BY THE SINGING FOUNTAINS
Paris rises very late indeed on New Year's Day. The night before is
given up to family reunions, supper parties and every kind of
jollification. So the year begins with a much needed rest. The glitter
and racket of the streets gives place to a death-like stillness. Shops
are shut and the cafes are empty. Paris sleeps. There is an exception to
this rule: Certain unfortunate individuals are obliged to rise at
day-break, don their best clothes, their uniforms and make their way to
the four corners of the town to pay ceremonial calls.
These are the Government officials representing the army, the
magistracy, the parliament, the municipality--all must pay their
respects to their chiefs. For this hardship they receive little
sympathy, as it is generally understood that while they have to work
hard on New Year's Day, they do nothing for the rest of the year.
The somnolence of Paris, however, only extends until noon. At that hour
life begins again. It is luncheon time.
This New Year's Day differed in no wise from others, and during the
afternoon the streets were thronged with people.
A pale sun showed in the gray winter sky and the crowd seemed to be
converging toward the Place de la Concorde. Suddenly the blare of a
brass band on the Rue Royale brought curious heads to the windows.
A procession headed by a vari-colored banner was marching toward the
banks of the Seine. The participants wore a mauve uniform with gold
trimmings and upon the banner was inscribed in huge letters:
LA CAPITALE
THE GREAT EVENING PAPER
With some difficulty the musicians reached the Obelisk and at the foot
of the monument they formed a circle, while at a distance the crowd
awaited developments.
In the front rank two young women were standing.
One of them seemed to be greatly amused at the gratuitous entertainment,
the other appeared preoccupied and depressed.
"Come, Marie Pascal, don't be so absent-minded. You look as if you were
at a funeral."
The other, a workgirl, tried to smile and gave a deep sigh.
"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Rose, to be out of sorts, but I feel very
upset."
Two police officers tried to force their way to the musicians and after
some difficulty they succeeded in arresting the flute and the trombone
players.
This act of brutality occasioned some commotion and the crowd began to
murmur.
The employes of _La Capitale_ now brought up several handcarts and
improvised a sort of platform. Gentlemen in frock coats then appeared on
the scene and gathered round it. One or two were recognized and pointed
out by the crowd.
"There's M. Dupont, the deputy and director of _La Capitale_."
A red-faced young man with turned up moustaches was pronounced to be M.
de Panteloup, the general manager of the paper.
As a matter of fact, those who read _La Capitale_ had been advised
through its columns that an attempt would be made to solve the mystery
of the Singing Fountains, which had intrigued Paris for so many weeks. A
small army of newsboys offered the paper for sale during the ceremony.
Marie Pascal bought a copy and read it eagerly.
"They haven't a word about the affair yet," she cried.
At that moment the powerful voice of M. de Panteloup was heard:
"You are now going to hear an interesting speech by the celebrated
archivist and paleographer, M. Anastasius Baringouin, who, better than
anyone else, can explain to you the strange enigma of the Singing
Fountains."
An immense shout of laughter greeted the orator as he mounted the steps
to the stage. He was an old man, very wrinkled and shaky, wearing a high
hat much too large for his head. He was vainly trying to settle his
glasses upon a very red nose. In a thin, sharp voice, he began:
"The phenomenon of the Singing Fountains is not, as might be supposed,
wholly unexpected. Similar occurrences have already been noted and date
back to remote antiquity. Formerly a stone statue was erected in the
outskirts of the town of Thebes to the memory of Memnon. When the beams
of the rising sun struck it, harmonious sounds were heard to issue from
it. At first this peculiarity was attributed to some form of trickery, a
secret spring or a hidden keyboard. But upon further research, it was
demonstrated that the sounds arose from purely physical and natural
causes."
The crowd which hitherto had listened in silence to the orator now began
to show signs of impatience.
"What the dickens is he gassing about?" shouted some one in the street.
As the savant paid no attention to these signs the band struck up a
military march. Finally when order was re-established M. Panteloup
himself mounted the platform.
"This fountain, ladies and gentlemen," he began in a powerful voice,
"was built in 1836 at a cost of a million and a half francs. In the
twenty-four hours its output is 6,716 cubic yards of water. It is
composed, as you can see, of a basin of polished stone, decorated by six
tritons and nereids, each holding a fish in its mouth from which the
water flows out. Thus far there is nothing unusual and it is therefore
with justifiable surprise that we discover the fact that at certain
moments these fountains actually sing. Are we in the presence of a
phenomenon similar to that recalled just now by M. Anastasius
Baringouin? Are we, at the beginning of the twentieth century--the
century of Science and Precision--victims of hallucination or sorcery?
This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we are about to investigate, and we
will begin by consulting the celebrated clairvoyant, Madame Gabrielle de
Smyrne."
A murmur of approbation greeted the pretty prophetess as she appeared,
but at the same moment a police officer followed by fifteen men pushed
his way to the foot of the platform and ordered M. Panteloup to cease
attracting a crowd. The latter, however, was equal to the occasion.
After lifting his hand for silence he shouted the famous cry:
"We are here by the will of the people, we shall not go away except by
force."
The crowd cheered, and with the voices mingled the barking of dogs.
"Ladies and gentlemen," continued M. Panteloup, "you hear the wonderful
police dogs of Neuilly, Turk and Bellone. They are coming to help us to
scent out the mystery."
This was to be the termination of the ceremony, but an unlooked for
addition to the program appeared in the person of one of those Parisian
"Natural Men" or "Primitive Men."
He was a very old, long-bearded man and wore a white robe. He went by
the name of Ouaouaoua, and his portrait had been published in all city
papers. A hush came over the crowd and then in the silence a vague
metallic murmur was heard above the splash of the water.
This time there was no mistake. The Fountains were singing.
Thousands of witnesses were present and could testify to that fact.
The crowd at once associated the arrival of Ouaouaoua with the music
from the Fountains, and he was acclaimed the hero of the occasion.
M. de Panteloup, seized with a happy inspiration, shook hands with
Ouaouaoua and pinned on his white robe the gold medal of _La Capitale_.
Proceedings were, however, summarily brought to a stop at this point.
The prefect of the police drove up and his men scattered the crowd in
all directions.
Ten minutes after the Place de la Concorde had assumed its usual aspect
and the tritons and nereids continued to pour out their 6,716 cubic
yards of water every twenty-four hours.