gathered by her songs and her verses. It requires very little make-up
to transform Louise France into her rôle of Frochard in “The Two
Orphans” or into “Eva la Tomate” in “Mademoiselle Fifi.” Paris has not
yet forgotten her famous characterization of the _concierge_ in “La
Voix du Peuple.”
Louise France has played at the Théâtre Libre, at the Porte St. Martin,
and the Grand Guignol, the characters _she knew_, and she played them
to the life with wonderful skill.
Later she abandoned the stage to become editor of “La Fronde.” She has
written many parodies, this _gamine_, this _bonne femme_; many of her
verses are in the memory to-day of thousands.
Later in life she came as a _chansonnière_ and _récitateuse_ to the
cabarets. It was at Eugénie Buffet’s cabaret “La Purée” that I heard
her recite her verses.
[Illustration:
From an Etching
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
LOUISE FRANCE]
Many of these her brain had created years ago, before her gray hairs
came. Some were new and all of them were true. Within the heart of
Louise France lie tenderness and pity. Hear her recite “Les Grues,” and
you will realize how human she is and how much she knows of life and
forgives.
To-day she seems happy among her old comrades in Bohemia whom she has
been with so many years.
Dear old soul, would that the whole world had been as human and
understanding as you, and as free from meanness, pettiness, and the
haggling over that which in the end counts for naught! All through your
life your brain has been busy producing much that is beautiful and
pure. Come, then, give us “Les Petits Soldats,” we will listen quietly
to the very end. Some of us, I fear, will cry, and when your song is
ended, all of us will give you a _double-ban_ of applause and drink
your health.
To Pierre Trimouillat is due a whole volume of clever parodies and
satires. He is a modest little man with no enemies and a host of
friends who know that back of his satires lies kindly good-fellowship.
From year to year, ever since his success as a singing satirist was
assured among the founders of the “Chat Noir,” he has sung in a quiet
voice the words which his satirical wit has invented.
[Illustration:
Caricature by Léandre
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
THE CHANSONNIER PIERRE TRIMOUILLAT]
Many of Trimouillat’s satires and parodies have been interpreted by the
most talented men and women of the French stage.
In Trimouillat, Xavier Privas found a right-hand man for his new
cabaret La Veine.
Xavier Privas is not at all the type of poet one would expect to find
among the bards of the Butte. Tall, of powerful physique, with the
voice of a Falstaff and a genial hospitable manner, he looks much more
like a big, blustering, gallant cavalry officer, and this is precisely
what he once was.
It is Privas who wrote the delicate fantasy full of color, of
lightness, and of pathos, “Le Testament de Pierrot,” and it is he who
has written others upon a hundred themes on love and war under the
titles of “Chanson de Révolte” and “Chanson d’Aurore.”
His verse is musical and his song contains that which is finished and
beautiful.
Some of these bards are tall and thin, wearing their hair long as did
the troubadours and the minstrels of the Middle Ages; others are dapper
and business-like, wear sensible modern clothes, and get their hair cut
regularly.
[Illustration: THE CONCERT ROUGE]
The _chansonnier_ of to-day in Montmartre is not the velvet-coated,
long-haired poet that one could have seen two score of years ago,
muffled in his cloak, with his verses beneath his arm, wending his way
to some cozy corner of this Bohemia to join his fellow poets and recite
his couplets, returning to his garret singing at the break of dawn.
Those were the poet-singers of the time of Henri Murger.
To-day the cabarets of Montmartre are regarded for the most part as
purely business ventures, and it is the ambition of many of these
_chansonniers_ to own and direct their own cabaret, make their fortune,
and retire in comfort before old age. Many of them are married men with
families to support. There is every inducement for them to lead
domestic lives. Singing night after night in the smoke and often
vitiated air of the cabarets is fatiguing work.
Even the best _chansonniers_ are paid but little for their work. Ten
francs a night is the regular price, and many women sing for less.
The price charged for admission varies from one franc and a half up to
three francs, which sum includes your drink. The seating capacity of
these cabarets is limited, and the profits are in proportion. These low
salaries are not confined to the cabarets alone.
There are women whose names appear in startling big letters on the
bills of concert-halls who get nine francs a night for a turn of three
songs with encores and three matinées a week, not including extra
performances on fête days.
Out of this they are obliged to provide effective gowns, and these must
be replaced by fresher ones before they become too familiar to the
audience. Besides, the singers are obliged to pay their dresser, for
few can afford a maid, and the dressing-room attendant and the
hair-dresser attached to the establishment. They must even pay for the
orchestration of their songs, and for their own posters. Many of these
women are well supported, but there are many more to whom an honest
life is a hopeless struggle for existence.
Should they accept a position in the big cafés-concerts like those of
the Champs-Élysées, they will be paid more for their services, but the
expenses extorted from them will be increased in proportion.
“Did you walk again to-day, Mademoiselle D.?” asked a manager of a
leading open-air music-hall of one of his most attractive artistes.
“You know it does not look well for you to be seen arriving on foot.”
His manner was polite, but his tone suggested to this hard-working
little singer, “Forever after at least a _fiacre_!”
A few days later he continued:
“Don’t you think you had better put on a new gown, mademoiselle? The
public gets tired of seeing the same dresses.”
“But, monsieur, that is the third one I have had in six weeks and I can
not manage, with my salary, to have a new gown every week.”
“Well, then,” said the manager, “let me arrange matters for you. You
please the public and I am ready to make as fair a proposition to you
as I do to the others. I will give you an engagement for three seasons
on the condition that you shall dine at least three nights a week in
the restaurant upstairs.”
“Monsieur,” answered mademoiselle, indignantly, “when that becomes my
_métier_, I shall manage it myself.”
Among the _bons garçons_ and _braves filles_ of the _vie de Bohème_, on
the Butte, this good Parisienne would have been held in respect and
esteem.
[Illustration:
Drawing by Léandre
MLLE. DESCHAMPS]
There are few marriages among these bohemians of the Butte, but love
they hold sacred, and woman as the ideal of all creation. Among scores
of these _petits ménages_ exist peace, happiness and fidelity. Many are
the most domestic of homes. Sometimes these _bons garçons_ and _braves
filles_ do marry, just as they tell you Pierrot really did in the end,
beneath the trembling organ and the tolling bell; but these instances
are rare. When one does happen, the quarter speaks of it as of some
unusual incident in the lives of friends, such as a voyage to China.
Beneath an undulating haze of incense from a dozen gurgling pipes a
song floats through the cabaret. Listen!
“_Viens! mon amour, la route est claire,
Et tout en fleurs est le chemin;
Et lon lon laire la route est claire,
Pierrot!—Donne moi donc ta main._”
[Illustration]
Chapter Seven
CIRCUSES AND FÊTES FORAINES
Fifteen years ago all of idle Paris applauded “La Goulue,” a can-can
_danseuse_ whose beauty and abandon made her notorious. In every sense
of the term “La Goulue” was of the kind of quadrille dancers which were
to be found at the old Mabille when it was at the height of its blaze
and glory.
She had jewels in those days, and lingerie of Valenciennes lace. She
was the incarnation of all that was reckless and extravagant. She
elevated her toes where she pleased, tipping off the silk hats of the
well-fed old _roués_ who chanced to crowd too near the magic circle
while she danced.
She had a ready wit, too, and a vocabulary interlarded with the _argot_
of the _gamine_ and _gigolette_ of the _barrière_. All of leisure Paris
patted her approvingly upon her bare shoulders and threw her their
louis. But those were the days when La Goulue was younger. Now time has
flown away with youth, her fervor and her grace.
She became stout—almost portly. One blue Monday this famous _danseuse_
packed up her frills and her furbelows, folded carefully what was left
of her Valenciennes lace, and said good-by to her old-time _métier_. It
was a little sad—for La Goulue loved to dance.
She took another step in her career, perhaps the most daring and the
most dangerous of all. She became a lion tamer, bought from a stranded
menagerie some green “cat stock,” to use the vernacular of the circus
world, moved from her Parisian residence to a wagon on wheels, and so
became sole proprietor, manager and trainer of an animal show in a
_fête foraine_.
In the dull season I found La Goulue in February beyond the
fortifications of Paris, where in addition to her gipsy wagon on wheels
she kept in her back yard screened from the curious eyes of the town
children half a dozen cages—the cramped homes of four lions, one
laughing hyena, two slinking panthers and a sad-looking bear.
The roof of her salon on wheels was interesting. The ribs supporting
the ceiling were decorated with narrow fringe which had evidently
served at one time to trim some circus paraphernalia. A bunk spanned
one end of the barrack, and several trunks containing La Goulue’s
effects occupied most of the remaining floor space.
It was a sunny morning, and a black and white kitten lay on its back
upon the tumbled quilts of the bunk, playing with its tail, the tip of
which the sunbeams streaming through the little square window over the
bunk occasionally illumined.
Some cauliflower simmered on the stove for dinner.
[Illustration]
In another corner sat “Monsieur La Goulue,” the lion tamer. He is a man
about forty, tall, well-built, blond, with a determined jaw, and cool
and collected in his manner, as befits his profession. He wore a blue
flannel shirt, water-proof _sabots_, and four diamond rings.
La Goulue unearthed for me from the bottom of a trunk some of her past
glory: a set of photographs taken by a smart photographer during the
time of her favor, and a framed certificate of a first prize for
dancing bearing the date 1889, and the seal of the judges of the award.
She also brought to light a contract to dance for three thousand seven
hundred and fifty francs a week. The document bore the signature of a
notary and the stamp of the French government.
[Illustration]
Meanwhile the lions in the fourth cage roared, and the sad bear, made
happy with his morning ration of mush and milk, buried his nose in the
pail, muzzle and all, and forgave his mistress for changing her
_métier_.
Next to the panthers’ cage the week’s wash hung drying in the sun. Some
of it was coquettish.
Ah! my friend, if you complain of the responsibility of having a family
on your hands, remember it is not a patch to having a menagerie on your
hands, even without the cumbersome elephant.
“To show” inside the fortifications costs dearly—six hundred francs
rental for a place in any of the _fêtes foraines_. The law prohibits
single exhibitions which are not a part of the regular _fêtes
foraines_, and these take place only at stated intervals in the
different quarters of the city. They are the Foire aux Pain-d’Epices,
the Fête de Neuilly, the Fête des Invalides, the one surrounding the
bronze lion of Belfort, and other smaller ones along the Boulevards
Vaugirard, Pasteur, Garibaldi, Grenelle, and Rochechouart, and the Fête
of La Chapelle. The still smaller fêtes outside of Paris do not pay
well. Meanwhile the animals have to be fed, pay or no pay.
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
BEHIND THE SCENES]
“There are those who have said hard things of me even in the old days,”
said La Goulue, “but they lied. I am a good girl with a good heart (_je
suis une bonne fille_),” she cried, looking me straight in the eye. “It
was the life that was bad, not I, monsieur.”
There is great risk to life and limb in training and showing these
animals; the lion Bob a while ago closed his jaws upon “M. La Goulue,”
crunching half through the shoulder. Yet it is the injury to others
that the Goulues fear the most.
One of the panthers tore the arm from a child during a performance in
Rouen. It was an expensive accident for La Goulue.
At the time I saw this small menagerie wintering in a corner of the
earth, La Goulue was waiting for an engagement in a coming _fête
foraine_. As yet the letter had not arrived, and I believe the bear
knew it.
“M. La Goulue” did not smile, and spoke but rarely. You felt his
absolute domination and fearlessness. He took the hyena by the throat,
then stroked its ears kindly. When he rolled Alice, the lioness, over
on her back, he did so with gentleness and firmness; when she rebelled
and struck at him viciously, he cuffed her ears and stood talking to
her as to a disobedient child.
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
LA GOULUE’S ANIMAL SHOW WINTERING]
I felt that this man with the steel-gray eyes regarded the world in
general in the same manner—with ease and a cool head.
The Avenue de Neuilly in June is suddenly transformed into a glittering
bedlam. Shows line both sides of the broad avenue for nearly a mile.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE FÊTE DE NEUILLY]
These exhibitions are of varied character. Many of them are
counterparts of those along the “Bowery” of our own Coney Island, but
many spectacles may be witnessed inside the enclosures of these
claptrap barracks of canvas and board that are wholly foreign to us.
Their ornamental façades are adorned with marvels of pictorial art
representing all manner of wonderful things not found in this or any
other clime.
[Illustration: A SUNDAY CROWD—FÊTE DE NEUILLY]
Side-showing is a science. Some fakirs have become rich with little
more than a dirty red curtain to screen from view the wonders promised
within, a good “barker” to heighten the desire and imagination of the
gaping crowd in front, and a tame ape tied outside to attract the
little ones. That there was after all nothing worth even two sous to
behold behind the mysterious portal, the spectators in front knew by
the sheepish smirk of those coming out, yet they paid their sous just
the same and filed in to see what had fooled the other fellows!
In the Fête de Neuilly I did not find these fake methods existing. It
is a dangerous thing to fool a French crowd, and so it is the custom to
parade upon an elevated platform at the entrance in plain view of the
passer-by the troupe advertised to show within.
There stand the girl in tights, the clown, the juggler and the strong
man, and the spectator may judge fairly for himself whether he thinks
it worth while to part with his sous to know them better. For one franc
he may study their talent from a kitchen chair, alluringly termed a
“_fauteuil d’orchestre_.” A bench seat generally within a foot of it
rents at half price, and a bleacher seat at five sous, with a reduction
to children and the military.
There are certain hours and special days when the generous manager
lowers even these prices—dinner hours when the passing throng thins
out, and rainy days when the clown appears in a mackintosh and the girl
in the pink cotton tights wraps a plush boa about her powdered neck and
wears the clown’s galoshes, while the monkey at the end of his chain
buries his head out of the drip and falls asleep.
[Illustration: AN ANIMAL SHOW, FÊTE DE NEUILLY]
One of the most popular shows of the _fêtes foraines_ is that of the
female wrestlers. Many of these combatively inclined ladies cultivate a
pose that would put to the blush Hercules leaning on his club. Some of
them gird their loins in imitation lion skins, others wear wristlets of
heavy leather “to protect them from the brutality of their
adversaries,” who, the manager assures the interested crowd, are drawn
from all corners. So you will see a burly looking bourgeois elbow his
way through the crowd and agree openly before the spectators to wrestle
Mademoiselle Blanche “La Tigresse” through three rounds,
catch-as-catch-can. He tells the manager he was trained by the great
Marseille himself and, giving his name and place of residence in case
of accident, enters the tent with his candy-haired opponent. All the
strong men in these _fêtes foraines_ seem to have been trained by
Marseille!
The two file into the amphitheater beyond the curtain, while the
manager roars outside exhorting the crowd to follow.
In the second round Mademoiselle Blanche has thrown her bourgeois
fairly, while six other lady wrestlers sit on the edge of the ring and
applaud. The crowd grows enthusiastic.
In the third round the bourgeois by a neck-hold slaps his adversary
down on the platform, squarely on her back. Both her shoulders touch.
The crowd cheers. The bourgeois has won.
The band in the corner pumps forth a mournful waltz, and another
wrestler prepares for the second bout.
When the show closes, the chance bourgeois and Mademoiselle Blanche
will return to their home in one of the sea of shanties beyond the
barrier, and the manager will turn up his coat collar, give a fresh rub
to his silk hat, deposit the contents of his tin cash-box in his
wallet, and hail a passing omnibus.
The Fête de Neuilly during the afternoon and evening is alive
throughout its length and breadth with a vast throng of pleasure
seekers of all classes and conditions. Along the route of attractions
mammoth carrousels, gorgeous in gilt and mirrors, swing round at a
giddy pace, filled with screaming, laughing women and their escorts.
Another form of carrousel is the “Montagnes Russes,” with undulating
circular tracks over which gilded chariots rush to the accompaniment of
powerful steam calliopes.
[Illustration: A SALON OF MYSTERIES—FÊTE DE NEUILLY]
Farther on are a row of swings. In one of these sky-scraping affairs a
chic little _blanchisseuse_, her blond hair flying beneath a soldier’s
cap jammed over her ears, is holding on tight and screaming with
laughter while her escort the soldier pulls the rope with renewed
effort, until they both come near bumping their heads on the upper
supports.
[Illustration: THE MONTAGNES RUSSES—FÊTE DE NEUILLY]
A few steps farther on, another merry-go-round is on the point of
starting. Astride of a wooden camel sits a young negro wearing a straw
hat with a pink satin band, and a suit known as “nobby.” Two girls
pass. They are evidently two little _couturières_ out for a holiday.
One of them, a little brunette, catches sight of the coal black youth
with the pink satin tie. The two girls hold a hurried conversation.
Suddenly the little brunette runs up to the surprised gentleman in the
nobby suit, throws her arms about his neck and kisses him.
[Illustration: A POPULAR MENAGERIE—FÊTE DE NEUILLY]
“_Voilà_,” she says as she runs on to join her companion, bubbling with
laughter over the joke.
“_Je pourrai dire que j’ai embrassé un nègre!_”
At night the Fête de Neuilly is ablaze with light. Carriages crawl
slowly through the crowd, some of them are smart private turnouts which
have driven to the fête after dinner at Armononville or elsewhere.
Parading side by side with these are others containing jolly parties
waving great paper chrysanthemums and sunflowers carried upon long
sticks. These pretty souvenirs are sold by the thousands in the fête,
and nearly every party of merrymakers brings them back to the boulevard
cafés.
Among other attractions are circuses and menageries where hourly
exhibitions of animals in training draw steady audiences. There is
little attempt to decorate the interior of these menageries—a few
kitchen chairs fronting a row of cages and standing room back of these
furnish the necessary accommodation for the audience. As a rule, the
animals in these small shows are well cared for and kept in unusually
good condition.
The name Pezon in France is traditionally suggestive of the best animal
show. Through three generations the Pezons have been animal trainers
and maintained menageries throughout France. There is not one of this
intrepid family who has not at some time been dragged bleeding from
beneath some infuriated beast. One of the sons who still risks his life
daily is minus an arm, having been mangled by a lion a few years ago.
[Illustration: AN OPEN AIR CHILDREN’S SHOW]
I saw one veteran trainer in the Pezon show turn pale as he realized
that an ugly lion he had forced into a corner had become unmanageable
and blind with rage. Keepers ran to his help, and most of the audience
rose in a panic and started to rush through the exit. The cage rocked
as the lion sprang from side to side and the ground seemed to tremble
beneath his snarling roar, but the man within the bars held his ground.
He was a short, thick-set fellow with blond hair. Step by step he
forced the lion back into its corner, and as firmly and slowly he
conquered him until the crouching beast who could have killed him with
a blow sprang panic-stricken out of his way. Then the little man turned
to the audience, bowed with the air of a dancing-master and sprang
through the safety door. Cheers of “Bravo!” rose from the audience who
had remained as if hypnotized; but the man who had been so near death
did not seem to notice them, for he shrugged his shoulders and smiled
as if the episode were of little importance. Lighting a cigarette, he
disappeared through a door in the rear.
[Illustration: A BALLOON ASCENSION]
I once knew an old French trainer and owner of a menagerie, Champeaux
by name, who came to grief in a different way. He was a jovial old
fellow and when he was not training lions, hyenas, panthers, or bears,
spent most of his time over the flowing bowl in some nearby café,
telling stories and spreading the sunshine of geniality among his old
cronies. He had been in the cages so much of his life and had such a
host of friends, in fact he was such a popular old fellow and so jolly
and genial withal, that I believe he grew to think that the animals he
trained loved him too.
At one time having installed his animal show in the _fête foraine_ at
the Place du Trone, he attended the wedding festivities of a friend. It
happened to be a bourgeois wedding, and the bride and groom and their
guests made merry with champagne and congratulations in one of those
Parisian restaurants where the second floor above the café is rented to
wedding parties and banquets. The festivities kept up until the hour
grew late. Champeaux was the most hilariously happy of the guests. He
embraced the bride and groom and toasted the happy pair in numerous
bumpers, and at last proudly zigzagged his way back to the menagerie.
“All his lions should hear what a good time he had had,” he said to
himself. As he reeled along, he imagined that he was twenty-one and a
bridegroom; then somehow he dreamed that most of his lions had grown
wings and had pink fur on their paws and that all his cages had turned
to solid gold.
[Illustration: AT A FÊTE FORAINE]
And so he lurched on towards his pets, singing a song of cheer. He
reached his menagerie before daylight. His keepers, snoring peacefully
in their bunks, did not hear him as he stumbled in through a hole in
the tent and proceeded to the row of cages. A lioness, wakened out of
her sleep, recognized him, and pacing to the end of her cage, peered
out at him. He must have presented a strange sight, for she roared
twice, half waking the other animals. Then my friend did a foolish
thing; he stumbled up the steps of the trained bear’s cage, apologized
to the steps for tripping over them, slipped the spring latch and
entered the den. Taking his hat off politely to the bear who, at his
unexpected entrance, rose on her hind legs, Champeaux fell into her
arms.
“Pepita,” he said, “I have had a good time, a good time, old girl,” and
he slapped her enthusiastically on her scrubby neck.
Pepita squealed, embraced him in turn, as if in sympathy, and looked at
him queerly with her small round eyes. Then Champeaux groaned—Pepita
had broken his ribs.