in Yorkshire. The postal strike, the general strike and all the other
strikes are over: and yet it is certain that if I could but gratify Miss
Ethel Grahame’s desire I should rise considerably in her esteem. Strike
or no strike, she would dearly love to have a pigeon, that had flown all
the way from the _grands boulevards_ to Scarborough, come tapping at her
window. To her friends she would say: “Look! A letter from Paris! And
brought all that long, long distance by a pigeon!” Naturally, cries of
astonishment from the friends. Then, great headlines in the local papers:
“Pigeon-Carrying Extraordinary,” and “Pigeon as Postman,” and “The Pigeon
from Paris.” Next, consternation of Miss Ethel Grahame’s innumerable
admirers, who would immediately proceed to fear and hate me as a
formidable rival. And finally, and best of all, my letter put carefully
away, and preserved for ever and for ever, in a scented desk.
Dreams, only dreams! I know nothing about pigeons; and then it has been
stated that every pigeon in France, who is anything of a carrier, has
been requisitioned by the Government. The postal strike is over, but the
carrier-pigeons of Paris and of the provinces nevertheless remain at the
exclusive disposal of the Cabinet. They have become State birds; they may
fly only for the Republic.
So, what a life! As I cross the Luxembourg Gardens (the pleasantest of
all the Paris parks), this fine, sunny afternoon, I reflect bitterly over
the absurdity and irony of things. Gorgeous, costly birds, such as the
parrot or the peacock, I could easily obtain; but a plain carrier-pigeon,
no! Since the French Government is responsible for my predicament, may it
fall! And may the State birds (if ever employed) play M. Clemenceau and
his colleagues false! And——
A pigeon! Yes—there, on the path before me—a fine, strong, handsome
pigeon; the very pigeon to make the trip from Paris to Scarborough. And
my heart beats. And my brow throbs. And I am all excitement, all emotion,
when—O bitter disappointment!—it suddenly occurs to me that this must be
an ordinary pigeon, one of those idle, good-for-nothing pigeons that hop
about public gardens in quest of crumbs. That is his life; that is all he
is capable of doing. O fool that I was, to have thought for a moment that
here was the very bird to go tapping at Miss Ethel Grahame’s window!
Yes, what a life! As I make my way to the _grands boulevards_ it dawns
upon me that I have never seen a carrier-pigeon, and that therefore I
have no idea what he looks like. Also, suppose I wonderfully succeeded
in securing one, what should I say to him, what should I do with him? In
fact, how does one tell a carrier-pigeon where to go? And——
Two pigeons on the steps of this church, but of the before-mentioned
greedy, good-for-nothing kind. Then, more pigeons in this poulterer’s,
but dormant, dead. And next, on the menu of a café, the intimation in
bold, red letters: “This Day: Braised Pigeon and Green Peas.”
In this café, in their accustomed corner, I find M. Henri Durand and M.
Marcel Bertrand, two amiable, chatty, middle-aged little Frenchmen with
whom I am on cordial, confidential terms. Thinking they may help me, I
tell them of my trouble, and extraordinary are their expressions when I
have finished.
“My admirable but unfortunate friend, you are ill,” gasps M. Bertrand.
“My excellent but unhappy neighbour from Across the Channel, the heat has
disturbed you,” cries M. Durand. And then (after I have denied that I
am suffering either from illness or from the heat) M. Bertrand solemnly
holds forth:
“You ask for a carrier-pigeon to take a letter to a very adorable miss
who lives in Yorkshire. But, my poor old one, French pigeons have
never heard of Yorkshire,—and neither have I and neither has our
friend Durand here, and neither, I am sure, has anyone in France. But I
will not insist: this Yorkshire is not the point. The point is, every
carrier-pigeon in France has been proclaimed a bird of the State. In
Paris, there are 15,000; in the provinces, 150,000, thus 165,000 in
all; and all of them have been mobilised—yes, mobilised by order of the
Government. In fact, a carrier-pigeon to-day occupies the same position
as a soldier or a sailor. True, he cannot fight; but upon command, he
must fly. And yet you ask for one of these State birds! Unfortunate
friend, you might as well ask for a regiment or a military balloon, or a
war-ship.”
But still more extraordinary revelations follow. I hear, for instance,
that the 15,000 carrier-pigeons in Paris are housed in the various
ministries—yes, every ministry in Paris is a vast dovecot. Two thousand
pigeons for the Minister of War; three thousand pigeons for the Minister
of Justice, and six thousand pigeons for the Prime Minister.
“He also keeps pigeons at his private residence,” states M. Bertrand. “If
he heard you wanted one of his State birds, he would have you arrested.”
“So,” I sigh, “there is nothing to be done.” And sympathetically M.
Bertrand replies: “Alas, my poor, lovesick one, nothing. I regret it with
all my heart, but you must tell the blonde, adorable miss that birds of
the State may fly only for their own country.”
Then up speaks M. Durand, and I learn that the 15,000 State birds
in Paris are being wonderfully looked after, even spoilt. Never such
comfortable, pleasant dovecots; never such plentiful, excellent fare! “It
is to be hoped,” concludes M. Durand, “that they are not being overfed,
and that they are not contracting idle, luxurious habits; for that would
be disastrous.”
And here I rise. And after I have taken leave of MM. Durand and Bertrand,
I go to the nearest post office and send Miss Ethel Grahame the following
expensive telegram:—
“Deeply sorry no pigeon available. Have done my very best. Writing full
particulars. Can only say meanwhile that every pigeon in France has been
proclaimed a Bird of the State.”
3. AFTER THE STORM AT VILLENEUVE-ST-GEORGES
Down here at Villeneuve-St-Georges, the sandpit district ten miles away
from Paris, there has been a savage collision between the soldiers
and the strikers. The sandpit men—some five or six thousand powerful
navvies in all—raised barricades in the narrow, cobbled streets. When
the dragoons and cuirassiers advanced, they were met with shower upon
shower of flints, bottles, bricks. Revolvers, too, were fired at them.
From windows, guns were discharged. Rising in his stirrups, an officer
at last shouted forth the terrible official ultimatum: “Retire! Let all
good citizens withdraw, for we are about to use force and arms.” Then,
three bugle calls: the final warning. But still the officer hesitated
to give the order to open fire. Again, the three bugle calls; and yet
again. The horses plunged and reared; now and again a soldier, struck by
a huge brick, was thrown from his saddle to the ground. Fierce shouts of
execration from the strikers, the captain of the cuirassiers unsaddled
by half a paving-stone. For the last time, the three bugle calls. And
immediately after them the command: “Fire!”
There were yells of agony, there were frightful oaths—and there was a
frantic retreat. The strikers fled to the open fields, a few hundred
yards away. The troops demolished the barricades, and occupied every
street. When darkness had descended upon Villeneuve-St-Georges it was
known that three strikers had been shot dead, and nearly a hundred more
or less seriously wounded. Four officers and a number of soldiers had
been injured. At nine o’clock a group of strikers, pushing a barrow
containing the body of one of the dead strikers, stopped before the
general commanding the troops, and said: “Salute your victim.” The
general gravely saluted. Away went the strikers with their barrow. All
night long the cuirassiers and dragoons patrolled Villeneuve-St-Georges
and the surrounding open country. In the town itself no one could sleep
for the clatter on the cobble-stones of the horses’ hoofs.
Such were the scenes in the sandpit district yesterday; but to-day—the
day after—a comparative calm has succeeded the storm. When I enter
Villeneuve-St-Georges, officers and soldiers are walking and riding
about the streets, and now and again a patrolling party goes by. Here
and there, groups of strikers, in their baggy blue trousers. And in the
wine-shops, which are full, long, animated conversations. Who was in
the wrong? No one denies that it was the strikers who fired first; no
one disputes the patience of the troops, who remained imperturbable,
motionless in their saddles, amidst a storm of bricks and bottles, for
two whole hours. Then, most of the soldiers fired in the air: had they
fired on the men the slaughter would have been terrific. Here in this
wine-shop, I hear all this, and not only from the soldiers, but from the
strikers, who are present. Yes; the soldiers and strikers, twenty-four
hours after the conflict, are drinking and conversing together:
fraternising, resting their hands on one another’s shoulders. Very rough
and very large are the hands of the navvies: the hands that hurled the
bottles and bricks. And very grimy, very weary, very eyesore are the
dragoons and cuirassiers, after having patrolled the district all night.
Extraordinary this “fraternising”! The enemies of yesterday sit at the
same table. The men in uniform and the men in the baggy blue trousers
clink glasses together.
“Of course I have done my military service, but I was never sent to a
strike,” says one of the navvies.
“You were lucky,” replies a dragoon, with a laugh.
Who was at fault? “It is all the fault of les patrons—the masters,”
states a striker; and he proceeds to relate how he and his colleagues are
underpaid and overworked: how they are treated as slaves by the masters.
It is also “Clemenceau’s fault.” Why did he send troops? There was no
disorder: there was no need for soldiers. “Clemenceau has treated us as
he treated the miners at Courrières.” And the men in the blue trousers
mutter angrily against the French Premier.
Another wine-shop, and the same scene: strikers and soldiers
fraternising. Says one of the former: “Let us have another coffee;
for to-night we may be fighting again.” Replies a cuirassier: “One
never knows. But remember we are the stronger.” Officers passing down
the street glance into the open doors of the wine-shops, and smile
indulgently at the strange spectacle. “The General!” suddenly cries a
navvy. And the General it is: a tall, slim man, keen-eyed, grey-headed,
dignified. After looking up and down the street, he enters a café with
three officers. Coffee and a liqueur for M. le Général. A penny cigar
for M. le Général. A dozen navvies crowd into the café, sit down, and
scrutinise M. le Général. He smiles, then resumes his conversation with
the officers. But he rises all of a sudden to shake hands warmly with
the Captain of the cuirassiers who was thrown off his horse by half a
paving-stone in yesterday’s conflict. The Captain’s head is bandaged; one
sees only his nose and his ears, and his left hand is in a sling.
“Ça va mieux?” asks the General.
“Ce n’est rien, mon Général,” replies the Captain.
“It was not his fault. And he saluted the body of our comrade,” says a
navvy, of the General.
“He must suffer, but he does not show it. And he looks sympathetic,” says
another striker, of the Captain.
Amazing this good-fellowship! Only in France could it be witnessed, and
for the reason that in France every man is, or has been, a soldier.
The officers call their men “my children.” The officers also call the
strikers “my children”; how often, down at bleak, tragical Courrières,
did I hear them implore the miners to retreat, whilst the flints and
bricks were flying savagely about them; and how often were the three
bugle calls sounded, when, according to stern military law, they should
have been sounded but once! “My children,” cried an old Colonel at
Courrières, “for the love of heaven, retire. It will break our hearts to
shoot. Once again, for the love of heaven, retire.”
Such then is the condition, the temper of Villeneuve-St-Georges to-day:
twenty-four hours after the battle. Nor will the battle be resumed. The
strike of the sandpit men—like all strikes in France—has been quashed
by the soldiers. Only memories remain, and relics, and landmarks. By the
side of the street lies the debris of the barricades. On the walls are
dents, scratches, holes made by the bullets. Now and again an injured
man, soldier or striker, more or less bandaged, passes by. In the
wine-shops and cafés, the men in uniform and the men in the baggy blue
trousers continue to discuss yesterday’s conflict over their coffee, and
fraternise.
VI
COTTIN & COMPANY
Here, under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, congregate old
actors and old actresses, who are engaged either at vast, shabby,
outlying theatres (Batignolles, Ternes, Belleville, Bouffes du Nord), or
who are only awaiting an engagement somewhere, anywhere.
Old actors and actresses on the kerbstone, old actors and old actresses
in this dingy little café, with the hard benches, grimy windows and dusty
floor. Among the old actors, old Cottin.
How, as he stands dejectedly on the kerbstone or sits gloomily before his
glass of coffee, how, if he liked, could old Cottin amuse and surprise
us with his tales! His Majesty King Edward VII., when Prince of Wales,
was pleased to compliment old Cottin on his humorous expression and
wink and grin; old Cottin who has lost that grin, and whose expression
is more tragic than comic, and whose dim eye winks no longer. The
name—“Cottin”—appeared in gigantic characters on the bills; the entrance
of Cottin was the signal for laughter and applause. But if ever the
name of Cottin again appear on a theatrical poster it will be in some
obscure, out-of-the-way theatre; and if ever Cottin again addresses an
audience it will be feebly, unspontaneously, from a rough, draughty old
stage. And if we could witness the awakening and rising of old Cottin
in his chilly little attic, we should not see him attended by a valet
as in former days: but assist at the spectacle of old Cottin brushing
vehemently away at his threadbare clothes, and stitching up a rent with a
darning needle, and clipping the fray from off his collars and cuffs with
blunt, rusty scissors, and generally aspiring to smarten himself up, with
the object of obtaining an engagement somewhere, anywhere.
Under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, on the kerbstone or in the
dingy little café, in his greasy hat and threadbare clothes, old Cottin
awaits the arrival of small suburban or provincial managers. It is their
practice to come here when in need of an actor who will play innumerable
rôles, at forty or fifty francs a week; and they pick out their actors
brusquely, roughly, and with many a coarse joke. But once old Cottin
dealt only with renowned, illustrious managers.
“Mon bon Cottin,” said the renowned, illustrious managers.
“Mon cher directeur,” said the renowned, illustrious Cottin.
“Epatant, étourdissant, extraordinaire,” was the boulevardier’s
enthusiastic appreciation of Cottin.
Poor old Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre!
Let us not go prying into the secrets of Cottin’s life; the cause of his
gloom and downfall is not our affair. Nor are we entitled to search the
careers of these other old actors and actresses who, perhaps in their
day, were almost as famous as Cottin; and who, like him, have very much
come down in the world. Anyhow, there is genuine, friendly sympathy
between these shabby, clean-shaven old fellows—and also between their
sisters, who are over-stout or over-thin, over-“made-up” or over-pale,
over-garrulous or over-still. In this café, they are _chez eux_, they are
_en famille_. In this café, they speak frankly, easily of themselves.
Madame Marguerite de Brémont, for instance: a woman of sixty, with great
black eyebrows, a powdered face, and a deep, deep voice. Enormous is
Madame Marguerite de Brémont, who is cast for the part of _chiffonnière_,
mad-woman, hideous, unnatural mother, at the Batignolles Theatre, at
forty-five francs a week. With her, a shabby black bag, and also, as a
last _coquetterie_, a black satin reticule, from which she occasionally
produces an old powder puff, and a handkerchief edged (by her own hand)
with coarse yellow lace. Such a deep, deep voice, and such sweeping,
melodramatic gestures with, alas! rough, large hands. Forty-five francs
a week, but, honour of honours, a benefit performance this summer.
And Madame Marguerite de Brémont is telling a group of superannuated
comedians that, upon this glorious occasion, the manager will allow her
to have the pick of the Batignolles wardrobe. She will appear in no fewer
than five melodramatic rôles, “created” by her twenty, thirty years ago;
and, in looking over the Batignolles wardrobe, she has been particularly
impressed by a heavy, yellow velvet dress trimmed lavishly with pearls.
“Yellow was my colour,” says Madame Marguerite de Brémont, “and, for
jewellery, I always wore pearls.”
“Our Marguerite,” observes an emaciated old fellow, “will have an
extraordinary reception. We shall all cry: ‘Vive la de Brémont!’”
“Ma chère,” puts in a faded, wrinkled woman, with bright (and bad) gold
hair, “I have always said that yellow was your colour. All women have
their hair, but the actresses of to-day wear any colour, and the result
is deplorable.”
“Yes, yes,” says the de Brémont, “I shall appear in yellow.” And she
powders her face feverishly, at the prospect of once again appearing in
yellow and pearls.
“C’est bien, ça”: exclaims old Cottin, at the conclusion of an anecdote.
A charming anecdote, related thus, by a little imp of a man, with the
comedian’s large mouth and ever-changing expression.... In an actor’s
charitable home the doyen of them all is an old fellow of eighty-four,
who was a favourite in his day. He passes the time pleasantly enough, in
toddling about the garden on a stick, and in reading faded, yellow Press
criticisms of years and years ago that describe him as “marvellous,”
“incomparable,” “irresistible.” But, one morning, he hears that his
sister-in-law—once a brilliant vaudeville actress—is homeless and
penniless, at the tragic age of seventy-nine, and he becomes gloomy
and silent: and he asks to see the manager of the home. “We are full,”
replies the manager, “and so we cannot receive your sister-in-law.” The
old fellow’s eyes become dim, and at last the old fellow explains: “I
wish to marry my sister-in-law.” Gently the manager observes: “But even
if you marry her, there will be a difficulty. Our rations are limited,
and if you marry her there will only be one portion for the two.” A
meeting between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old woman of
seventy-nine. And a marriage between the old fellow of eighty-four and
the old woman of seventy-nine, attended by all the old actors and old
actresses of the Home, not one of whom tells less than sixty, not one of
whom can toddle about without a stick. Bottles of champagne, from the
manager of the Home. An address, from the aged inmates of the Home. And
to-day the old couple toddle about together in the garden, and together
read the Press criticisms of years and years ago, and together recall the
days when the one was a brilliant vaudeville actress, and the other was a
“marvellous, an incomparable, an irresistible” comedian.
A flashy-looking young man in a check suit and pink shirt looks in, and
tells old Cottin and others that “there is nothing to-day”—an agent for
the suburban, the provincial theatres.
“By all means, yellow,” he says carelessly, in reply to Madame Marguerite
de Brémont’s anxious question as to what colour she should wear. Then,
more amiably: “I subscribe for twenty francs, and if you receive a
bouquet of roses, yellow roses, preserve it in memory of your devoted
Jules.”
“Ce bon Jules!” exclaims the de Brémont, as Jules, the agent, hurries
out of the café. “Il a du cœur, celui-là.” And opens the black bag. And
scribbles down something—probably “20 francs”—in a little greasy book,
with a stump of a pencil. And heaves a deep sigh of satisfaction. And
expresses the hope that she will not be too _émotionnée_ on the night of
her benefit.
At least thirty old actors and old actresses in the café: and most of
them with empty glasses. A lull, during which many look vacantly before
them, while others tap with their boots on the floor and drum with their
fingers on the tables. Great yawns, and occasional stretching of arms,
and often the exclamation: “Mais je m’ennuie, je m’ennuie!” In a corner,
a dingy waiter is sprawled over a racing paper, and behind the counter,
the burly proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, dozes. Outside, the hoarse
shouts of the _camelots_, selling the evening papers. Outside, the
animation of the boulevards.
“Messieurs, Mesdames.”
A quick, brusque voice, and a short, stout little man, with a huge
watch-chain, an umbrella, a thick black moustache, a double chin and a
great swollen neck.
“Has Jules been here? What is the use of Jules? What is the use of any
agent? I call at his office; he is not there. I ask where he is; no one
can tell. I come here—although I have not a moment to spare.”
A manager; at last, a manager! And the manager of one of the vast,
shabby, outlying theatres, who also sends companies out on tour.
“I have need of four men, two ladies, and a child, for _The Terror of
the Fortifications_. Tour starts at St Quentin on Monday week, and lasts
twenty-one weeks. I want workers. Salary for men, not more than fifty
francs; for women, forty to fifty; for the child, twenty-five.”
“Mais c’est bien, c’est très bien, Monsieur le Directeur,” says old
Cottin, say old Cottin’s comrades. And old Cottin and three of his
friends, and the faded, wrinkled lady with the bright (and bad) gold
hair, and one of her friends, all rise before Monsieur le Directeur.
“I will try to find the child,” says the faded woman.
“Girl,” says the director. “Small, thin and not over eleven. Come to see
me to-morrow morning at twelve.” And the stout director waddles out.
“They say it is _épatant_, the _Terror of the Fortifications_,” observes
an old actor.
“Ah,” replies old Cottin absentmindedly: old Cottin, late of a boulevard
theatre.
“Au revoir,” says Madame Marguerite de Brémont, picking up her reticule
and bag. “Au revoir, and good luck. I shall tell the director to-night
that I have chosen the yellow and pearls.”
Four old actors, and two old actresses, at one table, with their heads
together.
“The curtain rises in a hovel,” says one of the old actors, and proceeds
to narrate the plot of _The Terror of the Fortifications_.
VII
THE LATIN QUARTER
1. MÈRE CASIMIR
“Il était une fois.”
After weeks of summer idleness the students of the Latin Quarter return
in October to the Boul’ Mich’ more exhilarated, more extravagant, more
garrulous than ever. They are delighted to be back; they are impatient to
_conspuer_ certain professors; to parade the streets with lanterns and
guys; to disturb the sleep of the bourgeois; to run into debt with their
landlords, to embrace the policemen—to commit a hundred other follies.
Clad in new corduroys, covered with astonishing hats, they call for big
_bocks_—then question the waiter. But ere he can give a recital of what
has taken place on the Rive Gauche during the holidays, the waiter—_ce
sacré_ François—has to hear how Paul (of the Faculty of Medicine) has
been bathing, Pierre (of the Law) bicycling, Gaston (of the Fine Arts)
gardening; and how all three of them wore “le boating” costume (whatever
that may signify), with white shoes, pale blue waistbands and green
umbrellas; and how their food was of the simplest, and their drink, pure,
babylike milk.
Adventures? Romances?