at Trouville. All the most exclusive names of the two-volume Bottin
are then inscribed in the hotel registers of this _recherché_ resort,
nor are their owners to be looked for in town again until long after
the derbies have reappeared in the hatters’ windows. But while Fashion
is flirting on the beaches and betting on the little wooden horses of
the Trouville Casino, what is left at home after “All Paris” has gone
is quite sufficient to keep the boulevards lively. What walking-space
remains is eagerly employed by the tens of thousands of visitors. One
may not, therefore, see the fashionable show of winter, but he finds
an acceptable substitute in the vivacious summer throngs with their
perpetual atmosphere of Mardi Gras.
As midnight wanes and the multitude waxes, it is amusing to speculate
upon the scattered sources of the innumerable tiny streams that come
gradually trickling in. The outlying attractions hold firmly enough up
to this hour, but the magnet of the boulevards is strongest in the end.
Montmartre, you may be sure, has been up to her old tricks. What “La
Butte” has to learn about promiscuous entertaining may be classed among
the negligible quantities. Somewhere in that honeycomb of _moulins_,
_cabarets_, penny-shows, spectacles, _revues_, tiny theatres with
sensational rococo façades and cafés with fantastic names dedicated to
the riotous and the _risqué_, diversion is bound to be forthcoming for
any amusement hunter _blasé_ with the usual. All the way down from the
quaint little shops and crooked, cobble-stoned streets of the rustic
upper region above the Moulin de la Galette to the blazing purlieus of
the Place de Clichy and the Place Pigalle, there is always something
on hand at midnight to amaze the neophyte. You may indulge or not, as
inclination dictates, but you are pretty apt to be astonished, when you
look at your watch, to see how long you have lingered. French ingenuity
has lavished itself on every form of “attraction” from vaudeville and
_bals publics_ to papier-maché establishments devoted to parodies of
Heaven and Hell. The Boulevard de Clichy is the heart of “La Butte,”
but the life it pumps along its arteries flows principally from one
show to another. You may settle down on a bench under the trees, if
you like, and resolve to view life only in the open in defiance of
all the devils rampant in the neighborhood, but presently a flashing
electric sign shrieks out an overlooked novelty and you find yourself
saying, “Oh, well, since I am in Paris,” etc., etc., and off you go.
The excuse of being in Paris covers a multitude of sins. To do as the
Parisians do serves purposes rarely indulged by Parisians themselves.
It must be because “everything is different here.” The frolicsome party
in pink stockings who dropped her heel playfully on my bashful friend’s
shoulder in an aside of the “quadrille” at the Moulin Rouge was merely
turning one of the tricks that pass as _chic_ on Montmartre. She was of
the assured and robust type that supports the “pyramid” in acrobatic
feats, and the effect this had of dazing my friend arose rather from
astonishment at its unconventionality than delight at its skill.
This much I gathered when he seized my arm and hurried me away and
eventually choked out, “Do you know, I have to keep saying to myself
‘_Mullen, can this be you!_’” I think it was quite as hard on him at
the Jardin de Paris, on the Champs-Élysées, when he saw beautifully
gowned Paris girls step out of the crowd and go down the chutes on
their shoulders, screaming with laughter, in a whirl of skirts and
flash of lingerie. _In Paris!_ What American would dream of trying the
tricks at home that he accomplishes with the ease of an expert on and
under the tables of the “Rat Mort” or the Café Tabarin? It is a pretty
problem as to whether he has saved up a special surplus of buoyancy for
this city alone, or whether he has become infected with the natural
high spirits of the Parisians and discovers too late that he is unable
to control them as they do. The men who want “one more fling” before
settling down head straight for Paris. It is probable if they could not
get here that they would dispense with the fling altogether.
Nor is the _Rive Gauche_ without its votaries at midnight. If the Latin
Quarter stands for anything it is for unconventionality and comfortable
enjoyment. If it is Thursday night the famous Bal Bullier is in full
blast, and visitors are gazing down from the encircling boxes upon a
jolly whirl of students in velvet coats and black slouch hats cutting
fantastic capers in the quadrilles with their latest _bonnes_ and
pretty models. Mimi and Musette are on the arms of Rudolphe and Marcel,
“contented with little, happy with more.” Those so disposed need not
long remain uncompanioned if they take a turn among the tables under
the trees of the enclosed garden, where from any cozy corner a soft
voice at any moment may ask you for a cigarette. With so auspicious a
start there is no reason, if you are that sort, why you should not be
swearing eternal devotion before you have finished one _citron glacé_.
And no matter what night it is there is the old “Boul’ Miche’” as
always, the resort and delight of artists and students from time
immemorial. Would you sup, there are cafés, _tavernes_, _brasseries_,
and restaurants of every price and description. You can have a _plat
du jour_ of venerable beef and a quantity of _vin ordinaire_ for the
modest outlay of one franc fifty; and your payment is received with
many a cheery “Merci, monsieur,” and “S’il vous plaît,” and hearty “Bon
soir,” and all the rest of that captivating civility that prevails to
the last corner of the city. It is perhaps more agreeable to join the
few remaining Henri Murger types among the crowds on the terraces of
the Taverne du Panthéon or the Café Soufflot and listen to the vigorous
talk that goes on over the little glasses of anisette and vermouth.
It always seems to be that “hour of the apéritif” pronounced by
Baudelaire,—
“L’heure sainte
de l’absinthe.”
When the flower-women and peddlers become too numerous before
the café and you are weary with declining nuts and nougats and
ten-olives-for-two-sous, you may have a look into Les Noctambules or
some other smoke-laden _cabaret_. The old-timers will grin behind
their cigars at your “stung-again” expression when the polite _garçon_
adds to the price of your first refreshment a franc or so for the
_consommation_ of what was advertised as a free show; but shortly you
get the run of things and settle down to attend the _chansonnier_,
who is the ox-eyed gentleman in the long beard who strides up to the
consumptive piano and pours forth an original and impassioned rhapsody
to our old friend “Parfait Amour.”
A little of this goes a long ways. When you have politely heard him
through, you are apt to think better of the boulevards and to start
bowing your way into the street. How still and deserted the familiar
places appear where by day is so much life and stir—such bustling
about of stout market-women in aprons, such racing of delivery-boys
in white blouses shouldering trays and boxes, such a concourse of the
little fruit wagons they push and the two-wheeled carts they haul! In
the little wineshops that dot the side streets one sees the portly
proprietors in shirt-sleeves behind the shining zinc bars polishing
glasses and chatting with their patrons, who are workmen in jerseys
and corduroy trousers and cabmen in glazed hats and whips in hand. The
loveliness of the Luxembourg Gardens fairly shouts for appreciation.
One could scarcely linger too long under the chestnuts and sycamores,
among the puffing fountains, the bronzes and marbles, the beds of
dahlias and geraniums, the oleanders of the Terrace and the great
stone urns that drip petunias and purple clematis. As you cross the
Seine by the old Pont Neuf and lean a moment on its broad balustrade,
kindly thoughts go out to the garrets that may now be sheltering those
pathetic stooping figures that bend all day above the long lines
of book-shelves along the quays, and never buy, and you wish “good
luck” to the good-natured book-sellers who never annoy them with
importunities, but sit indulgently oblivious on the benches opposite
and smoke their pipes and read their papers. So great a love of books
will at least insure the old _habitués_ from ever being included in
that dread toll of two-a-day that the Seine regularly pays into the
Morgue.
It is like getting home to be back on the boulevards,—gay, gleaming,
brimming, and confused. The air hums with the incessant shuffle of feet
on the asphalt sidewalks and the pounding of hoofs on the wood-paved
streets. The eyes ache with trying to miss none of the faces that
flash past or any of the good-fellowship that abounds. The bubbling
current drifts one along by little kiosks all a-flutter with magazines
and newspapers, by advertising pillars flaming in play-bills of many
colors, by crowded curb benches, glowing shop windows and table-lined
café fronts. The wise drop out where the red lights mark tobacco
_bureaux_ and replenish their cigar-supply from government boxes with
the prices stamped on them, rather than pay double for the same article
in a restaurant later on. As you proceed to your favorite café it is
immensely diverting to catch the glimpses of good cheer from those
you pass. It is the same sort of thing in each case and yet somehow
always different. On the red divans that extend around the rooms,
with mirrors at their backs and _petits verres_ on marble-topped
tables before them, one beholds formidable arrays of _bons vivants_,
all taking their ease with as hearty a will as the very kings of
Yvetot. Military men with red noses and white imperials, politicians
with pervasive smiles, litterati bearded like the Assyrian kings and
wearing rosettes of the Legion of Honor, fat merchants in fat diamonds,
and pot-hatted _élégants_ who advertise smart tailors with as much
exuberant grace as Roland himself. Happily for Paris, champagne is
never out of season, and popping corks are held by many to make sweeter
music than some of the orchestras in restaurant corners. The tide of
life appears at flood. La Belle Ninette, of the Folies, _très fêtée
et très admirée_, fares daintily on out-of-season delicacies, thanks
to the enduring ardor of the _distingué_ Marquis opposite, and drops
candied fruits with the prettiest air imaginable into the nervous
mouth of her favorite poodle, who is himself rejoicing in a new silver
collar set with garnets. _La séduisante_ Gabrielle, at an adjoining
table, having once been a _blanchisseuse_ herself, appropriately excels
in a toilette of cloudlike gossamer, and is quite the adored of the
rheumatic old party beside her, who has probably been doting on the
ballet for two generations. The talk is largely of _la belle_ this and
_la belle_ that, of the latest display of extravagance, the most recent
spectacle, the most promising plays for the fall, or the drollest
freaks of the new fashions. One sees foreign faces from all quarters
of the earth, as though it were some kind of international congress,
with both hemispheres fully represented. Long accustomed to seeing
the world without leaving home, nothing surprises Paris. A Chinese
admiral, a Bedouin sheik, a Spitzbergen Eskimo, a lotus-lover of
Tahiti, a Russian Grand Duke, or a millionaire hemp-grower of Yucatan
pass practically unremarked. It would be a matter of no comment if
“the Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat.”
_L’amour_ is the point of common contact, and even so one has little
chance against a rich old _roué_ in the eyes of a _première danseuse_
or a far-visioned _chanteuse_ of the Marigny. Business flourishes in
the cafés. The harried waiters are kept bowing right and left and hurry
off crying “tout de suite.” Each open door sends out its vision of
fluttering hands and shrugging shoulders and one hears an incessant
rapid fire of “Bien!” “Dis donc!” “Écoutez!” “Mais non!” “Précisément!”
“Allons!” “Oh, là là!”— and so on and on. At Maxim’s and the Olympia
you would think there was a riot. Ice pails are as numerous as
pulse-beats.
When you reach your café at last, on the corner by the Opera House,
perhaps, the ponderous _maître d’hôtel_ assigns you a _garçon_, whose
name is doubtless François, Gustave, or Adolphe, and who is very
businesslike in short jacket and white apron. To him goes your order
for a _filet de bœuf_, or perhaps a _fricandeau_, or, better still, a
sole with shrimp sauce; and as you await its preparation you think with
satisfaction of the self-appreciative observation of Brillat-Savarin,
“One eats everywhere; one dines only in Paris.”
The life you then see about you is the usual thing here; to a
stranger, novel and amusing; to a Parisian, altogether important and
absorbing—an indispensable part of his existence. The setting is of
soft carpets, palms, red velvet divans, chandeliers, and a crush of
small, marble-topped tables. The place is crowded to the point of
discomfort. A thin veil of smoke hangs over all. There are people in
all kinds of street clothes and evening dress, ladies in opera cloaks
and gentlemen in immaculate white waistcoats. There are ordinary
individuals and fantastic “types”; ruddy, portly _bourgeois_ who shout
“mon vieux” at each other and make a prodigious racket generally;
and nervous old _beaux_ in _toupées_ who fancy themselves in drafts.
Occupations vary. Ladies are dining on champagne and truffles; the
man at your elbow is writing a letter; another is looking through the
illustrated papers; another has called for ink and paper and is casting
up the day’s expenditures; rubbers of dominoes and écarté are being
played out; there is a continual running to the telephone-booths and
you hear the muffled calls of “Allô!”—and all the time an orchestra is
holding forth in the corner. The clatter of chairs and dishes and the
confused rattle of conversation is amazing. Wit whets on wit. Everybody
has an opinion and is anxious to back it. Politicians bang their
fists on the tables and address one another as “citoyen.” Philosophers
have it out, Cartesian against Hegelian. Poets quote from their latest
lyrics and are tremendously applauded. Novelists dispose of rival books
with a scornful shrug and a withering _mot_. And the playwright, by
universal concession, is supreme cock of the walk.
Presently you move a little out of all this and have a seat near the
outer edge of the terrace, and begin to accumulate a pile of cups and
saucers each with the price of the order burned in the bottom. So
far as out of doors goes, you are now the audience and the passing
crowd the show. The number has dwindled, but in characteristics it
remains the same—sociable, good-humored, easy in manner, and quick
in intelligence. It will be seen to differ from the night throngs
of other cities not only in variety and exuberance, but in dramatic
qualities as well. _Camelots_ rush up to you crying the latest editions
of the evening papers, and suddenly, with furtive glances over their
shoulders, thrust some questionable commodity under your nose and
protest it is a bargain. Jolly parties sweep along, arm in arm, in
lines that cross the sidewalk from house to curb. Lady visitors, with
eyes full of excited delight, pause for a wistful glance down Rue de
la Paix where the establishments of famed milliners and modistes stand
in gloom, little dreaming that they may be touching elbows this minute
with the very _chefs des jupes_, _corsagères_, and _garnisseuses_ that
they are to visit in the morning. _Chic_ grisettes trip smilingly by,
who have dined frugally at Duval’s on chocolate and bread, to have
another rose to their corsages. There are _blasé_ clubmen from the
exclusive _cercles_ of Place de la Concorde and the Champs-Élysées, and
supercilious representatives of the American colony of the Boulevard
Haussmann. Here comes D’Artagnan himself, capable and alert, arm in
arm with blustering Porthos. Ragged _voyous_ with shifty looks run to
open the carriage doors. From time to time there saunters by in cap and
cape that model policeman, the affable and accommodating _sergent de
ville_, and if you look around for a _camelot_ then, you will find him
attending very strictly to business. And so the fascinating procession
troops merrily by: roaring students from the Boul’ Miche’, black-eyed
soldiers in shakos and baggy red trousers, members of the Institute,
pretty working-girls who handle their skirts with the captivating
grace of _comediennes_, the shapely dress-models they nickname
“quails,” conceited _figurantes_ from the _cafés-concerts_, famous
models, _cocottes_,—frail daughters of Lutetia,—with complexions
like Italian sunsets, impudent _gamins_ chattering in unintelligible
_argot_, _dilettanti_, _poseurs_, and the usual concomitants of beggars
and thieves. What a jumble of happiness and misery! What an amazing
spectacle, with the shimmer of silks and the glint of pearl ranged
beside the mendicant in his rags!
What a wealth of material, too, for the capable! One sees how Balzac
found the best types of his “Human Comedy” on the boulevards; why
Victor Hugo tramped them day and night and read shop signs by the hour
in search for characters and the names to fit them; where Zola got the
misery that he put between covers; where Molière secured impressions
that he transplanted so effectually to the stage. How Dumas must have
known these streets! And Flaubert and De Maupassant! Nor are they
exhausted yet; or ever will be. Where the entire gamut of the emotions
is so incessantly run as here, vital, human material can never be
lacking.
As one o’clock wears round, it is easy to distinguish a change in the
appearance of the crowd.
“The tumult and the shouting dies,
The captains and the kings depart.”
Something of that wan and forlorn look is beginning to appear that
makes even these buildings themselves seem dejected and remorseful, by
the time the street cleaners advance to flood the boulevards and the
sky beyond Père-Lachaise is paling to dawn. The heart says, “Let’s keep
it up”; the body says, “To bed.” And now, too, the crasser comedies of
the fag end of the night receive their _premières_. Amaryllis has lost
her Colin and laments loudly with Florian:—
“C’est mon ami,
Rendez-le moi;
J’ai son amour,
Il a ma foi.”
Mlle. Fifi demands her carriage and bundles out into it, with the
red-faced Baron hurrying after, carrying her amazing hat; and off
they go toward the Champs-Élysées. A stag party of revelers hails a
victoria and sinks limply onto its cushions; and they, too, head for
the Champs-Élysées with one hanging onto the _cocher_ and reciting
dramatically:—
“Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami Pierrot.”
Everyone smiles, for they know whither, they are bound. For Pré
Catelon, of course, in the Bois de Boulogne, where they will chase the
ducks and chickens around the little farmyard and make speeches to the
mild-eyed cows and recover themselves gradually on mugs of cold milk.
Clearly, it is time to depart. One does not want the lees of this
sparkling cup. A man is a fool to abuse his pleasures—though this
may sound naïve at one o’clock in the morning. Go, while everything
is still charming and delightful. The seasoned _boulevardier_ can do
it, for he has a viewpoint that is all his own; it is by no means that
of France, nor yet that of Paris by day, but of Paris by night—_his_
Paris. It is opportunism applied to society. Not the mad, reckless
_après-moi-le-déluge_ folly rout of the late Louises, but rather a
conception of the importance of few things and the inconsequence of
many. He sings with Villon: “Where are the snows of yester-year?” He
searches the classics, and has “Carpe Diem” framed. He skims Holy Writ
and puts his finger on “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
“Life is poetry,” quoth he, “in spite of a limping line here and there!
Why fuss over Waterloo, or the Place de Grève, or the guillotine, or
the tumbrils that rattled up the Rue Royale? The present alone is ours;
enjoy it to the uttermost! Life is beautiful and of the moment. Lights
are sparkling. Fountains are splashing. The night is delicious with
fragrance and enchanting with music and laughter. Join me!” he cries.
“I raise my glass: _To the lilies of France and the Bright Eyes of the
Daughters of Paris!_”
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTS
U. S. A.