farm; and on their return a general meeting is held in the Taverne
Lorraine—with Paul in the chair, Paul on the health, appearance and
pastimes of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre. Paul on the foster-mother,
on the farm; Paul, also, on Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s diet. Paul,
finally, on Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s approaching birthday. And,
indeed, on each of her birthdays, the students’ adopted Daughter receives
gifts and an address; and on Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, more
gifts; and upon every visit of the Committee, a souvenir of some kind or
another. Explains Paul most wisely: “Children like that.”
Ah me, the responsibility, the anxiety of having a Daughter! The moment
comes when she has measles and chicken-pox; and then, what dark days for
the father. And Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre is no exception; Mademoiselle
Lucie Bagarre has chicken-pox, has measles. In the Latin Quarter, alarm
and emotion. All Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s many fathers _énervés_
and agitated. All the fathers suggesting precautions and remedies.
All the fathers trying to remember what their parents did when they
had chicken-pox and measles. Does the Committee study books on those
diseases? At all events, the Committee is in constant communication with
the farm. Also, the Committee proceeds solemnly to the farm. The telegram
to Paris: “No complications. Malady following its ordinary course.”
Another telegram: “Think it wiser to remain the night.” A third telegram:
“Good night. Took nourishment this morning.” And in the _Etudiant_
and the _Cri du Quartier_, the brilliant organs of the Quarter, the
announcement in large type: “We rejoice to announce that the adopted
Daughter of the students of the Latin Quarter is now allowed to take air
in her garden. To all her fathers she returns her warmest thanks for
their sympathy, messages and offerings. But the quite unusual number of
her fathers render it impossible to thank each one of them individually.”
Follows Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s signature, the scrawling letters, L.
B., faithfully reproduced. Says Paul: “I gave her a pencil-box. Children
adore that.”
However, four years have elapsed since Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre pained
her many dear fathers by having chicken-pox. To-day, she has turned
eleven, but she still resides far away from “the pernicious influences
and surroundings of the city.”
Says Paul: “Country air is still indispensable.”
Says Gaston: “Always milk and eggs.”
Says Pierre: “Honest folk about her.”
Down to the farm goes the Committee: and back comes the Committee with
the report that Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre can now dive her hand into the
pockets of the Committee’s dear corduroy waistcoat. She has grown; she
is almost a _jeune fille_. How, by the way, stands her banking account?
Well: but since the occasion for increasing it now presents itself, let
the occasion be used to the utmost. The fête of Mi-Carême: the proceeds
of the fête to be set aside for “la fille adoptive des étudiants, la
petite Lucie Bagarre.” A grand _bal masqué_ at Bullier’s. Says Paul:
“In order to attract the public, we must be amazing.” All the fathers
scheming how to be amazing. All the fathers painting themselves and
donning fantastic costumes. All the fathers calling upon Paris to swell
their fund by visiting Bullier’s. And Paris responds: Paris flocks to
Bullier’s.
An amazing spectacle, and an amazing night: the good Bohemians have
succeeded in being entirely amazing. Bullier’s packed; Bullier’s all
light, all colour, all movement, when the Committee of Five proudly
surveys the scene.
Says Paul: “Gold.”
Says Gaston: “Bank-notes.”
Says Pierre: “A dot.”
Says Aimery: “A fortune.”
Says Xavier: “A veritable heiress.”
Say the innumerable fathers: “The _richissime_ Mademoiselle Lucie
Bagarre.”
And then, toasts. And then, cheers.
And then, the resolution that an address, signed by all her fathers,
shall be presented to their dear adopted Daughter: who, at this advanced
noisy hour, is lying fast asleep in her farm.
VIII
MONSIEUR LE ROUÉ
Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le Roué—who could fail to admire him for
the constant, anxious endeavours he makes, the innumerable secret devices
he employs to appear juvenile and sprightly! That his figure may be
elegant, he wears stays. That the crow’s feet may not be conspicuous he
(or rather his valet) covers them over with a subtle, greasy preparation.
That his moustache may not droop, he has it waxed to the extremest degree
of rigidity. And that people may not say: “Old le Roué is a wreck” and
“Old le Roué is played out,” he goes about the Amazing City—here, there
and everywhere—with a glass in his eye and a flower in his button-hole,
like the gayest of young worldlings.
However, it has to be recorded that despite all his endeavours, despite
all his artifices, M. le Roué remains a shaky, shrunken old fellow, with
scanty white hair, a tired, pallid face and a thin, feeble voice. Once
upon a time—say forty years ago—he was deemed one of the most brilliant,
the most irresistible ornaments of _le Tout Paris_; but to-day—forty
years after—he has attained that tragic period in the life of a vain,
superannuated _viveur_, when no one, except his valet, is permitted to
see him until two o’clock in the afternoon; and thus no one, save that
faithful attendant, could give us a picture of M. le Roué when, after the
curtains have been drawn and daylight has been let into the room, the old
gentleman is served with his cup of chocolate and morsel of dry toast.
Still, if we cannot witness his awakening, we may assuredly assume that
M. le Roué is not a pleasant spectacle in the morning. And it is equally
safe to suppose that his temper is detestable, his language deplorable,
when the valet shaves his wan cheek, and fastens his stays, and helps
him into his heavy fur coat; and thus, in a word, turns him into the
impeccable if rickety old beau who lunches every day on the stroke of two
o’clock in Sucré’s white-and-gold restaurant.
“Monsieur se porte bien?” inquires the _maître d’hôtel_, respectfully
handing him the menu.
“Pas mal, pas mal,” replies M. le Roué, in his thin, feeble voice. And
although the old gentleman has been advised to keep strictly to a diet of
plain foods and Vichy water, both the dishes and the wines that he orders
are elaborate and rich.
Once again I exclaim: “Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le Roué,” and once
again I demand: “Who could fail to admire him?”
He declines to belong to the past, he refuses to go into retirement; so
long as he can stand up in his stays he is heroically determined to lead
the life of a _viveur_, a rake. See him, here in Sucré’s restaurant,
revelling over his lobster; behold him kissing his trembling, white hand
to the lady book-keeper, a handsome young woman with sparkling diamond
earrings; and hear him, moreover, entertaining Joseph, the _maître
d’hôtel_, with an account of the lively supper-party he presided over
last night, at which Mesdemoiselles Liane de Luneville and Marguerite de
Millefleurs (beautiful, brilliant ornaments of the _demi-monde_) were
present, and Mademoiselle Pauline Boum, of the Casino de Paris, performed
her latest “eccentric” dance.
All this from a gentleman half-way through the seventies! All this from
a shaky, shrunken old fellow who ought, at the present moment, to be
taking a careful constitutional in the Parc Monceau on the arm of some
mild, elderly female relative—instead of rejoicing over lobster and
Château-Yquem in Sucré’s white-and-gold restaurant.
“Monsieur is extraordinary,” says the _maître d’hôtel_, by way of
flattery.
“Monsieur is a monster,” says the handsome lady book-keeper, shaking her
diamond earrings.
And old le Roué the “Extraordinary,” old le Roué “the Monster,” smiles,
winks a dim eye and laughs. But it has to be stated that his smile is a
leer and that his laugh is a cackle.
From Sucré’s restaurant M. le Roué proceeds slowly, leaning heavily on
his walking-stick, to a quiet, comfortable café, where he meets another
heroic old rake—the Marquis de Mô.
But there is this striking difference between the two: whereas old
le Roué is delicately made, frail, shrunken, old de Mô is enormous,
apoplectic, with flowing white whiskers, a round, bumpy bald head,
a fiery complexion and a huge gouty foot which is ever encased in a
wonderful elastic shoe. Le Roué and de Mô rejoiced extravagantly together
in the latter brilliant days of the Second Empire. And to-day, in the
year of 1912, they love to recall their past conquests, duels, follies,
and never tire of abusing the Republican régime.
“What a Government, what an age!” complains le Roué.
“Abominable—odious—sinister,” declares de Mô.
Also, our superannuated _viveurs_ recall affectionate memories of a dear,
mutual friend, the late Comte Robert de Barsac, who died last year, of a
vague illness, shortly after he had riotously celebrated his seventieth
birthday. The truth was, old de Barsac could not keep pace with old le
Roué and old de Mô. His face became leaden in colour and his speech
rambling and incoherent. And one night, he suddenly passed away in his
sleep from exhaustion.
“Ce pauvre cher Robert!” exclaims le Roué sadly. “Ce pauvre cher Robert!”
sighs de Mô.
Then there is another old friend, still living, of whom le Roué and de Mô
speak affectionately as they sit together in their corner of the quiet,
comfortable café.
She is “Madeline”—who, once upon a time, was the “star” actress at the
Variétés theatre. In truth, Marguerite de Prèsles (as she figured on
the bills) was something of a queen: the queen of the half-world. The
newspapers of that period, in alluding to her wit, beauty and charm,
called her the “exquisite Madeline”; the “adorable Madeline”; the
“incomparable” Madeline de Prèsles. Le Roué and de Mô worshipped at her
shrine. And to-day—forty years after—they often visit her at Pichon’s
gaudy night restaurant: where the “adorable” Variétés actress of years
ago makes constant rounds of the place—with tinselled boxes of chocolates
and a basket of flowers!
Yes; “Madeline” sells chocolates and flowers _chez_ Pichon! And the gold
hair has turned white and the slim figure has swollen, and the once
pretty, bejewelled little hands have become knotted and coarse; and the
old lady herself—the former radiant “star” of the Variétés—lives in a
sombre _hôtel meublé_ on the outskirts of Paris, where she passes most of
the day in making up bouquets and button-holes for the painted, rackety
company that assembles nightly at Pichon’s.
Thus some romance is left in old le Roué and old de Mô. They still seek
out “Madeline.” They make her presents on New Year’s Day; nor do they
ever fail to remember her birthday. Once they offered her an annuity—but
whilst expressing her thanks and declaring herself “touched,” she assured
her old admirers that she was content with the income she derived from
her speculations in flowers and chocolates: although (so she added) she
held but a scornful opinion of the modern young worldlings—the young
worldlings of the “odious,” “sinister” Republic—who were her customers
_chez_ Pichon. And so, attached, by force of memories and by reason of
their long, constant gallantry, so attached is “Madeline” to old le
Roué, and old de Mô, that when those two valiant old rakes are seized
with rheumatism or gout, and are obliged most unwillingly and angrily to
lie up, she pays them daily visits; and refreshes and embellishes their
rooms with her flowers; and reminds them vivaciously and wittily of the
epoch—the wonderful epoch—when all three of them were gay, brilliant
ornaments of the Amazing City....
And now, night-time.
Behold M. le Roué dining royally, and haunting the _coulisses_ of the
Opera, and playing baccarat, with trembling hands, in the Cercle Doré,
and entertaining (as we have already recorded) Mesdemoiselles Liane de
Luneville and Marguerite de Millefleurs, and the eccentric Mademoiselle
Pauline Boum, to supper in a gilded, bemirrored _cabinet particulier_.
All this he does long after the innumerable electric advertising devices
(Fontain’s Perfumes—Carré’s Gloves—Cherry Brandy of the Maison Joyeux et
Fils) have begun to blink and dance on the boulevards; and long after M.
le Roué, with his five and seventy years, should have been tucked up in
bed—his old brain at rest and his old head enveloped in a night-cap.
But M. le Roué declines to return home, M. le Roué refuses to close his
dim eyes, until he has visited one of those modern rackety “American”
bars—the “High Life,” for instance—where the young worldlings of to-day
sit upon high stools, and absorb cocktails, _crème de menthe_ and icy
“sherry-cobblers.” And it is wonderful to witness frail, shaky M. le Roué
climb up on to his stool; and the spectacle becomes still more wonderful
when apoplectic, gouty old de Mô laboriously follows his example.
Thus M. le Roué goes to the “High Life,” goes here, there and everywhere,
like the gayest and most adventurous of young worldlings. And wherever he
goes, the waiters and attendants exclaim: “Monsieur is astonishing!” and
“Monsieur is extraordinary!” and their flattery pleases the old gentleman.
“Pas mal, pas mal,” he replies in his thin, feeble voice, and with his
leer.
However, there come times when M. le Roué is particularly shaky and
shrunken, when he looks peculiarly superannuated and frail; and at these
times he resents the obsequious compliments of the waiters.
“No, no,” he cries shrilly. “I am a very old man, and I am feeling very
weak and very ill.” After which confession, he buries his head in his
trembling, white hands, and mutters to himself, strangely, beneath his
breath.
The waiters then look at him curiously. And old de Mô protests: “What
nonsense, _mon ami_; what folly, _mon vieux_. There is nothing the matter
with you. You are perfectly well.”
But old de Mô’s expression is nevertheless anxious.
Is he about to lose his last remaining companion of years ago? Is he
shortly to sit in that corner of the quiet, comfortable café—alone?
He cannot but acknowledge to himself that in old le Roué’s face there is
the same leaden colour and in old le Roué’s speech the same incoherency
that manifested themselves in their mutual dear friend and contemporary,
the late Comte Robert de Barsac, a short while before he vaguely passed
away.
IX
FRENCH LIFE AND THE FRENCH STAGE
1. M. PAUL BOURGET, THE REACTIONARY PLAYWRIGHT, AND M. PATAUD, WHO PUT
OUT THE LIGHTS OF PARIS
In a boulevard café, over his favourite, strange mixture of strawberry
syrup and champagne, a well-known Paris journalist recently called my
attention to the profusion of playwrights of high, indisputable ability
now writing for the French stage.
“There are not enough theatres to accommodate them all,” he said. “The
papers inform us that X—— has just finished a new _chef-d’œuvre_, but
often four, six, even ten months will elapse ere the masterpiece can be
produced. Why? Because there is no room for X——. He must wait his turn;
and in his leisure—O admirable fertility—he writes yet another play.”
“Nevertheless you have three important _répétitions générales_ this
week,” I remarked. “Capus to-morrow, Donnay at the Français on Wednesday,
and de Flers and Caillavet, the Inexhaustible, on Friday.”
“Charming Capus, delightful Donnay, amazing de Flers and Caillavet,”
exclaimed my companion. “Listen; we are free for an hour. Let us run
over the names of our leading playwrights—a formidable list. Garçon,
another glass”—and away went the waiter in quest of more syrup and
champagne.
Of course, no mere “running over” of the great name of Rostand. Both of
us soon found ourselves reciting passages from _Cyrano_, _Chantecler_,
_La Princesse Lointaine_—my friend eloquently and emotionally, myself
alas! with the natural embarrassment and self-consciousness of the
foreigner. “Au trot, au galop,” said my companion, glancing at the
clock. And rapidly we proceeded to review the “formidable list” of
France’s leading dramatists:—Paul Hervieu, the cultured, polished author
of _Le Dédale_ and _La Course au Flambeau_. Violent, destructive Henri
Bernstein—_La Griffe_, _La Rafale_, _Samson_. Henri Lavedan, brilliantly
audacious in _Le Nouveau Jeu_, delightfully ironical in the _Marquis
de Priola_, but serious, profound (a veritable _tour de force_) in _Le
Duel_. Then Capus, the tolerant, the sympathetic: _Nôtre Jeunesse_, _Les
Passagères_, _Monsieur Piégois_. Émile Fabre, wonderful manipulator of
stage “crowds,” _Les Ventres Dorés_. Lively, brilliant de Flers and
Caillavet, _Le Roi_, _L’Ane de Buridan_, _L’Amour Veille_. Worldly,
cynical Abel Hermant, _Les Transatlantiques_, _Monsieur de Courpière_.
Jules Lemaître, tender in _La Massière_, tragical in _Bertrad_. Brieux:
the amusing _Hannetons_, sombre, harrowing _Maternité_. Georges
Porto-Riche, _L’Amoureuse_, perhaps the finest modern comedy in the
repertoire of the French National Theatre. Sound admirable Donnay,
_Amants_, _Le Retour de Jérusalem_. Anatole France, the incomparable
_Crainquebille_. MM. Arquillière and Bernède, with their masterly
pictures of military life, _La Grande Famille_, _Sous l’Epaulette_.
Romantic, vigorous Jean Richepin, _Le Chemineau_. Sardonic, anarchical
Octave Mirbeau, _Les Affaires sont les Affaires_, _Le Foyer_. Humane,
chivalrous Pierre Wolff, _L’Age d’Aimer_ and _Le Ruisseau_. Georges
Ancey, earnest investigator into the hidden crafty practices of the
Catholic Church, _Ces Messieurs_. Gentle, elegant Romain Coolus,
_L’Enfant chérie_ and _Une Femme Passa_. Grim, lurid André de Lorde of
the Grand Guignol. Ardent, passionate Henri Bataille, _Un Scandale_, _La
Vierge Folle_, _La Femme Nue_.
“Formidable, formidable!” exclaimed our Paris journalist, wiping his brow.
“There remains M. Paul Bourget,” I said.
“M. Paul Bourget is ponderous, prejudiced, pedantic,” objected my
companion. “I have just seen his latest photograph, which shows him
seated at his writing-desk in a frock coat. Novels of life in the
Faubourg St Germain, such as M. Bourget has produced, may possibly be
written in a frock coat—_not_ plays.”
“No doubt the coat was only put on for the visit of the photographer,” I
charitably suggested.
“M. Paul Bourget’s plays convey the impression—no, the conviction—that
they were written in the conventional, cramped armour of a frock coat,”
was the solemn, categorical retort.
Now for M. Bourget, on his side it would be permissible to object that
a gentleman who takes thick strawberry syrup in his champagne commits no
less of an enormity than the dramatist who writes his plays in a frock
coat; and that therefore, he, M. Bourget, considers himself untouched
by the allegations directed against him from that hostile and eccentric
quarter. Nevertheless, an examination of M. Bourget’s dramatic work—_Un
Divorce_, _L’Emigré_, _La Barricade_—compels the comparison that whereas
his fellow-playwrights adopt the theatre exclusively as a sphere in which
to hold up a vivid, faithful, scrupulously impartial picture of scenes
from actual life—_la vie vivante_—M. Bourget uses the stage, ponderously,
as a platform or a pulpit. His views on social questions—the dominant
ideas, the passions of the hour—are well known. They are autocratic,
severe: in the French sense of the word, “correct.” But it unfortunately
happens that _l’homme correct_ possesses none of those indispensable
attributes required of the playwright—an open mind, imagination, a sense
of humour. A firm clerical and the irreconcilable antagonist of divorce,
M. Bourget naturally maintains that in a spiritual emergency, women, as
well as men, are more efficaciously helped to right conduct by priestly
government than by habits of self-reliance. Then his sympathies have ever
rested undisguisedly with the classes he has portrayed in his novels—the
languid worldling of the Faubourg St Germain, the _haute bourgeoisie_,
the despotic _châtelain_.
“M. Bourget is not interested in humble people. The vicissitudes, the
amours, the miseries of the lower classes, he deems beneath his notice.
He concerns himself only with the emotions of the elegant and the rich,”
bitter, sardonic M. Octave Mirbeau makes one of his characters remark.
And, truly enough, it has to be affirmed that however hard he may have
tried to repress his aristocratic proclivities and prejudices when
writing for the stage, the author of _Un Divorce_ and _La Barricade_ has
remained, despite his endeavours, _l’homme autoritaire, l’homme correct_.
“Je ne connais pas des idées généreuses,” he has announced. “Je ne
connais que des idées vraies ou fausses, et il ne vaudrait pas la peine
d’écrire si ce n’était pas pour énoncer les idées que l’on croit et que
l’on sait vraies.” And in the press, in conferences, in prefaces, the
“eminent Academician” (as the clerical _Gaulois_ monotonously designates
M. Bourget) has furthermore declared that _Un Divorce_ and _La Barricade_
were written in a rigorously impartial spirit. But other critics maintain
that the controversies that have raged around M. Bourget’s dramatic
efforts (started with no little pretentiousness by the author himself)
establish nothing. The plays speak for themselves.
M. Bourget’s observations have persuaded him that the rebellious spirit
prevailing amongst the working classes is a menace to his country:
“C’est cette sensation du danger présent que j’aurais voulu donner dans
_La Barricade_ sûr, si j’avais pu y réussir, d’avoir servi utilement ma
classe, et par conséquent mon pays.”
But according to M. Pataud, the notorious ex-Secretary of the Syndicate
of Electricians, M. Bourget carried away with him a totally false
impression of the men and places he professes so closely, and also so
impartially, to have studied.
A word about M. Pataud. It was shortly after he had ordered the
Electricians’ strike that plunged Paris almost into darkness for two
hours,[2] and at the zenith of his fame, that the “Roi de la Lumière”
attended a performance of _La Barricade_ at the Vaudeville Theatre.
It had been reported that he had served M. Bourget as a model for the
character of Thubeuf, the professional agitator in the play. This, M.
Bourget emphatically denied. “Let me see for myself,” said M. Pataud. And
he requested M. Bourget to send him a ticket of admission to the theatre,
and humorously offered to return the compliment by placing a seat in the
Bourse du Travail at the dramatist’s disposal.
Well, M. Bourget granted the request: but ignored the invitation to the
Labour Exchange. And one night “King Pataud” seated himself, amidst
_le Tout Paris_ in the most fashionable of the boulevard theatres. He
himself, in spite of his pink shirt, red tie, and “bowler” hat, belonged
in a sense to _le Tout Paris_. Was he not “Le Roi de la Lumière”? There
were columns about him in the newspapers; he was “impersonated” in every
music-hall _revue_, and his picture post cards sold by the thousand.
Then, pressing (and sentimental) requests for his autograph; invitations
out to dinner and gifts of cigarettes and cigars; and what a stir, what
excited cries of “There goes Pataud,” when the great man swaggered down
the boulevards with a fine Havana stuck in a corner of his mouth, and the
“bowler” hat tilted rakishly over the right eye!
Nor in the Vaudeville Theatre was his triumph less complete. The interest
of the brilliant audience was centred on “Fauteuil No. 159”; not on the
stage. There sat the man who had but to give the signal and—out would
go the lights! So was every opera-glass levelled at him, and so—at the
end of the performance—were all the reporters in Paris eager to obtain
“King” Pataud’s impressions of the play. “Not bad,” he was reported to
have said. “But M. Bourget’s conception of how strikes are conducted is
ridiculous. And his strikers are equally absurd.”