THE "BAL BULLIER"
There are all types of "bals" in Paris. Over in Montmartre, on the Place
Blanche, is the well-known "Moulin Rouge," a place suggestive, to those
who have never seen it, of the quintessence of Parisian devil-me-care
gaiety. You expect it to be like those clever pen-and-ink drawings of
Grevin's, of the old Jardin Mabille in its palmiest days, brilliant with
lights and beautiful women extravagantly gowned and bejeweled. You
expect to see Frenchmen, too, in pot-hats, crowding in a circle about
Fifine, who is dancing some mad can-can, half hidden in a swirl of point
lace, her small, polished boots alternately poised above her dainty
head. And when she has finished, you expect her to be carried off to
supper at the Maison Doree by the big, fierce-looking Russian who has
been watching her, and whose victoria, with its spanking team--black and
glossy as satin--champing their silver bits outside, awaiting her
pleasure.
But in all these anticipations you will be disappointed, for the famous
Jardin Mabille is no more, and the ground where it once stood in the
Champs Elysees is now built up with private residences. Fifine is gone,
too--years ago--and most of the old gentlemen in pot-hats who used to
watch her are buried or about to be. Few Frenchmen ever go to the
"Moulin Rouge," but every American does on his first night in Paris, and
emerges with enough cab fare to return him to his hotel, where he
arrives with the positive conviction that the red mill, with its slowly
revolving sails, lurid in crimson lights, was constructed especially for
him. He remembers, too, his first impressions of Paris that very morning
as his train rolled into the Gare St. Lazare. His aunt could wait until
to-morrow to see the tomb of Napoleon, but he would see the "Moulin
Rouge" first, and to be in ample time ordered dinner early in his
expensive, morgue-like hotel.
I remember once, a few hours after my arrival in Paris, walking up the
long hill to the Place Blanche at 2 P.M., under a blazing July sun, to
see if they did not give a matinee at the "Moulin Rouge." The place was
closed, it is needless to say, and the policeman I found pacing his beat
outside, when I asked him what day they gave a matinee, put his thumbs
in his sword belt, looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then
roared. The "Moulin Rouge" is in full blast every night; in the day-time
it is being aired.
Farther up in Montmartre, up a steep, cobbly hill, past quaint little
shops and cafes, the hill becoming so steep that your cab horse
finally refuses to climb further, and you get out and walk up to the
"Moulin de la Galette." You find it a far different type of ball from
the "Moulin Rouge," for it is not made for the stranger, and its
clientele is composed of the rougher element of that quarter.
[Illustration: (street scene)]
A few years ago the "Galette" was not the safest of places for a
stranger to go to alone. Since then, however, this ancient granary and
mill, that has served as a ball-room for so many years, has undergone a
radical change in management; but it is still a cliquey place, full of a
lot of habitues who regard a stranger as an intruder. Should you by
accident step on Marcelle's dress or jostle her villainous-looking
escort, you will be apt to get into a row, beginning with a mode of
attack you are possibly ignorant of, for these "maquereaux" fight with
their feet, having developed this "manly art" of self-defense to a point
of dexterity more to be evaded than admired. And while Marcelle's
escort, with a swinging kick, smashes your nose with his heel, his pals
will take the opportunity to kick you in the back.
So, if you go to the "Galette," go with a Parisian or some of the
students of the Quarter; but if you must go alone--keep your eyes on the
band. It is a good band, too, and its chef d'orchestre, besides being a
clever musical director, is a popular composer as well.
Go out from the ball-room into the tiny garden and up the ladder-like
stairs to the rock above, crowned with the old windmill, and look over
the iron railing. Far below you, swimming in a faint mist under the
summer stars, all Paris lies glittering at your feet.
* * * * *
You will find the "Bal Bullier" of the Latin Quarter far different from
the "bals" of Montmartre. It forms, with its "grand fete" on Thursday
nights, a sort of social event of the week in this Quarter of Bohemians,
just as the Friday afternoon promenade does in the Luxembourg garden.
If you dine at the Taverne du Pantheon on a Thursday night you will find
that the taverne is half deserted by 10 o'clock, and that every one is
leaving and walking up the "Boul' Miche" toward the "Bullier." Follow
them, and as you reach the place l'Observatoire, and turn a sharp corner
to the left, you will see the facade of this famous ball, illumined by a
sizzling blue electric light over the entrance.
The facade, with its colored bas-reliefs of students and grisettes,
reminds one of the proscenium of a toy theater. Back of this shallow
wall bristle the tops of the trees in the garden adjoining the big
ball-room, both of which are below the level of the street and are
reached by a broad wooden stairway.
The "Bal Bullier" was founded in 1847; previous to this there existed
the "Closerie des Lilas" on the Boulevard Montparnasse. You pass along
with the line of waiting poets and artists, buy a green ticket for two
francs at the little cubby-hole of a box-office, are divested of your
stick by one of half a dozen white-capped matrons at the vestiaire, hand
your ticket to an elderly gentleman in a silk hat and funereal clothes,
at the top of the stairway sentineled by a guard of two soldiers, and
the next instant you see the ball in full swing below you.
[Illustration: (portrait of man)]
There is nothing disappointing about the "Bal Bullier." It is all you
expected it to be, and more, too. Below you is a veritable whirlpool of
girls and students--a vast sea of heads, and a dazzling display of
colors and lights and animation. Little shrieks and screams fill your
ears, as the orchestra crashes into the last page of a galop, quickening
the pace until Yvonne's little feet slip and her cheeks glow, and her
eyes grow bright, and half her pretty golden hair gets smashed over her
impudent little nose. Then the galop is brought up with a quick finish.
"Bis! Bis! Bis! Encore!" comes from every quarter of the big room, and
the conductor, with his traditional good-nature, begins again. He knows
it is wiser to humor them, and off they go again, still faster, until
all are out of breath and rush into the garden for a breath of cool air
and a "citron glace."
And what a pretty garden it is!--full of beautiful trees and dotted with
round iron tables, and laid out in white gravel walks, the garden
sloping gently back to a fountain, and a grotto and an artificial
cascade all in one, with a figure of Venus in the center, over which the
water splashes and trickles. There is a green lattice proscenium, too,
surrounding the fountain, illuminated with colored lights and outlined
in tiny flames of gas, and grotto-like alcoves circling the garden, each
with a table and room for two. The ball-room from the garden presents a
brilliant contrast, as one looks down upon it from under the trees.
[Illustration: (portrait of woman)]
But the orchestra has given its signal--a short bugle call announcing a
quadrille; and those in the garden are running down into the ball-room
to hunt up their partners.
The "Bullier" orchestra will interest you; they play with a snap and
fire and a tempo that is irresistible. They have played together so long
that they have become known as the best of all the bal orchestras.
The leader, too, is interesting--tall and gaunt, with wild, deep-sunken
eyes resembling those of an old eagle. Now and then he turns his head
slowly as he leads, and rests these keen, penetrating orbs on the sea of
dancers below him. Then, with baton raised above his head, he brings his
orchestra into the wild finale of the quadrille--piccolos and clarinets,
cymbals, bass viols, and violins--all in one mad race to the end, but so
well trained that not a note is lost in the scramble--and they finish
under the wire to a man, amid cheers from Mimi and Celeste and "encores"
and "bis's" from every one else who has breath enough left to shout
with.
[Illustration: A TYPE OF THE QUARTER
By Helleu.--Estampe Moderne]
Often after an annual dinner of one of the ateliers, the entire body of
students will march into the "Bullier," three hundred strong, and take a
good-natured possession of the place. There have been some serious
demonstrations in the Quarter by the students, who can form a small army
when combined. But as a rule you will find them a good-natured lot of
fellows, who are out for all the humor and fun they can create at the
least expense.
But in June, 1893, a serious demonstration by the students occurred, for
these students can fight as well as dance. Senator Beranger, having
read one morning in the "Courrier Francais" an account of the revelry
and nudity of several of the best-known models of the Quarter at the
"Quat'z' Arts" ball, brought a charge against the organizers of the
ball, and several of the models, whose beauty unadorned had made them
conspicuous on this most festive occasion. At the ensuing trial, several
celebrated beauties and idols of the Latin Quarter were convicted and
sentenced to a short term of imprisonment, and fined a hundred francs
each. These sentences were, however, remitted, but the majority of the
students would not have it thus, and wanted further satisfaction. A mass
meeting was held by them in the Place de la Sorbonne. The police were in
force there to stop any disturbance, and up to 10 o'clock at night the
crowd was held in control.
[Illustration: (portrait of woman)]
It was a warm June night, and every student in the Quarter was keyed to
a high state of excitement. Finally a great crowd of students formed in
front of the Cafe d'Harcourt, opposite the Sorbonne; things were at
fever heat; the police became rough; and in the row that ensued,
somebody hurled one of the heavy stone match-safes from a cafe table at
one of the policemen, who in his excitement picked it up and hurled it
back into the crowd. It struck and injured fatally an innocent outsider,
who was taken to the Charity Hospital, in the rue Jacob, and died there.
On the following Monday another mass meeting of students was held in the
Place de la Sorbonne, who, after the meeting, formed in a body and
marched to the Chamber of Deputies, crying: "Conspuez Dupuy," who was
then president of the Chamber. A number of deputies came out on the
portico and the terrace, and smilingly reviewed the demonstration, while
the students hurled their anathemas at them, the leaders and men in the
front rank of this howling mob trying to climb over the high railing in
front of the terrace, and shouting that the police were responsible for
the death of one of their comrades.
The Government, fearing further trouble and wishing to avoid any
disturbance on the day of the funeral of the victim of the riot in the
Place Sorbonne, deceived the public as to the hour when it would occur.
This exasperated the students so that they began one of those
demonstrations for which Paris is famous. By 3 P.M. the next day the
Quartier Latin was in a state of siege--these poets and painters and
sculptors and musicians tore up the rue Jacob and constructed barricades
near the hospital where their comrade had died. They tore up the rue
Bonaparte, too, at the Place St. Germain des Pres, and built barricades,
composed of overturned omnibuses and tramcars and newspaper booths. They
smashed windows and everything else in sight, to get even with the
Government and the smiling deputies and the murderous police--and then
the troops came, and the affair took a different turn. In three days
thirty thousand troops were in Paris--principally cavalry, many of the
regiments coming from as far away as the center of France.
[Illustration: ECOLE DES BEAUX ARTS]
With these and the police and the Garde Republicaine against them, the
students melted away like a handful of snow in the sun; but the
demonstrations continued spasmodically for two or three days longer, and
the little crooked streets, like the rue du Four, were kept clear by the
cavalry trotting abreast--in and out and dodging around corners--their
black horse-tail plumes waving and helmets shining. It is sufficient to
say that the vast army of artists and poets were routed to a man and
driven back into the more peaceful atmosphere of their studios.
But the "Bullier" is closing and the crowd is pouring out into the cool
air. I catch a glimpse of Yvonne with six students all in one fiacre,
but Yvonne has been given the most comfortable place. They have put her
in the hood, and the next instant they are rattling away to the Pantheon
for supper.
If you walk down with the rest, you will pass dozens of jolly groups
singing and romping and dancing along down the "Boul' Miche" to the
taverne, for a bock and some ecrivisse. With youth, good humor, and a
"louis," all the world seems gay!