HOW PARIS AMUSES ITSELF.
The average Parisian thinks of but two things--how to get the wherewith
to amuse himself, and how to get the most amusement out of that
wherewith. I doubt if he ever thinks of any hereafter beyond to-night.
His religion is admirably adapted to his nature. He is either a Catholic
or an infidel. If a Catholic, a few minutes at the end suffices to fix
him for the next world; if an infidel, death is annihilation, and
therefore he proposes to have as much enjoyment as possible out of the
present.
Paris would not be a good place for a series of revival meetings. The
Parisian would jeer at the exhorters, and say, "Go to!"
Paris supports seventy theaters, good, bad, and indifferent. It is not
fair to use the words "bad and indifferent," with reference to the
quality of acting, for there is no bad acting in Paris. It is as to the
quality and material of the representations. They have all kinds, from
the gorgeous Italian opera down to the small and cheap affairs in which
burlesque comic opera of the funniest, and melodrama of the most lurid
character is performed, for the especial delectation of the lower
classes.
The theaters devoted to the melodrama are of the most melodramatic kind.
There can be no crime too horrible for representation, and the
situations cannot be too intense, or the plot too complicated. French
life, like French cooking, must have any quantity of pepper in it.
[Sidenote: A MELO-DRAMA.]
About the least thrilling situation that would be considered good in
these theaters would be the chopping up of the villain's grandmother,
and the roasting alive of a parcel of illegitimate children, to hide
the consequences of a "damning crime." There is always any quantity of
blowing up of towers, of stabbings and shootings and bludgeonings, and
all that sort of thing. There are secret passages in ancient castles,
and paid cut-throats, and blue lights, and heroines with hair hanging
down their backs, and everything pertaining to what in America is known
as the "blood and thunder drama."
One that I saw reminded me of an incident that happened at home many
years ago. In a village in which I was residing, there came the usual
strolling company of players of the olden time, the sad-faced men and
wan women, who knew by actual walking all the various roads in the
United States, to whom a good house would be a novelty that would make
them uncomfortable. They had played to empty benches so long that they
could not do well if living people occupied the seats.
I was fond of the drama, and the variety that we had there was better
than none at all; so that I always patronized the strolling companies,
attended invariably by a German physician who was quite as fond as
myself of theatrical representations, and who, like myself, preferred a
half loaf to no bread. We went together that night.
The play on the occasion was that cheerful drama from the French, "La
Tour de Nesle." The plot is variegated, to say the least. Margaret of
Burgundy is afflicted with a desire for lovers, and she has a tower in
which she receives them and holds her orgies. It is a pleasant thing to
be invited to sup with the fair Margaret, while the supper lasts, but
the pleasure doesn't hold out. It is not continuous. For when you have
bidden her good-evening, and get your hat on, you come across a trap
door on which you step, and you go down several hundred feet, and alight
on spikes situated conveniently in a bed of quick-lime, and your friends
never know what has become of you; and if your life is insured there is
always trouble about that, for there can be no proof of your death.
Margaret loved amusement, but, for reasons, she desired no living
witnesses of her escapades.
She fell in love once with a captain in the French army, one Buridan,
and invited him to one of her little receptions. The disappearance of
so many of her gallants had made the youth in the neighborhood rather
wary of her, and Buridan was advised not to go, and good reason was
given. An intimate friend of his had disappeared mysteriously a little
while before, and the last that was ever heard of him was when he
entered the tower.
Hearing of this, Buridan determined to go anyhow, and find out whether
this friend had really dropped out of the way, _via_ the tower. He went
and supped with the fair Margaret, with whom he fell in love in the
regular French fashion. For reasons of her own, Margaret did not want
him to take the regular walk over the trap-door, but desired to let him
out another way. All would have been well had not Buridan discovered,
inopportunely, that his friend had been in the same room, and had
stepped on and gone through the trap, and that the lime had finished
him. Margaret confessed it, whereupon Buridan drew his sword and killed
her to avenge his friend. Before Margaret passed out she informed
Buridan that he was her son! Buridan then immediately killed somebody
else, and that one, before dying, stabbed another, and so on, till the
entire company, fifteen in all, were piled upon the stage like
cord-wood, which ended the play, there being no living actors to
continue it.
My friend, the German physician, rose and remarked:
"My frendt, dere ish shoost one ding lacking to make dish blay gomplete.
Der beople on der stage ish all deadt. De first violin shood now stab
der second violin mit his bow, and gommit soocide mit himself by
schwallowing his fiddle. Dot wood endt de entire gompany."
As we were leaving the hall a young man named Smith, who was always
blatting about art, and music, and the drama, and such things, having
been in New York once, seized the doctor and said, "Was it not a good
performance? There is power in this company. Have you anything better in
Germany?"
The doctor looked at him pityingly.
"My tear young man, you are not to plame. I pity you. When de Almighty
rained common sense, de Schmidt family all shtood unter umbrellas."
[Sidenote: THE GRAND OPERA.]
"La Tour de Nesle," as lurid as is its plot, would be mild meat for the
frequenters of the minor theaters of Paris. They would insist upon
seeing the actual trap-door, and the lovers of Margaret falling through
it, and I am not sure but what they would demand real spikes and lime.
You pay enormous prices in the one class and next to nothing at the
other; but in both the standard of performance is a very high one, and
is rigidly maintained. The Parisian, gamin or marquis, will have no bad
music or acting. He may tolerate adulteration in his food, but none in
his amusements.
It was always the policy of the French government to see that the people
were sufficiently amused, and also to do every thing possible to attract
strangers to the gay capital. Therefore, the theaters are the most
gorgeous in the world, and as it would be impossible to maintain them
from the admission receipts, the deficiencies are made up from the
public treasury. The Grand Opera receives from the government nearly two
hundred thousand dollars per year, and a number of other theaters
receive like support, the entire amount thus paid aggregating something
over six hundred thousand dollars per year. The citizen who may never
see the inside of the Opera House is content with this, for it attracts
to Paris the foreign sheep whose fleece is his living. Without the Opera
the rich American would not come to Paris, and then what would trade be?
The Parisian shopkeeper pays that tax willingly; and they pay their
artists well, so as to have and keep the best. Any eminent tenor has a
salary of twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars per annum; and other
talent in proportion. It is not a bad thing to be a tenor in Paris. The
salary is very comfortable.
In addition to the regular theaters there are numberless open-air
concerts and variety performances in gardens, the spectators sitting on
benches on the sand, the stage only being covered. These are always
brilliantly lighted, and most artistically and profusely ornamented, and
as attractive to the Parisian as to the stranger.
There is no entrance fee to these places. You wonder at the liberality
of the proprietor, and say to yourself, if you could only find a hotel
with similar views, you would immediately remove to Paris, and make it
a permanent residence. But once inside, you find a pang in store for
you. The free entrance is merely to evade some ordinance or other, and
you are required to purchase refreshments, and no matter what it is, an
ice or a glass of beer, the price is the same, three francs, or sixty
cents, which makes really a high admission, even for Paris. It is the
same as though a landlord should make no charge for his rooms, but
compel you to pay two dollars for the privilege of getting into bed.
Nowhere can something be had for nothing, and the more liberal it is at
the beginning, the dearer it is at the ending.
But the chief delight of the middle and lower class of Parisians is the
ball at night. There are scores and scores of gardens in every part of
the city, immense enclosures, with a magnificent orchestra in the
center, in which the Parisian dances and dances, seemingly never tiring.
He stops now and then for a glass of wine, or the non-exhilarating syrup
with which he lights his soul and ruins his stomach, if he has soul and
stomach, but he seems to regret even this loss of time. The women are
even more intoxicated with the dance than the men. A man may stop a
minute and be easy, but the women chafe under the pauses in the music,
and are impatient to be in motion.
There are gardens for the very poor, where the admission is a sou, or
such a matter, for the men, and nothing for the women. The grounds
outside are rather diminutive, and the ornamentation somewhat scanty,
but the dancing floor is there and the orchestra likewise, and the
blouses and calico enjoy themselves as thoroughly as the broadcloth and
silk that frequent the higher priced places.
The Jardin Mabille, near the Champs Elysées, is the best known in Paris.
It has world-wide celebrity, and no foreigner, no matter of what nation,
ever leaves Paris without paying it, at least, one visit. It is a
wondrously beautiful place, gorgeously illuminated with colored lights,
and full to excess of trees, shrubbery, flowers and everything else that
is beautiful. There are long walks, tortuous labyrinths, tables
everywhere under trees, and it is filled with all sorts of attractions
to take money from the visitor.
[Sidenote: THE WICKED MABILLE.]
The foreigner goes there to see the peculiar dancing, of which he or she
has heard so much. The whole world knows of the can-can, and the whole
world has heard of the frightfully immodest exposure of person visible
at these bacchanalian orgies. I doubt if a youth ever left his native
home in America that his mother did not exact a promise from him that he
would not visit this horrible Mabille, which promise he gave, with,
"Why, mother, do you suppose I would go to such a place? Never!" And
then he went there the first time he was in Paris. He wasted no time.
[Illustration: THE MABILLE AT NIGHT.]
Inasmuch as the Mabille has, ere these pages will be printed, gone the
way of the world (the ground has been sold, and is to be used for
legitimate business purposes), some little account of it is proper, even
though it is like embalming a fly in precious ointment.
Mabille was established in 1840 by an old and not very popular dancing
master named Mabille, by virtue of his age known as Père (Father)
Mabille. He purchased or leased a piece of ground on the Allée des
Veuves and the Champs Elysées, and built thereon a dance house.
Originally it was a dingy structure and the admission, male and female,
was only ten sous. It prospered, for it was the resort of the doubtful
classes who always pay.
[Illustration: A MABILLE DIVINITY AND THE IDIOT WHO PAYS.]
The sons of Père Mabille took the money the old gentleman had saved, and
enlarged it. They substituted gas for oil; they enlarged and decorated
the grounds; they planted shrubbery and introduced decorations; they had
better music, and made it the resort of the better, that is, richer
class of the _demi-monde_, the wild Bohemians and that enormous class in
Paris who live from hour to hour like butterflies.
Then commenced its prosperity. It became the fashion among all classes.
The rich and aristocratic went there to get the dissipation that more
correct amusements would not afford them; the foreigners flocked thither
in droves, for the Jardin Mabille was one phase of Parisian life which
must be seen, and every girl who wanted to display her charms and graces
in a way to excite attention, chose Mabille as the stage upon which to
make her essay.
Enter a girl from the Provinces of any peculiar type of beauty, any
especial beauty of face and figure, with the wit and boldness for the
venture. She danced at the Mabille. Some rich or notorious debauchee
picked her up at once, and made her the fashion. He gave her carriages,
costumes, palaces. Poets, who are never so divine as when a responsible
spendthrift inspires them, sang the beauties of the new sensation, and
all Paris talked of her. Of course she did not dance at Mabille after
she had made her conquest--Mabille was her opportunity.
[Sidenote: HARRIET BEECHER STOWE AT THE MABILLE.]
They lived their brief existence, they were attired like the butterfly
while they lived but, alas! they died as does the butterfly.
Originally it was the resort of the middle class of Parisians, who
worked for their living, clerks, students, and that class, and
grisettes, and the women who skirted the edges of decency. The dances
that made the place famous were born of the natural extravagance of
feeling that possesses these classes of Frenchmen, and they were done
with an abandon which their paid imitators never rivaled. It was
grotesque, wild and suggestive, but it was genuine. If Finette flung
herself into a position that procured applause, Marie would excel her or
die in the attempt. These people, forty years ago, did the grotesque
because it pleased them to do it--the paid dancers last summer were mere
imitations, and bad ones at that.
The proprietors encouraged this kind of thing, for in it was their
profit. And they engaged other women, not beautiful enough to become
sensations, but accommodating enough to stay in the place nights, who
were ready to endure the attentions of any man who had francs enough in
his pocket to afford it, and who, for their society, would pay ten
prices for refreshments; they getting their percentage regularly in the
morning.
We saw them by the hundred, each one with some wealthy idiot attached to
her, spending his money supposing that he was seeing "life." He was, the
dirty end of it, and he was paying roundly for it.
Who went to Mabille? Everybody. Thirty years ago, Harriet Beecher Stowe
visited it, and described it as follows:
We entered by an avenue of poplars and other trees and shrubs, so
illuminated by jets of gas sprinkled among the foliage as to give
it the effect of enchantment. We found flower-beds laid out in
every conceivable form, with diminutive jets of gas so distributed
as to imitate flowers of the softest tints and the most perfect
shape. In the centre there is a circle of pillars, on the top of
each of which is a pot of flowers with gas jets, and between them
an arch of gas jets. In the midst of this is another circle,
forming a pavilion for musicians, also brilliantly illuminated, and
containing a large cotillion band of the most finished performers.
Around this you find thousands of gentlemen and ladies strolling,
singly, in pairs, or in groups. While the musicians repose they
loiter, sauntering round, or recline on seats. But now a lively
waltz strikes the ear. In an instant twenty or thirty couples are
whirling along, floating like thistles in the wind, around the
central pavilion. Their feet scarce touch the smooth-trodden earth.
Round and round, in a vortex of life, beauty and brilliancy they
go, a whirlwind of delight, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushing, and
gauzy draperies floating by, while the crowds outside gather in a
ring and watch the giddy revel. There are countless forms of
symmetry and grace, faces of wondrous beauty; there, too, are feats
of agility and elasticity quite aerial. One lithe and active dancer
grasped his fair partner by the waist; she was dressed in red, was
small, elastic, agile, and went by like the wind, and in the course
of a very few seconds he would give her a whirl and a lift, sending
her spinning through the air, around himself as an axis, full four
feet from the ground. It is a scene perfectly unearthly, or rather
perfectly Parisian, and just as earthly as possible; yet a scene
where earthliness is worked up into a style of sublimation the most
exquisite conceivable. Aside from the impropriety inherent in the
very nature of waltzing, there was not a word, look or gesture of
immorality or impropriety. The dresses were all decent, and if
there was a vice it was vice masked under the guise of polite
propriety.
It was different in the Summer of 1881. The dancers were professionals;
the poor, painted, broken down danseuses of the minor theaters, and the
male dancers were professionals, or semi-professionals, who came every
night and went through the same dreary performance.
Now it is no more. It existed forty years; poets have raved over its
habitues; women who made their _debut_ on the treacherous surface of
Parisian life, survive only in their rhymes, and the visitor to Paris
next season will find in its place imposing structures devoted to trade.
It is well. The more trade and the less Mabille the better for the
world.
[Sidenote: THE PROFESSIONAL DANCER AT THE GARDENS.]
But the American youth who thought to have a bacchanalian orgie was
terribly disappointed, for there is nothing bacchanalian about it. All
he saw was the entire dancing platform occupied by waltzers, who waltzed
just as everybody does in good society, nothing more or less. Only after
each waltz comes the terribly immoral can-can, and the eyes of the young
American, or English, man or woman glitter with expected enjoyment.
Alas! they do not get it. The can-can is simply a quadrille danced by
two or more couples; there is no prompter, no set figure as I could see,
and nothing about it singular except the extravagant poses of the
dancers. They advance and retreat, not with the dignified walk-through
that the English speaking races affect, but more like Comanche Indians.
The male being who dances, always with his hat on, will indulge in the
most terrific leaps; he will twist his body into every possible shape
that the human body is capable of, and will do more grotesque work than
any pantomimist on any stage. He twirls, he twists, he leaps, he dances
on one foot, and then on the other. He throws his body into the air in
all sorts of shapes; he squats, he lolls his tongue out of his mouth, he
makes play with his hat, he puts it back on his head, either at the back
or over his eyes; he springs and knocks his feet together; all without
system or design, but always in time with the music. It is not the
poetry, it is the delirium tremens, of motion. It is such a dance as one
might expect to see in a lunatic asylum containing only incurables.
[Illustration: PROFESSIONALS IN A QUADRILLE AT THE MABILLE.]
As an exhibition of absurd posturing, it is always a success; as a
specimen of dancing, as we understand dancing, it is anything else. But
for just once it is amusing. As between seeing it every night and
serving an equal time in the penitentiary, I would unhesitatingly choose
the penitentiary. The human body is a thing of joy when naturally
carried, but you do not want too much of it in the can-can.
The women are, it must be confessed, a trifle freer. They will kick a
bystander's hat from his head, and in some of the movements there is a
very free exhibition of leg; that is to say, if the leg be shapely. I
noticed that the ladies whose general contour suggested pipe-stemmy
support were as modest about their displays as though they had been
nuns, and I fancied I could detect a shade of anguish pass over their
faces as they observed the shapely proportions of their more favored
sisters.
But be it known that the especial dancers, those who do these
extraordinary leaps and contortions, are such by profession, who get so
much per night, the same as at any other theater. This style of dancing
was always in favor in Paris among the people, and the proprietor of
the place, finding that it attracted strangers, reduced it to a system.
He hires a certain number of dancers, the same as he does his orchestra,
and these set the fashion for the citizens who indulge in terpsichorean
gymnastics.
You can easily detect the professionals. They come on the floor at
regular intervals and do their dreary performance coolly and in a purely
professional way, without any more emotion than they would manifest in
combing their hair.
I do not know what it might have been in other days, but at present
writing it is about the tamest place I know of. I overheard this
conversation between two young ladies one morning:--
"Mary, dear, where did you go last evening? I could not find you."
"Ah, don't tell anybody, but Mamie, and Charlie, and I, went to the
Mabille."
"Is it good?"
"Good! It is nothing. _It is the most shockingly moral place I ever saw.
Why, anybody can go there._"
Mary dear had expected to be shocked, but she was not. Possibly the
world never saw so much of her lower limbs as it did of the ladies
dancing at the Mabille, but I will venture to say that she, herself,
under the eyes of her prudish mamma at home, had more than made that up
by display from the neck downward, a great many times.
[Illustration: A MALE DANCER AT JARDIN BULLIER.]
[Sidenote: GARDENS OTHER THAN MABILLE.]
It is not altogether pleasant for young Americans of the gentler sex to
visit Mabille, no matter how good their escort. There are too many
draw-backs to the pleasure, and it is being continually marred. I
noticed one party, a young lady and gentleman who were perpetually
troubled; they would be observing something that interested them, when
very suddenly the girl would exclaim, "Charley, this way! quick! There
comes Sadie Mercer, and I would not have her see me here for anything.
Sammy Burton is with her!"
They rose and darted down a path-way, only to turn and meet another
party whom they knew, and so on. The most of the evening was spent in
vain endeavors to keep their acquaintances from knowing they were there,
and their friends were similarly employed.
There was no occasion for all this effort. Everybody goes to the
Mabille, once at least, because everybody must. But it isn't worth the
time, however.
[Illustration: THE GRISETTE WHO PREFERS THE JARDIN BULLIER.]
At the _Jardin Bullier_, in the Latin quarter, there is wilder dancing
and more freedom than the Mabille. It is the resort of the students and
the grisettes proper, and the spectacle is genuine. There are no
professionals there, and the dancing is done by those who have paid for
it, and do it for the pleasure they find in it. The high-kicking girl
kicks as a colt does, because she enjoys it, and not in the languid way
of the paid dancers. The brigandish youth who can contort the wildest is
cheered on to renewed exertions, and the grisette who can kick the
highest or do the most grotesque things is applauded to the echo. And
when in these extravaganzas one slips upon the waxed floor, and falls,
what a shout goes up from the excited spectators! She cares nothing for
it--slips are common on these floors. She laughs more heartily than the
rest, and rises and resumes her place.
The French quadrille is like American hash--a mystery. There is no
earthly system in it. Like volunteer soldiers, each one operates upon
his own hook. They forward and back with the most sublime disregard of
everybody else; they combine in the one dance the American quadrille,
the German and French waltz, the Spanish fandango, the galop, the polka,
and every other dance known to ancient and modern times. The only reason
that they do not incorporate other dances into their alleged quadrille,
is because they do not know any more. They put in all they have heard
of, and one would be unreasonable to expect more of them.
But they have a good time, and, as the French world goes, an innocent
one. There is perhaps more freedom in gesture than would be considered
proper in England or America, but there is no drunkenness, and the
utmost decorum is observed. Such a thing would be impossible with the
fighting whisky of America, or face-bruising brandy of England. Get
together a thousand of the lower classes in either of those excessively
moral countries, and the affair would break up in a row in an hour.
There would be knock-downs and dragging-outs without number; there would
be bruised heads and mashed faces, and the broken nose brigade would be
largely recruited.
The Frenchman does not get drunk. He drinks his light wine to the point
of exhileration, and that is all. The student of art, or law, or
medicine, who finds his enjoyment at these places, keeps as sober as a
judge, and a great deal more sober than a great many judges in America I
wot of. He looks to be capable of any enormity, but he is the most
inoffensive being on earth. Indulging in the wildest vagaries--dressed
in the most rakish and brigandish costume, he is scrupulously polite and
intensely considerate. He could not be more so were the grisettes his
sisters, and the spectators his father, mother and aunts.
[Sidenote: AT THE JARDIN BULLIER.]
One evening at the _Jardin Bullier_ one young fellow, utterly and
entirely brainless, evidently the fop of his quarter, appeared dressed,
to his taste, gorgeously. He wore a pearl gray suit; the bottoms of his
trowsers were so absurdly wide that they covered his boot; his coat
sleeves were so wide that they made a fair match for his trowsers; his
cuffs (with a showy sham button) came down to his knuckles; his shirt
collar was cut half way down his breast, and his hat was the most
painful in shine that I had ever seen. He was, in short, gotten up
regardless of expense, and entirely for effect.
This young fellow offered some slight indignity to a girl with whom he
was dancing. Very promptly she cried out, and in an instant the dancing
was suspended. "Put him out!" cried those near them, who comprehended
the matter. "Put him out! Put him out!" was echoed from one side to the
other of the vast hall, and a rush of excited Frenchmen was made toward
that part of the room. The fellow attempted some sort of an explanation,
but it was of no avail. Out he went, guilty or not. In that place
everybody must be like Cæsar's wife--above suspicion. Out he went, and
the dancing was resumed with redoubled fury. A duty discharged, they
might abandon themselves to pleasure with increased zest. All the
difference was those who had yelled "Put him out" the loudest, kicked a
trifle higher than before, and went crab-like sideways with more
extraordinary contortions.
Tibbitts and the Professor had an awkward experience the first night
they were in Paris. The Professor had received a letter from Tibbitts'
father requesting him to look after the young man, and see that he
attended to legitimate matters and be not carried away with the
frivolities of Parisian life, which destroy so many inexperienced youth.
In fact, he gave the Professor authority in the matter, and made him a
sort of a guardian over him.
After dinner the Professor showed Tibbitts the letter and assumed
control at once.
"To-night, Lemuel, I have to meet the American delegates to the
International Science Congress, and I cannot be with you. But I must
exact a promise from you that you will not go to any of those public
balls, such as the Mabille. I have no objection to your visiting the
Opera, for I understand the building itself is a study, and it is
perhaps well that you should hear and enjoy the music of the masters.
This is as far as I can permit you to go. You promise?"
"Certainly," replied Tibbitts, "though it is not necessary. Without a
promise I should not go to those wicked places."
[Illustration: THE MEETING OF TIBBITTS AND THE PROFESSOR.]
Scene the second: The Jardin Mabille--music, lights, gaily dressed
women, little tables, wine, and all that sort of thing.
Tibbitts dancing furiously with a lady in silken attire, and striving in
vain to do the high, grotesque dancing of the Parisian. The music ceases
and Tibbitts leads his partner to a table. In his excitement he does not
at once notice that at the table exactly in front of him is seated the
Professor, who, inasmuch as he was holding an interesting conversation
with a lady who spoke English somewhat, did not notice Tibbitts till
their eyes met.
[Sidenote: TIBBITTS AND THE PROFESSOR.]
Tibbitts is a young man of great presence of mind. He was equal to this
emergency. The Professor regarded him a moment, and said:--
"Lemuel!"
Lemuel stared at him and replied:--
"Are you addressing me, sir?"
"Certainly I am."
"You are mistaken in the person, sir. I do not know you. My name is not
Lemuel, it is Smith. Smith, of Hartford, Connecticut. May I ask your
name, and why you address me, a perfect stranger? Do I resemble any
friend of yours? Am I like any grandson you have? If so, could you, for
the sake of the resemblance, lend me a hundred francs?"
"Lemuel, this is trifling. What are you doing here?"
It suddenly occurred to Lemuel that he had the Professor in as close a
corner as the Professor had him, and he replied:--
"Professor, what are _you_ doing here?"
"Lemuel, I was fearful that you would break your promise to me, and I
came here to be sure that _you_ were not here."
"Professor, I was fearful that _you_ might accidentally stray hither
after the meeting of the Social Science sharps was over, and I came here
to see that no harm came to you."
"Lemuel, we are, I perceive, both innocent of any harmful intention, but
as our action might be misconstrued at home, it would be as well if no
mention is made of this unfortunate matter."
Lemuel coughed slightly and appeared wrapped in thought a moment.
Finally he spoke:--
"I do not know but that I am permitting my good nature to get the better
of my duty, but I will not make mention of your escapade. But I wish it
distinctly understood that this must not be repeated, and that you go
home at once. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It is no place for
you. You, a teacher, an instructor of youth, a man of sixty, one whose
duty it is to form the morals of American youth, one to whose care is
entrusted inexperienced youth, to be seen in such a place and in such a
company. It is too much, and would not sound well in the West. For
shame. As I said, it must not be repeated. Go. I now see why you were so
willing that I should go to the Opera, and why you exacted of me a
promise that I should not come here. You intended to come here by
yourself, and did not want me to be a witness to your shame. But go! I
forgive you! I forgive you."
The Professor went, and as soon as he was safely away, Lemuel took the
seat he had vacated, and was presently engaged in a very pleasant
conversation with the lady who spoke English somewhat.
The Professor's guardianship will not be of much use to the
pleasure-seeking youth. Professors have curiosity, which they generally
gratify, in one way or another. Poor humanity!
The café is the Frenchman's especial resort, however. They are
everywhere and of all classes, and from six to twelve at night are full.
The regular Frenchman sees his friends here; business is transacted
here; the political questions of the day are discussed, and here nations
are made and unmade. In foul weather the inside is crowded; in fair, the
little tables on the sidewalk under the beautiful trees are all
occupied. And these little tables outside afford never-failing pleasure,
to any one, native or foreign. There is a constant ebb and flow of
humanity along the streets; there the costumes of all nations and the
manners and customs of the world are reproduced for your benefit.
Americans, English, Germans, Turks, Tunisians, West Indians, Carribeans,
Russians, and Polanders. If there is a nation on earth that is not
represented in the Boulevard des Italiens or any of the principal
streets, any fine night, I do not know of it.
[Illustration: THE CAFÉ SWELL.]
And here sits the Parisian, hour after hour, watching this human
kaleidoscope, and thanking heaven that he is a Frenchman, and above all
a Parisian.
[Sidenote: THE RELIGIOUS AFRICAN.]
The electric lights shine through the foliage of the trees, making
figures of rare beauty upon the faultless sidewalks; there is the
constant procession of vehicles more beautiful under this light than at
noonday; opposite him are the brilliantly lighted shops with their
wealth of beauty in the windows, and all around him is bustle, stir, and
life. There is nothing dull or stagnant on the streets of Paris at
night. The Parisian will not have it that way. The glitter may be very
thin, but he will have the glitter. He lives upon it.
Paris by day is beautiful--Paris by night is superb.
The faro bankeress is getting ready to go home. She has well nigh done
Europe, which is to say, she has explored every shop in Paris and
London. She may go through Switzerland and Germany with us, but we hope
not. We are praying that she will go home from Paris, and she can't
start any too quick. That she is making preparations for a start, she
confesses. She is afraid of sea voyages; she has a mortal dread of
water; she remarks that she always lives very correctly a week or so
before she sails. She says her prayers regularly, attends church every
service, and does nothing wrong that she knows of. She will not go to an
Opera on Sunday; she declined to go to the Mabille at all; nor will she
even play cards any day. This for ten days before sailing.
"And after you land safely in New York?"
"O, I ain't on the water then, and it don't differ so much."
Which is very like a negro I once knew in Bucyrus, Ohio. He was very
religious, of the African kind of religion, and was the loudest and most
muscular man at a prayer meeting for many a mile around. A gentleman who
had a piece of work to do that was not entirely legal offered Sam two
dollars to do it for him.
"Massa Perkins, dis ting doesn't adzackly squar wid my perfeshn, an'
it's decidedly wicked. It's suthin' a perfessin' Christian shouldn't do,
nohow. But two dollahs is a mi'ty heap ob money foh de ole man, and
ain't picked up ebery day. I'll chance it. Bress de Lawd! It's a sin,
but I can 'pent. Bress de Lawd, I can 'pent.
"While de lamp holds out to bun,
De vilest sinnah may retun."
"Bress de Lawd foh de deff-bed 'pentance. Dat is de great t'ing. Yoo can
'pent on a dying bed."
"But, Sam," said Perkins, "I don't want you to do anything that grinds
against your conscience. A death bed repentance is all very well, but
suppose you die too suddenly to repent?"
"It's a risk, Massa Perkins, but I'll chance it. Two dollahs is a great
deal ob money foh de ole man. It's a mi'ty sudden deff dat'll ketch me
onpropared. And come to t'ink ob it, to be entirely safe, I'll
'pent--jist ez soon ez I git de two dollahs."
Our faro bankeress had the same kind of religion. Land her safe in New
York, and she was easy as to her sins. It was only against the dangers
of navigation that she wanted to be insured.
[Illustration]
[Sidenote: CATHEDRAL AT BEAUVAIS.]
[Illustration: BEAUVAIS CATHEDRAL.]