slaking a tropical thirst with two tall steins of beer. The beautiful
princess carried her stage shoes with her, wrapped in a newspaper.
Presently I caught sight of the faithful maid hurrying to a _cabinet
particulier_ upstairs with a gentleman in a silk hat and a fur-lined
overcoat. I afterwards learned that the maid and Zuléma did not speak.
Alas, all is not gold that glitters!
[Illustration]
Chapter Four
BARS AND BOULEVARDS
There was a certain coziness about the “Bar du Grillon.” It was well
named, this “Bar of the Cricket,” for, tho a public resort, it was
thoroughly homelike.
The walls of the tiny room were of polished cherry, and masses of
Jacqueminot roses adorned the bar.
Every day its charming proprietress, Madame Lucille de Bréville,
stepped from her brougham, passed through the screen doorway, deposited
the contents of the money-drawer in her golden purse, made a memorandum
of it with a little turquoise-topped pencil which hung from her
châtelaine, gave an extra touch to her wavy hair in a tiny mirror, and
straightway became the most gracious of hostesses to a dozen old
friends who dropped in during the afternoon and dined at eight.
A pretty woman is difficult to describe, but Lucille de Bréville was
more than pretty; she was beautiful, exasperatingly so. It might have
been the curve of her white throat, or the merriness in the depths of
her violet eyes, or the grace of her matured and exquisite figure which
gave her charm, for Lucille possessed all these. Better still, she had
a heart of gold and a clever brain, both of which won for her many
comrades who were too fond of her to make love to her. Lucille had had
many love affairs. That was one reason why she became at thirty quite a
serious proprietress of the Bar du Grillon. The pin money which it
brought her gave her an interest in life, for most French women seem to
inherit a little of the bourgeois blood of the _commerçants_. With her
pin money she could do as she pleased; with her annuity it was
different. There was always an accounting accompanying that. At thirty,
Lucille had sold most of her jewels and with the proceeds founded a
private charity, and had settled upon a frail old aunt who adored her a
yearly amount sufficient to keep her in modest comfort to the end of
her days.
Individually the habitués of the Bar du Grillon were interesting.
There was an aged Countess who came regularly, an amiable old lady,
shriveled like a faded rose, the memoirs of whose sixty years would
have filled a volume.
There was, too, a robust and jolly editor of a leading journal, a most
polished gentleman of France, with a well-trimmed beard framing a
countenance beaming with good humor.
Thirdly, there was the Count de X——, who spent most of his time
before and after dinner in the only rocking-chair in the place, with
Lucille’s two sleek-coated dachshunds curled contentedly in his lap.
Sometimes, on sunny days, the Count went to the races and with absent
mind watched the horses win or lose for him. Upon days like these he
would return to the bar late to find the rocking-chair occupied, and
this is why he did not go to the track oftener. But whether he lost or
won, whichever way the wheel of fortune spun for him, his outward
manner preserved its even tenor. He was ever polished and agreeable. To
him life had no new sensations, and he took it philosophically and with
good grace. Perhaps the sole interest which he cherished was his deep
affection for Lucille, but since many others among her old friends
harbored the same feeling, to which she responded with the most
exasperating of platonic friendships, the Count accepted the situation
logically and retired to the rocking-chair to talk to the dachshunds.
The young Spaniard who sat at Lucille’s left at dinner accepted the
situation less wisely. Often he burst forth beneath his breath with
_Caramba!_ and other safety-valves of speech. Periodically he became
desperate, and, since he could not lay his castles in Spain at her
feet, he brooded over the thought of suicide, and would absent himself
from the company for days, drinking heavily. Then he would return to
the Grillon with the excuse that he had been at death’s door in his
apartment. Tho he looked it, Lucille knew better and lectured him for
his recklessness and especially for his intemperate habits, which she
abhorred.
Another habitué was Mademoiselle Marcelle Dauval, who fell in love with
an aeronaut and spent most of her time in balloons. When Marcelle was
late for dinner the company wore an anxious air, took out their
watches, poked their heads out of the door and surveyed the heavens
through the slit of the narrow street. Often, as the dinner hour
approached, the sky was black and full of scudding clouds, and the
dinner would begin without her in silence born of anxiety. Then what
joy when Marcelle arrived, her cheeks glowing from a rarer atmosphere
than any of these sordid worldlings knew! “_Pâté de foie gras_, cold
pheasant and _champagne brut_ at a height of two thousand meters! Eh,
Hop!” and Marcelle gave a little scream at the memory of it. Often she
navigated the big balloon herself, throwing out the sand and sprinkling
the “Germans,” as she used to say, as they glided on long trips over a
patch of the Fatherland. Or she would curl herself up in the creaky
basket while her companion Jacques busied himself with his aerial
observations.
The company would listen entranced to these recitals of the trim
Marcelle’s daily experiences, and marvel at her fearlessness.
There was another genial comrade, Jeannette Brébant, whose forty odd
years had left her frank, mannish and homely. There was no feminine
pettishness to be found in Jeannette. She called a spade a spade, and
dealt you whole shovelfuls of badinage, shook hands like a man and had
a kind word for every one, even her old lovers. A well-groomed woman
was Jeannette, with her Titian hair as neatly dressed at four o’clock
as the smartest coiffeur in Paris could make it.
At eight, the faithful Louis, whose position as barkeeper and waiter
made him indispensable, placed a Japanese screen in front of the door
as a hint to warn intruders, pushed the three small tables together and
laid the fresh cloth for dinner, bringing the vases of roses which had
adorned the bar to the table. Lucille loved flowers, and a basketful of
long-stemmed Jacqueminots came daily from the hot-house of her pretty
place at Étretat, where Lucille rested during the hottest of the summer
months when every Parisian who was able fled from the city.
Then Lucille closed the bar for its annual renovation and the faithful
Louis was sent on a vacation to his family on the German frontier,
where he rested from his cocktail-mixing and studied English, which he
rarely had occasion to use and which was quite as bad as his French.
The only thing American about this “American Bar” was the sign over the
door, beneath which appeared a long list of American drinks with weird
names, translated to him from a bartender’s guide published on the
Bowery in the early sixties, not one concoction of which he had ever
been able to mix.
During the summer period workmen invaded the Grillon and a general
varnishing took place. The small tables were repolished and the chimney
leading from the tiny kitchen cleaned. The piano was tuned and the cozy
interior made spick and span for the grand opening in the fall. Then
all of the old crowd would return; it was like the reunion of a family:
Jeannette and Marcelle and the editor and the Count, from his villa by
the sea, and the Spaniard, who never left Paris. Then such a dinner! So
much had happened in the meantime, and there was so much to talk about.
The Countess had been a month at Trouville.
“_Ah! mes chers enfants_,” she would begin in her gentle voice, “It was
not like the old days there any more. Such a common lot about the
_petits chevaux_; none of the great toilettes I used to see, nor as
many louis won and lost, either,” she added, nodding her head.
“I played my small purse cautiously on the ‘_bande_’ one day. I won a
thousand francs, and the next morning I took my little bonne Thérèse
south; she is not very strong and she was so happy to see her mother.”
The editor rose and bowed.
“You have a good heart, old friend,” he said, as he bent and kissed the
tips of her fingers.
“We stayed there a week on their farm,” continued the Countess, “and I
spent all day in the sun watching the pigs and the chickens. You have
no idea what an appetite I had and what a rest in my old clothes.”
“Come, come, all of you, my children,” cried Lucille, “my soup is
getting cold;” and she buried the silver ladle in the _purée_.
For some moments after the company were served they remained silent.
The _purée_ deserved a prayer of thanks, while Marie, Lucille’s bonne,
beamed at their satisfaction from the doorway of her kitchen.
“It is good, is it not?” laughed Lucille, delighted as a child over the
new soup.
“_Voilà!_ That is a soup,” roared the editor.
“My dear child,” put in the Count, bowing to Lucille, “I have known
intimately for years the best _purées_ of the Maison Dorée; those were
soups. This is a masterpiece! a dream!! a soup to comfort the soul!!!”
“Ah! you dear old boy,” cried Lucille, patting him on the cheek, “you
are always so appreciative;” and she added, in a whisper, to the rest:
“Marie is enchanted.”
[Illustration: IN A BOULEVARD CAFÉ]
Over the coffee and liqueur they often discussed in open debate such
serious topics as whether or not marriage was a failure; the finer
points of fidelity; were women more faithful in their love than men?
had luxury become a necessity? what really constitutes happiness in
life; were it not better to enjoy the present, since one could not help
the past or control the future? etc., etc.
Such discussions as these would last until the hour grew late and the
hands of the clock ticking over the bar crawled to another day.
Then the shutters were put up, the company dispersed, and Lucille’s
waiting brougham would drive her home.
But it was the Count who saw her safely within her carriage, stowed the
sleepy dachshunds in their warm corner under the seat, and raised his
hat as Lucille drove away.
Some years have passed since the old days when “The Bar of the Cricket”
held such comrades as these.
It was winter when I turned down the narrow street again one afternoon
and entered the door.
The room was silent. The cozy interior had remained much the same as it
had been in the past; the walls of polished cherry, the tables, the
piano, were in their places as of old, but the roses on the bar were
artificial, and a self-feeding stove roared in one corner.
The faithful Louis came to greet me. He looked haggard and grayer; the
only other occupant of the room, a man with a hard jaw and a diamond
ring, lounged in the rocking-chair, muttering to himself over a
cocktail.
A glance at Louis told me all.
“And so they have all gone?” I said.
“Yes, monsieur;” he paused, and his eyes filled.
“Ah! it is not no more now like old days, is it?” he continued, forcing
a smile, and his hand trembled, clutching his napkin. “Madame de
Bréville, you know, she sold the bar? Yes, she has gone avay. I hafn’t
seen her once,” and he looked up sadly.
“And Mademoiselle Marcelle, she is no longer in Paris; she vent avay
now three years to St. Petersburg,” he continued.
“Once I seen de Countess. She come back to see me. Poor Countess, she
is sick—sick like one dead—so pale, so white, yust like dot napkin.
And now she lives mit Madame Brébant. Ah! Himmel! How I laf sometimes
at dot Madame Brébant, she vas alvays making some fun. And de Spanish
gentleman, Monsieur Gonsalez! He got married. Ya, he vas married to a
fine lady with plenty money.”
“And the editor?” I asked.
“I don’t see him no more; he vas a goot man;” and he added, softly,
lowering his voice, “I tink he vas in love mit Madame de Bréville! Ya,
I tink so.”
“Have you heard from the Count?” I asked.
“Ah! you don’t hear about him, no? He was suicided. He vent and shooted
hisself. It vas in all de papers. He vas a fine gentleman, too, de
Count. And so, monsieur, it is only Louis who stays; may be I be better
off if I do, vhat you tink? May be it vill be a goot place again some
day?”
In the Bois one sunny morning a little girl in a velvet dress came
running to me as fast as her chubby legs could carry her and screaming:
“Monsieur, monsieur, my mamma wishes to speak to you; she is just over
there in the carriage,” and she pointed with a majestic sweep of her
little hand to a landau waiting under the shade of the acacias.
It was Lucille, happily married to one none of us had ever seen.
There are many bars in Paris with barmaids who speak perfect English
and a clientèle of _demi-mondaines_ who do not.
[Illustration]
Many of these places have grown to be miniature Maximes and quite a few
of them keep a _chasseur_ in gilt buttons. They are frequented by the
idling _jeunesse_ with more “louis” than brains, who occupy late in the
afternoon the high stools and pay accordingly for the flattering _bons
mots_ of certain powdered and bediamonded ladies who in years are old
enough to be their grandmothers. The fortunes of the callow youths
tumble eventually either into the hands of these well-seasoned
adventuresses or into the pocket of the card-sharps who patronize many
of these bars. Beside these there are many eminently respectable
looking old gentlemen who, with unhappy homes and no clubs to go to,
prefer passing a restful hour steeped in an atmosphere of mixed drinks,
perfume and expensive toilettes. Here Mimi la Duchesse strolls in at
five o’clock with her French bulldog, “Mignon,” wearing all the
diamonds around his neck that the fair Mimi has not room for on her
fingers. Later in the winter, when creditors are pressing and Mimi’s
debts have run into several hundred thousands of francs, there will be
a very _chic_ catalog issued announcing an absolute auction of her
effects, together with her private hotel.
It will contain several full-page photogravures upon hand-made
deckle-edged paper of her residence, with a frontispiece showing the
interior of the “Great Hall” paneled in Spanish leather, its fireplace
taken from a famous château of the time of François I., and hanging
over the carved shelf a celebrated Madonna, under whose sad eyes have
been played nightly so many heavy games of baccarat. Turning another
page you will discover the view looking south through the conservatory
filled with rare exotic plants and orchids. Another page shows the
_salon_, rich in carved ivory and _cloisonne_ and _art nouveau_, none
of which Mimi knew anything about except that they were expensive and
that many of them accompanied the bonbons. Then the dainty boudoir is
depicted, paneled in teakwood and lapis-lazuli. Finally her superb
jewels are illustrated: priceless strings of pearls; rings of weighty
emeralds and pigeon-blood rubies; a gold toilet-set studded with
sapphires; and something to adorn Mimi’s neck, composed mostly of
diamonds, with a miniature automobile in rubies, pendent from a display
of jeweled fruits upheld by two caryatids in diamonds and emeralds.
Besides all these, are three ruby collars that Mignon as yet had never
worn.
[Illustration:
Drawing by Perinet
MIMI QUESTIONS THE BARON]
With the publication of this _catalogue de luxe_, rumors reach the ears
of the public of the lady’s dire distress, and the pathetic side of
this forced sale will be dwelt upon. At the private view her residence
is crowded with the curious of the _grand monde_. These women of the
most exclusive society cross her threshold and block her stairway and
pry into every open corner of her domicile—women who would have been
shocked to find themselves in front of her doorstep at any other time.
So much for the moral hypocrisy of the virtuous.
And while the stairways at this private view are thronged with the
fashionable world, Mimi and her most intimate friends are laughing over
champagne and biscuits in the kitchen, the only room that has not been
turned over to the public.
But when a few days after the sale you learn that Mimi has stayed the
cruel hand of the law by the sale of half her jewels, and sent out
invitations to her nearest friends for a housewarming and a costume
ball _chez elle_ Sunday night, you begin to see the advertising feature
of the scheme, and realize something of the _naïveté_ of Mimi.
The opening of the first small bar in Paris managed by women happened
only a score of years ago and met with a furor of popularity, the
receipts reaching often three thousand francs a day. Since then the
number of bars has grown yearly until now many of them are constantly
on a point of failure owing to the increase of competition.
Most of them have become the idling resorts of habitués of the new and
old _jeunesse_ with small fortunes, who spend hours therein chatting
with the Mimis and Claras who chance to drop in daily.
The best class of our bars would never become popular with the average
Parisian, for the reason that there are no Mimis or Claras in them to
talk to. The Parisian demands that at least a certain part of his day
should be spent in the society of women, and it has been the habit of
his life to have them about him as much as possible. The hours he is
forced to spend at his _bureau_ or in the Bourse he considers only as a
necessary means to the pleasures of his leisure.
In these bars it has become a general custom to serve a table d’hôte
dinner at eight to the habitués and to any stranger who may feel
himself sufficiently at home to stay.
These small public dinner parties are amusing. As a rule the menu is
plain and excellent and the guests agreeable.
Just such a place is the new bar in the rue Duphot, a somewhat
pretentious little room smartly appointed and crowded nightly. Another
is in a corner opposite the Madeleine, its narrow interior dazzling at
night in a profusion of yellow brocade and electricity. Such bars as
these are of the newer class, but there are others far more attractive
in their simplicity, such as the one in the rue du Helder and in the
rue Taitbout and the old London bar in the rue Lysly, and others in the
rue St. Honoré and in the rue Louis-le-Grand, yet in none of these has
the character remained unchanged, for some of them have had a dozen new
proprietors in the last five years.
A most excellent establishment is Henry’s bar in the rue Volnay, the
most American in its type existing in Paris. It is patronized by old
and young from the incoming steamers. If you wish to shut out Paris
from your mind, drop in at Henry’s any afternoon at five; it is
precisely as tho you had been magically transported back to the Hoffman
House.
You will hear Southern colonels there still harping on the war, and
shrewd politicians from up York State telling personal anecdotes of Mr.
Platt, you will find well-groomed men dropping in for a friendly
cocktail before dinner, and you will learn all about the fall business
in ladies’ “plain velours,” the button trust, the latest details of the
corner on babies’ caps, and how Max Dindlehoofer held up Poughkeepsie
with a new brand of _champagne brut_—but all this is not Parisian and
we may dismiss it.
The annual invasion of foreigners supports the big hotels and the shops
of the rue de la Paix and the adjacent neighborhood, but the foreigner
makes little impression upon the average Parisian, who regards the
coming of the “_étranger_” as a small incident in the life of his
beloved city. He passes him unconsciously as one passes the corner of
his street.
[Illustration: A QUIET HOUR]
“They come and go and we are not conscious of them,” said a Parisian to
me. “Besides,” he added, “there are tens of thousands of Parisians
whose daily life is confined to the _quartiers_ in which they live—big
sections of the city where the foreigner seldom finds himself.”
If you wish to see every type of Parisian go by in an endless stream of
swarming humanity, seat yourself upon any of the _terrasses_ of the
grand cafés that line the sides of the grand Boulevards stretching from
the Madeleine to the Théâtre du Gymnase. It is of all Paris the most
frequented—the broad highway of this vast city into which pour the
inhabitants of thousands of connecting byways.
Its stones are worn by the tramp and scuffle of countless thousands
pausing to gaze at the crowded _terrasses_ or to stop for an
_apéritif_. The system with which these popular _terrasses_ are managed
by the generals and their lieutenants in charge of an army of hurrying
waiters is perfect. These head-waiters in command of the sidewalk
portion of these establishments will note your arrival and departure
with the quickness with which a telephone operator detects the dropping
of one of a thousand numbers on a central switchboard. During the rush
you can spend hours over a six sous _bock_, but when you leave, your
table will be filled before you have mingled with the passing stream of
humanity in front.
[Illustration: READY FOR AN OUTING]
The types composing this multitude are as varied as the ever-changing
pattern in a kaleidoscope. Every step you take brings you past a dozen
individuals each one different from the other. Turn quickly, and count
them if you can. The last moment has brought you by a motley score of
merchants, a _cocotte_, an Arab sheik, a ragpicker, a lady, a Japanese,
a _boulevardier_, a simple soldier, an _officier_, two gamins, and a
pretty girl with a bundle. As you turn, a _camelot_, running in a pair
of dirty canvas slippers, screams the latest edition of “La Patrie” in
your ears, and a man in a top hat begs your pardon for having jostled
you in the ribs. There is no time for formalities—he disappears in the
stream and you are borne on with the tide to the corner. Taking
advantage of a second’s halt of the passing cabs, you dodge over to the
opposite curb and into another section of the multitude. The crossing
which you have just left behind is noisy with the snapping of whips and
swearing _cochers_. In many of these carriages one catches a glimpse of
fair women. In a passing cab a _blanchisseuse_ and her sweetheart are
enjoying a chance drive, with madame’s tardy wash deposited in a huge
basket beside the good-natured _cocher_. Old women pushing small carts
cry their wares: “_Les belles pêches, voilà les belles pêches, dix sous
la livre!_”
Three long-haired students go whistling by. In the midst of the throng
you hear bits of conversation:
“Listen!” says a pretty woman radiant over some news to her
companion—but they are gone.
Two more go by furious. “It was he then who lied!” cries one to the
other—but the crowd swallows them up.
Sentences from strange languages reach your ears in the throng, scraps
of Turkish, the guttural of some passing savage, now the cold drawl of
an Englishman, again the soft lisp from a Spanish signorita.
“Say, Bill, you’d orter seen Charley, they didn’t do a thing to him, I
told Lil, says I ...” and two fellow-citizens stride on.
At the corner, jostled by the human tide, two _chic demoiselles_ fresh
from a rehearsal at a nearby theater pass, laughing over some recent
adventure. The next instant they are climbing to the top of an omnibus
and are rattling away toward La Villette.
At night this great highway is ablaze with lights and the swarm still
passes, augmented by the masses who have poured from the shops. By
eight the restaurants and theaters are full to overflowing, but there
is no diminution in the stream of passers-by along the boulevards. The
only hours when the life there seems slack is when the masses are at
work or in bed. There are no people who enjoy their city more than do
Parisians, or who use its thoroughfares so much as a place of pleasure.
The cafés along the boulevards are frequented by a vast _clientèle_ of
men and women of every clime and occupation. These cafés are favorite
places for rendezvous. In one of them a man glances from time to time
to his watch over his paper as he awaits his friend. At the next table
a blonde with steel-gray eyes awaits someone, she does not know whom.
But there is no hurry in either case.