children? And Gaston; does he go blushing into a shop and stammer out -a request for a baby’s complete outfit? At all events, awkwardness and -unrest in the Quarter. It is such a responsibility to have a Daughter; -it is such an anxiety to attend adequately to her needs! And so, after -infinite discussion, it is determined that Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre -shall reside in the home of Enfants Trouvés, until the best-hearted of -foster-mothers in the whole of France shall have been found. - -Says Paul, gravely: “Country air is indispensable.” - -Says Gaston: “Milk and eggs.” - -Says Pierre: “Companions of her own age.” - -Do the good Bohemians of the Latin France go forth gravely in quest -of foster-mothers? Do they pass from province to province, comparing -foster-mothers, testing the milk and eggs, studying local death-rates, -wondering and wondering which is the healthiest and most invigorating of -the various airs? At all events, Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre is ultimately -taken to a farm. - -Says Paul: “Nothing better than a farm.” - -Says Gaston: “Fresh milk and eggs every morn.” - -Says Pierre: “Cows and ducks and hens to marvel at.” - -Says Aimery: “None of the pernicious influences and surroundings of the -city.” - -Concludes Xavier: “We have done admirably.” - -Thus, the Committee; a Committee of Five, whose duty it is to deal with -the foster-mother, whose privilege it is to “look after the affairs” of -Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre. Always “sitting,” this Committee; sitting -before ledgers and ink in the Taverne Lorraine, gifts and subscriptions -to be acknowledged; instructions to be sent to the foster-mother; -inquiries after the health of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre to be answered; -interviewers to be received; in fine, much business in the Taverne -Lorraine. - -And then, all the students of the Latin Quarter have a right to demand -news of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre; for all the students are her fathers; -and so, naturally enough, they are anxious to know whether she has spoken -her first word, and cut her first tooth, and staggered her first step. -It is well that the Committee is patient and amiable; it is fortunate -that the Committee rejoices in its work; else there would be cries of: -“Laissez-moi tranquille,” and “Fichez-moi la paix” and “Décampe, ou je -t’assomme.” - -Now and then, the Committee visits Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre at her -farm; and on their return a general meeting is held in the Taverne -Lorraine—with Paul in the chair, Paul on the health, appearance and -pastimes of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre. Paul on the foster-mother, -on the farm; Paul, also, on Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s diet. Paul, -finally, on Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s approaching birthday. And, -indeed, on each of her birthdays, the students’ adopted Daughter receives -gifts and an address; and on Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, more -gifts; and upon every visit of the Committee, a souvenir of some kind or -another. Explains Paul most wisely: “Children like that.” - -Ah me, the responsibility, the anxiety of having a Daughter! The moment -comes when she has measles and chicken-pox; and then, what dark days for -the father. And Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre is no exception; Mademoiselle -Lucie Bagarre has chicken-pox, has measles. In the Latin Quarter, alarm -and emotion. All Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s many fathers _énervés_ -and agitated. All the fathers suggesting precautions and remedies. -All the fathers trying to remember what their parents did when they -had chicken-pox and measles. Does the Committee study books on those -diseases? At all events, the Committee is in constant communication with -the farm. Also, the Committee proceeds solemnly to the farm. The telegram -to Paris: “No complications. Malady following its ordinary course.” -Another telegram: “Think it wiser to remain the night.” A third telegram: -“Good night. Took nourishment this morning.” And in the _Etudiant_ -and the _Cri du Quartier_, the brilliant organs of the Quarter, the -announcement in large type: “We rejoice to announce that the adopted -Daughter of the students of the Latin Quarter is now allowed to take air -in her garden. To all her fathers she returns her warmest thanks for -their sympathy, messages and offerings. But the quite unusual number of -her fathers render it impossible to thank each one of them individually.” -Follows Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s signature, the scrawling letters, L. -B., faithfully reproduced. Says Paul: “I gave her a pencil-box. Children -adore that.” - -However, four years have elapsed since Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre pained -her many dear fathers by having chicken-pox. To-day, she has turned -eleven, but she still resides far away from “the pernicious influences -and surroundings of the city.” - -Says Paul: “Country air is still indispensable.” - -Says Gaston: “Always milk and eggs.” - -Says Pierre: “Honest folk about her.” - -Down to the farm goes the Committee: and back comes the Committee with -the report that Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre can now dive her hand into the -pockets of the Committee’s dear corduroy waistcoat. She has grown; she -is almost a _jeune fille_. How, by the way, stands her banking account? -Well: but since the occasion for increasing it now presents itself, let -the occasion be used to the utmost. The fête of Mi-Carême: the proceeds -of the fête to be set aside for “la fille adoptive des étudiants, la -petite Lucie Bagarre.” A grand _bal masqué_ at Bullier’s. Says Paul: -“In order to attract the public, we must be amazing.” All the fathers -scheming how to be amazing. All the fathers painting themselves and -donning fantastic costumes. All the fathers calling upon Paris to swell -their fund by visiting Bullier’s. And Paris responds: Paris flocks to -Bullier’s. - -An amazing spectacle, and an amazing night: the good Bohemians have -succeeded in being entirely amazing. Bullier’s packed; Bullier’s all -light, all colour, all movement, when the Committee of Five proudly -surveys the scene. - -Says Paul: “Gold.” - -Says Gaston: “Bank-notes.” - -Says Pierre: “A dot.” - -Says Aimery: “A fortune.” - -Says Xavier: “A veritable heiress.” - -Say the innumerable fathers: “The _richissime_ Mademoiselle Lucie -Bagarre.” - -And then, toasts. And then, cheers. - -And then, the resolution that an address, signed by all her fathers, -shall be presented to their dear adopted Daughter: who, at this advanced -noisy hour, is lying fast asleep in her farm. - - - - -VIII - -MONSIEUR LE ROUÉ - - -Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le Roué—who could fail to admire him for -the constant, anxious endeavours he makes, the innumerable secret devices -he employs to appear juvenile and sprightly! That his figure may be -elegant, he wears stays. That the crow’s feet may not be conspicuous he -(or rather his valet) covers them over with a subtle, greasy preparation. -That his moustache may not droop, he has it waxed to the extremest degree -of rigidity. And that people may not say: “Old le Roué is a wreck” and -“Old le Roué is played out,” he goes about the Amazing City—here, there -and everywhere—with a glass in his eye and a flower in his button-hole, -like the gayest of young worldlings. - -However, it has to be recorded that despite all his endeavours, despite -all his artifices, M. le Roué remains a shaky, shrunken old fellow, with -scanty white hair, a tired, pallid face and a thin, feeble voice. Once -upon a time—say forty years ago—he was deemed one of the most brilliant, -the most irresistible ornaments of _le Tout Paris_; but to-day—forty -years after—he has attained that tragic period in the life of a vain, -superannuated _viveur_, when no one, except his valet, is permitted to -see him until two o’clock in the afternoon; and thus no one, save that -faithful attendant, could give us a picture of M. le Roué when, after the -curtains have been drawn and daylight has been let into the room, the old -gentleman is served with his cup of chocolate and morsel of dry toast. - -Still, if we cannot witness his awakening, we may assuredly assume that -M. le Roué is not a pleasant spectacle in the morning. And it is equally -safe to suppose that his temper is detestable, his language deplorable, -when the valet shaves his wan cheek, and fastens his stays, and helps -him into his heavy fur coat; and thus, in a word, turns him into the -impeccable if rickety old beau who lunches every day on the stroke of two -o’clock in Sucré’s white-and-gold restaurant. - -“Monsieur se porte bien?” inquires the _maître d’hôtel_, respectfully -handing him the menu. - -“Pas mal, pas mal,” replies M. le Roué, in his thin, feeble voice. And -although the old gentleman has been advised to keep strictly to a diet of -plain foods and Vichy water, both the dishes and the wines that he orders -are elaborate and rich. - -Once again I exclaim: “Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le Roué,” and once -again I demand: “Who could fail to admire him?” - -He declines to belong to the past, he refuses to go into retirement; so -long as he can stand up in his stays he is heroically determined to lead -the life of a _viveur_, a rake. See him, here in Sucré’s restaurant, -revelling over his lobster; behold him kissing his trembling, white hand -to the lady book-keeper, a handsome young woman with sparkling diamond -earrings; and hear him, moreover, entertaining Joseph, the _maître -d’hôtel_, with an account of the lively supper-party he presided over -last night, at which Mesdemoiselles Liane de Luneville and Marguerite de -Millefleurs (beautiful, brilliant ornaments of the _demi-monde_) were -present, and Mademoiselle Pauline Boum, of the Casino de Paris, performed -her latest “eccentric” dance. - -All this from a gentleman half-way through the seventies! All this from -a shaky, shrunken old fellow who ought, at the present moment, to be -taking a careful constitutional in the Parc Monceau on the arm of some -mild, elderly female relative—instead of rejoicing over lobster and -Château-Yquem in Sucré’s white-and-gold restaurant. - -“Monsieur is extraordinary,” says the _maître d’hôtel_, by way of -flattery. - -“Monsieur is a monster,” says the handsome lady book-keeper, shaking her -diamond earrings. - -And old le Roué the “Extraordinary,” old le Roué “the Monster,” smiles, -winks a dim eye and laughs. But it has to be stated that his smile is a -leer and that his laugh is a cackle. - -From Sucré’s restaurant M. le Roué proceeds slowly, leaning heavily on -his walking-stick, to a quiet, comfortable café, where he meets another -heroic old rake—the Marquis de Mô. - -But there is this striking difference between the two: whereas old -le Roué is delicately made, frail, shrunken, old de Mô is enormous, -apoplectic, with flowing white whiskers, a round, bumpy bald head, -a fiery complexion and a huge gouty foot which is ever encased in a -wonderful elastic shoe. Le Roué and de Mô rejoiced extravagantly together -in the latter brilliant days of the Second Empire. And to-day, in the -year of 1912, they love to recall their past conquests, duels, follies, -and never tire of abusing the Republican régime. - -“What a Government, what an age!” complains le Roué. - -“Abominable—odious—sinister,” declares de Mô. - -Also, our superannuated _viveurs_ recall affectionate memories of a dear, -mutual friend, the late Comte Robert de Barsac, who died last year, of a -vague illness, shortly after he had riotously celebrated his seventieth -birthday. The truth was, old de Barsac could not keep pace with old le -Roué and old de Mô. His face became leaden in colour and his speech -rambling and incoherent. And one night, he suddenly passed away in his -sleep from exhaustion. - -“Ce pauvre cher Robert!” exclaims le Roué sadly. “Ce pauvre cher Robert!” -sighs de Mô. - -Then there is another old friend, still living, of whom le Roué and de Mô -speak affectionately as they sit together in their corner of the quiet, -comfortable café. - -She is “Madeline”—who, once upon a time, was the “star” actress at the -Variétés theatre. In truth, Marguerite de Prèsles (as she figured on -the bills) was something of a queen: the queen of the half-world. The -newspapers of that period, in alluding to her wit, beauty and charm, -called her the “exquisite Madeline”; the “adorable Madeline”; the -“incomparable” Madeline de Prèsles. Le Roué and de Mô worshipped at her -shrine. And to-day—forty years after—they often visit her at Pichon’s -gaudy night restaurant: where the “adorable” Variétés actress of years -ago makes constant rounds of the place—with tinselled boxes of chocolates -and a basket of flowers! - -Yes; “Madeline” sells chocolates and flowers _chez_ Pichon! And the gold -hair has turned white and the slim figure has swollen, and the once -pretty, bejewelled little hands have become knotted and coarse; and the -old lady herself—the former radiant “star” of the Variétés—lives in a -sombre _hôtel meublé_ on the outskirts of Paris, where she passes most of -the day in making up bouquets and button-holes for the painted, rackety -company that assembles nightly at Pichon’s. - -Thus some romance is left in old le Roué and old de Mô. They still seek -out “Madeline.” They make her presents on New Year’s Day; nor do they -ever fail to remember her birthday. Once they offered her an annuity—but -whilst expressing her thanks and declaring herself “touched,” she assured -her old admirers that she was content with the income she derived from -her speculations in flowers and chocolates: although (so she added) she -held but a scornful opinion of the modern young worldlings—the young -worldlings of the “odious,” “sinister” Republic—who were her customers -_chez_ Pichon. And so, attached, by force of memories and by reason of -their long, constant gallantry, so attached is “Madeline” to old le -Roué, and old de Mô, that when those two valiant old rakes are seized -with rheumatism or gout, and are obliged most unwillingly and angrily to -lie up, she pays them daily visits; and refreshes and embellishes their -rooms with her flowers; and reminds them vivaciously and wittily of the -epoch—the wonderful epoch—when all three of them were gay, brilliant -ornaments of the Amazing City.... - -And now, night-time. - -Behold M. le Roué dining royally, and haunting the _coulisses_ of the -Opera, and playing baccarat, with trembling hands, in the Cercle Doré, -and entertaining (as we have already recorded) Mesdemoiselles Liane de -Luneville and Marguerite de Millefleurs, and the eccentric Mademoiselle -Pauline Boum, to supper in a gilded, bemirrored _cabinet particulier_. - -All this he does long after the innumerable electric advertising devices -(Fontain’s Perfumes—Carré’s Gloves—Cherry Brandy of the Maison Joyeux et -Fils) have begun to blink and dance on the boulevards; and long after M. -le Roué, with his five and seventy years, should have been tucked up in -bed—his old brain at rest and his old head enveloped in a night-cap. - -But M. le Roué declines to return home, M. le Roué refuses to close his -dim eyes, until he has visited one of those modern rackety “American” -bars—the “High Life,” for instance—where the young worldlings of to-day -sit upon high stools, and absorb cocktails, _crème de menthe_ and icy -“sherry-cobblers.” And it is wonderful to witness frail, shaky M. le Roué -climb up on to his stool; and the spectacle becomes still more wonderful -when apoplectic, gouty old de Mô laboriously follows his example. - -Thus M. le Roué goes to the “High Life,” goes here, there and everywhere, -like the gayest and most adventurous of young worldlings. And wherever he -goes, the waiters and attendants exclaim: “Monsieur is astonishing!” and -“Monsieur is extraordinary!” and their flattery pleases the old gentleman. - -“Pas mal, pas mal,” he replies in his thin, feeble voice, and with his -leer. - -However, there come times when M. le Roué is particularly shaky and -shrunken, when he looks peculiarly superannuated and frail; and at these -times he resents the obsequious compliments of the waiters. - -“No, no,” he cries shrilly. “I am a very old man, and I am feeling very -weak and very ill.” After which confession, he buries his head in his -trembling, white hands, and mutters to himself, strangely, beneath his -breath. - -The waiters then look at him curiously. And old de Mô protests: “What -nonsense, _mon ami_; what folly, _mon vieux_. There is nothing the matter -with you. You are perfectly well.” - -But old de Mô’s expression is nevertheless anxious. - -Is he about to lose his last remaining companion of years ago? Is he -shortly to sit in that corner of the quiet, comfortable café—alone? - -He cannot but acknowledge to himself that in old le Roué’s face there is -the same leaden colour and in old le Roué’s speech the same incoherency -that manifested themselves in their mutual dear friend and contemporary, -the late Comte Robert de Barsac, a short while before he vaguely passed -away. - - - - -IX - -FRENCH LIFE AND THE FRENCH STAGE - - -1. M. PAUL BOURGET, THE REACTIONARY PLAYWRIGHT, AND M. PATAUD, WHO PUT -OUT THE LIGHTS OF PARIS - -In a boulevard café, over his favourite, strange mixture of strawberry -syrup and champagne, a well-known Paris journalist recently called my -attention to the profusion of playwrights of high, indisputable ability -now writing for the French stage. - -“There are not enough theatres to accommodate them all,” he said. “The -papers inform us that X—— has just finished a new _chef-d’œuvre_, but -often four, six, even ten months will elapse ere the masterpiece can be -produced. Why? Because there is no room for X——. He must wait his turn; -and in his leisure—O admirable fertility—he writes yet another play.” - -“Nevertheless you have three important _répétitions générales_ this -week,” I remarked. “Capus to-morrow, Donnay at the Français on Wednesday, -and de Flers and Caillavet, the Inexhaustible, on Friday.” - -“Charming Capus, delightful Donnay, amazing de Flers and Caillavet,” -exclaimed my companion. “Listen; we are free for an hour. Let us run -over the names of our leading playwrights—a formidable list. Garçon, -another glass”—and away went the waiter in quest of more syrup and -champagne. - -Of course, no mere “running over” of the great name of Rostand. Both of -us soon found ourselves reciting passages from _Cyrano_, _Chantecler_, -_La Princesse Lointaine_—my friend eloquently and emotionally, myself -alas! with the natural embarrassment and self-consciousness of the -foreigner. “Au trot, au galop,” said my companion, glancing at the -clock. And rapidly we proceeded to review the “formidable list” of -France’s leading dramatists:—Paul Hervieu, the cultured, polished author -of _Le Dédale_ and _La Course au Flambeau_. Violent, destructive Henri -Bernstein—_La Griffe_, _La Rafale_, _Samson_. Henri Lavedan, brilliantly -audacious in _Le Nouveau Jeu_, delightfully ironical in the _Marquis -de Priola_, but serious, profound (a veritable _tour de force_) in _Le -Duel_. Then Capus, the tolerant, the sympathetic: _Nôtre Jeunesse_, _Les -Passagères_, _Monsieur Piégois_. Émile Fabre, wonderful manipulator of -stage “crowds,” _Les Ventres Dorés_. Lively, brilliant de Flers and -Caillavet, _Le Roi_, _L’Ane de Buridan_, _L’Amour Veille_. Worldly, -cynical Abel Hermant, _Les Transatlantiques_, _Monsieur de Courpière_. -Jules Lemaître, tender in _La Massière_, tragical in _Bertrad_. Brieux: -the amusing _Hannetons_, sombre, harrowing _Maternité_. Georges -Porto-Riche, _L’Amoureuse_, perhaps the finest modern comedy in the -repertoire of the French National Theatre. Sound admirable Donnay, -_Amants_, _Le Retour de Jérusalem_. Anatole France, the incomparable -_Crainquebille_. MM. Arquillière and Bernède, with their masterly -pictures of military life, _La Grande Famille_, _Sous l’Epaulette_. -Romantic, vigorous Jean Richepin, _Le Chemineau_. Sardonic, anarchical -Octave Mirbeau, _Les Affaires sont les Affaires_, _Le Foyer_. Humane, -chivalrous Pierre Wolff, _L’Age d’Aimer_ and _Le Ruisseau_. Georges -Ancey, earnest investigator into the hidden crafty practices of the -Catholic Church, _Ces Messieurs_. Gentle, elegant Romain Coolus, -_L’Enfant chérie_ and _Une Femme Passa_. Grim, lurid André de Lorde of -the Grand Guignol. Ardent, passionate Henri Bataille, _Un Scandale_, _La -Vierge Folle_, _La Femme Nue_. - -“Formidable, formidable!” exclaimed our Paris journalist, wiping his brow. - -“There remains M. Paul Bourget,” I said. - -“M. Paul Bourget is ponderous, prejudiced, pedantic,” objected my -companion. “I have just seen his latest photograph, which shows him -seated at his writing-desk in a frock coat. Novels of life in the -Faubourg St Germain, such as M. Bourget has produced, may possibly be -written in a frock coat—_not_ plays.” - -“No doubt the coat was only put on for the visit of the photographer,” I -charitably suggested. - -“M. Paul Bourget’s plays convey the impression—no, the conviction—that -they were written in the conventional, cramped armour of a frock coat,” -was the solemn, categorical retort. - -Now for M. Bourget, on his side it would be permissible to object that -a gentleman who takes thick strawberry syrup in his champagne commits no -less of an enormity than the dramatist who writes his plays in a frock -coat; and that therefore, he, M. Bourget, considers himself untouched -by the allegations directed against him from that hostile and eccentric -quarter. Nevertheless, an examination of M. Bourget’s dramatic work—_Un -Divorce_, _L’Emigré_, _La Barricade_—compels the comparison that whereas -his fellow-playwrights adopt the theatre exclusively as a sphere in which -to hold up a vivid, faithful, scrupulously impartial picture of scenes -from actual life—_la vie vivante_—M. Bourget uses the stage, ponderously, -as a platform or a pulpit. His views on social questions—the dominant -ideas, the passions of the hour—are well known. They are autocratic, -severe: in the French sense of the word, “correct.” But it unfortunately -happens that _l’homme correct_ possesses none of those indispensable -attributes required of the playwright—an open mind, imagination, a sense -of humour. A firm clerical and the irreconcilable antagonist of divorce, -M. Bourget naturally maintains that in a spiritual emergency, women, as -well as men, are more efficaciously helped to right conduct by priestly -government than by habits of self-reliance. Then his sympathies have ever -rested undisguisedly with the classes he has portrayed in his novels—the -languid worldling of the Faubourg St Germain, the _haute bourgeoisie_, -the despotic _châtelain_. - -“M. Bourget is not interested in humble people. The vicissitudes, the -amours, the miseries of the lower classes, he deems beneath his notice. -He concerns himself only with the emotions of the elegant and the rich,” -bitter, sardonic M. Octave Mirbeau makes one of his characters remark. -And, truly enough, it has to be affirmed that however hard he may have -tried to repress his aristocratic proclivities and prejudices when -writing for the stage, the author of _Un Divorce_ and _La Barricade_ has -remained, despite his endeavours, _l’homme autoritaire, l’homme correct_. - -“Je ne connais pas des idées généreuses,” he has announced. “Je ne -connais que des idées vraies ou fausses, et il ne vaudrait pas la peine -d’écrire si ce n’était pas pour énoncer les idées que l’on croit et que -l’on sait vraies.” And in the press, in conferences, in prefaces, the -“eminent Academician” (as the clerical _Gaulois_ monotonously designates -M. Bourget) has furthermore declared that _Un Divorce_ and _La Barricade_ -were written in a rigorously impartial spirit. But other critics maintain -that the controversies that have raged around M. Bourget’s dramatic -efforts (started with no little pretentiousness by the author himself) -establish nothing. The plays speak for themselves. - -M. Bourget’s observations have persuaded him that the rebellious spirit -prevailing amongst the working classes is a menace to his country: - -“C’est cette sensation du danger présent que j’aurais voulu donner dans -_La Barricade_ sûr, si j’avais pu y réussir, d’avoir servi utilement ma -classe, et par conséquent mon pays.” - -But according to M. Pataud, the notorious ex-Secretary of the Syndicate -of Electricians, M. Bourget carried away with him a totally false -impression of the men and places he professes so closely, and also so -impartially, to have studied. - -A word about M. Pataud. It was shortly after he had ordered the -Electricians’ strike that plunged Paris almost into darkness for two -hours,[2] and at the zenith of his fame, that the “Roi de la Lumière” -attended a performance of _La Barricade_ at the Vaudeville Theatre. -It had been reported that he had served M. Bourget as a model for the -character of Thubeuf, the professional agitator in the play. This, M. -Bourget emphatically denied. “Let me see for myself,” said M. Pataud. And -he requested M. Bourget to send him a ticket of admission to the theatre, -and humorously offered to return the compliment by placing a seat in the -Bourse du Travail at the dramatist’s disposal. - -Well, M. Bourget granted the request: but ignored the invitation to the -Labour Exchange. And one night “King Pataud” seated himself, amidst -_le Tout Paris_ in the most fashionable of the boulevard theatres. He -himself, in spite of his pink shirt, red tie, and “bowler” hat, belonged -in a sense to _le Tout Paris_. Was he not “Le Roi de la Lumière”? There -were columns about him in the newspapers; he was “impersonated” in every -music-hall _revue_, and his picture post cards sold by the thousand. -Then, pressing (and sentimental) requests for his autograph; invitations -out to dinner and gifts of cigarettes and cigars; and what a stir, what -excited cries of “There goes Pataud,” when the great man swaggered down -the boulevards with a fine Havana stuck in a corner of his mouth, and the -“bowler” hat tilted rakishly over the right eye! - -Nor in the Vaudeville Theatre was his triumph less complete. The interest -of the brilliant audience was centred on “Fauteuil No. 159”; not on the -stage. There sat the man who had but to give the signal and—out would -go the lights! So was every opera-glass levelled at him, and so—at the -end of the performance—were all the reporters in Paris eager to obtain -“King” Pataud’s impressions of the play. “Not bad,” he was reported to -have said. “But M. Bourget’s conception of how strikes are conducted is -ridiculous. And his strikers are equally absurd.” - -I fancy M. Bourget must have regretted that gift of “Fauteuil No. 159” -at the time. But to-day he has his revenge—for it was the free seat in -the Vaudeville Theatre that led to “King” Pataud’s downfall! After the -agitator’s visit to _La Barricade_ it became the fashion amongst the -managers to invite the “Roi de la Lumière” to their theatres. Behold him, -actually, at the first performance of _Chantecler_—and at the Gymnase, -the Variétés, the Palais Royal. But if the public rejoiced over “King” -Pataud’s presence at the theatre, his colleagues in the labour world -were to be heard grumbling. Pataud (and it was true) was “getting his -head turned.” Pataud was neglecting the Bourse du Travail for theatres -and brilliant restaurants. But the “Roi de la Lumière” paid no heed to -these reproofs, nor to complaints and warnings vigorously expressed. And -the crisis came, the storm burst, when “King” Pataud and an electrician -came to blows on the boulevards, and were marched off to the police -station on a charge of breaking the peace. At the station, the “Roi de -la Lumière” was searched. “Ah, you do yourself well, you enjoy life, you -have a gay time of it,” grinned the _police commissaire_, after examining -the agitator’s pocket-book. It contained bank-notes for a large sum, -receipted bills from luxurious restaurants and hotels, and (what of -course, particularly delighted the Parisian) the autographed photograph -of a certain very blonde and very lively actress. So, indignation and -disgust of the Syndicate of Electricians, who had contributed to their -secretary’s support. He was called upon to resign. And to-day M. Pataud -is an agent for a champagne firm; and the street _gamins_ who once -cheered him, now—O supreme insult—apostrophise him as “sale bourgeois.” - -Two questions remain for those whose opinion in the Amazing City counts. -The first is: Does an Eminent Academician, who, whether he writes in a -frock coat or no, professes the conviction that it would not be worth -while to produce plays _only_ to reveal the influence and power of -men’s emotions, passions and ideals in the shaping of life, unless one -had some ulterior clerical, social or political object to serve, stand -in the hopeful ways of thought that distinguish the first order of -Dramatists? The answer to the question is delivered with an emphatic -decision. “Mais—Non”—“Mais,”—a pause and a gesture by an emphatic falling -hand—“Non.” Second question: Is a social agitator, who displays himself -in a pink shirt and bowler hat in the best seats of fashionable theatres, -and who enjoys himself at fashionable restaurants with worldlings—whom he -affects to terrorise—a satisfactory Democrat? Same answer, but the “Non” -and the confirmatory gesture is more emphatic. “Mais—Non.” - -[2] See page 69. - - -2. M. ALFRED CAPUS. “NÔTRE JEUNESSE” AT THE FRANÇAISE - -Through a novel published some years ago, under the title of _Qui Perd -Gagne_, I made the acquaintance of a number of Parisians who committed -all manner of faults and follies, got into all kinds of dilemmas; and -yet compelled a certain sympathy by reason of their good-heartedness -and good humour. Never a dull moment in this novel; never, indeed, -a moment when there was not some anxious situation to face, some -formidable difficulty to overcome. The leading personages were a retired -_blanchisseuse_ and her husband. Their names I cannot recall—let them -be christened the Belons; and let it be admitted that the atmosphere -in which they lived would most assuredly be condemned by the orthodox -English critic as “unsavoury.” Laid bare before us in all its tawdriness, -all its feverishness, all its swift delirious ups and downs, was the -life of the adventurer. A good round dozen of these gentlemen, but the -most “enterprising,” the most audacious, the most entertaining amongst -them was our friend Belon, who, before becoming the husband of the -_blanchisseuse_, and the master of the money realised by the sale of the -_blanchisserie_, had been a seedy figure in shady newspaper offices and -suspicious gambling clubs. In his unmarried days Belon rejoiced when a -bet at baccarat, or a successful operation in the line of canvassing for -advertisements, yielded him a louis. He was always “hard up”—always (as -he described it) in a “crisis”—but adversity neither disheartened him nor -turned his temper. - -“Times will change,” predicted Belon, when he surveyed his shabby form in -the mirror of a café. - -“One of these days you will dine magnificently at Paillard’s,” Belon -murmured, when he issued forth (his hunger still unsatisfied) from a -greasy restaurant. - -“Paris,” he soliloquised, as he swaggered along the boulevards, with -a shocking little black cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his -hat tilted rakishly on one side, “Paris, I know you well—know your -weaknesses, your failings, your vanities. And with this precious -knowledge to assist me, I shall undoubtedly succeed.” - -Certainly, Belon knew Paris thoroughly—or part of it. He was full of -anecdote and scandal. He had amazing stories to tell of personages high -up in the _grande monde_, the _monde d’affaires_, and the _demi-monde_, -and he told them well. He could be gallant—in a way. Also, when it served -his purpose, he could feign a seriousness that inspired confidence. And -it was his gaiety, his gallantry, his flashy worldliness, that fascinated -the _blanchisseuse_—not a foolish woman by any means, but a practical, -amiable soul, still in her thirties, still attractive, still (as the -French novelist has it) “_appétissante_,” who saw in her marriage to -Belon not only a means of escape from the steamy, stifling atmosphere of -her laundry, but a position of importance, even of luxury and brilliancy. -Belon she believed capable of great things; Belon, with his enterprise, -his audacity, his knowledge of the world, needed only a small capital, -such as the sale of the laundry would provide, to become a master of -_affaires_, and a leader of men. And then—was not Belon fascinating, -and ardent, and tender? Thus, half prosaically, half sentimentally, did -the _blanchisseuse_ consider Belon’s eloquently worded proposal; and -the result of her deliberations was good-bye to the _blanchisserie_. -Affectionately she embraced, liberally she rewarded, Charlotte and -Amélie, her assistants. Charlotte and Amélie wept. The future Madame -Belon wept. Belon himself was moved to tears by the scene. - -“Adieu, mes filles,” sobbed the future Madame Belon. - -“Adieu, Madame,” sobbed back Charlotte and Amélie. - -“Allons-nous-en, allons-nous-en,” said Belon huskily. And so—in this -touching fashion—farewell to the _blanchisserie_. - -What changes, when next we beheld the Belons! Madame dressed -attractively; and Monsieur, when he went a-gambling, was an ornament -of brilliant, if not exclusive, clubs, and a power in busy, handsome -newspaper offices. There were, as Belon prophesied, “magnificent dinners” -at Paillard’s. There were constant visits to race-courses, theatres and -music-halls, and he played high, and he conceived colossal “business” -schemes, and he mixed familiarly with personages high up in the _monde -d’affaires_, and in the _demi-monde_; one even had _des relations_ with -certain personages in the veritable _monde_. But the reader, as he -followed Belon et Cie here, there and everywhere, still found himself -in a whirl of adventurers, and the adventurers (despite their display) -were still surrounded by difficulties. For Belon was too audacious, too -“enterprising.” Wonderfully ingenious were his schemes, but their fate -was disastrous. - -In a word, Belon, with all his knowledge of Paris, overestimated the -credulity of the Parisians, and was brought face to face with that -unimaginative, relentless personage, the Commissaire de Police. Happier -had been Madame Belon in the steamy days of the _blanchisserie_; happier -had been Belon when he surveyed his shabby form in the café mirror, -saying: “Times will change.” In the Belon _ménage_, not only a constant -dread of M. le Commissaire de Police, but bitter, domestic quarrels, -even infidelities. But the quarrels were “made up,” the infidelities -were pardoned—for, as the troubles thickened, as the situation grew -increasingly alarming, so did the Belons become drawn closely together; -so did they display many, yes, admirable, yes—even heroic qualities. -And when at last the “crisis” arrived, and when the practical, amiable, -retired _blanchisseuse_ saved her husband from a disgraceful fate, it -was the good heart and good humour that had lived through, and survived, -these difficulties which made the point—the very un-English moral—of the -story! Thus, after discussing their short, stormy married career in every -detail, and with the utmost candour, the Belons agreed that no great -harm had been done, since they were better friends than ever! But Paris -had become distasteful to them; what a blithe, refreshing change, then, -to take up their abode in a quiet villa on the outskirts of the city! A -little villa with a porch! A little villa with a garden! A little villa -where one would be entirely _chez soi_. “We will plant cabbages,” cried -Madame Belon enthusiastically. “We will be happy,” responded Belon, -with emotion. So, another and a final change of scene. Behold—as a last -tableau—the Belons installed tranquilly, comfortably and affectionately -on the outskirts of Paris in a neat, innocent little villa. - -Thus, very briefly, the story of _Qui Perd Gagne_. The author, I need -scarcely say, was M. Alfred Capus; for who but that inimitable dramatist -would have discovered good-heartedness and good humour as underlying -qualities in such shady people as the Belons; and who but that genius -at clearing up awkward, anxious situations could have got the retired -_blanchisseuse_ and her husband so generously and unexpectedly out of -their moral, as well as their practical, scrapes? - -Thus, a good many years ago, M. Capus, then a comparatively unknown -journalist, already possessed those qualities which have made him by far -the most popular playwright of to-day: a wonderful tolerance, a wonderful -bonhomie, and a wonderful and incomparable talent at finding a way of -carrying the treasure of faith in human goodness safely through perilous -circumstances! As a consequence of these qualities M. Capus has been -called an “optimist.” We are always and always hearing of the “optimism” -of M. Capus; but if I may be permitted to differ from the vast majority -of his admirers, I would suggest that, so far from being an optimist, M. -Capus is, from the ideal point of view, a cynic. True, an amiable cynic. -He regards mankind with a smile—not of mockery, because there is nothing -unkind in it; a smile of raillery at the idealist’s effort to take the -mote out of his brother’s eye and to afflict himself too seriously in -his endeavour to get rid of the beam out of his own eye. From the point -of view of M. Capus, motes and beams, big faults as well as little ones, -belong to human nature. It is a pity, but it cannot be helped. “C’est la -vie”—and so let us make the best of it. - -And it might be worse! Mankind might be cruel, whereas the average man, -the average woman, is kind—the hearts of average men and women are in -the right place. Thus, let mankind not be judged too harshly. Since we -are what we are, it is inevitable we should commit follies. But let us -see to it that our hearts _are_ in the right place, and when the moment -arrives we shall know how to make atonement for those follies and pass -on undisgraced. “Amusez-vous bien, soyez gais; mais soyez bons.” Such -might be M. Capus’ message to mankind; and that message, indeed, he has -delivered from the stage. For amongst French playwrights who bring home -to us vividly, by means of illustration, French ways of feeling and -methods of judgment that are not English methods, M. Alfred Capus stands -out as the efficient interpreter of the typical personage recognised by -general consent in France as “l’homme qui est foncièrement bon.” - -Do not, however, let us suppose that we are in any way helped to a -correct understanding of this personage by makers of dictionaries, who -tell us that “l’homme qui est foncièrement bon” is a “thoroughly good -man.” No. If we leave the thoroughly bad man out of account, no two more -opposite types of human character can be compared with one another—no -two worthy men can be brought together more certain to quarrel, and -mutually to dislike and condemn each other than the “thoroughly good -man,” approved by the English standard, and “l’homme qui est foncièrement -bon,” recognised as such by general consent in France. Nor is this -all. Not only have we here two worthy human beings who, by reason of -the different directions wherein the special worthiness of each of -them displays itself, cannot agree as friends, but for the services of -friendship also their qualifications are so different that upon the -occasions when one can help us the other will get us into trouble; and -in the moods when we should cleave to the one, we should indubitably -avoid the other. The cause of this essential difference is not entirely -explained when the fact is stated that righteousness constitutes the -predominant characteristic of goodness in England, and kindliness the -predominant characteristic in France, because the Englishman is kind -also—in his own way. In other words, his righteousness _does_ exceed the -righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, and the Frenchman who is -_foncièrement bon_ has virtues also of his own; he has not merely the -good nature of the easy-going publican. What these special virtues really -are, and how, whilst they do not make “l’homme qui est foncièrement -bon” a “thoroughly good man,” in the English sense of the term, they do -make him a lovable and sympathetic human character, one can discover by -passing an evening in the society of Chartier, Lucien Briant, Hélène and -Laure of _Nôtre Jeunesse_, Monsieur Piégois of the delightful comedy of -that name, and Montferrand—the amazing Deputy Montferrand—of _L’Attentat_. - -The bonhomie of M. Capus represents a life philosophy as well as a -dramatic method, that might not be applied with equal success to British -institutions. But used among French social conditions, it demonstrates -how neglect of logic, and force of good feeling, may help an intelligent -and a humane people to render faulty systems habitable, and make good -nature serve as a substitute for, and even as a corrective of, a rigid, -an unheroic, an unchristian worship of “respectability” at the expense of -human kindness—that is to say, a form of respectability which does not -necessarily mean a very ardent love of virtue. - -The characters of _Nôtre Jeunesse_ are essentially French. Take Chartier, -for instance, the _bonhomme philosophe par excellence_. Chartier, at -forty years of age, amused by his own past; tranquil as to the future; -well satisfied, in the present, to make the best of his life upon a -moderate income—the quarter of a once handsome fortune, considerately -left him by a former mistress, the then famous “Pervenche,” who, after -she had cost him a million and a half, herself broke off their _liaison_, -in the amiable and reasonable fashion related by the Forsaken One himself -thus: - - _Chartier._ One evening she said to me: “_Mon chéri_, I have - been looking into things. You have spent upon me three-fourths - of your fortune. It is as much as any woman should expect from - any gallant man. I am contented; and grateful to you. I have - come across a man who is in love with me; and I am going to be - married to him.”... She married an employé at the Louvre. It is - an excellent _ménage_. - -Take Laure de Roine, Chartier’s sister, the good genius of the -play—bonhomie, not only personified, but idealised, invested with all the -liveliness and fascination that belong to delightful French womanhood. -Laure, some years older than her brother, left a widow, also with a -quarter of her handsome wedding portion, remaining through the opportune -decease, in the very hour when he seemed bent upon ruining her, after -himself, of a husband given to gambling on the Stock Exchange. - -Take Madame Hélène Briant, the very charming, vivacious wife of M. -Lucien Briant, a lady approaching the perilous age—_i.e._ nearly -thirty—reasonably attached to, but not passionately in love with, an -amiable but despondent husband, who has become despondent under the -authoritative rule of M. Briant _père_, a superior man, and master of -the “correct,” frock-coated attitude towards life. Briant _père_ is -the tyrant of the Briant household. Hear the charming Hélène in active -revolt against this insupportable father-in-law, and her husband’s -despondency, as a result of his filial docility, exposing her own case, -half playfully, half seriously, to Laure de Roine, everyone’s good genius: - - _Hélène._ When I try to react against this general depression; - when, in spite of them both, I make it my task to find - something cheerful, and worth taking pleasure in, I find myself - treated by both Father and Son as a frivolous worldling. Add - on to that that I have no children, and live in this deadly - provincial atmosphere, full of spiteful gossip, scandal, and - vanity. And then try, if you can, to imagine my condition of - mind—not forgetting that I am an “honest” woman—and that I am - beginning to realise it. - - _Laure._ And when a woman begins to realise that she is - “honest”—— - - _Hélène._ Yes; the case is grave. - -All these personages explain themselves to us, and claim us, by reason -of their vivid humanity, as intimate acquaintances, in the play. Yet not -one of them has his or her exact counterpart in English society, for the -simple reason that their choice qualities, and entertaining defects, not -only belong to the French temperament but are the result of manners, -conventions, prejudices and sentiments that do not enter into our actual -experiences, although we are in a position to judge, or at any rate -correctly to appreciate them, when we have studied them in this dramatic -picture.... - -And now for the situation of the play. It is also essentially -French; what the orthodox English critic would probably describe as -“disagreeable” and “painful.” But with that neither M. Capus nor -ourselves are concerned. Our playwright, true to the canons of his art, -has aimed at no more than selecting an episode from _la vie vivante_, and -revealing it in its most vital and human moments, and the episode he has -chosen is one that has its counterpart, year in, year out, in the gay, -irresponsible land peopled by the _jeunesse_ of Paris and the provinces. -“Nôtre Jeunesse”—that period, in France particularly, of extravagances -and follies; “Nôtre Jeunesse”—those years in the Latin Quarter when -irregularity of conduct does not appear reprehensible even to the -parental eye. - -“C’est de leur âge,” says the bourgeois indulgently, thinking, no doubt, -of his own _jeunesse_, when he meets a band of students rejoicing -riotously in their corduroy clothes, long, flowing capes and amazing -hats. And such wild figures were Chartier and Lucien Briant some twenty -years before we meet them. And it is of those days that they are -speaking, when M. Capus introduces them to his audience in the Chartier -Villa at Trouville. Chartier, of course, is in excellent spirits. But -Lucien is nervous and despondent, and becomes still more troubled when -his friend reminds him of his _liaison_ with Léontine Gilard, a charming -and light-hearted girl, whose pet name Chartier forgets. - -Lucien helps his memory; the name was “Loulou.” Let me quote the passage: - - _Lucien [with emotion]._ Loulou. - - _Chartier._ That’s it! I can see Loulou now: fair hair, blue - eyes, very pretty hands. You made a charming couple, the - two of you! Well—there you have a memory which shouldn’t be - disagreeable, surely. - - _Lucien._ Ah, _mon ami_, one never knows the end of adventures - of that sort! - - _Chartier._ The end? Why didn’t the thing end naturally? - - _Lucien._ What do you mean by ending naturally? - - _Chartier._ When you left the Latin Quarter, you made Loulou - a handsome present? She took another lover? or, perhaps, she - got married? To-day, if you met each other in the street, you - wouldn’t recognise each other? That is what I call a natural - ending. - - _Lucien._ Yes; that is the way things happen with _you_, and - with almost everybody. But not with _me_. I ask myself, What - may not still come of it? - -Lucien’s forebodings are prophetic. Soon after, Chartier is told by his -sister Laure that a young girl (_très jolie, très convenable_) has called -to see him. It turns out that the young girl visitor (_très jolie, très -convenable_) is _Lucienne_. In other words, _she_ is the visible and -terrifying proof of the unlucky Lucien Briant’s conviction that he is not -to be permitted, like other men, to bury under the flowers of sentimental -memories the irregularities of his Latin Quarter days. - -Still, Lucienne had no intention of troubling her father. She was trained -to believe that she had no legitimate, no righteous claim on him. Poor -Loulou was true to the rule of the game that, for her, had had lifelong -seriousness. Even on her death-bed she has kept faithfully to the terms -of the unequal bargain. She had told Lucienne that her father had behaved -“generously,” that she has no further legitimate claim on him. But she -remembers Chartier’s kindness of heart and recommends her daughter to -apply to him for advice and recommendations helpful in the way of finding -her honest employment. So that this is the reason why Lucienne has sought -out Monsieur Chartier. She is now alone in the world—poor “Loulou’s” -savings nearly exhausted. Can Monsieur Chartier, perhaps, amongst his -friends, find her a situation as secretary or companion, where she may -earn an honest livelihood? - -Touched to the heart by Loulou’s good remembrance and confidence in him -is Chartier, and at once interested in Lucienne’s case. - - _Chartier._ Yes, yes, certainly—you did well, mademoiselle, - to come to me! I shall at once make inquiries amongst all my - acquaintances. We shall find you a charming post; I give you my - promise, to set about it at once. - -Although the good Chartier is perfectly sincere in his desire and -resolution to find Lucienne a “charming post,” he does not feel that -there is any need to distress and upset the nervous and despondent Lucien -by telling him about the appearance upon the scene of Loulou’s daughter -(and his own) and of her need of assistance. But he has no secrets from -Laure, and he at once consults his resourceful sister and confides to her -his charming and discreet plan of finding Lucienne a pleasant situation -as the companion of a lady who travels a great deal; thus Lucienne will -see different countries, have a good salary and be as happy as the day is -long—_also_, she will be kept out of the way of upsetting the nerves of -the timorous Lucien. - -Laure, however, the “good genius,” takes another view of the case. It -is _Lucienne’s_ homelessness, not Lucien’s nerves, that appears to her -the chief question. She remembers, too, the “grave” state of mind of -Hélène Briant, the result of her ineffectual efforts to react against -her depressing environment—most repugnant to a charming woman still -young but arrived at an age when she is forced to realise that one is -not _always_ going to be young and charming, and who has no children, -and no congenial companionship, and who, nevertheless, is “honest”—so -far, Laure then _forms her own plan_. And the first step is to make known -the facts of Lucienne’s identity, situation and presence at Trouville -to Lucien, and to Hélène also. This is how she announces what, to him, -at first appears a desperately indiscreet proceeding, to Chartier, who, -ultimately, becomes a convert to her scheme. - -Laure begins by assuring her brother that an excess of discretion -condemns those who make it their rule to fail in friendly services. - - _Laure [to Chartier]._ Let me tell you what you _should_ have - done, what you ought to have done. You should have taken Lucien - on one side, and, without worrying about the consequences, - have simply made him acquainted with the facts. He had to be - confronted with his duty. And since at heart he is, in spite of - everything, an honest man, and that the very worst actions of - his sort—and of your sort—don’t keep you from being thoroughly - kind-hearted, he would certainly have found a happier and more - consoling solution than to leave his daughter in distress. That - is what you ought to have done. And as I saw you were not going - to do it, that is what I have done. - - _Chartier._ What do you say? Good God! You have seen Lucien? - - _Laure._ Half an hour ago; after _déjeuner_. - - _Chartier._ It is simply insane, what you have done! He must - have been utterly prostrated by such a blow, poor devil? - - _Laure._ Yes. He turned very pale. Then he rushed off to - consult his father. Now what can happen to him, at the worst? - He will have to endure some hours of worry, of anxiety, - perhaps of remorse. What then? He deserves it. Lucienne is - seventeen—she has in front of her the promise of a long - existence, an existence conferred upon her by a light-hearted - gentleman in an hour of distraction. Well, it is _Lucienne_ who - interests me. You will tell me that it is not my concern—that - I am interfering in a delicate matter which is no business of - mine? - - _Chartier._ Precisely. That was just what I was going to say. - - _Laure._ And my answer is, that if one only occupied oneself - with one’s own concerns one would only accomplish selfish and - mediocre things. - -How does Lucien act after he has received the fateful news? All -lamentations is he when he bursts into the room after his interview -with his father. Chartier, Laure and Hélène wait to learn what, by the -counsel, no doubt, of Briant _père_, Lucien proposes to do. - - _Lucien._ Ah, mon ami [_addressing Chartier_], who would have - believed it? What a fatality! What a drama for my conscience! - Well, well—what one has to do is to occupy oneself with the - present and possible. You will tell Lucienne from me that she - has no longer any need to fear for the future: that shall be - _my_ charge. - - _Chartier._ Well done. Well done. - - _Lucien._ Yes; but upon one condition—oh, a condition of - stringent importance. The condition is that she must return - immediately to this village, near Limoges. She has lived there - up to the present hour—she can quite easily go on living - there. I will send her every month, and I will guarantee to - her in the event of my death, a yearly pension, that will be - sufficient for her support. There. Do you find that I am acting - very badly? And you, madame [_to Laure_], do _you_ think I am - behaving badly? - - _Laure._ Well, not exactly bad. - - _Lucien._ Well, that comforts me a little. But what a - catastrophe! Ah, if ever I have a son of my own, I shall try - that he may profit by my example. - -But Lucien has not a son of his own. The only child he has is the -daughter he is going to bury alive in the village near Limoges, without -even seeing her—this, of course, by the counsel of _l’homme correct_, -Briant _père_. - -But here Hélène intervenes. She has walked innocently into the trap -prepared for her by Laure. In other words, she has seen Lucienne, and -her heart has gone out to the motherless girl. Thus she has come by her -own path into Laure’s plot and plan; she is resolved to adopt Lucienne. -She urges her case, which has the independent advantage of upsetting the -counsels of Briant _père_, with warm generosity, but, at the same time, -with her usual vivacity. - - _Hélène._ Lucien, you are my closest friend; and the object of - my dutiful affection, of course—but you can’t be my constant - companion and the confidante, whom I want, in sometimes empty - and tiresome hours. Understand that; and consent to what I - beg of you. Well, the companion I want _is here_; she is your - daughter. You have not given me a child; make me the present of - Lucienne. I am not a mother; but let me have the illusion of - maternity. - -Firm in the belief that happiness lies before her and her husband in -the adoption of Lucienne, Hélène will hear of no other solution to the -situation. And in this she has the good genius, Laure, with her; and next -the _bonhomme philosophe_, Chartier; and finally the timid, despondent -Lucien himself, who, in the last scene, comes face to face with his -daughter. - -All emotion is Lucien. And he breaks down completely when Lucienne shows -him a photograph taken of him in the Latin Quarter, when he was the -lover of Loulou, a wild figure in corduroy clothes, a long, flowing cape -and an amazing hat. - -Lucienne, who imagines she is going to be sent back to the village near -Limoges, and may never possibly see her father again, does not wish to be -separated from the souvenir that stood for the image of him, in his young -days. She stretches out her hand, asking for the return of the photograph: - - _Lucienne._ You will not take it away? You will leave it with - me? - - _Lucien._ No. I shall keep it. And that is not all, I shall - keep—I should be mad to fight any longer against my own heart; - against your youth and my own—I shall keep the picture, and - _you_ as well! - -Chartier, Hélène and Laure enter and behold, with joy, Lucienne in her -father’s embrace. But now arrives the apostle of correctness, Briant -_père_. He is not so much astonished, not so much shocked as filled with -contempt, and lifted above all contact with the irregular sentiments -and ill-directed sympathies of this emotional group of people, whom -he attempts to freeze, with his superior disdain. And it is at this -moment that he utters the unforgettable sentence which is one of the -master-strokes in the play: - - _Briant_ père. It is quite sufficient to-day—and believe me, - when simply stating the fact, I do not allow myself to be the - least bit in the world disturbed by it—it suffices that a child - should be illegitimate in order to find itself the object of - universal sympathy; in the same way, it suffices that a woman - is not a lawful wife to render her immediately the object of - universal respect. Let married women, and children born in - wedlock, make no mistake about it: they are going to have a bad - time.[3] - -Lucien attempts to mollify his high displeasure. But Briant _père_ -(happily for his family’s welfare, perhaps) insists that he must separate -himself henceforth from these offenders. He shakes hands with his son and -with Hélène—salutes, stiffly, Laure and Chartier. Then, with a curt bow -to Lucienne and the one word, “_Mademoiselle_,” he takes his departure. - - _Lucienne [to Hélène]._ Qui est ce monsieur? - - _Hélène._ C’est ton grand-père. - - -3. M. BRIEUX, “LA DÉSERTEUSE,” AT THE ODÉON - -“Brieux at the Odéon? Brieux passing from the grim playhouse of M. -Antoine, to the calm, placid, highly respectable Odéon?” Such must have -been the startled exclamations of hundreds of playgoers when it was -announced that the “Second Theatre of France” had “received,” and was -actually rehearsing, a new drama by the author of _Les Avariés_ and -_Maternité_. - -Amazing tidings, certainly. And especially amazing, even alarming, to -the regular mature patrons of the Odéon, whose peaceful way of life, -whose tranquil train of thought, could not but be upset by the ardent, -revolutionary M. Brieux. They desire no disagreeable awakenings, and, -above all, no “social problems.” - -I fancy the neighbourhood has affected our mature ones! They live round -about the Senate, whose members, we know, are renowned for a constant -drowsiness. Is not the Upper Chamber popularly described as the “Palace -of Sleep”? The alert, frisky Parisian cannot endure the _Palais du -Sommeil_. He wants emotions, excitement—and he finds them in the Chamber -of Deputies, which never sleeps. - -“A restful sanctuary” is Mr Bodley’s idea of the Senate. “It does very -little; it is not highly considered. The idea sometimes suggested is that -of a retreat for elderly gentlemen.” - -Well, the regular mature patron of the Odéon may be likened to the -Senator: his intellect is impaired by the same constant drowsiness. -And the “Second Theatre of France”—most Parisians dispute its right to -that distinguished title—may be likened to the Senate. It is not highly -considered; it renders but small services to the dramatic art; and, at -times, it presents the appearance of a restful sanctuary. - -But—arrives M. Brieux. Arrives, actually, upon this tranquil, drowsy -scene, the ardent, revolutionary author of _Maternité_ and _Les Avariés_. -What—oh, what—is in store for the regular mature patrons? No doubt they -were all anxiety, all indignation, until it was understood that M. Brieux -had not arrived in their demure domain alone. With him, M. Jean Sigaux. -With him, a collaborator who might be expected to exercise restraint. Has -M. Sigaux fulfilled those expectations? Is M. Brieux of the Odéon the -M. Brieux of the Théâtre Antoine? Or, has M. Brieux been intimidated by -Odéon traditions? - -Not unanimous on this point are the leading French dramatic critics. -Three or four of them profess themselves disappointed with _La -Déserteuse_, because unable to recognise M. Brieux’s change of attitude. -They are still under the spell of _Maternité_, where the author so -vigorously and so ruthlessly attacked the “established morality” -and “dominant passions.” The change of attitude is undeniable. But -_La Déserteuse_ is a strong, generous, human play; and all the more -interesting from our own special point of view, as students of the French -stage in its relation to French life, because it does not represent a -dramatic exposure of injustices and impostures, prevalent (if we believe -the reformer) in all European societies, but a dramatic illustration of -universal passions and emotions, as these manifest themselves under the -influence of traditional sentiments and habits of thought and feeling -that belong essentially to France. - -The French bourgeois: wherein he differs from, and as a type of humanity -is superior to, the English shopkeeper; the French _jeune fille_—and -the French sentiment about her—and wherein this sentiment explains -her jealously and tenderly guarded inferiority in attractiveness, -intelligence and independence to her English prototype—here are -the secrets which _La Déserteuse_ may assist a foreign spectator to -penetrate.... - -We are in the town of Nantes, in the home of Forjot, music publisher, -husband, father and confirmed bourgeois. Forjot also gives concerts, but -he himself is nothing of a musician and would regard music with contempt, -were it not a means of making money. Not so his wife, Gabrielle, young, -beautiful and vivacious, who has been assured by the director of the -local theatre that she is possessed of a rare voice. Gabrielle sings -at little Nantais concerts and is admired and applauded. Gabrielle is -told that she would triumph on the operatic stage—and sighs. She loves -excitement, she longs for fame, she is full of dreams and ambitions and -fancies—but she finds no sympathiser in the music publisher, her husband, -who, looking up impatiently from his ledgers, bids her pay more attention -to her house, her child and “the rest.” - - _Gabrielle._ What do you mean by “the rest”? Do you want me to - write out the bills, for instance? - - _Forjot._ Never mind the bills: my shopman does that. But I - see no reason why you should not stay in the shop and receive - clients, and, when there is a press of work, lend me a helping - hand with the correspondence. - - _Gabrielle._ Don’t expect me to do anything of the sort. - -It is the old story: the bourgeois husband and the beautiful, -dissatisfied, ambitious wife, who rebels at her dull surroundings, who -believes herself “wasted,” who is tempted by a sympathetic admirer; and -who falls. Rametty, director of the Nantes Theatre, is Gabrielle’s -lover. His ardent prayer that she should accompany him on one of his -tours and win the fame that inevitably awaits her, rings constantly in -her ears. She resists, chiefly for the sake of her daughter, Pascaline. -But the temptation to fly becomes irresistible when, on the night of one -of Forjot’s concerts, audience, friends, her lover, and even a popular -composer from Paris, delight, intoxicate her with their praise. Forjot, -however, stands aloof; the eulogies of the popular composer—respectfully -known as _Le Maître_—exasperate him. - - _Le Maître._ Madame Forjot has sung admirably. Let me give my - testimony. I do not know anyone, you mark me, I say _anyone_, - and I am not excepting the most celebrated vocalists—I do not - know _anyone_ capable of singing this air with such mastery. - - _Forjot._ Oh, you exaggerate, surely, her talent, Master. You - are too indulgent. - - _Le Maître._ I am not indulgent. Madame is an incomparable - lyrical tragedian. But, madame, you must not remain _en - province_—it would be a crime. - -In ecstasies is Gabrielle. In the heavens is Gabrielle. But she soon -comes to earth again, when at last she and her husband find themselves -alone. Forjot has returned to his ledgers—is making up his accounts. He -has not a word to say of his wife’s success. He is entirely absorbed in -the night’s receipts. He counts under his breath; he rustles the pages of -his ledgers; he is—to Gabrielle—exasperating, maddening, intolerable. - -And the storm bursts when Gabrielle, beside herself with rage, dashes one -of the ledgers to the ground. - -Now furious, now broken, now contemptuous, now with hoarse, poignant -emotion, Forjot addresses his wife. - -He knows her to be the mistress of Rametty. His illness of three years -ago was due to that humiliating and horrible discovery, but he had -thought that she had sinned in a moment of madness and was repentant; and -so he resolved to pardon her, generously, without even charging her with -her crime: - - _Forjot._ After I had discovered your treachery, I had that - attack of brain fever, which nearly left you free. As a result - of being brought so near to death, thoughts came to me that - I might not have had otherwise, and they ripened in the long - hours of my convalescence. When I recovered, as I was touched - by the care you had taken in nursing me, and by your grief - (which I still believe was sincere), I thought you had only - given way to a mad impulse; and I forgave you in the silence - of my heart. Yes; I know well I am not like the husbands in - the novels you are constantly reading. Those husbands are idle - men of fortune; their child’s future causes them no tormenting - anxiety; they have not the incessant preoccupations of carrying - on a large business concern, where many interests of others, - as well as one’s own are involved. With men in _my_ class, a - false wife does not mean killing someone; it means asking for a - divorce. Well, I did not want to make Pascaline the daughter of - a divorced woman; nor did I want to expose her to the sense of - disgrace of finding out her mother’s degradation. And it is on - Pascaline’s account that I am putting you to-day in a position - when you can make your choice—either become again the wife and - mother you ought to be; or else I _shall_ ask for a divorce. I - don’t want to see again what I saw to-day, Rametty embracing - _my_ child! Nor do I want that one of these days, Pascaline may - be told by some little playmate that her mother is a wanton - [which is true], and her father a man who consents to his own - dishonour—which is _not_ true. - - _Gabrielle._ Well, then, ask for a divorce. Adieu. - - _Forjot._ What is your decision? - - _Gabrielle._ To leave you. - - _Forjot._ Think well of what it means. It means throwing over, - once and for ever, a regular life. - - _Gabrielle._ It bores me to death this “regular” life. And - then, do you imagine I could endure to go on living near you - when I knew that you despised me enough to hold your tongue - about what you had discovered? - - _Forjot._ If you stay, I promise that, by my attitude towards - you, you may be able to suppose that everything is forgotten. - - _Gabrielle._ No! I refuse to lead here the life of eternal - humiliation you offer me. Good-night. - - _Forjot._ Good-night. You have given me all the pain it was in - your power to give. - -But even now the music publisher does not believe that Gabrielle will -desert him. Shortly after she has left the room his little daughter -enters and asks for her mother. The servant is sent in quest of -Gabrielle, but returns to announce that she is nowhere to be found. When -Forjot realises that his wife has left him he covers his face with his -handkerchief and trembles all over and sobs. - - _Pascaline [running up to him]._ Father! Father! What _is_ the - matter? - - _Forjot._ Nothing, nothing. [_He uncovers his face, which is - tragic with sorrow and stained with tears._] My child, your - mother has gone away from us on a long journey. - -In a former paper[4] I spoke of the prodigious importance of the child in -France; the Child, the great indestructible bond between the parents. Of -course, exceptions—as in Gabrielle Forjot’s case. But, as we shall see, -Gabrielle seeks to recover Pascaline; and it is around this struggle that -the vital interest of the play centres. It is also around this struggle, -and in the feelings, language and conduct of those engaged in it that we -realise the different conditions of sentiment, morals and manners that -characterise respectively the French bourgeoisie and the lower English -middle class. - -Pascaline is the typical _jeune fille_. In the First Act she is a child -of thirteen; thirteen, _l’âge ingrat_, for at that period the French -_jeune fille_ is plain. It is considered right—imperative—that she -should be plain. If she be not so by nature she is made so. See her in -her convent dress, her “Sunday best”—the one that most successfully -conceals her natural grace—when Mademoiselle is most nearly a fright. -Pascaline, for instance, first appears before us shy, awkward, with her -hair dragged back from her forehead and falling down her shoulders in -depressing little plaits, and arrayed in a dreadful white dress which -no English girl of her age would don without a struggle and a tearful -outburst. Nevertheless, the _jeune fille_ is adored, and she knows it. -She is strictly, terribly _surveillée_—but that, after all, is a proof of -her importance. She must be protected from dangers, so precious is she. -Has she, at the age of fifteen, only to cross the street the servant (I -can see the indignant glances and hear the expressions of pity of her -English sisters) must be close at her elbow. Plenty and plenty of time -to wear fine dresses and make the first exciting bow to the world, and -to be surprised, and to wonder. Says the French mother, speaking from -experience: “It is delicious to be a _jeune fille_. And I tell my Yvonne -so, when she grumbles.” But Yvonne’s grumblings do not betray a tragic, -desperate state of mind. As a matter of fact, Yvonne, in spite of those -dresses and that constant strict, terrible surveillance, is delightfully -happy. And I expect her first bow to the world will be made all the more -exciting by that long, rigid training, and that she will don her elegant -dresses with all the more rapture, and that she will find life the more -brilliant, exhilarating and extraordinary. The parents preserve those -old, ugly dresses. When Cosette left her convent, and discarded her -depressing dress for tasteful finery, and did what she pleased with her -hair, and became all of a sudden beautiful—Jean Valjean kept the dress, -and often brought it forth in secret, and looked upon it with infinite -tenderness and emotion.... - -But to return to our particular _jeune fille_, Pascaline. In the Second -Act, she is seventeen and charming. Nevertheless, it is still necessary -to hide from her all dangerous knowledge, all doubts or suspicions, even -of the existence of evil outside her own experience. Father, governess, -nurse, family friends and all who approach her are in league to keep from -her the true history of her mother’s desertion. The legend, as she hears -it, is that the brilliant, captivating mother she recollects abandoned -her home in order to follow her vocation—to become a great and famous -singer. And this passionately interests Pascaline; consequently, she is -wild with excitement when, after a four years’ absence, her mother claims -the right to see her daughter, and obtains legal authorisation to do so. -Then, trouble. For, in the meanwhile, Forjot has married the excellent, -trustworthy governess, Hélène, chiefly because she was so devoted to -the little Pascaline and would make her a second mother. Pascaline at -thirteen—dazzled and overawed by the brilliant Gabrielle—had treated the -kind and homely governess as a confidante; but at seventeen—flattered, -fascinated and caressed by Gabrielle—she sees in Hélène only the -“Stranger,” who has usurped her mother’s place. - -Then begins the second struggle; that is once again to make havoc of -poor Forjot’s domestic peace! The struggle of Hélène, on the one side, -to reconquer by patience and kindness, and sometimes by affectionate -reproaches, the confidence of the child she loves, and has cared for as -her own; and of Pascaline, on the other side, to resist these attentions -and appeals to her feelings and to remain true to her more brilliant -mother, who, she is convinced, has been harshly turned out of her home, -simply because she was too artistic to make a good bourgeoise housekeeper -of the usual type. - -The knot in the entangled situation is that Pascaline must not be told -the truth. So that misunderstanding the position, she cannot, from her -own point of view, without disloyalty to her admired and adored mother, -recognise the interloper, Hélène, as the rightful mistress of her -father’s home, and with claims upon herself, Pascaline, for respect and -gratitude, on account of the care and affection she has shown one whom -she has robbed of her natural guardian. - -Pascaline comes back from her first interview with Gabrielle fascinated -and enthusiastic, and full of anger and disdain for the homelier, much -less outwardly demonstrative Hélène. This condition of mind becomes -aggravated later on, when Gabrielle is in misfortune. Alas! her voice -has failed her. She is no longer able to follow her artistic vocation, -for the sake of which she sacrificed her home. She now is directress of -a theatrical agency, and she is no longer so gay, although still full of -noble courage. All this Pascaline confides to her old nurse, Marion, with -whom she is still able to talk about her mother. - - _Pascaline._ Oh, Marion dear! When one thinks of mama coming - back; and of her having no right to enter this house, and of - someone else installed in her place! If you only could have - seen how sad she was when she left me, my poor mama, who is - generally so gay! And no wonder she is sad. All alone there at - Auteuil in a little pavilion, Rue des Martyrs, at her office, a - stuffy little place without sunshine, without air. - - _The Nurse._ At her “office”? - - _Pascaline._ Yes. You must know that, for some time, mama has - not been able to sing. It is all the trouble she has gone - through. You see to be constantly crying is not good for the - voice, so that now she is the directress of an agency for - theatrical tours. You can understand that, as I am no longer - a child, I have a right to know things. I _do_ know _now_ why - papa sent mama away. - - _Marion._ Did your mother tell you? - - _Pascaline._ Yes. Papa would not allow her to sing anywhere! So - then mama, who had an admirable voice, felt obliged to follow - an irresistible vocation. - -This is the legend as Pascaline has received it from her mother. Marion -does not contradict it. Nor yet do Forjot and Hélène ever hint at the -true facts of Gabrielle’s desertion. Hélène’s reticence is heroic, for -Pascaline becomes more and more bitter against the good Hélène and defies -her to justify herself by some real fault discovered in Gabrielle, worse -than the noble ambition of a gifted artist. - - _Pascaline [to Hélène]._ Of course, you are burning to tell me - all about poor mama’s divorce. Well: let me show you I know all - about it already. I know that, in spite of my father’s orders, - mama would go on singing, and then she was rather extravagant, - and, well, she was not domesticated, and chose to follow her - artistic vocation. There you have the whole story of her sins. - Oh, _if_ there _is_ anything else, I invite you, or rather, I - require you to tell me. _Was_ there anything else? - - _Hélène [avoiding Pascaline’s eyes]._ There was nothing else. - - _Pascaline [triumphantly]._ There, you are forced to admit it! - Mama’s _only_ fault was that she had an artistic vocation! - Again I beg you to contradict me, if you can. _Was_ there - anything else against her? - - _Hélène._ No; only that—nothing else. - -However, one little awakening, one little shock. In the Third Act -Pascaline visits the theatrical agency, sees the tawdriness of the place, -hears noisy laughter and is even addressed at length by a shabby old -comedian—a veritable _cabotin_—who mistakes her for an _ingénue_, in -quest of an engagement. The comedian is delightful. He might have stepped -straight on to the Odéon stage from one of those dim little cafés haunted -by broken-down actors in the neighbourhood of the Porte St-Martin. He -appals Pascaline with his grins, grimaces and familiarity. Pascaline’s -silence he attributes to worry. And he seeks to console her by declaring -that one must always be gay, always be smiling, even if one has eaten -nothing all day and the landlord has threatened to turn one out into the -street. He calls her _mon petit enfant_, and _mon petit chat_, and he -_tutoies_ her. Pure, irresistible comedy! The scene deserves to be quoted -in full, but we must hasten on to the _dénouement_. - -It is close. Life at the Nantais publisher’s has become intolerable. -Constant strife; day after day, scenes between Pascaline and her -step-mother. And, at last, Hélène decides on a daring step: to visit -Gabrielle, tell her of Forjot’s unhappiness, implore her to interfere -no longer between father and daughter. But she fails to move Gabrielle, -who is cold and impertinent. And then, believing that if she herself -disappeared, Pascaline would be entirely restored to Forjot, Hélène -determines to leave Nantes and resume her dull career of governess. -And this determination becomes all the stronger when she learns that -Pascaline has fled Nantes and taken refuge with her mother. Poor Forjot -has aged and withered when next we see him. Pascaline’s flight has -been a bitter blow. But the music publisher will not hear of Hélène’s -sacrifice, and is passionately bidding her remain, when Gabrielle -is announced. Hélène leaves the room. And Gabrielle and Forjot find -themselves face to face again. - -In the great scene that follows, Gabrielle begins by saying that, as -Hélène has determined to leave Nantes, she, Gabrielle, no longer wishes -to keep Pascaline away from her father, and has brought her home. - -Forjot declares that Hélène shall not be sacrificed; and upon this, -Gabrielle proclaims her intention of keeping Pascaline. - -Now again we have the Bourgeois Forjot displaying qualities of temper, -character and moral sense, of the very highest order: qualities of the -chivalrous sort. He does not fly into a passion. He does not taunt -this offender against maternal and conjugal obligations. But earnestly -and simply he addresses the author of all this trouble; and with a -self-restraint that would certainly not have been found in his English -prototype, he invites her to examine her own conduct; and to ask herself -whether it is Hélène and himself, or whether it is Gabrielle herself, and -Gabrielle only, who has behaved cruelly and selfishly to Pascaline, as -well as to the husband she betrayed and the good woman who has taken care -of the child she abandoned. - - _Forjot._ Gabrielle, just remember. _You_ are the cause of all - this trouble. It only depended upon you to stay on here, and - never to be separated from your child. I never made your life - unhappy! I loved you; and you know very well I should have - forgiven you. I begged you to stay and you would not. What harm - you have done by obeying your caprice! Just now I saw very well - you hardly recognised me—so aged am I by all this. For my part, - I have never harmed you. Hélène has never harmed you—what do - you say? No, no; she has never harmed you! And yet it is we who - are punished. It is because _you_ behaved badly in the past - that _we_ are threatened to-day with distress and loneliness. - After having poisoned my life, you wish then to hasten my death? - - _Gabrielle._ You know very well that I regret having made you - suffer. - - _Forjot._ Let me tell you this: a great many people would not - have acted as we have done. They might not have told our child - the real story of your desertion; but they would not have - invented excuses for you. - - _Gabrielle._ Yes; I know you have been very kind, and I thank - you for it. - - _Forjot._ I am not the only one you ought to thank. Hélène has - always respected you: she has taught Pascaline to love you! - It seems to me that should touch you. Give our child back to - us. Now, admit it, you have launched yourself upon a new life. - You have made yourself different from us. I can’t well explain - myself; and it is difficult to make you understand my feelings - because I don’t want to use words that might hurt or irritate - you; but I must put the facts before you plainly. - -Always generous is Forjot. Not one brutal, not one harsh word does he -throw at his wife! He promises that Pascaline shall continue to visit -her as often as she pleases, if Gabrielle, on the other side, will -promise not to poison Pascaline’s mind against him and Hélène. Gabrielle -is touched. Rising, she opens the door, and brings in Pascaline. And -Pascaline, seeing her poor father’s anxious, care-worn face, runs up to -him. - - _Pascaline._ Oh, father! father! advise me. I am puzzled, - bewildered. Something tells me I am acting badly; but I don’t - know what I ought to do. Oh, dear, I don’t know what I ought to - do! - - _Forjot._ My little Girl, it all depends upon you whether I - am to finish my life in misery, or in peace. You can give me - happiness in the days I have still to live. But to do that, you - must come back to us; and you must try to treat Hélène with - the respect and gratitude you owe her. In her despair at not - being able to win back your affection, she wants to leave us. - She wishes to return once more to the lonely, uncertain life - of a governess. She wants to plunge herself into this unknown, - uncertain destiny. It is I who appeal to you to have mercy upon - her, and upon me. - - _Pascaline._ Ah, if only I might love you without being false - to Mama! - - _Gabrielle [emotionally]._ You can, you can, Pascaline! Yes, - my daughter, I am not the mother that you believe in! Since I - left you I have created for myself a new life, new habits, new - affections; and then, Pascaline, I am going to marry again! - -Always, emotionally, Gabrielle tells how she once had two paths to -choose, and that she chose the wrong one. - -But Pascaline interrupts her with a cry of: “What a calumny!” and vows -that her mother has never done wrong. And that she knows for certain, _as -Hélène herself has often told her so_. - - _Gabrielle._ Eh bien, va embrasser Hélène pour cela. Je te le - demande. Je vous la confie, Hélène. - -And so, the end. Not heroic, in accordance with the English poetic -sentiment, demanding that Gabrielle should pass out sorrowing and -penitent; convicted in her child’s eyes, who flies for safety to the -virtuous bosom of Hélène, but _à l’amiable_, in accordance with the -French sentiment expressed by Forjot: “Mon enfant, si l’on n’avait pas -d’indulgence les uns pour les autres, la vie des plus braves gens ne -serait pas possible.” - -But what comes of it all? No argument for or against divorce; no attack -upon, no justification of the French method of educating the _jeune -fille_. But a picture of the feelings and emotions bound up with that -method; and a picture also of the generous reasonableness, sense of -justice, and human kindness that lie at the root of French character—and -that may to some extent compensate for a lack of the absolutely sincere -and unadulterated love of decency and respectability for their own sakes -that are our own distinguishing characteristics. - -[3] _Briant_ père. Il suffit aujourd’hui—et je le constate sans en être -le moins du monde troublé, croyez-le bien—il suffit qu’un enfant soit -naturel pour se voir l’objet de la sympathie générale, comme il suffit -qu’une femme ne soit pas légitime pour être immédiatement entourée du -respect universel. Que les femmes et les enfants ne se le dissimulent -pas, ils sont en train de passer un mauvais quart d’heure. - -[4] In a criticism of M. Paul Hervieu’s _Le Dédale_ given in _The -Fortnightly Review_ series of articles upon “French Life and the French -and the French Stage,” by John F. Macdonald. By the kind permission of -the Editor of _The Fortnightly Review_ these articles are reprinted -here.—F. M. - - -4. PARIS, M. EDMOND ROSTAND, AND “CHANTECLER” - -Six years have elapsed since a Paris newspaper announced that M. Constant -Coquelin—dear, wonderful Coquelin _aîné_—had suddenly taken train to the -south-west of France in the following circumstances:— - -“Yesterday morning the greatest of our comedians received a telegram -urging him to proceed without delay to Cambo, the tranquil, beautiful -country seat, in the Pyrenees, of M. Edmond Rostand. No sooner had -he read the message than M. Coquelin bade Gillett, his devoted -valet, pack a valise, hail a _fiacre_, and accompany him to the Gare -d’Orléans. Excitement and delight were depicted on the face of the -distinguished traveller, whom we found smoking a cigarette in front of -a first-class compartment. ‘Yes,’ he joyously admitted. ‘Yes, I am off -to the Pyrenees—but that is all I shall tell you.’ Never, indeed, such -indomitable discretion! In reply to our adroit, persuasive questions -regarding the object of his journey, M. Coquelin made such irrelevant -observations as these: ‘The weather looks threatening,’ and ‘Gillett is -the most admirable of valets,’ and ‘Ah, my friends, has it ever occurred -to you what an extraordinary thing is a railway station?’ And then, as -the train steamed slowly away: ‘You may state in your article that the -cushions of this carriage are exceedingly restful and sympathetic.’ -Still, in spite of M. Coquelin’s reticence, we are in a position to -acquaint our readers with the reason of this sudden, this sensational -visit to Cambo. _M. Edmond Rostand is engaged upon a new play, and the -leading part in it will be sustained by M. Coquelin._ Down there in the -golden calm of the Pyrenees—yes, even as we pen these words—the most -exquisite of poets is reading to the most brilliant of actors... another -_chef-d’œuvre_. It will surpass the triumphant, the glorious _Cyrano de -Bergerac_! Parisians will certainly rejoice, Parisians will assuredly be -thrilled to hear of the superb, artistic festival in store for them.” - -Such, six years ago, was the very first—and very florid—_potin_ to -be published on _Chantecler_; and no sooner had it appeared than -Paris, truly enough, “rejoiced” and was “thrilled”—but complained -that it was maddening and heart-breaking to know so little about the -new masterpiece. What was its theme? What, too, was the title? And -when—oh, when—would the first performance take place? In order to -satisfy the Parisian’s curiosity, newspaper editors despatched their -Yellowest Reporters to Cambo with instructions to force a statement -out of the comedian and the poet. With the Yellow Ones went alert, -sharp photographers. And then, what strange, indelicate scenes in that -once-tranquil and refined spot in the Pyrenees! Since M. Rostand and his -guest refused to receive the invaders, the latter set about performing -their vulgar mission from a distance. Outside the poet’s picturesque -Basque villa, cameras and cameras; and again and again was the “golden -calm” of Cambo disturbed by shouts of “There’s Madame Rostand at that -window,” and “There’s her son, Maurice, picking a flower,” and “There’s -Rostand talking hard to Coquelin on a bench.” Nobody, nothing in the -far-spreading grounds, escaped the photographers. The gardener was -“taken”; so were a housemaid, a peacock, a mowing-machine, a dog and a -hammock. As for the reporters, they followed MM. Rostand and Coquelin -when the latter took their afternoon walks, even hid themselves behind -bushes and hedges in the hopes of overhearing a fragment of their -conversation; and minutely they described in their newspapers the gait -and the gestures of the comedian, and the smile, the eyeglass and the -extreme elegance of the poet; and wildly they declared that insomuch -as MM. Rostand and Coquelin discussed naught but the new masterpiece -during those afternoon walks, every step they took left a glorious, an -historic imprint in the dusty white lane. But the subject of the play, -the date of its production?—“mystery, mystery!” admitted the reporters. -Nor was it until many months later, and until after M. Coquelin had paid -half-a-dozen visits to Cambo, that Paris heard with amazement that M. -Rostand’s hero was a cock, his heroine a hen pheasant, his chief scene a -farm-yard, in which all kinds of feathered creatures were to fly, strut -and waddle about. As Paris was marvelling at the novelty and audacity -of the idea, the poet fell ill. A severe operation kept him an invalid -a whole year. The successive deaths of a relative and of three close -friends so shocked him that he had not the heart to return to his work. -But when in the autumn of 1908 M. Coquelin made yet another expedition -to Cambo, the “glorious,” “historic” walks were resumed. In M. Rostand’s -study, animated, all-night sittings. In the drawing-room, extraordinary -rehearsals—M. Coquelin the cock, Madame Rostand the pheasant, M. Rostand -a dog, young Maurice Rostand a blackbird. Then visits from wig-makers, -costumiers, scene-painters, electricians. And at last the official, -stirring announcement that M. Rostand and the play were leaving for -Paris, that the name of the play was _Chantecler_, and that the first -performance would be given at the Porte St-Martin Theatre in the spring -of 1909. - -It was in January of that year that M. Rostand took up his abode in an -hotel facing the Tuileries Gardens. The corridor outside the poet’s suite -of apartments was guarded by footmen—so many sentinels with instructions -to let nobody pass; and thus M. Rostand was secure from cameras and -Yellow scribbling pencils except when he left the hotel, entered a motor -car and sped off to the pleasant little country town of Pont-aux-Dames, -where Constant Coquelin had founded a home for aged and infirm actors. -Of this establishment Coquelin _aîné_ himself was then an inmate. Not -that he was feeling old or infirm—“only a little fatigued and in need -of calm and repose ere disguising myself as a proud, majestic cock.” -Kindly Coquelin was never so happy as when playing the host to his score -of superannuated actors and actresses. He called them his “guests,” and -had provided them with easy-chairs, a library, a billiard-table, playing -cards, backgammon boards and gramophones; and with summer-houses in the -garden where the old ladies might gossip and gossip out of the glare of -the sun, and with a lake, too, in which the old fellows might fish. Also, -he invited them to relate their theatrical experiences—the rôles they -had played, the successes they had achieved, the costumes they had worn -long, long ago; and, oh, dear me, how the “guests” took their host at his -word—yes, heavens, how garrulously and lavishly they responded! Withered -old Joyeux (late—very late—of the Palais Royal) described how emperors -and kings had been convulsed by his grins, winks and tricks; swollen, -red-faced Hector Duchatel (slim, elegant, irresistible at the Vaudeville -in the seventies) declared that beautiful _mondaines_ had sighed, almost -swooned, when he passionately made love on the stage; wrinkled, haggard -Mademoiselle Giselle de Perle (once such a radiant _blonde_ at the -Bouffes) narrated how she could scarcely turn round in her dressing-room -for the _corbeilles_ of flowers, in which jewels and _billets-doux_ -from illustrious personages lay concealed. Then, after all these -reminiscences, the “guests” produced faded, tattered newspaper cuttings, -that proclaimed Joyeux “extraordinaire de fantaisie et de verve,” and -Hector Duchatel “le roi de la mode,” and Mademoiselle de Perle “the most -exquisite, the most incomparable of blondes”—“Cabotinville,” if you like; -the tawdry, flashy talk of M. le Cabot and Madame la Cabotine. But I -like, nevertheless, to call up the vision of Coquelin _aîné_, wrapped -in a dressing-gown, a skull-cap pulled down over his ears, listening -patiently and sympathetically to these confidences of the past, and -reading through the faded newspaper cuttings, and saying to haggard -Mademoiselle de Perle: “I myself, like everybody else, was once madly -in love with you,” and to withered old Joyeux: “Those winks and grins -of yours were excruciating,” and—— But an end to this digression. The -scene between Coquelin _aîné_ and his superannuated “guests” is cut short -by the arrival, from the hotel in the rue de Rivoli, of the author of -_Chantecler_. - -Well, Constant Coquelin was wearing a dressing-gown and a skull-cap, -because he felt a little “fatigued.” But the visits of M. Rostand, -and of the wig-makers, scene-painters and costumiers, as well as the -impatience of the Parisians to behold the new “masterpiece,” restored to -the comedian all his former energy, enthusiasm. Final resolutions were -made. The first rehearsal at the Porte St-Martin Theatre was fixed for -the following week; the first performance would be given, irrevocably, in -the middle of May. “What a triumph we shall have!” said Coquelin _aîné_ -to the few friends he received in the Home. “Ah, my admirable Gillett, -what a work of genius is _Chantecler_!” he exclaimed, when the devoted -valet lighted him to his bedroom. “Listen, I will recite to you Rostand’s -_Hymn to the Sun_. And after that, my good Gillett, you shall hear me -crow.” Replied faithful Gillett: “To-morrow—not to-night. It is wiser to -go to sleep.” But Constant Coquelin refused to sleep until he had recited -and crowed. Up and down the room, in the dressing-gown and skull-cap, he -strutted. The superannuated actors and actresses were awakened by his -cry: “Je t’adore, Soleil!” Five minutes later there resounded throughout -the Home a clarion, peremptory—“Cocorico.” Said the old players: “The -master is rehearsing.” Said Gillett: “Your old servant insists upon your -going to bed.” Said Coquelin _aîné_: “When I have played Chantecler I -shall retire from the stage, and you and I, my faithful Gillett, will -pass the rest of our lives down here, tranquilly, happily, amidst our -twenty old guests.” But next morning, after Gillett had helped his master -into the dressing-gown, Constant Coquelin fell heavily to the floor. -Cry after cry from admirable Gillett, cries from the superannuated -players—then profound silence and gloom. Gloom, too, in Paris. The blinds -darkly drawn in the windows of the first floor of the rue de Rivoli -hotel. The Porte St-Martin—other theatres—closed. All kinds of _soirées_, -banquets and fêtes postponed. “What a disaster, what a tragedy, _mon -ami_; what a blow, what a calamity, _ma chère_.” Gloom—dear, wonderful -Coquelin _aîné_ was dead.... - -In the summer of 1909 M. Edmond Rostand, after spending four months in -seclusion at Cambo, returned to Paris; a few days later the rehearsals -of _Chantecler_ at the Porte St-Martin Theatre began. “Should anything -happen to me, you must ask Guitry to play my part,” had said Coquelin, -to the poet. M. Guitry, therefore, was appointed “Chantecler,” Madame -Simone, ex-Le Bargy, was made the Hen Pheasant. Gay, frisky M. Galipaux -was created Blackbird, M. Jean Coquelin, the great comedian’s son, chose -the rôle of the Dog. “Irrevocably in November,” stated the newspapers, -“we shall hear ‘Chantecler’ sound his first cocorico.” And Paris rejoiced -once again and was “thrilled.” - -But, ah me, how that positive word, “irrevocable,” was misused! No -_Chantecler_ in November, no “Cocorico” in December—only multitudinous -newspaper _potins_ that constantly announced the postponement of the -event, and described “life” at the Porte St-Martin and in M. Rostand’s -hotel on the Champs Elysées. It was repeatedly stated that the poet, -after hot words with M. Guitry, had taken “the 9.39 train back to Cambo.” -It was asserted that Madame Simone had thrown her type-written rôle on -to the stage, stamped hysterically on the rôle, and left the theatre in -tears. It was furthermore reported that M. Guitry was about to undergo -an operation for cancer; that lively Galipaux was suffering from acute -melancholia; that M. Jean Coquelin, distracted, prematurely ancient -and infirm, had taken refuge in the Home at Pont-aux-Dames. Then, the -insinuation that Chantecler would never, never “cocorico.”... Nor, -according to the same newspaper _potins_, was “life” in M. Rostand’s -hotel more serene. He was as closely guarded as the Tsar of All the -Russias. Nevertheless, a waiter who served him was, in reality, a -Yellow Italian journalist; threatening letters and telegrams from -lunatics arrived by the score; and wizened old cranks sent the poet -baskets of feathers, with the solemn warning that unless these, and -only these feathers, were worn by the Cock and the Hen Pheasant, well, -M. Guitry and Madame Simone, and M. Rostand and _Chantecler_ would be -ridiculed, ruined, and done for.... In fine, what a November, what a -December—and what a January of the present year! And when MM. Hertz -and Jean Coquelin, the proprietors of the Porte St-Martin Theatre, -themselves announced that the first performance of _Chantecler_ would -be given on 28th January “_most irrevocably_,” how delirious became the -_potins_, and how agitated the Parisians! The great question was: Would -_Chantecler_ be a triumphant success, or only a moderate success, or a -catastrophe? To determine this problem, clairvoyantes—positively—were -consulted. And Madame Olga de Sonski, at present of the rue des Martyrs, -and late—so her card asserted—of Persia, Budapest, Cairo and Bond -Street—Madame de Sonski declared she already felt the Porte St-Martin, -massive theatre that it was, trembling, almost tottering, from applause. -But not so Madame Juliette de Magenta, of the rue des Ténèbres, from -Morocco, St Petersburg, Constantinople and Broadway: “I hear [_sic_] the -silence, the coldness, the gloom of disappointment and disapproval,” -funereally she said. However, in spite of Madame de Magenta’s lugubrious -prognostications, the news came that M. Rostand had disposed of the -publishing rights of _Chantecler_ for one million francs; that stalls -and dress-circle seats (for the box-office was now open) for the first -three performances were selling like wildfire at six pounds apiece; -that critics and millionaires from America, and French Ambassadors and -Ministers from divers parts of Europe, and even dark-skinned, dyspeptic -merchants from Buenos Ayres, were all hastening to Paris to hear the -“cocorico” of Chantecler. What excitement, what a whirl! For the -twentieth time it was rumoured that M. Rostand had taken “the 9.39 train -back to Cambo.” Now M. Guitry had appendicitis; and Madame Simone had -injured herself by falling through a trap-door. Nevertheless, the first -performance remained fixed “most irrevocably” for 28th January—on which -day many a quarter of Paris and most of the _banlieue_ were flooded. - -So, another postponement. Successively, and always “positively -irrevocably,” it was announced that the great event would take place -on 31st January, 2nd February, 5th February and 6th February. And thus -the critics and millionaires from America, the French Ambassadors and -Ministers from divers European capitals, the merchants from Buenos Ayres -(looking sallow and bloodshot from the voyage) were detained in Paris at -much personal inconvenience and loss to themselves. Nothing would move -them until they had heard the clarion cry of—“Cocorico.” And M. Pichon, -Minister of Foreign Affairs, became uneasy at the prolonged sojourn of -the Ministers and Ambassadors. “Diplomatic relations between France and -many a foreign Power are interrupted,” he cried tragically, “and all -because of a cock and a hen pheasant.” Social life, too, was interrupted. -_Le Tout Paris_ refrained from issuing dinner invitations lest they -should clash with the first performance, and countermanded rooms engaged -weeks beforehand in the Riviera hotels. - -A final rumour to the effect that M. Rostand had returned to Cambo -by the 9.39 train—a train which, by the way, does not figure in the -time-table. Another _canard_ stating that M. Guitry had contracted -typhoid fever through drinking water contaminated by the floods. A -third Yellow _potin_ reporting Madame Simone to have “mysteriously,” -“sensationally” disappeared. What chaos, what incoherency! And what a -scene in the Porte St-Martin when at last, on Sunday night, 6th February, -_Chantecler_, in the presence of the most brilliant audience yet -assembled in a Paris theatre, came, crowed and conquered. - -A new handsome curtain, new carpets, new velvet fauteuils, programmes -printed on vellum, and red ribbons (also supplied by the management) -in the grisly hair of the middle-aged _ouvreuses_. “I have been an -_ouvreuse_ for twenty years, but never have I seen an audience so vast, -so animated, so _chic_,” said one of these ladies to me as she bundled -up my overcoat, pinned a ticket to it and dropped it on to the floor. -“Not a peg left,” she continued. “Immediately beneath your overcoat lies -the overcoat of Prince Murat. In the heap next to it is a Rothschild -overcoat. And as for that other pile of overcoats in the corner, all -fur-lined, all magnificent, well, they belong to ambassadors, dukes, -American millionaires, English milords, famous writers, politicians, -jockeys—all the great personages in the world. Thus, although it lies -on the floor, your overcoat is in illustrious company.” After warning -me that no one would be admitted into the theatre when the curtain -had risen, the _ouvreuse_ showed me to my seat, held out her hand, was -rewarded, and left me free to admire the jewels, feathers, dresses and -coiffures of _le Tout Paris_. All eyes—or rather opera-glasses—on the box -occupied by Madame Rostand and her two sons. In another box, M. Briand, -the Prime Minister. In the stalls, Academicians, generals, playwrights, -critics, newspaper proprietors, aviators, financiers, leading actors and -actresses. Everyone afoot, or rather on tip-toe, gossiping, laughing, -singling out celebrities with their glasses. But at ten minutes to nine -o’clock the three traditional thuds made by a mallet behind the curtain -(the signal in French theatres that the play is about to begin) caused -a hush. Everyone sat down. “_Chantecler_ at last,” said, emotionally, a -lady behind me. The curtain rose two or three inches. “_Pas encore, pas -encore_,” cried a voice. Consternation, dismay of _le Tout Paris_; was -the play again to be postponed, was it true that M. Rostand had taken -that 9.39 train, and that Madame Simone had “sensationally” disappeared, -and that M. Guitry—— “_Pas encore, pas encore!_” But it was—thank -heaven—only the voice of M. Jean Coquelin who appeared in the front of -the stalls in a dress-suit, mounted a footstool and recited the prologue -to M. Rostand’s fantastic, symbolical _chef-d’œuvre_. - -It was a delightfully humorous description of the feathered inhabitants -of a farm-yard; and as M. Jean Coquelin continued to harangue the -audience eloquently from his footstool, the animals were heard becoming -impatient on the hidden stage. - -A crowing of cocks. A cackling of geese. The stamping of a horse’s hoof. -The creaking of an old cart. The bray of a donkey. The miaow of a cat. -The hoot of an owl. The whistle of a blackbird. Then—distinctly—three -taps from a woodpecker: “_le bec d’un pivert a frappé les trois coups_”; -and with a cry of “The woodpecker says the play must commence,” M. -Coquelin disappeared, down went the lights: and up amidst thunders of -applause rose the curtain. - -Before us, a farm-yard, not an inmate or an object of which is wanting. -White, black, grey and brown hens strut hither and thither, sharply -discussing the powers, vanities, infidelities of Chantecler, their lord -and master. Ducks and drakes, ganders and geese take sides for or against -the king of the yard. Now and again the lid of a vast wicker-work basket -opens, to reveal the head of the Old Hen—a very old hen, the doyenne of -the place, and Chantecler’s foster-mother. In her, of course, the cock -finds an ardent defender; but whenever the withered old head protrudes -from the basket the Blackbird, hopping about in his cage, holds forth -mockingly, ironically. For the Blackbird, like every other feathered -creature in the play, is symbolical. He represents the smart, shallow, -cynical Parisian, who scoffs at principles, ridicules genius, laughs -at love, denies the existence of disinterested friendship, and is -enormously pleased with his empty, impudent self. So he makes fun of the -Old Hen and of the white, black, grey and brown hens whilst they pay -naïve tributes to the supreme genius of Chantecler—the Cock of Cocks, the -superb creature whose clarion, peremptory call causes the sun to rise and -makes the world radiant, beautiful and cheerful. Chantecler has betrayed -the hens, but they nevertheless admire and love him. As the discussion -continues, bees, butterflies, wasps fly across the stage. On a pillar, a -cat dozes tranquilly in the sun. Two fluffy little chicks play at getting -in and out of a gigantic sabot. To the right, a huge dog’s kennel; in -the background a gigantic cart, with its shafts in the air. In a corner, -a set of enormous harness. The birds and beasts being of Brobdingnagian -sizes, the objects on the stage have been magnified in proportion. But -all is natural; never, from first to last, a note of extravagance, -grotesqueness. Well, on and on goes the discussion, and, as the Blackbird -sneers and scoffs, it becomes heated and shrill. “Silence; here he -comes, here he comes,” cries a pigeon. And not a sound is heard when -Chantecler appears, solemn, majestic, arrogant, on the poultry-yard wall. -The hens gather together, look up at him with submission, admiration. -The two chicks stop their game. The cat wakes up. Even the Blackbird -ceases hopping about in his cage. Magnificent, awe-inspiring, indeed, -is Chantecler in his dark green and light brown feather dress—“the -green of April and the ochre of October.” He is, as on the top of the -wall he recites his _Hymn to the Sun_, Cyrano de Bergerac in feathers. -He represents the artist, the creative genius, the dispenser of beauty -and spiritual light. If he be the lord over the other denizens of the -farm-yard, it is because they will have it so. They believe the sun rises -because Chantecler summons it with his shrill, imperious “Cocorico.” And -Chantecler, the Superb, believes it himself—believes it in spite of the -sceptical Blackbird. Chantecler, in fact, might stand for a great many -types besides the artistic; for example, the statesman who fancies he is -the creator of the social reforms that are advancing with civilisation -like a tide. “I adore thee, O sun,” begins Chantecler, his beak raised -towards the skies. - - Je t’adore, Soleil! ô toi dont la lumière, - Pour bénir chaque front et mûrir chaque miel, - Entrant dans chaque fleur et dans chaque chaumière - Se divise et demeure entière - Ainsi que l’amour maternel! - - ... - - Je t’adore, Soleil! Tu mets dans l’air des roses, - Des flammes dans la source, un dieu dans le buisson! - Tu prends un arbre obscur, et tu l’apothéoses! - O Soleil! toi sans qui les choses - Ne seraient que ce qu’elles sont! - -Night falls, and Chantecler sends his subjects to bed. Then he and -Patou, the dog philosopher, discuss the situation in the farm-yard. -Excellent Patou might be Anatole France’s M. Bergeret. He despises the -pert, cynical Blackbird. He denounces the snobbishness, the vanity, -the vulgarity of the age. He is for calm, for reflection, for—— A shot -is heard, the Hen Pheasant flies in and implores Chantecler to protect -her from the hunter. She nestles under the Cock’s wing; she looks up at -him admiringly, tenderly—and proud, gallant, idealistic Chantecler there -and then falls in love with the gorgeous black, gold and red Pheasant. -Majestically Chantecler struts round and round her, his chest thrown -outwards, his beak in the air. Curiously, somewhat disdainfully, the Hen -Pheasant surveys the farm-yard. It strikes her as poor, sordid, such an -obscure little corner of the world. How different from the beauty, the -spaciousness, the grandeur of her forest! - - _La Faisane._ - - Mais tous ces objets sont pauvres et moroses! - - _Chantecler._ - - Moi, je n’en reviens pas du luxe de ces choses! - - _La Faisane._ - - Tout est toujours pareil, pourtant. - - _Chantecler._ - - Rien n’est pareil, - Jamais, sous le soleil, à cause du soleil! - Car Elle change tout! - - _La Faisane._ - - Elle... Qui? - - _Chantecler._ - - La lumière. - -Ardently, enthusiastically, then, Chantecler tells the Hen Pheasant -how daylight, as it changes, floods the objects in the farm-yard with -ever-varying colours. That geranium is never twice the same red. Patou’s -kennel, the sabot stuffed with straw, the rusty old pitchfork—not for two -successive moments do they look the same. A rake in a corner, a flower -in a vase, as they change colour in the rays of the sun, fill idealistic -Chantecler with ecstasy. - -Still, the Hen Pheasant is not very much impressed. She consents, -nevertheless, to pass the night in Patou’s kennel, which the -dog-philosopher obligingly gives up to her. Owls, with huge, luminous -eyes, appear. Bats dash about in the air. A mole creeps forth. As they -love darkness and detest light, they fancy if Chantecler dies the night -will last for ever. “I hate him,” they say, one after another.—“Je -commence à l’aimer,” says the Hen Pheasant, womanlike, when she thus -hears that Chantecler is in danger. - -Owls, bats, the Cat, the Blackbird and strange night creatures are -assembled beneath the branches of a huge tree, when the curtain rises on -the second act. The Big Owl chants an Ode to the Night. “Vive la Nuit,” -cry his brethren, at intervals, in a hoarse chorus. It is determined that -Chantecler must die. At five o’clock in the morning, when the Guinea-Fowl -holds a reception, a terrific fighting-cock shall insult, attack and -slay Chantecler. “Vive la Nuit,” cry the night-birds, their eyes shining -luridly in the darkness. But when a “Cocorico” sounds in the distance the -night creatures fly away, and Chantecler, followed by the Hen Pheasant, -struts on to the dim stage. “Tell me,” pleads the Pheasant, “the secret -of your power.” At first Chantecler refuses, then hesitates, then in a -glorious outburst he declares that the sun cannot rise until he has sung -his song. It is perhaps the noblest, the most exquisite passage in the -play. - -Here is the last verse: - - Je pense à la lumière, et non pas à la gloire, - Chanter, c’est ma façon de me battre et de croire. - Et si de tous les chants mon chant est le plus fier, - C’est que je chante clair afin qu’il fasse clair. - -“But if,” asks the Hen Pheasant, “the skies are clouded and grey?” - - _Chantecler._ - - Si le ciel est gris, c’est que j’ai mal chanté. - - _La Faisane._ - - Il est tellement beau, qu’il semble avoir raison. - -Majestically, Chantecler struts to and fro beneath the branches of the -trees. Humbly, admiringly, the Hen Pheasant watches his perambulations. -Night has passed, daybreak is near; the skies above the hillock on which -Chantecler is standing turn from black to purple, and next from purple to -dark grey. “Look and listen,” says Chantecler. He digs his claws firmly -into the turf; he throws his chest out; he raises his head heavenwards: -“Cocorico... Cocorico... Cocorico.” And gradually, delicately, the -skies light up; birds twitter, cottages stand out in the distance, the -tramp of the peasant on his way to the fields tells that the day’s work -has begun—shafts of golden light fall upon the majestic Chantecler and -illuminate the plumage of the graceful, beautiful Hen Pheasant. - -And now, in a kitchen garden, the Guinea-Fowl’s “five o’clock”—a worldly, -fashionable reception—at five o’clock in the morning! It is a satire -on elegant Paris _salons_; what tittle-tattle, what scandalmongering, -what epigrams, paradoxes and puns! At a weather-stained old gate stands -the Magpie. One of the first guests he ceremoniously announces is the -Peacock—the _grande dame_, to whom her hostess, the snobbish Guinea-Fowl, -makes a profound curtsy. (The Peacock’s tail is a miracle of ingenuity; -the actress can spread it out fanwise, raise it, let it drop, at will.) -Then, one after another, arrives an endless procession of cocks. “The -Golden Cock; the Silver Cock; the Cock from Bagdad; the Cock from -Cochin China; the Scotch Grey Cock; the Bantam Cock; the Cock without -Claws; M. le Doyen of All the Cocks,” announces the Magpie. Bows from -these multitudinous Cocks to the Guinea-Fowl, to the Peacock and to the -Blackbird. In all, forty-three amazing Cocks, each of whom is jealous of -Chantecler; who eventually appears at the gateway with the Hen Pheasant. -“Announce me, simply, as _the_ Cock,” proudly says Chantecler. “_Le_ -Coq,” cries the Magpie. And the trouble begins. - -Coldness from the Guinea-Fowl, scorn from the Peacock, mockery from -the Blackbird, and insults from the Prize Fighting Cock, who has been -commissioned by the uncanny, unwholesome Night Birds to slay idealistic, -sun-loving Chantecler. Then, the duel, which ends in the victory of THE -Cock, and the pain and humiliation of the prize-fighter. All the Cocks, -from M. le Doyen down to the Cock without Claws, are dismayed. The -Peacock is disgusted; the Guinea-Fowl is dejected at the wretched failure -of her “five o’clock”—only the smart, irrepressible Blackbird keeps -things going. But not for long. Contemptuously, Chantecler turns upon -him; taunts him with his vain, miserable endeavour to imitate the true, -delightful wit, gaiety and genius of the Sparrow—the _gavroche_—of Paris. -The Parisian Sparrow is flippant, but warm-hearted. He laughs, he scoffs, -he whistles, he swaggers, but he is faithful and brave. But you, wretched -Blackbird, are a coward. You, shallow creature, are a sneak. And then the -line that would have rejoiced the heart of Victor Hugo: “Il faut savoir -mourir pour s’appeler Gavroche.” - -A month passes. The last Act represents the Hen Pheasant’s forest, -where she and Chantecler are spending their honeymoon. For the bird has -enticed the Cock away from the farm-yard; and thus, distress of his old -foster-mother, and much indignation amongst the white, grey, brown and -black hens. - -Night in the forest, and how beautifully depicted! Up in a tree sits a -solemn woodpecker; below him, around a huge mushroom, a number of toads -with glistening eyes are assembled. Then, a gigantic cobweb, and in the -middle of it, a spider. Here and there, rabbits peep out of their holes. -Everywhere, birds. “It is time,” says the solemn woodpecker to them, “for -you to say your prayers.” - - _Une Voix [dans les arbres]._ - - Dieu des oiseaux!... - - _Une Autre Voix._ - - Ou plutôt—car il sied avant tout de s’entendre - Et le vautour n’a pas le Dieu de la calandre! - Dieu des petits oiseaux!... - - _Mille Voix [dans les feuilles]._ - - Dieu des petits oiseaux!... - - _Une Autre Voix._ - - Et vous, François, grand saint, bénisseur de nos ailes.... - - _Toutes les Voix._ - - Priez pour nous! - - _Une Voix._ - - Obtenez-nous, François d’Assise, - Le grain d’orge... - - _La Seconde Voix._ - - Le grain de blé... - - _D’autres Voix._ - - Le grain de mil... - - _La Première Voix._ - - Ainsi soit-il! - - _Toutes les Voix._ - - Ainsi soit-il! - -At length, when Chantecler appears, we perceive that there is something -wrong with the Cock. “Does not my forest please you?” asks the Hen -Pheasant tenderly. “Oh yes,” replies Chantecler half-heartedly. The fact -is, he pines after the farm-yard. Every night in the forest he telephones -to the Blackbird, through the flower of the bindweed, for news of his old -foster-mother, the hens, the chicks, the dog Patou. Then the Hen Pheasant -is jealous of his love for the sun. Cruelly, she has insisted that he is -to crow only once every day. - -But it is the Hen Pheasant’s design to make Chantecler forget the dawn. -He, of the farm-yard, has never heard the song of the nightingale. So -glorious are her notes that Chantecler, the poet, the idealist, will be -enraptured by them—and lose count of time. - -And the nightingale sings; and Chantecler, enthralled, listens -attentively—and as he stands there, spellbound, beneath the nightingale’s -tree,—_the sun rises and lights up the forest_. - -A peal of mocking laughter betrays the presence of the Blackbird. So it -is not the imperious “Cocorico” who summons the sun! So the day breaks -without Chantecler’s shrill crow! At first the Cock refuses to admit it: -“That is the sun I summoned yesterday.” But when his illusions are gone -he returns, humbled but not despairing, to the farm-yard. If he has not -the supreme power to create the day, at least he can herald it. - -When Chantecler has vanished, the Hen Pheasant, out of love for the Cock, -deliberately flies into a trap set by the owner of the poultry yard. She -remembers Chantecler having described the farmer as an admirable man: - - Car le propriétaire est un végétarien. - C’est un homme étonnant. Il adore les bêtes. - Il leur donne des noms qu’il prend dans les poètes. - -So the farmer, after releasing the Hen Pheasant from the trap, will -restore her to Chantecler. - -More and more golden becomes the forest. A strident “Cocorico” from the -distance announces Chantecler’s return to the yard. When footsteps are -heard, the birds stop singing. And the curtain falls. - -It falls on a _chef-d’œuvre_. - - - - -X - -AFTER _CHANTECLER_ - - -More than a fortnight has passed since I witnessed the dress rehearsal of -_Chantecler_: and what an odd, what an exhausting fortnight it has been! -First of all dreams—or rather nightmares. Strangely, preposterously, I -am majestic, cock-crowing “Chantecler” himself. A few minutes later, -with wild, delirious rapidity, I turn into the Blackbird. M. Rostand’s -Blackbird can hop in and out of his cage, and mingle with the hens, the -ducks, the fluffy little chicks, and the other feathered creatures in the -farm-yard; but I—am a prisoner in my cage—no one heeds my cries, no one -releases me, and to add to my panic huge owls with shining eyes gather -around my cage and hoot lugubriously at me. - -Nor is this all. I get hopelessly entangled in the gigantic cobweb, -which is one of the most wonderful scenic effects of the Fourth Act (the -“Hen Pheasant’s Forest”) of _Chantecler_. Also I stumble over the great -toadstools, fall heavily to the ground; and the gorgeous Hen Pheasant -herself appearing, I feel humiliated and ashamed that so elegant and -beautiful a creature should find me sprawling thus awkwardly on the -turf. “What a nuisance these toadstools are,” I observe. “What are you -doing in my forest? Leave it immediately,” commands the Hen Pheasant. But -I have sprained my ankle; impossible to rise, even to move. And I burst -into tears, and I implore the beautiful Pheasant to pardon me, and then a -great bat gets caught in my hair, and—— - -Enough. Although my sufferings in these nightmares have been acute, I -have one thing to be thankful for. Up to now I have not been attacked, -as “Chantecler” is in the Third Act, by a fierce, bloodthirsty Prize -Fighting Cock. - -Gracious goodness, this _Chantecler_! Rising unrefreshed from my -troubled, restless sleep, I find, on the breakfast-table, letters from -London, Birmingham, Manchester, which show that M. Edmond Rostand’s -masterpiece has interested those cities as much as it has agitated and -excited Paris. - - “MY DEAR BOY” (writes a frail, silver-haired and very charming - old lady who gave me half-crowns in my schooldays),—“I live - very much out of the world, as old people should do; but I - confess to my curiosity having been aroused by a very peculiar - play now being acted in Paris. I mean _Chantecler_, by a M. - Edmond Rostand. It seems that the characters in it—if one can - call them characters?—are animals. How very remarkable! I - wonder how it can be done! Such things are seen, of course, - in pantomimes (do you remember my taking you to Drury Lane - Theatre many, many years ago to see _Puss-in-Boots_?). But - the newspapers here say that this play is wonderfully natural, - and full of true poetry and feeling. When you can spare - half-an-hour, pray satisfy an old lady’s curiosity by giving - her an account of the piece.” - -Then, with innumerable dashes, exclamation marks, and words underlined, -the following appeal from fascinating, lovely, irresistible Miss Ethel -Tempest:— - - “Of course, lucky man, you have seen _Chantecler_, and if you - don’t tell me all about it by return of post I shall never - write to you, and never look at you, and never speak to you - again. I don’t want to know anything about the plot of the - play, as I have read all about that in the papers. You have - got to be a dear, and tell me about the hat that Madame Simone - wears as the Hen Pheasant. It’s made of straw and feathers, - and it’s going to be the rage in London. Sybil Osborne tells - me chic Parisiennes are wearing it already. No; on second - thoughts, send me all the fashionable illustrated papers that - give sketches of the hat. As you’re a man, you won’t understand - it. Mind, _all_ the papers: you can’t send enough. If you could - get a special sketch done by one of your artist friends in the - Latin Quarter, it would be lovely.” - -Well, of course I write to the gentle, kindly silver-haired lady who -once took me to a Drury Lane pantomime; and of course, too, I send -illustrated papers—thirteen of them—to exquisite Miss Tempest, and ask -Raoul Fauchois, a gay, sympathetic art student, to “do” me a sketch of -the Hen Pheasant’s straw hat. He consents, and I fancy he will keep his -promise. “Naturally, the sketch is not for you,” he says, at once wisely -and poetically. “It is for one of those blonde English misses whose -_chevelure_, so radiant, so golden, lights up the sombre streets of old -London. You may rely upon me, _mon pauvre ami_. I understand; I know -exactly how you feel—for I myself have had affairs of the heart.” - -Again, always from London and the provinces, requests for picture post -cards of the principal scenes in _Chantecler_; for gilt brooches (3 f. 50 -c. in the tawdry shops of the rue de Rivoli) representing “Chantecler” -crowing and crowing with his chest thrown outwards and his beak raised -heavenwards; for the Porte St-Martin theatre programme of _Chantecler_; -and for—“if you possibly can manage it”—the autograph of M. Edmond -Rostand. - -And then a telegram: - - “Wife and self arrive Gare du Nord Wednesday 5.45. Please meet - us. Not understanding French wish you accompany us see and - interpret _Chantecler_.” - -What worry, what exhaustion! - -“Monsieur would be kind to explain this extraordinary ‘Chantecler’ to -me. I am from the country, and have had much to do with poultry; but I -have never seen a cock like Chantecler,” says my servant, a simple, naïve -soul from Normandy. - -Then my concierge, a practical lady: “But it’s ridiculous, but it’s mad! -Cocks and hens cannot even speak, and yet this M. Rostand makes them -recite poetry. What is France coming to? What will be the end of us all? -Think, just think, what has been happening since the New Year. That -sinister comet, the terrible floods, and now _Chantecler_.” - -Very unwisely, I explain to my servant and to my concierge that M. -Rostand’s glorious _chef-d’œuvre_ is symbolical. - -_Chantecler_ is a symbolic play in verse. - -The feathered creatures in the farm-yard represent human beings. -“Chantecler” himself is the artist, the idealist. The Hen Pheasant is the -coquettish, seductive, brilliant woman of the world. The Blackbird—— - -But here I stop, silenced by the startled expression of the concierge -and the servant. It is plain they think I have become irresponsible, -light-headed. “Monsieur is tired. Monsieur should lie down and rest. -Monsieur is not quite himself,” says my servant. - -“The comet—the floods—_Chantecler_, have been too much for Monsieur,” -sighs the concierge. - - - - -XI - -AU COURS D’ASSISES. PARIS AND MADAME STEINHEIL - - -It was not by reason of baccarat losses, duels, matrimonial disputes, nor -because of the aches of indigestion nor of the indefinable miseries of -neurasthenia, worries and ailments common enough in French Vanity Fair—it -was not, I say, for any of these reasons that fashionable and financial -Paris, sporting and theatrical Paris, certain worldly lights of literary -and artistic Paris, and the extravagant, feverish _demi-monde_ of Paris, -woke up on the morning of the 3rd November[5] in an exceedingly bad -temper. Nor yet was their displeasure occasioned by the weather—London -weather—all fog, damp and gloom. The fact was, at noon was to begin the -first sitting of the great Steinheil trial, to which the above-mentioned -ornaments of _le Tout Paris_ had been excitedly looking forward for many -a month. All that time they had been worrying, agitating, intriguing to -obtain the official yellow ticket that would entitle them to behold with -their own eyes—O, dramatic, thrilling spectacle—the “Tragic Widow’s” -entrance into the dock, and to hear with their own ears—O palpitating, -overwhelming experience—the secret history of an essentially Parisian -_cause célèbre_. The trial would be the event of the autumn season, a -function no self-respecting _mondain_, _mondaine_ or _demi-mondaine_ -could afford to miss. And so, as the accommodation in the Court of -Assizes is limited, the campaign to secure cards of admission became -ardent, fierce, and then (as the sensational day of the 3rd November -approached) delirious. Off, by footmen, chauffeurs, special messengers, -went scented little notes to judges and famous lawyers, and to deputies, -senators and ministers, imploring those distinguished personages to -“remember” the writer when the hour arrived for the precious yellow -tickets to be distributed. “_Mon cher ami_,” wrote Madame la Comtesse de -la Tour, “if you forget me I shall never, never forgive you.” Then, with -a blot or two, and in a primitive, scrawling handwriting, Mademoiselle -Giselle de Perle of the half-world: “_Mon vieux gros_, I count upon you -for the trial. If you fail me, your little blonde Pauline will show -her claws. And the claws of this blonde child can be terrible.” (It -is shocking to think that blonde Giselle de Perle should be on such -familiar terms with gentlemen in high places; but as a matter of fact she -and her sisters play a very important rôle in the life of the Amazing -City.) As for stout, diamond-covered Baronne Goldstein (wife of old -bald-headed Goldstein of the Bourse), she invited judges and deputies -to rich, elaborate dinners, at which the oldest, the mellowest, the -most comforting wines from her cellars were produced; and when M. le -Juge and M. le Député had been rendered genial and benevolent by those -rare, warming vintages, she led them into a corner of Goldstein’s vast -gilded _salon_, and there besought them, while breathing heavily under -her breastplate of diamonds, to procure for her “just one little yellow -ticket.” Naturally, all these State officials replied with a bow: “I -will do my best. Need I say that it is my dearest desire to oblige you?” -And our ornaments of _le Tout Paris_ were satisfied; already regarded -that ticket of tickets as being safe and sound in their possession. -When October dawned, Madame la Comtesse, lively Pauline Boum and stout -Baronne Goldstein ordered striking dresses and huge, complicated hats -for the Steinheil _cause célèbre_. In their respective _salons_, over -their “five o’clock’s” of pale tea, sugared cakes, and crystal glasses of -port, malaga and madeira, they excitedly described how they had driven -to the tranquil, ivy-covered villa in the Impasse Ronsin where Madame -Steinheil’s husband and mother had been assassinated on the night of -the 30th-31st May eighteen months ago. And how, after that expedition, -they had proceeded to beautiful Bellevue, seven miles out of Paris, to -stare at that other villa, the “Vert Logis,” where the “Tragic Widow” -received her lovers. How they gossiped, too, over the intrigue between -the accused woman and the late President Félix Faure; and what fun they -made of certain high State dignitaries who were said to be in a state of -“panic” because they had been habitués of the Steinheil villas! “I would -not miss the trial for the largest and finest diamond in the world,” -declared these ladies. “It will be extraordinary, overwhelming, supreme,” -exclaimed the male guests at these tea-and-madeira afternoon parties. “We -shall still be discussing it this time next year.” - -Suddenly, however, consternation, indignation, fury, hysteria, in _le -Tout Paris_. In an official decree, M. de Valles, the judge appointed to -preside over the Steinheil “debates,” intimated that all those scented -notes had been written, all those elaborate dinners had been given, all -those striking dresses and complicated hats had been ordered, and tried -on I don’t know how many times—_in vain_. “I have,” stated M. de Valles, -“received over 25,000 applications for tickets of admission, and every -one of them I have refused. Only the diplomatic corps, the Bar, and a -certain number of French and foreign journalists will be admitted. Let -it be clearly understood that this decision of mine is irrevocable.” -Gracious powers, the commotion! _Le Tout Paris_ protested, raged, until -it wore itself out with anger and hysteria. “I have made thousands of -enemies. Even my wife’s friends refuse to speak to me,” said M. de Valles -to an interviewer. True to his word, the judge remained inexorable. -Passionate letters to him remained unanswered; to all visitors he was -invisible. Hence the exceedingly bad temper of _le Tout Paris_ on that -foggy, gloomy morning of the 3rd of November. And thus for the first -time on record the heroine of an essentially Parisian _cause célèbre_ -entered the dock of the dim, oblong, oak-panelled Court of Assizes, -secure from the laughter, the mockery, and the opera-glasses of French -Vanity Fair. - -An extraordinary woman, Madame Steinheil. Imagine Sarah Bernhardt in -some supremely tragical rôle—pathetic, threatening; tender, violent; -despairing, tearful; wrecked with indignation, suffering and exhaustion, -and you will gain an idea of the “Tragic Widow’s” demeanour during the -ten days’ dramatic trial. Her voice, like the incomparable Sarah’s, -was now melodious and persuasive, then hoarse, bitter, frenzied; when -she wept, it subsided into a moan or a broken whisper. Never even in -Paris (where a widow’s weeds are perhaps excessively lugubrious) have -I seen deeper mourning: heavy crape bands round the accused woman’s -black dress, stiff crape bows in the widow’s cap, a deep crape border -to the handkerchief which she clenched tightly, convulsively, in her -black-gloved hand. Then, under her eyes, dark, dark shadows, which turned -green as the trial tragically wore on. Her face, deadly pale, but for -the hectic spot burning fiercely in each cheek. Her eyes, blue. Her -hair, dark brown. Her ears, small and delicate; her mouth, sensitive, -tremulous, eloquent. Her only _coquetterie_, the low, square-cut opening -in the neck of her dress. - -Wistfully, wretchedly, she glanced around the court, after M. de Valles, -the presiding judge, had given her permission to sit down. Then her eyes -fell upon a grim table placed immediately beneath the Bench: and she -shuddered. It was grim because it contained the _pièces à conviction_—the -alpenstock found near the late M. Steinheil’s body, the coil of rope with -which he and his mother-in-law had been strangled, the famous bottle -of brandy with the innumerable finger-prints, the wadding lying on the -floor by the side of Madame Japy’s bed. Then, M. de Valles, in his -rasping voice, asked the “Tragic Widow” the usual preliminary questions -concerning her parentage, domicile and age. Almost inaudibly, Madame -Steinheil replied. And the trial began. - -Unfortunately, I have neither the space nor the time at my disposal -to render even a tolerably satisfactory account of this overwhelming -_cause célèbre_. “Impressions” are all I can offer, mixed up with -brief descriptions of what the French journalist calls “incidents in -court”; and even these “impressions” and “incidents” must necessarily be -compressed and disconnected. For the slightness of my recital, I beg the -indulgence of my readers. - -“Messieurs les Jurés, I swear I am innocent. Messieurs les Jurés, I -adored my mother. Messieurs les Jurés, do not believe the abominable -things the President is saying about me,” was the “Tragic Widow’s” first -passionate outburst. Then, turning round upon M. de Valles: “You are -treating me atrociously.” - -“I am treating you as you deserve,” was the reply. - -For the first two days, M. de Valles assumed the office of public -prosecutor, or rather of high inquisitor—and the “Tragic Widow” was -on the rack. The judge in the black-and-red robes sneered, stormed, -threatened, bullied; and turned constantly to the jury with a shrug of -the shoulders as though to say: “She denies everything. She has never -told anything but lies, and now she is lying again.” Over again and -again he brutally accused Madame Steinheil of having assassinated her -mother, but never did the accused woman fail to leap up from her chair -with the cry: “I adored my mother. Messieurs les Jurés, I swear I adored -her.” Another shrug of M. de Valles’ shoulders, and another cynical -smile at the jury, when Madame Steinheil spoke of her devotion to her -eighteen-year-old daughter. “I love her, and she loves me more fondly -than ever—because she believes in my innocence. She has written me the -tenderest letters and has visited me constantly in prison. She helped to -make the black dress I am wearing.” And further gestures expressive of -impatient incredulity on the part of M. de Valles when the “Tragic Widow” -shrieked: “Yes; I have been a bad woman. Yes; I have been an immoral -woman. Yes; I made false, wicked accusations against Remy Couillard and -Alexandre Wolff. But I am not an assassin, a fiend. And only a fiend -could murder her mother.” Here the shriek stopped. For some moments -the “Tragic Widow” cried bitterly. Then, in Sarah Bernhardt’s melodious -voice, she thus addressed the jury: “Gentlemen, I am deeply repentant for -all the wrong I have done. Please realise that I was mad—that I was being -tortured—when I made those false, atrocious accusations. I was being -tortured by the examining magistrate and by the journalists who invaded -my villa and refused to leave it until they had obtained sensational -‘copy’ for their papers. These journalists told me that nobody believed -in my story, and that I had better tell a new one. They said my villa -was surrounded by a hostile mob, come there to lynch me. It was they -who suggested that I should accuse Alexandre Wolff and Remy Couillard. -They tortured me until they made me say what they liked. It was no doubt -splendid material for their papers: but the result was disastrous for -me. Do you know, gentlemen of the jury, that it was actually in a motor -car belonging to the _Matin_ that I was driven to the St Lazare prison?” -And the “Tragic Widow” collapsed in her chair, covered her face with -her hand, sobbed convulsively. At this point the two or three hundred -barristers in court murmured compassionately: and M. de Valles called -them to order by rapping his paper-cutter on his massive silver inkstand. -(M. de Valles, by the way, was for ever rapping his paper-cutter, for -ever wiping his brow with a huge handkerchief, for ever sinking back in -his handsome, comfortable fauteuil, and then suddenly darting forward to -hurl some savage remark at the accused.) Irritated by the compassionate -demonstration of the barristers, unmoved by the shaking and sobbing -of the black-dressed woman in the dock, M. de Valles pointed to the -grim table containing the _pièces de conviction_, and cried: “Look at -that horrible table, and confess; and shed real, not crocodile, tears. -You have stated that on the night of the crime you were bound down -and gagged by three men in black robes and by a red-headed woman, who -entered your room with a dark lantern and then—after they had bound and -gagged you, and after you yourself had lost consciousness—assassinated -poor M. Steinheil and the unfortunate Madame Japy. Nobody believes you; -your story is a tissue of falsehoods. It was you who, with the help of -accomplices, murdered your husband and your mother.” - -But let us not be too hard upon M. de Valles for his savage treatment -of Madame Steinheil. He had considerately protected her from the cruel -curiosity and impertinence of _le Tout Paris_; and then it was his -legitimate rôle to attempt by continuous ruthless bullying to extract -a confession from his pale-faced, exhausted martyr. For in France the -word “judge,” as we understand it, is a misnomer. The French judge is -the real public prosecutor, the chief cross-examiner; save for the -jury, he would be all-powerful. But as the twelve men “good and true” -are chosen from the justice-loving French people at large, M. le Juge’s -drastic, brutal insinuations and accusations cannot alone bring about -a condemnation. It is for the jury to decide. It remains with the jury -to condemn. And at one o’clock in the morning of the 14th November the -jurors in the Steinheil _cause célèbre_—workmen, mechanics, _petits -commerçants_—demonstrated their inherent love and sense of justice by—— - -But I am anticipating events. Let us return to the crowded, stifling -Court of Assizes; and then take a stroll in the marble corridors of the -Paris Law Courts, where, throughout the Steinheil trial, wooden barriers -barred the way to all those not provided with the precious yellow ticket; -and where groups of policemen, and of Municipal and Republican Guards -were discussing—like every other soul in Paris—this incomprehensible, -amazing _cause célèbre_. - -A change in M. de Valles on the third day of the trial. Respecting -her tears, refraining from shrugging his shoulders at her repeated -protestations of innocence, the judge treated the “Tragic Widow” as a -human being; even with courtesy and compassion. This metamorphosis was -due, I believe, to a hint received from high quarters, where (so I have -since been assured) the strong protests of the Paris correspondents of -the English and American newspapers against the French judicial system, -had made an impression. But in the opinion of Henri Rochefort, Madame -Steinheil’s savage assailant in the columns of the Nationalist _Patrie_, -the “judge had been bought.” With his gaunt, yellow face, tumbled white -hair, angry grey eyes, the ruthless old journalist and agitator was -the most conspicuous figure in the press-box. To his colleagues and to -the barristers around him, he also accused Madame Steinheil of having -murdered the late Félix Faure. “She was in the pay of the Dreyfusards,” -he said, in his hoarse voice, “and the Dreyfusards knew that so long as -Faure lived there would be no revision. So they commissioned the woman -Steinheil, his mistress, to assassinate him.” After which he sucked -lozenges (fierce old Rochefort is always and always sucking lozenges in -order to ease the hoarseness in his throat), and next proceeded to begin -his article for the _Patrie_, in which he referred to Madame Steinheil as -the “Black Panther”! I fancy, too, that it was Rochefort’s bold design to -magnetise—even to mesmerise—the jury! At all events, when not writing or -accusing, he kept his angry grey eyes fixed hard on the foreman. A good -thing the “Tragic Widow” could not see him from her seat in the dock. -Henri Rochefort’s gaunt yellow face, when lit up luridly with hatred and -vindictiveness, is enough to make anyone falter and quail. - -But as M. de Valles was calm, Madame Steinheil felt more at ease; and, -apart from occasional tears and comparatively few outbursts, the “Tragic -Widow” remained composed during the six long, stifling afternoons -occupied by the evidence of the eighty-seven witnesses. Of these, of -course, I can take only the most important. Let us begin with Mr -Burlingham, an American painter and journalist, aged twenty-eight. - -Poor, poor Mr Burlingham! It will be remembered that Madame Steinheil -described the assassins of her husband and mother as three men in black -robes, and a red-headed woman. Well, just because Mr Burlingham had -hired a black robe from a costumier’s for a fancy-dress ball a few -nights before the murder, he was suspected, shadowed and worried by the -detective police. One day the police stationed Madame Steinheil outside -his door, and when he sauntered out and walked off, the “Tragic Widow” -exclaimed: “Yes, that is one of the assassins. I recognise him by his -red beard.” But as on the night of the murder Mr Burlingham was far away -in Switzerland with two friends on a walking-tour, he had no difficulty -in establishing a decisive _alibi_. Nevertheless, Mr Burlingham became -notorious. His photographs appeared in the newspapers. He was followed -here, there and everywhere by Yellow Reporters: who described him as -the “enigmatic Burlingham,” and the “sinister Burlingham”—and yet Mr -Burlingham, with his light red beard, gentle green eyes, low voice and -kindly expression is, in reality, the simplest and mildest-looking -mortal that ever breathed. What humiliations, what indignities, -nevertheless, had Mr Burlingham to endure! His landlord gave him notice, -his tradespeople ceased calling for orders; when out walking in the -neighbourhood he inhabited, concierges exclaimed: “There goes the -famous Burlingham,” while little boys cried: “Here comes the sinister -Burlingham.” Once, after calling on a friend who was out, he left his -name with the concierge—and the concierge, panic-stricken, fled her -lodge, and, rushing into the next house, breathlessly told her neighbour -that she had seen the “terrible Burlingham.” In fact, an intolerable time -of it for mild, simple Mr Burlingham. - -“I have narrowly escaped the guillotine,” were his first words to the -judge; and the Court laughed. The American should have engaged an -interpreter: his French and his accent were deplorable. “This Steinheil -affair is not clear,” he continued, naïvely, and everyone shook with -delight. “I am very sorry you have been so badly treated,” said M. -de Valles, “but you fell under suspicion because you had eccentric -habits, and mixed with eccentric people.” M. de Valles’ idea of -“eccentric” habits and “eccentric” people was in itself eccentric. For Mr -Burlingham’s friends and associates during his sojourn in Paris have been -painters, sculptors, and journalists of talent and honourable standing. -As for his habits, they have been those of a firm believer in the “simple -life.” Sandals for Mr Burlingham; no hat; terrific walking-tours. Then -a diet of rice, grapes and nuts. (In the buffet of the Law Courts Mr -Burlingham, when invited to take a “drink,” ordered grapes: he consumed -I don’t know how many bunches a day, to the stupefaction of the waiters -and customers.) Well, after having received apologies from the judge, Mr -Burlingham received those of counsel for the defence and the prosecution. -“Excuses are scarcely enough,” replied the witness; “I should like to -say something about the French judicial system.” At which, M. de Valles, -rapping his paper-cutter, sternly requested simple, unfortunate Mr -Burlingham to “retire.” - -Murmurs, exclamations, excitement in court when M. Marcel Hutin, of the -_Echo de Paris_, and MM. Labruyère and Barby, of the _Matin_—the three -journalists who bullied and “tortured” Madame Steinheil in the Impasse -Ronsin Villa on the night previous to her arrest—strode up to the short -wooden bar that takes the place, in France, of a witness-box. - -No confusion, no shame about them; and yet their conduct in the -drawing-room of the Steinheil villa twelve months ago was despicable. -Calmly they admitted having advised the “Tragic Widow” to “tell a new -story,” as no one in Paris believed in her account of how the double -crime had been committed. They also admitted having lied to the wretched -woman, when they had told her that the villa was surrounded by a hostile -mob, “come there to lynch her.” Madame Steinheil, they continued, was -exhausted, out of her mind. She called for strychnine, with which to -poison herself. Downstairs in the kitchen the cook, Mariette Wolff, -was discovered on her knees, striving to cut open the tube of the -gas-stove—to asphyxiate herself. The cook then produced a revolver, and -cried: “Here is the only means of salvation.” Later on, tea was served -in the drawing-room. M. Marcel Hutin and his two colleagues continued to -browbeat Madame Steinheil. One of the Yellow Reporters cried: “I shall -not leave this house until I know the truth.” Mariette Wolff entered the -drawing-room and tried to soothe her mistress. And—— - -“So you tortured Madame Steinheil in her drawing-room. You drank her -tea. You were her guests, she was your hostess,” interrupted M. de -Valles, scathingly, indignantly. The “Tragic Widow,” leaning forward on -the ledge of the dock, looked gratefully, thankfully, at the judge. The -three Yellow Reporters strode out of court, each of them provoking angry -exclamations from the barristers as they importantly passed by. - -And then, the cook—Mariette Wolff, who had been in Madame Steinheil’s -service for over twenty years; and who, according to the Yellow Press, -“possessed all the secrets of the palpitating Steinheil Mystery.” Henri -Rochefort, M. Arthur Meyer (director of the _Gaulois_, very Jewish in -appearance, but a strong Anti-Semite and an ardent Catholic in politics), -Madame Séverine (the famous woman journalist), four very charming -lady barristers, all their male confrères—everyone, in fact, sprang -up excitedly when Mariette made her long-expected appearance. She has -since been described as a peasant out of one of Zola’s novels, and as -“the double of Balzac’s fiendish Cousine Bette.” She has also been -termed “a fury,” and “a rat” and “a monster.” For my part, when first I -saw her through the open door of the witness-room, sipping a steaming -grog and chatting and laughing with her son Alexandre, I summed her up -as the French double of a typical English charwoman. She was wearing a -battered black bonnet and a seedy black dress, and came to me more as a -Dickensonian than a Zolaesque or a Balzacien character. But Mariette, -happily drinking grog, and Mariette, facing a jury and judge, are two -very different persons. In court, Madame Steinheil’s ex-cook was defiant, -vindictive, violent. As she defended her former mistress, her beady, -black eyes flashed, her chin and nose almost met—her yellow, knotted hand -beat the air. Yes, she was a “fury”; yes—to use the French journalist’s -pet epithet—she looked “sinister.” And, oh dear me, her abuse of the -Yellow Reporters! Mariette’s crude language cannot be reproduced here. -It became particularly strong when she related how she had ordered MM. -Hutin, Barby and Labruyère out of the Impasse Ronsin Villa. It grew even -stronger when she denied their allegations that she intended first of -all to asphyxiate herself, and then to blow out her brains. She denied -everything. “My mistress is innocent,” she cried. “She accused my son -Alexandre of being a murderer, but it was those —— journalists who made -her do that, and I forgive her: and so does Alexandre.” True, Alexandre -Wolff, a horse-dealer’s assistant, with huge red hands and a neck like -a bullock’s, told M. de Valles he bore Madame Steinheil “no grudge.” And -the “Tragic Widow,” leaning forward, murmured melodiously: “Thank you, -Alexandre.” - -Full of incoherencies, contradictions, was the evidence of Remy -Couillard, the late M. Steinheil’s valet, into whose pocket-book the -“Tragic Widow” had placed the incriminating pearl. “I bear her no -grudge,” blurted out the young man. “I beg your pardon, Remy,” said -Madame Steinheil, always melodiously, when the valet (attired, since he -was accomplishing his “military service,” in a cavalry uniform) withdrew. -But, a moment later, she fell back in her chair, closed her eyes; and the -black-gloved hands in her lap twitched convulsively, madly. - -M. Borderel had stepped forward to give evidence: M. Borderel, the -lover Madame Steinheil had declared twelve months ago to the examining -magistrate to be the one and only man she had ever truly loved. - -A hush in court as the middle-aged, red-eyed, broken-down widower from -the beautiful country of the Ardennes, related the history of his -intrigue with the “Tragic Widow.” - -It will be remembered that the strongest point for the prosecution was -that Madame Steinheil had murdered her husband in order to be free to -marry “the rich châtelain, M. Borderel.” In a slow, solemn voice, M. -Borderel stated: “Yes; Madame Steinheil did mention marriage to me, but -I said it was impossible. I adored my late wife, I adore my children, and -I felt I could not give them a step-mother; and Madame Steinheil fully -understood that my decision was irrevocable. Therefore the assumption of -the prosecution that Madame Steinheil murdered her husband in order to -become my wife, is unwarrantable.” Here M. Borderel broke down. “I loved -her. I was a widower. I was free. In becoming her lover, I behaved no -more wrongly than thousands of my fellow-countrymen. It is a base lie -that I ever suspected her of being guilty of that awful murder. On the -morning after the crime, I was full of the deepest pity for her; and -when she was accused in the newspapers I passionately told everyone she -was innocent.” Up sprang Maître Aubin, counsel for the defence, with -the cry: “Do you still believe her innocent?” And loudly, vigorously, -whole-heartedly rang forth the answer: “With all my soul, with all my -heart, upon my conscience.” - -Even M. de Valles was moved by M. Borderel’s emotion, sorrow, chivalry. -The disclosure of the “rich châtelain’s” _liaison_ with the “Tragic -Widow” caused such a scandal in the Ardennes that M. Borderel had to -sell his estate; and he, too, has been persecuted continuously by Yellow -photographers and journalists. Equally chivalrous was the evidence of -Comte d’Arlon (to whose house Madame Steinheil was removed after the -night of the murder), of M. Martin (a State official), and of other -gentlemen who had been (platonic) friends of the “Tragic Widow.” Then, -more chivalry from M. Pouce, an officer in the detective police. “I -have been one of the detectives in charge of the Steinheil affair,” he -cried. “But I have always believed in the innocence of Madame Steinheil. -Had she told me she was guilty, I should not have believed her. She is -innocent.” And finally, exuberant, fantastic chivalry on the part of a -young man named René Collard: who, to the stupefaction of the Court, -walked up to the Bench and cried: “Madame Steinheil is innocent. I myself -am the red-headed woman who helped to commit the double murder.” M. de -Valles then wiped his brow with his huge handkerchief, rapped on the -silver inkstand with his paper-cutter, and cried: “Silence”—for the Court -was buzzing with excitement. Hesitatingly René Collard (aged perhaps -nineteen) related that he had disguised himself as a woman, bought a -red wig, broken his way into the Steinheil villa (in the company of two -friends), sacked the place, bound and gagged Madame Steinheil, strangled -her husband, suffocated her mother. “Take this young man away,” said M. -de Valles to a municipal guard, “and lock him up.” Two nights in prison -brought young René Collard to his senses. He had seen Madame Steinheil’s -photographs in the papers, had fallen in love with her: had resolved to -save her at the risk of being guillotined by the awful M. Deibler! Said -the examining magistrate: “Little idiot, I shall now send you home in the -charge of a policeman, who will deliver you over to your parents.” And -so, amorous, over-chivalrous young René Collard was conducted back to a -dull, bourgeois flat in the Avenue Clichy, where his father and mother, -after calling him a “villain,” a “criminal,” and a “monster,” took him -into their arms, and hugged him, and called him “the best and most -adorable of sons”; and then sent out Amélie, the only servant, to fetch -a cream cake and a bottle of sweet champagne with which to celebrate the -return home of the “wicked” but “adorable” Master René. - -And now, half-past ten o’clock at night on Saturday, the 13th -of November.—I have passed over the address to the jury of M. -Trouard-Riolle, the Public Prosecutor—a mere repetition of the judge’s -savage cross-examination of the “Tragic Widow” on the first two days of -the trial; and I have also passed over Maître Aubin’s long, eloquent -speech for the defence. And the last scenes I have now to describe rise -up so vividly before me, that I adopt the present tense. - -The jury have retired to an upstairs room to consider their verdict. -Madame Steinheil, watched by municipal guards, is waiting—deadly pale, -green shadows under her blue eyes, exhausted, a wreck—in the “Chambre -des Accusés.” And in the stifling Court of Assizes, and in the cold -marble corridors of the Palais de Justice, barristers, journalists and -a few ornaments of _le Tout Paris_ (who, somehow or other, have at last -obtained admittance to the Law Courts) are frantically speculating upon -the fate of Madame Steinheil. Most barristers say: “There are no proofs -whatsoever. Therefore, acquittal.” The _Tout Paris_ cries: “She should -be imprisoned for life.” (And here, in yet another parenthesis, let us -suggest that the _Tout Paris’_ mocking, vindictive attitude towards -Madame Steinheil is provoked by malevolent jealousy. Madame la Comtesse, -lively Pauline Boum, stout Baronne Goldstein cannot forgive the “Tragic -Widow” for having been _une femme ultra-chic_—the favourite of the late -President Félix Faure. Yet, as we all know in Paris, the life of these -ladies is very far from exemplary. How terrifically would our great, -kindly, satirical Thackeray have laid bare the true causes of the bitter -hostility directed against the “Tragic Widow” by French Vanity Fair!) - -Eleven o’clock; half-past eleven; midnight. Twice, so we hear, have M. -de Valles and counsel for the prosecution and the defence been summoned -to the jurors’ room, to explain certain “points.” The _Tout Paris_, -and Henri Rochefort, are jubilant. “When the jury sends for the judge -it usually means a conviction,” croaks Rochefort, rubbing his hands, -and still sucking his impotent lozenges. We hear, too, that a crowd of -thousands has assembled in front of the Palais de Justice; that the -boulevards are wild with excitement, and—— - -“The judge has been summoned a third time to the jurors’ room,” we are -told at twenty minutes past twelve. - -“Five years’ imprisonment at least,” chuckle the ladies and fatuous -gentlemen of _le Tout Paris_. - -“Ten years—fifteen—twenty, I hope. She was in the pay of the Dreyfusards, -and killed Félix Faure,” mutters Rochefort. - -“The Court enters; the Court enters,” cry the ushers and the municipal -guards, at half-past twelve. - -As the jury files into the box, barristers and journalists mount their -benches, and, upon those rickety supports, sway to and fro. “Silence,” -shouts M. de Valles, rapping his paper-cutter for the last time. His -question to the foreman of the jury is inaudible. But the reply rings out -firmly, vigorously: - -“Before God and man, upon my honour and conscience, the verdict on every -count of the indictment is: Not Guilty.” - -For a few seconds, silence. Then a shrill cry (from one of the -brown-haired, blue-eyed, very charming lady barristers) of “Acquitted!” -And after that, enthusiastic uproar. Rocking and swaying to and fro -on their rickety benches, the barristers applaud, cheer, fling their -black _képis_ into the air. Up, too, go the caps of their fascinating, -brown-haired colleagues, as they cry: “Bravo.” More shouts and bravoes -from the journalists. (One of them—an Englishman—cheers so frantically -that half-an-hour later his voice is as hoarse as Henri Rochefort’s.) -And so the din continues, increases, until the demonstrators suddenly -perceive the dock is empty. Again, for a second or two, silence, -followed by exclamations of astonishment, alarm. M. de Valles, the -two assistant judges, and the jurors lean forward. Maître Aubin looks -anxious. Where is the “Tragic Widow”? Is she ill? Is she——? But at last -the small door at the back of the dock opens, and Madame Steinheil, -livid, held by either arm by a municipal guard, staggers forward. She has -not yet heard the verdict, but the renewed wild cheering (which drowns -the judge’s voice as he addresses her) tells her what it is. Dazed, -half-fainting in the doorway, she looks around the Court. For the first -time throughout the ten days’ trial she smiles—heavens, the relief, the -gratitude, the softness of that smile! And then amidst shouts of “Vive -Madame Steinheil,” and of “Vive la Justice,” the “Tragic Widow” falls -unconscious into the arms of the _Gardes Municipaux_ and is carried out -backwards through the narrow doorway of the dock. - -Paris, too, demonstrates excitedly. Cheers are given by the vast crowd -assembled outside the Law Courts for Madame Steinheil, Maître Aubin and -the jury. M. Trouard-Riolle, the public prosecutor, leaves the Palais de -Justice by a side door, followed by Henri Rochefort, yellower than ever -in the face, his eyes blazing with vindictive fury. Almost encircling -the Palais are the 60 and 90 h.p. motors of the Yellow Reporters, still -bent on pursuing and persecuting the “Tragic Widow.” But she evades them; -passes what remains of the night in the Hotel Terminus; speeds off in an -automobile to a doctor’s private nursing-home at Vésinet next morning. - -Acquitted, yes; but by no means rehabilitated, far less left in peace. -Outside the nursing-home at Vésinet, behold rows of motor cars, packs -of Yellow Reporters and photographers. A din in this usually tranquil -country place; a din, too, outside the Impasse Ronsin Villa, and in front -of the Bellevue Villa, where inquisitive Parisians jest, and laugh, and -point and stare at the shuttered windows. Over those “five o’clock’s” of -pale tea, port and sugared cakes, _le Tout Paris_ declares that Madame -Steinheil was acquitted by order of the Government. In the _Patrie_, -Henri Rochefort still calls her the “Black Panther,” and, alluding once -again to the death of Félix Faure, bids President Fallières to beware -of her. And on the boulevards, swarms of _camelots_ thrust under one’s -eyes “picture post cards” of Mariette Wolff; of huge, bloated Alexandre; -of mild Mr Burlingham; of chivalrous Count d’Arlon; of M. Borderel; of -Mademoiselle Marthe Steinheil; and of the “Tragic Widow.” - -And the bourgeoisie? - -“Acquitted, yes; but the Impasse Ronsin crime, committed eighteen months -ago, remains a mystery,” says a Parisian angrily to me. “The trial has -elucidated nothing: but it has cost enormous sums.” And then, as he -is a thrifty, rather parsimonious little bourgeois, the speaker adds -indignantly: “As Madame Steinheil has won, it is the Treasury, in other -words the unfortunate taxpayer, myself, for instance, who will have to -put his hand in his pocket, and settle the bill.” - -[5] 1909. - - - - -XII - -THE LATE JULES GUÉRIN AND THE DEFENCE OF FORT CHABROL - - -The month of May, 1899—how long ago it seems! - -At that time, up at Montmartre, in a large house, overlooking a garden, -resided M. Jules Guérin, most savage of Anti-Dreyfusards, and chief of -the Anti-Semitic party. - -A fine house, but an unlovely garden. A gaunt tree or two; four or five -gritty, stony flower-beds; in a corner, a dried-up, dilapidated old -well. But this waste of a garden suited M. Guérin’s purposes,—which were -sinister. - -“If my enemies attack me here, I shall shoot them dead and bury them -beneath this very window—by that tree, in that flower-bed.” - -“Oh!” I expostulated. - -“Or I shall throw their infamous bodies into that well,” continued M. -Guérin, again pointing out of the window. “I am prepared; I am ready. You -see this gun? Then look at those revolvers. All are loaded.” - -A long, highly polished gun rested in a corner at M. Guérin’s elbow. -Curiously then I glanced at a collection of revolvers that bristled -murderously on the wall, and next at Jules Guérin, a powerfully built -man, with massive shoulders, a square chin, lurid green eyes, a fierce -moustache, and a formidable block of a head on which a soft grey hat of -enormous dimensions was tilted jauntily on one side. Thus, although he -sat in his study before a vast, business-like writing-table, Jules Guérin -wore his hat, or rather his sombrero, and also an overcoat; but then (as -he explained) he might be called out at any moment to take part in a -political brawl, or to chastise a journalist, or to arrange a duel—even -to dig the grave of an enemy; and so was dressed ready to sally forth -anywhere, and with ferocious designs upon anyone, at the shortest notice. -Vehemently, he puffed at a cigarette. Now and again he pulled at his -fierce moustache. As he spoke he gesticulated, thumped the writing-table -savagely, and, when he thumped, the ink-bottles and penholders leapt and -danced, and the gun in the corner trembled. - -“Downstairs I have twenty clerks and assistants. All are armed with -revolvers; all are devoted; and thus my enemies are their enemies. And so -if the brigands attack us, into the earth with them, or into the well, or -into——” - -“But who are these enemies?” I interrupted. “These brigands?” - -“The Government—Lépine, Chief of the Police—Loubet, President of the -Republic—a hundred other traitors and assassins,” cried M. Guérin. “But -the garden is waiting for them. I desire that this garden shall be their -cemetery.” - -Of course, an impossible ambition. But so incoherent, so chaotic was the -state of mind of the Anti-Semites fourteen years ago, that I refrained -from suggesting that it was highly improbable President Loubet or his -Ministers would invade M. Guérin’s bit of waste ground up there in the -rue Condorcet. Nor was my host a man to stand ridicule. A flippant word -from me, and he would have shown me the door. So I listened patiently -to his wild, savage denunciations of the Jews—of Captain Dreyfus in -particular, who was lying (burnt up with fever, broken and battered in -everything except determination) in his cell on the Devil’s Island; -whilst here, in Paris, the Cour de Cassation was deliberating whether -there was sufficient “new” evidence to justify the prisoner being brought -back to France and given a new trial. Rumours were flying about to the -effect that the Court had already made up its mind to order the revision. -Thus, fury of the Anti-Dreyfusards; frenzy of the Anti-Semites, and, in -their newspapers, the statements that the Cour de Cassation had been -“bought” by the Jews; that the Jews, being the masters of France, had -“sold” the country to Germany; and that, therefore, the only thing to do -with the Jews was to hang them on the lamp-posts of Paris. Particularly -bloodthirsty and barbarous was M. Guérin’s weekly journal, _L’Anti-Juif_, -which stood on the floor, in three or four stacks, of this extraordinary -study. In it were published the name and address of every Jewish -tradesman in Paris. Each column was headed with exhortation: “Français, -N’achetez Rien Aux Juifs.” Then, hideous cartoons depicting the flight -of the Jews along the boulevards and their panic and agony—and their -massacre. - -“Now,” said M. Guérin, “you have seen the official organ of the -Anti-Semitic League, and I could show you pamphlets and posters that -are equally powerful. No League in Paris is so resolute, so strong, so -efficiently organised. Such is our success that I am shortly removing to -more spacious quarters. There we shall deliver Anti-Semitic lectures, -and give Anti-Semitic plays—open to all, not a centime will be charged. -Then, boxing and fencing classes, pistol practice, a library, a doctor -and a solicitor on the premises—always, no charge. The Parisians, being -thrifty, will flock to us. They will cry: ‘Here we get entertainment, -medical and legal advice for nothing; it is admirable. Vive Guérin! Vive -la France! À bas les Juifs!’ The Government will be furious. Loubet in -the Élysée will shake in his shoes. And Lépine will shout: ‘We must -arrest that _canaille_ Guérin!’ But let him come. I shall be armed more -strongly than ever in my new quarters in the rue de Chabrol.” - -“A garden?” I ventured. - -“There are no gardens in the rue de Chabrol: but there are cellars,” -grimly replied M. Guérin. “Come and see me there. You will be astonished. -Au revoir.” - -Out in the passage, and on the staircase, I encountered four or five of -Jules Guérin’s clerks and assistants; coarse, powerful young men, with -bull-dog faces, who had been recruited by the chief of the Anti-Semites -from the ghastly slaughter-house of Villette. In the garden I paused to -inspect the stony flower-beds and the dilapidated well. - -“The future cemetery of my enemies. Ah, the traitors, the brigands, the -assassins! Let them come.” - -At an open window, in his sombrero and smoking his eternal cigarette, -stood fierce Jules Guérin. - -“Lépine in _that_ flower-bed,” he shouted, and then closed the window. -But reopened it, when I reached the gateway, to cry: - -“And Loubet, in the well.” - -A month later, Paris in uproar. On the afternoon of the 3rd June the -Cour de Cassation ordered the revision of the Dreyfus Affair; the -same night official arrangements were made for the return to France -of the shattered prisoner of the Devil’s Island; next day, during the -race-meeting at Auteuil, President Loubet’s hat was smashed over his head -by the stick of a certain Baron Christiani, a Royalist Anti-Dreyfusard. -Then, the fall of the Dupuy Ministry, and M. Loubet in a dilemma. M. -Poincaré, astutest of statesmen, was summoned to the Élysée; but, with -characteristic shrewdness, declined the task of forming a Cabinet in -such unfavourable circumstances. M. Léon Bourgeois (absent on a Peace -mission at The Hague) was telegraphed for, but could not be persuaded to -exercise a pacific influence in his own country. M. Waldeck-Rousseau was -next requisitioned; and left the Élysée with the assurance: “Monsieur -le Président, I will do my best to succeed.” Nothing could have been -more admirable than his subsequent exertions, for, in making them, M. -Waldeck-Rousseau, the most distinguished and most prosperous lawyer at -the Paris Bar, had nothing to gain and everything to lose; and he must -have been dismayed at the refusal, or the reluctance, of highly esteemed -politicians to serve their country by fighting a just if an unpopular -cause. Well, for a whole week the most painstaking, the most level-headed -and truly patriotic Prime Minister who has yet worked for the Third -Republic, visited prominent statesmen with the earnest desire to form a -_ministère d’apaisement_, founded on the principles of disinterestedness -and justice. Throughout that week, he was hooted in the streets, and -ridiculed and insulted by MM. Rochefort, Millevoye, Drumont and Jules -Guérin, who triumphantly predicted in their newspapers that “Panama -Loubet”—like “Père Grévy” before him—would be compelled to resign for -want of a ministry. And biting was the satire, and more savage became -the contumely, when at last the Waldeck-Rousseau Ministry was completed, -by the inclusion of such opposite, hostile personages as the “citizen -Millerand” and fierce, aristocratic and despotic old General the Marquis -de Galliffet. “After this,” wrote Henri Rochefort, “the deluge.” “At -last,” declared M. Drumont, “Paris will rebel; and the next events will -prove fatal to this unspeakable Republic.” The next important event was -the landing in France, in the middle of the night, of a bent, prematurely -aged figure: Captain Dreyfus. How the musty old carriage in which he sat, -dazed, exhausted, shivering, rattled over the cobble-stones to the Rennes -prison! How the prison gates clanged to when the shabby vehicle had -entered the dark, grim courtyard! And how split and how cracked was the -voice of the prisoner from the Devil’s Island when, at the court-martial -a few days afterwards, he protested his innocence and refuted the new -monstrous accusations of highly respected and brilliantly uniformed -Generals Gonse, de Boisdeffre and Mercier! Solitary confinement had left -him almost inarticulate. But he defended himself heroically: and, with an -effort, straightened his bent back when questioned by his judges. Then -how the trial dragged on; and what scenes took place in the streets, -hotels and cafés of Rennes, which were crowded with _le Tout Paris_ and -echoed with Parisian exclamations and disputes! Brawls, duels, Henri -Rochefort’s white “Imperial” pulled; Maître Labori, Captain Dreyfus’s -brilliant counsel, shot between the shoulders; a famous _demi-mondaine_ -expelled the town; arrests, startling _canards_, alarms; hysteria, -chaos, and delirium enough for Paris itself; and in Paris—whilst these -exhibitions were occurring in the Rennes streets, and Captain Dreyfus (in -the severe court-room) was stiffening his back and straining his split -voice until it rose to an uncanny scream—what of Jules Guérin in Paris? -and of his guns and revolvers, his well and his flower-bed? and of his -assistants and clerks, the young men with the bull-dog faces, whom he had -recruited from the ghastly slaughter-house of La Villette? - -Well, first of all, came the dishevelled, dusty confusion of a -_déménagement_ in the rue Condorcet. The study walls were stripped of -their revolvers; the basement was cleared of the printing-press that -produced the murderous _Anti-Juif_; huge packing-cases were passed into a -number of furniture vans; and so, farewell to the stony garden—in which -not an “enemy” lay buried; and _en route_ to No. 12 rue de Chabrol, a -commodious, massive building with large windows and a solid oak door. -The arrival of Jules Guérin and his assistants caused consternation -amongst the peaceful, bourgeois inhabitants of the street. Lurid -Anti-Semitic posters were stuck to the walls of No. 12; the din of -the printing-machines disturbed the neighbours—and Guérin’s voice of -thunder (execrating the Jews and demanding the lives of his enemies) -was to be heard through the open windows, while his enormous sombrero -was another disquieting element in the orderly, dull thoroughfare. The -Anti-Semitic lectures and plays were announced; a solicitor and a doctor -were engaged—and Paris was invited to visit No. 12 rue de Chabrol and -partake of its pleasures and advantages. Then came the suggestion in -the _Anti-Juif_ that Paris should fix a day and an hour when the Jews -should be hanged on the boulevard lamp-posts. And then followed the -resolution of the Government—to have done with Jules Guérin! A warrant -was issued for his arrest on the charge of “incitement to rebellion.” -Somehow or other the news reached No. 12; and when the Commissary of -Police (armed with his warrant) rang at the oak door, the massive form of -Guérin appeared at a window. “Bandit,” he shouted. “There are twenty of -us in here: and not one of us will be taken alive. Tell the Government -of Traitors we shall fight to the death.” And he flourished a revolver, -and his assistants, assembled behind him in the window, cheered wildly. -Away went the Commissary of Police for further orders. Up came MM. -Drumont, Millevoye and other leading Anti-Semites with exhortations to -surrender. But Guérin, from his window, reiterated his determination to -die heroically at his post: and again the young men with the bull-dog -faces cheered enthusiastically. And there were cries of “Mon Dieu, -quelle affaire!” and angry protests, lamentations and tears amongst the -shopkeepers and peaceful old _rentiers_ of the street. Many of them put -up their shutters and fled, when policemen and Municipal Guards marched -up and stationed themselves outside No. 12. Jules Guérin greeted them -with cries of “Assassins!”; shook his great fist threateningly; rushed -from window to window, shouting forth abuse. More cheering from his -assistants, who pointed guns at the authorities. - -“It is a revolution,” cried the householders. “Let us save ourselves -quickly.” - -Shutters were hurried up everywhere; cabs carried off distracted -_rentiers_ and their smaller belongings; policemen and Municipal Guards -barred either end of the rue de Chabrol, and permitted only people who -had business in the street to pass them; and with the cutting off of -water and gas supplies, the siege of Fort Chabrol began in earnest. - -The Holder of the Fort—though the Parisian, interested in “affaires,” -studied him attentively—could only be observed from a distance. The -curious, with the aid of opera-glasses, discovered him sitting at -an open window with rifles resting on either side of him; or beheld -him walking about the roof amidst the chimney-pots—an extraordinary -figure in his sombrero. Now and again he discharged revolvers at the -heavens: a proceeding that never failed to arouse the enthusiasm of his -fellow-prisoners. Then leaning perilously over the parapet or out of a -window, Guérin would apostrophise the soldiers and policemen below as -“brigands” and “assassins”; and throw down pencilled messages (addressed -to the “Ministry of Traitors” and the “Government of Forgers”) inviting -all State officials to come to the rue de Chabrol and be shot through -their “infamous heads” or their “abominable hearts.” When particularly -indignant, Guérin would hurl forth a cup, a bottle, a saucepan—but the -missiles invariably fell wide of the mark; and the Guards and police -(whilst smoking cigarettes) snapped their fingers and laughed back -mockingly and sardonically at the rebel. It was weary work for the -besiegers; the air was stale and sickly with disinfectants; and often it -rained. - -Guérin blessed the downpours. He was short of water. When the skies -were generous, he brought up buckets and basins and a great bath on to -the roof—and shook his fist exultingly at the watchers beneath as the -rain pattered into and filled those receptacles; and next, coming to -the edge of the parapet with a glass in hand, drank to the death of -the “Government of Assassins.” Indeed, quite an orgy of water-drinking -on the roof of the Fort; for the ex-butchers, with the bull-dog faces, -uproariously proposed the health of their chief, and then emptied their -glasses into the street to show that they had no fear of suffering from -thirst. - -But what of provisions? The twenty-fifth night of the siege—a dark, -wet night—the police fancied they discerned mysterious objects flying -far over their heads on to the roof of Fort Chabrol. Much speculation, -infinite straining of eyes and stretching of ears, and suddenly a paper -parcel, falling from above, struck a Municipal Guard. Shock of the Guard. -The cry: “It is a bomb!” But it was only a ham—a fine, excellent ham. And -a few minutes later the Guards and police were searching the house from -which it had been thrown and examining numbers of other paper parcels -(carefully tied up) that contained joints of meat, “groceries,” sugared -cakes, fruit and fresh salads; all of which luxuries were obviously -intended for the rebels over the way. But where were Guérin’s friends -and accomplices? Not a soul in the house; so said a policeman: “Try the -roof.” And there, on the roof, more paper parcels ready to be thrown -across to the Fort; and hiding behind the chimney-pots, four or five men. - -“Arrest them,” cried an officer. And then, amidst the chimney-pots, much -dodging and slipping and catching as in the games of “hide-and-seek” and -“touch wood”; whilst over the way on _his_ roof, Jules Guérin raced about -amidst _his_ chimney-pots, swinging a lantern and furiously shouting: -“Assassins. Assassins.” Thus, no sleep for the few remaining householders -that night. When his friends had been removed from the roof, and the -police reappeared in the street with their captives and laden with -parcels, Jules Guérin and his assistants discharged revolvers at the -heavy, dark clouds; and, next morning, hurled fenders, fire-irons and -a bedstead into the street. No one was struck: the prisoners were too -excited to take aim. - -Guérin’s harangues were still bloodthirsty, but it was noticed that -he looked pale and drawn when he appeared at the windows, as though -suffering from want of nourishment and exercise.... Now he was more -subdued as he took air amidst the chimney-pots; and he would sit up on -the roof in the moonlight, with a gun across his knees, for a whole -hour without moving. How the air reeked with disinfectants, and how -sombre was the Fort! Apparently oil and candles were scarce, for only -a single candle was used at a time. One saw its dim light passing from -room to room—now on the first floor, then on the second, the third; then -there was darkness. Upon two occasions Guérin spent the entire night -on the roof. A dishevelled shivering object he was at daybreak, with -his coat-collar turned up and the sombrero dragged down over his ears. -Nor did his young assistants with the bull-dog faces fare better. Their -cheers became faint: and they themselves were to be discerned leaning -moodily against the chimney-pots or yawning with all their mouths behind -the windows. Moreover, it was suspected by the police that there was -illness in the Fort. One night a candle burned steadily in the same room. -Not a soul on the roof, silence in the citadel. At daybreak Jules Guérin -hoisted a black flag; one of the young prisoners with the bull-dog face -was dying. In answer to Jules Guérin’s call, an officer stepped forward, -and parleying ensued. An ambulance was brought up. When the solid oak -door of Fort Chabrol opened and Jules Guérin appeared with the dying man -in his arms, the policemen and Guards stood gravely at salute. Away, -slowly, went the ambulance. And no sooner had it vanished than Jules -Guérin—livid and trembling—banged to and bolted the door: rushed back to -his window, and there, pointing dramatically to the black flag, hoarsely -shouted: “Assassins. Assassins. Assassins.” - -On the 9th September, at five o’clock in the afternoon, Paris heard from -Rennes that Captain Dreyfus had—O astounding judgment!—been found guilty -of high treason, “with extenuating circumstances.” On the following -Tuesday it was announced—O amazing clemency—that the “traitor” had been -pardoned. And throughout France there arose a cry of “N’en Parlons Plus.” - -Up and down the boulevards on that Tuesday rushed scores of hoarse, -unshaven _camelots_ with their latest song. “N’en Parlons Plus,” they -shouted. Then (in some cases) the chorus was chanted: - - “Le cauchemar est fini; car la France est vengée, - Qu’importe que l’on a gracié Dreyfus? - La nation entière, heureuse et soulagée, - N’a plus qu’un désir—c’est qu’on n’en parle plus.” - -But there remained Fort Chabrol. Neither “sanity” nor “order” could -prevail in Paris whilst Jules Guérin was defying the Government from his -window, and hurling missiles at its public servants, and discharging -revolvers at the heavens. As the _camelots_ were selling their song on -the boulevards, as Paris was rejoicing in cafés that the “Affaire” was -now “buried,” Jules Guérin still walked his roof, and his assistants -leant dejectedly against the chimney-pots: and M. Lépine, Chief of the -Police, was on his side preparing an attack on the stronghold. A few -journalists were let into the secret. At ten o’clock on the night of -Tuesday, the 12th September—the thirty-seventh and last night of the -siege—MM. les journalistes were permitted to penetrate through the -lines of policemen and of Municipal and Republican Guards that guarded -the dark, gloomy rue de Chabrol. Not a light in the citadel. But shadowy -forms were to be distinguished on the roof. And at a window, smoking a -cigarette, stood Jules Guérin, in his sombrero. - -“_Mon vieux_ Jules, it is for to-night. Be reasonable and come out,” -shouted a journalist; and he was promptly pulled backwards and called to -order by a policeman. But M. Millevoye, the Anti-Semite deputy and editor -of _La Patrie_, was permitted to converse with the rebel on the condition -that he urged him to surrender. - -“He swears he will fight to the death,” stated M. Millevoye to an -officer. Very pale and agitated was the deputy. Very excited were the -journalists, who had provided themselves with sandwiches, flasks and -strong oil of eucalyptus with which to ward off contamination. Calm was -the Chief of the Police, when he appeared on the scene with various -officials and announced that the _pompiers_ and their engines were on the -way. - -It was a cold, disagreeable night. The clatter of horses’ hoofs—up -came a detachment of the mounted Republican Guard. The hissing of -fire-engines; here were the _pompiers_. A distant babel of voices, for -now, at one o’clock in the morning, all kinds and conditions of Parisians -had heard of the impending attack on the citadel, and had hastened to -the barriers—only to find themselves refused admittance to the grim, -besieged thoroughfare. From my side of the barrier I beheld—beyond -it—stalwart market-people from the Halles, Apaches in caps and scarlet -waistbands, ragged old loafers, revellers from Maxim’s and the stifling, -frenzied night-restaurants of Montmartre. - -“Impossible to pass,” declared the policeman. An officer of the Municipal -Guards facetiously kept up the refrain: “Not President Loubet; not his -Holiness the Pope; not even the _bon Dieu_, could I possibly allow -to pass.” Songs from the Apaches. Naïve exclamations from the simple -market-women. - -“Please give this bouquet to Guérin. He is a real man; he is _épatant_—do -please send him these flowers,” cried a brilliant _demi-mondaine_ from -Maxim’s, holding forth a bouquet of weird orchids. “Alas, madame,” -replied the facetious officer; “alas, not even a bouquet from paradise -could I possibly allow to pass.” - -Ominous sounds in the rue de Chabrol. The thud and the clanking of the -firemen’s hose as it was dragged towards No. 12; the increased hissing -of the steam-engines; the impatient clatter of the horses’ hoofs; the -bolting and barring of doors, and the putting up of shutters in those -few houses where residents remained. Ominous, too, the consultations -(carried on in a low voice) between M. Lépine and the various officials. -Then the flash of lanterns, the smoke pouring forth from the funnels of -the steam-engines, the stench of the disinfectants, those shadowy figures -still on the roof of Fort Chabrol; and Jules Guérin still at his window -in his sombrero, still smoking cigarettes unconcernedly, still calmly -watching the preparations for the attack. - -“It is sinister,” cried a journalist. - -“So all is ready,” rang out the voice of the Chief of the Police. Briskly -stepping forward, M. Lépine thus addressed Jules Guérin: “It is a quarter -to four o’clock. If, at four o’clock, you do not surrender, we shall use -force.” - -Jules Guérin smoked on. - -Still nearer to the Fort came the _pompiers_, dragging their hose. The -plan was that they should deluge the massive building with water, while -their colleagues with the shining hatchets should break down the door. A -last consultation between M. Lépine and the officials. He held his watch -in his hand. Five minutes to four o’clock. The neighing of a restive -horse. Shouts and song from behind the barrier. Again, the clanking of -the hose. Three... two... minutes to four. Jules Guérin, striking a -match, lighted a new cigarette. - -“He means to fight. It will be appalling,” exclaimed a journalist. - -“Jules Guérin, it is four o’clock,” cried M. Lépine, again stepping -forward. Without a word, the man in the sombrero banged down the window, -and a few moments later the shadowy figures of his assistants disappeared -from the roof. - -“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure—no, I wasn’t sure,” said M. Lépine—when -the heavy oak door swung open! - -A third time he stepped forward—entered the doorway—vanished—reappeared -to give an order—again vanished. Up with the hose, into the gutter with -the fire-engines; way for half-a-dozen ordinary, shabby _fiacres_ which -came bumping and lurching down the street, pulled up before the oak door: -and a few minutes later took Jules Guérin and the young men with the -bull-dog faces ingloriously away to the Santé prison! - -“N’en Parlons Plus,” said Paris, when the Senate, assembled as a -High Court, sentenced Jules Guérin, Paul Déroulède, and other rebels -and conspirators against the safety of the Republic to long terms of -imprisonment and exile. - -“N’en Parlons Plus,” reiterated Paris, when the Amnesty Bill permitted -the exiles to return to their country. - -Little more was heard of Jules Guérin. France, having been restored to -order and sanity, and having made what reparation she could to Major -Dreyfus, would have no more of Anti-Semitism; and on his return from -exile, the rebel of Fort Chabrol retired into the obscurity of a damp, -ugly little house in the valley of the Seine. - -He still wore his sombrero; but his spirit was broken, and he pottered -about in his garden and smoked cigarettes by the side of an evil-smelling -stove. Then, a year ago, came the devastating floods. After saving -his own scanty furniture, Jules Guérin went to the assistance of his -neighbours. He was himself again, dashing hither and thither, issuing -orders, directing operations. Many valiant feats he performed. He was -rough, but he was kind. It was through standing waist-deep in the cold, -murky water—whilst helping his neighbours—that he contracted pneumonia. - -“The death, at the age of forty-nine, is announced of M. Jules Guérin: -who had his hour of notoriety.” - -So—and no more—said the _Figaro_. - - - - -XIII - -DEATH OF HENRI ROCHEFORT[6] - - -It is with mixed emotions that I record my own personal recollections -of the late Henri Rochefort. They go back fourteen years, to the -lurid, delirious summer of 1899, when Jules Guérin, the leader of the -Anti-Semites, evaded arrest by shutting himself up in Fort Chabrol; when -Dreyfus, bent, shattered, almost voiceless, was enduring the anguish of a -second court-martial; when the boulevards were being swept of tumultuous -manifestants every night by the Republican Guard. - -Rochefort was living in a little villa at the entrance to the Bois de -Boulogne: a retreat for a sage, a poet, a dreamer; the very last abode, -one would have thought, for the most thunderous figure in French public -life. By rights, Rochefort the Ferocious should have been living in a -vast boulevard apartment overlooking the nightly Anti-Dreyfusard uproar. -But there he was (when first I met him) in that innocent maisonnette—in -dressing-gown and slippers, amidst flowers, pictures and frail -china—actually playing with a fluffy toy lamb, of the kind hawked about -for two francs on the terraces of the Paris cafés. It was only his snowy -white hair, brushed upwards, that made him picturesque. Pale, steely blue -eyes, that lit up cruelly, evilly at times; a face seamed, sallow and -horse-like in shape; a harsh, guttural voice; large, yellowish hands, -with long, pointed finger-nails. - -Upon the occasion of my first visit to the innocent maisonnette, there -was no cause for agitation. The toy lamb was the attraction. A tube -was attached to it, and at the end of the tube was a bulb which, when -pressed, made the lamb leap. Again and again, Rochefort the Lurid set the -lamb leaping. I too lost my heart to the lamb, and also made it frisk. -Amidst all this irresponsibility, my host was pleased to pronounce me -“sympathetic” and “charming,” not like the “traditional” Englishman with -the bull-dog, the aggressive side-whiskers and long, glistening teeth. -Rochefort saw me to the garden door; Rochefort actually plucked me a -rose; Rochefort’s parting words were a cordial invitation to visit him -and his lamb again soon. So was I amazed to find myself described in his -very next article as “a sinister brigand, in the pay of the Jews; in -fact, one of those diabolical bandits who are devastating our beloved -France.” - -... A week later I approached him, and mildly protested, as he was -sitting on the terrace of the Café de la Paix, drinking milk and Vichy -water, sucking his eternal lozenges—and still playing with the lamb. - -“Bah, that was only print,” came the reply. “Let us resume our game -with the lamb.” As he made it leap about deftly amongst the glasses on -the marble-topped table, passers-by, recognising his Luridness, stopped, -stared and smiled at the spectacle. “That’s the great Rochefort,” said -the _maître d’hôtel_ to an American tourist: and stupefaction of the -States. Rising at last, and stuffing the lamb into his pocket, Rochefort -remarked: “I must go off and do my article, but you sha’n’t be the -brigand. I feel amiable to-night.” - -Next morning appeared the notorious, atrocious article demanding that -walnut shells—containing long, hairy spiders—should be strapped to the -eyes of Captain Dreyfus. - -What was the reason of Rochefort’s abominable campaign against the martyr -from the Devil’s Island? Since he styled himself a democrat, the champion -of liberty and justice, the enemy of tyranny, one would have expected -to see the fierce old journalist fighting vigorously for Dreyfus. The -fact is, Rochefort was a mass of contradictions: an imp of perversity: -at once brutal and humane; gentle and bloodthirsty; simple and vain; -the most chaotic Frenchman that ever died. Search his autobiography, -in three portly volumes: not once do you find him resting, smiling -or reflecting—he is all thunder and lightning, an everlasting storm. -Exile, duels, fines and imprisonment—wild, delirious attacks upon the -Government of the day. No one escaped; for fifty years, in the columns of -the _Figaro_, the _Lanterne_, the _Intransigeant_, and finally, in the -_Patrie_, Rochefort pursued presidents and politicians with his unique, -extravagant vocabulary. M. Jaurès, the Socialist leader, was “a decayed -turnip”; M. Georges Clemenceau, “a loathsome leper”; M. Briand, “a -moulting vulture.” As for M. Combes, to the guillotine with him, and into -the Seine with M. Delcassé, and a rope and a boulevard lamp-post for M. -Pelletan. Then President Loubet was “the foulest of assassins”; President -Fallières, “the fat old satyr of the Élysée”; and Madame Marguerite -Steinheil, “the Black Panther.” - -For the life of me I could trace nothing of the “panther” in Madame -Steinheil during the ten terrible days that she sat in the dock of the -dim, oak-panelled Paris Assize Court. As for her “blackness,” Rochefort -was referring to her clothes. - -“Heavy crape bands round the accused woman’s black dress, stiff crape -bows in the widow’s cap, a deep sombre border to the handkerchief which -she clenched tightly, convulsively, in her black-gloved hand... under -her eyes, dark, dark shadows, which turned green as the trial tragically -wore on.”[7] Impossible, one might have thought, not to sympathise with -this prisoner who, with all her follies and faults, was certainly not the -murderess of her husband and mother. - -But what cared Rochefort for evidence and arguments? Leaning forward in -his seat in the Press-box, his sallow face distorted with fury, he fixed -the “Tragic Widow” with his steely, cruel eyes. (“I think he was trying -to hypnotise me—certainly to terrify me,” relates Madame Steinheil in -her _Memoirs_.) Again and again he cracked his lozenges, gesticulated -angrily with his large yellow hands. During the adjournments, he held -forth violently in the corridors of the Law Courts. Not only was Madame -Steinheil the murderess of her mother and husband, but she was also the -assassin of President Félix Faure. She poisoned him in the Élysée, at -the instigation of the Jews, who knew that so long as Faure remained -President there would be no revision of the Dreyfus affair. So, a triple -murderess—and “crack, crack” went the lozenges. Later, when it became -certain that Madame Steinheil would be acquitted, Rochefort declared that -judge and jury had been “bought,” and that the Government had all along -protected the “Black Panther.” His hands were trembling, the sallow face -had turned livid, when at one o’clock in the morning the jury filed into -the dim, stifling court and delivered their verdict: “Not Guilty” on all -counts. How Rochefort scowled at the cries of “Vive Madame Steinheil!” -and “Vive la Justice!” How he sneered when the barristers cheered, -applauded and flung their black _képis_ into the air! With what disgust -he listened to the bravoes from the journalists and the public at the -back of the court. When Madame Steinheil fainted, and was being carried -out of the dock by the Municipal Guards, Rochefort’s ruthless hatred -made the compassion of the public loathsome to him. Shaking, speechless -with rage, he roughly pushed his way out of court, cracking his lozenges -with such savagery that he must have very nearly broken his teeth. - -But there were two Henri Rocheforts, and the virtues of the second almost -made amends for the vices of the first. - -The second Rochefort revealed himself at the age of twenty. He was a -medical student. Shortly after the adoption of these studies young -Rochefort harangued the surgeon and his fellow-students upon the -“iniquities” of vivisection: and _that_ ended his short medical career. -Another outburst at the Hôtel de Ville, when Rochefort next accepted -a petty clerkship at a pound a week. His colleagues were underpaid -and overworked; a scarcity of light and utter lack of ventilation in -the dusty, shabby office-rooms resulted in cases of acute anæmia and -consumption. “We must have light—floods of it. We must have air—great, -healthy draughts of it,” shouted youthful Rochefort to a high official. -“I’m strong enough myself and don’t care; but look at your clerks. -Martyrs, victims! _De l’air, de la lumière, nom de Dieu!_” - -The high official, a pompous, apoplectic soul, was struck dumb by -Rochefort’s invasion of his private sanctum. At last he gasped: “If you -were not the son of a marquis——” But Rochefort interrupted: “My father -died a fortnight ago. But I have no predilection for titles. My name is -Henri Rochefort.” - -Rochefort nevertheless was an aristocrat—“_la race_” remained, -in spite of his assumption of democracy. He was, in fine, a -democrat-aristocrat—most chaotic of combinations. Therein lay the -secret of his turbulence and incoherency. Like all French aristocrats, -he was a militarist at heart. He was the ally of Boulanger. He was the -hottest champion of Paul Déroulède when that well-meaning but impossible -“patriot” attempted his celebrated _coup d’état_, on the morning of -President Félix Faure’s funeral, by establishing General Roget as a -military dictator in the Élysée. He was, furthermore, an Anti-Semite. -“Pale, white blood,” he cried disdainfully of the French _noblesse_. -His own blood was vigorously red, but tinged indelibly with blue. Yes; -“_la race_” remained, persisted—clashed inevitably with the true spirit -of democracy. And hence the chaos, the thunder and lightning; from -out of which there nevertheless shone tenderness, chivalry and a love -of beautiful things. He loved music, sculpture, pictures: and whilst -urging on France to declare war against England over the Fashoda Affair, -announced in my hearing that he would rather annex a portrait by Reynolds -than a province in the Sudan. He loved animals: and animals loved him. -Wild fury of Rochefort when a bull-fight was advertised to take place at -Enghien-les-Bains. - -When the Government declined to forbid it, down to Enghien went Rochefort -and a number of friends. Sallow-faced old Rochefort seized hold of the -“impresario” who was organising the bull-fight and shook him. “I and my -friends are going to wreck your arena,” he shouted. Nor did he release -the “impresario” until the latter had promised that the bull-fight should -not take place. - -If Rochefort had been all vindictiveness and luridness, how did it come -to pass that he was the guest of the great-hearted Victor Hugo, when both -of them were exiles in Brussels? And if the hoarse-voiced, steely-eyed -old journalist had been all venom, how did it come about that he was the -devoted, admiring friend of that very noble, if disconcerting apostle of -humanity, Louise Michel, “the Red Virgin.” - -Londoners may remember the frail, thin, shabby little Woman who denounced -social injustices in a dingy hall in a back street off Tottenham Court -Road some ten years ago. In appearance she was nothing—until she spoke. -And when Louise Michel spoke, ah dear me, how one realised the miseries -grimly and heroically endured by the poor of this topsy-turvy world! -The shabby, frail little figure, with the big, inspired eyes, became -galvanised. From London to Paris, from Paris to every European capital, -travelled the “Red Virgin”—incomparably eloquent—the woes and sufferings -of her fellow-creatures at once crushing and supporting her. Herself, -she cared nothing for. The same old threadbare black dress; eternal dim -attics and meagre food; the same old self-sacrifice, the pity to the -verge of despair, the same old breakdowns from weakness and exhaustion. - -Rochefort—Victor Henri Marquis de Rochefort-Luçay—sought her out in -her attic. When the “Red Virgin” was travelling and lecturing abroad, -Rochefort instructed his foreign correspondents to look after her. He -bought her a country house: which she promptly sold; he gave her an -annuity: which she mortgaged; he arranged that his tradespeople should -serve her in his name; but house, annuity, provisions—everything went to -the poor. - -“I can do nothing with her,” Rochefort once told me. “She is at once -sublime and adorable and ridiculous! When I tell her she is killing -herself, she replies: ‘Tant pis, mon petit Henri. But you yourself will -die one of these days.’” - -A week later Louise Michel expired suddenly, from exhaustion, at -Marseilles.[8] Sallow-faced, white-headed, red-eyed old Rochefort was the -chief mourner at the funeral. As he walked, bent, trembling, behind the -hearse of the “Red Virgin”—crack, crack went the lozenges. - -The month of June, 1912. Rochefort’s daily article in the _Patrie_ -missing; and again missing the next day, and the day after that—the first -time octogenarian Rochefort had “missed” his daily lurid article for -fifty-two years! - -On the fourth day there appears in the _Patrie_ the following -intimation:—“I shall soon reach my eighty-second year, and it is now -half-a-century since I have worked without a rest even in prison or in -exile, at the hard trade of a journalist, which is the first and the most -noble of all professions—when it is not the lowest. I think I have earned -the right to a rest. But it will only be a short one. My old teeth can -still bite.” - -However, the “rest” in the country is prolonged: and the teeth don’t -“bite” again. Eyesight becomes misty. Hearing next fails. Behold -Rochefort in a dressing-gown, stretched on an invalid’s chair in a -drowsy country garden, whence he is transported, as a last hope, to -Aix-les-Bains,—where he dies. - -The 30th June 1913. Day of Rochefort’s funeral. All Paris lining the -boulevards and streets as the cortège, half-a-mile long, passes by. A -crowd of all kinds and conditions of Parisians. Here is M. Jaurès, “the -decayed turnip.” There is M. Clemenceau, “the loathsome leper.” Over -there, M. Briand, “the moulting vulture.” And their heads are uncovered; -there is not the faintest resentment in their minds as the remains of -lurid, yet not always unkind, old Rochefort are borne away round the -corner under a magnificent purple pall. - -Round the corner and up the steep hill to the vast, rambling Montmartre -Cemetery. Tombs, shadows, silence, mystery within the cemetery walls; -but, beyond them, the hectic arms of the Moulin Rouge, and the lurid -lights of night restaurants. In this mixed atmosphere Henri Rochefort has -an appropriate resting-place. - -[6] He died on 27th June 1913. - -[7] See page 196. - -[8] 19th January 1905. - - - - -XIV - -ROYAL VISITS TO PARIS - - -Whenever France is shaken by a scandal, convulsed by a crisis, the voice -of the undiscerning prophet is to be heard proclaiming the doom of the -Republic. The Affair of the Decorations in President Grévy’s time, the -Panama Affair, the Dreyfus Affair, the Steinheil Affair, yesterday’s -Rochette-Caillaux-Calmette Affair; each of these delirious dramas excited -the assertion that the French people, disgusted and indignant at so -much political corruption, were ready and eager for the restoration -of the old régime. True, these five scandals—and many other smaller -ones—shocked, saddened, humiliated the French nation. But at no time have -they caused the average Frenchman—most intelligent and reasonable of -beings—to lose faith in the Republic. Invariably he has maintained that -it is not the Republic that is at fault, but the Republicans behind her; -emphatically, he has insisted that the remedy lies, not in the overthrow, -but in the _reform_, of the Republic—in the honest enforcement of the -principles and doctrines of the Rights of Man. No Kings, no Emperors -for Twentieth-Century France! Imagine, if you can do it, Philippe, Duke -of Orleans, the handsomest, the most brilliant, the most irresistible -of Pretenders. Suppose Prince Victor Napoleon endowed with some of the -military and administrative genius of the Petit Caporal, instead of -having married and settled down in comfortable, bourgeois little Belgium. -Picture a modern General Boulanger on a new black charger—France would, -nevertheless, remain true to the Republican régime. “Ah non, mon vieux, -pas de ça,” one can hear the average Frenchman say to the would-be -monarch. “We have had you before. We know better than to try you again. -Bonsoir.” - -Still, in spite of their confirmed Republicanism, the French people -love Royalty—the Royalty of other nations. How often, outside national -buildings that bear the democratic motto of Liberty, Equality, -Fraternity, have I heard shouts of: “Vive le Roi” and “Vive la Reine,” -and admiring exclamations of: “Il est beau” and “Elle est gentille,” when -a foreign monarch and his consort have visited Paris! How brilliantly -has the city been adorned and illuminated; what a special shine on the -helmets and breast-plates of the Republican Guard, and on the boots of -the little, nervous boulevard policemen; what a constant playing of the -august visitor’s own national anthem! In all countries a neighbouring -sovereign is received cordially, elaborately. But it is in Republican -France that a Royal visit is marked with the greatest pomp, circumstance -and excitement. For the fact is that France, more than any other -country, loves a fête—and the arrival in Paris of a King means flags, -fairy lamps, festoons of paper flowers, fireworks. (The mere ascent of a -rocket, the smallest shower of “golden rain” will throw the Parisian into -ecstasies.) Also it delights the Frenchman to behold the uniforms, and -the Stars and Orders of foreign nations—and he will stand about for hours -to catch only a glimpse of the monarch. - -“Je l’ai vu, moi,” M. le Bourgeois declares proudly. Probably he has -discerned no more than the nose, or the ear or the eyebrow of his -Majesty. But he “salutes” the ear and the nose, he cheers the eyebrow: -and the newspapers are full of the “distinction” and “graciousness” and -“wit” of the visiting sovereign. Modern French novels and plays also -call attention to the homage paid by Parisians to foreign Royalty. In -that brilliant comedy, _Le Roi_, the mythical King of Cerdagne thus -addresses a Parisienne: “Le séjour à Paris, c’est une chose qui nous -délecte, nous autres pauvres rois, pauvres rois de province! On est si -riant pour nous, ici! Pour aimer les rois, il n’y a vraiment plus que -la France.” And the lady replies: “Mais elle est sincère, sire. Elle -est amoureuse de vous. Elle flirte, elle fait la coquette—elle aime ça. -La France est une Parisienne.” Most indisputably, France “flirts” with -Foreign Royalty. Vast quantities of flowers, fresh and artificial, here, -there and everywhere. All official buildings blazing and glittering with -huge electrical devices. About ten o’clock at night—amidst what murmurs, -exclamations, rapture!—fireworks on the ghost-haunted Ile de France. -Then Republican and Municipal Guards massed on the Place de l’Opéra; -and a dense crowd assembled to witness the arrival of his Majesty, -M. le Président, MM. les Ambassadeurs, and hosts of distinguished -personages, for the gala performance. All Paris turns out: stout M. -le Bourgeois, students from the Latin Quarter, _midinettes_ in their -best hats (I prefer them at noon, when Mesdemoiselles Marie and Yvonne -are bareheaded), workmen in their Sunday suits, small clerks in pink -shirts, obscure, dim-eyed old Government officials, Apaches on their -good behaviour, cabmen and chauffeurs (off their boxes), conscripts -with permits, concierges hastened from their lodges in slippers, -street gamins—Victor Hugo’s Gavroche—with his inimitable sarcasms and -repartee—all turn out to behold the Royal guest of Republican France pay -his State visit to the Opera. But what with the police and the troops -and the closed carriage of the sovereign, all these kinds and conditions -of Parisians do not behold even so much as the eyebrow of his Majesty. -They remain there until the performance is over, but with no happier -success. Away goes the Royal carriage, without affording the crowd the -view of an ear-tip, a chin or the nape of the neck. Still, in spite of -the crowd having seen nothing, what cheers! I have heard them raised for -the Tsar; for the Kings of Greece, Belgium, Sweden, Norway and Italy; -for the late ruler of Portugal; for the highly popular Alfonso of Spain; -for the greatest favourite of all, the idol of the Parisians—King Edward -the Seventh. King Edward’s State visit took place eleven years ago. The -result of it, twelve months later, was the consummation of the _Entente_. -Thus the present month of April will see Paris celebrating a “double” -event: the visit of King George and Queen Mary, and the tenth anniversary -of the Cordial Understanding. And it is safe to affirm that when the -cheers break out afresh in honour of their Majesties, they will not fail -to surpass in spontaneity and enthusiasm all the cheers of the past. - -Royal visits to Paris never vary. They last four or five days, and during -that brief period the foreign sovereign, the French President, the -Cabinet Ministers, the array of high State officials, the troops, the -police, the Press and the greater part of Paris public have so much to -do and to see that at the end of the whirl they cannot but confess to a -condition of exhaustion. Both the Royal visitor and the President hold -brilliant State banquets. Most probably there is a third banquet at the -Quai d’Orsay. The gala at the Opera (or sometimes at the Français), a -Military Review, an expedition to Versailles, a reception at the Hôtel -de Ville, a special race-meeting, presentations of Addresses: such are -the traditional items in the strenuous “programme.” Then, speeches to -make; and since they are eminently “official,” they must be carefully -considered, and thoroughly mastered, beforehand. As, on the other -score, the “official” toasts and speeches are invariably stereotyped -in substance and sentiment, they cannot demand much inventiveness or -exertion. They must be mutually polite and complimentary—a repetition of -one another. - -However, in spite of the polite and amusing banality of the “official” -speeches, Royal visits to France can have far-reaching consequences. -Eighteen years ago the arrival in Paris of the Tsar resulted in the -Franco-Russian Alliance. After that, King Edward and the _Entente_; and -since then the visits of the kings of Spain and Italy have undoubtedly -promoted a mutual friendly feeling between those two countries and -Republican France. Then there have also taken place, during the last five -or six years, odd, amazing Royal visits: that have caused the punctilious -French Protocol no end of _ennuis_ and perplexities. Behold black-faced -and burly old Sisowath, King of Cambodia, descending most indecorously -upon Paris, in a battered top-hat and gorgeous silken robes: and with a -party of bejewelled native dancing-girls! Impossible to separate Sisowath -from his monstrous top-hat (which came from heaven knows where) and -his dancers; impossible, therefore, to entertain his Cambodian Majesty -ceremoniously. Nor would he have tolerated State banquets, the Hôtel de -Ville, Versailles, the Opera. No pomp for black Sisowath. A great deal of -his time he spent in going up and down lifts; and in listening to gay -songs from the gramophone. When he drove through the streets he kissed -his great ebony hands at the Parisiennes. He was, as a matter of fact, -for kissing everybody: even capacious President Fallières, even sallow, -petulant M. Clemenceau. As he did his embracing, he hugged his victims in -his huge, massive arms. Still, he was a King—and so official France had -to overlook his eccentricities. As for the Parisians, they revelled in -Bohemian Sisowath. Ecstatic, gay cries of “_Vive le roi!_” and “_Vivent -les petites danseuses_”:—to which his merry old Majesty responded by -standing up in his carriage, and waving the disgraceful top-hat; and -blowing forth more and more kisses; and shouting out messages in his own -incomprehensible language.... Then, after Sisowath, Mulai Hafid, the -ex-Sultan of Morocco, who before coming to Paris passed a few days at -Vichy. Nobody, however, had reason to cheer or rejoice over this Royal -visitor: for his behaviour was intolerable. Sisowath was expansive, -affectionate, _rigolo_; Mulai Hafid was violent, insolent, offensive. - -“Grotesque, horrible machines” was “Mulai’s” comment on the hats of the -fashionable Frenchwomen. The military bands, “they drive me mad.” The -actresses, “shameless and shocking”—they should be veiled like the ladies -of Morocco. “Where is your sun?” demanded the ex-Sultan, looking up at -the grey skies. “I am so bored that I am going to bed. What a people, -what a country!” All this, and more, the Yellow journalists gleefully -repeated in their newspapers. Then, photographs of “Mulai” scowling, of -“Mulai” disdainful, of “Mulai” contemptuous. So that when “Mulai” came to -Paris, still scowling, the Hippolyte Durands were indignant at his bad -manners. In France, you mustn’t speak ill of anything French: especially -when you are in receipt of a pension of 350,000 francs a year. - -But “Mulai” didn’t care. He was for ever taking the Paris journalists -into his confidence, and more and more unflattering became his comments -on French life. As it rained every day, his temper was detestable; and he -has been seen to shake his fist at the French skies. Then he omitted to -salute the French flag: he described the French language as ridiculous; -he yawned in the Louvre: and he retired to bed through sheer boredom a -dozen times a day. - -Also, “Mulai” was said to be furious because the Press had compared him -unfavourably with Sisowath, the amazing ebony-black monarch of Cambodia. -“Sisowath,” said the papers, was not only _rigolo_. When he came to Paris -seven years ago he wore brilliant robes, a multitude of diamonds—as well -as a battered old top-hat. And he laughed and laughed all day long. -Not only did he kiss his great black hands at the Parisiennes, but he -showered silver amongst the crowd. And he meant it kindly when he hugged -bald, portly State officials. In a word, black, enormous Sisowath of -Cambodia was an unsophisticated, affectionate, merry old soul. But, in -“Mulai’s” estimation, Sisowath is a savage, and furious, as I have said, -is the ex-Sultan that he should be mentioned in the same breath with him. - -Socially, in fact, “Mulai’s” visit to France is anything but a success. -He has been raging against French boots, because, after putting on -a pair, they pinched him. He has been cursing French automobiles, -because they travel so fast. And he has hurled a French suit of clothes -(especially made for him) out of the window, because of the buttons. - -“Ah non, c’est trop fort,” cries Hippolyte Durand, as he reads of -“Mulai’s” outbursts in the papers. And still greater becomes his -indignation, when he comes upon the following statement:—“The situation -in Morocco continues serious. The Vled Bu Beker, of the Rehama tribe, is -active. The attitude of the Vled Belghina and the Vled Amrane Fukania -is threatening. The Hiania tribesmen are gathered at Safrata on the Wed -Sebu. At Ben Guerie, Bab Aissa, Suk-el-Arba and——” - -“I will read no more; I understand nothing, I am distracted!” cries M. -Hippolyte Durand. “Ah, _nom d’un nom_, what a sinister country is this -Morocco!” - -Earlier in this paper, I observed that Royal visits to Paris never -“vary,” but in one respect this statement requires correction. The most -delicate, the most anxious duty of the French Government is to watch -over the safety of her illustrious guests. Paris, rightly or wrongly, -is alleged to abound with anarchists, fanatics and lunatics. Ask M. -Guichard, one of the chiefs of the Criminal Investigation Department: -and he will tell you that a Royal visit, if a delight to the public, is -a misery and a nightmare to the detective police. The extent, the depth -of the misery depends upon the nationality of the monarch. Of course, no -fears as to old Sisowath’s safety; and peril for Mulai Hafid, who was -nearly always in bed, caused even slighter apprehensions. The kings of -Belgium, Sweden and Norway—well, the detective police, although watchful, -“breathed” freely and slept of nights when their Majesties came to -Paris. But the King of Italy, a hundred thousand precautions; the King -of Spain—extraordinary vigilance: and even then a bomb fell within a few -yards of the Royal carriage; the Tsar—a state of panic and siege that -still haunts me after the interval of eighteen long years. Weeks before -his Imperial Majesty’s arrival, Russian detectives descended upon Paris. -Together with their French colleagues they searched for conspirators and -bombs—even forcing their way into the rooms of the poor Russian girl -students of the Latin Quarter, seizing their correspondence, subjecting -them to offensive cross-examinations. Still rougher methods with the male -students: with Russian plumbers, clerks and mechanics; many were arrested -on no evidence as “revolutionaries” and imprisoned (without being allowed -to communicate with their friends) until after the Imperial Visitor’s -departure. Often, as a result of the raids of the detective police, -the poorer Russian residents in Paris were given _congé_ by terrified -concierges, and had to take refuge in stifling, common lodging-houses, or -seek for shelter on the outskirts of Paris. Meanwhile, Paris was decking -herself out with flowers and flags, rehearsing coloured electrical -“effects,” setting the supports for the panoramic fireworks, buying -up the photographs of the Tsar of All the Russias. But it was a pale, -uneasy, harassed-looking Emperor that drove through the splendidly -decorated thoroughfares; it was a beautiful, but a sad-faced, Consort who -accompanied him; it was cheers all the way; but it was also a detective -in plain clothes at one’s elbow, more detectives in corners and doorways, -still more detectives on roofs and—I dare say—up chimneys; it was -festoons and illuminations and fireworks: but it was also bayonets and -sabres; it was the democratic _Marseillaise_ of France _and_ the National -Anthem of despotic Russia; it was “Long live the Emperor”; and “Long live -the Republic”—but it was an ironical, a pitiable spectacle: this Imperial -guest, come on a visit to a friendly country, protected and surrounded by -an illimitable, armed bodyguard, as though he were entering—not Paris—but -the Valley of the Shadow of Death. - -Numbers of Russian decorations for the Paris detective police, when -the Tsar had departed in safety! Out of prison came the perfectly -innocent “revolutionaries”: the Russian girls were permitted to resume -their studies in the Latin Quarter... not the silliest little bomb had -spluttered, not a seditious cry had been raised... and a high police -official of my acquaintance was granted by a grateful Government a -prolonged holiday on increased pay. He deserved it. Dark shadows under -his eyes, hectic spots in his cheeks, dyspepsia, insomnia, acute -neurasthenia: such was his plight after the glorious visit to Paris of -the Tsar of All the Russias. To-day, eighteen years later, my detective -friend has risen to one of the highest positions at the Sûreté, and he -can produce many a decoration or gift awarded him by foreign Royalty, -and is particularly proud of a gold watch presented to him by King -Edward the Seventh. The late King was so popular in Paris that he was -known familiarly and affectionately as “Edouard.” Nevertheless, he was -watched over by the private detective police. “_Mais oui_, we had even to -attend to the safety of ‘Edouard,’ the most admirable of kings; he often -gave me cigars, and you have already seen the gold watch,” my detective -friend recently told me. “We were concerned about the Indians in Paris. -Oh, nobody else would have assailed Edouard. As for the Indians, they -were kept under observation day and night.” The detective was alluding -to the notorious Krishnavarna, who “ran” a scurrilous little newspaper -in a house off the Champs Élysées. Odd, sinister-looking Indians (I am -still quoting my police friend) called frequently at the place. They -remained there for hours and hours: what were they doing? But the police -have their eye on them—especially closely and keenly fixed on them now -that King George and Queen Mary are about to make their entrance into -Paris. Also—so I am informed by the same high detective official—the -police have been instructed to beware of the militant Suffragettes. -Miss Christabel Pankhurst “under observation”; the comings and goings -of her visitors watched and recorded; the lady passengers on the Havre, -Dieppe and Calais steamers carefully scrutinised on their arrival; the -police actually taught to shout “Votes for Women” in order that they may -promptly distinguish that cry in the event of its being uttered! Dear -Paris—dear, excitable, incoherent, wonderful, incomparable Paris—into -what difficulties as well as delights, into what a whirl of pleasure and -confusion, does a Royal visit plunge you! - -But, never mind the difficulties, _tant pis_ for the confusion; _vivent_ -the more than compensating thrills of emotion and delight. This evening, -as I close this paper, Paris is once again shouting: “Vive le Roi” and -“Vive la Reine”—shouting herself “hoarse,” so the French and English -Press unanimously declare; and the decorations and illuminations of -the past have been triumphantly eclipsed, and the State banquets, the -reception at the Hôtel de Ville, the gala performance at the Opera, -the race-meeting and the military review have surpassed in brilliancy -and splendour even the golden ceremonies that solemnised the visit of -the Tsar of All the Russias. Very remarkable, too, the State speeches -delivered by the President of the Republic and the King of England in -the banqueting-hall of the Élysée. Both speeches of unusual length: the -old, banal, stilted phrases superseded by a note of eloquent and vigorous -sincerity. - -As a matter of fact, the reception of his son has excited even higher -and livelier enthusiasm than did the official visit of King Edward -the Seventh—because he _is_ his son: because, since the year 1904, -the _entente cordiale_ has matured and strengthened. At all events, -unprecedented things have happened. Until to-day, the French newspapers -could scarcely contrive to publish an English word, or name, or sentence -without misspelling, mangling or otherwise distorting it. Our Prime -Minister used to be “Sir Askit,” whilst our ex-Home Secretary, Mr “Winsy -Churkil,” was frequently and severally described as Chief of the Police -and—Prefect of the Thames. Vanished, to-day, all those inexactitudes and -incoherencies of recent times. Before me, almost surrounding me, spread -and bulge a mass of French newspapers of all opinions. But every one of -them has become “correct,” impeccable in its English, and right across -the top of the front page of _Gil Blas_, in gigantic characters, the -familiar, cordial invitation: - -“Shake hands, King George.” - - - - -XV - -AT THE ÉLYSÉE. MESSIEURS LES PRÉSIDENTS - - -1. M. LOUBET AND PAUL DÉROULÈDE - -On 16th February 1899, President Faure (known familiarly and gaily in -Paris as “Félix”) died suddenly. Two days later the Upper and Lower -Chambers, solemnly assembled at Versailles, proclaimed M. Émile Loubet -his successor. And now, after seven years in the Élysée, M. Loubet makes -way for the eighth President of the Third French Republic and retires -into a tranquil, simple _appartement_. - -Seven years ago! But it seems only yesterday that I found myself, one -cold, misty afternoon, before the St-Lazare station, where the newly -elected President was to arrive. I was eager to witness his début in -Paris as Chief of the State. Eager, too, to “receive him” were thousands -of Parisians. - -But as I surveyed the dense, excited crowd, I gathered at a glance that -the reception it reserved for M. Loubet was to be very far from friendly. -Here, there and everywhere chattered and whispered the followers of MM. -Edouard Drumont, Lucien Millevoye, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin. In -full force, too, were the paid hirelings of those notorious agitators; -collarless, shabby, unshaven fellows, “Messieurs les Quarante-Sous.” And -present again was the “Emperor of the Camelots,” a striking-looking man -with long hair, bold, brilliant eyes and a humorous expression; not only -the composer and seller of “topical” songs, not only the indefatigable -electioneering agent and the ironical pamphleteer, but the ingenious, the -illustrious, the incomparable organiser of “popular demonstrations.” - -Often did agitators say to the “Emperor”: “I want So-and-so hissed,” -or “I want So-and-so cheered.” Obligingly and genially the “Emperor” -replied: “Nothing is easier.” And in truth, the operation was simple. The -agitator provided the money: and the “Emperor” called together a fine -army of manifestants. - -Thus the crowd before the St-Lazare station looked threatening on that -memorable winter’s afternoon. Of course those garrulous, gesticulating -bodies, the “Ligue de la Patrie Française” and M. Paul Déroulède’s -“League of the Patriots,” were strongly represented. Inevitably, too, the -little, nervous, impetuous policemen of Paris figured conspicuously in -the scene. And everyone was restless, everyone was impatient, save the -“Emperor of the Camelots,” who, making his way urbanely and imperturbably -through the crowd, occasionally spoke a word to his subjects, his army: -the shabby, unshaven fellows, Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. No doubt he -was asking them whether their voices were in good condition, and whether -their whistles were handy. And most probably he was instructing them how -to keep out of the clutches of the alert, watchful police. - -“À bas Loubet!” - -The cry came from the interior of the station. No sooner had it been -uttered than the crowd excitedly exclaimed: “He has arrived.” - -And then, what a din of shouting, of hissing, of hooting! And then, what -a blowing of shrill, piercing whistles! And then, as the Presidential -carriage drove away (with M. Loubet seated by the window, pale, grave, -dignified, venerable), what a hoarse, violent uproar of “À bas Loubet!” -and “Mort aux traîtres!” and “Panama! Panama! Panama!”[9] Not one hat -raised to him. Not one cheer given him. Not one courtesy paid him. It was -to the ear-splitting notes of whistles, it was to a chorus of calumny and -abuse, it was in the midst of a howling, hostile mob, that the new Chief -of the State made his début in Paris. - -What, it may be asked, was the reason of M. Loubet’s unpopularity? Well, -the Dreyfus days had begun: those wild, frenzied days of feuds, duels -and hatreds; of frauds, riots and conspiracies, when Parisians allowed -themselves to be governed and blinded by their passions and prejudices. -M. Loubet was notoriously in favour of granting the unhappy prisoner -on the Devil’s Island a new trial. Paris, on the other hand, misled, -intimidated, deceived by the Nationalists, was Anti-Dreyfusard. And hence -the tempestuous reception—at once spontaneous and “organised”—accorded -the new President on his return from Versailles. - -However, in the present paper, it is not my intention to examine the -political situation in France during the tumultuous winter, summer and -autumn of 1899. My aim is to portray certain scenes and to record certain -incidents which may convey an idea of the state of Paris in that epoch, -and of her attitude towards M. Loubet. And here let me return without -further ado to the crowd before the St-Lazare station, where, after the -President’s departure, there appeared yet another amazing agitator in the -person of M. Déroulède. - -He has been likened to—Don Quixote. And it has also been good-humouredly -agreed that in his devoted lieutenant, M. Marcel Habert, he possesses an -admirable Sancho Panza. For M. Déroulède is an _exalté_. M. Déroulède -is extravagant, theatrical, often absurd: yet with a noble sincerity in -him and an attachment to the idea. And as he stood in the thick of the -St-Lazare crowd, with his official Deputy’s sash, with his decoration -in his button-hole, with fire in his eye, with a flush on his cheeks -and with burning “patriotic” utterances on his lips—as he stood there -haranguing and gesticulating, M. Paul Déroulède held everyone’s -attention. At that moment, he was passionately inviting his hearers -to follow him to Joan of Arc’s statue, there to hold a “patriotic” -demonstration. Often, he made such a pilgrimage. Often, too, he made -pilgrimages to the Strasbourg monument on the Place de la Concorde: and -to the cemeteries where rest the “heroic victims” of Germany. There were -many who laughed at him, but his courage and honesty no one, not even his -adversaries, doubted. He had fought valiantly in the Franco-Prussian War, -and ever since that appalling campaign he had looked after the interests -of the scrubby little soldier—_le pioupiou_—and composed songs and poems -in his honour. “Vive l’Armée!” and “Vive la France!” were the eternal, -emotional cries of M. Déroulède. At his bidding, Paris echoed those -cries. And Paris also “supported” him enthusiastically when he made his -pilgrimages to the Place de la Concorde, and the cemeteries, and Joan -of Arc’s statue; for in what is essential and fine in him, his noble -sincerity and devotion to the idea, even when in the wrong, M. Déroulède -stands as the outward and visible type of a quality that belongs to the -soul and the genius of France. - -Well, upon the present occasion, M. Déroulède’s audience was particularly -responsive. “Then follow me!” he shouted triumphantly. And so, behold him -leading a long, animated procession from the St-Lazare station to the rue -de Rivoli. And behold him again, a few minutes later, standing against -the railing that encircles “La Pucelle” astride of her horse. And -behold his followers—hundreds of them—closely surrounding him, and the -police—scores of them—ready to “charge” the crowd at the first outbreak -of disorder. But M. Déroulède, unlike the Anti-Semitic Jules Guérin, was -no lover of brawls. He wished only to “defend” the “honour of the Army” -(which, by the way, had never been assailed). He desired only to point -out that France was governed by a number of men who dreamt day and night, -dreamt night and day, dreamt always and always of “selling their country -to the enemy.” Ah, these abominable, these infamous traitors! Even as he, -Paul Déroulède, stood there, at the foot of Joan of Arc’s statue, this -sinister, this diabolical Government was plotting the “réhabilitation” of -a man—no, a scoundrel—convicted by his own colleagues of treason. - -“Citizens, our France, our beloved France, is in danger. Citizens, do -your duty. Citizens, drive away the traitors who govern you. Citizens, -show your execration of these traitors by crying with me: “Vive l’Armée!” -“Vive la France!” “Vive la patrie!” - -And again the crowd was responsive. This time, indeed, there were shouts -of “Vive Déroulède!” Parisians came running up from neighbouring streets, -so that the crowd grew and expanded. On the tops of the omnibuses -passengers cheered encouragingly. At every window and on every doorstep -stood spectators. In fine, much animation around Joan of Arc’s statue. - -“En avant!” cried, martially, our Don Quixote. Warned by the police to -be “prudent,” he replied that he was a “patriot,” and hotly demanded -that his Deputy’s sash should be respected. Then, placing himself at -the head of his followers, he led them triumphantly towards the _grands -boulevards_. Again, “patriotic” cries. Again, fierce denunciations of the -“Government of Traitors.” - -And, in M. Déroulède’s organ, _Le Drapeau_, next morning, what an -exultant account of M. Loubet’s tempestuous début in Paris, and what a -glowing recital of the “grandiose” and “glorious” manifestation held at -the foot of Joan of Arc’s gilded statue. - -After this we had daily, almost hourly, manifestations. Very _affairé_, -but always urbane and imperturbable, was the “Emperor of the Camelots.” -Very active and zealous were Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. And very -garrulous, excited and nervous were the Parisians. In cafés they -emotionally agreed that the situation was “grave.” In cafés, also, they -whispered of plots against the President and the Republic—sensational -plots that greatly agitated the Chief of the Police. Yes, M. Lépine was -alarmed; M. Lépine had lost his appetite; M. Lépine could not rest at -night for thinking of the shoals and shoals of conspirators then present -in Paris. A veritable plague of conspirators! - -Here, there and everywhere, a conspirator. Who knew: perhaps one’s -very neighbour in cafés, trains, omnibuses and trams was a dangerous -conspirator? And so, when we spoke of conspirators and conspiracies, we -lowered our voices and glanced apprehensively over our shoulders, and -were altogether very uneasy, suspicious and mysterious. Heavens, what -rumours! And mercy, what an effervescence! Now it was the “agents” of -the Bonapartists who were “active.” Anon it was the Orleanists who were -“at work.” Next it was the Clericals who were conspiring. And, finally, -it was the Militarists, who had actually appointed the day and the hour -when they would give a Dictator to France. Already it had been arranged -that the Dictator should appear in Paris on a splendid black charger, -surrounded by a brilliant, dashing staff. And the Dictator, from his -saddle, was eloquently to address the populace. And when the Dictator -spoke the sacred name “France,” he was to draw and flourish his sword. -And the brilliant staff was to cheer. And the dashing staff was to cry—— -No matter: the approaching arrival in Paris of the Dictator and retinue -was a secret; only whispered timidly and fearfully amongst us when we -felt ourselves secure from conspiring eavesdroppers. Such was the gossip; -such was the nervousness. Little wonder, then, that the Chief of the -Police passed restless, unhappy nights. Never a moment’s peace, never a -moment’s leisure for poor M. Lépine. All around him, conspirators. And -before him, at the same time, the task of making preparations for M. -Félix Faure’s funeral, which was to be solemn, imposing and magnificent. - -And magnificent it was. Almost interminable was the procession that -left the Élysée for Notre Dame, to the tragic strains of Chopin’s -_Funeral March_. All along the route, soldiers and policemen. And behind -the soldiers and policemen, the people of Paris—men, women and even -children—who murmured their admiration at the plumes, at the flowers -and at the brilliant uniforms in the cortège. Each foreign Power was -imposingly represented. But most imposing of them all were the Emperor -William’s envoys: three Prussian officers, veritable giants. Then, -mourners from the French Army; mourners from the Chambers; mourners from -the Corps Diplomatique; mourners from the Academy and Institute; mourners -from every distinguished official, social and artistic sphere. And at the -head of all these grand mourners the homely, plainly dressed figure of M. -Émile Loubet. - -However, one mourner was missing: a friend of the late M. Faure: none -other than M. Paul Déroulède. And yet he had deeply deplored the death of -the late President, and fiercely denounced the advent of his successor. - -But—M. Déroulède was busy. Think: at that moment the Élysée had no -master. So, what an opportunity. And as the funeral procession proceeded -slowly and solemnly from Notre Dame to the cemetery, M. Déroulède might -have been seen in a distant quarter of Paris with his hand on the bridle -of General Roget’s horse. - -“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.” - -Only think of it. There was General Roget with soldiers under -his command, who would follow him wherever he led them. And the -Élysée—practically—was empty. And thus it was the moment of moments to -achieve a brilliant _coup d’état_. - -“À l’Élysée, Général; à l’Élysée.” - -But General Roget refused to turn his horse’s head in the direction of -the Élysée. He preferred to return to the barracks with his men, and -therefore begged M. Déroulède to release his hold of the bridle. - -_Manqué_, M. Déroulède’s conspiracy. In vain, his tremendous _coup -d’état_. Behold our Don Quixote and his devoted Sancho Panza, in dismay -and despair. Behold them some time later on their trial for conspiracy. -But behold them acquitted by the jury amidst a scene of the wildest -enthusiasm. And hear the joyous, triumphant proclamations that their -acquittal was yet another bitter humiliation for M. Loubet. - -What insults and what calumnies followed! Every Nationalist organ began -a fierce campaign against M. Loubet, accused him of corruption, of every -conceivable meanness and crime, and exultantly related how his name was -constantly being _conspué_ in Paris. Since it was “seditious” to cry “À -bas Loubet,” they cried “Vive l’Armée!” and “Mort aux traîtres,” which -M. Lucien Millevoye, Édouard Drumont, Henri Rochefort and Jules Guérin -declared to be the same thing. - -Those were the only cries that greeted M. Loubet when he drove out in the -Presidential carriage—pale, grave, dignified, venerable. From his native -place, the village of Montélimar, came a message imploring him to resign. -More hissing and hooting in the streets, but always a calm smile on the -President’s kindly face; always that determined, imperturbable expression. - -Other “incidents”? Well, for months there was incident after incident: -and when Émile Loubet drove to the Longchamps Races surrounded by -cavalry, it was stated that he feared assassination. At Longchamps up -rushed an elegant young aristocrat with a stick in his hand, and the -stick was aimed at the President’s head. It only smashed the President’s -hat: but the Nationalists rejoiced. And the elegant young aristocrat was -regarded as a hero, and caricaturists always portrayed Émile Loubet with -his hat smashed over his head. Came another message from Montélimar, -inviting him to accept the public verdict: but came, also, messages of -sympathy and esteem from all the Courts in Europe. - -And here, passing over other incidents, let me arrive at once at the -day when the man in the street began to admire Émile Loubet’s patience, -tact, determination, and when he was delighted at the calm, kindly -smile; and when—day of days—he said: “Ce bon Loubet,” and then—moment -of moments—cried, “Vive Loubet.” A change, a change! Through the streets -drove the President, saluting, saluted. Parisians rejoiced to learn that -the Tsar had a veritable affection for Émile Loubet, and Parisians were -pleased to see him drive across Paris with the King of England, chatting, -smiling, laughing. Cordial the shouts of “Vive Loubet.” Cordial the -newspaper appreciations of Émile Loubet. And the streets lined to see him -take train to London. - -In London, scores of journalists accompanying him, and also scores of -_camelots_. Yes, real Paris _camelots_ in Soho, and in the public-houses -and little restaurants of Soho, the _camelots_ loud in their praises of -Émile Loubet. - -Here, there and everywhere the motto: “Entente Cordiale.” - -I remember the King of the Camelots telling me in Soho that he and his -men had taken a great fancy to Englishmen. - -His appreciation was worth having, for he was no enthusiast. Indeed, he -had done a great trade some time ago in Anti-English caricatures, toys -and post cards. He drank to the _entente_ in a bottle of Bass. He vowed -that Bass was better than _bock_. He paid tributes to roast beef, apple -tart and kippers; indeed, regretted with veritable emotion that there -were no kippers in France. So kind and affable and flattering was the -King of the Camelots that I could write of him for hours. However, I must -leave him on the kerbstone in Holborn, shouting: “Vive Loubet,” and -waving his hat and receiving (so, at least, he declared afterwards) a -special salute from the smiling, delighted President. - -Everyone charmed with Émile Loubet, and Émile Loubet charmed with -everything. Of course, King and President held little private -conversations; it is certain that Lord Lansdowne and M. Delcassé met -often and talked long. - -Then, Paris again—and crowds in the street once more to shout: “Vive -Loubet.” Heavens, what a change since the February afternoon four -years ago! To-day, nothing but sympathy and esteem for the President, -part author of the Anglo-French Agreement. To-day, nothing but sincere -pleasure at the Agreement, which brings together two naturally friendly -and sympathetic countries. “Perhaps the most important Treaty ever signed -in time of peace,” said an enthusiastic Parisian to me. And then, with -equal enthusiasm: “Vive Loubet!” - -[9] M. Loubet was Premier and Minister of the Interior at the time of -the exposure of the Panama scandal. In November, 1892, he was forced -to resign, but retained his post of Minister of the Interior under M. -Ribot, the new Premier. Two months later, disgusted by the calumnies of -their adversaries in the Chamber, both M. Loubet and his colleague M. de -Freycinet (Minister of War) retired. - - -2. M. ARMAND FALLIÈRES. MOROCCO AND THE FLOODS - -A day or two ago, in the Presidential palace of the Élysée, M. Armand -Fallières celebrated his seventy-second birthday. I do not know whether -there were gifts, flowers, a birthday cake, champagne and speeches: but, -according to an incorrigible gossip in a boulevard newspaper, M. le -Président stated that this was the blithest birthday he had known for -seven years. “I breathe again,” he is reported to have said. “This time -next year, I shall pass my anniversary, not in a frock coat and varnished -boots, but in a dressing-gown and carpet slippers.” - -I believe this is the “mood” that would obsess anyone who had passed -seven years of his life as President of the French Republic. It was M. -Émile Loubet’s mood. Nothing in this world would have induced him to -accept a second Septennat; and to-day M. Loubet lives in a quiet little -flat on the Rive Gauche, where (in his slippers) he has often exclaimed: -“Ce pauvre Fallières!” And then gone to bed tranquilly and comfortably; -whilst his successor at the Élysée was in consultation with the Minister -of Foreign Affairs over the miseries of Morocco. President Casimir-Périer -endured just six months of Presidency. “On m’embête; je m’en vais,” said -he. He was too elegant to care for slippers. But a day or two after his -resignation he was discovered stretched in an easy-chair in the garden -of a Bois de Boulogne restaurant, in white duck trousers. “I breathe -again,” he stated—just as President Fallières has now declared on his -seventy-second birthday. - -Thus it would miraculously appear that one stops breathing upon being -appointed President of the French Republic, and doesn’t regain one’s -breath until one’s martyrdom at the Élysée has expired. Certain it is -that the President of the French Republic, living as he does in the -most amazing city in the world, must experience and endure amazing -tribulations and adventures. President Loubet went through the Dreyfus -Affair; President Fallières through the Floods. Up and down the Seine in -a barge sailed M. Fallières, and because of his bulk and lest the barge -might capsize, the boatmen had to implore M. le Président not to move. -He was a heroic, but not a dignified, figure as he sat, massive and -motionless, in that barge. Nor could he ever look other than bulky in the -Presidential carriage (which, when he entered it, nearly tilted over) -as he drove forth to meet foreign sovereigns, or to attend the great -military review or gala performances at the Français and Opéra. That vast -bulk has always been against him. Not a Parisian that has not commented -on it, not an illustrated newspaper that has not depicted it, not a -theatrical revue that has not exaggerated it. - -Although M. Armand Fallières has left Paris for his country residence -at Rambouillet, the French “Presidential Holiday” has not yet begun. To -start with, Rambouillet is a State château, almost another Élysée, in -that Cabinet meetings are held there, the Ministers motoring down from -Paris with their portfolios and wearing their official, inscrutable -expressions. Outside in the park, flowers, birds, winding paths, shady -trees, hidden, tranquil corners; but within the Council Chamber, the old, -eternal complications and miseries of politics. - -No doubt, when the Ministers have left, M. le Président seeks to lead the -simple, the ordinary life. But, as Rambouillet is a State residence, -flunkeys abound, and not only gardeners, but detectives, haunt the -park. Impossible, to put it vulgarly, to be “on one’s own.” Worse than -that, how the majestic, powdered flunkeys wink and grin when M. Armand -Fallières has turned his back upon them in his slippers, alpaca jacket -and vast gardening hat! For M. le Président is burly, with a formidable -_embonpoint_; and when he enters a carriage, it tilts; and when he steps -into a rowing boat, it very nearly capsizes, and when—— - -“I am the most inelegant of Presidents,” M. Armand Fallières himself has -admitted. “Heavens, how my servants despise me!” - -At Rambouillet M. Fallières’ predecessor, most admirable M. Loubet, also -aroused the disdain of the flunkeys by reason of his simplicity—and -his real holiday did not begin until he had reached his native town of -Montélimar, where he was treated—and liked to be treated—as _un enfant -du pays_—a son of the soil. Because Montélimar is famous for its nougat, -M. Loubet was dubbed by fierce, lurid old Henri Rochefort—“Nougat the -First.” But Republican France liked to hear of her President hobnobbing -with the people of Montélimar and gossiping with the peasantry of -neighbouring villages, and leading forth on his arm a little brown-faced -and wrinkled old lady, in the dress and cap of a peasant woman—his mother. - -But those are all memories. We have nothing to do with Montélimar; we -are only concerned with the wine-growing districts of Loupillon, where -M. Fallières (released from official Rambouillet) will be amiable, -pottering and peering about amidst his vineyards in a few days. Behold, -just as last year, M. le Président, not only in slippers, but in his -shirt-sleeves; and behold, too, the peasantry stretched over hedges and -perched high up in trees, that they may view the burly Chief of the State -inspecting and admiring his grapes. They are his hobby, his pride, his -exquisite joy: and yet it is notorious that they are a very sour, a very -inferior, one might almost say, a very terrible little grape. - -Ask the Loupillon peasants and they will exclaim: “It is extraordinary, -it is unheard-of that a Son of this Soil, and a President of the -President, should produce such a grape! Look at it! _Cré nom d’un nom_, -what a sad little thing!” - -Ask those privileged, intimate friends who lunch _en famille_ at the -Élysée, and they will cry: “Ah, the white wine of Fallières! Ah, the -Presidential grape from Loupillon! It makes one shudder to mention it.” - -But, M. le Président ignores these criticisms and mockeries. After -Morocco and Proportional Representation, his dear little grapes! In spite -of their smallness, their sourness, how he loves them! - -Six weeks of his grapes—then the Élysée, Morocco, once again; and then, -in February next, nothing but holidays for the Chief of the State. For -February will see the end of M. Fallières’ seven years’ Presidency, and, -like his predecessor, he will not seek re-election. Like M. Loubet, too, -his next Paris residence will be a comfortable, bourgeois third-floor -_appartement_—its site, the Boulevard St Germain, within a few minutes’ -walk of M. Émile Loubet’s flat in the rue Dante. No flunkeys, no -detectives in plain clothes—and no telephone. Moreover, no pianolas, -no gramophones, no parrots, no poodles, for M. Fallières (who owns the -building of flats in which he has decided to reside) has warned his -tenants that no such nuisance will be tolerated when he moves to his new -quarters. The simple, the ordinary life! Morocco, etc., etc., etc.—only -memories. Never ceremonious banquets, with Château Yquem, and Morton -Rothschild, and Lafite, and the finest of Extra Secs. Modest luncheons -and dinners _en famille_. And for wine, nothing but the sour, little -white grape of Loupillon. - -It has been said that the best rulers are those who feel an extreme -disinclination to rule, and who only consent to accept authority under -a strong sense of duty. If this be true, then unquestionably M. Émile -Loubet and M. Armand Fallières were good and loyal presidents, who, -without personal ambition and at the cost of their own tastes, as well -as of their own interests, served the Republic—for seven years, each -of them—to the very best of their knowledge and power. And upon this -question of power one has to keep in mind that M. le Président, though -he holds the title of Chief of the State, is very much in the hands -of his ministers. He forms ministries? Yes; but here, too, it is not -always the most competent and disinterested men, in France particularly, -who are most eager for office. Nothing can be more unjust than to make -admirable M. Émile Loubet, excellent M. Armand Fallières, responsible for -everything that happened, and especially for everything that went wrong, -during the two periods of seven years these patriotic French citizens -devoted to the service of their country. - -The difficulties of M. le Président, the impertinent disregard of his -rank in the State shown by the very men he has called to power, is a -favourite theme of playwrights and novelists. In _L’Habit Vert_, the -brilliant, satirical comedy by MM. de Flers and de Caillavet, just -produced at the Variétés theatre, a Cabinet Minister submits an important -political telegram for the President’s official approbation. “Yes, that -will do; send it off immediately,” says M. le Président. “That’s all -right; it was sent half-an-hour ago,” replies the Minister. Then, in -that famous comedy, _Le Roi_, which so rejoiced the heart of King Edward -the Seventh, the French Premier to one of his colleagues: “Cormeau, the -Minister of Commerce, has just resigned. Nearly a Ministerial Crisis, -but we have escaped it. Telephone the name of Cormeau’s successor, and -that all is well, to the Press, the Chamber, the Senate, the Palace of -Justice, and—ah yes, I forgot—to the President of the Republic.” - -On the top of all this, M. le Président, although practically in the -hands of Messieurs les Ministres, is held responsible by the public -for the possible blunders and follies and sins of the Cabinet. Salary, -£40,000 a year, with all kinds of substantial “perquisites.” Residences: -the Palace of the Élysée and the Château de Rambouillet. Ironical -official title: Chief of the State. Result: Morocco, Floods, or the -Dreyfus Affair, helplessness and worry, collapse of the respiratory -organ. But, thank heaven! M. le Président recovereth his breath when the -time comes for another to take his place: and he himself may drift into -a dressing-gown and carpet slippers and exclaim of his successor, by the -tranquil, unofficial fireside: “Ce pauvre——!” Successor at the Élysée. -Who will he be? Of course, after the lofty and admirable statesmanship -he has exhibited throughout the Balkan conflict, M. Poincaré, the Prime -Minister, is hailed by the man in the street as the future Chief of the -State? But elegant M. Paul Deschanel, of the French Academy, President -of the Chamber of Deputies, and a would-be President of the Republic for -the last fourteen years, is also mentioned; and impetuous, despotic, -sallow-faced M. Georges Clemenceau, in spite of his recent delirious -ups and downs, has hosts of followers. Solid M. Ribot is stated to be -an eager candidate. M. Léon Bourgeois (who did such fine work at The -Hague Peace Conference) would probably be elected, were there a Madame -Bourgeois to “receive” officially at the Élysée. After that, M. Delcassé, -M. Lépine, M. Briand, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, M. Dranem the comic singer, -“Monte Carlo Wells.” But I am anticipating events. I am also in peril of -appearing incoherent; so let me hasten to declare that the last-named -candidates for the Presidency of the Third Republic are but the gay -“selections” of that inveterate gossip in a certain boulevard newspaper. -And, that made clear, let us for the moment leave the emptiness of -political ambition and share in the dressing-gown and carpet-slipper mood -of M. Armand Fallières. - - -3. M. RAYMOND POINCARÉ AND THE RECORD OF M. LÉPINE - -Last February (1913) must be accounted an important month in the history -of the Third French Republic. Away, after his seven years’ official -tenancy of the Élysée, went M. Armand Fallières to a comfortable -bourgeois _appartement_, there, no doubt, to recall, in dressing-gown -and carpet slippers, the rare joys and successes and the many shocks and -miseries of his Septennat, and to speculate upon the destiny reserved for -his successor, ninth President of the Republic, M. Raymond Poincaré. - -No commonplace destiny—that was certain. M. Fallières took possession -of the Élysée amidst general indifference; M. Émile Loubet assumed -office amongst eggs, threats, vegetable stalks, shouts of “traitor” and -“bandit”: but M. Poincaré found Paris _en fête_—flags flying, hats and -handkerchiefs whirling, the crowd in its Sunday best—on the day that _he_ -became Chief of the State. - -A vast popularity, M. Poincaré’s! Exclaimed M. le Bourgeois: “At last we -have got a strong man for a President! For the first time, there will -be a master at the Élysée.” On all sides, indeed, it was agreed that -M. Poincaré’s election to the Presidency signified the collapse of the -tradition that the Chief of the State should be a figure-head, a mere -signer of documents, placed, none too ceremoniously, before him by his -Ministers. - -Thus, a new régime had dawned. Poincaré was “going to wake things up”; -Poincaré was also “going to do things”; what precisely Poincaré was going -to do nobody could explain; but “Vive Poincaré,” was the cry of the -hour; and not only in luxurious, radiant Paris, but in grim, industrial -centres, dull, provincial towns, and remote, obscure hamlets. Such a -popularity that into the shop windows came Poincaré Pipes, Poincaré -Braces, Poincaré Walking Sticks, the Poincaré Safety Razor. Then, on -restaurant menus: Consommé Poincaré—Poulet Poincaré—Omelette Poincaré. -More Poincaré, smiling and bowing, on dizzy kinematograph films and in -the music hall revues; and imagine, if you can, the sale of Poincaré -photographs in the flashy arcade of the rue de Rivoli! “Poincaré and -Gaby Deslys—that’s what we are selling,” the shopkeepers stated. “But -Poincaré is surpassing the blonde, elegant Gaby.” - -In a word, nothing but Poincaré, only Poincaré, until the announcement -that M. Lépine, Chief of the Paris Police, had tendered his resignation, -that his decision to retire was “irrevocable.” Then M. Lépine leading in -the photographic commerce of the rue de Rivoli: and M. Poincaré a poor -second, and the blonde Mademoiselle Deslys a remote third. Elsewhere and -everywhere, M. Lépine and his resignation superseded M. Poincaré and the -New Régime, as the one and only topic of conversation. For twenty years -the Chief of the Police had governed his own departments of Paris with -extraordinary skill. Throughout that period he had practically lived in -the streets: repressing riots, scattering criminals, dispersing Royalist -conspirators, controlling fires, directing all manner of grim or poignant -or delirious operations—a short, slender, insignificant-looking figure, -in ill-fitting clothes, a dusty “bowler” hat, and square, creaking boots. -With him, a shabby umbrella or a stout, common walking-stick, the latter -the only weapon he ever carried. Never more than four or five hours’ -sleep: even then the telephone placed at his bedside. - -It was all work with M. Lépine—all energy, all courage. The most familiar -figure in the streets, he soon became the most famous and most popular -of State servants. Cried M. le Bourgeois, whilst out walking with his -small son: “_Voilà—regarde bien—voilà_ Lépine!” - -Everyone “saluted” him, all political parties (except the United -Socialists, who admire no one) applauded him. There was (with the same -solitary exception) general rejoicing when the dusty, intrepid little -Chief of the Police received the supreme distinction of the Grand Cross -of the Legion of Honour. - -Yes; a popularity even vaster than M. Poincaré’s. Gossips remarked that -it was curious that the Presidency of the one should synchronise with -the resignation of the other. Critics agreed that if France had gained -a strong Chief of the State she had lost an incomparable Chief of the -Police. Alarm of M. le Bourgeois, who had got to regard M. Lépine as his -special protector. Once again, and for the hundredth time, M. Lépine -became the hero of the hour. And, as I have already recorded, there was -a rush for Lépine photographs—Lépine side and full face, Lépine gay or -severe, Lépine with Grand Cross or shabby umbrella, and a decided “slump” -in Poincarés and blonde, bejewelled Gaby Deslys’ in the rue de Rivoli -arcade. - -Impossible, in the space at my disposal, to give more than an idea of M. -Lépine’s amazing record. Born at Lyons in 1846, he is now sixty-seven -years of age—a mere nothing for a Frenchman of genius. At thirty he was -already Under-Prefect of the Department of the Indre. Successively he -was Prefect of the Seine-et-Oise, General Secretary of the Préfecture -de Police, Governor-General of Algeria, and Chief of the Police. From a -biographical dictionary that devotes pages and pages to Louis Lépine, I -take the following passages:—“Actif et ferme, il parvint à rétablir les -relations rompues entre le Conseil Municipal de Paris et la Préfecture -de Police, et opéra d’importantes réformes.... Nommé Gouverneur-Général -de l’Algérie, il apporta en plan de grands travaux publics et de -réformes.... Nommé Conseiller d’État, il prit de nouveau la direction de -la Préfecture de Police. Il s’est occupé de refondre tous les règlements -administratifs relatifs au service de la navigation et de la circulation -dans Paris, et un vaste Répertoire de Police a paru sous sa direction.” -Thus it will be seen that M. Lépine was always “reforming,” for ever -reorganising, unfailingly “active” and “firm.” He it was who “reformed” -the nervous, excitable Paris police in the delirious Dreyfus days of -1899. To their astonishment he preached calm. - -“Mais oui, mais oui, mais oui, du calme, nom d’un nom,” he expostulated. -“You charge the crowd for no reason. You thump the innocent bourgeois on -the back and tear off his collar. You exasperate the Latin Quarter. You -are making an inferno of the boulevards. You are bringing ridicule and -discredit on the force. In future, I myself shall direct operations.” - -Dreyfus riots every day and every night, and M. Lépine in the thick of -them. Short and slender, he was swept about and almost submerged by the -Anti-Dreyfus mob. He lost his hat, his umbrella, but never his temper. -He was to be seen swarming up lamp-posts, that he might discover the -extent of the crowd and whether reinforcements of agitators were coming -up side streets, and from which particular windows stones, bottles and -lighted fusées were being hurled. His orders he issued by prearranged -gesticulations. Not only the police, but the Municipal and Republican -Guards, had been taught to understand the significance of his signals. -A wave of the arm, and it meant “charge.” But it was only in desperate -extremities that M. Lépine sent the crowd flying, battered and wounded. -Pressure was his policy; six or seven rows of policemen advancing slowly -yet heavily upon the manifestants, truncheon in hand and the formidable -horses and shining helmets of the Republican Guard in the rear. When, -upon a particularly tumultuous occasion, the “pressure” was resisted, and -a number of boulevard kiosks were blazing and heads, too, were on fire, -M. Lépine implored assistance—from Above. - -“Send me rain,” he begged audibly of the heavens, “send me torrents of -rain.” And the heavens responded, so people affirmed. A few minutes -later the heavens sent M. Lépine thunder, lightning and a deluge that -reduced the blazing kiosks to hissing, sodden ruins; cleared the frantic -boulevards; allowed police, soldiers and even M. Lépine to go to bed. -But, on the other hand, caused Jules Guérin and his fellow outlaws and -conspirators against the Republic to exult wildly and grotesquely on the -roof of Fort Chabrol. For Guérin was short of water. The supply had been -cut off and Guérin’s only salvation was surrender or rain. And it rained, -and it poured and it thundered. The heavens were equally kind to Rebel, -and Chief of the Police. Up there on the roof of conspiring Fort Chabrol -assembled Guérin and his companions with baths, buckets and basins; with -jugs, glasses and mugs; all of which speedily overflowed with the rain. -Down there in the street, the soldiers in occupation of the besieged -thoroughfare stared upwards, open-mouthed, at the amazing spectacle on -the roof—Guérin and Company joining hands and dancing with glee amidst -their multitudinous rain-catching vessels; Guérin bending perilously over -the parapet and roaring forth between the explosions of thunder and the -flashes of lightning: “We have got enough water for months. Tell Lépine -we defy him.” Another jig from Guérin et Cie. Guérin once again at the -edge of the parapet, mockingly drinking the health of the soldiers below, -and then emptying baths full of water into the street and bellowing: -“Voilà de l’eau,” and performing such delirious, dangerous antics that it -was deemed necessary to telephone an account of the scene to the Chief of -the Police. “Let him dance his jigs all night in the rain; it will cool -him,” replied M. Lépine. “Je le connais: he is too clever to fall over -the parapet.” - -Nor did Guérin capsize. Nor yet did M. Lépine put an end to the jigs -on the roof—to the rest of the Fort Chabrol farce—until Paris had been -appeased by the Rennes Court Martial verdict, and the acutest stage of -the Anti-Dreyfusard agitation died out amidst exclamations of: “C’est -fini! Quelle sacrée affaire! Quel cauchemar! Enfin, n’en parlons plus.” - -After the lurid autumn of 1899 came a particularly bleak, cheerless -winter. So bitter was the weather that fond mothers kept their children -indoors, and thus Edouard and Yvonne yawned with boredom in their -nurseries, and quarrelled, and exchanged blows, and gave way to tears. - -“Toys are not what they used to be,” complained a mother to M. Lépine. -“They are stupid or vulgar, and children get tired of them.” - -This set M. Lépine thinking. Like all Frenchmen, a lover of children, -the Chief of the Police realised that the arrival of winter was a grief -and a blow to Edouard and Yvonne. If they couldn’t rejoice in the open, -they must be enabled to rejoice in their homes; and the way of rejoicing -at home is with toys. But toys, so said that mother, had deteriorated: -and this grave state of affairs M. Lépine resolved to investigate. -Behold him, therefore, gazing critically—officially—into the windows of -toy-shops, and hear him declaring, as the result of his inspections, that -the toys, truly enough, were old-fashioned, and vapid, and banal—poor -things to play with in the nursery after the Guignol and roundabouts -of the Luxembourg Gardens, and the other delights and surprises to be -enjoyed in summer _en plein air_. Thus “reforms” were imperative. - -In a long, official circular M. Lépine informed the toy manufacturers of -Paris that, with the consent of the Government and with the approval of -the President of the Republic, an annual Toy Exhibition was to be held, -and that prizes and diplomas would be awarded to those manufacturers who -displayed the greatest originality in their work. However, not ungainly, -ugly originality. “Pas de golliwogs.” Messieurs les Apaches also -prohibited; and a stern, official reprimand to the toy-maker in whose -window M. Lépine had discovered a miniature guillotine. - -“Des choses amiables, gaies, pratiques, douces, humaines, humoristiques.” - -Toys to amuse and also to quicken Edouard and Yvonne’s imagination -and intellect. Well, the Paris toy-makers responded brilliantly. The -first exhibition was an overwhelming success, and to-day it has become -a State Institution. Not only is there the “Prize of the President of -the Republic,” but M. le Président himself visits the show. Then prizes -from the Presidents of the Chamber and Senate, prizes from every Cabinet -Minister, prizes from the Judges of the Paris Law Courts, and more prizes -from scientists, men of letters, the leading newspapers, the _haute -bourgeoisie_, the _grand monde_. Thus, what an inducement for the toy -manufacturers to do their utmost! This winter’s Exhibition I missed, but -a letter from a French father of five informed me that it had “surpassed” -itself. Continued my friend: “Des choses épatantes, merveilleuses, -inouïes! I confess, _mon vieux_, that I go there all by myself; yes, -without my five children.” Thus M. le Bourgeois (to which excellent -category of society my friend belongs) goes to the Lépine Exhibition -“on his own.” Surely only a Frenchman could find pleasure in that? And -surely only a French Chief of the Police—fancy suggesting such a thing -to Scotland Yard!—could, in the midst of his grim, poignant or delirious -duties, evince so charming and tender a consideration for children as to -realise that it is a question of interest to public order that children -shall have toys “original” enough to marvel at and rejoice over, during -the bleak months of winter. But, inevitably, as in all admirable works, -in all excellent reforms, there are drawbacks; and in this particular -case they are obvious. For instance, a whole “set” of the First Act of -_Chantecler_: innumerable chicks and chickens, the Blackbird in his cage, -the dog Patou in his kennel, proud, majestic Chantecler on the hedge of -the farm-yard, the radiant Hen Pheasant, the lurid-eyed Night Birds, -trees, haystacks, a pump... price 300 francs. - -“Papa, do please buy me all this, immediately,” demands Yvonne -tremulously, passionately, her eyes shining, her cheeks aflame. - -“Papa, I want all this,” shouts Edouard, pointing to a vast array -of soldiers, cannon, ambulances, aeroplanes and air-ships engaged in -military manœuvres. Price 420 francs. - -“But you have only five francs each to spend. For the love of heaven, be -reasonable. Ah, _nom d’un nom_, all the world is looking and laughing at -us,” cries the unfortunate father. - -Scowls and sulkiness from Edouard; tears and shrill hysterics from -Yvonne. When informed of these tragic scenes, M. Lépine exclaims: “Poor -little dears! But what can I do? Impossible to buy a whole farm-yard or -an army with a piece of five francs.” - -After toys, let me take pictures—the incomparable Monna Lisa, who, when -She vanished, disturbed even the proverbial calm of M. Lépine. All France -sent him “clues.” Every post brought him shoals of letters that strangely -and severally denounced a Woman in a Shawl, Three Men in Blue Aprons, -a Man with a Sack, a Negro with a Diamond Ring, a Turk in a Fez, and -a Man Dressed as a Woman, as Monna Lisa’s base abductor. In each case -these singular beings were said to have been seen carrying an object -of the exact dimensions of the stolen picture. Also, their demeanour -“was excited,” their “hands trembled” as they clutched the precious -masterpiece, and they jumped into a passing cab or hurled themselves into -a train just as it was steaming out of the station. “Believe me, M. le -Préfet,” concluded M. Lépine’s incoherent informants, “believe me, I have -given you an exact description of the culprit.” Then, letters of abuse, -threatening letters, letters from practical jokers, letters demanding -interviews—all of which had (under French law) to be considered and -classified. Again, telegram upon telegram, and the telephone bell always -ringing. - -“If I cannot speak to M. Lépine himself, I won’t speak to anyone. And -then the picture will be lost for ever,” stated a voice through the -telephone. - -“Well, what is it?” demanded M. Lépine, at last coming to the machine. - -“_Ecoutez-moi bien_, M. le Préfet. My name is Charles Henri Durand. I am -forty-seven years of age. I am a papermaker by profession. And I live on -the third floor of No. 16 rue de Rome,” related the voice through the -telephone. - -“After that, after that! Quickly! _Au galop!_” cried M. Lépine. - -“Monsieur le Préfet, my information is grave and I must not be hurried,” -continued the voice. “At the very hour of the theft of the picture I was -passing the Louvre. Suddenly, a man jostled me. He was carrying what was -undoubtedly a picture in a sack. He hastened down a side street, casting -suspicious glances about him. He was a Man with a Squint and——” - -“Ah, zut,” cried the Chief of the Police, hanging up the receiver. - -And on the top of all this incoherency, light-headedness. Always -and always, when Paris is shaken by a sensational _affaire_, some -light-headed soul loses what remains of his reason. On to the Place -de la Concorde came a pale-faced, wild-eyed man, with a chair. After -mounting the chair, he folded his arms across his chest and broke out -into a fixed, ghastly grin. As he stood motionless on his chair, always -grinning, a crowd inevitably assembled, and M. Lépine appeared. - -“What are you doing there?” demanded the latter. - -“Hush! I am Monna Lisa,” replied the Man with the Grin. - -“Then at last we have found you!” exclaimed the Chief of the Police. “All -France has been mourning your loss. Come with me quickly. You must return -immediately to the Louvre.” - -“Yes, yes,” assented the light-headed one, descending from his chair and -confidently passing his arm under the arm of M. Lépine. “Take me home to -the Louvre.” - -A wonderful spectacle, the Man with the Grin disappearing on the arm of -the Chief of the Police, relating, as he went, that he had escaped from -his frame in the Louvre in the dead of the night. - -A wonderful spectacle was M. Lépine a few nights later, when “directing -operations” at a disastrous fire on the Boulevard Sebastopol. In the -sight of the crowd he struggled into oilskins, and next was to be seen -stationing the engines, dragging about hose, pushing forward ladders, -signalling and shouting forth encouragement and patience to the occupants -of the blazing house. On this, as on all similar occasions, M. Lépine -was blackened and singed when at last the fire had been mastered. But -never have I beheld him so blackened, so dishevelled and battered, so -courageous and capable as when he came to the rescue of the “victims” -of the devastating Paris floods. Up and down the swollen, lurid river -he careered in a shabby old boat. At once-pleasant river-side places, -such as Boulogne and Surèsnes, he was to be found chest-deep in the -turbid, yellow-green water—always signalling, always “firmly” and -“actively” “directing operations.” He climbed into the upper windows -of tottering, flooded houses; briskly made his way across narrow plank -bridges; distributed here, there and everywhere blankets, medicaments, -provisions—the mud and slime of the river caked hard on his oilskins. -As he passed by in his boat, the most bedraggled figure in Paris, loud -cries of “Vive Lépine” from the bridges and quays; and, indeed, wherever -he went, M. le Préfet de Police excited respect and admiration. I see -him, in top hat and frock coat, “receiving” the late King Edward VII. -in the draughty Northern Station. I see him pointing out the beauties -of Paris to the present Prince of Wales. I see him surrounded by the -turbulent students of the Latin Quarter, whither he has been summoned to -check their demonstrations against some unpopular professor. I see him -examining (in the interests of the public) the clocks of motor cabs, the -cushions of railway carriages, the seating conditions in theatres, the -very benches and penny chairs in the Bois de Boulogne. Finally, I see him -as he is to-day; no longer Chief of the Police, but a private “citizen,” -established in a spacious, comfortable _appartement_, which, to the -admiration and excitement of naïve, bourgeois Parisians, is equipped with -no fewer than two bathrooms. - -“With two bathrooms our admirable Lépine will have plenty to do,” states -M. le Bourgeois. “They are a responsibility, as well as a pleasure; but, -of course, they will not prove too much for a man like Lépine.” Then up -speaks a primitive soul: “One is free to bathe and free not to bathe. But -to have two bathrooms is scandalous: and I should not have thought it of -Lépine.” - -However, in the opinion of a third critic, M. Lépine should be permitted -to have ninety-nine bathrooms if he likes. Twenty-two years Chief of -the Police, he is now entitled to do as he pleases. So leave his two -bathrooms alone. - -“When a man has retired, he must have distractions with which to occupy -his mind and his leisure.” - -But if, as reported, M. Lépine loves his pair of bathrooms, he loves -the streets better. As in his official days, behold him here, there and -everywhere. A brawl or a fire, and there he is. Now in an omnibus, next -in the underground railway, up at Montmartre, down on the boulevards, -amidst exclamations of “Voilà Lépine!” and the salutes of the police. -Only a private “citizen,” but he is still addressed as “M. le Préfet.” -Merely the master of a comfortable _appartement_, of a couple of -bathrooms—but is that enough for a Frenchman of action and genius? -Gossips predict that M. Lépine will next be seen in the Chamber of -Deputies, or that he will help M. Georges Clemenceau to wake up the -Senate—the “Palais du Sommeil.” For my own part I fancy that, should a -crisis arrive, the ex-Chief of the Police will be requested to “direct -operations” again. - -“There is a telephone in my new home,” M. Lépine is reported to have -said. “If the Government should want me back, it has only to ring me up.” - - - - -XVI - -MADAME LA PRÉSIDENTE, M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU AND THE UNFORTUNATE M. PAMS - - -There is an important reason for the popularity of M. le Président: there -is Madame la Présidente. - -Less than a month ago Madame Raymond Poincaré, wife of the President -of the French Republic, was the hostess, in Paris, of King George and -Queen Mary; to-day, as I write, she is helping to entertain, with almost -similar brilliancy, their Majesties Christian and Alexandrine of Denmark. -In the interval between these two Royal visits, Madame Poincaré has spent -a few days on the Riviera, but it wasn’t a holiday. Madame la Présidente -was accompanied to the south of France by the most punctilious, the most -rigid, the most terrible of all tutors—a high official of the French -Protocol. And instead of enjoying the drowsy charms or the worldly -delights of the Riviera, it was Madame Poincaré’s duty to master a few -elegant phrases from the difficult Danish language; to acquaint herself -with the brightest episodes in Danish history; to discern the subtleties -and intricacies of Danish etiquette; and incidentally (and always -under the respectful but intense eye of the high Protocol official) -to discover which kinds of flowers grow in Denmark; what the climate -is like; at what hours the Danes rise and retire; and whether they are -particularly fond of music, literature, the drama, pictures, sculpture, -dancing, needlework, and so on, and so forth. - -Although an extremely clever and accomplished woman, it is probable that -Madame Poincaré experienced hardships and even miseries in “getting up” -her Denmark: for it is a country—and a language—that does not easily -accommodate itself to an emergency. (You, reader, could _you_ gossip, -here and now, glibly and elegantly, even in your own language, about -Danish national characteristics?) Moreover, it must be remembered that, -when she left for the Riviera to acquaint herself with Denmark, Madame -Poincaré had only recently finished “getting up” her England: the latter, -of course, a less arduous, but nevertheless a strenuous, task. Two -languages, two countries; two Kings and two Queens; banquets, gala opera -performances, military reviews, special race-meetings, drives in State -carriages across Paris, ceremonious greetings and adieux at the gaily -decorated Royal railway station—decorations, illuminations, soldiers and -soldiers, the National Anthems of England, Denmark and France—all this -brilliancy, and excitement, and hard labour in the short space of one -month! Such, nevertheless, has been the duty of Madame Raymond Poincaré -as hostess of the Presidential Palace of the Élysée: and yet even here -in England, and even there in Denmark, one hears scarcely a word about -the personality or the functions of Madame la Présidente! - -An ungrateful, even an ironical position, that of a French President’s -wife. She is the hostess of foreign Royalty: but never, in her turn, -their guest. The rigid French Protocol forbids, for some reason or other, -that Madame la Présidente shall accompany her husband on his State visits -abroad. She may drive through the streets of Paris by the side of Queen -Mary: but she must not drive, officially, through the streets of London, -or Copenhagen, or St Petersburg. In a word, Madame la Présidente must -suffer all the anxieties and responsibilities of the arduous, proud -position of hostess to Royalty: and is left behind in Paris when her -husband goes away on visits of State to receive almost Royal honours. -Yes: an ungrateful, an ironical position, that of Madame la Présidente. -Particularly so, when one remembers that, upon social occasions at -all events, she is almost invariably more tactful, _sympathique_ and -ornamental than M. le Président. - -Well, the French Chief of the State goes almost royally abroad. In -his own country, when he opens exhibitions or “inaugurates” monuments -and statues and _lycées_ at Lyons and Marseilles, he is very nearly a -king—and Madame la Présidente stays at home. She “counts” only in Paris; -her powers are confined within the walls of the Élysée, where she is for -ever dispensing all kinds of hospitalities—hospitalities that demand -infinite skill and tact. For instance, one of those dinners upon other -occasions—“eminent” Academicians, leading barristers, men of letters, -and clericals, and anti-clericals, and militarists, and pacifists, and -ambiguities, enigmas, and “dark horses” (so far as their political -opinions are concerned)—many of whom are the bitterest of enemies, and -all of whom Madame la Présidente has “placed” around the dinner-table, -with such incomparable tact and discretion that not a guest can see -more than the nose or the chin of his particular foe. Also, Madame -la Présidente has often reconciled enemies—to the advantage of M. le -Président—whose own endeavours to obtain the same reconciliation have -proved vain. Furthermore, it is on record that, during an acute Cabinet -crisis, Madame la Présidente stopped one of France’s leading statesmen, -as he flung out of the Élysée, by grasping his arm and putting a rose in -his button-hole, and the Cabinet Minister, exclaiming: “Ah, madame, vous -êtes exquise!” allowed himself to be led by Madame la Présidente back to -the Council Chamber. - -Has Madame la Présidente been once again working miracles? What is this -we hear in the month of June, 1913? A reconciliation, an alliance, even, -between M. Raymond Poincaré and M. Georges Clemenceau. - -When, in February last, M. Raymond Poincaré was elected President of -the French Republic, Parisians exclaimed excitedly, with one voice: -“This means the end of Clemenceau. He is dying; he is dead; he is -already buried.” For it will be remembered that M. Georges Clemenceau, -the “Smasher of Cabinets,” also “The Tiger,” had savagely attacked M. -Poincaré’s candidature; had even called upon him to withdraw in favour of -an obscure Minister of Agriculture, in business life a maker of cigarette -papers, of the unfortunate name of Pams. Cried M. Clemenceau here, there -and everywhere: “I vote for Pams.” In the lobbies of the two Chambers he -ordered his followers to “vote solidly for Pams.” The “Tiger” had sent -M. Loubet to the Élysée; he would do the same for his dear Pams. The -manufacturer of cigarette papers was a true democrat—M. Poincaré was a -despot. Pams, indeed, had all the virtues; Pams at the Élysée would raise -the prestige of the Republic, but heaven help the poor Republic if M. -Poincaré were elected. - -So fierce was the “Tiger’s” antagonism that, on the very day of the -Presidential election, and in the Palace of Versailles, M. Poincaré -appointed “seconds” to demand an explanation from M. Clemenceau. The -affair was “arranged.” But up to the last moment the “Tiger” canvassed -and canvassed for M. Pams in the lobbies of the Versailles palace. And -he was sallower than ever; he did not attempt to conceal his anger -and indignation when M. Poincaré was proclaimed Chief of the State by -a handsome majority. Said a Deputy: “Versailles has been Clemenceau’s -Waterloo. In Poincaré he met his Wellington.” But the “Tiger” wasn’t -tamed. A few weeks later he “smashed” the Briand Cabinet. Then he started -a paper—_L’Homme Libre_—and therein, as in the lobbies of the two -Chambers, he renewed his attacks upon the new President. So has Paris -been amazed, staggered, almost petrified to read in the newspapers the -following official announcement: - -“Sur le désir que le président de la République lui en avait fait -exprimer par son secrétaire général civil, M. Clemenceau s’est rendu -aujourd’hui à l’Élysée, pour conférer avec M. Poincaré.” Or: “At the -desire of the President of the Republic, expressed through his principal -private secretary, M. Clemenceau has called at the Élysée and conferred -with M. Poincaré.” - -Mortal enemies—nearly a duel—three months ago: but now is M. Clemenceau -invited most politely to call at the Élysée, where he remains shut up -with President Poincaré for a whole hour! Never such gesticulations -on the boulevards, such excitement in the French Press. “Even the -weather has been _bouleversé_ by the interview at the Élysée,” writes a -Paris journalist. “M. Clemenceau’s visit to M. Poincaré is undoubtedly -responsible for the sudden heat wave.” Asks another journalist, somewhat -cruelly: “What does M. Pams think of it? Also, where is M. Pams? We -have sought for M. Pams at both his Paris and country residences, but -in vain. No news of M. Pams either at the cigarette paper manufactory. -We are becoming uneasy about M. Pams.” And declares a third journalist: -“Versailles is forgotten and forgiven. Behold the President and -Clemenceau hand-in-hand. But it is the triumph of the ‘Tiger.’” - -And so, most indisputably, it is. It was M. Poincaré who “desired” the -famous interview, and this was made clear (at M. Clemenceau’s request) -in the official communication to the Press. Why did he “desire” it? -What induced M. Poincaré to forget all about M. Clemenceau, M. Pams and -Versailles? The truth is, M. Poincaré has need of the “Tiger’s” support, -not only in the Chambers, but in his new paper. It is also a fact that, -in spite of the Pams episode, M. Clemenceau is far and away the most -powerful journalist and politician in France. If M. Clemenceau doesn’t -agree with you, he “smashes.” “He assassinates you in the Chamber and -then buries you in his newspaper,” once said a Deputy. To come to the -point: the President of the French Republic, disturbed by the hostility -to the Three Years Army Service Bill, sees in the “Tiger” the only -statesman powerful enough to cope successfully with the situation. In -other words, the next French Premier will be M. Georges Clemenceau. - -And, according to many a reliable French politician, the fall of M. -Barthou, the actual Prime Minister, is near. A kindly, admirable -man, M. Barthou: but no “leader.” I remember him, as Minister of the -Interior, attending the funeral of the victims of the Courrières mining -catastrophe—eleven hundred lives lost. Tears ran down his face; he was -literally a wreck, pale, red-eyed, almost inarticulate, when the special -train took him back to Paris. Six weeks later, during the subsequent -strike, down to Courrières came M. Georges Clemenceau, the new Minister -of the Interior. Not a trace of emotion about the “Tiger” as he visited -the stricken mining villages. He spoke sharply to the strikers. He -promised that, if order were preserved, the troops would be withdrawn. -Next day three—precisely three—windows of an engineer’s house were -broken. Then trainful after trainful of troops, until there were ten -soldiers to every striker—and that broke the strike. - -A man of iron, M. Clemenceau—when in power. No pen so eloquent, so -stirring as his in French journalism, and his pen he has now taken up in -favour of M. Poincaré and the new Army Service Bill. Throbbing, thrilling -phrases, as always. Here is a passage of his appeal to the French Army: -“Athens, Rome, the greatest things of the past were swept off the face of -the earth on the day that the sentinels hesitated as you are beginning to -do. And you—your France, your Paris, your village, your field, your road, -your stream—all that tumult of history out of which you come, since it is -the work of your forerunners—is all this nothing to you?” - -All this may be very sound, very lofty, very noble. But all this, by -arrangement with President Poincaré, will lead to the next Premiership. -And all this leaves me unhappy, for the reason that I can’t help thinking -and worrying about M. Pams. - -What is the “Tiger,” the future Premier, going to do for him? - -There’s a cynical, sinister rumour on the boulevards that M. Clemenceau -has shrugged his shoulders and said: “Don’t speak to me about Pams. I’ve -had enough of him. Let him go on making cigarette papers.” So things -stand at the Élysée on the 2nd of June 1913. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMAZING CITY*** - - -******* This file should be named 63522-0.txt or 63522-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/5/2/63522 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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