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BOHEMIAN PARIS
OF TO-DAY
By W. C. Morrow
¥
A MAN: HIS MARK
Ornamentally Bound, Deckle Edges, $i.2S
A romance of most absorbing interest
THE APE, THE IDIOT,
AND OTHER PEOPLE
Ornamentally Bound, Deckle Edges, $i.2S
" The touch throughout is unmistakably that of a writer of
superior gifts and superior art." — Chicago Journal
" That he has a vivid imagination is proved by the variety and
extravagant character of the plots which give more or less sub-
stance to the dozen odd fictions in this volume. All of them are
entertaining, and they may be heartily recommended to readers
who, seeking diversion out of the common, relish it when highly
spiced." — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin
" We can confidently commend this as one of the books that
ought to be read by those who are looking out for ' something
new' that is worth finding." — Buffalo Commercial
IN THE CABARET DES NOCTAMBULES
BOHEMIAN PARIS
OF TO-DAY
WRITTEN BY
W. C. MORROW
From Notes by Edouard Cucuel
ILLUSTRATED BY
EDOUARD CUCUEL
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1900
Copyright, 1899,
BY
J. B. LippiNcoTT Company.
ELECmOTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LiPPINCOTT COMPANY, PhILADELPHM, U.&A.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction u
Our Studio .• • • ^5
The £;cole des Beaux-Arts 37
Taking Pictures to the Salon 67
Bal des Quat'z' Arts 79
Le Boul' Mich' 109
Bohemian Cafes 147
Le Cabaret du Soleil d'Or 171
The Cafe Procope 207
Le Moulin de La Galette 221
A Night on Montmartre 249
Moving in the Quartier Latin 315
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
In the Cabaret des Noctambules Frontispiece
Coming from the Bal Bullier Title-page
Our Arrival in Paris 15
From the Hotel Window 17
Bishop was Our Cook . . 19
Our Concierge 24
Our Court- Yard 27
The Laundry Girl 31
From the Hotel Window 36
Typical Students of the Boul' Mich' 37
Brother Musketeers of the Brush and a New Model .... 38
A Paint-Brush Duel at the Beaux-Arts 45
The Atelier G6r5me going out to drink at the Nouveaux's
Expense 47
GerQme criticising Bishop's Work 51
Italian Models in Front of Colarossi's 55
Rest Time for the Model 56
A New Model at GerSme's Atelier 61
Susanne, the Famous Parisian Model 64
A NouvEAU 66
An English Art Student 67
The Last Moments and an Unfinished Picture 73
The Upper Decks of the Omnibuses were Crowded 75
Bal des Quat'z' Arts 79
The Moulin Rouge on the Night of the Ball 81
Two Costumes . 84
Ticket for the Bal des Quat'z' Arts 88
LfeANDRE AS Queen Victoria 89
The Grand Cavalcade 91
Bellona 93
La Danse du Ventre 97
The Gerome Atelier loi
From the Ball 104
Coming Home at seven a.m 105
Susanne 108
Butterflies of the Caf^ 109
7
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Sweetmeat Pedler no
Seven p.m. at the Cakk D'Harcourt (Some Types^ iii
Entrance to Bal Bullier 115
Four Dashing Young Women ' 117
Spectators at the Bal Bullier 119
He has come to Paris to study Law 122
The Can-Can at the Bal Bullier 123
How Negro Students are welcomed 126
Encore des Demi-Mondaines 127
From the Cook-Shop 128
One a.m. at the Caf£ Vachette 129
A CAFi Fight 131
" P'TITE FeMME a FaIRE" I33
"Payez-moi UN Bock, MoN CnfeRi?" 135
Having Fun with Bi-Bi-dans-la Pur^e 137
Sleepy All-Nighters at the Cafe Barrette 143
Long-Haired Students of the Boul' Mich' 146
Maison Darblay 147
La Caisse 148
Madame Darblay, Famous for her Beans 149
Some of the Actresses at Maison Darblay 151
Mademoiselle Brunerye, of the Theatre GAiETfe, Montparnasse 153
The Leading Man at the Gaiete 154
The Artist, the Sculptor, the Blind Musician, his Wife . . . 156
The Poet and his Mistress 157
Monsieur Darblay cutting Bread in Sou Lengths 160
The Heavy Villain 161
" The Hole in the Wall" and Madame Morel 167
The Musical Student at "The Hole in the Wall" 169
In Heavy Bohemia 171
The Lady in Black 175
A Hunter of Scraps 177
The Interior of the Soleil d'Or , 181
The Pianist 186
" II feTAiT une Fois" 187
Bl-Bl-DANS-LA-PURfeE I96
The Sketch Artist 200
An Outcast of the Boulevards 204
UN LlTlfeRATEUR DE BOHEME 2o6
Paul Verlaine at Voltaire's Favorite Table in the Cafe
Procope
209
Interior of the CAFfe Procope 215
One of the Types 221
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
227
Le Moulin de la Galette
The Waltz at Le Moulin de la Galette 233
In the Garden 244
The Proprietor 248
montmartre 249
Tourists and Guide in Paris 250
Entrance to " Heaven" 256
He serves Beer in " Heaven" 257
The Cabaret of " Heaven" 259
The Golden Porcus 261
In the Cabaret of Death 266
A Waiter in the Cabaret of Death 267
In the Passage to the Death Chamber 270
In the Death Chamber 273
The Entrance to " Hell" 277
The Cabaret of " Hell" 283
In Aristide Bruant's Cabaret 287
Aristide Bruant reciting One of his Verses 293
A Young Poet-Laureate 296
In the CAFfe DU Conservatoire 297
Marcel Legay 299
J. Delarbre 300
Gustave Corbet 301
HABITUiS OF the CAFfe DU CONSERVATOIRE 303
Cabaret des Quat'z' Arts 311
Marius Geffroy 314
A Student moving 315
A Musicale at the Studio 319
Studio Hunting 321
INTRODUCTION
THIS volume is written to show the life of the
students in the Paris of to-day. It has an
additional interest in opening to inspection
certain phases of Bohemian life in Paris that are
shared both by the students and the public, but that
are generally unfamiliar to visitors to that wonderful
city, and even to a very large part of the city's popu-
lation itself. It depicts the under-side of such life as
the students find, — the loose, unconventional life of
the humbler strugglers in literature and art, with no
attempt to spare its salient features, its poverty and
picturesqueness, and its lack of adherence to gener-
ally accepted standards of morals and conduct.
As is told in the article describing that incompara-
bly brilliant spectacle, the ball of the Four Arts, ex-
treme care is taken to exclude the public and admit
only artists and students, all of whom must be prop-
erly accredited and fully identified. It is well under-
stood that such a spectacle would not be suitable for
any but artists and students. It is given solely for
their benefit, and with the high aim, fully justified by
the experience of the masters who direct the students,
that the event, with its marvellous brilliancy, its splen-
did artistic effects, and its freedom and abandon, has
a stimulating and broadening effect of the greatest
INTRODUCTION
value to art. The artists and students see in these
annual spectacles only grace, beauty, and majesty ;
their training in the studios, where they learn to re-
gard models merely as tools of their craft, fits them,
and them alone, for the wholesome enjoyment of the
great ball.
It is a student that presents the insight which this
volume gives into the life of the students and other
Bohemians of Paris. It is set forth with the frank-
ness of a student. Coming from such a source, and
having such treatment, it will have a special charm
and value for the wise.
The students are the pets of Paris. They lend to
the city a picturesqueness that no other city enjoys.
So long as they avoid riots aimed at a government
that may now and then offend their sense of right,
their ways of living, their escapades, their noisy and
joyous manifestations of healthy young animal life,
are good-naturedly overlooked. Underneath such a
life there lies, concealed from casual view, another life
that they lead, — one of hard work, of hope, of aspira-
tion, and often of pinching poverty and cruel self-de-
nial. The stress upon them, of many kinds, is great.
The utter absence of an effort to reorganize their
lives upon conventional lines is from a philosophical
belief that if they fail to pass unscathed through it
all, they lack the fine, strong metal from which worthy
artists are made.
The stranger in Paris will here find opened to him
places in which he may study for himself the Bohe-
rnian life of the city in all its careless disregard of
INTRODUCTION
conventions. The cafes, cabarets, and dance-halls
herein described and illustrated have a charm that
wholesome, well-balanced minds will enjoy. The
drawings for the illustrations were all made from the
actual scenes that they depict ; they partake of the
engaging frankness of the text and of its purpose to
show Bohemian life in the Paris of to-day without
any effort at concealment.
W. C. M.
BOHEMIAN PARIS
OUR STUDIO
WE were in wonderful Paris at last — Bishop
and I — after a memorable passage full of
interest from New Yorlc to Havre. Years of
hard work were ahead
of us, for Bishop would
be an artist and I a
sculptor. For two weeks
we had been lodg-
ing temporarily in
the top of a com-
fortable little
hotel, called the
Grand something
(most of the Pari- \\\\\}
sian hotels are
Grand), the window of
which commanded a su-
perb view of the great
city, the vaudeville play-
house of the world.
Pour la premiere fois the
dazzle and glitter had
burst upon us, confusing and incomprehensible at
first, but now assuming form and coherence. If we
15
OUR ARRIVAL IN PARIS
BOHEMIAN PARIS
could have had each a dozen eyes instead of two, or
less greed to see and more patience to learn !
Day by day we had put off the inevitable evil
of finding a studio. Every night found us in the
cheapest seats of some theatre, and often we lolled
on the terraces of the Cafe de la Paix, watching the
pretty girls as they passed, their silken skirts saucily
pulled up, revealing dainty laces and ankles. From
the slippery floor of the Louvre galleries we had
studied the masterpieces of David, Rubens, Rem-
brandt, and the rest ; had visited the Pantheon, the
Musee Cluny ; had climbed the Eiffel Tower, and
traversed the Bois de Boulogne and the Champs-
Elysees. Then came the search for a studio and
the settling to work. It would be famous to have a
little home of our very own, where we could have
little dinners of our very own cooking !
It is with a shudder that I recall those eleven days
of ceaseless studio-hunting. We dragged ourselves
through miles of Quartier Latin streets, and up
hundreds of flights of polished waxed stairs, behind
puffing concierges in carpet slippers, the puffing
changing to grumbling, as, dissatisfied, the concierges
followed us down the stairs. The Quartier abounds
with placards reading, " Atelier d' Artiste a Louer !"
The rentals ranged from two hundred to two thou-
sand francs a year, and the sizes from cigar-boxes to
barns. But there was always something lacking.
On the eleventh day we found a suitable place on
the sixth (top) floor of a quaint old house in a pas-
sage off the Rue St.-Andre-des-Arts. There were
l6
OUR STUDIO
overhead and side lights, and from the window a
noble view of Paris over the house-tops. A room
of fair size joined the studio, and from its vine-laced
window we could look into the houses across the
FROM THE HOTEL WINDOW
court, and down to the bottom of the court as well.
The studio walls were delightfully dirty and low in
tone, and were covered with sketches and cartoons
in oil and charcoal. The price was eight hundred
francs a year, and from the concierge's eloquent
2 17
BOHEMIAN PARIS
catalogue of its charms it seemed a great bargain.
The walls settled our fate, — we took the studio.
It was one thing to agree on the price and an-
other to setde the details. Our French was ailing,
and the concierge's French was — concierges' French.
Bishop found that his pet theory that French should
be spoken with the hands, head, and shoulders car-
ried weak spots which a concierge could discover ;
and then, being somewhat mercurial, he began floun-
dering in a mixture of French and English words
and French and American gestures, ending in de-
spair with the observation that the concierge was a
d fool. At the end of an hour we had learned
that we must sign an iron-bound, government-
stamped contract, agreeing to occupy the studio for
not less than one year, to give six months' notice of
our leaving, and to pay three months' rental in ad-
vance, besides the taxes for one year on all the doors
and windows, and ten francs or more to the con-
cierge. This was all finally settled.
As there was no running water in the rooms (such
a luxury being unknown here), we had to supply
our needs from a clumsy old iron pump in the court,
and employ six flights of stairs in the process.
Then the studio had to be furnished, and there
came endless battles with the furniture dealers in
the neighborhood, who kept their stock replenished
from the goods of bankrupt artists and suspended
menages. These marchands de meubles are a wily
race, but Bishop pursued a plan in dealing with
them that worked admirably. He would enter a
i8
BISHOP WAS OUR COOK
OUR STUDIO
shop and price an article that we wanted, and then
throw up his hands in horror and leave the place as
though it were haunted with a plague. The dealer
would always come tumbling after him and offer
him the article for a half or a third of the former
price. In this way Bishop bought chairs, tables, a
large easel, beds, a studio stove, book-shelves, linen,
drapings, water pitchers and buckets, dishes, cooking
utensils, and many other things, the cost of the
whole being less than one hundred and fifty francs, —
and thus we were established. The studio became
quite a snug and hospitable retreat, in spite of the
alarming arrangement that Bishop adopted, "to help
the composition of the room." His favorite cast,
the Unknown Woman, occupied the place of honor
over his couch, where he could see it the first thing
in the morning, when the dawn, stealing through the
skylight, brought out those strange and subtle fea-
tures which he swore inspired him from day to day.
My room was filled with brilliant posters by Cheret
and Mucha and Steinlen — they were too bold and
showy for the low tone of Bishop's studio. It all
made a pretty picture. — the dizzy posters, the solemn
trunks, the books, the bed with its gaudy print
coverings, and the little crooked-pane window hung
with bright green vines that ran thither from a box
in the window of an adjoining apartment. And it
was all completed by the bright faces of three pretty
seamstresses, who sat sewing every day at their
window across the passage.
Under our housekeeping agreement Bishop was
BOHEMIAN PARIS
made cook, and I chambermaid and water-carrier.
It was Bishop's duty to obey the alarm clock at six
every morning and light the fire, while I went down
for water at the pump, and for milk at the stand
beside the court entrance, where fat Madame Giote
sold cafe-au-lait and lait froid ou chaud, from a sou's
worth up. Then, after breakfast, I did the chamber
work while Bishop washed the dishes. Bishop could
make for breakfast the most delicious coffee and
flapjacks and omelette in the whole of Paris. By
eight o'clock all was in order ; Bishop was smoking
his pipe and singing " Down on the Farm" while
working on his life study, and I was off to my
modelling in clay.
Bishop soon had the hearts of all the shop-keepers
in the neighborhood. The baker's dimple-cheeked
daughter never worried if the scales hung a little in
his favor, at the boucherie he was served with the
choicest cuts of meat, and the fried-potato women
called him "mon fils" and fried a fresh lot of potatoes
for him. Even Madame Tonneau. the marchande de
tabac, saw that he had the freshest packages in the
shop. Often, when I was returning home at night,
I encountered him making cheerily for the studio,
bearing bread by the yard, his pockets bulging with
other material for dinner. Ah, he was a wonderful
cook, and we had marvellous appetites ! So famous
did he soon become that the models (the lady ones,
of course) were eager to dine avec nous ; and when
they did they helped to set the table, they sewed
buttons on our clothes, and they made themselves
OUR STUDIO
agreeable and perfectly at home with that charming-
grace which is so peculiarly French. Ah, those were
jolly times !
The court, or, more properly, le passage, on which
our window looked was a narrow little thoroughfare
leading from the Rue St. -Andre des- Arts to the
Boulevard St. -Germain. It bore little traffic, but
was a busy way withal. It had iron-workers' shops,
where hot iron was beaten into artistic lamps, grills,
and bed-frames ; a tinsmith's shop ; a blanchisserie,
where our shirts were made white and smooth by
the pretty blanchisseuses singing all day over their
work ; a wine-cellar, whose barrels were eternally
blocking one end of the passage ; an embossed
picture-card factory, where twoscore women, with
little hammers and steel dies, beat pictures into
cards ; a furniture shop, where everything old and
artistic was sold, the Hotel du Passage, and a book-
binder's shop.
Each of the eight buildings facing the passage was
ruled by a formidable concierge, who had her dark
little living apartments near the entrances. These
are the despots of the court, and their function is to
make life miserable for their lodgers. When they
are not doing that they are eternally scrubbing and
polishing. They are all married. M. Maye, le mari
de notre concierge, is a tailor. He sits at the window
and mends and sews all day long, or acts as concierge
when his wife is away. The husband of the con-
cierge next door is a sergeant de ville at night, but
in the early mornings as, in a soiled blouse, he emp-
23
I^OHEMIAN PARIS
ties ash cans, he looks very unlike the personage
dressed at night in a neat blue uniform and wearing
a short sword Another concierge's husband fait des
courses — runs errands — for sufficient pay.
Should you fail to clean your boots on the mat,
and thus soil the glossy stairs, have a care ! — a con-
cierge's tongue
has inherited the
warlike character-
istics of the Cae-
sars. Rugs and
carpets must not
be shaken out of
the windows after
nine o'clock.
Ashes and other
refuse must be
thrown into the
big bin of the
house not later
than seven.
Sharp at eleven
in the evening
the lights are ex-
tinguished and
the doors locked
for the night ; and then all revelry must immediately
cease. Should you arrive en retard, — that is, after
eleven, — you must ring the bell violently until the
despot, generally after listening for an hour to the
bell, unlocks the catch from her couch. Then when
24
OUR CONCIERGE
OUR STUDIO
you close the door and pass her lodge you must
call out your name. If you are out often or till
very late, be prepared for a lecture on the crime
of breaking the rest of hard-working concierges.
After the day's work the concierges draw their chairs
out into the court and gossip about their tenants.
The nearer the roof the lodger the less the respect he
commands. Would he not live on a lower floor if he
were able ? And then, the top floor gives small tips !
It is noticeable that the entresol and premiers
etages are clean and highly polished, and that the
cleanliness and polish diminish steadily toward the
top, where they almost disappear. Ah, les con-
cierges ! But what would Paris be without them ?
Directly beneath us an elderly couple have apart-
ments. Every morning at five the old gentleman
starts French oaths rattling through the court by
beating his rugs out of his window. At six he rouses
the ire of a widow below him by watering his plants
and incidentally drenching her bird-cages. Not long
ago she rose in violent rebellion, and he hurled a
flower pot at her protruding head. It smashed on
her window-sill ; she screamed " Murder !" and the
whole court was in an uproar. The concierges and
the old gentleman's pacific wife finally restored order
— till the next morning.
Next to my room are an elderly lady and her
sweet, sad-faced daughter. They are very quiet and
dignified, and rarely fraternize with their neighbors.
It is their vine that creeps over to my window, and
it is carefully tended by the daughter. And all the
25
BOHEMIAN PARIS
doves and sparrows of the court come regularly to
eat out of her hand, and a lively chatter they have
over it. The ladies are the widow and daughter of a
once prosperous stock broker on the Bourse, whom
an unlucky turn of the wheel drove to poverty and
suicide.
The three seamstresses over the way are the sun-
shine of the court. They are not so busy sewing
and singing but that they find time to send arch
glances toward our window, and their blushes and
smiles when Bishop sends them sketches of them
that he has made from memory are more than
remunerative.
A young Scotch student from Glasgow, named
Cameron, has a studio adjoining ours. He is a fine.
jovial fellow, and we usually assist him to dispose
of his excellent brew of tea at five o'clock. Every
Thursday evening there was given a musical chez
lui, in which Bishop and I assisted with mandolin and
guitar, while Cameron played the flute. For these
occasions Cameron donned his breeks and kilt, and
danced the sword-dance round two table-knives
crossed. The American songs strike him as being
strange and incomprehensible. He cannot under-
stand the negro dialect, and wonders if America is
filled with negroes and cotton plantations ; but he
is always delighted with Bishop's " Down on the
Farm."
Life begins at five o'clock in our court. The old
gentleman beats his rugs, the milk-bottles rattle, the
bread-carts rumble, Madame Giote opens her milk-
26
OUR COURT-YARD
OUR STUDIO
stand, and the concierges drag the ash-cans out into
the court, where a drove of rag-pickers fall upon
them. These gleaners are a queer lot. Individuals
and families pursue the quest, each with a distinct
purpose. One will seek nothing but bones, glass,
and crockery ; another sifts the ashes for coal ; an-
other takes only paper and rags ; another old shoes
and hats ; and so on, from can to can, none inter-
fering with any of the others. The dogs are the first
at the bins. They are regularly organized in working
squads, travelling in fours and fives. They are quite
adept at digging through the refuse for food, and
they rarely quarrel ; and they never leave one bin
for another until they have searched it thoroughly.
The swish of water and a coarse brush broom an-
nounces the big, strong woman who sweeps the gut-
ters of the Rue St.-Andre-des-Arts. With broad
sweeps of the broom she spreads the water over half
the street and back into the gutter, making the worn
yellow stones shine. She is coarsely clad and wears
black sabots ; and God knows how she can swear
when the gleaners scatter the refuse into the gutter !
The long wail of the fish-and-mussel woman, " J'ai
des beaux maquereaux, des monies, poissons a frire,
a frire !" as she pushes her cart, means seven o'clock.
The day now really begins. Water-pails are
clanging and sabots are clicking on the stones.
The wine people set up a rumble by cleaning their
casks with chains and water. The anvils of the
iron-workers are ringing, and there comes the tink-
tink-tink of the little hammers in the embossed-picture
29
BOHEMIAN PARIS
factory. The lumbering garbage-cart arrives to bear
away the ash-bins, the lead-horse shaking his head
to rinor the bell on his neck in announcement of the
approach. Street-venders and hawkers of various
comestibles, each with his or her quaint musical cry,
come in numbers. "J'ai des beaux choux-fleurs ! O,
comme ils sont beaux !" The fruit- and potato-women
come after, and then the chair-menders. These mar-
ket-women are early risers. They are at the great
Halles Centrales at four o'clock to bargain for their
wares ; and besides good lungs they have a marvel-
lous shrewdness, born of long dealings with French
housewives.
Always near eight may be heard, " Du mouron
pour les petits oiseaux !" and all the birds in the court,
familiar with the cry, pipe up for their chickweed.
'' Voila le bon fromage a la creme pour trois sous !"
cries a keen-faced little woman, her three-wheeled
cart loaded with cream cheeses ; and she gives a
soup-plate full of them, wath cream poured gener
ously over, and as she pockets the money says,
"Voila ! ce que c'est bon avec des confitures !" Cream
cheeses and prayer ! On Sunday mornings during
the spring and summer the goat's-milk vender, blow-
ing a reed-pipe, invades the passage with his living
milk-cans, — a flock of eight hairy goats that know
the route as well as he, and they are always willing
to be milked when a customer offers a bowl. The
tripe-man with his wares and bell is the last of the
food-sellers of the day. The window-glass repairer,
" Vitrier !" passes at nine, and then the beggars and
30
THE LAUNDRY GIRL
OUR STUDIO
strolling musicians and singers put in an appearance.
In the afternoon the old-clo' man comes hobbling
under his load of cast-off clothes, crying, " Marchand
d'habits !" of which you can catch only " 'Chand
d'habits !" and the barrel-buyer, " Marchand de ton-
neaux !" The most musical of them all is the por-
celain-mender, who cries, " Voici le raccommodeur de
porcelaines, faience, cristal, poseur de robinets !" and
then plays a fragment of a hunting-song.
The beggars and musicians also have regular
routes and fixed hours. Cold and stormy days are
welcomed by them, for then pity lends activity to
sous. A piratical old beggar has his stand near the
entrance to the court, where he kneels on the stones,
his faithful mongrel dog beside him. He occasion-
ally poses for the artists when times are dull, but he
prefers begging, — it is easier and more remunerative.
Three times a week we are treated to some really
good singing by a blind old man, evidently an artist
in his day. When the familiar sound of his guitar is
heard all noises in the passage cease, and all win-
dows are opened to hear. He sings arias from the
operas. His little old wife gathers up the sous that
ring on the flags. Sometimes a strolling troupe of
two actors and three musicians makes its appear-
ance, and invariably plays to a full house. There
are droves of sham singers who do not sing at
all but give mournful howls and tell their woes to
deaf windows. One of them, a tattered woman
with two babies, refused to pose for Bishop,
althouorh he offered her five francs for the afternoon.
3 33
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Her babies never grow older or bigger as the years
pass.
We all know when anybody in the passage is
going to take a bath. There are no bath-tubs in
these old houses, but that difficulty is surmounted
by a bathing establishment on the Boulevard St.-
Michel. It sends around a cart bearing a tank of
hot water and a zinc tub. The man who pulls the
cart carries the tub to the room, and fills it by carry-
ing up the water in buckets. Then he remains
below until the bath is finished, to regain his tub and
collect a fi'anc.
Since we have been here the court entrance has
been once draped in mourning. At the head of the
casket of old Madame Courtoise, who lived across the
way, stood a stately crucifix, and candles burned,
and there were mourners and yellow bead wreaths.
A quiet sadness sat upon the court, and the people
spoke in whispers only.
And there have been two weddings, — one at the
blanchisserie, where the master's daughter was mar-
ried to a young mechanic from the iron shop. There
were glorious times at the laundry that night, for the
whole court was present. It was four in the morn-
ing when the party broke up, and then our shirts
were two days late.
Thus ran the first months of the four years of our
student life in Paris ; in its domestic aspects it was
typical of all that followed. We soon became mem-
bers of the American Art Association, and gradually
made friends in charming French homes. Then
34
OUR STUDIO
there was the strange Bohemian Hfe lying outside
as well as within the students' pale, and into the
spirit of it all we found our way. It is to the Bohe-
mian, not the social, life of Paris that these papers
are devoted — a life both picturesque and pathetic,
filled with the oddest contrasts and incongruities,
with much suffering but more content, and spectacu-
lar and fascinating in all its phases. No one can
have seen and known Paris without a study of this
its living, struggling artistic side, so strange, so re-
mote from the commonplace world surging and
roaring unheeded about it.
On New Year's Day we had an overwhelming
number of callers. First came the concierge, who
cleaned our door-knob and wished us a prosperous
and bonne annee. She got ten francs, — we did not
know what was coming. The chic little blanchisseuse
called next with our linen. That meant two francs.
Then came in succession two telegraph boys, the
facteur, or postman, who presented us with a cheap
calendar, and another postman, who delivers only
second-class mail. Thf-y got a franc each. Then
the marchand de charbon's boy called with a clean
face and received fifty centimes, and everybody else
with whom we had had dealings ; and our offerings
had a steadily diminishing value.
We could well bear all this, however, in view of
the great day, but a week old, when we had cele-
brated Christmas. Bishop prepared a dinner fit for
a king, giving the greater part of his time for a week
to preparations for the great event. Besides a great
35
BOHEMIAN PARIS
many French dishes, we had turkey and goose, cooked
for us at the rotisserie near by, and soup, oysters,
American pastries, and a big, blazing plum-pudding.
We and our guests (there were eight in all) donned
full dress for the occasion, and a bonne, hired for the
evening, brought on the surprises one after another.
But why should not it have been a glorious evening
high up among the chimney-pots of old Paris ? for
did we not drink to the loved ones in a distant land,
and were not our guests the prettiest among the
pretty toilers of our court ?
FROM THE HOTEL WI^DOW
THE £COLE DBS BEAUX-ARTS
IT is about the fifteenth of October, after the long
summer vacation, that the doors of the great
Ecole des Beaux-Arts are thrown open. The
first week, called "la semaine des nouveaux," is de-
TYPICAL STUDENTS OF THE BEAUX-ARTS
voted to the initiation and hazing of the new stu-
dents, who come mostly from foreign countries and
37
BOHExMIAN PARIS
the French provinces. These festivities can never
be forgotten — by the nouveaux.
Bishop had condescendingly decided to become
un eleve de Gerome — with some misgivings, for
BROTHER MUSKETEERS OF THE BRUSH AND A NEW MODEL
Bishop had developed ideas of a large and free
American art, while Gerome was hard and academic.
One day he gathered up some of his best drawings
and studies (which he regarded as masterpieces)
and, climbing to the imperiale of a Clichy 'bus, rode
38
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
over to Montmartre, where Gerome had his private
studio. He was politely ushered in by a man-
servant, and conducted to the door of the master's
studio through a hall and gallery filled with wonder-
ful marble groups. Gerome himself opened the
door, and Bishop found himself in the great man's
workshop. For a moment Bishop stood dazed in
the middle of the splendid room, with its great
sculptures and paintings, some still unfinished, and
a famous collection of barbaric arms and costumes.
A beautiful model was posing upon a rug. But
most impressive of all was the white-haired master,
regarding him with a thoughtful and searching, but
kindly, glance. Bishop presently found a tongue
with which to stammer out his mission, — he would
be a pupil of the great Gerome.
The old man smiled, and, bidding his model retire,
inspected carefully the array of drawings that Bishop
spread at his feet, — Gerome must have evidence of
some ability for the magic of his brain and touch to
develop.
"Sont pas mal, mon ami," he said, after he had
studied all the drawings ; " non, pas mal," Bishop's
heart bounded, — his work was not bad! "Vous
etes Americain ?" continued the master. " Cast un
pays que j'aimerais bien visiter si le temps ne me
manquait pas."
Thus he chatted on, putting Bishop more and
more at his ease. He talked of America and the
promising future that she has for art ; then he went
into his little office, and, asking Bishop's name, filled
39
BOHEMIAN PARIS
out the blank that made him a happy pupil of
Gerome. He handed it to Bishop with this parting
advice, spoken with great earnestness :
" II faut travailler, mon ami — travailler ! Pour
arriver, travailler toujours, serieusement, bien en-
tendu !"
Bishop was so proud and happy that he ran all
the way up the six flights of stairs to our floor, burst
into the studio, and executed a war-dance that would
have shamed an Apache, stepping into his paint-box
and nearly destroying his sacred Unknown. That
night we had a glorious supper, with des escargots
to start with.
Early on the fifteenth of October, with his head
erect and hope filling his soul. Bishop started for
the Beaux-Arts, which was in the Rue Bonaparte,
quite near. That night he returned wise and sad-
dened.
He had bought a new easel and two rush-bottomed
tabourets, which every new student must provide,
and. loaded with these, he made for the Ecole.
Gathered at the big gates was a great crowd of
models of all sorts, men, women, and children, fat,
lean, and of all possible sizes. In the court-yard,
behind the gates, was a mob of long-haired students,
who had a year or more ago passed the initiatory
ordeal and become ancients. Their business now
was to yell chaff at the arriving nouveaux. The con-
cierge conducted Bishop up-stairs to the Adminis-
tration, where he joined a long line of other nouveaux
waiting for the opening of the office at ten o'clock.
40
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX ARTS
Then he produced his papers and was enrolled as a
student of the Ecole.
It is only in this government school of the four arts
that the typical Bohemian students of Paris may be
found, including the genuine type of French student,
with his long hair, his whiskers, his Latin Quarter
" plug" hat, his cape, blouse, wide corduroy trousers,
sash, expansive necktie, and immense cane. The
Ecole preserves this type more effectually than the
other schools, such as Julian's and Colarossi's, where
most of the students are foreigners in conventional
dress.
Among the others who entered Gerome's atelier
at the same time that Bishop did was a Turk named
Haidor (fresh from the Ottoman capital), a Hun-
garian, a Siamese, an American from the plains of
Nebraska, and five Frenchmen from the provinces.
They all tried to speak French and be agreeable as
they entered the atelier together. At the door stood
a gardien, whose principal business is to mark ab-
sentees and suppress riots. Then they passed to
the gentle mercies of the reception committee and
the massier within.
The massier is a student who manages the studio,
models, and masse money. This one, a large fellow
with golden whiskers (size and strength are valu-
able elements of the massier's efficiency), demanded
twenty-five francs from each of the new-comers, — this
being the masse money, to pay for fixtures, turpen-
tine, soap, and clean towels, et pour payer a boire.
The Turk refused to pay, protesting that he had but
41
BOHEMIAN PARIS
thirty francs to last him the month ; but menacing
stools and sticks opened his purse ; his punishment
was to come later. After the money had been col-
lected from all the nouveaux the entire atelier of over
sixty students, dressed in working blouses and old
coats, formed in line, and with deafening shouts of
"A boire ! a boire !" placed the nouveaux in front to
carry the class banner, and thus marched out into
the Rue Bonaparte to the Cafe des Deux Magots,
singing songs fit only for the studio. Their singing,
shouting, and ridiculous capers drew a great crowd.
At the cafe they created consternation with their
shouting and howling until the arrival of great
bowls of "grog Americain," cigarettes, and gateaux.
Rousing cheers were given to a marriage-party across
the Place St.-Germain. The Turk was forced to do
a Turkish dance on a table and sing Turkish songs,
and to submit to merciless ridicule. The timid little
Siamese also had to do a turn, as did Bishop and
W , the American from Nebraska, who had been
a cowboy at home. After yelling themselves hoarse
and nearly wrecking the cafe, the students marched
back in a disorderly mob to the Ecole. Then the
real trouble began.
The gardien having conveniently disappeared, the
students closed and barricaded the door. "A poil !
a poil !" they yelled, dancing frantically about the
frightened nouveaux ; "a poil les sales nouveaux ! a
poil !" They seized the Turk and stripped him, de-
spite his desperate resistance ; then they tied his
hands behind him and with paint and brushes dec-
42
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
orated his body in the most fantastic designs that
they could conceive. His oaths were frightful. He
cursed them in the name of Allah, and swore to have
the blood of all Frenchmen for desecrating the sacred
person of a Moslem. He called them dogs of infidels
and Christians. But all this was in Turkish, and the
students enjoyed it immensely. " En broche !" they
yelled, after they had made him a spectacle with the
brushes ; " en broche ! II faut le mettre en broche !''
This was quickly done. They forced the Turk to
his haunches, bound his wrists in front of his up-
raised knees, thrust a long pole between his elbows
and knees, and thus bore him round the atelier at
the head of a singing procession. Four times they
went round ; then they placed the helpless M. Haidor
on the model-stand for future reference. The bad
French that the victim occasionally mixed with his
tirade indicated the fearful damnation that he was
doubtless dealinof out in Turkish.
A circle was then formed about him, and a solemn
silence fell upon the crowd. A Frenchman named
Joncierge, head of the reception committee, stepped
forth, and in slow and impressive speech announced
that it was one of the requirements of the Atelier
Gerome to brand all nouveaux over the heart with
the name of the atelier, and that the branding of the
Turk would now proceed. Upon hearing this, M.
Haidor emitted a fearful howl. But he was turned
to face the red-hot studio stove and watch the brand-
ing-iron slowly redden in the coals. During this
interval the students sang the national song, and
43
BOHEMIAN PARIS
followed it with a funeral march. Behind the Turk's
back a second poker was being painted to resemble
a red-hot one.
The hot poker was taken from the fire, and its
usefulness tested by burning a string with it. Haidor
grew deathly pale. An intense silence sat upon the
atelier as the iron was brought near the helpless
young man. In a moment, with wonderful clever-
ness, the painted poker was substituted for the hot
one and placed quickly against his breast. When
the cold iron touched him he roared like a maddened
bull, and rolled quivering and moaning upon the
floor. The students were frantic with delight.
It was some time before Haidor could realize that
he was not burned to a crisp. He was then taken
across the atelier and hoisted to a narrow shelf fifteen
feet from the floor, where he was left to compose
himself and enjoy the tortures of the other nouveaux.
He dared not move, however, lest he fall ; and be-
cause he refused to take anything in good-nature,
but glared hatred and vengeance down at them, they
pelted him at intervals with water-soaked sponges.
The Hungarian and one of the French nouveaux
were next seized and stripped. Then they were
ordered to fight a duel, in this fashion : they were
made to mount two stools about four feet apart.
The Hungarian was handed a long paint-brush drip-
ping with Prussian blue, and the Frenchman a simi-
lar brush soaked with crimson lake. Then the bat-
tle began. Each hesitated to splash the other at
first, but as they warmed to their work under the
44
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
shouting of the committee they went in with a will.
When the Frenchman had received a broad splash
on the mouth in return for a chest decoration of his
A PAINT-BRUSH DUEL AT THE BEAUX-ARTS
adversary, his blood rose, and then the serious work
began. Both quickly lost their temper. When they
were unwillingly made to desist the product of their
labors was startling, though not beautiful. Then
45
BOHEMIAN PARIS
they were rubbed down vigorously with turpentine
and soiled towels, and were given a franc each for
a bath, because they had behaved so handsomely.
Bishop came next. He had made up his mind to
stand the initiation philosophically, whatever it might
be, but when he was ordered to strip he became ap-
prehensive and then angry. Nothing so delights
the students as for a nouveau to lose his temper.
Bishop squared off to face the whole atelier, and
looked ugly. The students silently deployed on
three sides, and with a yell rushed in, but not before
three of them had gone down under his fists did they
pin him to the floor and strip him. While Bishop
was thus being prepared, the Nebraskan was being
dealt with. He had the wisdom not to lose his
temper, and that made his resistance all the more
formidable. Laughing all the time, he nevertheless
dodged, tripped, wrestled, threw stools, and did so
many other astonishing and baflling things that the
students, though able to have conquered him in the
end, were glad to make terms with him. In this ar-
rangement he compelled them to include Bishop.
As a result, those two mounted the model throne
naked, and sang together and danced a jig, all so
cleverly that the Frenchmen were frantic with delight,
and welcomed them as des bons amis. The amazing
readiness and capability of the American fist bring
endless delight and perennial surprise to the French.
The rest of the nouveaux were variously treated.
Some, after being stripped, were grotesquely deco-
rated with designs and pictures not suitable for gen-
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
eral inspection. Others were made to sing, to re-
cite, or to act scenes from familiar plays, or, in default
of that, to improvise scenes, some of which were ex-
ceedingly funny. Others, attached to a rope de-
pending from the ceiling, were swung at a perilous
rate across the atelier, dodging easels in their flight.
At half-past twelve the sport was over. The
barricade was removed, the Turk's clothes hidden,
the Turk left howling on his shelf, and the atelier
abandoned. The next morning there was trouble.
The director was furious, and threatened to close
the atelier for a month, because the Turk had not
been discovered until five o'clock, when his hoarse
howls attracted the attention of the gardien of the
fires. His trousers and one shoe could not be
found. It was three months before Haidor appeared
at the atelier again, and then everything had been
forgotten.
Bishop was made miserable during the ensuing
week. He would find himself roasting over paper
fires kindled under his stool. Paint was smeared
upon his easel to stain his hands. His painting was
altered and entirely re-designed in his absence.
Strong-smelling cheeses were placed in the lining of
his "plug" hat. His stool-legs were so loosened
that when he sat down he struck the floor with a
crash. His painting-blouse was richly decorated in-
side and out with shocking coats of arms that would
not wash out. One day he discovered that he had
been painting for a whole hour with currant jelly
from a tube that he thought contained laque.
4 49
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Then, being a nouveau, he could never get a good
position in which to draw from the model. Every
Monday morning a new model is posed for the week,
and the students select places according to the length
of time they have been attending. The nouveaux
have to take what is left. And they must be ser-
vants to the ancients, — run out for tobacco, get
soap and clean towels, clean paint-brushes, and keep
the studio in order. With the sculptors and archi-
tects it is worse. The sculptors must sweep the
dirty, clay-grimed floor regularly, fetch clean water,
mix the clay and keep it fresh and moist, and on
Saturdays, when the week's work is finished, must
break up the forty or more clay figures, and restore
them to clay for next week's operations. The archi-
tects must build heavy wooden frames, mount the
projects and drawings, and cart them about Paris to
the different exhibition rooms.
At the end of a year the nouveau drops his hated
title and becomes a proud ancient, to bully to his
heart's content, as those before him.
Mondays and Wednesdays are criticism days, for
then M. Gerome comes down and goes over the
work of his pupils. He is very early and punctual,
never arriving later than half-past eight, usually be-
fore half the students are awake. The moment he
enters all noises cease, and all seem desperately
hard at work, although a moment before the place
may have been in an uproar. Gerome plumps down
upon the man nearest to him, and then visits each of
his eleves, storming and scolding mercilessly when
50
GfeR&ME CRITICISING BISHOP'S WORK
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
his pupils have failed to follow his instructions. As
soon as a student's criticism is finished he rises and
follows the master to hear the other criticisms, so
that toward the close the procession is large.
Bishop's first criticism took him all aback. " Com-
ment !" gasped the master, gazing at the canvas in
horror. "Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait?" he sternly
demanded, glaring at the luckless student, who, in
order to cultivate a striking individuality, was paint-
ing the model in broad, thick dashes of color. Ge-
rome glanced at Bishop's palette, and saw a com-
plete absence of black upon it. " Comment, vous
n'avez pas de noir?" he roared. " C'est tres im-
portant, la partie materielle ! Vous ne m'ecoutez
pas. mon ami, — je parle dans le desert ! Vous
n'avez pas d'aspect general, mon ami," and much
more, while Bishop sat cold to the marrow. The
students, crowded about, enjoyed his discomfiture
immensely, and, behind Gerome's back, laughed in
their sleeves and made faces at Bishop. But many
others suffered, and Bishop had his inning with
them.
All during Gerome's tour of inspection the model
must maintain his pose, however difficult and ex-
hausting. Often he is kept on a fearful strain for
two hours. After the criticism the boys show Gerome
sketches and studies that they have made outside
the Ecole, and it is in discussing them that his ge-
niality and kindliness appear. Gerome imperiously
demands two things, — that his pupils, before starting
to paint, lay on a red or yellow tone, and that they
S3
BOHEMIAN PARIS
keep their brushes scrupulously clean. Woe to him
who disobeys !
After he leaves with a cheery " Bon jour, mes-
sieurs !" pandemonium breaks loose, if the day be
Saturday. Easels, stools, and studies are mowed
down as by a whirlwind, yells shake the building, the
model is released, a tattoo is beaten on the sheet-
iron stove-guard, everything else capable of making
a noise is brought into service, and either the model
is made to do the danse du ventre or a nouveau is
hazed.
The models — what stories are there ! Every Mon-
day morning from ten to twenty present themselves,
male and female, for inspection in puris naturalibus
before the critical gaze of the students of the differ-
ent ateliers. One after another they mount the
throne and assume such academic poses of their own
choosing as they imagine will display their points to
the best advantage. The students then vote upon
them, for and against, by raising the hand. The
massier, standing beside the model, announces the
result, and, if the vote is favorable, enrols the model
for a certain week to come.
There is intense rivalry among the models.
Strange to say, most of the male models in the
schools of Paris are from Italy, the southern part
especially. As a rule, they have very good figures.
They begin posing at the age of five or six, and fol-
low the business until old a^e retires them. Crowds
of them are at the gates of the Beaux-Arts early on
Monday mornings. In the voting, a child may be
54
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
preferred to his seniors, and yet the rate of payment
is the same, — thirty francs a week.
Many of the older models are quite proud of their
profession, spending idle hours in studying the atti-
ITALIAN MODFLS IN FRONT OF COLAROSSl'S
tudes of figures in great paintings and in sculptures
in the Louvre or the Luxembourg, and adopting
these poses when exhibiting themselves to artists ;
but the trick is worthless.
Few of the women models remain long in the pro-
fession. Posing is hard and fatiguing work, and the
students are merciless in their criticisms of any de-
fects of figure that the models may have, — the French
are born critics. During the many years that I have
studied and worked in Paris I have seen scores of
55
BOHEMIAN PARIS
disappear
whither ?
contented
models begin their profession with a serious defer-
mination to make it their life-work. They would
appear regularly at the different ateliers for about
two years, and would
be (gratified to ob-
serve endless repro-
ductions of their
graces in the prize
rows on the studio
walls. Then their
appearance would be
less and less regular,
and they would finally
al together —
Some become
companions
of students and artists, but
the cafes along the Boul'
Mich', the cabarets of Mont-
martre, and the dance-halls of the
Moulin Rouge and the Bal Bullier
have their own story to tell. Some
are happily married ; for instance,
one, noted for her beauty of face
and figure, is the wife of a New
York millionaire. But she was clever as well as
beautiful, and few models are that. Most of them
are ordinaire, living the easy life of Bohemian Paris,
and having little knowledge of le monde propre.
But, oh, how they all love dress ! and therein lies
most of the story. When Marcelle or Helene ap-
56
RKST TIME FOR THE
MODEL
THE ECOLE DES REAUX-ARTS
pears, all of a sudden, radiant in silks and creamy
lace petticoats, and sweeps proudly into the crowded
studios, flushed and happy, and hears the dear com-
pliments that the students heap upon her, we know
that thirty francs a week could not have changed the
gray grub into a gorgeous butterfly.
" C'est mon amant qui m'a fait cadeau," Marcelle
w^ll explain, deeming some explanation necessary.
There is none to dispute you, Marcelle. This vast
whirlpool has seized many another like you, and will
seize many another more. And to poor Marcelle it
seems so small a price to pay to become one of the
grand ladies of Paris, wath their dazzling jewels and
rich clothes !
An odd whim may overtake one here and there.
One young demoiselle, beautiful as a girl and suc-
cessful as a model a year ago, may now be seen
nightly at the Cabaret du Soleil d'Or, frowsy and
languishing, in keeping with the spirit of her con-
freres there, singing her famous " Le Petit Caporal"
to thunderous applause, and happy with the love,
squalor, dirt, and hunger that she finds with the luck-
less poet whose fortunes she shares. It was not a
matter of clothes with her.
It is a short and easy step from the studio to the
cafe. At the studio it is all little money, hard posing,
dulness, and poor clothes ; at the cafes are the bril-
liant lights, showy clothes, tinkling money, clinking
glasses, popping corks, unrestrained abandon, and
midnight suppers. And the studios and the cafes
are but adjoining apartments, one may say, in the
57
BOHEMIAN PARIS
great house of Bohemia. The studio is the introduc-
tion to the cafe : the cafe is the burst of sunshine
after the dreariness of the studio ; and Marcelle
determines that for once she will bask in the warmth
and glow. . . . Ah, what a jolly night it was, and a
louis d'or in her purse besides ! Marcelle's face was
pretty — and new. She is late at the studio next
morning, and is sleepy and cross. The students
grumble. The room is stifling, and its gray walls
seem ready to crush her. It is so tiresome, so
stupid — and only thirty francs a week ! Bah ! . . .
Marcelle appears no more.
All the great painters have their exclusive model
or models, paying them a permanent salary. These
favored ones move in a special circle, into which the
ordinaire may not enter, unless she becomes the
favorite of some grand homme. They are never
seen at the academies, and rarely or never pose in
the schools, unless it was there they began their
career.
Perhaps the most famous of the models of Paris
was Sarah Brown, whose wild and exciting life has
been the talk of the world. Her beautiful figure
and glorious golden hair opened to her the whole
field of modeldom. Offers for her services as model
were more numerous than she could accept, and the
prices that she received were very high. She was
the mistress of one great painter after another, and
she lived and reigned like a queen. Impulsive,
headstrong, passionate, she would do the most reck-
less things. She would desert an artist in the middle
58
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
of his masterpiece and come down to the studio to
pose for the students at thirty francs a week. Gor-
geously apparelled, she would glide into a studio,
overturn all the easels that she could reach, and then
sliriek with laughter over the havoc and consterna-
tion that she had created. The students would greet
her with shouts and lorm a circle about her, while
she would banteringly call them her friends. Then
she would jump upon the throne, dispossess the
model there, and give a dance or make a speech,
knocking off every hat that her parasol could reach.
But no one could resist Sarah.
She came up to the Atelier Gerome one morning
and demanded une semaine de femme. The massier
booked her for the following week. She arrived
promptly on time and was posed. Wednesday a
whim seized her to wear her plumed hat and silk
stockings. " C'est beaucoup plus chic," she naively
explained. When Gerome entered the studio and
saw her posing thus she smiled saucily at him, but
he turned in a rage and left the studio without a
word. Thursday she tired of the pose and took one
to please herself, donning a skirt. Of course pro-
tests were useless, so the students had to recom-
mence their work. The remainder of the week she
sat upon the throne in full costume, refusing to pose.
She amused herself with smoking cigarettes and
keeping the nouveaux running errands for her.
It was she who was the cause of the students'
riot in 1893, — ^ ^^^^ ^^^^ came near ending in a revo-
lution. It was all because she appeared at le Bal
59
BOHEMIAN PARIS
des Quat'z' Arts in a costume altogether too simple
and natural to suit the prefect of police, who pun-
ished her. She was always at the Salon on receiving-
day, and shocked the occupants of the liveried car-
riages on the Champs-Elysees with her dancing. In
fact, she was always at the head of everything ex-
traordinary and sensational among the Bohemians
of Paris. But she aged rapidly under her wild life.
Her figure lost its grace, her lovers deserted her,
and after her dethronement as Queen of Bohemia,
broken-hearted and poor, she put an end to her
wretched life, — and Paris laughed.
The breaking in of a new girl model is a joy
that the students never permit themselves to miss.
Among the many demoiselles who come every Mon-
day morning are usually one or two that are new.
The new one is accompanied by two or more of her
girl friends, who give her encouragement at the ter-
rible moment when she disrobes. As there are no
dressing-rooms, there can be no privacy. The stu-
dents gather about and watch the proceedings with
great interest, and make whatever remarks their
deviltry can suggest. This is the supreme test ; all
the efforts of the attendant girls are required to
hold the new one to her purpose. When finally,
after an inconceivable struggle with her shame, the
girl plunges ahead in reckless haste to finish the job,
the students applaud her roundly.
But more torture awaits her. Frightened, trem-
bling, blushing furiously, she ascends the throne, and
innocently assumes the most awkward and ridiculous
60
A NEW MODEL AT GfeRQMK'S ATELIER
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
poses, forgetting in that terrible moment the poses
that she had learned so well under the tutelage of
o
her friends. It is then that the fiendishness of the
students rises to its greatest height. Dazed and
numb, she hardly comprehends the ordeal through
which she is now put. The students have adopted a
grave and serious bearing, and solemnly ask her to
assume the most outlandish and ungraceful poses.
Then come long and mock-earnest arguments about
her figure, these arguments having been carefully
learned and rehearsed beforehand. One claims that
her waist is too long and her legs too heavy ; another
hotly takes the opposite view. Then they put her
through the most absurd evolutions to prove their
points. At last she is made to don her hat and
stockings ; and the students form a ring about her
and dance and shout until she is ready to faint.
Of course the studio has a ringleader in all this
deviltry, — all studios have. Joncierge is head of all
the mischief in our atelier. There is no end to his
ingenuity in devising new means of torture and fun.
His personations are marvellous. When he imitates
Bernhardt, Rejane, or Calve, no work can be done in
the studio. Gerome himself is one of his favorite
victims. But Joncierge cannot remain long in one
school ; the authorities pass him on as soon as they
find that he is really hindering the work of the stu-
dents. One day, at Julian's, he took the class skel-
eton, and with a cord let the rattling, quivering
thing down into the Rue du Dragon, and frightened
the passers out of their wits. As his father is chef
63
BOHEMIAN PARIS
d'orchestre at the Grand Opera, Joncierge junior
learns all the operas and convulses us with imitations
of the singers.
Another character in the studio is le jeune Siffert.
only twenty-three, and one of the cleverest of the
coming French painters. Recently he nearly won
the Prix de Rome. , His specialty is the
imitation of the cries of domestic fowls
and animals, and of street venders.
Gerome calls him " mon his," and con-
stantly implores him to
be serious. I don't see
why.
Then there is Fiola.
a young giant from Brit-
tany, with a wonderful
■facility at drawing. He
will suddenly break into
a roar, and for an hour sing one
verse of a Brittany chant, driving
the other students mad.
Fournier is a little curly-headed
fellow from the south, near Va-
i^'^ I^P^'y lence, and wears corduroy trousers
"* "^ tucked into top-boots. His great-
est delip"ht is in plapfuingf the
SUSANNE, THE FAMOUS ° . ^ -
PARISIAN MODEL nouveaux. His favorite joke, if
the day is dark, is to send a
nouveau to the different ateliers of the Ecole in
search of "le grand reflecteur." The nouveau,
thinking that it is a device for increasing the light,
64
THE ECOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS
starts out bravely, and presently returns with a large,
heavy box, which, upon its being opened, is found
to be filled with bricks. Then Fournier is happy.
Taton is the butt of the atelier. He is an ingenu,
and falls into any trap set for him. Whenever any-
thing is missing, all pounce upon Taton, and he is
very unhappy.
Haidor, the Turk, suspicious and sullen, also is a
butt. Caricatures of him abundantly adorn the
walls, together with the Turkish crescent, and Turk-
ish ladies executing the danse du ventre.
Caricatures of all kinds cover the walls of the
atelier, and some are magnificent, being spared the
vandalism that spares nothing else. One, especially
good, represents Kenyon Cox, who studied here.
W , the student from Nebraska, created a sen-
sation by appearing one day in the full regalia of a
cowboy, including two immense revolvers, a knife,
and a lariat depending from his belt. With the
lariat he astonished and dismayed the dodging
Frenchmen by lassoing them at will, though they
exercised their greatest running and dodging agility
to escape. They wanted to know if all Americans
went about thus heeled in America.
There is something uncanny about the little Siam-
ese. He is exceedingly quiet and works unceasingly.
One day, when the common spirit of mischief was
unusually strong among the boys, the bolder ones
beofan to hint at fun in the direction of the Siamese.
He quietly shifted a pair of brass knuckles from
some pocket to a more convenient one, and although
5 65
BOHEMIAN PARIS
it was done so unostentatiously, the act was ob-
served. He was not disturbed, and has been left
strictly alone ever since.
One day the Italian students took the whole
atelier down to a little restaurant on the Quai des
Grands-Augustins and cooked them an excellent
Italian dinner, with Chianti to wash it down. Two
Italian street-singers furnished the music, and Made-
moiselle la Modele danced as only a model can.
A NOUVEAU
TAKING PICTURES TO THE SALON
EVER since New Year's, when Bishop began
his great composition for the Salon, our Hfe
at the studio had been sadly disarranged ;
for Bishop had so completely buried himself in his
work that I was com-
pelled to combine the
functions of cook with
those of chambermaid.-
This double work, with
increasing pressure
from my modelling, re-
quired longer hours at
night and shorter hours in the
morning. But I was satisfied,
for this was to be Bishop's mas-
terpiece, and I knew from the
marvellous labor and spirit that
he put into the work that some-
thing good would result.
The name of his great effort was "The Suicide."
It was like him to choose so grisly a subject, for he
had a lawless nature and rebelled against the com-
monplace. Ghastly subjects had always fascinated
him. From the very beginning of our domestic part-
nership he had shown a taste for grim and forbidding
67
AN ENGLISH ART STU
DENT
BOHEMIAN PARIS
things. Often, upon returning home, I had found
him making sketches of armless beggars, twisted
cripples, and hunchbacks, and, worse than all, dis-
ease-marked vagabonds. A skull-faced mortal in the
last stages of consumption was a joy to him. It was
useless for me to protest that he was failing to find
the best in him by developing his unwholesome tastes.
" Wait," he would answer patiently ; " the thing that
has suffering and character, that is out of the ordi-
nary, it is the thing that will strike and live."
The suicide was a young woman gowned in black ;
she was poised in the act of plunging into the Seine ;
a babe was tightly clutched to her breast ; and be-
hind the unspeakable anguish in her eyes was a
hungry hope, a veiled assurance of the peace to
come. It fascinated and haunted me beyond all
expression. It was infinitely sad, tragic, and terri-
ble, for it reached with a sure touch to the very
lowest depth of human agony. The scene was the
dead of night, and only the dark towers of Notre-
Dame broke the even blackness of the sky, save for
a faint glow that touched the lower stretches from
the distant lamps of the city. In the darkness only
the face of the suicide was illuminated, and that but
dimly, though sufficiently to disclose the wonderfully
complex emotions that crowded upon her soul. This
illumination came from three ghastly green lights on
the water below. The whole tone of the picture was
a black, sombre green.
That was all after the painting had been finished.
The making of it is a story by itself. From the first
68
TAKING PICTURES TO THE SALON
week in January to the first week in March the studio
was a junk-shop of the most uncanny sort. In order
to pose his model in the act of plunging into the
river, Bishop had rigged up a tackle, which, depending
from the ceiling, caught the model at the waist, after
the manner of a fire-escape belt, and thus half sus-
pended her. He secured his green tone and night
effect by covering nearly all the skylight and the
window with green tissue-paper, besides covering
the floor and walls with green rugs and draperies.
The model behaved very well in her unusual pose,
but the babe — that was the rub. The model did
not happen to possess one, and Bishop had not yet
learned the difficulties attending the procuring and
posing of infants. In the first place, he found scores
of babes, but not a mother, however poor, willing
to permit her babe to be used as a model, and a
model for so gruesome a situation. But after he had
almost begun to despair, and had well advanced with
his woman model, an Italian M'^oman came one day
and informed him that she could get an infant from
a friend of her sister's, if he would pay her one
franc a day for the use of it. Bishop eagerly made
the bargain. Then a new series of troubles began.
The babe objected most emphatically to the ar-
rangement. It refused to nestle in the arms of a
strange woman about to plunge into eternity, and
the strange woman had no knack at all in soothing
the infant's outraged feelings. Besides, the model
was unable to meet the youngster's frequent de-
mands for what it was accustomed to have, and the
69
BOHEMIAN PARIS
mother, who was engaged elsewhere, had to be
drummed up at exasperatingly frequent intervals.
All this told upon both Bishop and Francinette, the
model, and they took turns in swearing at the unruly
brat, Bishop in English and Francinette in French.
Neither knew how to swear in Italian, or things
might have been different. I happened in upon
these scenes once in a while, and my enjoyment so
exasperated Bishop that he threw paint-tubes, bot-
tles, and everything else at me that he could reach,
and once or twice locked me out of the studio, com-
pelling me to kick my shins in the cold street for
hours at a time. On such occasions I would stand
in the court looking up at our window, expecting
momentarily that the babe would come flying down
from that direction.
When Bishop was not sketching and painting he
was working up his inspiration ; and that was worst
of all. His great effort was to get himself into a
suicidal mood. He would sit for hours on the floor,
his face between his knees, imagining all sorts of
wrongs and slights that the heartless world had put
upon him. His husband had beaten him and gone
off with another woman ; he had tried with all his
woman-heart to bear the cross ; hunger came to
pinch and torture him ; he sought work, failed to
find it ; sought charity; failed to find that ; his babe
clutched at his empty breasts and cried piteously for
food ; his heart broken, all hope gone, even God
forgetting him, he thought of the dark, silent river,
the great cold river, that has brought everlasting
70
TAKING PICTURES TO THE SALON
peace to countless thousands of suffering young
mothers like him ; he went to the river ; he looked
back upon the faint glow of the city's lights in the
distance ; he cast his glance up to the grim towers
of Notre-Dame, standing cold and pitiless against
the blacker sky ; he looked down upon the black
Seine, the great writhing python, so willing to swal-
low him up ; he clutched his babe to his breast,
gasped a prayer . . .
At other times he would haunt the Morgue and
study the faces of those who had died by felo-de-se ;
he would visit the hospitals and study the dying ;
he would watch the actions and read the disordered
thoughts of lunatics ; he would steal along the banks
of the river on dark nights and study the silent mys-
tery and tragedy of it, and the lights that gave shape
to its terrors. In the end I grew afraid of him.
But all things have an end. Bishop's great work
was finished in the first days of March. Slowly, but
surely, his native exuberance of spirits returned.
He would eat and sleep like a rational being. His
eyes lost their haunted look, and his cheeks filled
out and again took on their healthy hue. And then
he invited his friends and some critics to inspect his
composition, and gave a great supper in celebration
of the completion of his task. Very generous praise
was given him. Among the critics and masters came
Gerome and Laurens at his earnest supplication, and
it was good to see their delight and surprise, and to
note that they had no fault to find, — was not the
picture finished, and would not criticism from them
71
BOHEMIAN PARIS
at this juncture have hurt the boy without accom-
plishing any good ? Well, the painting secured hon-
orable mention in the exhibition, and five years later
the French government completed the artist's happi-
ness by buying one of his pictures for the Luxem-
bourg Gallery.
But about the picture : the canvas was eight by
ten feet, and a frame had to be procured for it.
Now, frames are expensive, and Bishop had impov-
erished himself for material and model hire. So he
employed a carpenter in the court to make a frame
of thick pine boards, which we painted a deep black,
with a gold cornice. The whole cost was twenty-five
francs.
Next day we hired a good-sized voiture-a-bras at
eight sous an hour, and proceeded to get the tableau
down to the court. It was a devilish job, for the
ceilings were low and the stairs narrow and crooked.
The old gentleman below us was nearly decapitated
by poking his head out of his door at an inopportune
moment, and the lady below him almost wiped the
still wet babe from the canvas with her gown as she
tried to squeeze past. The entire court turned out
to wish Bishop good success.
The last day on which pictures are admitted to the
Salon, there to await the merciless decision of the
judges, is a memorable one. In sumptuous studios.
in wretched garrets ; amid affluence, amid scenes of
squalor and hunger, artists of all kinds and degrees
have been squeezing thousands of tubes and daubing
thousands of canvases in preparation for the great
72
TAKING PICTURES TO THE SALON
day. From every corner of Paris, from every quarter
of France and Europe, the canvases come pouring
into the Salon. Every conceivable idea, fad, and
folly is represented in the collection, and most of
them are poor ; but in each and every one a fond
hope centres, an ambition is staked.
Strange as it may seem, most of these pictures are
worked upon until the very last day ; indeed, many
of them are snatched unfinished from their easels, to
receive the finishing touches in the dust and confu-
sion and deafening noise of the great hall where they
are all dumped like so much merchandise. We saw
one artist who, not having finished his picture, was
THE LAST MOMENTS AND AN UNFINISHED PICTURE
putting on the final touches as it was borne ahead of
him along the street on the back of a commission-
naire. And all this accounts for the endless smearing
73
BOHEMIAN PARIS
everywhere noticeable, and for the frantic endeavors
of the artists to repair the damage at the last moment.
One great obstacle to poor artists is the rigid rule
requiring that all tableaux shall be framed. These
frames are costly. As a result, some artists paint
pictures of the same size year after year, so that the
same frame may be used for all, and others resort to
such makeshifts as Bishop was compelled to employ.
But these makeshifts must be artistically done, or the
canvases are ignored by the judges. These efforts
give rise to many startling effects.
It was not very long, after an easy pull over the
Boulevard St.-Germain, before we crossed the Seine
at the Pont de la Concorde, traversed the Place de
la Concorde, and turned into the Champs-Elysees,
where, not far away, loomed the Palais des Beaux-
Arts, in which the Salon is annually held in March.
The Avenue des Champs-Elysees, crowded as it
usually is in the afternoons, was now jammed
with cabs, omnibuses, hand-carts, and all sorts of
moving vans, mingling with the fashionable car-
riages on their way to the Bois. The proletarian
vehicles contained art, — art by the ton. The upper
decks of the omnibuses were crowded with artists
carrying their pictures because they could not afford
more than the three-sous fare. And such an assort-
ment of artists !
There were some in affluent circumstances, who
rolled along voluptuously in cabs on an expenditure
of thirty-five francs, holding their precious tableaux
and luxuriantly smoking cigarettes.
74
TAKING PICTURES TO THE SALON
The commissionnaires had a great day of it. They
are the ones usually seen asleep on the street cor-
ners, where, when awake, they varnish boots or bear
loads by means of a contrivance on their backs. On
THE UPPER DECKS OF THE OMNIBUSES WERE CROWDED
this day every one of them in Paris was loaded down
with pictures.
Many were the hard-up students, like Bishop,
tugging hand- carts, or pairing to carry by hand pic-
tures too large to be borne by a single person. And
great fun they got out of it all.
Opposite the Palais de Glace was a perfect sea of
vehicles, artists, porters, and policemen, all inextri-
cably tangled up, all shouting or groaning, and wet
pictures suffering. One artist nearly had a fit when
he saw a full moon wiped off his beautiful landscape,
and he would have killed the guilty porter had not
the students interfered. Portraits of handsome ladies
75
BOHEMIAN PARIS
with smudged noses and smeared eyes were common.
Expensive gold frames lost large sections of their
corners. But still they were pouring in.
With infinite patience and skill Bishop gradually
worked his voiture-a-bras through the maze, and
soon his masterpiece was in the crushing mass at
the wide entrance to the Salon. There it was seized
and rushed along, and Bishop received in return a
slip of paper bearing a number.
While within the building we reconnoitred. Amid
the confusion of howling inspectors, straining porters
bearing heavy pictures, carpenters erecting par-
titions, and a dust-laden atmosphere, numerous ar-
tists were working with furious haste upon their
unfinished productions. Some were perched upon
ladders, others squatted upon the floor, and one had
his model posing nude to the waist ; she was indif-
ferent to the attention that she received. Thought-
ful mistresses stood affectionately beside their artist
amants, furnishing them with delicate edibles and
lighting cigarettes for them.
Some of the pictures were so large that they were
brought in rolled up. One artist had made himself
into a carpenter to mount his mammoth picture.
Frightful and impossible paintings were numerous,
but the painter of each expected a premiere medaille
d'honneur.
It was nearing six o'clock, the closing hour. Chic
demoiselle artistes came dashing up in cabs, bringing
with them, to insure safe delivery, their everlasting
still-life subjects.
76
TAKING PICTURES TO THE SALON
Shortly before six the work in the building was
suspended by a commotion outside. It was a con-
tingent of students from the Beaux-Arts marching
up the Champs-Elysees, yelling and dancing like
maniacs and shaking their heavy sticks, the irresist-
ible Sarah Brown leading as drum-major. She was
gorgeously arrayed in the most costly silks and laces,
and looked a dashing Amazon. Then, as always,
she was perfectly happy with her beloved etudiants,
who worshipped her as a goddess. She halted them
in front of the building, where they formed a circle
round her, and there, as director of ceremonies, she
required them to sing chansons, dance, make comic
speeches, and " blaguer" the arriving artists.
The last van was unloaded ; the great doors closed
with a bang, and the stirring day was ended. All
the students, even the porters, then joined hands
and went singing, howling, and skipping down the
Champs-Elysees, and wishing one another success at
the coming exhibition. At the Place de la Concorde
we met a wild-eyed artist running frantically toward
the Salon with his belated picture. The howls of
encouragement that greeted him lent swifter wings
to his leofs.
The pictures finally installed, a jury composed of
France's greatest masters pass upon them. The
endless procession of paintings is passed before
them ; the raising of their hands means approval,
silence means condemnation ; and upon those simple
acts depends the happiness or despair of thousands.
But depression does not long persist, and the judg-
77
BOHEMIAN PARIS
ment is generally accepted in the end as just and
valuable. For the students, in great part, flock to
the country on sketching tours, for which arrange-
ments had been already made ; and there the most
deeply depressed spirits must revive and the habit
of work and hope come into play. Year after year
the same artists strive for recognition at the Salon ;
and finally, when they fail at that, they reflect that
there is a great world outside of the Salon, where
conscientious effort is acceptable. And. after all, a
medal at the Salon is not the only reward that life
has to offer.
And then, it is not always good for a student to
be successful from the start. Just as his social en-
vironment in Paris tries his strength and determines
the presence or absence of qualities that are as use-
ful to a successful career as special artistic qualifica-
tions, so the trial by fire in the Salon exhibitions
hardens and toughens him for the serious work of
his life ahead. Too early success has ruined more
artists than it has helped. It is interesting also to
observe that, as a rule, the students who eventually
secure the highest places in art are those whose
difficulties have been greatest. The lad with the
pluck to live on a crust in a garret, and work and
study under conditions of poverty and self-denial
that would break any but the stoutest heart, is the
one from whom to expect renown in the years to
come. Ah, old Paris is the harshest but wisest of
mothers !
78
H ! ah ! vive les
Quat'z' Arts
Au Moulin
Rouge — en route !"
wildly rang through
the lamplit streets of Paris as cab after cab and
'bus after 'bus went thundering across town toward
Montmartre, heavily freighted with brilliantly cos-
tumed revellers of les Quat'z' Arts. Parisians ran
from their dinner-tables to the windows and bal-
conies, blase boulevardiers paused in their evening
stroll or looked up from their papers at the cafe-
tables, waiters and swearing cabbies and yelling
newsboys stopped in the midst of their various
duties, and all knowingly shook their heads, "Ah,
ce sont les Quat'z' Arts !"
For to-night was the great annual ball of the
artists, when all artistic Paris crawls from its myste-
rious depths to revel in a splendid carnival possible
only to the arts. Every spring, after the pictures
have been sent to the Salon, and before thq students
79
BOHEMIAN PARIS
have scattered for the summer vacation, the artists
of Paris and the members of all the ateliers of the
four arts — painting, sculpture, architecture, and en-
graving— combine their forces in producing a spec-
tacle of regal splendor, seen nowhere else in the
world ; and long are the weeks and hard the work
and vast the ingenuity devoted to preparations, — the
designing of costumes and the building of gorgeous
floats.
During the last three weeks the eleves of the
Atelier Gerome abandoned their studies, forgot ail
about the concours and the Prix de Rome, and de-
voted all their energies to the construction of a
colossal figure of Gerome's great war goddess, " Bel-
lona." It was a huge task, but the students worked
it out with a will. Yards of sackcloth, rags, old
coats, paint rags, besides pine timbers, broken easels
and stools, endless wire and rope, went into the
making of the goddess's frame, and this was cov-
ered with plaster of Paris dexterously moulded into
shape. Then it was properly tinted and painted and
mounted on a chariot of gold, A Grecian frieze of
galloping horses, mounted, the clever work of Siffert,
was emblazoned on the sides of the chariot. And
what a wreck the atelier was after all was finished !
Sacre nom d'un chien ! How the gardiens must
have sworn when cleaning-day came round !
The ateliers in the Ecole are all rivals, and each
had been secretly preparing its coup with which to
capture the grand prix at the bal.
The great day came at last. The students of our
80
THE MOULIN ROUGE ON THE NIGHT OF THE BALL
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
atelier were perfectly satisfied with their handiwork,
and the massier made all happy by ordering a retreat
to the Cafe des Deux Magots, where success to the
goddess was drunk in steaming "grog Americain."
I'hen Bellona began her perilous journey across
Paris to Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge. This
was not an easy task, as she was fifteen feet high ;
signs and lamp-posts suffered, and sleepy cab-horses
danced as their terrified gaze beheld the giant god-
dess with her uplifted sword. Crowds watched the
progress of Bellona on the Avenue de 1' Opera, drawn
by half a hundred students yelling the national hymn.
The pull up the steep slope of Montmartre was
heavy, but in less than two hours from the start at
the Ecole the goddess was safely housed in the
depths of the Moulin Rouge, there to await her
triumphs of the night.
Bishop, besides doing his share in the preparation
of the figure, had the equally serious task of devising
a costume for his own use at the ball. It was not
until the very last day that he made his final decision,
— to go as a Roman orator. Our supply of linen was
meagre, but our only two clean bed-sheets and a few
towels were sufficient, and two kind American ladies
who were studying music and who lived near the old
church of St. Sulpice did the fitting of a toga. The
soles of a pair of slippers from which Bishop cut the
tops served as sandals, and some studio properties
in the way of Oriental bracelets completed his cos-
tume. I was transformed into an Apache Indian by
a generous rubbing into my skin of burnt sienna and
83
BOHEMIAN PARIS
cadmium, which I was weeks in getting rid of; a
blanket and some chicken-feathers finished my array.
Our friend Cameron, next door, went in his Scotch
kilts. After supper we entered the Boul' Mich'
and proceeded to the Cafe de la Source, where the
students of the Atelier Gerome were to rendezvous.
The Boul' was a spectacle that night. Time
had rolled back the cur-
tain of centuries ; ancient
cemeteries had yielded up
their dead ; and living
ghosts of the ages packed
all the gay cafes. History
from the time of Adam
had sent forth its tra-
ditions, and Eves rubbed
elbows with ballet-girls.
There was never a jollier
night in the history of the
Qu artier Latin.
We found the Cafe de
la Source already crowded
by the Gerome contingent and their models and
mistresses, all en costume and bubbling with mer-
riment and mischief. It was ten o'clock before all
the students had arrived. Then we formed in pro-
cession, and yelled and danced past all the cafes
on the Boul' Mich' to the Luxembourg Palace and
the Theatre de I'Odeon, to take the 'buses of the
Montmartre Hne. These we quickly seized and
overloaded in violation of the law, and then, dashing
84
TWO COSTUMES
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
down the quiet streets of the Rive Gauche, headed
for Montmartre, making a noise to rouse the dead.
As we neared the Place Blanche we found the little
streets merging from different quarters crowded with
people in costume, some walking and others crowd-
ing almost innumerable vehicles, and the balconies
and portes-cocheres packed with spectators. The
Place Blanche fronts the Moulin Rouge, and it was
crowded and brilliantly lighted. The fagade of the
Moulin Rouge was a blaze of electric lights and
colored lanterns, and the revolving wings of the mill
flamed across the sky. It was a perfect night. The
stars shone, the air was warm and pleasant, and the
trees were tipped with the glistening clean foliage
of early spring. The bright cafes fronting the Place
were crowded with gay revellers. The poets of Bo-
hemia were there, and gayly attired cocottes as-
sisted them in their fun at the cafe tables, extend-
ing far out into the boulevard under the trees.
At one corner was Gerome's private studio, high
up in the top of the house, and standing on the
balcony was Gerome himself, enjoying the brilliant
scene below.
As the Bal des Quat'z' Arts is not open to the
public, and as none but accredited members of the
four arts are admitted, the greatest precautions are
taken to prevent the intrusion of outsiders ; and
wonderful is the ingenuity exercised to outwit the
authorities. Inside the vestibule of the Moulin was
erected a tribune (a long bar), behind which sat the
massiers of the different studios of Paris, all in
85
BOHEMIAN PARIS
striking costumes. It was their task not only to
identify the holders of tickets, but also to pass on
the suitability of the costumes of such as were other-
wise eligible to admittance. The costumes must all
have conspicuous merit and be thoroughly artistic.
Nothing black, no dominos, none in civilian dress,
may pass. Many and loud were the protestations
that rang through the vestibule as one after another
was turned back and firmly conducted to the door.
Once past the implacable tribunes, we entered a
dazzling fairy-land, a dream of rich color and reck-
less abandon. From gorgeous kings and queens to
wild savages, all were there ; courtiers in silk, naked
gladiators, nymphs with paint for clothing, — all were
there ; and the air was heavy with the perfume of
roses. Shouts, laughter, the silvery clinking of
glasses, a whirling mass of life and color, a bewilder-
ing kaleidoscope, a maze of tangled visions in the
soft yellow haze that filled the vast hall. There was
no thought of the hardness and sordidness of life,
no dream of the morrow. It was a wonderful witch-
ery that sat upon every soul there.
This splendid picture was framed by a wall of
lodges, each sumptuously decorated and hung with
banners, tableaux, and greens, each representing a
particular atelier and adorned in harmony with the
dominant ideals of their masters. The lodge of the
Atelier Gerome was arranged to represent a Grecian
temple ; all the decorations and accessories were
pure Grecian, cleverly imitated by the master's de-
voted pupils. That of the Atelier Cormon repre-
86
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
sented a huge caravan of the prehistoric big-muscled
men that appeal so strongly to Cormon ; large skel-
etons of extinct animals, giant ferns, skins, and stone
implements were scattered about, while the students
of Cormon's atelier, almost naked, with bushy hair
and clothed in skins, completed the picture. And
so it was with all the lodges, each typifying a special
subject, and carrying it out with perfect fidelity to
the minutest detail.
The event of the evening was the grand cortege ;
this, scheduled for one o'clock, was awaited with
eager expectancy, for with it would come the test of
supremacy, — the awarding of the prize for the best.
For this was the great art centre of the world, and
this night was the one in which its rivalries would
strain the farthest reach of skill.
Meanwhile, the great hall swarmed with life and
blazed with color and echoed with the din of merry
voices. Friends recognized one another with great
difficulty. And there was Gerome himself at last,
gaudily gowned in the rich green costume of a Chi-
nese mandarin, his white moustache dyed black, and
his white locks hidden beneath a black skull-cap
topped with a bobbing appendage. And there also
was Jean Paul Laurens, in the costume of a Norman,
the younger Laurens as Charlemagne. Leandre, the
caricaturist, was irresistible as a caricature of Queen
Victoria. Puech, the sculptor, made a graceful cour-
tier of the Marie Antoinette regime. Willett was a
Roman emperor. Will Dodge was loaded with the
crown, silks, and jewels of a Byzantine emperor.
87
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Louis Loeb was a desperate Tartar bandit. Cas-
taigne made a hit as an Italian jurist. Steinlen,
Grasset, Forain, Rodin, — in fact, nearly all the re-
nowned painters, sculptors, and illustrators of Paris
--;'<< ,",i -- "'ji Vendredi 22 Avril 1898 a :
c carlt. rigoureusement perMonnelle A I
titalatre, doit, pour etre vjSable,
qu iliU, U timbre du Comity et i
Tout porteur d'une carte non pcrsoni
coiUrdle par la deliguis des Alelien. \
Le service d'ordre exigers^ n^
Oe /a pari de M—
"-Atelier GEROMS
TICKET FOR THE BAL DES QUAT'z' ARTS. DRAWN BY C. LBANDRE
(Original size 6^ x 9^ inches)
were there ; and besides them were the countless
students and models.
"La cavalcade! le grand cortege!" rose the cry
above the crashing of the band and the noise of the
revellers ; and then all the dancing stopped. Emerg-
ing from the gardens through the open glass door,
bringing with it a pleasant blast of the cool night
air, was the vanguard of the great procession. The
orchestra struck up the "Victor's March," and a
great cry of welcome rang out.
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
First came a band of yelling Indians dancing in,
waving dieir spears and tomahawks, and so cleaving
a way for the parade. A great roar filled the glass-
domed hall when the first float appeared. It was
daring and unique, but a masterpiece. Borne upon
the shoulders of Indians, who were naked but for
skins about their loins, their bodies stained a dark
brown and striped with paint, was a gorgeous bed
of fresh flowers and trailing vines ; and reclining in
this bed were four of the models of Paris, lying on
their backs, head to head, their legs upraised to sup-
port a circular tablet of gold. Upon this, high in
air, proud and superb, was the great Susanne in all
LBANDRE AS QUEEN VICTORIA
her peerless beauty of face and form, — simply that
and nothing more. A sparkling crown of jewels
glowed in her reddish golden hair ; a flashing girdle
of electric lights encircled her slender waist, bringing
BOHEMIAN PARIS
out the marvellous whiteness of her skin, and with
deHcate shadows and tones modelUng the superb
contour of her figure. She looked a goddess — and
knew it. The crowd upon whom she looked down
stood for a while spell-bound, and then, with a waving
of arms and flags, came a great shout, " Susanne !
Susanne ! la belle Susanne !" Susanne only smiled.
Was she not the queen of the models of Paris ?
Then came Bellona ! Gerome, when he conceived
and executed the idea embodied in this wonderful
figure, concentrated his efforts to produce a most
terrifying, fear-inspiring image typifying the horrors
of war. The straining goddess, poised upon her
toes to her full height, her face uplifted, her head
thrust forward, with staring eyes and screaming
mouth, her short two-edged sword in position for a
sweeping blow, her glittering round shield and her
coat of mail, a huge angry python darting its tongue
and raising its green length from the folds of her
drapery, — all this terrible figure, reproduced with
marvellous fidelity and magnified tenfold, over-
whelmed the thousands upon whom it glowered.
Surrounding the golden chariot was a guard of
Roman and Greek gladiators, emperors, warriors, and
statesmen. From the staring eyes of Bellona flashed
green fire, whose uncanny shafts pierced the yellow
haze of the ball-room. Under a storm of cheers Bel-
lona went on her way past the tribune of the judges.
Following Bellona came a beautiful reproduction
of Gerome's classical "Tanagra," which adorns the
sculpture gallery of the Luxembourg. The figure
90
THE GRAND CAVALCADE
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
was charmingly personated by Marcelle, a lithe,
slim, graceful model of immature years, who was a
rage in the studios. Gerome himself applauded the
'^yw^'
grace of her pose as she swept past his point of
vantage in the gallery.
Behind Tanagra came W , also of the Atelier
Gerome, dressed as an Apache warrior and mounted
on a bucking broncho. He was an American, from
Nebraska, where he was a cowboy before he became
93
BOHEMIAN PARIS
famous as a sculptor. He received a rousing welcome
from his fellow-artists.
The Atelier Cormon came next, — a maornificent
lot of brawny fellows clothed in skins, and bearing
an immense litter made of tree branches bound with
thongs and weighted down with strong naked women
and children of a prehistoric age. It was a reproduc-
tion of Cormon' s masterpiece in the Luxembourg
Gallery, and was one of the most impressive compo-
sitions in the whole parade.
Then came the works of the many other studios,
all strong and effective, but none so fine as the three
first. The Atelier Pascal, of architecture, made a
sensation by appearing as Egyptian mummies, each
mummy dragging an Egyptian coffin covered with
ancient inscriptions and characters and containing a
Parisian model, all too alive and sensuous to person-
ate the ancient dead. Another atelier strove hard for
the prize with eggs of heroic size, from which as many
girls, as chicks, were breaking their way to freedom.
After the grand cortege had paraded the hall sev-
eral times it disbanded, and the ball proceeded with
renewed enthusiasm.
The tribune, wherein the wise judges sat, was a
large and artistic affair, built up before the gallery
of the orchestra and flanked by broad steps leading
to its summit. It was topped with the imperial es-
cutcheon of Rome — battle-axes bound in fagots — and
bore the legend, " Mort aux Tyrants," in bold letters.
Beneath was a row of ghastly, bloody severed heads,
— those of dead tyrants.
94
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
The variety and originality of the costumes were
bewildering. One Frenchman went as a tombstone,
his back, representing a headstone, containing a suit-
able inscription and bearing wreaths of immortelles
and colored beads. Another, from the Atelier Bon-
nat, went simply as a stink, nothing more, nothing
less, but it was potent. He had saturated his skin
with the juice of onions and garlic, and there was
never any mistaking his proximity. Many were the
gay Bacchantes wearing merely a bunch of grapes in
their hair and a grape-leaf
At intervals during the evening the crowd would
suddenly gather and form a large circle, many deep,
some climbing upon the backs of others the better to
see, those in front squatting or lying upon the floor
to accommodate the mass behind them. The forma-
tion of these circles was the signal for the danse du
ventre.* The name of some favorite model would be
* The danse du ventre (literally, belly-dance) is of Turkish
origin, and was introduced to Paris by Turkish women from
Egypt Afterward these women exhibited it in the Midway
Plaisance of the Columbian Exposition, Chicago, and then at
the California Midwinter Exposition, San Francisco. As danced
by Turkish women it consists of astonishing control and move-
ments of the abdominal and chest muscles (hence its other name,
muscle-dance), varied with more or less graceful steps and gyra-
tions, with adjuncts, such as castanets, scarfs, etc., and the seem-
ingly perilous use of swords. Such clothing is worn as least
obscures the play of the muscles. It is danced to a particular
Turkish air, monotonously repeated by an orchestra of male
Turkish musicians, with Turkish instruments, and the dance is
done solus. A dance closely analogous to it. though of a wholly
95
BOHEMIAN PARIS
yelled, and the orchestra would strike up the familiar
Oriental strain. And there was always a model to
respond. Then the regular dancing would be re-
sumed until another circle was formed and another
favorite goddess of the four arts would be called out.
It was three o'clock when supper was announced
by the appearance of two hundred white-aproned
waiters carrying scores of tables, chairs, and hampers
of plate and glassware. The guests fell to with a
will and assisted in spreading and setting the tables ;
almost in a moment the vast hall was a field of snow
pricked out with the brilliant costumes of the revel-
lers. Then came a frightful din of pounding on the
tables for the supper. Again marched in the two
hundred waiters, loaded with cases of champagne,
plates of creamy soup, roasts, salads, cheeses, creams,
cakes, ices, — a feast of Bacchus, indeed. The banquet
was enjoyed with Bohemian abandon.
The twelve wise judges of the Tribune now gravely
announced their award of prizes, and each announce-
ment was received with ringing applause. The Ate-
lier Gerome received first prize, — fifty bottles of
independent origin, is the hula-hula of the Hawaiian women ; but
the hula-hula lacks the grace, dash, and abandon of the Turkish
dance. The danse du ventre, as danced by French and American
women who have "picked it up," is very different from that of
the Turkish women — different both in form and meaning. What-
ever of suggestiveness it may be supposed to carry is, in the
adaptation, grossly exaggerated, and whatever of grace and special
muscular skill, evidently acquired by Turkish women only from
long and thorough drill, is eliminated. W. C. M.
96
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
champagne, which were immediately taken posses-
sion of. The other ateHers received smaller prizes,
as their merits deserved, and all were satisfied and
happy. The banquet was resumed.
Now here was Susanne, not content with her tri-
umph of the early evening, springing upon one of the
central tables, sending the crockery and glassware
crashing to the floor with her dainty foot, and serenely
surveying the crowd as it greeted her tumultuously,
and, seizing a bottle of champagne, sending its foam-
ing contents over as wide a circle of revellers as her
strength could reach, laughing in pure glee over
her feat, and then bathing her own white body with
the contents of another bottle that she poured over
herself, A superb Bacchante she made ! A general
salute of popping corks and clinking glasses greeted
her, and she acknowledged the compliment with the
danse du ventre. Susanne was so sure of the adora-
tion and affection of the ateliers ! Her dance was a
challenge to every other model in the chamber. One
after another, and often several at a time, they
mounted the tables, spurned the crockery to the
floor, and gave the danse du ventre. The Moulin
was indeed a wild scene of joyous abandonment, and
from an artistic point of view grand, a luminous
point in the history of modern times. Here were
the life, the color, the grace of the living picture, with
a noble background of surrounding temples, altars,
statues, — a wonderful spectacle, that artists can
understand and appreciate.
The feast wore merrily through the small hours
99
BOHEMIAN PARIS
until the cold blue dawn began to pale the lights in
the ceiling. Strangely beautiful was this color effect,
as the blue stole downward through the thick yellow
glamour of the hall, quickening the merry-makers
with a new and uncanny light, putting them out of
place, and warning them thence. But still the ball
went rolling on.
Though the floor was slippery with wine and dan-
gerous from broken glass, dancing and the cutting
of capers proceeded without abatement. The favor-
ite danse du ventre and songs and speeches filled
the night to the end of the ball, and then the big
orchestra, with a great flourish, played the " Victor's
March." This was the signal for the final proces-
sion. The vast concourse of students and artists
poured forth into the cool, sweet morning air, and
the bal was at an end.
Paris was asleep, that early April morning, save
for the street-sweepers and the milkmaids and the
concierges. But the Place Blanche was very much
awake. The morningf air was new wine in stale
veins, and it banished fatigue.
" En cavalcade ! en cavalcade !" was the cry ; and
in cavalcade it was. A great procession of all the
costumers was formed, to march ensemble across
Paris to the Quartier Latin. Even the proud Bellona
was dragged along in the rear, towering as high as
the lower wings of the now motionless red wind-
mill. She seemed to partake in the revelry, for she
swayed and staggered in an alarming fashion as she
plunged recklessly down the steeps of Montmartre.
THE GfeRSME ATEUER
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
The deserted Rue Blanche re-echoed the wild yells
and songs of the revellers and the rattling of the
string of cabs in the rear. The rows of heaped ash-
cans that lined the way were overturned one after
another, and the oaths and threatening brooms of
the outraged concierges went for nothing. Even
the poor diligent rag- and bone-pickers were not
spared ; their filled sacks, carrying the result of
their whole night's hunt, were taken from them and
emptied. A string of carts heavily laden with stone
was captured near the Rue Lafayette, the drivers
deposed, and the big horses sent plunging through
Paris, driven by Roman charioteers, and making
more noise than a company of artillery.
When the Place de 1' Opera was reached a thou-
sand revellers swarmed up the broad stairs of the
Grand Opera like colored ants, climbed upon the
lamp-posts and candelabra, and clustered all over
the groups of statuary adorning the magnificent
fagade. The band took up a position in the centre
and played furiously, while the artists danced ring-
around-a-rosy, to the amazement of the drowsy resi-
dents of the neighborhood.
The cavalcade then re-formed and marched down
the Avenue de 1' Opera toward the Louvre, where it
encountered a large squad of street-sweepers wash-
ing the avenue. In an instant the squad had been
routed, and the revellers, taking the hose and brooms,
fell to and cleaned an entire block, making it shine
as it had never shone before.
Cabs were captured, the drivers decorated with
103
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Roman helmets and swords, and dances executed on
the tops of the vehicles. One character, with enor-
mous india-rubber shoes, took delight in permitting
cabs to run over his feet,
while he emitted howls of
agony that turned the hair
of the drivers white.
As the immense caval-
cade filed through the nar-
row arches of the Louvre
court-yard it looked like a
mediaeval army returning to
its citadel after a victorious
campaign ; the hundreds of
battle-flags, spears, and bat-
tle-axes were given a fine
setting by the noble archi-
tecture of the Pavilion de
Rohan. Within the court
of the Louvre was drawn up
a regiment of the Garde Municipale, going through
the morning drill ; and they looked quite formidable
with their evolutions and bayonet charges. But
when the mob of Greek and Roman warriors flung
themselves bodily upon the ranks of the guard, ousted
the officers, and assumed command, there was con-
sternation. All the rigid military dignity of the scene
disappeared, and the drill was turned into such a
farce as the old Louvre had never seen before. The
officers, furious at first, could not resist the spirit of
pure fun that filled the mob, and took their revenge
104
FROM THK BALL
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
by kissing the models and making them dance. The
girls had already done their share of the conquering
by pinning flowers to military coats and coyly putting
pretty lips where they were in danger. Even the
tall electric-light masts in the court were scaled by
adventurous students, who attached brilliant flags,
banners, and crests to the mast-heads far above the
crowd.
\o the unspeakable relief of the officers, the march
was then resumed. The Pont du Carrousel was the
next object of assault ; here was performed the solemn
ceremony of the annual sacrifice of the Quat'z' Arts
to the river Seine. The mighty Bellona was the sac-
rifice. She w^as trundled to the centre of the bridge
and drawn close to the parapet, while the disciples
of the four arts gathered about with uncovered heads.
The first bright flashes of the morning sun, sweeping
over the towers of Notre- Dame, tipped Bellona's up-
raised sword with flame. The band played a funeral
march. Prayers were said, and the national hymn
was sung ; then Bellona was sent tottering and
crashing over the parapet, and with a mighty plunge
she sank beneath the waters of the Seine. A vast
shout rang through the crisp morning air. Far
below, poor Bellona rose in stately despair, and then
slowly sank forever.
The parade formed again and proceeded to the
Beaux-Arts, the last point of attack. Up the narrow
Rue Bonaparte went singing the tired procession ;
the gates of the Ecole opened to admit it, cabs and
all, and the doors were shut again. Then in the
BOHEMIAN PARIS
historic court-yard of the government school, sur-
rounded by remnants of the beautiful architecture of
once stately chateaux and palaces, and encircled by
graceful Corinthian columns, the students gave a
repetition of the grand ball at the Moulin Rouge.
A strange and incongruous sight it was in the bril-
liant sunshine, and the neighboring windows and
balconies were packed with onlookers. But by half-
past seven every trace of the Bal des Quat'z' Arts
had disappeared, — the great procession had melted
away to the haunts of Bohemia.
C /-\> If li
BUTTERFLIES OF THE CAFE
LE BOUL' MICH'
OF course the proper name for the great thor-
oughfare of the Quartier Latin is the Boule-
vard Saint-Michel, but the boulevardiers call
it the Boul' Mich', just as the students call the Quatre
Arts the Quat'z' Arts, because it is easier to say.
The Boul' Mich' is the student's highway to relax-
ation. Mention of it at once recalls whirling visions
of brilliant cafes, with their clattering of saucers and
glasses, the shouting of their white-aproned gargons,
their hordes of gay and wicked damsels dressed in
the costliest and most fashionable gowns, and a mul-
titude of riotous students howling class songs and
dancing and parading to the different cafes as only
students can. This is the head-quarters of the Bo-
hemians of real Bohemia, whose poets haunt the dim
and quaint cabarets and read their compositions to
109
BOHEMIAN PARIS
SWEETMEAT PEDLER
admiring friends ; of flower-girls who offer you un
petit bouquet, seulement dix centimes, and pin it
into your button-hole before you can refuse ; of
Turks in picturesque native costume
selling sweetmeats ; of the cane man
loaded down with immense sticks ;
of the pipe man, with pipes having
stems a yard long ; of beggars, gut-
ter-snipes, hot-chestnut venders, ped-
lers, singers, actors, students, and all
manner of queer characters.
The life of the Boul' Mich' begins
at the Pantheon, where repose the
remains of France's great men, and
ends at the Seine, where the gray
Gothic towers and the gargoyles of
Notre-Dame look down disdainfully upon the giddy
traffic below. The eastern side of the Boul' is lined
with cafes, cabarets, and brasseries.
This is historic ground, for where now is the old
Hotel Cluny are still to be seen the ruins of Roman
baths, and not a great distance hence are the partly
uncovered ruins of a Roman arena, with its tiers of
stone seats and its dens. The tomb of Cardinal
Richelieu is in the beautiful old chapel of the Sor-
bonne, within sound of the wickedest cafe in Paris,
the Cafe d'Harcourt. In the immediate vicinity are
to be found the quaint jumbled buildings of old
Paris, but they are fast disappearing. And the Quar-
tier abounds in the world's greatest schools and col-
leges of the arts and sciences.
LE BOUL' MICH'
It was often our wont on Saturday evenings to
saunter along the Boul', and sometimes to visit the
cafes. To Bishop particularly it was always a reve-
lation and a delight, and he was forever studying
and sketching the types that he found there. He
was intimately acquainted in all the cafes along the
line, and with the mysterious rendezvous in the dark
and narrow side streets.
American beverages are to be had at many of the
cafes on the Boul', — a recent and very successful ex-
periment. The idea has captured the fancy of the
Parisians, so that "Bars Americains," which furnish
cocktails and sours, are numerous in the cafes.
Imagine a Parisian serenely sucking a manhattan
through a straw, and standing up at that !
The Boul' Mich' is at its glory on Saturday nights,
for the students have done their week's work, and
the morrow is Sunday. Nearly everybody goes to
the Bal Bullier. This is separated from the crowded
Boul' Mich' by several squares of respectable dwell-
ing-houses and shops, and a dearth of cafes prevails
thereabout. At the upper end of the Luxembourg is
a long stone wall brilliantly bedecked with lamps set
in clusters. — the same wall against which Marechal
Ney was shot (a striking monument across the way
recalls the incident). At one end of this yellow wall
is an arched entree, resplendent with the glow of
many rows of electric lights and lamps, which reveal
the colored bas-reliefs of dancing students and gri-
settes that adorn the portal. Near by stands a row
of voitures, and others are continually dashing up
8 "3
BOHEMIAN PARIS
and depositing Latin-Quarter swells with hair parted
behind and combed forward toward the ears, and
dazzling visions of the demi-monde in lace, silks, and
gauze. And there is a constantly arriving stream of
students and gaudily dressed women on foot. Big
gardes municipaux stand at the door like stone
images as the crowd surges past.
To-night is one-franc night. An accommodating
lady at the box-office hands us each a broad card,
and another, au vestiaire, takes our coats and hats
and charges us fifty centimes for the honor. De-
scending the broad flight of softly carpeted red
stairs, a brilliant, tumultuous, roaring vision bursts
upon us, for it is between the dances, and the vis-
itors are laughing and talking and drinking. The
ball-room opens into a generous garden filled with
trees and shrubbery ingeniously devised to assure
many a secluded nook, and steaming gargons are
flying hither and thither serving foaming bocks and
colored syrups to nymphs in bicycle bloomers, long-
haired students under tam o'shanters, and the swells
peculiar to le Quartier Latin.
"Ah! Monsieur Beeshop, comment vas tu ?"
" Tiens ! le voila, Beeshop!" "Ah, mon ange !"
and other affectionate greetings made Bishop start
guiltily, and then he discovered Helene and Mar-
celle, two saucy little models who had posed at the
Ecole. There also was Fannie, formerly (before
she drifted to the cafes) our blanchisseuse, leaning
heavily upon the arm of son amant, who, a butcher-
boy during the day, was now arrayed in a cutaway
114
ENTRANCE TO BAL BULLIER
LE BOUL' MICH'
coat and other things to match, including a red
cravat that Fannie herself had tied ; but he wore no
cuffs. Many other acquaintances presented them-
selves to Bishop, somewhat to his embarrassment.
One, quite a swell member of the demi-monde, for a
moment deserted her infatuated companion, a gigan-
tic Martinique negro, gorgeously
apparelled, and ran up to tease
Bishop to paint her portrait a I'ceil,
and also to engage him for la pro-
chaine valse.
The m u s i -
cians were now
playing a schot-
tische, but large
circles would be
formed here
and there in the
hall, where
clever exhibi-
tions of fancy
dancing would
be given by
students and
by fashionably
gowned damsels with a penchant for displaying their
lingerie and hosiery. The front of the band-stand
was the favorite place for this. Here four dashing
young women were raising a whirlwind of lingerie
and slippers, while the crowd applauded and tossed
sous at their feet.
117
FOUR DASHING YOUNG WOMEN
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Next to us stood a fat, cheery-faced little man,
bearing the unmistakable stamp of an American
tourist. His hands were in his pockets, his silk hat
was tipped back, and his beaming red face and
bulging eyes showed the intensity of his enjoyment.
Without the slightest warning the slippered foot of
one of these dancers found his shining tile and sent
it bounding across the floor. For a moment the
American was dazed by the suddenness and un-
earthly neatness of the feat ; then he emitted a
whoop of wonder and admiration, and in English
exclaimed, —
" You gol-darned bunch of French skirts — say,
you're all right, you are, Marie ! Bet you can't do
it again !"
He confided to Bishop that his name was Pugson
and that he was from Cincinnati.
"Why," he exclaimed, joyously, "Paris is the top
of the earth ! You artists are an enviable lot, livino-
over here all the time and painting Gad ! look
at her !" and he was pushing his way through the
crowd to get a better view of an uncommonly start-
ling dancer, who was at the moment an indeter-
minate fluffy bunch of skirts, linen, and hosiery.
Ah, what tales he will tell of Paris when he returns
to Cincinnati, and how he will be accused of exag-
gerating !
The four girls forming the centre of attraction
were now doing all manner of astonishing things
possible only to Parisian feminine anatomy. In an-
other circle near by was Johnson, the American
ii8
LE BOUL' MICH'
architect, stirring enthusiastic applause as he hopped
about, Indian fashion, with a Httle brunette whose
face was hidden in the shadow of her immense hat,
her hair en bandeau, a la de Merode. Could this
really be the quiet Johnson of the Ecole, who but a
week ago had been showing his mother and charm-
ing sister over Paris ? And there, too, was his close
friend, Walden, of Michigan, leading a heavy blonde
to the dance ! There were others whom we knew.
The little Siamese was flirting desperately with a
vision in white standing near his friend, a Japanese,
who, in turn, was listening to the cooing of a clinging
bloomer girl. Even Haidor, the Turk, was there,
but he was alone in the gallery. Many sober fel-
lows whom I had met at the studio were there, but
they were sober now only in the sense that they
were not drunk. And there were law students, too,
in velveteen caps and jackets, and students in the
sciences, and students in music, and neglige poets,
litterateurs, and artists, and every model and cocotte
who could furnish her back sufficiently well to pass
the censorship of the severe critic at the door. If
she be attractively dressed, she may enter free ; if
not, she may not enter at all.
The gayety increased as the hours lengthened ;
the dancing was livelier, the shouting was more
vociferous, skirts swirled more freely, and thin glasses
fell crashing to the floor.
It was pleasanter out in the cool garden, for it
was dreadfully hard to keep from dancing inside.
The soft gleam of the colored lamps and lanterns
BOHEMIAN PARIS
r
was soothing, and the music was softened down to
an echo. The broken rays of the lanterns embedded
in the foHage laid bright patterns on the showy silks
of the women, and the gar^ons
made no noise as they flitted
swiftly through the mazes of
shrubbery.
At one end of the garden,
surrounded by an hilarious
group, were four wooden rock-
ing - horses worked
on springs. Astride
of two of these were
an army officer and
his companion, a
bloomer girl, who
persistently twisted
her ankles round her
horse's head. The
two others were rid-
den by a poet and
a jauntily attired gri-
sette. The four were
gleeful as chil-
HE HAS COME TO PARIS TO STUDY LAW
as
dren.
A flash-light photographer did a driving trade at
a franc a flash, and there were a shooting-gallery, a
fortune-teller, sou-in-the-slot machines, and wooden
figures of negroes with pads on their other ends, by
punching which we might see how hard we could hit.
We are back in the ball-room again, — it is hard to
LE BOUL' MICH'
keep out. The gayety is at its height, the Bal BulHer is
in full swing. The tables are piled high with saucers,
and the gargons are bringing more. The room is
warm and suffocating, the dancing and flirting faster
than ever. Now and then a line is formed to " crack
the whip," and woe betide anything that comes in its
way !
Our genial, generous new friend from Cincinnati
was living the most glorious hour of his life. He
had not been satisfied until he found and captured
the saucy little wretch who had sent his hat spinning
across the room ; so now she was anchored to him,
and he was giving exhibitions of American grace and
agility that would have amazed his friends at home.
For obviously he was a person of consequence there.
When he saw us his face beamed with triumph, and
he proudly introduced us to his mignonette-scented
conquest, Mad-dem-mo-zel Madeleine (which he pro-
nounced Madelyne), "the queen of the Latin Quar-
ter. But blamed if I can talk the blooming lingo !"
he exclaimed, ruefully. "You translate for me,
won't you ?" he appealed to Bishop, and Bishop
complied. In paying compliments thus transmitted
to Madeleine he displayed an adeptness that likely
would have astounded his good spouse, who at that
moment was slumbering in a respectable part of
Paris.
But the big black Martinique negroes, — they
haunted and dominated everything, and the demi-
monde fell down and worshipped them. They are
students of law and medicine, and are sent hither
125
BOHEMIAN PARIS
from the French colonies by the government, or
come on their private means. They are all heavy
swells, as only negroes can be ; their well-fitted
clothes are of the finest and most showy material ;
HOW NEGRO STUDENTS ARE WELCOMED
they wear shining silk hats, white waistcoats, white
"spats," patent leathers, and very light kid gloves,
not to mention a load of massive jewelry. The
girls flutter about them in bevies, like doves to be
ifed.
At exactly a quarter-past midnight the band played
the last piece, the lights began to go out, and the
Bal Bullier was closed.
Out into the boulevard surged the heated crowd,
shouting, singing, and cutting capers as they headed
for the Boul' Mich', there to continue the revelries of
which the Bal Bullier was only the beginning, "A
126
LE BOUL' MICH'
la Taverne du Pantheon!" "Au Cafe Lorrain !"
"All Cafe d'Harcourt !" were the cries that rang
through the streets, mingled with the singing of half
a thousand people. In this mob we again encoun-
tered our American acquaintance with his prize, and
as he was bent on seeing all that he could of Paris,
■ .!^ ENCORE DES DEMI-MONDAINES
y
he begged us to see him through, explaining that
money was no object with him, though delicately
adding that our friends must make so many calls
upon our hospitality as to prove a burden at times.
He had only two days more in Paris, and the hours
were precious, and "we will do things up in style,"
he declared buoyantly. He did.
Bishop's arm was securely held by a little lassie
all in soft creamy silks. She spoke Engleesh, and
demurely asked Bishop if " we will go to ze cafe
127
BOHEMIAN PARIS
ensemble, n'est-ce-pas ?" and Bishop had not the
heart to eject her from the party. And so five of us
went skipping along- with the rest, Mr. Pugson swear-
ing by all the gods that Paris was the top of the earth !
When we reached the lower end of the Jardin du
Luxembourg, at the old Palais, the bright glow of
the cafes, with their warm stained windows and light-
hearted throngs, stretched away before
us. Ah, le Boul' Mich' never sleeps !
There are still the laughing grisettes,
the singing and dancing students, the
kiosks all aglow ; the marchand de
marrons is roasting his chestnuts over
a charcoal brazier, sending out a savory
aroma ; the swarthy Turk is offering his
wares with a princely grace ; the flower-
girls flit about with freshly cut carna-
tions, violets, and Marechal Niel roses,
'rf?r-^=--7 — "This joli bouquet for your sweet-
\3. «^^ heart," they plead so plaintively; the
pipe man plies his trade ; the cane man
mobs us, and the sellers of the last
editions of the papers cry their wares.
An old pedler works in and out among the cafe
tables with a little basket of olives, deux pour un
sou. The crawfish seller, with his little red ecrevisses
neatly arranged on a platter ; Italian boys in white
blouses bearing baskets filled with plaster casts of
"works of the old masters ;" gewgaw pedlers, — they
are still all busily at work, each adding his mite to
the din.
128
FROM THE COOK
SHOP
LE BOUL' MICH'
The cafes are packed, both inside and out, but the
favorite seats are those on the sidewalk under the
awninofs.
We halted at the Cafe d'Harcourt. Here the
crowd was thickest, the sidewalk a solid mass of hu-
manity ; and the noise and the waiters as they yelled
A CAF6 fight
their orders, they were there. And des femmes —
how many ! The Cafe d'Harcourt is the head-quar-
ters of these wonderful creations of clothes, paint,
wicked eyes, and graceful carriage. We worked
our way into the interior. Here the crowd was
almost as dense as without, but a chance offered us
a vacant table ; no sooner had we captured it than
we were compelled to retreat, because of a battle
131
BOHEMIAN PARIS
that two excited demoiselles were having at an ad-
joining table. In another part of the room there
was singing of " Les sergents sont des brave gens,"
and in the middle of the floor a petite cocotte, her
hat rakishly pulled down over her eyes, was doing
a dance very gracefully, her white legs gleaming
above the short socks that she wore, and a shock-
ingly high kick punctuating the performance at inter-
vals. At other tables were seated students with
their friends and mistresses, playing dominoes or
recounting their petites histoires. One table drew
much attention by reason of a contest in drinking
between two seasoned habitues, one a Martinique
negro and the other a delicate blond poet. The
negro won, but that was only because his purse was
the longer.
Every consommation is served with a saucer, upon
which is marked the price of the drink, and the score
is thus footed a la fin de ces joies. There are some
heavy accounts to be settled with the gargons.
" Ah ! voila Beeshop !" " Tiens ! mon vieux !"
" Comment vas-tu ?" clamored a half-dozen of Bishop's
feminine acquaintances, as they surrounded our table,
overwhelming us with their conflicting perfumes.
These denizens of the Boul' have an easy way of
making acquaintances, but they are so bright and
mischievous withal that no offence can be taken ;
and they may have a stack of saucers to be paid for.
Among the many cafe frequenters of this class fully
half know a few words of English, Italian, German,
and even Russian, and are so quick of perception
132
p'tite femme a faire''
LE BOUL' MICH'
that they can identify a foreigner at a glance. Con-
sequently our table was instantly a target, principally
on account of Mr. Pugson, whose nationality ema-
nated from his every pore.
"Ah, milord, how do you do ? I spik Engleesh a
few. Es eet notverra a beautiful night?" is what he
got. "You are si charmant, monsieur!" protested
•' PAVEZ-MOI UN BOCK, MON CHERI ?'
another, stroking Bishop's Valasquez beard ; and
then, archly and coaxingly, " Qu'est-ce que vous
m'offrez, monsieur? Payez-moi un bock? Yes?"
Mr. Pugson made the gargons start. He ordered
135
BOHEMIAN PARIS
"everything and the best in the house" (in English) ;
but it was the lordliness of his manner that told, as
he leaned back in his chair and smoked his Londres
and eyed Madeleine with intense satisfaction. In the
eyes of the beholders that action gave him the un-
mistakable stamp of an American millionaire. "Tell
you, boys," he puffed, " I'm not going to forget Paree
in a hurry." And Mademoiselle Madeleine, how she
revelled ! Mr. Pugson bought her everything that the
venders had to sell, besides, for himself, a wretched
plaster cast of a dancing-girl that he declared was
"dead swell." "I'll take it home and startle the
natives," he added; but he didn't, as we shall see
later. Then he bought three big canes as souvenirs
for friends, besides a bicycle lamp, a mammoth pipe,
and other things. A hungry-looking sketch artist
who presented himself was engaged on the spot to
execute Mr. Pugson's portrait, which he made so
flattering as to receive five francs instead of one,
his price.
At a neighboring table occupied by a group of
students was Bi-Bi-dans-la-Puree, one of the most
famous characters of the Quartier and Montmartre.
With hilarious laughter the students were having
fun with Bi-Bi by pouring the contents of their soup-
plates and drinking-glasses down his back and upon
his sparsely covered head ; but what made them
laugh more was Bi-Bi's wonderful skill in pulling
grotesque faces. In that line he was an artist. His
cavernous eyes and large, loose mouth did marvel-
lous things, from the ridiculous to the terrible ; and
136
LE BOUL' MICH'
he could literally laugh from ear to ear. Poor Bi-
Bi-dans-la-Puree ! He had been a constant com-
panion of the great Verlaine, but was that no more,
HAVING FUN WITH BI-BI-DANS-LA-PURfeE
since Verlaine had died and left him utterly alone.
You may see him any day wandering aimlessly about
the Quartier, wholly oblivious to the world about
him, and dreaming doubtless of the great dead poet
of the slums, who had loved him.
Here comes old Madame Carrot, a weazened little
hunchback, anywhere between sixty and a hundred
years of age. She is nearly blind, and her tattered
clothes hang in strips from her wreck of a form. A
few thin strands of gray hair are all that cover her
head,
" Bon soir, Mere Carrot ! ma petite mignonne,
viens done qu'on t'embrasse ! Ou sont tes ailes ?" and
other mocking jests greet her as she creeps among
the tables. But Mere Carrot scorns to beg : she
would earn her money. Look ! With a shadowy
137
BOHEMIAN PARIS
remnant of grace she picks up the hem of her ragged
skirt, and with a heart-breaking smile that discloses
her toothless gums, she skips about in a dance that
sends her audience into shrieks of laughter, and no
end of sous are flung at her feet. She will sing, too,
and caricature herself, and make pitiful attempts at
high kicking and anything else that she is called
upon to do for the sous that the students throw so
recklessly. There are those who say that she is
rich.
In the rear end of the cafe the demoiselle who had
anchored herself to the Martinique negro at the Bal
Bullier was on a table kicking the negro's hat, which
he held at arm's length while he stood on a chair.
" Plus haut ! plus haut encore !" she cried ; but each
time, as he kept raising it, she tipped it with her
dainty slipper ; and then, with a magnificent bound,
she dislodged with her toe one of the chandelier
globes, which went crashing with a great noise to the
floor ; and then she plunged down and sought refuge
in her adorer's arms.
The night's excitement has reached its height now.
There is a dizzy whirl of skirts, feathers, " plug" hats,
and silken stockings ; and there is dancing on the
tables, with a smashing of glass, while lumps of sugar
soaked in cognac are thrown about. A single-file
march round the room is started, each dragging a
chair and all singing, " Oh, la pauvre fille, elle est
malade !" Mr. Pugson, tightly clutching his canes
and his Dancing-Girl, joins the procession, his shiny
hat reposing on the pretty head of Mademoiselle
138
LE BOUL' MICH'
Madeleine. But his heart almost breaks with regret
because he cannot speak French.
I began to remonstrate with Bishop for his own
unseemly levity, but the gloved hand of Mademoiselle
Madeleine was laid on my lips, and her own red lips
protested, "Taisez-vous done! c'est absolument in-
excusable de nous faire des sermons en ce moment !
En avant !" And we went.
It was two o'clock, and the cafes were closing,
under the municipal regulation to do so at that
hour, and the Boul' was swarming with revellers
turned out of doors.
At the corner of the Rue Racine stands a small
boulangerie, where some of the revellers were beat-
ing on the iron shutters and crying, " Voila du bon
fromage au lait !" impatient at the tardiness of the
fat baker in opening his shop ; for the odor of hot
rolls and croissants came up through the iron gratings
of the kitchen, and the big cans of fresh milk at the
door gave further comforting assurances.
Lumbering slowly down the Boul' were ponderous
carts piled high with vegetables, on their way to the
great markets of Paris, the Halles Centrales. The
drivers, half asleep on the top, were greeted with
demands for transportation, and a lively bidding
for passengers arose among them. They charged
five sous a head, or as much more as they could
get, and soon the carts were carrying as many pas-
sengers as could find a safe perch on the heaped
vegetables.
" Aux Halles ! aux Halles ! nous allons aux Halles !
»39
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Oh, la, la, comme ils sont bons, les choux et les poti-
rons !" were the cries as the carts lumbered on
toward the markets.
Mr. Pugson had positively refused to accept our
resignation, and stoutly reminded us of our promise
to see him through. So our party arranged with a
masculine woman in a man's coat on payment of a
franc a head, and we clambered upon her neatly
piled load of carrots. Mr. Pugson, becoming impa-
tient at the slow progress of the big Normandy horses,
began to pelt them with carrots. The market-woman
protested vigorously at this waste of her property,
and told Mr. Pugson that she would charge him two
sous apiece for each subsequent carrot. He seized
upon the bargain with true American readiness, and
then flung carrots to his heart's content, the driver
meanwhile keeping count in a loud and menacing
voice. It was a new source of fun for the irrepressi-
ble and endlessly jovial American.
Along the now quiet boulevard the carts trundled
in a string. All at once there burst from them all an
eruption of song and laughter, which brought out
numerous gendarmes from the shadows. But when
they saw the crowd they said nothing but "Les
etudiants," and retreated to the shadows.
As we were crossing the Pont-au-Change, oppo-
site the Place du Chatelet, with its graceful column
touched by the shimmering lights of the Seine, and
dominated by the towers of Notre-Dame, Mr. Pug-
son, in trying to hurl two carrots at once, incautiously
released his hold upon the Dancing-Girl, which in-
140
LE BOUL' MICH'
continently rolled off the vegetables and was shat-
tered into a thousand fragments on the pavement of
the bridge — along with Mr. Pugson's heart. After
a moment of silent misery he started to throw the
whole load of carrots into the river, but he quickly
regained command of himself For the first time,
however, his wonderful spirits were dampened, and
he was as moody and cross as a child, refusing to be
comforted even by Madeleine's cooing voice.
The number of carts that we now encountered
converging from many quarters warned us that we
were very near the markets. Then rose the subdued
noise that night-workers make. There seemed to be
no end of the laden carts. The great Halles then
came into view, with their cold glare of electric
lights, and thousands of people moving about with
baskets upon their backs, unloading the vegetable
carts and piling the contents along the streets. The
thoroughfares were literally walled and fortressed
with carrots, cabbages, pumpkins, and the like, piled
in neat rows as high as our heads for square after
square. Is it possible for Paris to consume all of
this in a day ?
Every few yards were fat women seated before
steaming cans of hot potage and cafe noir, with rows
of generous white bowls, which they would fill for a
sou.
Not alone were the market workers here, for it
seemed as though the Boul' Mich' had merely taken
an adjournment after the law had closed its portals
and turned it out of doors. The workers were silent
141
BOHEMIAN PARIS
and busy, but largely interspersed among them were
the demi-mondaines and the singing and dancing
students of the Quartier, all as full of life and
deviltry as ever. It was with these tireless revel-
lers that the soup- and coffee-women did their most
thriving business, for fun brings a good appetite,
and the soup and coffee were good ; but better still
was this unconventional, lawless, defiant way of
taking them. Mr. Pugson's spirits regained their
vivacity under the spell, and he was so enthusiastic
that he wanted to buy out one of the pleasant-faced
fat women ; we had to drag him bodily away to avert
the catastrophe.
In the side streets leading away from the markets
are cafes and restaurants almost without number,
and they are open toute la nuit, to accommodate
the market people, having a special permit to do so ;
but as they are open to all, the revellers from all
parts of Paris assemble there after they have been
turned out of the boulevard cafes at two o'clock. It
is not an uncommon thing early of a Sunday morn-
ing to see crowds of merry-makers from a bal
masque finishing the night here, all in costume,
dancing and playing ring-around-a-rosy among the
stacks of vegetables and the unheeding market
people. Indeed, it is quite a common thing to
end one's night's frivolity at the Halles and their
cafes, and take the first 'buses home in the early
morning.
The contingent from the Boul' Mich', after assist-
ing the market people to unload, and indulging in
142
SLEEPY ALI.-NIGHTERS AT THE CAFt BARRFTTE
LE BOUL' MICH'
all sorts of pranks, invaded the elite cafes, among
them the Cafe Barrette, Au Veau Qui Tete, Au Chien
Qui Fume, and Le Caveau du Cercle. At this last-
named place, singing and recitations with music
were in order, a small platform at one end of the
room being reserved for the piano and the per-
formers. Part of the audience were in masquerade
costume, having come from a ball at Montmartre, and
they lustily joined the choruses. Prices are gilt-
edged here, — a franc a drink, and not less than ten
sous to the gargon.
The contrast between the fluffy and silk-gowned
demi-mondaines and the dirty, roughly clad market
people was very striking at the Cafe Barrette. There
the women sit in graceful poses, or saunter about
and give evidence of their style, silk gowns, India
laces, and handsome furs, greeting each new-comer
with pleas for a sandwich or a bock ; they are
always hungry and thirsty, but they get a commis-
sion on all sales that they promote. A small string
orchestra gave lively music, and took up collections
between performances. The array of gilt-framed
mirrors heightened the brilliancy of the place, already
sufficiently aglow with many electric lights. The
Cafe Barrette is the last stand of the gaudy women
of the boulevards. With the first gray gleam of
dawn they pass with the night to which they be-
long.
It was with sincere feeling that Mr. Pugson bade
us good-by at five o'clock that morning as he jumped
into a cab to join his good spouse at the Hotel Con-
lo 145
BOHEMIAN PARIS
tinental ; but he bore triumphantly with him some
sketches of the showy women at the Cafe Barrette,
which Bishop had made.
As for Madeleine, so tremedously liberal had she
found Mr. Pugson that her protestations of affection
for him were voluble and earnest. She pressed her
card upon him and made him swear that he would
find her again. After we had bidden her good-night,
Mr. Pugson drew the card from his pocket, and
thoughtfully remarked, as he tore it to pieces, —
" I don't think it is prudent to carry such things
m your pocket."
LONG-HAIRED STUDENTS OF THE BOUL MICH'
-wmimMnHiwiiiifipj
MAISON DA RELAY
BOHEMIAN CAFES
VERY often, instead of having dinner at the
studio, we saunter over to the Maison Dar-
blay, passing the wall of the dismal Cimetiere
du Montparnasse on the way. The Maison Dar-
blay is in the little Rue de la Gaiete, which, though
only a block in length, is undoubtedly the liveliest
thoroughfare in the Quartier, That is because it
serves as a funnel between the Avenue du Maine
and five streets that converge into it at the upper
end. Particularly in the early evening the little
street is crowded with people returning from their
work. All sorts of boutiques are packed into this
minute thoroughfare, — jewelry-shops, pork-shops,
kitchens (where they cook what you bring while you
wait on the sidewalk), theatres, cafes chantants,
fried-potato stalls, snail merchants, moving vegeta-
ble- and fruit-markets, and everything else.
147
BOHEMIAN PARIS
In the middle of the block, on the western side,
between a millinery-shop and a butcher-shop, stands
the Maison Darblay, famous for its beans and its
patrons. A modest white front, curtained windows,
and a row of milk-cans give little hint of the charms
of the interior. Upon entering we encounter the
vast M, Darblay seated behind a tiny counter, upon
which are heaped a
pile of freshly ironed
napkins, parcels of
chocolate, a big dish
of apple-sauce, rows
of bottles containing
bitters that work mira-
cles with ailing appe-
tites, and the tip-box.
Reflecting M. Dar-
blay's beamy back and
the clock on the oppo-
site wall (which is
LA CAISSE
always fifteen minutes
fast) hangs a long mirror resplendent in heavy gilt
frame ; it is the pride of the establishment, and
affords comfort to the actresses when they adjust
their hats and veils upon leaving.
M. Darblay is manager of the establishment, and
when it is reflected that he weighs two hundred and
sixty pounds, it may be imagined what accurate ad-
justments he has to make in fitting himself behind
the small counter. When a boarder finishes his
meal he goes to M. Darblay and tells him what he
BOHEMIAN CAFES
has had, including napkin and bread, and M. Darblay
scores it all down on a slate with chalk and foots it
up. After the bill is paid, the tip-box is supposed
by a current fiction to receive two sous for Marie
and Augustine, the buxom Breton maidens who
serve the tables ; but so rarely does the fiction ma-
terialize that, when the ratde of coins is heard in the
box, the boarders all look up wonderingly to see the
possible millionaire that has appeared among them,
and Marie and Au-
gustine shout at
the top of their
voices, "Merci
bien, monsieur !"
At the opposite
end of the room, in
full view, is the cui-
sine, with its big
range and ruddy
fires. Here Ma-
dame Darblay
reigns queen, her
genial, motherly red
face and bright eyes
beaming a welcome
to all. She is from
Lausanne, on Lake
Geneva, Switzerland, and the independent blood of
her race rarely fails its offices when M. Darblay
incautiously seeks to interfere with her duties and
prerogatives, for he retreats under an appalling vol-
149
MADAME DARBLAY, FAMOUS FOR HER BEANS
BOHEMIAN PARIS
ley of French from his otherwise genial spouse ; on
such occasions he seeks his own corner as rapidly as
he can manage his bulk to that purpose. She is a
famous cook. The memory of her poulets rotis and
juicy gigots will last forever. But greatest of all are
her haricots blancs, cooked au beurre ; it is at the
shrine of her beans that her devoted followers worship.
And her wonderful wisdom ! She knows intuitively
if you are out of sorts or have an uncertain appetite,
and without a hint she will prepare a delicacy that no
epicure could resist. She knows every little whim
and peculiarity of her boarders, and caters to them
accordingly. The steaks and chops are bought at
the shop next door just when they are ordered, and
are always fresh.
There are eight marble-top tables lining the two
walls, and each table is held sacred to its proper
occupants, and likewise are the numbered hooks
and napkins. An invasion of these preserves is a
breech of etiquette intolerable in Bohemia.
Even the white cat is an essential part of the
establishment, for it purringly welcomes the patrons
and chases out stray dogs.
Situated as it is, in a group of three theatres and
several cafes chantants, it is the rendezvous of the
actors and actresses of the neighborhood. They hold
the three tables but one from the kitchen, on one
side, and they are a jolly crowd, the actresses par-
ticularly. They are a part of the Quartier and echo
its spirit. Although full of mischief and fun, the
actresses would never be suspected of singing the
150
BOHEMIAN CAFES
naughty songs that so dehght the gallery gods and
so often wring a murmur of protest from the pit.
There are ten who dine here, but from their inces-
sant chatter and laughter you would think them
twenty. On Friday evenings, when the
songs and plays are changed, they re-
hearse their pieces at dinner.
Bishop is openly fond of Mademoi-
selle Brunerye, a sparkling little bru-
nette singer, who scolds him tragically
for drawing horrible carica-
tures of her when he sits be-
fore the footlights to hear
her sing. But it is always
she that begins the trouble
at the theatre. If Bishop is
there, she is sure to see him
and to interpolate something
in her song about "mon
amant Americain." and sing it pointedly at him, to
the amusement of the audience and his great dis-
comfiture ; and so he retorts with the caricatures.
153
MADEMOISELLE BRUNERYE. OF
THE THEATRE GAIETfe, MONT-
PARNASSE
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Upon entering the restaurant the actresses remove
their hats and wraps and make themselves perfectly
at home. They are the Hfe of Darblay's ; we couldn't
possibly spare them.
One of the actors is a great swell, — M. Fontaine,
leading man at the Theatre du Montparnasse, op-
posite. His salary is a hundred francs
a week ; this makes the smaller actors
look up to him, and enables him to
wear a very long coat, besides gloves,
patent-leather shoes, and a shiny top-
hat. He occupies the place of honor,
and Marie smiles when she serves
him, and gives him a good measure
of wine. He rewards this attention
by depositing two sous in the tip-box
every Friday night. Then there are
M. Marius, M. Zecca, and M. Dufau,
who make people scream with laughter
at the Gaiete, and M. Coppee, the
heavy villain of the terrible eyes in
" Les Deux Gosses," and Mademoi-
THE LEADING MAN selle Walzy, whose dark eyes sparkle
AT THE GAiETfe ^j^j^ miscWef as she peeps over her
glass, and Mademoiselle Minion, who kicks shock-
ingly high to accentuate her songs, and eight other
actresses just as saucy and pretty.
The students of the Quartier practically take
charge of the theatres on Saturday nights, and as
they are very free with their expressions of approval
or disapproval, the faces of the stage-people wear
154
BOHEMIAN CAFES
an anxious look at the restaurant on that evening.
The students will throw the whole theatre into an
uproar with hisses that drive an actor off the stage,
or applause, recalls, and the throwing of two-sous
bouquets and kisses to an actress who has made a
hit.
Promptly at six-forty-five every night the venera-
ble M. Corneau enters Darblay's, bringing a copy
of Le Journal. He is extremely methodical, so that
any interruption of his established routine upsets
him badly. One evening he found a stranger in his
seat, occupying the identical chair that had been
sacred to his use every evening for six years. M.
Corneau was so astonished that he hung his hat on
the wrong hook, stepped on the cat's tail, sulked in
a corner, and refused to eat until his seat had been
vacated, and then he looked as though he wished it
could be fumigated. He has a very simple meal.
One evening he invited me — a rare distinction — to
his room, which was in the top floor of one of those
quaint old buildings in the Rue du Moulin de Beurre.
It could then be seen what a devoted scientist and
student he was. His room was packed with books,
chemicals, mineral specimens, and scientific instru-
ments. He was very genial, and brewed excellent
tea over an alcohol-stove of his own manufacture.
Twenty years ago he was a professor at the Ecole
des Mines, where he had served many years ; but
he had now grown too old for that, and was living
his quiet, studious, laborious life on a meagre
pension.
155
BOHEMIAN PARIS
At one table sit a sculptor, an artist, and a blind
musician and his wife. The sculptor is slender, deli-
cate, and nervous, and is continually rolling and
smoking cigarettes. His blond hair falls in ringlets
THE ARTIST, THE SCULPTOR, THE BLIND MUSICIAN, HIS WIFE
over his collar, and he looks more the poet than the
sculptor, for he is dreamy and distrait, and seems to
be looking within himself rather than upon the world
about him. Augustine serves him with an absinthe
Pernod au sucre, which he slowly sips while he
smokes several cigarettes before he is ready for his
dinner.
The artist is his opposite, — a big, bluff, hearty fel-
low, loud of voice and full of life. And he is suc-
156
BOHEMIAN CAFES
cessful, for he has received a medal and several hon-
orable mentions at the Salon des Champs-Elysees,
and has a fine twilight effect in the Luxembourg
THE POET AND HIS MISTRESS
Gallery. After dinner he and M. Darblay play
piquet for the coffee, and M. Darblay is generally
loser.
The blind musician is a kindly old man with a
benevolent face and a jovial spirit. He is the head
professor of music at the Institution des Aveugles,
on the Boulevard des Invalides. His wife is very
attentive to him, taking his hat and cane, tucking his
napkin under his chin, placing the dishes where he
knows how to find them, and reading the papers to
157
BOHEMIAN PARIS
him. He knows where everybody sits, and he ad-
dresses each by name, and passes many brisk sallies
about the room.
One poet is vivacious, not at all like the dreamy
species to which he belongs. True, he wears long
hair and a Quartier Latin "plug," but his eyes are
not vague, and he is immensely fond of Madame
Darblay's beans, of which he has been known to
stow away five platefuls at a meal. Often he brings
in a copy of Gil Bias, containing a poem by himself
in the middle of the page and with illustrations by
Steinlen.
A strange, solitary figure used to sit in one cor-
ner, speaking to no one, and never ordering more
than a bowl of chocolate and two sous of bread. It
was known merely that he was an Hungarian and an
artist, and from his patched and frayed clothes and
meagre fare it was surmised that he was poor. But
he had a wonderful face. Want was plainly stamped
upon it, but behind it shone a determination and a
hope that nothing could repress. There was not a
soul among the boarders but that would have been
glad to assist in easing whatever burden sat upon
him, and no doubt it was his suspicion of that fact
and his dread of its manifestation that made him
hold absolutely aloof Madame Darblay once or
twice made efforts to get nearer to him, but he
gently and firmly repulsed her. He was a pitiable
figure, but his pride was invincible, and with eyes
looking straight forward, he held up his head and
walked like a king. He came and werit as a shadow.
158
BOHEMIAN CAFES
None knew where he had a room. There were many
stories and conjectures about him, but he wrapped
his mantle of mystery and soHtude about him and
was wholly inaccessible. It was clear to see that he
lived in another world, — a world of hopes, filled with
bright images of peace and renown. After a time
his seat became vacant, and I shall presently tell
how it happened.
These will suffice as types of the Maison Darblay,
though I might mention old M. Decamp, eighty-four
years of age, and as hearty and jovial a man as one
would care to see. In his younger days he had been
an actor, having had a fame during the Empire of
Napoleon III. And there were a professor ot lan-
guages, who gave lessons at fifteen sous an hour, a
journalist of the Figaro, and two pretty milliner girls
from the shop next door.
The great event at the Maison Darblay came not
long ago, when M. Darblay' s two charming daugh-
ters had a double wedding, each with a comfortable
dot, for M. Darblay had grown quite rich out of his
restaurant, owning several new houses. The girls
were married twice, — once at the Mairie on the Rue
Gassendi, and again at the Eglise St. Pierre, on the
Avenue du Maine. Then came the great wedding-
dinner at the Maison Darblay, to which all the
boarders were invited. The tables were all con-
nected, so as to make two long rows. The bridal-
party were seated at the end next the kitchen, and
the front door was locked to exclude strangers. M.
Darblay was elegant in a new dress suit and white
159
BOHEMIAN PARIS
shirt, but his tailor, in trying to give him a trim
figure, made the situation embarrassing, as M. Dar-
blay's girth steadily increased
during the progress of the
banquet. He made a very fine
speech, which was uproariously
cheered. Madame Darblay
was remarkably handsome in a
red satin gown, and bore so
distinguished an air, and looked
so transformed from her usual
kitchen appearance, that we
could only marvel and admire.
Then came the kissing of the
brides, a duty that was per-
formed most heartily. Ma-
cuTTiNG ^2.me Darblay was very happy
and proud, and her dinner was
a triumph to have lived for.
Bishop sat opposite the wicked Mademoiselle
Brunerye, and he and she made violent love, and
behaved with conspicuous lack of dignity. M. Fon-
taine, the orreat, had one of the chic milliners for
partner. Old M. Decamp told some racy stories
of the old regime. When the coffee and liqueurs
came on, the big artist brought out a guitar and the
poet a mandolin, and we had music. Then the poet
read a poem that he had written for the occasion.
The actresses sang their sprightliest songs. Made-
moiselle Brunerye sang " ^a fait toujours plaisir" to
Bishop. M. Fontaine gave in a dramatic manner a
i6o
MONSIEUR DARBLAY
BREAD IN SOU LENGTHS
BOHEMIAN CAFES
scene from " Les Deux Gosses," the heavy villain
assisting, the cook's aprons and towels serving to
make the costumes. Bishop sang " Down on the
THE HEAVY VILLAIN
Farm." In short, it was a splendid evening in Bohe-
mia, of a kind that Bohemians enjoy and know how
to make the most of.
There was one silent guest, the strange young
Hungarian artist. He ate with a ravenous appetite,
openly and unashamed. After he had had his fill
(and Madame Darblay saw to it that he found his
II i6i
BOHEMIAN PARIS
plate always replenished), he smiled occasionally at
the bright sallies of the other guests, but for the
most part he sat constrained, and would speak only
when addressed, — he protested that his French was
too imperfect. It was so evident that he wished to
escape notice entirely that no serious effort was
made to draw him out.
That was a hard winter. A few weeks after the
wedding the Hungarian's visits to the Maison Dar-
blay suddenly ceased. The haunted look had been
deepening in his eyes, his gaunt cheeks had grown
thinner, and he looked like a hunted man. After his
disappearance the gendarmes came to the restaurant
to make inquiries about him. Bishop and I were
present. They wanted to know if the young man
had any friends there. We told them that we would
be his friends.
"Then you will take charge of his body?" they
asked.
We followed them to the Rue Perceval, where they
turned us over to the concierge of an old building.
She was very glad we had come, as the lad seemed
not to have had a friend in the world. She led us
up to the sixth floor, and then pointed to a ladder
leading up to the roof. We ascended it, and found
a box built on the roof. It gave a splendid view of
Paris. The door of the box was closed. We opened
it, and the young artist lay before us dead. There
were two articles of furniture in the room. One
was the bare mattress on the floor, upon which he
lay, and the other was an old dresser, from which
162
BOHEMIAN CAFES
some of the drawers were missing. The young man
lay drawn up, fully dressed, his coat collar turned up
about his ears. Thus he had fallen asleep, and thus
hunger and cold had slain him as he slept. There
was one thing else in the room, all besides, including
the stove and the bed-covering, having gone for the
purchase of painting material. It was an unfinished
oil-painting of the Crucifixion. Had he lived to finish
it, I am sure it would have made him famous, if for
nothing else than the wonderful expression of agony
in the Saviour's face, an agony infinitely worse than
the physical pain of the crucifixion could have pro-
duced.
There was still one thing more, — a white rat that
was hunting industriously for food, nibbling desic-
cated cheese-rinds that it found on the shelves
against the wall. It had been the artist's one friend
and companion in life.
And all that, too, is a part of life in Bohemian
Paris.
On the Rue Marie, not far from the Gare Mont-
parnasse, is the "Club," a small and artistically
dirty wine-shop and restaurant, patronized by a se-
lect crowd of musketeers of the brush. The warm,
dark tones of the anciently papered walls are hidden
beneath a cloud of oil sketches, charcoal drawings,
and caricatures of everything and everybody that the
fancies of the Bohemians could devise. Madame
Annaie is mistress of the establishment, and her
cook, M. Annaie, wears his cap rakishly on one side
163
BOHEMIAN PARIS
and attends to his business ; and he makes very
good potages and rotis, considering the small prices
that are charged. Yet even the prices, though the
main attraction, are paid with difficulty by a majority
of the habitues, who sometimes fall months in arrears.
Madame Annaie keeps a big book of accounts.
Of the members of the club, four are Americans,
two Spaniards, one an Italian, one a Welshman,
one a Pole, one a Turk, one a Swiss, and the rest
French, — just fifteen in all, and all sculptors and
painters except one of the Americans, who is corre-
spondent of a New York paper. At seven o'clock
every evening the roll is called by the Pole, who acts
as president, secretary, and treasurer of the club.
A fine of two sous is imposed for every absence ;
this goes to the "smoker" fund. Joanskouie, the
multiple officer, has not many burdensome duties,
but even these few are a severe tax upon his highly
nervous temperament. Besides collecting the fines
he must gather up also the dues, which are a franc
a month. All the members are black-listed, in-
cluding the president himself, and the names of the
delinquents are posted on the wall.
The marble-top tables are black with pencil
sketches done at the expense of Giles, the Welsh-
man, who is the butt of the club. He is a very tall
and amazingly lean Welshman, with a bewhiskered
face, a hooked nose, and a frightful accent when he
speaks either English or French. He is an animal
sculptor, but leaves his art carefully alone. He is
very clever at drawing horses, dogs, and funny cows
164
BOHEMIAN CAFES
all over the walls ; but he is so droll and stupid, so
incredibly stupid, that "Giles" is the byword of the
club. Every month he receives a remittance of two
hundred and fifty francs, and immediately starts out
to get the full worth of it in the kinds of enjoyment
that he finds on the Boul' Mich', where regularly
once a month he is a great favorite with the feminine
habitues of the cafes. When his funds run low, he
lies perdu till mid-day ; then he appears at Madame
Annaie's, heavy-eyed and stupid, staying until mid-
night. Sometimes he varies this routine by visiting
his friends at their studios, where he is made to pose
in ridiculous attitudes.
The "smoker" is held on the last Saturday night
of each month, and all the members are present.
Long clay pipes are provided, and a big bowl of steam-
ing punch, highly seasoned, comes from Madame An-
naie's kitchen. Mutually laudatory speeches and
toasts, playing musical instruments, and singing
songs are in order. The Spaniard, with castanets,
skilfully executes the fandango on a table. Bishop
does the danse du ventre. Joncierge gives marvel-
lous imitations of Sarah Bernhardt and other celeb-
rities, including Giles, whose drawl and stupidity
he makes irresistibly funny. Nor do Gerome, Bou-
guereau, and Benjamin Constant escape his mimicry.
Haidor, the Turk, drawls a Turkish song all out of
tune, and is rapturously encored. The Swiss and
the Italian render a terrific duo from "Aida," and
the Spaniards sing the " Bullfighters' Song" su-
perbly. Sketches are dashed off continually. They
165
BOHEMIAN PARIS
are so clever that it is a pity Madame Annaie has to
wipe them from the tables.
On Thanksgiving-day the Americans gave the
club a Thanksgiving dinner. It was a great mys-
tery and novelty to the other members, but they en-
joyed it hugely. The turkeys were found without
much trouble, but the whole city had to be searched
for cranberries. At last they were found in a small
grocery-shop in the American quarter, on the Ave-
nue Wagram. Bishop superintended the cooking,
M. Annaie serving as first assistant. How M.
Annaie stared when he beheld the queer Ameri-
ican mixtures that Bishop was concocting ! " Mon
Dieu ! Not sugar with meat !" he cried, aghast,
seeing Bishop serve the turkey with cranberry
sauce. A dozen delicious pumpkin-pies that formed
part of the menu staggered the old cook. The Italian
cooked a pot of macaroni with mushroom sauce, and
it was superb.
"The Hole in the Wall" eminently deserves its
name. It is on the Boulevard du Montparnasse,
within two blocks of the Bal BuUier. A small iron
sign projecting over the door depicts two students
looking down at the passers-by over bowls of coffee,
rolls also being shown. It was painted by an Aus-
trian student in payment of a month's board.
The Hole is a tiny place, just sufficiently large for
its two tables and eight stools, fat Madame Morel,
the proprietress, and a miniature zinc bar filled with
absinthe and cognac bottles and drinking glasses.
1 66
BOHEMIAN CAFES
The ceiling is so low that you must bend should you
be very tall, for overhead is the sleeping-room of
Madame Morel and her niece ; it is reached by a
small spiral stair. A narrow slit in the floor against
■' THE HOLE IN THE WALL" AND MADAME MOREL
the wall, where the napkin-box hangs, leads down to
the dark little kitchen. It is a tight squeeze for
Madame Morel to serve her customers, but she has
infinite patience and geniality, and discharges her
numerous duties and bears her hardships with unfail-
ing good-nature. It is no easy task to cook a half-
dozen orders at once, wait on the tables, run out to
the butcher-shop for a chop or a steak, and take in
the cash. But she does all this, and much more,
having no assistant. The old concierge next door,
Madame Mariolde, runs in to help her occasionally,
when she can spare a moment from her own multifa-
rious duties. Madame Morel's toil-worn hands are
167
BOHEMIAN PARIS
not bien propre, but she has a kind heart. For
seven years she has Hved in this Httle Hole, and
during that time has never been farther away than
to the grocery-shop on the opposite corner.
Her niece leaves at seven o'clock in the morning
to sew all day on the other side of town, returning
at eight at night, tired and listless, but always with
a half-sad smile. So we see little of her. Many
nights I have seen her come in drenched and cold,
her faded straw hat limp and askew, and her dark
hair clinging to her wet face. For she has walked
in the rain all the way from the Avenue de 1' Opera,
unable to afford omnibus fare. She usually earns
from two to two and half francs a day, sewing
twelve hours.
The most interesting of the frequenters of the
Hole is a Slav from Trieste, on the Adriatic. He is
a genius in his way, and full of energy and busi-
ness sense. His vocation is that of a "lightning-
sketch artist," performing at the theatres. He has
travelled all over America and Europe, and is thor-
oughly hardened to the ways of the world. When-
ever he runs out of money he goes up to the Rue
de la Gaiete and gives exhibitions for a week or two
at one of the theatres there, receiving from fifty to
sixty francs a week. The students all go to see him,
and make such a noise and throw so many bouquets
(which he returns for the next night) that the theat-
rical managers, thinking he is a great drawing-card,
generally raise his salary as an inducement to make
him prolong his stay when he threatens to leave.
i68
BOHEMIAN CAFES
But he is too thoroughly a Bohemian to remain long
in a place. Last week he suddenly was taken with
a desire to visit Vienna. Soon after he had gone
four pretty Parisiennes called and wanted to know
what had become of their amant.
D , another of the habitues of the Hole, is a
German musical student. Strangers would likely
think him mentally deranged, so odd is his conduct.
He has two other peculiarities, — ex-
treme sensitiveness and indefatigable
industry. He brings his shabby
violin-case every evening, takes out
his violin after dinner, and at once
becomes wholly absorbed in his prac-
tice. If he would play something
more sprightly and pleasing the other
habitues of the Hole would not ob-
ject ; but he insists on practising the
dreariest, heaviest, and most wearing
exercises, the most difficult etudes,
and the finest compositions of the
masters. All this is more than the
others can bear with patience always ;
so they wound his sensibilities by
throwing bread and napkin-rings at "^"^ musical stu-
1 . ^T^, 1 . 11-1 DENT AT " THE HOLE
hmi. I hen he retires to the kitchen, j^^ ^^^ wall"
where, sitting on the cooler end of the
range, he practises diligently under Madame Morel's
benevolent protection. This is all because he has
never found a concierge willing to permit him to
study in his room, so tireless is his industry. If I
169
BOHEMIAN PARIS
do not mistake, this strange young man will be heard
from some day.
Then there is W , a student in sculpture, with
exceptionally fine talent. He had been an American
cowboy, and no trooper could swear more eloquently.
He has been making headway, for the Salon has
given him honorable mention for a strong bronze
group of fighting tigers. His social specialty is
poker-playing, and he has brought the entire Hole
under the spell of that magic game.
Herr Prell, from Munich, takes delight in torturing
the other habitues with accounts of dissections, as he
is a medical student at the Academie de Medecine.
The Swede, who drinks fourteen absinthes a day,
throws stools at Herr Prell, and tries in other ways
to make him fight ; but Herr Prell only laughs, and
gives another turn of the dissection-screw.
The glee club is one of the features of the Hole.
It sings every night, but its supreme effort comes
when one of the patrons of the Hole departs for
home. On such occasions the departing comrade
has to stand the dinner for all, after which, with its
speeches and toasts, he is escorted to the railway
station with great eclat, and given a hearty farewell,
the glee club singing the parting song at the station.
Bishop is leading tenor of the glee club.
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
IT is only the name of the Cabaret of the Golden
Sun that suggests the glorious luminary of day.
And yet it is really brilliant in its
own queer way, though that brilliancy
shines when all else in Paris is dark
and dead, — at night, and in the latest
hours of the night at that.
My acquaintance with the Golden
Sun began one foggy night in a cold
November, under the guidance of
Bishop.
Lured by the fascinations of noc-
turnal life in the Quartier Latin, and
by its opportunities for the study of
life in its strangest phases, Bishop
had become an habitual nighthawk,
leaving the studio nearly every
evening about ten o'clock, after
he had read a few hours from
treasured books gleaned from
the stalls along the river, to
prowl about with a sketch-
book, in quest of queer char-
acters and queer places, where strange lives were
lived in the dark half of the day. His knowledge of
171
IN HEAVY BOHEMIA
BOHEMIAN PARIS
obscure retreats and their peculiar habitues seemed
unHmited. And what an infinite study they offer !
The tourist, "doing" Bohemian Paris as he would
the famous art galleries, or Notre-Dame, or the
Madeleine, or the cafes on the boulevards, may,
under the guidance of a wise and discerning stu-
dent, visit one after another of these out-of-the-way
resorts where the endless tragedy of human life is
working out its mysteries ; he may see that one
place is dirtier or noisier than another, that the men
and women are better dressed and livelier here than
there, that the crowd is bigger, or the lights brighter ;
but he cannot see, except in their meaningless outer
aspects, those subtle differences which constitute the
heart of the matter. In distance it is not far from
the Moulin Rouge to the Cabaret du Soleil d'Or,
but in descending from the dazzling brilliancy and
frothy abandon of the Red Mill to the smoke and
grime of the Golden Sun, we drop from the summit
of the Tour Eiffel to the rat-holes under the bridges
of the Seine; and yet it is in such as the Cabaret
of the Golden Sun that the true student finds the
deeper, the more lastingly charming, the strangely
saddening spell that lends to the wonderful Quartier
Latin its distinctive character and everlasting fasci-
nation.
Though Bishop spoke to me very little of his mid-
night adventures, I being very busy with my own
work, I began to have grave apprehensions on the
score of his tastes in that direction ; for during the
afternoons ridiculous-looking, long-haired, but gentle-
172
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
mannered persons in shabby attire, well-seasoned
with the aroma of absinthe and cigarettes, would
favor our studio with a call, undoubtedly at Bishop's
invitation. They brought with them black portfolios
or rolls of paper tied with black string, containing
verses, — their masterpieces, which were to startle
Paris, or new songs, which, God favoring, were to be
sung at La Scala or the Ambassadeurs, and thus
bring them immortal fame and put abundant fat
upon their lean ribs ! Ah, the deathless hope that
makes hunger a welcome companion here !
Bishop would cleverly entertain these aspiring
geniuses with shop talk concerning literature and
music, and he had a charming way of dwelling upon
the finish and subtlety of their work and comparing
it with that of the masters. It usually ended with
their posing for him in different attitudes of his sug-
gesting. Why waste money on professional models ?
As Bishop's acquaintances became more numerous
among this class, we finally set aside Tuesday after-
noons for their reception. Then they would come
in generous numbers and enjoy themselves unre-
servedly with our cognac and biscuits. But ah, the
rare pleasures of those afternoons, — as much for the
good it did us to see their thin blood warmed with
brandy and food as for their delightful entertainment
of us and one another.
The studio was warm and cheerful on the night
when Bishop invited me to accompany him out. I
had been at work, and presently, when I had finished,
I flung myself on the divan for a rest and a smoke,
173
BOHEMIAN PARIS
and then became aware of Bishop's presence. He
was comfortably ensconced in the steamer-chair,
propped up with pillows.
"Aren't you going out to-night?" I inquired.
"Why, yes. Let's see the time. A little after
eleven. That's good. You are finished, aren't you ?
Now, if you want a little recreation and wish to see
one of the queerest places in Paris, come with me."
I looked out the window. A cold, dreary night it
was. The chimney-pots were dimmed by the thick
mist, and the street lamps shone murkily far below.
It was a saddening, soaking, dripping night, still, mel-
ancholy, and depressing, — the kind of night that lends
a strange zest to in-door enjoyment, as though it were
a duty to keep the mist and the dreariness out of the
house and the heart.
But the studio had worn me out, and I was eager
to escape from its pleasant coziness. And this was
a Saturday night, which means something, even in
Paris. To-morrow there would be rest. So I cheer-
fully assented.
We donned our heaviest top-coats and mufflers,
crammed the stove full of coal, and then sallied out
into the dripping fog.
Oh, but it was cold and dismal in the streets ! The
mist was no longer the obscuring, suggestive, myste-
rious factor that it had been when seen from the
window, but was now a tangible and formidable thing,
with a manifest purpose. It struck through our wraps
as though they had been cheesecloth. It had swept
the streets clear, for not a soul was to be seen except
174
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
a couple of sergents de ville, all hooded in capes, and
a cab that came rattling through the murk with horses
asteam. Occasionally a flux of warm light from some
cafe would melt a tunnel througrh the monotonous
opaque haze, but the empty chairs and tables upon
the sidewalks facing the cafes offered no invitation.
THE LADY IN BLACK
In front of one of these cafes, in a sheltered cor-
ner made by a glass screen, sat a solitary young
woman, dressed stylishly in black, the light catching
one of her dainty slippers perched coquettishly upon
175
BOHEMIAN PARIS
a foot-rest. A large black hat, tilted wickedly down
over her face, cast her eyes in deep shadow and lent
her that air of alluring mystery which the women of
her class know so well how to cultivate. Her neck
and chin were buried deep in the collar of her seal-
skin cape. A gleam of limp white gauze at her throat
lent a pleasing relief to the monotone of her attire.
Upon the table in front of her stood an empty glass
and two saucers. As we passed she peered at us
from beneath her big hat, and smiled coquettishly,
revealing glistening white teeth. The atmosphere of
loneliness and desolation that encompassed her gave
a singularly pathetic character to her vigil. Thus
she sat, a picture for an artist, a text for a moralist,
pretty, dainty, abandoned. It happened not to be
her fortune that her loneHness should be relieved by
us. , . . But other men might be coming afterwards.
. . . All this at a glance through the cold November
fog.
As we proceeded up the Boul' Mich' the cafes
grew more numerous and passers-by more frequent,
but all these were silent and in a hurry, prodded on
by the nipping cold fangs of the night. Among the
tables outside the Cafe d'Harcourt crouched and
prowled an old man, bundled in ill-fitting rags,
searching for remnants of cigars and cigarettes on
the sanded sidewalk. From his glittering eyes, full
of suspicion, he turned an angry glance upon us as
we paused a moment to observe him, and growled, —
" Allons, tu n' peux done pas laisser un pauv'
malheureux?"
176
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
Bishop tossed him a sou, which he greedily
snatched without a word of thanks.
At the corner, under the gas-lamps, stood shiver-
ing newspaper venders trying to sell their few re-
maining copies of la derniere edition
de la presse. Buyers were scarce.
We had now reached the Place
St.-Michel and the left bank of the
river. We turned
to the right, fol-
lowing the river
wall toward No-
tre-Dame, whose
towers were
not discernible
through the fog.
Here there was an
unbounded wilder-
ness of desolation
and solitude. The
black Seine flowed silently past
dark masses that were resolved
into big canal-boats, with their .
sickly green lights reflected in the
writhing ink of the river. Notre-Dame now pushed
its massive bulk through the fog, but its towers
were lost in the sky. Near by a few dim lights
shone forth through the slatted windows of the
Morgue. But its lights never go out. And how
significantly close to the river it stands ! Peering
under the arches of the bridges, we found some of
177
A HUNTER OF SCRAPS
BOHEMIAN PARIS
the social dregs that sleep there with the rats. It
was not difficult to imagine the pretty girl in black
whom we had passed coming at last through dissipa-
tion and wrinkles and broken health to take refuge
with the rats under the bridges, and it is a short step
thence to the black waters of the river ; and that
the scheme of the tragedy might be perfect in all its
parts, adjustments, and relations, behold the Morgue
so near, with its lights that never go out, and boatmen
so skilled in dragging the river ! And the old man
who was gathering the refuse and waste of smokers,
it was not impossible that he should find himself
taking this route when his joints had grown stiffer,
though it would more likely end under the bridges.
The streets are very narrow and crooked around
Notre-Dame, and their emanations are as various as
the capacity of the human nose for evil odors. The
lamps, stuck into the walls of the houses, only make
the terrors of such a night more formidable ; for
while one may feel a certain security in absolute
darkness, the shadows to which the lamps lend life
have a baffling elusiveness and weirdness. and a
habit of movement that makes one instinctively
dodge. But that is all the trick of the wind. How-
ever that may be, it is wonderful how much more
vividly one remembers on such a night the stories of
the murders, suicides, and other crimes that lend a
particular grewsomeness to the vicinity of the Morgue
and Notre-Dame.
We again turned to the right, into a narrow, dirty
street, — the Rue du Haut-Pave, — whose windings
178
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
brought us into a similar street, — the Rue Galande.
Bishop halted in front of a low arched door-way,
which blazed sombrely in its coat of blood-red paint.
A twisted gas-lamp, demoralized and askew, de-
pended overhead, and upon the glass enclosing it
was painted, with artistic flourishes, —
•*Au SoLEiL d'Or."
This was the cabaret of the Golden Sun, — all un-
conscious of the mockery of its name, another of
those whimsical disjointings in which the shadowy
side of Paris is so prolific. From the interior of the
luminary came faintly the notes of a song, with piano
accompaniment.
The archway opened into a small court paved
with ill-fitted flint blocks. At the farther end of it
another gas-lamp flickered at the head of a flight of
stairs leading underground. As we approached the
steps a woman sprang from the shadow, and with a
cry, half of fear and half of anger, fled to the street.
At that moment memories of the cosiness of our
studio became doubly enticing, — one cannot always
approach unfamiliar underground Paris with perfect
courage. But Bishop's coolness was reassuring.
He had already descended the steps, and there was
nothing left for me but to follow.
At the foot of the stairs were half-glass doors cur-
tained with cheap red cloth. A warm, thick, suffo-
cating gust of air, heavy with the fumes of beer,
wine, and tobacco, assailed our cold faces as we
pushed open the doors and entered the room.
179
BOHEMIAN PARIS
For a moment it was difficult to see clearly, so
dense was the smoke. It was packed against the
ceiling like a bank of fog, diminishing in density
downward, and shot through with long banner-like
streamers of smoke freshly emitted.
The human atmosphere of the place could not be
caught at once, A stranger would not have known
for the moment whether he was with thieves or artists.
But very soon its distinctive spirit made its presence
and character manifest. The room — which was not
a large one — was well filled with an assortment of
those queer and interesting people some of whom
Bishop had entertained at the studio, only here their
characteristics were more pronounced, for they were
in their natural element, depressed and hampered by
no constraints except of their own devising. A great
many were women, although it could be seen at a
glance that they were not of the nymphs who flitted
among the glittering cafes, gowned in delicate laces
and sheeny sculptured silks, the essence of migno-
nette pervading their environment. No ; these were
different.
Here one finds, not the student life of Paris, but
its most unconventional Bohemian life. Here, in
this underground rendezvous, a dirty old hole about
twenty feet below the street level, gather nightly the
happy-go-lucky poets, musicians, and singers for
whom the great busy world has no use, and who, in
their unrelaxing poverty, live in the tobacco clouds
of their own construction, caring nothing for social
canons, obeyers of the civil law because of their
1 80
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
scorn of meanness, injustice, and crime, suffering un-
ceasingly for the poorest comforts of life, ambitious
without energy, hopeful without effort, cheerful under
the direst pressure of need, kindly, simple, proud,
and pitiful.
All were seated at little round tables, as are the
habitues of the cafes, and their attention was directed
upon a slim young fellow with curling yellow hair
and a faint moustache, who was singing, leaning mean-
while upon a piano that stood on a low platform in
one corner of the room. Their attention was respect-
ful, delicate, sympathetic, and, as might be supposed,
brought out the best in the lad. It was evident that
he had not long been a member of the sacred circle.
His voice was a smooth, velvety tenor, and under
proper instruction might have been useful to its pos-
sessor as a means of earning a livelihood. But it
was clear that he had already fallen under the spell
of the associations to which accident or his inclina-
tion had brought him ; and this meant that hence-
forth he would live in this strange no-world of dreams,
hopes, sufferings, and idleness, and that likely he
would in time come to gather cigar-stumps on the
sanded pavement of the Cafe d'Harcourt, and after
that sleep with the rats under the bridges of the
Seine. At this moment, however, he lived in the
clouds ; he breathed and glowed with the spirit of
shiftless, proud, starving Bohemianism as it is lived
in Paris, benignantly disdainful of the great moiling,
money-grubbing world that roared around him, and
perhaps already the adoration of some girl of poetic
183
BOHEMIAN PARIS
or artistic tastes and aspirations, who was serving
him as only the Church gives a woman the right.
There was time to look about while he was sing-
ing, though that was difficult, so strange and pathetic
a picture he made. The walls of the room were
dirty and bare, though relieved at rare intervals by
sketches and signs. The light came from three gas-
burners, and was reflected by a long mirror at one
end of the room.
No attention had been paid to our entrance, ex-
cept by the gargon, a heavy-set, bull-necked fellow,
who, with a sign, bade us make no noise.
When the song had finished the audience broke
into uproarious applause, shouting, " Bravo, mon
vieux I" " Bien fait, Marquis!" and the clapping
of hands and beating of glasses on the marble-topped
tables and pounding of canes on the floor made a
mighty din. The young singer, his cheeks glowing
and his eyes blazing, modestly rolled up his music
and sought his seat.
We were now piloted to seats by the gargon, who,
when we had settled ourselves, demanded to know
what we would drink. " Deux bocks !" he yelled
across the room. " Deux bocks !" came echoing
back from the counter, where a fat woman presided —
knitting.
Several long-haired litterateurs — friends of Bishop's
— came up and saluted him and shook his hand, all
with a certain elegance and dignity. He, in turn, in-
troduced me, and the conversation at once turned to
art, music, and poetry. Whatever the sensational
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
news of the day, whatever the crisis in the cabinet,
whatever anything might have been that was stirring
the people in the great outside commonplace world,
these men and women gave it no heed whatever.
What was the gross, hard, eager world to them?
Did not the glories of the Golden Sun lend sufficient
warmth to their hearts, and were not their vague
aspirations and idle hopes ample stimulants to their
minds and spirits ? They quickly found a responsive
mood in us, and this so delighted them that they
ordered the drinks.
The presiding genius at the piano was a white-
haired, spiritual-looking man, whose snowy locks
gave the only indication of his age ; for his face was
filled with the eternal youthfulness of a careless and
contented heart. His slender, delicate fingers told
of his temperament, his thin cheeks of his poverty,
and his splendid dreamy eyes of the separate life
that he lived.
Standing on the platform beside him was a man
of a very different type. It was the pianist's func-
tion to be merely a musician ; but the other man —
the musical director — was one from whom judgment,
decision, and authority were required. Therefore he
was large, powerful, and big-stomached, and had a
pumpkin head, and fat, baggy eyes that shone through
narrow slits. He now stepped forward and rang a
little bell, upon which all talking was instantly
hushed.
" Mesdames et messieurs," he said, in a large,
capable voice, " J'ai I'honneur de vous annoncer
i8s
BOHEMIAN PARIS
que Madame Louise Leroux, nous lira ses dernieres
oeuvres — une faveur que nous apprecierons tous."
A young woman — about twenty-three, I should
judge — arose from one of the tables where she had
. / been sitting talking with an insipid-
u& .:4 looking gentleman adorned with a
sjj/jj} \f blond moustache and vacant, staring
eyes ; he wore a heavy coat trimmed
; with astrachan collar and
cuffs, which, being open
at the throat, revealed
the absence of a shirt
from his body. A Latin
Quarter top-hat was
pushed back on his head,
and his long, greasy hair
hung down over his col-
lar. Madame Leroux
smiled affectionately at
him as she daintily
flicked the ashes from
her cigfarette and laid it
upon the table, and
moistened her thin red
lips with a yellow liqueur from her glass. He re-
sponded with a condescending jerk of his head, and,
diving into one of the inner pockets of his coat,
brought forth a roll of paper, which she took. A
great clapping of hands and loud cries of her name
greeted her as she stepped upon the platform,
but it was clearly to be seen from her indifferent
1 86
THE PIANIST
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
air that she had been long accustomed to this atten-
tion.
The big musical director again rang his bell.
"II etait une Fois," she said, simply. The pianist
fingered the keys softly, and she began to recite.
The room was as still as
a chapel. Every one lis-
tened in profound ab-
sorption ; even the stolid
bull-necked waiter leaned
against the wall, his gaze
fastened upon her with re-
spectful interest. She
spoke slowly, in a low,
sweet tone, the soft ac-
companiment of the piano
following the rhythm of
her voice with wonderful
effectiveness. She seemed
to forget her surroundings,
— the hot, close room,
crowded with shabby, ec-
centric o-eniuses who lived
from hand to mouth, the
poverty that evidently was
her lot, — even her lover, who sat watching her with
a cold, critical, half-disdainful air, making notes upon
a slip of paper, now nodding his head approvingly,
now frowning, when pleased or displeased with her
performance. She was a rare picture as she thus
stood and recited, a charming swing to her trim fig-
187
rx^:^-^'
"IL feTAIT UNE FOIS'
BOHEMIAN PARIS
ure, half reclining upon the piano, her black hair fall-
ing loosely and caressing her forehead and casting
her dark eyes in deeper shadow, and all her soul
going forth in the low, soft, subdued passion of her
verses. She reminded one greatly of Bernhardt,
and might have been as great.
During her whole rendering of this beautiful and
pathetic tale of "other times" she scarcely moved,
save for some slight gesture that suggested worlds.
How well the lines suited her own history and con-
dition only she could have told. Who was she ?
What had she been ? Surely this strange woman,
hardly more than a mere girl, capable of such feel-
ings and of rendering them with so subtle force and
beauty, had lived another life, — no one knew, no one
cared.
Loud shouts of admiration and long applause rang
through the room as she slowly and with infinite ten-
derness uttered the last line with bowed head and a
choking voice. She stood for a moment while the
room thundered, and then the noise seemed to recall
her, to drag her back from some haunting memory
to the squalor of her present condition, and then her
eyes eagerly sought the gentleman of the fur-collared
coat. It was an anxious glance that she cast upon
him. He carelessly nodded once or twice, and she
instantly became transfigured. The melancholy of
her eyes and the wretched dejection of her pose dis-
appeared, and her sad face lit up with a beaming,
happy smile. She was starting to return to him, all
the woman in her awaking to affection and a yearn-
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
ing for the refuge of his love, when the vociferous
cries of the crowd for an encore, and the waving of
her lover's hand as a signal for her to comply, sent
her back on guard to the piano again. Her smile
was very sweet and her voice full of trippling melody
when she now recited a gay little ballad, — also her
own composition, — "Amours Joyeux," — in so en-
tirely different a spirit that it was almost impos-
sible to believe her the same mortal. Every fibre
of her being participated in the rollicking abandon
of the piece, and her eyes were flooded with the
mellow radiance of supreme love satisfied and vic-
torious.
Upon regaining her seat she was immediately sur-
rounded by a praise-giving crowd, who shook hands
with her and heartily congratulated her ; but it was
clear that she could think only of him of the fur col-
lar, and that no word of praise or blame would weigh
with her the smallest fraction of a feather's weight
unless this one man uttered it. She disengaged her
hand from her crowding admirers and deftly donned
her little white Alpine hat, all the while looking into
the face of the one man who could break her heart
or send her to heaven. He sat looking at his boot,
indifferent, bored. Presently he looked up into her
anxious eyes, gazed at her a moment, and then
leaned forward and spoke a word. It sent her to
heaven. Her face all aglow and her eyes shining
with happiness, she called the gargon, paid for the
four saucers upon the table, and left the room upon
the arm of her lover.
BOHEMIAN PARIS
" How she does adore that dog !" exclaimed my
friend the musician.
" What does he do ?" I asked.
" Do ?" he echoed. " Nothing. It is she who
does all. Without her he would starve. He is a
writer of some ability, but too much of a socialist to
work seriously. In her eyes he is the greatest writer
in the world. She would sacrifice everything to
please him. Without him her life would fall into a
complete blank, and her recklessness would quickly
send her into the lowermost ranks. When a woman
like that loves, she loves — ah, les femmes sont diffi-
ciles a comprendre !" My friend sighed, burying his
moustaches in a foaming bock.
Individual definition grew clearer as I became
more and more accustomed to the place and its
habitues. It seemed that nearly all of them were
absinthe-drinkers, and that they drank a great deal, —
all they could get, I was made to understand. They
care little about their dress and the other accessories
of their personal appearance, though here and there
they exhibit the oddest finery, into whose possession
they fall by means which casual investigation could
not discover, and which is singularly out of harmony
with the other articles of their attire and with the en-
vironment which they choose. As a rule, the men
wear their hair very long and in heavy, shaggy
masses over their ears and faces. They continually
roll and smoke cigarettes, though there are many
pipes, and big ones at that. But though they con-
stitute a strange crowd, there is about them a distinct
190
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
air of refinement, a certain dignity and pride that
never fail, and withal a gentleness that renders any
approach to ruffianism impossible. The women take
a little more pride in their appearance than the men.
Even in their carelessness and seeming indifference
there abides with nearly all of them the power to
lend themselves some single touch of grace that is
wonderfully redeeming, and that is infinitely finer
and more elusive than the showy daintiness of the
women of the cafes.
As a rule, these Bohemians all sleep during the
day, as that is the best way to keep warm ; at night
they can find warmth in the cabarets. In the after-
noon they may write a few lines, which they sell in
some way for a pittance, wherewithal to buy them a
meal and a night's vigil in one of these resorts.
This is the life of lower Bohemia plain and simple, —
not the life of the students, but of the misfit geniuses
who drift, who have neither place nor part in the
world, who live from hand to mouth, and who shud-
der when the Morgue is mentioned, — and it is so
near, and its lights never go out ! They are merely
protestants against the formalism of life, rebels
against its necessities. They seek no following,
they desire to exercise no influence. They lead
their vacant lives without the slightest restraint, bear
their poverty without a murmur, and go to their
dreary end without a sigh. These are the true
Bohemians of Paris.
Other visitors came into the Soleil d'Or and sought
seats among their friends at the tables, while others
191
BOHEMIAN PARIS
kept leaving, bound for other rendezvous, many
staying just sufficiently long to hear a song or two.
They were all of the same class, very negligently
and poorly attired, some displaying their odd pieces
of finery with an exquisite assumption of unconscious-
ness on its account, as though they were millionaires
and cared nothing for such trivial things. And the
whimsical incongruities of it ! If one wore a shininor
tile he either had no shirt (or perhaps a very badly
soiled one), or wore a frayed coat and disreputable
shoes. In fact, no complete respectable dress made
its appearance in the room that night, though each
visitor had his distinctive specialty, — one a burnished
top hat, another a gorgeous cravat, another a rich
velvet jacket, and so on. But they all wore their
hair as long as it would grow. That is the Bohemian
mark.
The little bell again rang, and the heavy director
announced that " Monsieur Leon Decarmeau will
sing one of his newest songs." Monsieur Leon De-
carmeau was a lean, half-starved appearing man of
about forty, whose eyes were sunk deep in his head,
and whose sharp cheek-bones protruded prominently.
On the bridge of his thin, angular nose set a pair of
"pince-nez," attached by a broad black cord, which
he kept fingering nervously as he sang. His song
was entitled " Fleurs et Pensees," and he threw him-
self into it with a broad and passionate eagerness
that heavily strained the barrier between melodrama
and burlesque. His glance sought the ceiling in a
frenzied quest of imaginary nymphs, his arms swayed
192
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
as he tenderly caressed imaginary flowers of sweet
love and drank in their intoxicating perfume instead
of the hot, tobacco-rife smoke of the room. His
voice was drawn out in tremendous sighs full of
tears, and his chest heaved like a blacksmith's bel-
lows. But when he had ceased he was most gener-
ously applauded and praised.
During the intervals between the songs and reci-
tations the room was noisy with laughter, talking,
and the clinking of glasses. The one gargon was
industriously serving boissons and yelling orders to
the bar, where the fat woman sat industriously knit-
ting, heedless, as might have been expected of the
keeper of the Cave of Adullam, and awakening to
activity only w^hen the stentorian yells of the gargon's
orders rose above the din of the establishment.
Absinthe and beer formed the principal beverages,
though, as a rule, absinthe was taken only just be-
fore a meal, and then it served as an appetizer, — a
sharpener of hunger to these who had so little
wherewithal to satisfy the hunger that unaided
nature created !
The mystery of the means by which these light-
hearted Bohemians sustained their precarious exist-
ence was not revealed to me ; yet here they sat, and
laughed, and talked, and recited the poetry of their
own manufacture, and sang their songs, and drank,
and smoked their big pipes, and rolled cigarettes in-
cessantly, happy enough in the hour of their lives,
bringing hither none of the pains and pangs and
numbing evidences of their struggles. And there
13 »93
BOHEMIAN PARIS
was no touch of the sordid in the composite picture
that they made, and a certain tinge of intellectual
refinement, a certain spirituality that seemed to raise
them infinitely above the plane of the lowly strugglers
who won their honest bread by honest labor, shone
about them as a halo.
Their dark hours, no doubt, came wdth the day-
light, and in these meetings at the cabaret they found
an agreeable way in which to while away the dismal
interval that burdened their lives when they were not
asleep ; for the cabaret was warm and bright, warmer
and brighter than their own wretched little rooms au
cinquieme, — and coal and candles are expensive
luxuries ! Here, if their productions haply could not
find a larger and more remunerative audience, they
could at least be heard, — by a few, it is true, but a
most appreciative few, and that is something of value
equal to bread. And then, who could tell but what
fame might unexpectedly crown them in the end ?
It has happened thus.
"But why worry ?" asked the musician. " ' Laugh,
and the world laughs with you. If we do not live a
long life, it is at least a jolly one,' is our motto ;"
and certainly they gave it most faithful allegiance.
I learned from Bishop that the musical director re-
ceived three francs a night for his services. Should
singers happen to be lacking, or should the evening
be dull for other reason, he himself must sing and re-
cite ; for the tension of the Soleil d'Or must be kept
forever taut. The old white-haired pianist received
two francs a night, and each of these contributors to
194
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL DOR
the gayety of the place was given a drink gratis. So
there was at least some recompense besides the
essential one of appreciation from the audience.
Glasses clinked merrily, and poets and composers
flitted about the room to chat with their contem-
poraries. A sketch artist, deftly drawing the por-
trait of a baritone's jolly little mistress, was sur-
rounded by a bantering group, that passed keen,
intelligent, and good natured criticism on the work
as it rapidly grew under his hands. The white-
haired pianist sat puffing at his cigarette and looking
over some music with a rather pretty young woman"
who had written popular songs of La Villette.
The opening of the doors and the straggling en-
trance of three men sent an instant hush throughout
the room.
" Verlaine !" whispered the musician to me.
It was indeed the great poet of the slums, — the
epitome and idol of Bohemian Paris, the famous man
whose verses had rung throughout the length and
breadth of the city, the one man who, knowing the
heart and soul of the strugglers who found light and
warmth in such places as the Soleil d'Or, had the
brains and grace to set the strange picture adequately
before the wondering world.
The musical director, as well as a number of others
in the place, stepped forward, and with touching def-
erence and tenderness greeted the remarkable man
and his two companions. It was easy to pick out
Verlaine without relying upon the special distinction
with which he was greeted. He had the oddest
195
BOHEMIAN PARIS
slanting eyes, a small, stubby nose, and wiry whiskers,
and his massive forehead heavily overhung his queerly
shaped eyes. He was all muffled up to the chin ;
wore a badly soiled hat and a shabby dark coat.
Under one arm he carried a small black portfolio.
Several of the women ran to him and
kissed him on both cheeks, which
salutations he heartily returned, with
interest.
One of his companions was Mon-
sieur Bi-Bi-dans-la-Puree — so he was
called, though seemingly he might
have been in anything as well as
soup. He was an exceedingly inter-
esting figure. His sunken, drawn,
smooth-shaven face gave terrible evi-
dence of the excessive use of ab-
sinthe. A large hooked nose over-
shadowed a wide, loose mouth that
hung down at the corners, and served
to set forth in startling relief the
sickly leaden color of his face. When he spoke, a
few straggling teeth gleamed unpleasantly. He wore
no overcoat, and his jacket hung open, disclosing a
half-opened shirt that exposed his bare breast. His
frayed trousers dragged the ground at his heels.
But his eyes were the most terrible part of him ;
they shone with the wild, restless light of a madman,
and their gaze was generally flitting and distrait, ac-
knowledging no acquaintances. Afterwards, when
Verlaine was dead, I often saw Monsieur Bi-Bi-dans-
196
BI-BI-DANS-LA-PUREE
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
la-Puree on the street, looking most desolate, a roll
of white manuscript in his hand, his coat and shirt
wide open, exposing his naked breast to the biting
cold wind. He seemed to be living altogether in
another world, and gazed about him with the same
unseeing vacant stare that so startled me that night
in the Soleil d'Or.
When Verlaine and his companions were seated —
by displacing the artist — the recitations and songs
recommenced ; and it was noticeable that they were
rendered with augmented spirit, that the famous poet
of the slums might be duly impressed with the capa-
bilities and hospitable intentions of his entertainers ;
for now all performed for Verlaine, not for one an-
other. The distinguished visitor had removed his
slouch hat, revealing the wonderful oblong dome of
his bald head, which shone like the Soleil d'Or; and
many were the kisses reverently and affectionately
bestowed upon that glistening eminence by the poet's
numerous female admirers in the throng.
A reckless-looking young woman, with a black hat
drawn down over her eyes, and wearing glasses, was
now reciting. Her hands were gloved in black, but
the finger-tips were worn through, — a fact which she
made all the more evident by a peculiar gesture of
the fingers.
As the small hours grew larger these gay Bohe-
mians waxed gayer and livelier. Formalities were
gradually abandoned, and the constraint of dignity
and reserve slowly melted under the mellowing in-
fluences of the place. Ceremonious observances
197
BOHEMIAN PARIS
were dropped one by one ; and whereas there had
been the most respectful and insistent silence
throughout the songs, now all joined heartily in the
choruses, making the dim lights dance in the exuber-
ance of the enjoyment. I had earnestly hoped that
Verlaine, splendid as was his dignity, might thaw
under the gathering warmth of the hour, but beyond
listening respectfully, applauding moderately, and
returning the greetings that were given him, he held
aloof from the influence of the occasion, and after
draining his glass and bidding good-night to his
many friends, with his two companions he made off
to another rendezvous.
Monsieur le Directeur came over to our table and
asked Bishop to favor the audience with a " chan-
son Americaine." This rather staggered my modest
friend, but he finally yielded to entreaties. The di-
rector rang his little bell again and announced that
" Monsieur Beeshup" would sing a song a TAmeri-
caine. This was received with uproarious shouts
by all, and several left their seats and escorted
Bishop to the platform. I wondered what on earth
he would sing. The accompanist, after a little coach-
ing from Bishop, assailed the chords, and Bishop
began drawling out his old favorite, " Down on the
Farm." He did it nobly, too, giving the accompanist
occasion for labor in finding the more difficult harmo-
nies. The hearers, though they did not understand
a word of the ditty, and therefore lost the whole
of its pathos, nevertheless listened with curious in-
terest and respect, though with evident veiled amuse-
198
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
ment. Many quick ears caught the refrain. At first
there came an exceedingly soft chorus from the
room, and it gradually rose until the whole crowd
had thrown itself into the spirit of the melody, and
swelled it to a mighty volume. Bishop led the
singers, beating time with his right arm, his left
thumb meanwhile hooked in the arm-hole of his
waistcoat. " Bravo ! Bravo, Beeshup ! Bis !" they
yelled, when it was finished, and then the room rang
with a salvo of hand-clappings in unison : 1-2-3-4
-5— 1-2-3-4-5— 1-2-3-4-5— I— 2— 3!! A great
ovation greeted him as he marched with glowing
cheeks to his seat, and those who knew him crowded
round him for a hand-shake. The musician asked
him if he would sing the song in private for him,
that he might write down the melody, to which Bishop
agreed, on condition that the musician pose for him.
Bishop had a singularly sharp eye for opportunities.
The sketch artist sauntered over and sat down at
our table to have a chat with Bishop. He was a sin-
gular fellow. His manner was smoothed by a fine
and delicate courtesy, bespeaking a careful rearing,
whose effects his loose life and promiscuous associa-
tions could not obliterate. His age was about thirty-
two, though he looked much older, — this being due
in part to his hard life and in other part to the heavy
whiskers that he wore. An absurd little round felt
hat sat precariously on his riotous mane, and I was
in constant apprehension lest it should fall off every
time he shook his head. Over his shoulders was a
blue cape covering a once white shirt that was de-
199
BOHEMIAN PARIS
void of a collar. His fingers were all black with
the crayon that he had used in sketching. He said
that he had already earned twelve sous that evening,
THE SKETCH ARTIST
making portraits at six sous a head ! But there was
not so much money to be made in a place like this
as in the big cafes, — the frequenters were too poor.
I asked him where he had studied and learned his
art, for it could be easily seen that he had had some
training ; his portraits were not half bad, and showed
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
a knowledge of drawing. He thereupon told me
his story.
He had come to Paris thirteen years before from
Nantes, Brittany, to study art. His father kept a
small grocery and provision-shop in Nantes, and
lived in meagre circumstances. The son having dis-
covered what his father deemed a remarkable talent
for drawing when a boy, the father sent him to Paris,
with an allowance of a hundred francs a month, and
he had to deny himself severely to furnish it. When
the young man arrived at Paris he studied diligently
at the Ecole des Beaux- Arts for a while, and became
acquainted with many of the students and models.
He soon found the easy life of the cafes, with the
models for companions, more fascinating than the
dull grind of the school. It was much pleasanter to
enjoy the gayety of the nights and sleep all day than
drone and labor at his easel. As his small allowance
did not permit of extravagance, he fell deeply into
debt, and gave more heed to absinthe than his meals,
— it is cheaper, more alluring, and brings an exhila-
ration that sharpens wit and equips the soul with
wings.
For a whole year the father was in total ignorance
of his son's conduct, but one day a friend, who had
seen the young man in Paris, laid the ugly story in
his father's ear. This so enraged the father that he
instantly stopped the remittances and disowned his
son. All appeals for money, all promises to reform,
were in vain, and so the young madcap was forced to
look about for a means of subsistence. And thus it
BOHEMIAN PARIS
was that he drifted into the occupation of a sketch
artist, making portraits in the cafes all night and
sleeping in daytime. This brought him a scant
living.
But there was his mistress, Marcelle, always faith-
ful to him. She worked during the day at sewing,
and shared her small earnings with him. All went
fairly well during the summer, but in winter the days
were short, Marcelle' s earnings were reduced, and
the weather was bitter cold. Still, it was not so
bad as it might be, he protested ; but underneath
his easy flippancy I imagined I caught a shadow, —
a flitting sense of the hollowness and misery and
hopelessness and shame of it all. But I am not
certain of that. He had but gone the way of many
and many another, and others now are following in
his footsteps, deluding self-denying parents, and set-
ting foot in the road which, so broad and shining at
the beginning, narrows and darkens as it leads nearer
and nearer to the rat-holes under the bridges of the
Seine, and to the grim house whose lights forever
shine at night under the shadow of Notre- Dame.
Had monsieur a cigarette to spare? Monsieur
had, and monsieur thought that the thanks for it were
out of all proportion to its value ; but they were to-
tally eclipsed by the praises of monsieur's wonderful
generosity in paying for a glass of absinthe and sugar
for the man who made faces at six sous apiece.
The quiet but none the less high tension of the
place, the noise of the singing, the rattling of glasses
and saucers, the stifling foul air of the room, filled
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
me with weariness and threatened me with nausea.
Things had moved in a constant whirl all night, and
now it was nearly four o'clock. How much longer
will this last ?
"Till five o'clock," answered the musician ; then
all the lights go out, and the place is closed ; and our
friends seek their cold, cheerless rooms, to sleep far
into the afternoon.
We paid for our saucers, and after parting adieux
left in company with the musician and the aesthetic
poet. How deliciously sharp and refreshing was the
cold, biting air as we stepped out into the night ! It
seemed as though I had been breathing molasses.
The fog was thicker than ever, and the night was
colder. The two twisted gas-lamps were no longer
burning as we crossed the slippery stone-paved court
and ascended to the narrow street. The musician
wrapped a gray muffler about his throat and thrust
his hands deep into his pockets. The poet had no
top-coat, but he buttoned his thin jacket tightly about
him, and shivered.
" Shall we have some lait chaud and a croissant?"
inquired the musician.
Yes, anything hot would be good, even milk ; but
where could we get it ?
"Ah, you shall see !"
We had not gone far when it gave me a start to
recognize a figure that we had seen in the Boul'
Mich' on our way to the Soleil d'Or. It was that of
an outcast of the boulevards, now slinking through
the shadows toward the river. We had been ac-
203
BOHEMIAN PARIS
costed by him in front of one of the brilHant cafes,
as, trembhng and rubbing his hands, a picture of
hopeless dejection and
misery, and in a quaver-
ing voice he begged us
AN OUTCAST OF THE BOULEVARDS
to buy him a drink of brandy. It probably saved
him from an attack of delirium tremens that night,
204
LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
but here he was drifting, with a singular fataHty,
toward the river and the Morgue. Now, that his
day's work of begging was done, all his jackal
watchfulness had disappeared, and an inner vision
seemed to look forth from his bleared eyes as their
gaze strained straight and dull toward the black
river. It may have been a mere fancy, but the ex-
pression in his eyes reminded me strongly of similar
things that I had seen on the slabs in the Morgue.
We crossed the Rue du Haut-Pave again to the
river wall, and arrived at the bridge leading back of
Notre-Dame and past the Morgue. On the farther
end of the bridge, propped against the parapet, was
a small stand, upon a corner of which a dim lamp
was burning. In front were a number of milk-cans,
and on a small counter were a row of thick white
bowls and a basket of croissants. Inside, upon a
small stove, red with heat, were two kettles from
which issued clouds of steam bearing an odor of boil-
ing milk. A stout woman, her face so well wrapped
in a shawl that only the end of her red nose was visi-
ble, greeted us, —
" Bon jour, messieurs. En voulez-vous du bon
lait bien chaud?"
She poured out four bowls of steaming milk, and
gave us each a roll. For this luxury we paid three
sous each ; and a feast it was, for the shivering poet,
at least, for he licked the hot bowl clean and ate the
very crumbs of his croissant.
As we were bound for widely separated quar-
ters, our Bohemian friends bade us an affectionate
205
BOHEMIAN PARIS
good-night, and were soon swallowed up in the
gloom. We turned towards home and the Boul'
Mich'. All the cafes were closed and dark, but
the boulevard was alive with canal-boatmen, street-
sweepers, and rumbling vegetable- and milk-carts.
The streets were being washed clean of all evi-
dences of the previous day's life and turmoil, and
the great city was creeping forth from its lair to
begin another.
UN LITTERATEUR DE
BOHEME
THE CAFE PROCOPE
IN the short, busy Httle street, the Rue de I'An-
cienne-Comedie, which runs from the Boulevard
St. Germain, in a Hne from the Theatre National
de rOd^on and connecting with the Rue Mazarin,
its continuation, the heavy dome of the Institut loom-
ing at its end, is to be found probably the most
famous cafe in Paris, for in its day it has been the
rendezvous of the most noted French litterateurs,
politicians, and savants. What is more, the Procope
was the first cafe established in Paris, originating the
appellation "cafe" to a place where coffee is served,
for it was here that coffee was introduced to France
as an after-dinner comforter.
That was when the famous cafe was in its glory. •
Some of the great celebrities who made it famous
have been dead for nearly two hundred years, though
its greatest fame came a century afterwards ; and now
the cafe, no longer glorious as it was when the old
Theatre Frangais stood opposite, reposes in a quiet
street far from the noise and glitter and life of the
boulevards, and lives on the splendid memories that
crowd it. Other cafes by the thousand have sprung
into existence, and the word has spread to coffee sa-
loons and restaurants throughout Christendom ; and
the ancient rive droite nurses the history and relics
207
BOHEMIAN PARIS
of the golden days of its glory, alone in a quiet
street, surrounded by tightly shut shops, and the
calm of a sleeping village.
Still, it retains many of its ancient characteristics
and much of the old-time quaintness peculiar to itself
and setting it wholly apart, and it is yet the rendez-
vous of litterateurs and artists, who, if not so famous
as the great men in whose seats they sit, play a con-
siderable role in the life of modern Paris.
The front of the cafe is a neat little terrace off the
street, screened by a fanciful net-work of vines and
shrubbery that spring from green painted boxes and
that conceal cosey little tables and corners placed
behind them. Instead of the usual showy plate-
windows, one still finds the quaint old window-panes,
very small carreaux, kept highly polished by the tire-
less gar^on apprentice.
Tacked to the white pillars are numerous copies
of Le Procope, a weekly journal published by Theo,
the proprietor of the cafe. Its contributors are the
authors, journalists, and poets who frequent the cafe,
and it publishes a number of portraits besides, and
some spirited drawings. It is devoted in part to
the history of the cafe and of the celebrities who
have made it famous, and publishes portraits of them,
from Voltaire to Paul Verlaine. This same journal
was published here over two hundred years ago, in
1689, and it was the means then by which the patrons
of the establishment kept in closer touch with their
contemporaries and the spirit of the time. Theo is
proprietor and business manager, as well as editor.
208
THE CAFE PROCOPE
The following two poems will give an idea of the
grace of the matter contained in Le Procope :
AUNE ESPAGNOLE
Au loin, quand, I'oeil reveur et d'ennuis Tame pleine,
Je suivrai sur les flots le vol des alcyons
Chaque soir surgira dans les derniers rayons
Le profil triste et doux d' Ida, de ma sirene.
La figure et de lys et d'iris transparente,
Ressortira plus blanche en 1' ombre des cheveux
Profonds comme un mystere et troublants et mes yeux
Boiront dans 1' Ideal sa caresse enivrante.
Et je rechercherai I'enigme du sourire
Railleur ou de pitie qui luisait dans ses yeux
En des paillettes d'or sous ses beaux cils ombreux. . . .
Et je retomberai dans la tristesse . . . et dire
Qu'un seul mot me rendrait et la vie et I'espoir:
Belle, mon rendez-vous n'est-il point pour ce soir?
I. Birr.
PETITE CHANSON DfiSOL^E
Je suis seul dans la grande ville
Ou nul n'a fete mon retour,
Coeur vide, et cerveau qui vacille,
Sans projet, sans but, sans amour
Je suis seul dans la grande ville.
Le dos voCite, les bras ballants,
Je marche au hasard dans la foule
A longs pas lourds et nonchalants.
On me pousse, heurte, refoule,
Le dos voQte, les bras ballants.
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Je suis accable de silence,
De ce silence interieur,
Tel iin brouillard subtil et dense,
Qui tombe a plis lourds sur le coeur,
Je suis accable de silence.
Ah ! quand viendront les jours heureux,
Quand viendra la chere attendue
Qu'espere mon coeur amoureux,
Qu' implore mon ame eperdue,
Ah ! quand viendront les jours heureux !
ACHILLE SeGARD.
Here is a particularly charming little poem, written
in the musical French of two or three centuries ago :
UN BAYSER
Sur vostre levre fraiche et rose,
Ma mye, ah ! laissiez-moi poser
Cette tant bonne et doulce chose,
Un bayser.
Telle una fleur au jour 6close,
le vols vostre teint se roser ;
Si ie vous redonnois, — ie n'ose,
Un bayser.
Laissiez-moi vous prendre, inhumaine,
A chascun iour de la sepmaine
Un bayser.
Trop tot viendront vieil aage et peine !
Lors n'aurez plus, feussiez-vous reine,
Un bayser.
Maistre Guillaume.
THE CAFE PROCOPE
The modern gas illumination of the cafe, in con-
trast to the fashion of brilliant lighting that prevails
in the showy cafes of the boulevards, must neverthe-
less be a great advance on the ancient way that it
had of being lighted with crude oil lamps and can-
delabra. But the dim illumination is in perfect
keeping with the other appointments of the place,
which are dark, sombre, and funereal. The interior
of the Procope is as dark as a finely colored old
meerschaum pipe. The woodwork, the chairs, and
the tables are deeply stained by time, the contrasting
white marble tops of the tables suggesting grave-
stones ; and with all these go the deeply discolored
walls and the many ancient paintings, — even the
caisse, behind which sits Madame Theo, dozing over
her knitting. This caisse is a wonderful piece of
furniture in itself, of some rich dark wood, beauti-
fully carved and decorated.
Madame Theo is in black, her head resting against
the frame of an old crayon portrait of Voltaire on
the wall behind her. A fat and comfortable black
cat is asleep in the midst of rows of white saucers
and snowy napkins. The only gargon, except the
gargon apprentice, is sitting in a corner drowsing
over an evening paper, but ever ready to answer the
quiet calls of the customers. For in the matter
of noise and frivolity the Cafe Procope is wholly un-
like the boulevard cafes. An atmosphere of refined
and elegant suppression pervades the place ; the
roystering spirit that haunts the boulevards stops at
the portals of the Procope. Here all is peace and
213
BOHEMIAN PARIS
tranquillity, and that is why it is the haunt of many
earnest aud aspiring poets and authors ; for hither
they may bring their portfolios in peace and security,
and here they may work upon their manuscripts,
knowing that their neighbors are similarly engrossed
and that intrusion is not to be feared. And then,
too, are they not sitting on the same chairs and
writing at the same tables that have been occupied
by some of the greatest men in all the brilliant history
of France ? Is not this the place in which great-
ness had budded and blossomed in the centuries
gone ? Are not these ancient walls the same that
echoed the wit, badinage, and laughter of the mas-
ters ? And there are the portraits of the great them-
selves, looking down benignly and encouragingly
upon the young strugglers striving to follow in their
footsteps, and into the ghostly mirrors, damaged by
time and now sending back only ghosts of shadows,
they look as the great had looked before them. It
is here, therefore, that many of the modern geniuses
of France have drawn their inspiration, shaking off
the endless turmoil of the noisy and bustling world,
living with the works and memories of the ancient
dead, and working out their destiny under the magic
spell that hovers about the place. It is for this
reason that the habitues are jealous of the intrusion
of the curious and worldly. In this quiet and se-
cure retreat they feel no impinging of the wearing
and crippling world that roars and surges through
the busy streets and boulevards.
M. Theo de Bellefond is the full name of the pro-
214
THE CAFE PROCOPE
prietor, but he is commonly known as M, Theo. He
is a jolly little man, with an ambitious round stomach,
a benevolent face covered with a Vandyke beard,
and a shining bald head. A large flowing black
cravat, tied into an artistic neglige bow, hides his
shirt. M. Theo came into possession of the Procope
in 1893, a fact duly recorded on a door panel, along
with the names of over a score of the celebrities
who have made the Procope their place of rest, re-
fection, and social enjoyment. M. Procope was a
journalist in his day, but now the ambition that
moves him is to restore the ancient glory of the
Procope ; to make it again the centre of French
brains and power in letters, art, and politics. To
this end he exerts all his journalistic tact, a fact
clearly shown by the able manner in which he con-
ducts his journal, Le Procope. He has worked out
the history of the cafe, and has at the ends of his
fingers the life- stories of its famous patrons.
The Cafe Procope was founded in 1689 by Fran-
cois Procope, where it now stands. Opposite was
the Comedie Frangaise, which also was opened that
year. The cafe soon became the rendezvous of all
who aspired to greatness in art, letters, philosophy,
and politics. It was here that Voltaire, in his eighty-
second year, while attending the rehearsals of his
play, "Irene," descended from his chaise-a-porteur
at the door of the Cafe Procope, and drank the
coffee which the cafe had made fashionable. It was
here also that he became reconciled to Piron, after
an estrangement of more than twenty years.
217
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Ste.-Foix made trouble here one day about a cup
of chocolate. A duel with the proprietor of the cafe
was the immediate result, and after it Ste.-Foix,
badly wounded, exclaimed, "Nevertheless, monsieur,
your sword-thrust does not prevent my saying that a
very sickly dejeuner is une tasse de chocolat !"
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, after the successful repre-
sentation of " Le Devin de Village," was carried in
triumph to the Procope by Condorcet, who, with
Jean-Jacques on his shoulders, made a tour of the
crowded cafe, yelling, " Vive la Musique Frangaise !"
Diderot was fond of sittingr in a corner and manu-
facturing paradoxes and materialistic dissertations to
provoke the lieutenant of police, who would note
everything he said and report it to the chief of
police. The lieutenant, ambitious though stupid, one
night told his chief that Diderot had said one never
saw souls ; to which the chief returned, " M, Diderot
se trompe. L'ame est un esprit, et M. Diderot est
plein d' esprit."
Danton delighted in playing chess in a quiet corner
with a strong adversary in the person of Marat.
Many other famous revolutionists assembled here,
among them Fabre d' Eglantine, Robespierre, d'Hol-
bach, Mirabeau, Camille Desmoulins. It was here
that Camille Desmoulins was to be strangled by the
reactionists in the Revolution ; it was here that the
first bonnet rouge was donned. The massacre of
December, 1792, was here planned, and the killing
began at the very doors of the cafe. Madame Ro-
land, Lucille Desmoulins, and the wife of Danton
218
THE CAFE PROCOPE
met here on the loth of August, the day of the fall
of the monarchy, when bells rang and cannon thun-
dered. It was later that Bonaparte, then quite
young and living in the Quai Conti, in the building
which the American Art Association now occupies,
left his hat at the Procope as security for payment
for a drink, he having left his purse at home. In
short, the old cafe of the Rue des Fosses-St.-Ger-
main (its old name) was famous as the meeting-
place of celebrities. Legendre, the great geometri-
cian, came hither. One remembers the verses of
Masset : "Je joue aux dominos quelquefois chez
Procope." Here Gambetta made speeches to the
reactionist politicians and journalists. He engaged
in more than one prise de bee with le pere Coquille,
friend of Veuillot. Coquille always made sprightly
and spirited replies when Gambetta roared, thun-
dered, and swore.
Since then have followed days of calm. In later
times Paul Verlaine was a frequenter of the Procope,
where he would sit in his favorite place in the little
rear salon at Voltaire's table. This little salon, in
the rear of the cafe, is held sacred, for its chair and
table are the ones that Voltaire used to occupy.
The table is on one side of the small room. On the
walls are many interesting sketches in oil by well-
known French artists, and there are fine ceiling
decorations ; but all these are seen with difficulty,
so dim is the light in the room. Since Voltaire's
time this table has become an object of curiosity
and veneration. When celebrated habitues of the
219
BOHEMIAN PARIS
cafe died this table was used as an altar, upon which
for a time reposed the bust of the decedent before
crepe-covered lanterns.
During the Revolution Hebert jumped upon this
table, which had been placed before the door of the
cafe, and harangued the crowd gathered there, ex-
citing them to such a pitch that they snatched the
newspapers from the hands of the news-venders. In
a moment of passionate appeal he brought down his
heavy boot-heel upon the marble with such force as
to split it.
In the cafe are three doors that are decorated in a
very interesting fashion. On the panels of one, well
preserved in spite of the numerous transformations
through which the establishment has gone, M. Theo
conceived the happy idea of inscribing in gold letters
the names of the illustrious who have visited the
cafe since its founding. Many of the panels of the
walls are taken with full-length portraits by Thomas,
representing, among others, Voltaire, Rousseau,
Robespierre, Diderot, Danton and Marat playing
chess, Mirabeau, and Gambetta. There are smaller
sketches by Corot, d'Aubigny, Vallon, Courbet, Wil-
lette, and Roedel. Some of them are not fine speci-
mens of art.
M. Theo is a devoted collector of rare books and
engravings. His library, which contains many very
rare engravings of the eighteenth century and more
than one book of priceless value, is open to his intimate
friends only, with whom he loves to ramble through
his treasures and find interesting data of his cafe.
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
BISHOP had been industriously at work upon a
large black-and-white drawing. The subject
was a ball-room scene, — of evident low de-
gree, judging from the abandon of the whirling
figures and the queer types that were
depicted. White lace skirts were sweep-
ing high in air, revealing black- stockinged
ankles and gauzy lingerie in a way un-
known to the monde propre. In contrast
to the grace and abandon of the female
figures were the coarseness and clumsi-
ness of their male partners.
The work was nearly finished, but
Bishop professed to be dissatisfied with
the foreground architecture and with the
drawing of a hand belonging to one of
the male dancers. After boringr me at
length with a speech on the necessity of
having a model for that hand, he sheep-
ishly asked me if I would pose for the
elusive member. It was then that curi-
osity prompted me to inquire where he had found
the original of this remarkable scene.
" Mon enfant sculpteur." he replied, with the pat
ronizing air of a man of the world,
Moulin de la Galette."
ONE OF THE
TYPES
this is the
BOHEMIAN PARIS
"And where is that?" I asked.
" I will show you to-morrow night, if you agree."
To-morrow would be Sunday. When it had passed
and the evening was come, and after we had enjoyed
two courses of Madame Darblay's juicy gigots and ir-
resistible beans, with the incomparable sauce afforded
by the presence of the sunny actresses who were
there, we walked over to the Boulevard St.-Jacques
and waited for the Montmartre 'bus to come along.
These small, ancient omnibuses are different from
the other vehicles of that breed in Paris, in that in-
stead of having a narrow curved stairway at the rear
leading up to the imperiale, there are but three or
four iron foot-rests against the outside of the rear
wall, with an iron rod on either side to cling to in
mounting. Now, the traveller who would reach the
imperiale must be something of either an acrobat or
a sailor, because, first, as these 'buses do not stop, a
running leap has to be made for the ladder, and,
second, because of the pitching and rolling of the
lumbering vehicle, the catching and climbing are not
easy. If you carry a cane or a parcel, it must be
held in the teeth until the ascent is made, for both
hands have all they can do in the ladder exercise.
The gleam of the red lamp coming down the street
prepared us for a test of our agility. As only one
could mount the ladder at a time, and as I was the
first to attack the feat, Bishop had to run behind for
nearly a block before I could give him the right of
way up the ladder. The conductor registered deux
sur I'imperiale as we swung to the top and took seats
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
forward, just behind the driver. Ladies and fat gen-
tlemen are rarely, or never, found riding on the
imperiale of the Montmartre line.
We wrapped up in our big warm coats and lay
back smoking three-sous cigars (always three-sous
ones on Sunday), and as the driver cracked his whip
and the heavy machine went rolling along, we enjoyed
the wonderful treat of seeing gay Paris of a Sunday
night from the top of an omnibus. There is hardly
anything more delightful, particularly from the top
of a St. Jacques-Montmartre 'bus, which generally
avoids the broad, brilliant streets and goes rolling
and swaying through the narrow, crooked streets of
old Paris. Here there is hardly room for such a
vehicle to pass, and one is anxious lest one's feet
sweep off the gas-lamps that fly past. An intimate
view of the domestic life of Paris presents itself like-
wise, for, being on a level with the second story win-
dows, you have flitting visions of the Parisian menage
in all its freedom and variety. At this time of the
evening the windows are wide open and the dinner-
tables are spread near them, for a view of the street
below.
On, on we rumbled, through seemingly intermina-
ble miles of crooked streets, over the gay Boul'
Mich', and the Place St.-Michel ; across the river,
which reflected the myriads of lights along its walls
and bridges ; past the Halles, the greatest market-
place in the world ; past the grand boulevards, a
confusing glitter of colors and lights ; past the Folies-
Bergere, where flaming posters announced Loie Ful-
223
BOHEMIAN PARIS
ler in the throes of a fire dance ; and at last to the
steep grade of Montmartre. Here a third horse was
added to the pair, and slowly we were dragged up
the slope.
At the Boulevard Clichy we suddenly found our-
selves in the midst of a terrific uproar ; bells, steam-
whistles, hand-organs, bands of music, drums, and
calliopes made the bedlam. The streets were blocked
with moving masses of laughing people, and the
scene was gayly illuminated by rows of lamps over-
head and on hundreds of stands, merry-go-rounds,
theatres, circuses, museums, and all kinds of catch-
penny attractions that lined the boulevard. For this
was the Fete de Clichy. Far down the street, almost
hidden by a curve, could be seen the illuminated
arms of the Moulin Rouge slowly revolving through
the night.
Still on and up crawled the 'bus, now in the very
heart of Montmartre, through the lively, crowded,
bright streets on the great hill of Paris. Here are
hot-chestnut venders at the corners ; fried-potato
women, serving crisp brown chips ; street hawkers,
with their heavy push-carts ; song-sellers, singing the
songs that they sell, to make purchasers familiar with
the airs ; flower-girls ; gaudy shops ; bright restau-
rants and noisy cafes, — all constituting that distinctive
quarter of Paris, Montmartre.
At last the summit of the hill was made, and the
panting horses must have been glad that it was all
down-hill ahead. Bishop gave the signal to alight
a block before the desired street was reached, for by
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LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
the time we could touch the ground the 'bus had
covered that distance on the down run. Bishop led
the way up a dim little street, — the Rue Muller, I
noticed on the wall. It was very steep, and at last
ended at the bottom of a flight of stone steps that
seemed to run into the sky. Their length was
marked by lamps glowing one above another in long
rows. It was hard work climbing to the top.
The top at last ! We seemed to be among the
clouds. Far below us lay the great shining city,
spreading away into distance ; and although it was
night, the light of a full moon and untold thousands
of lamps in the streets and buildings below enabled
us easily to pick out the great thoroughfares and the
more familiar structures. There was the Opera,
there the Pantheon, there Notre-Dame, there St.-
Sulpice, there the Invalides, and, uplifted to emulate
the eminence on which we stood, the Tour Eiffel, its
revolving searchlight at the apex shining like an im-
mense meteor or comet with its misty trail stretching
out over the city. The roar of life faintly reached
our ears from the vast throbbing plain, where millions
of human mysteries were acting out their tragedies.
The scene was vast, wonderful, entrancing.
Far above us still a maze of rafters, beams, and
scaffolding fretted the sky, — the skeleton of that
beautiful but unfinished Church of the Sacre-Cceur,
crowning the very summit of Montmartre.
There seemed to be no life here, for not a soul did
we meet, and not a light shone except that of the
moon. Bishop guided me through a maze of steep
15 22s
BOHEMIAN PARIS
stony passages, between the walls of dark gardens,
turning now to the right, again to the left, through
archways and courts ; and I wondered how he could
remember them all. Before I could fully comprehend
our position we were confronted by two black, gaunt,
uncanny objects with long outstretched arms that cut
across the sky like giant skeleton sentinels forbidding
our farther advance. But the sounds of lively music
and the glow of rows of white-globed lamps quickly
banished the illusion and advertised the fact that we
were in a very material and sensual world, for they
announced the Moulin de la Galette at the foot of the
passage. The spectres against the sky were only
very, very old windmills, relics of the time, three
centuries gone, when windmills crowded the summit
of Montmartre to catch all the winds that blew.
Now they stand, stark, dead, silent, and decaying ;
their stately revolutions are no more ; and the skele-
ton frames of their fans look down on a marvellous
contrast, the intensely real life of the Galette.
We fell in line with many others at the ticket office,
and paid the fifty centimes admission fee (ladies
twenty-five centimes). We were relieved of our hats
and canes by a stout old woman in the vestiaire, who
claimed two sous from each. Following the up-hill
passage of the entrance, the walls of which are
painted with flowers and garden scenes, we entered
the great ball-room. What a brilliant scene of life
and light ! — at first a blur of sound, light, and move-
ment, then gradually resolving into the simple ele-
ments composing it. The floor was covered with
226
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
dancers, and the girls were making a generous dis-
play of graceful anatomy. A large band at the far-
ther end of the room, on an inclined stand, was the
vortex of the din. The promenade encircling the
hall was crowded with hatless laughing girls and
smooth-faced boys wearing caps or flat-brimmed low-
crowned hats ; their trousers fitted tight at the knees,
and their heads were closely cropped. These were
strolling in groups, or watching the dancers, or sit-
ting at the rows of wooden tables drinking. All
within the vast hall had gone to enjoy their Sunday
night as much as possible. To most of the girls this
was the one night in the week when, not tired out
from the drudgery of hard work, they could throw
aside all cares and live in the way for which their
cramped and meagre souls yearned. This is a ren-
dezvous for the humble workers of the city, where
they may dress as best they can, exchange their
petites histoires, and abandon themselves to the
luxury of the dance ; for they are mostly shop-girls,
and blanchisseuses, and the like, who, when work
fails them, have to hover about the dark streets at
night, that prosperous-looking passers-by may be
tempted by the pleading of their dark saucy eyes, or
be lured by them to some quiet spot where their
lovers lie in wait with a lithe and competent black
slung-shot. No mercy for the hapless bourgeois
then ! For the dear Henris and Jacques and Louises
must have their sous for the comforts of life, as well
as the necessities, and such luxuries as tobacco and
drink must be considered ; and if the money where-
229
BOHEMIAN PARIS
with all this may be bought is not produced by Mar-
celle or Helene or Marie, she will get a beating for
her slothfulness or lack of skill, and will be driven
into the street with a hurting back to try again. And
so Henri, Jacques, or Louis basks in the sun, and
smokes cigarettes with never a care, except that of
making his devoted little mistress perform her duties,
knowing well how to retain her affection by selfish-
ness and brutality.
This night, however, all that was forgotten. It
was the one free, happy night of the week, the night
of abandon and the dance, of laughter, drinking, and
jollity, for which one and all had longed for a whole
impatient and dreary week ; and Henri, Jacques, and
Louis could spend on drinks with other of their femi-
nine acquaintances the sous that their mistresses had
provided. The band played lustily ; the lights shone ;
the room was filled with laughter, — let the dance
go on !
Stationed in different parts of the room were the
big soldiers of the Garde Municipale, in their pictu-
resque uniform so familiar to all the theatre-goers of
Paris. They were here to preserve order, for the
dancers belong to an inflammable class, and a blaze
may spring up at any moment. Equally valuable as
a repressing force was a burly, thick-necked, power-
ful man who strolled hither and thither, his glance
everywhere and always veiling a threat. He wore a
large badge that proclaimed him the master of cere-
monies. True, he was that, which was something,
but he was a great deal more, — a most astonishingly
230
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
prompt and capable bouncer. The male frequenters
of the place were evidently in mortal terror of him,
for his commanding size and threatening manner, and
his superbly developed muscles, contrasted strikingly
with the cringing manner and weak bodies of Henri
and his kind ; and should he look their way with a
momentary steadiness of glance and poise of figure,
their conversation would instantly cease, and they
would slink away.
We seated ourselves at a vacant table that com-
manded a sweeping view of the floor and the prom-
enade. A seedy-looking gargon worked his way
through the crowd and took our order for beer ; and
mean, stale beer it was. But we did not care for
that. Bishop was all afire with enjoyment of the
scene, for, he protested, the place was infinitely rich
in types and character, — the identical types that the
great Steinlen loves to draw. And here is an inter-
esting thing : The girls all were of that chic and
petite order so peculiar to certain classes of Parisian
women, some hardly so high as Bishop's shoulder,
which is itself not very high ; and though they looked
so small, they were fully developed young women,
though many of them were under twenty. They
wore no hats, and for the most part, unlike their gor-
geous sisters of the boulevard cafes, they were dressed
plainly, wearing black or colored waists and skirts.
But ah ! — and here the unapproachable instinct-skill
of the French-woman shows itself, — on these same
waists and skirts were placed here and there, but
always just where they ought to be, bows and rib-
231
BOHEMIAN PARIS
bons ; and it was they that worked the miracle of
grace and style. And the girls had a certain beauty,
a beauty peculiar to their class, — not exactly beauty,
but pleasing features, healthy color, and, best of all
and explaining all, an archness of expression, a touch
of sauciness, that did for their faces what the bows
and ribbons did for their gowns.
Near us a large door opened into the garden of
the Moulin ; it was filled with trees and benches and
tables, and amidst the dark foliage glowed colored
Chinese lanterns, which sifted a soft light upon the
revellers assembled beneath them in the cool evening
air. On one side of the garden stretched Paris far
down and away, and on the other side blazed the
Moulin de la Galette through the windows.
A waltz was now being danced. Strange to say, it
was the one dismal feature of the evening, and that
was because the French do not know how to dance it,
" reversing" being unknown. And there was an odd
variety of ways in which the men held their partners
and the dancers each other. Some grasped each
other tightly about the waist with both arms, or sim-
ilarly about the necks or shoulders, and looked
straight into each other's face without a smile or an
occasional word. It was all done in deadly earnest,
as a serious work. It was in the quadrille that the
fun came, when the girls varied the usual order by
pointing their toes toward the chandeliers with a
swish of white skirts tnat made the by-standers cry,
" Encore, Marcelle !" The men, yearning for a share
of the applause, cut up all sorts of antics and ca-
232
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
pers, using their arms and legs with incredible agil-
ity, making grotesque faces, and wearing hideous
false noses and piratical moustaches.
Securing a partner for a dance was the easiest
thing possible. Any girl was eligible, — simply the
asking, the assent, and away they went.
Bishop's pencil kept moving rapidly as he caught
fleeting notes of faces, dresses, attitudes — every-
thing— for his unfinished piece at the studio. A
number of promenaders, attracted by his sketching,
stopped to watch him. That dance was now finished,
and the dancers separated wherever they stopped, and
turned away to seek their separate friends ; there was
no waste of time in escorting the girls to seats, for
that is not fashionable at Montmartre. The girls
came flocking about Bishop, curious over his work,
and completely shut out his view. " Oh !" exclaimed
one saucy petite blonde, "let me see my portrait ! I
saw you sketching me during the dance." " Et
moi. — moi aussi !" cried the others, until Bishop,
overwhelmed, surrendered his book for the inspec-
tion of bright, eager eyes.
" Has not monsieur a cigarette ?" archly asked a
girl with a decided nez retrousse. " Oui," I answered,
handing her a packet, from which with exquisite, un-
conscious daintiness she selected one. The whole
bevy then made a similar request, and we were soon
enveloped in a blue haze.
"Vousferez mon portrait, n'est-ce-pas ?" begged a
dark-eyed beauty of Bishop, in a smooth, pleasant
voice. She had a striking appearance. A mass of
235
BOHEMIAN PARIS
rebellious black hair strove persistently to fall over
her oval face, and when she would neglect to push
it back her eyes, dark and melancholy, shone through
its tangle with a singular wild lustre. Her skin was
dark, almost swarthy, but it was touched with a fine
rosy glow of health and youth. Her features were
perfect ; the nose was slightly romanesque, the chin
firm, the lips red and sensuous. When she drew
our attention with her request she was standing be-
fore us in a rigid, half-defiant, half-commanding
posture; but when she quickly added, "I will pose
for you, — see?" and sat down beside me, opposite-
Bishop, her striking native grace asserted itself, for
from a statue of bronze she suddenly became all
warmth and softness, every line in her perfect, lithe
figure showing her eagerness, and eloquent with
coaxing.
It was clear that Bishop was deeply impressed by
the striking picture that she made ; it was her beau-
tiful wild head that fascinated him most.
"No, I am first," insisted a little vixen, hard-
featured and determined. "Jamais de la vie!"
" C'est moi !" protested others, with such fire that I
feared there would be trouble. The turmoil had the
effect of withdrawing Bishop's attention momentarily
from the beautiful tigress beside me. He smiled in
bewilderment. He would be happy to draw them
all, but At last he pacified them by proposing
to take them in turn, provided they would be pa-
tient and not bother him. To this they poutingly
agreed ; and Bishop, paying no more attention to
236
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
the girl beside me, rapidly dashed off sketch after
sketch of the other girls. Exclamations of surprise,
delight, or indignation greeted each of the portraits
as it was passed round. Bishop was seeking " char-
acter," and as he was to retain the portraits, he
made no efforts at flattery.
All this time the dark-eyed one had sat in perfect
silence and stillness beside me, watching Bishop in
wonder. She had forgotten her hair, and was gazing
through it with more than her eyes as his pencil
worked rapidly. I studied her as well as I could as
she sat all heedless of my existence. Her lips
slightly curved at the corners into a faint suggestion
of a smile, but as Bishop's work kept on and the
other girls monopolized him, the lips gradually har-
dened. The shadow of her chin fell upon her smooth
throat, not darkening it too much for me to observe
that significant movements within it indicated a strug-
gle with her self-control. Bishop was now sketching
a girl, the others having run off to dance ; they would
return in their order. The girl beside me said to me,
in a low voice, without looking at me, —
" Monsieur est Anglais ?"
" No," I answered.
"Ah! Americain?"
" Yes."
"And your friend?" nodding toward Bishop.
" American also."
"Is he " but she suddenly checked herself
with odd abruptness, and then quickly asked, with a
shallow pretence of eager interest, "Is America far
237
BOHEMIAN PARIS
from Paris ?" And so she continued to quiz me
rather vacantly concerning a great country of whose
whereabouts she had not the slightest idea. Then
she was silent, and I imagined that she was gather-
ing herself for some supreme effort. Suddenly she
turned her marvellous eyes full toward me, swept the
wild hair from her face, looked almost fiercely at me
a moment, and, riaid from head to foot, asked, half
angrily, and then held her breath for the answer, —
" Is he married ?"
The question was asked so suddenly and so
strangely, and with so commanding a manner, that I
had not a moment to consider the wisdom of lying.
" No," I answered.
She sank back into her chair with a deep breath,
all softness and grace again, and her wild hair fell
back over her face.
She had lost all interest in the ball. While her
companions were enjoying themselves in the dance,
she sat motionless and silent beside me, watching
Bishop. An uncomfortable feeling had taken pos-
session of me. Presently I abruptly asked her why
she did not dance.
She started. " Dance?" she replied. She looked
ov^er the hall, and an expression of scorn and disgust
came into her face. '• Not with that espece de voy-
ous," she vehemently added ; and then she turned
to watch Bishop again.
I now noticed for the first time that a group of the
human vampires, standing apart at a little distance,
were watching us closely and talking in low tones
238
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
among themselves. My attention had been drawn
to them by a defiant look that the girl had shot at
them. One of them was particularly repulsive. He
was rather larger and stronger than the others. His
garb was that of his species, — tight trousers, a ne-
glige shirt, and a rakish cap being its distinguishing
articles. He stood with his hands in his pockets and
his head thrust forward. He had the low, brutal face
of his kind. It was now pale with rage.
I asked the girl what her name was.
" Helene," she answered, simply.
Her other name ?
Oh, just Helene. Sometimes it was Helene Cres-
pin, for Crespin was her lover's name. All this with
perfect frankness.
" Where is he ?" I asked.
" C'est lui avec la casquette," she answered, indi-
cating the brute whom I have just described, but I
had expected that. " I hate him now !" she vehe-
mently added.
No, she had neither father nor mother ; had no
recollection of parents. Sometimes she worked in
a printing shop in the Rue Victor Masse when extra
hands were needed.
After the girl who had been posing was dismissed
another took her place ; then another, and another,
and others ; and still others were waiting. The girl
beside me had been watching these proceedings with
increasing impatience. Some of the girls were so
delighted that they threw their arms round Bishop's
neck and kissed him. Others called him endearing
239
■ BOHEMIAN PARIS
names. At last it was evident that the dark girl
could bear it no longer. She had been growing
harder and harder, more and more restless. I con-
tinued to watch her narrowly, — she had forgotten my
existence. Gradually the natural rich color in her
cheeks deepened, her eyes blazed through the tangled
hair, her lips were set. Suddenly, after a girl had
been more demonstrative than the others, she rose
and confronted Bishop. All this time he had not
even looked at her, and that, while making me
uneasy, had made her furious.
We three were alone. True, we were observed
by many, for invasions by foreigners were very rare
at the Moulin de la Galette, and we were objects of
interest on that account ; and the sketching by
Bishop had sent our fame throughout the hall.
In a low, quiet voice the girl said to Bishop, as he
looked up at her wonderingly, —
" You promised to draw mine long ago."
I had never seen my friend more embarrassed
than he was at that moment. He stumbled over
his excuses, and then asked her to pose to suit her
fancy. He did it very gently, and the effect was
magical. She sank into her chair and assumed the
indolently graceful pose that she had unconsciously
taken when she first seated herself. Bishop gazed
at her in silence a long time before he began the
sketch ; and then he worked with a sure and
rapid hand. After it was finished he handed it to
her. Instantly she was transfigured. She stared
at the picture in wonder and delight, her lips parted,
240
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
her chest hardly moving from her nearly suppressed
breathing.
"Do I look like that?" she asked, suspiciously.
Indeed, it was an exquisite little piece of work, for
Bishop had idealized the girl and made a beautiful
portrait.
" Did you not see me draw it while looking at
you ?" he replied, somewhat disingenuously.
"Will you give it to me?" she asked, eagerly.
" Certainly."
"And will you sign your name to it?"
Bishop cheerfully complied. Then she took it,
kissed it, and pressed it to her bosom ; and then,
leaning forward, and speaking with a richness and
depth of voice that she had not betrayed before, and
in the deepest earnestness, said, —
" Je vous aime !"
Bishop, staggered by this forthright declaration of
affection, blushed violently and looked very foolish.
But he rallied and assured her that her love was re-
ciprocated, for who, he asked, could resist so beauti-
ful a face, so warm a heart ? If he had only known,
if I could only have told him ! The girl sank back
in her chair with a quizzical, doubting smile that
showed perfect white teeth and changed to bright
dimples the suggestion of a smile that fluttered at
her mouth-corners. She carefully folded the sketch
and daintily tucked it away in her bosom.
Bishop had now quitted work, — Helene had seen
to that. She had moved her chair close to his, and,
looking him straight in the eyes, was rattling away
ifi 241
BOHEMIAN PARIS
'.n the untranslatable argfot of Montmartre. It is not
the argot of the slums, nor that of the thieves, nor
that of the students, but that of Montmartre ; and
there are no ways of expressing it intelligibly in
English. Presently she became more serious, and
with all the coaxing and pleading of which her ardent,
impetuous nature was capable, she begged, —
" Let me be your model. Je suis bien faite, and
you can teach me to pose. You will be kind to me.
I have a good figure. I will do everything, every-
thing for you ! I will take care of the studio. I will
cook, I will bring you everything, everything you
want. You will let me live with you. I will love no
one else. You will never be sorry nor ashamed. If
you will only " That is the best translation I
can give ; it is certainly what she meant, though it
indicates nothing of the impetuosity, the abandon,
the eagerness, the warmth, the savage beauty that
shone from her as she spoke.
Bishop rose to the occasion. He sprang to his
feet. " I must dance after that !" he exclaimed,
catching her up, laughing, and dragging her upon
the floor. He could dance superbly. A waltz was
being played, and it was being danced in the stiff
and stupid way of the people. Very soon Bishop
and Helene began to attract general attention, for
never before had Montmartre seen a waltz danced
like that. He reversed, and glided, and threw into
the queen of dances all the grace and freedom that
it demands. At first Helene was puzzled and be-
wildered ; but she was agile both of mind and body,
242
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
and under Bishop's sure guidance she put them to
excellent use. Rapidly she caught the grace and
spirit of the waltz, and danced with a verve that
she had never known before. Swiftly and gracefully
they skimmed the length of the great hall, then back,
and wherever they went the dancers watched them
with astonishment and delight, and gradually aban-
doned their own ungraceful efforts, partly in shame,
partly in admiration, and partly with a desire to learn
how the miracle was done. Gradually the floor was
wholly abandoned except for these two, and all eyes
watched them, Helene was happy and radiant be-
yond all ways of telling. Her cheeks were flushed,
her eyes sparkled, her lithe figure developed all the
ease, grace, and suppleness of a cat.
Some muttered expressions of contempt spoken
near me caused me to listen without turning round.
They were meant for my ears, but I gave no heed.
I knew well enough from whom they came, — Crespin
and his friends. And I realized that we were in for
it. True, there were the big guards and there was
the capable bouncer, and they would glance my way
now and then, seemingly to let Crespin know that
all was understood and that it must be hands off
with him. There was no danger here, but after-
wards
The waltz came to an end, and the two were vig-
orously applauded. This was a critical moment, but
Bishop handled it adroitly. He conducted Helene
to a seat remote from our table, bowed low, and left
her, and came over to me. I told him of my fears,
243
BOHEMIAN PARIS
but he laughed. He had got rid of Helene with
perfect address, and perhaps she was nursing an
angry and aching heart after her glorious triumph ;
perhaps Bishop had whispered to her something of
the danger and suggested that they have nothing
more to do with each other that evening. Presently
I saw her start and look round. Crespin was behind
her. livid with rage. She promptly rose and followed
him into the garden. Bishop had
not seen the movement. We
were near the door leading into
the garden, and
by turning a little
I could see the
couple outside,
not far away.
Crespin was
standing with
a bullying air,
and was evident-
ly cursing her.
She had tossed
back her hair and
was looking him
defiantly in the face. I saw her lips move in speech.
Instantly the ruffian dealt her a violent blow upon
the chest, and she staggered back against a tree,
which prevented her falling.
" Come, let us stop that," I said to Bishop.
" Helene's lover is beating her in the garden."
Bishop sprang to his feet and followed me. As he
244
IN THE GARDEN
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
glanced out the window at the couple, whom I pointed
out, he saw Crespin approach the dazed girl and deal
her a terrible blow in the mouth, and he saw the
blood that followed the blow.
We arrived in the garden as a crowd was gather-
ing. Bishop pushed his way ahead and was about
to spring upon the brute, when Helene saw him.
With a supreme effort she leaped forward, thrust
Bishop aside with a command to mind his own af-
fairs, threw herself into her lover's arms, and kissed
him, smearing his face with her blood. He glared at
us, triumphant. The guards arrived, and Helene
and her lover disappeared among the trees in the
darkness.
" Oh, another unfaithful cocotte !" laughed one in
the crowd, explaining to the guards ; and they re-
turned to their drinking and dancing, remarking,
" Beat a woman, and she will love you."
They had all missed the heroism and devotion of
Helene's interference. It was to keep a knife out of
the body of the man she loved that she smeared her
lover's face with her blood. We saw her no more.
We returned to the hall and strolled round the
promenade, for we needed that to become calm
again. And the girls mobbed Bishop, for he had
passed out the word that he wanted a model, and
that he would pay a franc an hour. A franc an
hour ! And so they mobbed him. Was not that
more than they could hope to earn by a whole day's
hard work ? Yes, they would all pose gladly, but
only in costume, bien entendu ! So Bishop was busy
245
BOHEMIAN PARIS
taking down the names of Marcelle, Lorette, Elise,
Marie, and the rest, with the names of the queer and
unheard-of streets in which they lived, mostly in the
quarters of Montmartre and the Batignolles.
The can-can was now raging on the floor, and the
tired gar^ons were dodging about with their glass-
laden trays. Dancing, making love, throwing lumps
of sugar, the revellers enjoyed themselves.
We left. The moon cast gaunt shadows across
the streets from the old windmills and the trees. We
struck out briskly, intending to catch the last St-
Jacques 'bus home, and with that purpose we
threaded the maze of steep passages and streets on
our way to the Rue Muller. Upon reaching the top
of the hill, behind the great skeleton of the Sacred
Heart, where all was silent and still as the grave, we
suddenly discovered the shadowy figures of men
slipping out from a dark little street. We knew
what it meant. With a common impulse we sprang
forward, for it was now a run for our lives. I had
recognized Crespin in the lead. With headlong
speed we dashed down the steep incline, swinging
our canes to check an attack in the rear. We had
dodged out of our proper way to the Rue Muller,
and now it was a matter of speed, endurance, and
luck to reach blindly some street where life and pro-
tection might be found.
A man clutched my coat. I beat him off with my
stick, but the skirt of my coat was hanging loose,
nearly ripped off. A cord went whizzing past me
and caught Bishop's hat, but he went sturdily on
246
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
bareheaded. Stones flew past us, and presently one
caught me a terrific, sickening blow in the back. 1
did not fall, but I staggered in my flight, for a strange
heaviness came into my legs, and my head soon
began to ache violently.
Crespin was desperately active. I could hear him
panting heavily as he gained upon us. His long
shadow, cast by the moon, showed that he was about
to spring upon Bishop. I swung my cane blindly,
but with all my might, and it fell upon his head and
laid him low ; but he quickly scrambled to his feet
again. The ruffians were now upon us, — they were
better used to the hill than we.
"Separate!" gasped Bishop, "It is our only
chance." At the next corner we suddenly swung
apart, taking opposite directions. I plunged on
alone, glad to hear for a time that footfalls were fol-
lowing,— they meant that the pursuit had not con-
centrated on Bishop. But after a while I realized
that I was no longer pursued. I stopped and lis-
tened. There was no sound. Weak and trembling,
with an aching back and a splitting head, I sat down
in a door-way and rested. That luxury was quickly
interrupted by my reflecting that possibly Bishop had
been overtaken ; and I knew what that would mean.
I ran back up the hill as rapidly as my weakness and
trembling and pain permitted. At last I found my-
self at the corner where we had separated. There
was no sound from any direction. I could only hope
for the best and search and listen blindly through
this puzzle of streets and passages.
247
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Presently I realized that I was near the fortifi-
cations of Paris, close to St. Ouen, — that is to say,
at the other end of Paris from the Quartier Latin,
which was eight miles away. There was noihing
to do but walk home. It was nearly four o'clock
when I arrived. And there was Bishop in bed,
nursing a big lump on his head, made by a flying
stone. He had reached a street where a gendarme
was, and that meant safety ; and then he had taken
a cab for home, where he was looking very ridicu-
lous poulticing his lump and making himself sick
fretting about me.
THE PROPRIETOR
NEAR the end of a recent December Bishop
received a note signed " A. Herbert Thomp-
kins," written at the Hotel de I'Athenee,
saying that the writer was in Paris for four days
with his wife before proceeding to Vienna to join
some friends. It closed by asking, " Could you call
at the hotel this evening, say at seven ?"
This note created great excitement at our studio
early one morning, the facteur having climbed six
flights of stairs (it being near to New Year) to de-
liver it ; for Mr. Thompkins was one of Bishop's
warmest friends in America. His unexpected arrival
in Paris at this unseasonable time of the year was
indeed a surprise, but a most agreeable one. So
Bishop spent the whole of the afternoon in creasing
his best trousers, ransacking our trunks for a clean
249
BOHEMIAN PARIS
collar to wear with my blue-fronted shirt, polishing
his top-hat, and getting his Velasquez whiskers
trimmed and perfumed at the coiffeur's. It was not
every day that friends of Mr. Thompkins's type made
their appearance in Paris.
Bishop, after hours spent in absorbing mental
work, at last disclosed his plan to me. Of course
he would not permit me to keep out of the party,
and besides, he needed my advice. Here was Mr.
TOURISTS AND GUIDE IN PARIS
Thompkins in Paris, and unless he were wisely
guided he would leave without seeing the city, — ex-
cept those parts and phases of it that tourists cannot
keep from stumbling over. It would be both a duty
2150
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
and a pleasure to introduce him to certain things of
which he might otherwise die in ignorance, to the
eternal undevelopment of his soul. But here was the
rub : Would Mr, Thompkins care to be so radically
different here for one night — just one night — from
what he was at home ? I could not see how any harm
could come to Mr. Thompkins or any one else with
sense, nor how Bishop could possibly entertain him in
anyway that would be disagreeable to a man of brains.
But Bishop was evidently keeping something back.
For that matter, he never did explain it, and I have
not bothered about inferences. What Mr. Thomp-
kins was at home I do not know. True, he was very
much confused and embarrassed a number of times
during the evening, but one thing I know, — he en-
joyed himself immensely. And that makes me say
that no matter what he was at home, he was a gen-
tleman and philosopher while exploring an outlandish
phase of Parisian Bohemian life that night under our
guidance. He had a prim, precise way of talking,
and was delightfully innocent and unworldly. My !
it would have been a sin for him to miss what he saw
that night. So I told Bishop very emphatically that
no matter what Mr. Thompkins was at home, nobody
who knew him was likely to see him in Paris at that
time of the year, and that it was Bishop's duty as a
friend to initiate him. Bishop was very happy over
my advice ; but when he insisted that we should take
a cab for the evening's outing, I sternly reminded
him of the bruises that our funds would receive on
New Year's, and thus curbed his extravagance. He
25 «
BOHEMIAN PARIS
surrendered with a pang, for after all his preparation
he felt like a duke, and for that night, while enter-
taining his friend, he wanted to be a duke, not a
grubbing student.
We met Mr. Thompkins at the hotel, and I found
him a delightful man, with a pleasant sparkle of the
eye and a certain stiffness of bearing. It was his
intention to have us dine with him, but Bishop gently
took him in hand, and gradually gave him to under-
stand that on this night in a lifetime he was in the
hands of his friends, to do as they said, and to ask
no questions. Mr. Thompkins looked a little puzzled,
a little apprehensive, and withal not unwilling to be
sacrificed.
The first thing we did was to introduce Mr. Thomp-
kins to a quiet restaurant famous for its coquilles St-
Jacques ; it is in the old Palais Royal. This is the
dinner that Bishop ordered :
Huitres Portugaises.
Sauterne. Medoc.
Consomme.
Coquilles St. -Jacques.
Macaroni a la Milanaisc.
Filet de boeuf.
Pommes nouvelles sautees.
Creme petit Suisse.
Eclairs.
Cafe.
Mr. Thompkins's enjoyment of the meal was as
generous as his praise of Bishop's skill in ordering
it, and he declared that the wines particularly were a
252
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
rare treat. By the time that dinner had been finished
he was enthusiastic about Paris. He said that it was
a wonderful city, and that he was entirely at our dis-
posal for the night.
"I suppose, gentlemen," he suggested, "that you
are going to invite me to the opera. Now, I have
no objections to that, and I am sure I shall be de-
lighted,— it is only one evening in a lifetime, perhaps.
But I shall insist that you go as my guests."
Bishop laughed merrily, and slapped his friend on
the back in a way that I never should have employed
with a man of so much dignity.
"The opera, old man!" cried Bishop. "Why,
you blessed idiot, you act like a tourist ! The opera !
You can go there any time. To-night we shall see
Paris !" and he laughed again. " The opera !" he
repeated. " Oh, my ! You can fall over the opera
whenever you please. This is an opportunity for a
tour of discovery."
Mr. Thompkins laughed with equal heartiness, and
declared that nothing would delight him more than
to be an explorer — for one night in a lifetime.
"The Boul' Mich' or Montmartre ?'' Bishop whis-
pered to me.
" Montmartre," I replied ; " Heaven, Death, Hell,
and Bruant."
Never had the Avenue de 1' Opera appeared so
brilliant and lively as on that cold, crisp December
night, as we strolled towards the boulevards. Its
thousands of lights, its dashing equipages with the
jingling harness of horses drawing handsome women
253
BOHEMIAN PARIS
and men to the Opera, its swiftly moving cabs
and heavy 'buses roUing over the smooth wooden
pavement, the shouts of drivers and the crack-
ing of whips, the throngs of gay people enjoying
the holiday attractions, the endless rows of gaudy
booths lining the street, the flood of light and
color ever)'where, the cuirassiers of the Garde
Alunicipale mounted on superb horses standing
motionless in the Place de 1' Opera, their long
boots and steel breastplates and helmets glisten-
ing,— these all had their place, — while the broad
stairs of the Opera were crowded with beautifully
gowned women and fashionable men pouring in to
hear Sibyl Sanderson sing in "Samson and Deli-
lah,"— all this made a wonderful picture of life and
beauty, of color, motion, vivacity, and enjoyment.
Above the entrance to the Opera red marble col-
umns reflected the yellow light of the gilded foyer
and of the yellow blaze from the Cafe de la Paix
across the way.
We mounted a Montmartre 'bus and were pulled
up the hill to the Boul' Clichy, the main artery of
that strange Bohemian mountain with its eccentric,
fantastic, and morbid attractions. Before us, in the
Place Blanche, stood the great Moulin Rouge, the
long skeleton arms of the Red Mill marked with
red electric lights and slowly sweeping across the
heavens, while fanciful figures of students and dancing
girls looked out the windows of the mill, and a great
crowd of lively, chatting, laughing people were push-
ing their way toward the entrance of this famous
254
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
dance-hall of Paris. Mr. Thompkins, entranced
before the brilliant spectacle, asked somewhat hesi-
tatingly if we might enter ; but Bishop, wise in the
ways of Montmartre, replied, —
" Not yet. It is only a little after nine, and the
Moulin does not get wide awake for some hours yet.
We have no time to waste while waiting for that.
We shall first visit heaven."
Mr. Thompkins looked surprised, but made no
response. Presently we reached the gilded gales
of Le Cabaret du Ciel. They were bathed in a
cold blue light from above. Angels, gold-lined
clouds, saints, sacred palms and plants, and other
paraphernalia suggestive of the approach to St.
Peter's domain, filled all the available space about
the entree. A bold white placard. " Bock, i Franc,"
was displayed in the midst of it all. Dolorous
church music sounded within, and the heavens were
unrolled as a scroll in all their tinsel splendor as we
entered to the bidding of an angel.
Flitting about the room were many more angels,
all in white robes and with sandals on their feet, and
all wearing gauzy wings swaying from their shoulder-
blades and brass halos above their yellow wigs.
These were the waiters, the gargons of heaven,
ready to take orders for drinks. One of these, with
the face of a heavy villain in a melodrama and a
beard a week old, roared unmelodiously, —
" The greetings of heaven to thee, brothers !
Eternal bliss and happiness are for thee. Mayst
thou never swerve from its golden paths ! Breathe
255
BOHEMIAN PARIS
thou its sacred purity and renovating exaltation.
Prepare to meet thy great Creator — and don't forget
the gargon !"
ENTRANCE TO " HEAVEN"
A very long table covered with white extended
the whole length of the chilly room, and seated at
256
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
it, drinking, were scores of candidates for angelship,
— mortals like ourselves. Men and women were
they, and though noisy and vivacious, they indulged
in nothing like the abandon of the Boul' Mich' cafes.
Gilded vases and candelabra, together
with foamy bocks, somewhat relieved
the dead whiteness of the table. The
ceiling was an impressionistic render-
ing of blue sky, fleecy clouds, and
golden stars, and the walls were made
to represent the noble enclosure and
golden gates of paradise.
" Brothers, your orders ! Com-
mand me, thy servant !" growled a
ferocious angel at our elbows, with his
accent de la Villette, and his brass
halo a trifle askew.
Mr. Thompkins had been very
quiet, for he was Wonder in the flesh,
and perhaps there was some distress
in his face, but there was courage also.
The suddenness of the angel's assault
visibly disconcerted him, — he did not know what to
order. Finally he decided on a verre de Chartreuse,
green. Bishop and I ordered bocks.
" Two sparkling draughts of heaven's own brew
and one star-dazzler !" yelled our angel.
"Thy will be done," came the response from a
hidden bar.
Obscured by great masses of clouds, through
whose intervals shone golden stars, an organ con-
17 257
he serves beer in
" heaven"
BOHEMIAN PARIS
tinually rumbled sacred music, which had a depress-
ing rather than a solemn effect, and even the draughts
of heaven's own brew and the star-dazzler failed to
dissipate the gloom.
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the head
of St. Peter, whiskers and all, appeared in a hole in
the sky, and presently all of him emerged, even to
his ponderous keys clanging at his girdle. He gazed
solemnly down upon the crowd at the tables and
thoughtfully scratched his left wing. From behind
a dark cloud he brought forth a vessel of white
crockery (which was not a wash-bowl) containing
(ostensibly) holy water. After several mysterious
signs and passes with his bony hands he generously
sprinkled the sinners below with a brush dipped in
the water ; and then, with a parting blessing, he
slowly faded into mist.
" Did you ever ? Well, well, I declare !" exclaimed
Mr. Thompkins, breathlessly.
The royal cortege of the kingdom of heaven was
now forming at one end of the room before a shrine,
whereon an immense golden pig sat sedately on his
haunches, looking friendly and jovial, his loose skin
and fat jowls hanging in folds. Lighted candles
sputtered about his golden sides. As the partici-
pants in the pageant, all attaches of the place, formed
for the procession, each bowed reverently and crossed
himself before the huge porker. A small man, dressed
in a loose black gown and black skull-cap, evidently
made up for Dante, whom he resembled, officiated as
master of ceremonies. He mounted a golden pulpit,
258
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
and delivered, in a loud, rasping voice, a tedious dis-
course on heaven and allied things. He dwelt on
the attractions of heaven as a perpetual summer re-
sort, an unbroken
round of pleasures in ^^ \\\M :,.'.,. /w, ^^^.>_
variety, where sweet
strains of angelic
music (indicating the
wheezy organ), to-
gether with unlimited
stores of heaven's own
sparkling fire of life,
at a franc a bock, and
beautiful golden-
haired cherubs, of la
Villette's finest, lent
grace and perfection
to the scheme.
The parade then be-
gan its tour about the
room. Dante, carrying
a staff surmounted by a golden bull, serving as
drum-major. Angel musicians, playing upon sacred
lyres and harps, followed in his wake, but the dolor-
ous organ made the more noise. Behind the lyre
angels came a number of the notables whom Dante
immortalized, — at least, we judged that they were so
intended. The angel garq;ons closed the cortege,
their gauzy wings and brass halos bobbing in a
stately fashion as they strode along.
The angel gargons now sauntered up and gave us
261
THE GOLDEN VORCUS
BOHEMIAN PARIS
each a ticket admitting us to the angel-room and the
other delights of the inner heaven.
"You arre Eengleesh?" he asked. "Yes? Ah,
theece Eengleesh arre verra genereauz," eyeing his
fifty-centime tip with a questioning shrug. " Can
you not make me un franc ? Ah, eet ees dam cold
in theece laigs," pointing to his calves, which were
encased in diaphanous pink tights. He got his
franc.
Dante announced in his rasping voice that those
mortals wishing to become angels should proceed up
to the angel-room. All advanced and ascended the
inclined passage-way leading into the blue. At the
farther end of the passage sat old St. Peter, solemn
and shivering, for it was draughty there among the
clouds. He collected our tickets, gave the pass-
word admitting us to the inner precincts, and re-
sented Bishop's attempts to pluck a feather from his
wings. We entered a large room, all a glamour of
gold and silver. The walls were studded with blazing
nuggets, colored canvas rocks, and electric lights.
We took seats on wooden benches fronting a cleft
in the rocks, and waited.
Soon the chamber in which we sat became per-
fectly dark, the cleft before us shining with a dim
bluish light. The cleft then came to life with a bevy
of female angels floating through the limited ethereal
space, and smiling down upon us mortals. One of
the lady angel's tights bagged at the knees, and an-
other's wings were not on straight ; but this did not
interfere with her flight, any more than did the sta-
262
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
tionary position of the wings of all. But it was all
very easily and gracefully done, swooping down,
soaring, and swinging in circles like so many great
eagles. They seemed to discover something of un-
usual interest in Mr. Thompkins, for they singled him
out to throw kisses at him. This made him blush
and fidget, but a word from Bishop reassured him, —
it was only once in a lifetime !
After these angels had gyrated for some time, the
head angel of the angel-room requested those who
desired to become angels to step forward. A num-
ber responded, among them some of the naughty
dancing-girls of the Moulin Rouge. They were
conducted through a concealed door, and presently
we beheld them soaring in the empyrean just as
happy and serene as though they were used to being
angels. It was a marvel to see wings so frail trans-
port with so much ease a very stout young woman
from the audience, and their being fully clothed did
not seem to make any difference.
Mr. Thompkins had sat in a singularly contem-
plative mood after the real angels had quit tor-
turing him, and surprised us beyond measure by
promptly responding to a second call for those
aspiring to angelhood. He disappeared with an-
other batch from the Moulin Rouge, and soon after-
wards we saw him floating like an airship. He even
wore his hat. To his disgust and chagrin, however,
one of the concert-hall angels persisted in flying in
front of him and making violent love to him. This
brought forth tumultuous applause and laughter,
263
BOHEMIAN PARIS
which completed Mr. Thompkins's misery. At this
juncture the blue cleft became dark, the angel-room
burst into light, and soon Mr. Thompkins rejoined us.
As we filed out into the passage Father Time
stood with long whiskers and scythe, greeted us
with profound bows, and promised that his scythe
would spare us for many happy years did we but
drop sous into his hour-glass.
There was no conversation among us when we
emerged upon the boulevard, for Mr. Thompkins
was in a retrospective frame of mind. Bishop em-
braced the opportunity to lead us up the Boulevard
Clichy to the Place Pigalle. As we neared the Place
we saw on the opposite side of the street two flick-
ering iron lanterns that threw a ghastly green light
down upon the barred dead-black shutters of the
building, and caught the faces of the passers-by with
sickly rays that took out all the life and transformed
them into the semblance of corpses. Across the top
of the closed black entrance were large white letters,
reading simply :
Cafe du Neant
The entrance was heavily draped with black cere-
ments, having white trimmings, — such as hang before
the houses of the dead in Paris. Here patrolled a
solitary croque-mort, or hired pall-bearer, his black
cape drawn closely about him, the green light re-
flected by his glazed top-hat. A more dismal and
forbidding place it would be difficult to imagine. Mr.
264
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
Thompkins paled a little when he discovered that this
was our destination, — this grisly caricature of eternal
nothingness, — and hesitated at the threshold. With-
out a word Bishop firmly took his arm and entered.
The lonely croque-mort drew apart the heavy curtain
and admitted us into a black hole that proved later
to be a room. The chamber was dimly lighted with
wax tapers, and a large chandelier intricately devised
of human skulls and arms, with funeral candles held
in their fleshless fingers, gave its small quota of light.
Large, heavy, wooden coffins, resting on biers,
were ranged about the room in an order suggesting
the recent happening of a frightful catastrophe. The
walls were decorated with skulls and bones, skele-
tons in grotesque attitudes, battle-pictures, and guillo-
tines in action. Death, carnage, assassination were
the dominant note, set in black hangings and illumi-
nated with mottoes on death. A half-dozen voices
droned this in a low monotone :
" Enter, mortals of this sinful world, enter into the
mists and shadows of eternity. Select your biers,
to the right, to the left ; fit yourselves comfortably to
them, and repose in the solemnity and tranquillity of
death ; and may God have mercy on your souls !"
A number of persons who had preceded us had
already pre-empted their coffins, and were sitting be-
side them awaiting developments and enjoying their
consommations, using the coffins for their real pur-
pose,— tables for holding drinking-glasses. Along-
side the glasses were slender tapers by which the
visitors might see one another.
265
BOHEMIAN PARIS
There seemed
to be no mechan-
ical imperfection
in the illusion of
a charnel-house ;
we imagined that
even chemistry
had contributed
its resources, for
there seemed dis-
tinctly to be
the odor ap-
propriate to
such a place.
We found a
vacant coffin in the vault, seated ourselves at it on
266
IN THE CABARET OF DEATH
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
rush-bottomed stools, and awaited further develop-
ments.
Another croque-mort — a gar^on he was — came
up through the gloom to take our orders. He was
dressed completely in the professional garb
of a hearse-follower, including claw-hammer
coat, full-dress front, glazed tile, and oval
silver badge. He droned, —
"Bon soir, Macchabees ! * Buvez
les crachats d'asthmatiques, voila des
sueurs froides d'agonisants. Prenez done
des certificats de deces, seulement vingt
sous. C'est pas cher et c'est artistique !"
Bishop said that he would be pleased
with a lowly bock. Mr, Thompkins chose
cherries a I'eau-de-vie, and I, une menthe.
" One microbe of Asiatic cholera from
the last corpse, one leg of a lively cancer,
and one sample of our consumption
germ !" moaned the creature toward a ^ waiter in
black hole at the farther end of the room. ^„ ^„,.^„
\jr DEATH
Some women among the visitors tittered,
others shuddered, and Mr. Thompkins broke out in
a cold sweat on his brow, while a curious accompani-
ment of anger shone in his eyes. Our sleepy pall-
bearer soon loomed through the darkness with our
deadly microbes, and waked the echoes in the hollow
casket upon which he set the glasses with a thump.
* This word (also Maccabe, argot Macabit) is given in Paris
by sailors to cadavers found floating in the river.
267
BOHEMIAN PARIS
"Drink, Macchabees !" he wailed: "drink these
noxious potions, which contain the vilest and dead-
liest poisons !"
" The villain !" gasped Mr. Thompkins ; " it is hor-
rible, disgusting, filthy !"
The tapers flickered feebly on the coffins, and the
white skulls grinned at him mockingly fi-om their
sable background. Bishop exhausted all his tactics
in trying to induce Mr. Thompkins to taste his bran-
died cherries, but that gentleman positively refijsed,
— he seemed unable to banish the idea that they
were laden with disease germs.
After we had been seated here for some time, get-
ting no consolation from the utter absence of spirit
and levity among the other guests, and enjoying only
the dismay and trepidation of new and strange arri-
vals, a rather good-looking young fellow, dressed in
a black clerical coat, came through a dark door and
began to address the assembled patrons. His voice
was smooth, his manner solemn and impressive, as
he delivered a well-worded discourse on death. He
spoke of it as the gate through which we must all
make our exit from this world, — of the gloom, the
loneliness, the utter sense of helplessness and deso-
lation. As he warmed to his subject he enlarged
upon the follies that hasten the advent of death, and
spoke of the relentless certainty and the incredible
variety of ways in which the reaper claims his vic-
tims. Then he passed on to the terrors of actual
dissolution, the tortures of the body, the rending of
the soul, the unimaginable agonies that sensibilities
268
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
rendered acutely susceptible at this extremity are
called upon to endure. It required good nerves to
listen to that, for the man was perfect in his role.
From matters of individual interest in death he passed
to death in its larger aspects. He pointed to a large
and striking battle scene, in which the combatants
had come to hand-to-hand fighting, and were butcher-
mg one another in a mad lust for blood. Suddenly
the picture began to glow, the light bringing out its
ghastly details with hideous distinctness. Then as
suddenly it faded away, and where fighting men had
been there were skeletons writhing and struggling
in a deadly embrace.
A similar effect was produced with a painting
giving a wonderfully realistic representation of an
execution by the guillotine. The bleeding trunk of
the victim lying upon the flap-board dissolved, the
flesh slowly disappearing, leaving only the white
bones. Another picture, representing a brilliant
dance-hall filled with happy revellers, slowly merged
into a grotesque dance of skeletons ; and thus it was
with the other pictures about the room.
All this being done, the master of ceremonies, in
lugubrious tones, invited us to enter the chambre
de la mort. All the visitors rose, and, bearing
each a taper, passed in single file into a narrow,
dark passage faintly illuminated with sickly green
lights, the young man in clerical garb acting as
pilot. The cross effects of green and yellow
lights on the faces of the groping procession were
more startling than picturesque. The way was
269
BOHEMIAN PARIS
lined with bones, skulls, and fragments of human
bodies.
" O Macchabees, nous sommes devant la porte de
la chambre de la mort !" wailed an unearthly voice
IN THE PASSAGE TO THE DEATH CHAMBER
from the farther end of the passage as we advanced.
Then before us appeared a solitary figure standing
270
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
beneath a green lamp. The figure was completely
shrouded in black, only the eyes being visible, and
they shone through holes in the pointed cowl. From
the folds of the gown it brought forth a massive iron
key attached to a chain, and, approaching a door
seemingly made of iron and heavily studded with
spikes and crossed with bars, inserted and turned
the key ; the bolts moved with a harsh, grating noise,
and the door of the chamber of death swung slowly
open.
"O Macchabees, enter into eternity, whence none
ever return !" cried the new, strange voice.
The walls of the room were a dead and unrelieved
black. At one side two tall candles were burning,
but their feeble light was insufficient even to disclose
the presence of the black walls of the chamber or in-
dicate that anything but unending blackness extended
heavenward. There was not a thing to catch and
reflect a single ray of the light and thus become visi-
ble in the blackness.
Between the two candles was an upright opening
in the wall ; it was of the shape of a coffin. We were
seated upon rows of small black caskets resting on
the floor in front of the candles. There was hardly
a whisper among the visitors. The black-hooded
figure passed silently out of view and vanished in
the darkness.
Presently a pale, greenish-white illumination began
to light up the coffin-shaped hole in the wall, clearly
marking its outline against the black. Within this
space there stood a coffin upright, in which a pretty
271
BOHEMIAN PARIS
young woman, robed in a white shroud, fitted snugly.
Soon it was evident that she was very much ahve, for
she smiled and looked at us saucily. But that was
not for long. From the depths came a dismal wail :
" O Macchabee, beautiful, breathing mortal, pul-
sating with the warmth and richness of life, thou art
now in the grasp of death ! Compose thy soul for
the end !"
Her face slowly became white and rigid ; her eyes
sank ; her lips tightened across her teeth ; her cheeks
took on the hollowness of death, — she was dead.
But it did not end with that. From white the face
slowly grew livid . . . then purplish black. . . . The
eyes visibly shrank into their greenish-yellow sockets.
. . . Slowly the hair fell away. . . . The nose melted
away into a purple putrid spot. The whole face be-
came a semi-liquid mass of corruption. Presently all
this had disappeared, and a gleaming skull shone
where so recently had been the handsome face of a
woman ; naked teeth grinned inanely and savagely
where rosy lips had so recently smiled. Even the
shroud had gradually disappeared, and an entire
skeleton stood revealed in the coffin.
The wail again rang through the silent vault :
"Ah, ah, Macchabee ! Thou hast reached the last
stage of dissolution, so dreadful to mortals. The
work that follows death is complete. But despair
not, for death is not the end of all. The power is
given to those who merit it, not only to return to life,
but to return in any form and station preferred to
the old. So return if thou deservedst and desirest."
272
IN THE DEATH CHAMBER
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
With a slowness equal to that of the dissolution,
the bones became covered with flesh and cerements,
and all the ghastly steps were reproduced reversed.
Gradually the sparkle of the eyes began to shine
through the gloom ; but when the reformation was
completed, behold ! there was no longer the hand-
some and smiling young woman, but the sleek,
rotund body, ruddy cheeks, and self-conscious look
of a banker. It was not until this touch of comedy
relieved the strain that the rigidity with which Mr.
Thompkins had sat between us began to relax, and
a smile played over his face, — a bewildered, but none
the less a pleasant, smile. The prosperous banker
stepped forth, sleek and tangible, and haughtily strode
away before our eyes, passing through the audience
into the darkness. Again was the coffin-shaped hole
in the wall dark and empty.
He of the black gown and pointed hood now
emerged through an invisible door, and asked if
there was any one in the audience who desired to
pass through the experience that they had just wit-
nessed. This created a suppressed commotion ;
each peered into the face of his neighbor to find one
with courage sufficient for the ordeal. Bishop sug-
gested to Mr. Thompkins in a whisper that he sub-
mit himself, but that gentleman very peremptorily
declined. Then, after a pause. Bishop stepped forth
and announced that he was prepared to die. He
was asked solemnly by the doleful person if he was
ready to accept all the consequences of his decision.
He replied that he was. Then he disappeared
275
BOHEMIAN PARIS
through the black wall, and presently appeared in
the greenish-white light of the open coffin. There
he composed himself as he imagined a corpse ought,
crossed his hands upon his breast, suffered the white
shroud to be drawn about him, and awaited results,
— after he had made a rueful grimace that threw the
first gleam of suppressed merriment through the op-
pressed audience. He passed through all the ghastly-
stages that the former occupant of the coffin had ex-
perienced, and returned in proper person to life and
to his seat beside Mr. Thompkins, the audience ap-
plauding softly.
A mysterious figure in black waylaid the crowd
as it filed out. He held an inverted skull, into
which we were expected to drop sous through the
natural opening there, and it was with the feeling
of relief from a heavy weight that we departed
and turned our backs on the green lights at the
entrance.
What a wonderful contrast ! Here we were in the
free, wide, noisy, brilliant world again. Here again
were the crowds, the venders, saucy grisettes with
their bright smiles, shining teeth, and alluring glances.
Here again were the bustling cafes, the music, the
lights, the life, and above all the giant arms of the
Moulin Rouge sweeping the sky.
"Now," quietly remarked Bishop, " having passed
through death, we will explore hell."
Mr. Thompkins seemed too weak, or unresisting,
or apathetic to protest. His face betrayed a queer
276
THE ENTRANCE TO " HELL'
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
mixture of emotions, part suffering, part revulsion,
part a sort of desperate eagerness for more.
We passed through a large, hideous, fanged, open
mouth in an enormous face from which shone eyes
of blazing crimson. Curiously enough, it adjoined
heaven, whose cool blue lights contrasted strikingly
with the fierce ruddiness of hell. Red-hot bars and
gratings through which flaming coals gleamed ap-
peared in the walls within the red mouth, A placard
announced that should the temperature of this in-
ferno make one thirsty, innumerable bocks might be
had at sixty-five centimes each, A little red imp
guarded the throat of the monster into whose mouth
we had walked ; he was cutting extraordinary capers,
and made a great show of stirring the fires. The
red imp opened the imitation heavy metal door for
our passage to the interior, crying, —
"Ah, ah. ah ! still they come ! Oh, how they will
roast !" Then he looked keenly at Mr. Thompkins.
It was interesting to note how that gentleman was
always singled out by these shrewd students of hu-
manity. This particular one added with great gusto,
as he narrowly studied Mr Thompkins, " Hist ! ye
infernal whelps ; stir well the coals and heat red the
prods, for this is where we take our revenge on
earthly saintliness !"
"Enter and be damned, — the Evil One awaits
you!" growled a chorus of rough voices as we hesi-
tated before the scene confronting us.
Near us was suspended a caldron over a fire,
and hopping within it were half a dozen devil musi-
279
BOHEMIAN PARIS
cians, male and female, playing a selection from
"Faust" on stringed instruments, while red imps
stood by, prodding with red-hot irons those who
lagged in their performance.
Crevices in the walls of this room ran with streams
of molten gold and silver, and here and there were
caverns lit up by smouldering fires from which thick
smoke issued, and vapors emitting the odors of a
volcano. Flames would suddenly burst from clefts
in the rocks, and thunder rolled through the caverns.
Red imps were everywhere, darting about noise-
lessly, some carrying beverages for the thirsty lost
souls, others stirring the fires or turning somersaults.
Everything was in a high state of motion.
Numerous red tables stood against the fiery walls;
at these sat the visitors. Mr. Thompkins seated
himself at one of them. Instantly it became aglow
with a mysterious light, which kept flaring up and
disappearing in an erratic fashion ; flames darted
from the walls, fires crackled and roared. One of
the imps came to take our order ; it was for three
coffees, black, with cognac ; and this is how he
shrieked the order :
" Three seething bumpers of molten sins, with a
dash of brimstone intensifier !" Then, when he had
brought it, "This will season your intestines, and
render them invulnerable, for a time at least, to the
tortures of the melted iron that will be soon poured
down your throats." The glasses glowed with a
phosphorescent light. " Three francs seventy-five,
please, not counting me. Make it four francs.
280
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
Thank you well. Remember that though hell is hot,
there are cold drinks if you want them."
Presently Satan himself strode into the cavern,
gorgeous in his imperial robe of red, decked with
blazing jewels, and brandishing a sword from which
fire flashed. His black moustaches were waxed into
sharp points, and turned rakishly upward above lips
upon which a sneering grin appeared. Thus he
leered at the new arrivals in his domain. His ap-
pearance lent new zest to the activity of the imps
and musicians, and all cowered under his glance.
Suddenly he burst into a shrieking laugh that gave
one a creepy feeling. It rattled through the cavern
with a startling effect as he strode up and down. It
was a triumphant, cruel, merciless laugh. All at
once he paused in front of a demure young Parisi-
enne seated at a table with her escort, and, eying
her keenly, broke into this speech :
"Ah, you! Why do you tremble? How many
men have you sent hither to damnation with those
beautiful eyes, those rosy, tempting lips ? Ah, for
all that, you have found a sufficient hell on earth.
But you," he added, turning fiercely upon her escort,
"you will have the finest, the most exquisite tortures
that await the damned. For what? For being a
fool. It is folly more than crime that hell punishes,
for crime is a disease and folly a sin. You fool !
For thus hanging upon the witching glance and oily
words of a woman you have filled all hell with fuel
for your roasting. You will sufier such tortures as
only the fool invites, such tortures only as are ade-
281
BOHEMIAN PARIS
quate to punish folly. Prepare for the inconceivable,
the unimaginable, the things that even the king of
hell dare not mention lest the whole structure of
damnation totter and crumble to dust."
The man winced, and queer wrinkles came into
the corners of his mouth. Then Satan happened to
discover Mr. Thompkins, who shrank visibly under
the scorching gaze. Satan made a low, mocking
bow.
"You do me great honor, sir," he declared, unc-
tuously. "You may have been expecting to avoid
me, but reflect upon what you would have missed !
We have many notables here, and you will have
charming society. They do not include pickpockets
and thieves, nor any others of the weak, stunted,
crippled, and halting. You will find that most of
your companions are distinguished gentlemen of
learning and ability, who, knowing their duty, failed
to perform it. You will be in excellent company,
sir," he concluded, with another low bow. Then,
suddenly turning and sweeping the room with a ges-
ture, he commanded, "To the hot room, all of you !"
while he swung his sword, from which flashes of light-
ning trailed and thunder rumbled.
We were led to the end of a passage, where a red-
hot iron door barred further progress.
" Oh, oh, within there !" roared Satan. " Open
the portal of the hot chamber, that these fresh arri-
vals may be introduced to the real temperature of
hell !"
After numerous signals and mysterious passes the
282
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
door swung open, and we entered. It was not so
very hot after all. The chamber resembled the
other, except that a small stage occupied one end.
A large green snake crawled out upon this, and sud-
denly it was transformed into a red devil with ex-
ceedingly long, thin legs, encased in tights that were
ripped in places. He gave some wonderful contor-
tion feats. A poor little white Pierrot came on and
assisted the red devil in black art performances.
By this time we discovered that in spite of the half-
molten condition of the rock-walls, the room was dis-
agreeably chilly. And that ended our experience in
hell.
Bishop then led us to the closed, dark front of a
house in front of which stood a suspicious-looking
man, who eyed us contemptuously. Bishop told him
that we should like to enter. The man assented
with a growl. He beat upon the door with a stick ;
a little wicket opened, and a villanous face peered
out at us.
" What do you want ?" came from it in gruff tones.
"To enter, of course," responded Bishop.
" Are they all right, do you think ?" asked the face
of the sentinel.
"I think they are harmless," was the answer.
Several bolts and locks grated, and the stubborn
door opened.
" Enter, you vile specimens of human folly !"
hissed the inside guard as we passed within. " D —
all three of you !"
285
BOHEMIAN PARIS
We had no sooner found ourselves inside than
this same person, a short, stout man, with long hair
and a powerful frame, and the face of a cutthroat,
struck a table with the heavy stick that he carried,
and roared to us, —
" Sit down !"
Mr. Thompkins involuntarily cowered, but he
gathered himself up and went with us to seats at
the nearest table. While we were doing this the
habitues of the place greeted us with this song, sung
in chorus :
"Oh, la la! c'te gueule —
C'te binette.
Oh, la la, c'te gueule,
Qu'ila."
"What are they saying?" asked Mr. Thompkins ;
but Bishop spared him by explaining that it was only
the latest song.
The room had a low ceiling crossed by heavy
beams. Wrought-iron gas lamps gave a gloomy
light upon the dark, time-browned color of the place.
The beams were loaded with dust, cobwebs, and
stains, the result of years of smoke and accumula-
tion. Upon the walls were dozens of drawings by
Steinlen, illustrating the poems of low life written
by the proprietor of the cafe ; for we were in the den
of the famous Aristide Bruant, the poet of the gutter,
— Verlaine had a higher place as the poet of the
slums. There were also drawings by Cheret, Willett,
and others, and some clever sketches in oil ; the
whole effect was artistic. In one corner was an old
286
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
fireplace, rich in carvings of grotesque heads and
figures, grilled iron-work, and shining copper vessels.
The general impression was of a mediaeval gun-room.
Near the fireplace, upon a low platform, was a
piano ; grouped about it were four typical Bohe-
mians of lower Bohemia ; they wore loads of hair ;
their faces had a dissipated look, their fingers were
heavily stained by cigarettes ; they wore beards and
neglige black cravats. These were all minor poets,
and they took their turn in singing or reciting their
own compositions, afterwards making a tour of the
crowded tables with a tin cup and collecting the sous
upon which they lived, and roundly cursing those who
refused to contribute.
Bishop was so delighted with the pictures on the
walls that he proceeded to examine them, but the
bully with the stick thundered, —
" Sit down !" and shook his bludgeon menacingly.
Bishop sat down.
Then the brute swaggered up to us and de-
manded,—
"What the devil do you want to drink, anyway?
Speak up quick !" When he had brought the drinks
he gruffly demanded, "Pay up!" Upon receiving
the customary tip he frowned, glared at us with a
threatening manner, and growled, " Humph ! c'est
pas beaucoup !" and swept the money into his pocket.
" Goodness ! this is an awful place !" exclaimed
Mr. Thompkins under his breath. He seemed to
fear being brained at any moment. Retreat had
been rendered impossible by the locking of the door.
19 289
BOHEMIAN PARIS
We were prisoners at the will of our jailer, and so
were all the others.
The great Bruant himself sat with a party of con-
genial Bohemians at a table near the piano and fire-
place ; they were drinking bocks and smoking cigar-
ettes and long-stemmed pipes. On the wall behind
them was a rack holding the pipes of the habitues of
the cafe, mostly broken and well browned. Each
pipe was owned by a particular Bohemian, and each
had its special place in the rack. The other tables
held a general assortment of lesser Bohemians and
sight-seers, all cowed and silent under the domina-
tion of the bawling ruffian with the stick. Whenever
he smiled (which was rare, a perpetual frown having
creased a deep furrow between his eyes) they smiled
also, in great relief, and hung upon every word that
his occasional lapses into an approach to good nature
permitted him to utter.
The poets and singers howled their productions in
rasping voices, and put a strain upon the strength
of the piano ; and the minor Bohemians applauded
them heartily and envied them their distinction.
In the midst of this performance there came a
knock upon the door. The bully walked up to the
wicket, peered out, and admitted an elderly gentle-
man, accompanied by a lady, evidently his wife.
These the habitues greeted with the following song :
" Tout les clients sont des cochons —
La faridon, la faridon donne
Et surtout les ceux qui s'en vont —
La faridon, la faridon donne."
290
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
The gentleman, somewhat abashed by this recep-
tion, hesitated a moment, then sought seats. The
two had hardly seated themselves when the burly
ruffian with the stick began to recite a villanous poem
reflecting upon the chastity of married women, em-
phasizing it with atrocious side remarks. The gen-
tleman sprang from his seat in a rage and advanced
threateningly upon the brute, who stood leering at
him and taking a firmer hold upon his stick ; but
the visitor's wife caught the outraged man by the arm
and restrained him. A wordy war ensued (for the
gentleman was a Frenchman), in which the choicest
argot of Montmartre and La Villette was exhausted
by the ruffian. He closed by shouting, —
"You were not invited to enter here. You asked
the privilege of entering ; your wish was granted.
If you don't like it here, get out !"
The gentleman flung down a franc upon the table,
the bolts were withdrawn, and he and his wife passed
out while the roysterers sang, —
" Tout les clients sont des cochons," etc.,
amid the laughter of the smaller Bohemians.
Aristide Bruant now rose from his table and strode
to the centre of the room. A perfect silence fell.
He is rather a small man, slender, and of delicate
build ; he has a thin, sallow face, with piercing black
eyes, prominent cheek-bones, and long raven-black
hair falling over his shoulders from beneath a broad
black slouch hat down over his eyes. His unbut-
toned coat showed a red flannel shirt open at the
291
BOHEMIAN PARIS
throat ; a broad sash was about his waist ; his
trousers were tucked into top-boots, — the ensemble
reminding one of Buffalo Bill. He glared sullenly
round upon the people, and then sprang lightly upon
a table. From that perch he recited one of his
poems, selected from his book of songs and mono-
logues. It does not bear reproduction here. For
that matter, being written in the argot of Mont-
martre, it could hardly be understood even by French
scholars unfamiliar with Montmartre.
Happily Mr. Thompkins understood not a word
of it, smiling perfunctorily out of politeness while
Bruant was uttering things that might have shocked
the most hardened Parisians. There were several
young women present, and while Bruant was re-
citing they ogled him with genuine adoration. The
other poets hung reverently upon his every word.
A mighty burst of applause greeted the finish of
the recitation ; but Bruant slouched indifferently to
his seat, ignoring the ovation. The bully with the
stick immediately stopped the noise by yelling,
" Silence !" This he followed up with the contribu-
tion-cup for the benefit of the idol of Montmartre,
With the cup he brought the volume of Bruant's
poems from which he had given the recitation, — a
cheaply printed pamphlet. No one dared refuse to
buy, and no change was returned. Was not this the
great Aristide Bruant, the immortal of Montmartre ?
He was followed by other poets with songs and
the banging of the piano. We presently rose to
leave, but the bully shouted, —
292
ARISTIDE BRUANT RECITING ONE OF HIS VERSES
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
" Sit down ! How dare you insult the young
poet who is now singing?" We submissively re-
sumed our seats. After a while, in a lull, we respect-
fully rose again, and the bully, shouting, " Get out !"
unbarred the door and we were free.
Mr. Thompkins was more deeply puzzled than he
had been before that night. He could not under-
stand that such a resort, where one is bullied and
insulted, could secure patronage.
" But this is Paris, Mr. Thompkins," explained
Bishop, somewhat vaguely; "and this particular
part of Paris is Montmartre."
Midnight was now close at hand, but Montmartre
was in the height of its gayety. Students, Bohe-
mians, and cocottes were skipping and singing along
the boulevard, — singing the songs of Bruant. The
cafes were crowded, the theatres and concert halls
only in the middle of their programmes. Cabs were
dashing about, some stopping at the Moulin Rouge,
others at the Ely see Montmartre, still others picking
up fares for more distant attractions.
Bishop halted in front of a quiet-looking house
with curtained windows, and bluntly asked Mr.
Thompkins if he would like to go to church. Mr.
Thompkins caught his breath, and an odd, guilty
look came into his face. But before he could make
reply Bishop was leading the way within. The inte-
rior of the place certainly looked like a church, — it
was fitted to have that significance. The cold, gray
stone walls rose to a vaulted Gothic ceiling ; Gothic
295
BOHEMIAN PARIS
pillars and arches and carved wood completed the
architectural effect ; statues of saints appeared in
niches, some surmounted by halos of lighted candles ;
and there were banners bearing scriptural mottoes.
The heavy oaken tables on the floor were provided
with stiff, high-backed pulpit-chairs, beautiful in color
and carving, and of a Gothic type, the whole scene
suggesting a transept of Notre-Dame, Mr. Thomp-
kins had reverently removed his hat. It was not
long afterward that he quietly
replaced it on his head. No
notice was taken by us of these
movements.
At the farther end, where the
church altar belonged, was in-
deed a handsomely carved altar.
Above it sprang a graceful arch,
bearing a canopy beautifully
painted in blue, with yellow stars.
In the centre was a painting of
Christ upon the cross. The altar
was the bar, or caisse. of this
= queer cafe, and behind it sat the
vUl {P^5^ ■ proprietress, quieriy knitting and
\ waiting to fill orders for drinks.
A YOUNG POET- LAUREATE ^j^, „ ^ . ^,
I he walls ot the cate were
almost entirely covered with framed drawings by
Rodel ; all were portraits of well-known Bohemians
of Montmartre in characteristic attitudes, — the star
patrons of this rendezvous. Many women figured
among them, all Bohemian to the bone.
296
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
This was the Cafe du Conservatoire, famous for
its celebrities, the poets of Bohemian Paris, among
whom Marcel Legay is eminent. It was evident
that the habitues of the
Conservatoire were of a
much higher order than
those whom we had seen
elsewhere. They looked
more prosperous, were
more amiable, and acted
more as other people.
True, there was much long
hair, for that is a disease
hard to shake off ; but when
it did occur, it was well
combed and oiled. And
there were many flat-
brimmed "plug" hats, as
well as collars, — clean
ones, too. an exceptional
thing in Bohemia, launder-
ing being expensive. But
the poverty-haunted Bohemians in the Soleil d'Or
are more picturesque. That, however, is in the Latin
Quarter : anything exceptional may be expected at
Montmartre.
When we had finished our coffee we approached
the patronne behind the bar, and bought billets for
the Salle des Poetes at two francs each. This was
a large room crowded with enraptured listeners to
Legay, who was at that moment rendering his song.
299
BOHEMIAN PARIS
LES CLOCHES.
" Les cloches Catholiques,
Du haut de leur beffroi,
Voyaient avec effroi
La resurrection des Grandes Republiques
Les cloches revaient,
En quatre-vingt onze,
Les cloches de bronze
Revaient. ' '
Legay had quite a distinguished appearance as he
stood singing before the piano. He wore a gener-
ously cut frock-coat,
and his waistcoat ex-
posed a spacious show
of white shirt - front.
His long hair was care-
fully brushed back, his
moustaches neatly
waxed ; altogether he
was dainty and jaunty,
and the ladies in the
room made no conceal-
ment of their adoration.
The accompanist was
a picturesque character.
He was forty-five or fifty
years of age ; he had
long white hair and a
drooping moustache, and his heavy protruding eyes
were suffused with tears evoked by the pathos of the
song. While he gazed up into the singer's face with
300
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
tear-filled eyes he was in another life, another world,
where there was nothing but music and poetry un-
alloyed to constitute his heaven. For Legay sang
charmingly, with an art and a feeling that were never
obtrusive ; and his audience was aesthetic. When
he had finished he was cheered without stint, and
he clearly showed how much the attention pleased
him.
His song was only one of the numbers on a very
interesting programme. This
was the training school of the
young poets and song-writers
of upper Bohemia ; this was
where they made their debut
and met the test of
that discriminating
criticism which de-
cided them to ad-
vance upon the
world or conceal ^^p"
themselves for yet
a while from its
cruel glare ; and
were they not but
repeating the or-
deal of the ancient
Greeks, out of
which so many noble things passed into literature ?
These critics were as frank with their disapproval
as generous with their acceptance.
Among those who sang were Gustave Corbet,
301
BOHEMIAN PARIS
Marius Geffroy, Eugene Lemercier, Xavier Privas,
Delarbre, and Henri Brallet, men as yet unknown,
but likely to make a mark under the training, inspi-
ration, and severe checks of the Cafe du Conserva-
toire. One of the goals for which these writers strive,
and one that, if they win it, means to them recog-
nition, is to have their poems published in Gil Bias,
with illustrations by the peerless Steinlen, as are the
works of Legay, and also of Bruant, le Terrible,
Marcel Legay is a familiar figure on the boule-
vards, where his dainty person is often seen after
nightfall, hurrying to one or another of his haunts,
with a small roll of music under his arm, and his
fluffy hair streaming over his shoulders. On certain
nights of every week he sings over in the Latin
Quarter, at the Cabaret des Noctambules, Rue
Champollion, near the Chapel of the Sorbonne.
The other singers that night at the Cafe du Con-
servatoire each affected his peculiar style of habit,
gesture, and pose that he deemed most fetching.
The entire programme was of songs : hence the
name. Cafe du Conservatoire,
After we had left. Bishop bought some Brevas
cigars ; thus fortified, we headed for the Moulin
Rouge.
It was evident that Mr. Thompkins had reserved
his enthusiasm for the great dance-hall of Mont-
martre, — Le Moulin Rouge, — with its w^omen of the
half world, its giddiness, its glare, its noise, its
naughtiness. Here at last we should find all ab-
302
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
sence of restraint, posing, sordidness, self-conscious-
ness, and appeals to abnormal appetites. Mr.
Thompkins visibly brightened as we ascended the
incline of the entrance and came within the influence
of the life and abandon of the place. Indeed, it
must have seemed like fairy-land to him. The soft
glow of hundreds of lights fell upon the crowds in the
ball-room and balconies, with their shifting streams
of color from the moving figures of dancing women
in showy gowns and saucy hats, and its many chat-
ting, laughing, joyous groups at the tables along the
passage and the balconies, enjoying merry little sup-
pers and varied consommations that kept scores of
gar9ons continually on the move. A placard an-
nounced
American Bar ; American and English Drinks
— as bald and unashamed as that. Here on high
stools, American free-lunch fashion, ranged along the
bar, were English and American tourists and French
dandies sipping Manhattan cocktails with a cherry,
brandy-and-soda, Tom-and-Jerry, and the rest. Along
the walls hung vivid paintings of some of the famous
dancing-girls of the Moulin, their saucy faces half
hidden in clouds of lacy white skirts.
High up on a pretty balcony at the end of the
huge ball-room were the musicians, enjoying their
cigarettes and bocks between pieces. A small stage
occupied the opposite end of the room, where a light
audeville performance had been given ; but that was
20 305
BOHEMIAN PARIS
all over now, and attention centred in the tables and
the dancing.
The Moulin Rouge resembles very much the Bul-
lier ; but at the Moulin the cocottes are much more
dashing and gaudy than over in the Quartier, because
the inspector at the door of the Moulin maintains a
more exacting standard on the score of the toilettes
of the women whom he admits free of charge.
Women, women, women ! There seemed no end of
them ; and each was arrayed to the full limit of her
means. And there were French dandies in long
white melton coats that were very tight at the waist,
and that bore large brown-velvet collars ; their hair,
parted behind, was brushed toward their ears ; they
strolled about the place in numbers, twirling their
moustaches and ogling the girls. And there were
French army officers, Martinique negroes, long-
haired students and Montmartre poets, artists, act-
ors, and many three-days-in-Paris English tourists
wearing knickerbockers and golf-caps, and always
smoking bulldog pipes. There were also two parties
of American men with their wives and daughters, and
they enjoyed the spectacle with the natural fulness
and responsiveness of their soil. For the Moulin is
really now but a great show place ; it has been dis-
covered by the outside world, and, unlike the other
quaint places mentioned in this paper, has suffered
the change that such contact inevitably imparts. It
is no longer the queer old Moulin, genuinely, spon-
taneously Bohemian. But the stranger would hardly
realize that; and so to Mr. Thompkins it seemed the
306
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
brilliant and showy side of Bohemian Paris. By rea-
son of its change in character it has less interest than
the real Bohemian Paris that the real Bohemians
know, enjoy, and jealously guard.
Many light-footed young women were amusing
circles of on-lookers with spirited dancing and reck-
less high-kicking ; and, being adepts in their pecu-
liar art, were so flashing and illusory that an attempt
to analyze their movements brought only bewilder-
ment. No bones seemed to hamper their swiftness
and elasticity. The flash of a black stocking would
instantly dissolve into a fleecy cloud of lace, and the
whirling air was a cyclone ; and there upon the floor
sat the dancer in the " split," looking up with a
merry laugh, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes,
twinkling from the shadow of a twisted toque ; then
over her would sweep a whirlwind of other dancers,
and identities would become inextricably confused.
An odd-looking man, with a sad face and marvel-
lously long, thin legs in tights, did incredible things
with those members ; he was merely a long spring
without bones, joints, or hinges. His cadaverous
face and glittering black eyes, above which rose a
top-hat that never moved from place, completed the
oddity of his appearance. He is always there in the
thickest of the dancing, and his salary is three francs
a night.
We suddenly discovered Mr. Thompkins in a
most embarrassing situation. A bewitching chemi-
cal blonde of the clinging type had discovered and
appropriated him ; she melted all over him, and
307
BOHEMIAN PARIS
poured a stream of bad English into his ear. She
was so very, very thirsty, she pleaded, and Monsieur
was so charming, so much a gentleman, — he was
beautiful, too. Oh, Monsieur would not be so unkind
as to remove the soft, plump arm from round his
neck, — surely it did not hurt Monsieur, for was it not
warm and plump, and was not that a pretty dimple
in the elbow, and another even prettier in the shoul-
der ? If Monsieur were not so charming and gra-
cious the ladies would never, never fall in love with
him like this. And oh, Monsieur, the place was so
warm, and dancing makes one so thirsty !
Mr. Thompkins's face was a picture of shame and
despair, and I have never seen a more comical ex-
pression than that with which he looked appealingly
to us for help. Suppose some one in the hall should
happen to recognize him ! Of course there was only
one thing to do. Mademoiselle Blanche's thirst was
of that awful kind which only shipwrecked sailors,
travellers lost in a desert, and cafe dancing-girls can
understand. And so four glasses of beer were or-
dered. It was beautiful to see the grace and celerity
with which Mademoiselle Blanche disposed of hers,
the passionate eagerness with which she pressed
a long kiss upon Mr. Thompkins's unwilling lips,
and the promptness with which she then picked
up his glass, drained it while she looked at him
mischievously over the rim, kissed him again, and
fled.
Mr. Thompkins sat speechless, his face blazing,
his whole expression indescribably foolish. He vig-
308
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
orously wiped his lips with his handkerchief, and was
not himself again for half an hour.
Innumerable bright little comedies were uncon-
sciously played in all parts of the room, and they were
even more interesting than the antics of the dancers.
We presently strolled into the garden of the
Moulin, where a performance is given in the sum-
mer. There stood a great white sheet-iron elephant,
remindful of Coney Island. In one of the legs was
a small door, from which a winding stair led into the
body of the beast. The entrance fee was fifty cen-
times, the ticket-office at the top of the stair. It was
a small room inside the elephant, and there was a
small stage in the end of it, upon which three young
women were exercising their abdominal muscles in
the danse du ventre. Mr. Thompkins, dismayed at
this, would have fled had not Bishop captured him
and hauled him back to a conspicuous seat, where
the dancing-girls, quickly finding him, proceeded to
make their work as extravagant as possible, throw-
ing him wicked glances meanwhile, and manifestly
enjoying his embarrassment. Of course the dancers
came round presently for offerings of sous.
We returned to the dance-hall, for it was now
closing-up time, and in order to feel a touch of kin-
ship with America, drank a gin fizz at the American
bar, though it seemed to be a novelty to Mr.
Thompkins.
The streets were alive with the revellers who had
been turned out by the closing of the cafes, dance-
309
BOHEMIAN PARIS
halls, and theatres, and the cries of cabbies rose
above the din of laughter and chatter among the
crowds. But the night was not yet quite finished.
Said Bishop, —
"We shall now have coffee at the Red Ass."
That was below the Place Pigalle, quite a walk
down to the Rue de Maubeuge, through that sud-
denly quiet centre of artists' studios and dignified
residences. At last we reached L'Ane Rouge, — the
Red Ass. It has a small and unassuming front, ex-
cept that the window-panes are profusely decorated
with painted flowers and figures, and a red ass peers
down over the narrow door. L'Ane Rouge has no
special distinction, save its artistic interior and the
fanciful sketches on its walls. It is furnished with
heavy dark tables and chairs, and iron grilled into
beautiful scrolls and chandeliers, — like the famous
Chat Noir, near by. In fact, L'Ane Rouge resembles
an old curiosity shop more than anything else, for it
is filled with all imaginable kinds of antiques, black-
ened by age and smoke, and in perfect harmony.
It, too, has its particular clientele of Bohemians, who
come to puff their long pipes that hang in racks, and
recount their hopes, aspirations, achievements, and
failures, occasionally breaking into song. For this
they bring forth their mandolins and guitars, and
sing sentimental ditties of their own composition.
There is a charming air of chez soi at the Red Ass ;
a spirit of good-fellowship pervades it ; and then, the
cafe is small, cosey, and comfortable, as well as
artistic.
310
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTRE
It was in a lively commotion when we crossed the
threshold, the place being filled with litterateurs of
the quarter. A celebration was in progress, — one
of their number had just succeeded in finding a pub-
lisher for two volumes of his poetry. It was a nota-
ble event, and the lucky Bohemian, flushed with
money, had settled his debts and was now treating
his friends. Although we were strangers to him, he
cordially invited us to share the hospitality of the oc-
casion, and there was great applause when Bishop
presented him with a Brevas cigar.
" Bravo, les Anglais ! Ce sont des bons types,
ceux-la !" and then they sang in chorus, a happy,
careless, jolly crowd.
There was a small, thin young sketch artist making
crayon portraits of the successful poet and selling
them to the poet's friends for fifty centimes apiece, —
with the poet's autograph, too.
In response to a call for une chanson Anglaise,
Bishop sang " Down on the Farm" as he had never
sung it before, his shining top-hat pushed back
upon his curly hair, his jovial face beaming. At its
conclusion he proposed a toast to the successful
poet, and it was drunk standing and with a mighty
shout.
We looked in at the Cabaret des Quat'z' Arts, —
a bright and showy place, but hardly more suggestive
of student Bohemianism than the other fine cafes of
the boulevards.
And thus ended a night on Montmartre. We left
Mr. Thompkins at his hotel. I think he was more
313
BOHEMIAN PARIS
than satisfied, but he was too bewildered and tired
to say much about it.
Montmartre presents the extravagant side of
Parisian Bohemianism. If there is a thing to be
mocked, a convention to be outraged, an idol to be
destroyed, Montmartre will find the way. But it
has a taint of sordidness that the real Bohemianism
of the old Latin Quarter lacks, — for it is not the
Bohemianism of the students. And it is vulgar.
For all that, in its rude, reckless, and brazen way it
is singularly picturesque. It is not likely that Mr.
Thompkins will say much about it when he goes
home, but he will be able to say a great deal in a
general way about the harm of ridiculing sacred
things and turning reverence into a laugh.
MOVING IN THE QUARTIER LATIN
THE Quartier Latin takes on unwonted life
about the fifteenth of July, when the artists
and students change their places of abode
under the resistless pressure of
a nomadic spirit. Studios are
generally taken for terms
ranging from three months to
a year, and the terms generally
expire in July. The artists who
do not change their residence
then go into the country, and
that means moving their effects.
It is a familiar fact that artists
do not generally occupy a high
position in the financial world.
Consequently they are a very
practical lot, attending to their
own domestic duties (including
washing when times are hard),
and doing their own moving
when July comes ; but this is
not a very elaborate undertaking,
the worse of them for that.
One day in July Bishop and I sat in our window
overlooking the court, and observed the comedy of a
315
A STUDENT MOVING
No one thinks
BOHEMIAN PARIS
student in the throes of moving. The old building at
the end of our court was a favorite abiding-place for
artists. Evidently, on this day, a young artist or art
student was en demenagement, for his household
goods were being dragged down the stairs and piled
in the court preparatory to a journey in a small
hand-cart standing by. He was cheerfully assisted
by a number of his friends and his devoted com-
panion, a pretty little grisette. There were eight of
them in all, and their laughter and shouts indicated
the royal fun they were having.
The cart was one of those voitures a bras that are
kept for hire at a neighboring location de voitures a
bras at six sous an hour. In order to get locomo-
tion out of it you have to hitch yourself in the har-
ness that accompanies it, and pull the vehicle your-
self ; and that is no end of fun, because your friends
are helping and singing all the way.
Into this vehicle they placed a rickety old divan
and a very much dilapidated mattress ; then came half
a sack of coal, a tiny, rusty, round studio stove with
interminable yards of battered and soot-filled pipe, a
pine table, two rush-bottomed chairs, and a big box
filled with clattering dishes, kettles, pots, and pans.
On top of this came a thick roll of dusty, faded,
threadbare hangings and rugs, and the meagre
wardrobes of the artist and the gfrisette ; then a
number of hat-boxes, after which Mademoiselle
looked with great solicitude. Last of all came bulky
portfolios filled with the artist's work, a large nuni-
ber of canvases that were mostly studies of Made-
316
MOVING IN THE QUARTIER LATIN
moiselle au natural, with such accessories as easel,
paint-boxes, and the like, and the linen and bedding.
The fat old concierge stood grumbling near by, for
the ropes were being tied over the load, and she was
anxiously waiting for her dernier adieu, or parting
tip, that it is the custom to give upon surrendering
the key. But tips are sometimes hard to give, and
Bohemian etiquette does not regard them with gen-
eral favor. After the load had been made snug, the
artist approached the concierge, doffed his cap, bowed
low, and then in a most impressively ceremonious
manner handed her the key, avowed that it broke
his heart to leave her, and commended her to God.
That was all. There seems to be a special provi-
dence attending upon the vocabulary of concierges
in their hour of need. The shrill, condemnatory, in-
terminable vocalization of this concierge's wrath indi-
cated specific abilities of exceptional power.
But the artist paid no attention. He hung his
coat and "plug" hat on the inverted table-leg, got
between the shafts, hitched himself in the harness,
and sailed out of the court, his friends swarming
around and assisting him to drag the toppling cart
away. And this they did with a mighty will, yelling
and singing with a vigor that wholly obliterated the
concierge's noise. The little grisette closed the pro-
cession, bearing in one hand a lamp and in the other
a fragile bust. And so the merry party started, pos-
sibly for the other end of Paris, — the greater the dis-
tance the more the fun. They all knew that when
the voiture had been unloaded and all had fallen to
317
BOHEMIAN PARIS
and assisted the young couple in straightening out
their new home, there would be a jolly celebration
in the nearest cafe at the moving artist's expense.
So the start was made fairly and smoothly ; but
the enthusiasm of the crowd was so high and the
little vehicle was so top-heavy, that at the end of the
passage the comedy seemed about to merge into
a tragedy. It was announced to all the court in
the shrill voice of the concierge, who exultingly
screamed, —
"The stove has fallen out! and the coal! The
things are falling all over the street ! Oh, you vil-
lain !"
To the movers themselves it was merely an inci-
dent that added to the fun r.nd zest of the enterprise.
My plans carried me to Concarneau, and Bishop's
took him to Italy, where I would join him after a
while. And a royal time we had in our several
ways. The autumn found us fresh and eager for
our studies in Paris again, and so we returned to
hunt a studio and establish ourselves in new quar-
ters. We hid stored our goods with a kind Ameri-
can friend ; and as we had neither the desire nor the
financial ability to violate the traditions of the Quar-
tier, we greatly scandalized him and his charming
family by appearing one day with a crowd of students
and a voiture a bras before his house and takinof our
effects away in the traditional fashion. Of course
our friend would have gladly paid for the transport
of our belongings in a more respectable fashion ; but
where would have been the fun in that? I am
3'8
MOVING IN THE QUARTIER LATIN
pleased to say that with true American adaptiveness
he joined the singing and yelling crowd, and danced
STUDIO HUNTING
a jig to our playing in our new quarters after a gen-
erous brew of punch had done its share in the jollity
of the event.
Ah, dear old Paris ! wonderful, bewildering Paris !
alluring, enchanting Paris ! Our student years are
now just ended, and Paris is already so crowded with
21 321
BOHEMIAN PARIS
workers who cannot bear to leave it that we must
seek our fortune in other and duller parts of the
world. But Paris has ineradicably impressed itself
upon us. We have lived its life ; we have been a
part of its throbbing, working, achieving individu-
ality. What we take away will be of imperishable
value, the salt and leaven of our hopes and efforts
forever.
THE END
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