pierrot. _She_ was a blonde ... in a cottage... as sweet and fresh as
a rose... as modest as the violet... as innocent as a child... who got
up with the lark and retired with the sun. And Paul rose equally early,
to peep over the hedge of her garden and to hear her sing, as she fed
greedy, speckled poultry; and, from a lane, watched her window—then
wandered sentimentally and wistfully abroad—at night. Suddenly, she
vanished. And when Paul learnt that she had departed for Normandy to
become the bride of a cousin, Paul of the Faculty of Medicine—Paul, the
gayest character in the Latin Quarter and the hero of many an affair
of the heart—Paul, lost his appetite, Paul, experienced the agonies of
insomnia, Paul, aged at least a hundred years all at once.
Thus Paul. No less reminiscent Pierre and Gaston. So that their
lady friends, Mesdemoiselles Mimi and Musette—at once jealous and
impatient—proceed to relate their own experiences; which, by the way, are
but flights of imagination, conceived with the idea of infuriating the
students.
_He also_ was blonde—and wore an _incomparable_ suit of “le boating.”
How _he_ swam—far more magnificently than Paul! How _he_ bicycled—far
more swiftly than Pierre! How _he_ gardened: producing infinitely choicer
flowers than Gaston’s!
“Enough! You have never left Paris. All those wonderful friends of yours
do not exist,” cry the students. And the _sacré_ waiter François (who has
been toying all this time with his napkin) at last is permitted to relate
what has been happening in the Latin Quarter during the summer holidays.
As a rule, however, he has little to say. Of course, the Boul’ Mich’
has been dull. Tourists from “sinister” Germany and from _la vieille
Angleterre_ have “looked” for students and amusements—naturally in vain.
Mademoiselle Mimi owes nine francs for refreshments. And Mademoiselle
Musette two francs eighty centimes for a cab fare. That is all.
But when the students “ushered” in the present autumn season, François
the waiter had important, solemn news to impart. And it was with sincere
sorrow that they learnt that death, in their absence, had claimed the
queer little old woman who carried a match-tray in her trembling, bony
hands; who performed feeble, vague dances; who piped old-time airs, and
related old-time anecdotes; and who had lived amongst Mürger’s sons, ever
since they could remember, under the name of Mère Casimir....
No city but Paris could have produced the little old woman: and no
other community would have put up with her. Were there a Mère Casimir
in London, she would be living in a work-house, strictly superintended,
constantly reprimanded, and constantly, too, she would appear in the dock
of the police court, and the magistrate would say: “I don’t know what to
do with you. You are perfectly incorrigible.” Then this headline amidst
the evening newspaper police reports: “Her Seventy-Seventh Appearance.
Magistrate Doesn’t Know What To Do With Her. But She Gets One Month All
the Same.”
In Paris, however, Mère Casimir was free. A shabby old creature, bent
over her tray of matches, no taller than your walking-stick. Like her
amazing friend, Bibi la Purée, she rarely strayed from the Latin Quarter.
Just as he spoke of himself as “Bibi,” so she invariably referred to
herself as “la Mère Casimir.” But whereas “Bibi” had ever led a vagabond
life, Mère Casimir had known luxurious times, triumphant times: times
when worldlings ogled and worshipped her, as she posed on the stage of
the Opera and drove out in semi-state to the Bois.
And she laughed in a feeble, cracked voice, when she described those
brilliant days; and rubbed her withered, trembling old hands; and nodded
and nodded her bowed, white head; and piped the first line of that
haunting, melancholy refrain:
“Il était une fois.”
Il était une fois. Once upon a time! But the descent from luxury to
poverty had neither saddened nor hardened Mère Casimir. Deeply attached
to the students and to Mesdemoiselles Musette and Mimi, she professed
a greater affection for them than ever she had borne M. le Marquis or
Monseigneur le Duc.
“Des idiots,” she said of the latter.
“Des cœurs—real hearts,” was her favourite way of describing the kindly
Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.
Many years have elapsed since first I saw Mère Casimir in the Café
Procope—“le café de M. de Voltaire,” now, also, no more. It was one
o’clock in the morning. The olive-man and the nougat-merchant had paid
their last call; the flower-woman had said good-night; the next visitor
was Mère Casimir. So feeble was she that she could scarcely push open the
door: and when a waiter let her in, she curtsied to him, then curtsied to
the customers. No one bought her matches: but she was given _bock_. Sous
were collected on her behalf by a student; they were to persuade her to
dance. But Mère Casimir had grown stiff with time. She could do no more
than hop and curtsy, bob and bend, smile and crow, kiss and wave her
withered old hand.
“Il était une fois,” she protested, at the end.
“Once upon a time.” Invited to seat herself at my table, Mère Casimir
told me how she had shone at the Opera; how she had attended notorious,
extravagant suppers and balls; how she had broken hearts; how Napoleon
III. himself had noticed her; how she used to sing Béranger ditties....
She would sing one now ... one of her favourites.... “Listen.” Rising,
she piped feebly again.
Ah, the Elysée! Mère Casimir compared it contemptuously to the Tuileries,
and sighed. What was a President to an Emperor? What was the Opera
to-day? and the Bois? and the Jockey Club? “The vulgar Republic has
changed all that,” she complained. “It disgusts me—this Republic.”
Suddenly the old woman became silent. Bent in half behind the table, she
was scarcely visible. Minutes went by, but she remained motionless. And
at last the waiter, thinking her asleep, called out:
“Eh bien, la vieille?”
Then, Mère Casimir started, and nodded her head, and rose, and thanked
the customers with a last curtsy, and told them she hoped to dance to
them on another occasion; and, before going out into the darkness,
murmured again:
“Il était une fois.”
A few nights later I met her on the Boul’ Mich’ whilst she was passing
from table to table on the terrace of the Café d’Harcourt.
The students were kind to her; so were Mürger’s daughters, Mesdemoiselles
Musette and Mimi. And she was given olives and nougat, and a number of
sous, and even a rose. And the waiters were friendly also; and so was the
stout, black-coated proprietor.
In return, Mère Casimir sang her song and danced her dance, and was
applauded and encored—even by the policeman at the corner.
At two o’clock in the morning, when the Latin Quarter cafés close, the
old woman disappeared.
No one knew where she lived. But she could be seen feebly making her way
up the Boul’ Mich’ and, turning, to pass the Panthéon. There the streets
soon become narrow and dim. Apaches and _chiffonniers_ abound. One or
two sinister-looking wine-shops remind one of those in the _Mystères de
Paris_. Through the grimy windows, one can watch the customers, seated at
rude tables within.
And once, while exploring this neighbourhood, I perceived Mère Casimir
seated next to Bibi la Purée behind one of those windows; with a bottle
of wine in front of them. And I entered and approached them, apologising
for my intrusion.
Bibi was the host: Bibi, “the original with an amazing past,” who in days
gone by had been Verlaine’s valet and friend: and who—after the death
of the “Master”—became obsessed with an unholy passion for umbrellas;
anyone’s umbrellas—all umbrellas—new, middle-aged, decrepit. Bibi, tall
and gaunt, with sunken cheeks, lurid green eyes, an eternal, wonderful
grin, and—— But Bibi cannot be described in passing. Bibi deserves a
chapter to himself, and Bibi has had that chapter elsewhere.[1]
Well, Bibi was the host, and Mère Casimir his guest. Several nights a
week they met in this manner. There in the grimy wine-shop they exchanged
reminiscences: Bibi, of Verlaine; Mère Casimir, of M. le Marquis and
other _roués_ under the Empire. There they drank sour red wine and took
pinches of snuff: Bibi provided the wine, Mère Casimir the snuff. There
they chanted Béranger ditties: Bibi huskily, Mère Casimir in her feeble,
cracked voice. There they were happy and at peace: an extraordinary
couple.
At intervals rough-looking men slouched in and out. Whispering went on
in corners. But no one heeded Bibi and Mère Casimir, and they themselves
paid no attention to the dubious drinkers in the place.
“He is gay, isn’t he, my Bibi?” the old woman would inquire.
“She is still young, isn’t she, la Mère Casimir?” the old fellow demanded.
Then Mère Casimir laughed in her feeble, cracked voice, and rubbed her
withered old hands, and nodded her bowed white head, and piped the first
line of the sad refrain:
“Il était une fois.”
[1] _Paris of the Parisians._
2. GLOOM ON THE RIVE GAUCHE
Sometimes in the Latin Quarter come grave moments, grim and gloomy
moments—moments when the students shun the cafés; when their lady
friends, Mesdemoiselles Mimi and Musette—Mürger’s daughters, Daughters of
Bohemia—look pale and anxious, and whisper together as though alarmed;
when the spectator, observing this depression, becomes himself depressed.
At such a time the women whose clothes are shabby, whose faces are
tragical (the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years ago) come out of those
corners to which their unattractiveness has condemned them; come out,
and congregate—skeletons some of them, swollen, shapeless creatures the
rest—all, considering their usual comparative obscurity, ominous. When
the temper of the Quarter is blithe, they must look on forlornly from
the background. No one heeds them; no one invites them to accept an
olive or sip a _bock_. But when the Quarter has been horrified by some
tragedy, some crime, they, on account of their memories and experiences,
on account, too, of their own connection with tragedy—they, then, are
sought after; they, then, talk the most; they, then, hold the longest and
completest version of the matter that has brought on the gloom.
Recently, at three o’clock in the morning, I heard these shabby,
solitary women chattering more ominously than usual in Madame Bertrand’s
hospitable milk-shop. There, after the cafés have been closed, the
students assemble to devour sandwiches, _brioches_, hot rolls; but
upon the occasion in question the only customers present were Mürger’s
elderly, unattractive daughters. And whilst sipping hot milk or coffee,
and biting hungrily into a penny roll, they listened to the tale of a
woman—the palest, the most wasted of this forlorn group of women, whose
coat and skirt were red, whose boots were muddy, whose gloves betrayed
stitching done upstairs in her dim back room.
Occasionally her narrative was interrupted by a short, sharp cough. She
lost her breath; pressed her hand to her breast; cleared her throat.
“Continue,” said the others impatiently. “I continue,” she replied.
And then, whilst listening also, I learnt that a certain Marcelle played
the chief rôle in the story: Marcelle, blithest of Mürger’s younger
daughters, Marcelle the _vraie gamine_, Marcelle the lively little lady
who always wore a bicycling suit, yet never bicycled; who appeared
seventeen, but in reality was twenty-two; who danced down the Boul’ Mich’
arm-in-arm with the students—she the gayest of the party, her step the
lightest, her Chinese lantern the largest; who was liked by one and all,
and to whom everyone was _mon cher_.... Marcelle the Candid! A brunette,
she took it into her head to become a blonde. “C’est chic d’être blonde,”
she cried: then some days later appeared on the Boul’ Mich’ with flaxen
hair. And she drew attention to this striking metamorphosis, exclaiming:
“Inspect me; stare at me! Am I not ravishing? Isn’t it a success? Such a
dye! Only five francs a bottle—a large bottle—also perfumed!” And drank
a toast... “to the new colour!” And vowed that, with it, began a new
era. And afterwards, when relating reminiscences, naïvely explained:
“That was in the days when I was a brunette.” And constantly sang, in
a shrill voice, that favourite sentimental ballad, _Les Blondes_....
Marcelle the Sympathetic! Each student found in her a patient, a friendly
listener. She was ready to bear with chaotic, interminable narratives of
jealousies, worries, woes. She would propose a drive, a long drive, in an
open cab—the grievance to be unfolded on the way. “Tell the _cocher_,”
she would say to the student, “to choose a deserted route—so that you may
rage and despair, and weep as much as you please. Open your poor heart,
_mon cher_. Keep nothing back. _Allez_, you can trust Marcelle.”...
Marcelle the Sentimental, the Nature-loving! After a noisy luncheon-party
in the country, she would command an adjournment to the wood. Childlike
she sought for flowers, running hither and thither, uttering shrill
little cries of astonishment and rapture. And lingered and lingered in
the wood. And vowed she would not return to Paris before the departure
of the very last train. And asked naïve questions about the moon and the
stars. And murmured: “How sweet is the country, how exquisite!”—shrinking
nevertheless from the bats and mosquitoes. And went to bed immediately
upon reaching Paris—so as not to spoil “the impression” of the country.
And dreamt happily, dreamt as she had never dreamt before—“mon cher!”
Bright Marcelle; and, in spite of her follies, admirable Marcelle! The
shabby, solitary women—the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years ago—had in
her a friend.
Had?... Had; but have no longer.
“_Murdered!_” said the woman in the red dress—huskily—in Madame
Bertrand’s hospitable milk-shop, of Marcelle the Blonde. Murdered; but
no matter how. Murdered; and lying in a room, round the corner, with
candles burning by the death-bed.
“Tall, tall candles,” continued the woman. “They burn brightly; and she
is not alone. To-day I have seen her three times. There were only two
wreaths this morning, but there must be more than twenty now. To-morrow
the concierge will do nothing but take up wreaths.”
And the woman coughed, the other women murmured; then the husky voice was
heard again:—
“They have telegraphed for her brother; her parents are dead. He is a
peasant. He has never been to Paris. He is twenty-three. He adored her. I
have seen letters of his which called her ‘ma petite sœur bien aimée.’ He
would have cut himself into pieces for Marcelle.”
A husky, husky voice. Gestures accompanying each word, and now and again
the short, sharp cough.
As the hour advanced, Madame Bertrand’s stout, bearded manager (installed
behind the counter) began to doze. The servant who distributed the cups
of milk and coffee settled herself on a stool in the background and
closed her eyes. From the coffee urns, the urns of milk, arose fumes;
the urns of boiling water hissed. Past the shop, crawled a market-cart,
packed thick and high with vegetables, and, on the top of the vegetables,
sat a sturdy peasant woman, her head enveloped in a handkerchief.
Through the windows one might see two policemen gossiping over the way; a
vagrant limping by; the eternal _chiffonnier_, stooping over the gutter
in quest of stumps of cigars and cigarettes. Only in the milk-shop was
there light, a pale, unbecoming light from the lamp overhead. Only here
was there colour, the colours of the shabby women’s dresses: faded blue,
dingy yellow, red. Only _chez_ Madame Bertrand was there a group—a group
of frightened, haunted women, fifteen or so. No woman went her way. None
felt strong, secure enough to endure the solitude of her dim _chambre
meublée_. Perhaps they remained there until dawn. Perhaps they were still
there, when the first workman passed. And no doubt he, after glancing
through the windows, shrugged his shoulders and soliloquised: “There they
are, the abandoned ones, making another merry night of it.”
Gloom, next day. Gloom, on the day after. And greater gloom on the
gloomiest day of all—the day of the funeral.
A sombre day: clouds hanging close over the Latin Quarter. A damp day;
in the air, mist. A day when the householders of a certain narrow street
came to their doors; when other residents appeared at their windows; when
spectators assembled on the kerbstone; when a group of shabby, forlorn
women stood silently beside a hearse—the shabbiest, the most wasted, a
woman in red.
She had no other dress. Those in faded blue and dingy yellow, had no
other dresses. In Paris, black failing... “one does one’s best.”
The hearse had just received its light burden, and the coffin was being
covered—thrice covered—with flowers: mere nosegays, bouquets, wreath
after wreath. By the doorstep, stood Marcelle’s concierge—a stout
woman—crying. Farther away, three policemen—erect and motionless. Few
students to be seen. But they had sent their tributes of affection, for
the flowers continued to come—came and came—accompanied by cards and
ribbons: one card bearing the inscription: “To Our Blonde Marcelle.”
Then, after the last flower had been laid, Mürger’s young and charming
daughters, Mürger’s elderly and tragical daughters, gathered behind
the hearse. Slowly it advanced, slowly it disappeared—the policemen
saluting, the concierge weeping, the spectators removing their hats,
the bourgeoise householder crossing herself, the Daughters of Mürger
following immediately behind the hearse; the woman in red, still the most
noticeable.
The most noticeable, perhaps, because her arm was drawn through the arm
of a young man: bareheaded, dressed in a coarse black suit: red-eyed,
red-eared, ungainly, uncouth: of the fields, of the earth, unmistakably,
a peasant. With stooping shoulders and bowed head; stupefied, wrecked;
Marcelle’s peasant brother followed his “petite sœur bien aimée” to her
grave—in the compassionate charge of the shabby, husky-voiced woman in
red.
Across the bridge, past Notre-Dame: past theatres, banks, cafés and fine
shops: past hospitals, past hovels, past drinking dens. On and on, on
and on—the mourners silently and sorrowfully following Marcelle. Still
on: the mourners accompanying Marcelle, once most blithe of Mürger’s
daughters, farther and farther from Mürger’s land. Onward always, through
the gloom, through the mist, to Marcelle’s last destination. Then back
again, through the mist, through the gloom, without Marcelle: and
Marcelle the Blonde, Marcelle the _Vraie Gamine_, only a memory, only a
name.
3. THE DAUGHTER OF THE STUDENTS
The month of July—eleven years ago. The year was one of those dear,
amazing years when, in Paris, everybody has a foe, a feud and a fear;
everybody a flush on his face and a gleam in his eye; everybody a
little adventure with the plain police, the mounted police or the Garde
Républicaine. We are on the march, on the run.
The Ministry of the moment is—well, who _is_ Prime Minister this morning?
Never mind his name; he is sure to be a swindler, a “bandit.” Nothing
but “bandits” among the public men. No purity among the public men; they
have all, all “touched” money in the Panama affair. No; M. Duval is
_not_ an exception. He is as villainous as the rest. If you persist in
your declaration that he is an exception, you must have some sinister,
interested reason. _You_, Monsieur, are no better than M. Duval. You,
too, are a bandit. I say it again, bandit, bandit, bandit. Come out and
fight. Come out and——
Such a tumult, such a panic in Paris! Houses searched by the police, and
hundreds of suspected persons arrested. And in the midst of the panic the
good Bohemians of the Latin Quarter also rise, and march with sticks and
lanterns to the house of Senator Bérenger, and smash his windows, and
groan, and call upon him to come out and be slain on the spot.
Unhappy Senator Bérenger, who deemed that the Quat-z-Arts ball—the great
annual ball of the students—was improper!
“It was Art,” shout the students.
“It was a shocking spectacle,” pronounces the Senator.
“Come out and be slain,” shout the students.
“Arrest them,” orders the Senator. And then—O then—a revolution in the
Quarter; then, the wild, terrifying “Seven Days’ Bagarre.”
There blaze bonfires; there, arise barricades; there, lie omnibuses
overturned on the Boul’ Mich’; there, march furious bands of students
who charge and are charged by the police. Mercy, how we march and how we
run! On the fifth day, we are bandaged, and we limp, but we resume our
manifestations.
“Come out and be slain,” we yell, below the Senator’s window.
“Arrest them,” orders the Senator. “It was Art,” we almost sob, in the
ear of the interviewer.
“It was a shocking spectacle,” declares the Senator.
“You must, you shall be slain,” we cry in frenzy. And then, in the
Quarter, appears the Army; and the Army goes for us; and before such
overwhelming odds, we fly; and twenty of us who fly and fly find
ourselves at last, dishevelled and breathless, in a dim, deserted side
street.
Not a sound; we are too much exhausted to speak.
A moon and stars, silence and peace. Twenty dishevelled and exhausted
students, who sit on the kerbstone, on doorsteps, to rest. And then,
all of a sudden, a Cry. A feeble, plaintive Cry from a doorstep: and on
the doorstep, a bundle. Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students before
the bundle; a bundle—that cries. An amazing discovery, a sensational
surprise! The bundle is a Child; the bundle is a _Gosse_; the bundle is a
bud of a Girl.
Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students strangely in possession of a baby;
and who nurse the baby, and who seek to win her confidence, with awkward
caresses, and by swinging her to and fro, and by assuring her that she is
safe and sound. And, finally, twenty good Bohemians who resolve to adopt
the Child, and introduce her formally to their colleagues, and proclaim
her before all the good Bohemians of the Rive Gauche: “The Adopted
Daughter of the Students of the Latin Quarter.” But, the name, the name?
The Saint for the day is Lucie: so, Lucie. The _gosse_ was found on the
last night of the Bagarre: so, Bagarre. Thus, with the polite prefix, we
get:
Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre.
Does Paul buy books on the nursing of infants, or the bringing up of
children? And Gaston; does he go blushing into a shop and stammer out
a request for a baby’s complete outfit? At all events, awkwardness and
unrest in the Quarter. It is such a responsibility to have a Daughter;
it is such an anxiety to attend adequately to her needs! And so, after
infinite discussion, it is determined that Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre
shall reside in the home of Enfants Trouvés, until the best-hearted of
foster-mothers in the whole of France shall have been found.
Says Paul, gravely: “Country air is indispensable.”
Says Gaston: “Milk and eggs.”
Says Pierre: “Companions of her own age.”
Do the good Bohemians of the Latin France go forth gravely in quest
of foster-mothers? Do they pass from province to province, comparing
foster-mothers, testing the milk and eggs, studying local death-rates,
wondering and wondering which is the healthiest and most invigorating of
the various airs? At all events, Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre is ultimately
taken to a farm.
Says Paul: “Nothing better than a farm.”
Says Gaston: “Fresh milk and eggs every morn.”
Says Pierre: “Cows and ducks and hens to marvel at.”
Says Aimery: “None of the pernicious influences and surroundings of the
city.”
Concludes Xavier: “We have done admirably.”
Thus, the Committee; a Committee of Five, whose duty it is to deal with
the foster-mother, whose privilege it is to “look after the affairs” of
Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre. Always “sitting,” this Committee; sitting
before ledgers and ink in the Taverne Lorraine, gifts and subscriptions
to be acknowledged; instructions to be sent to the foster-mother;
inquiries after the health of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre to be answered;
interviewers to be received; in fine, much business in the Taverne
Lorraine.
And then, all the students of the Latin Quarter have a right to demand
news of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre; for all the students are her fathers;
and so, naturally enough, they are anxious to know whether she has spoken
her first word, and cut her first tooth, and staggered her first step.
It is well that the Committee is patient and amiable; it is fortunate
that the Committee rejoices in its work; else there would be cries of:
“Laissez-moi tranquille,” and “Fichez-moi la paix” and “Décampe, ou je
t’assomme.”