I MAKE MYSELF ACQUAINTED WITH THE IMPOLITE WORLD AND ITS PLACES OP
UNFASHIONABLE RESORT.
Müller and I dined merrily at the Café of the Trois Frères Provençaux,
discussed our coffee and cigars outside the Rotonde in the Palais Royal,
and then started off in search of adventures. Striking up in a
north-easterly direction through a labyrinth of narrow streets, we
emerged at the Rue des Fontaines, just in front of that famous
second-hand market yclept the Temple. It was Saturday night, and the
business of the place was at its height. We went in, and turning aside
from the broad thoroughfares which intersect the market at right angles,
plunged at once into a net-work of crowded side-alleys, noisy and
populous as a cluster of beehives. Here were bargainings, hagglings,
quarrellings, elbowings, slang, low wit, laughter, abuse, cheating, and
chattering enough to turn the head of a neophyte like myself. Müller,
however, was in his element. He took me up one row and down another,
pointed out all that was curious, had a nod for every grisette, and an
answer for every touter, and enjoyed the Babel like one to the
manner born.
"Buy, messieurs, buy! What will you buy?" was the question that
assailed us on both sides, wherever we went.
"What do you sell, _mon ami ?_" was Müller's invariable reply.
"What do you want, m'sieur?"
"Twenty thousand francs per annum, and the prettiest wife in Paris,"
says my friend; a reply which is sure to evoke something _spirituel_,
after the manner of the locality.
"This is the most amusing place in Paris," observes he. "Like the
Alsatia of old London, it has its own peculiar _argot,_ and its own
peculiar privileges. The activity of its commerce is amazing. If you buy
a pocket-handkerchief at the first stall you come to, and leave it
unprotected in your coat-pocket for five minutes, you may purchase it
again at the other end of the alley before you leave. As for the
resources of the market, they are inexhaustible. You may buy anything
you please here, from a Court suit to a cargo of old rags. In this alley
(which is the aristocratic quarter), are sold old jewelry, old china,
old furniture, silks that have rustled at the Tuileries; fans that may
have fluttered at the opera; gloves once fitted to tiny hands, and yet
bearing a light soil where the rings were worn beneath; laces that may
have been the property of Countesses or Cardinals; masquerade suits,
epaulets, uniforms, furs, perfumes, artificial flowers, and all sorts of
elegant superfluities, most of which have descended to the merchants of
the Temple through the hands of ladies-maids and valets. Yonder lies the
district called the 'Forêt Noire'--a land of unpleasing atmosphere
inhabited by cobblers and clothes-menders. Down to the left you see
nothing but rag and bottle-shops, old iron stores, and lumber of every
kind. Here you find chiefly household articles, bedding, upholstery,
crockery, and so forth."
"What will you buy, Messieurs?" continued to be the cry, as we moved
along arm-in-arm, elbowing our way through the crowd, and exploring this
singular scene in all directions.
"What will you buy, messieurs?" shouts one salesman. "A carpet? A
capital carpet, neither too large nor too small. Just the size
you want!"
"A hat, m'sieur, better than new," cries another; "just aired by the
last owner."
"A coat that will fit you better than if it had been made for you?"
"A pair of boots? Dress-boots, dancing-boots, walking-boots,
morning-boots, evening-boots, riding-boots, fishing-boots,
hunting-boots. All sorts, m'sieur--all sorts!"
"A cloak, m'sieur?"
"A lace shawl to take home to Madame?"
"An umbrella, m'sieur?"
"A reading lamp?"
"A warming-pan?"
"A pair of gloves?"
"A shower bath?"
"A hand organ?"
"What! m'sieurs, do you buy nothing this evening? Holà, Antoine!
monsieur keeps his hands in his pockets, for fear his money should
fall out!"
"Bah! They've not a centime between them!"
"Go down the next turning and have the hole in your coat mended!"
"Make way there for monsieur the millionaire!"
"They are ambassadors on their way to the Court of Persia."
"_Ohe! Panè! panè! panè!_"
Thus we run the gauntlet of all the tongues in the Temple, sometimes
retorting, sometimes laughing and passing on, sometimes stopping to
watch the issue of a dispute or the clinching of a bargain.
"_Dame_, now! if it were only ten francs cheaper," says a voice that
strikes my ear with a sudden sense of familiarity. Turning, I discover
that the voice belongs to a young woman close at my elbow, and that the
remark is addressed to a good-looking workman upon whose arm she
is leaning.
"What, Josephine!" I exclaim.
"_Comment_! Monsieur Basil!"
And I find myself kissed on both cheeks before I even guess what is
going to happen to me.
"Have I not also the honor of being remembered by Mademoiselle?" says
Müller, taking off his hat with all the politeness possible; whereupon
Josephine, in an ecstasy of recognition, embraces him likewise.
"_Mais, quel bonheur_!" cries she. "And to meet in the Temple, above all
places! Emile, you heard me speak of Monsieur Basil--the gentleman who
gave me that lovely shawl that I wore last Sunday to the Château des
Fleurs--_eh bien_! this is he--and here is Monsieur Müller, his friend.
Gentlemen, this is Emile, my _fiancé_. We are to be married next Friday
week, and we are buying our furniture."
The good-looking workman pulled off his cap and made his bow, and we
proffered the customary congratulations.
"We have bought such sweet, pretty things," continued she, rattling on
with all her old volubility, "and we have hired the dearest little
_appartement_ on the fourth story, in a street near the Jardin des
Plantes. See--this looking-glass is ours; we have just bought it. And
those maple chairs, and that chest of drawers with the marble top. It
isn't real marble, you know; but it's ever so much better than
real:--not nearly so heavy, and so beautifully carved that it's quite a
work of art. Then we have bought a carpet--the sweetest carpet! Is it
not, Emile?"
Emile smiled, and confessed that the carpet was "_fort bien_."
"And the time-piece, Madame?" suggested the furniture-dealer, at whose
door we were standing. "Madame should really not refuse herself the
time-piece."
Josephine shook her head.
"It is too dear," said she.
"Pardon, madame. I am giving it away,--absolutely giving it away at the
price!"
Josephine looked at it wistfully, and weighed her little purse. It was a
very little purse, and very light.
"It is so pretty!" said she.
The clock was of ormolu upon a painted stand, that was surmounted by a
stout little gilt Cupid in a triumphal chariot, drawn by a pair of
hard-working doves.
"What is the price of it?" I asked.
"Thirty-five francs, m'sieur," replied the dealer, briskly.
"Say twenty-five," urged Josephine.
The dealer shook his head.
"What if we did without the looking-glass?" whispered Josephine to her
_fiancé_. "After all, you know, one can live without a looking-glass;
but how shall I have your dinners ready, if I don't know what o'clock
it is?"
"I don't really see how we are to do without a clock," admitted Emile.
"And that darling little Cupid!"
Emile conceded that the Cupid was irresistible.
"Then we decide to have the clock, and do without the looking-glass?"
"Yes, we decide."
In the meantime I had slipped the thirty-five francs into the dealer's
hand.
"You must do me the favor to accept the clock as a wedding-present,
Mademoiselle Josephine," I said. "And I hope you will favor me with an
invitation to the wedding."
"And me also," said Müller; "and I shall hope to be allowed to offer a
little sketch to adorn the walls of your new home."
Their delight and gratitude were almost too great. We shook hands again
all round. I am not sure, indeed, that Josephine did not then and there
embrace us both for the second time.
"And you will both come to our wedding!" cried she. "And we will spend
the day at St. Cloud, and have a dance in the evening; and we will
invite Monsieur Gustave, and Monsieur Jules, and Monsieur Adrien. Oh,
dear! how delightful it will be!"
"And you promise me the first quadrille?" said I.
"And me the second?" added Müller.
"Yes, yes--as many as you please."
"Then you must let us know at what time to come, and all about it; so,
till Friday week, adieu!"
And thus, with more shaking of hands, and thanks, and good wishes, we
parted company, leaving them still occupied with the gilt Cupid and the
furniture-broker.
After the dense atmosphere of the clothes-market, it is a relief to
emerge upon the Boulevart du Temple--the noisy, feverish, crowded
Boulevart du Temple, with its half dozen theatres, its glare of gas, its
cake-sellers, bill-sellers, lemonade-sellers, cabs, cafés, gendarmes,
tumblers, grisettes, and pleasure-seekers of both sexes.
Here we pause awhile to applaud the performances of a company of
dancing-dogs, whence we are presently drawn away by the sight of a
gentleman in a _moyen-âge_ costume, who is swallowing penknives and
bringing them out at his ears to the immense gratification of a large
circle of bystanders.
A little farther on lies the Jardin Turc; and here we drop in for half
an hour, to restore ourselves with coffee-ices, and look on at the
dancers. This done, we presently issue forth again, still in search of
amusement.
"Have you ever been to the Petit Lazary?" asks my friend, as we stand at
the gate of the Jardin Turc, hesitating which way to turn.
"Never; what is it?"
"The most inexpensive of theatrical luxuries--an evening's entertainment
of the mildest intellectual calibre, and at the lowest possible cost.
Here we are at the doors. Come in, and complete your experience of
Paris life!"
The Petit Lazary occupies the lowest round of the theatrical ladder. We
pay something like sixpence half-penny or sevenpence apiece, and are
inducted into the dress-circle. Our appearance is greeted with a round
of applause. The curtain has just fallen, and the audience have nothing
better to do. Müller lays his hand upon his heart, and bows profoundly,
first to the gallery and next to the pit; whereupon they laugh, and
leave us in peace. Had we looked dignified or indignant we should
probably have been hissed till the curtain rose.
It is an audience in shirt-sleeves, consisting for the most part of
workmen, maid-servants, soldiers, and street-urchins, with a plentiful
sprinkling of pickpockets--the latter in a strictly private capacity,
being present for entertainment only, without any ulterior
professional views.
It is a noisy _entr'acte_ enough. Three vaudevilles have already been
played, and while the fourth is in preparation the public amuses itself
according to its own riotous will and pleasure. Nuts and apple parings
fly hither and thither; oranges describe perilous parabolas between the
pit and the gallery; adventurous _gamins_ make daring excursions round
the upper rails; dialogues maintained across the house, and quarrels
supported by means of an incredible copiousness of invective, mingle in
discordant chorus with all sorts of howlings, groanings, whistlings,
crowings, and yelpings, above which, in shrillest treble, rise the
voices of cake and apple-sellers, and the piercing cry of the hump-back
who distributes "vaudevilles at five centimes apiece." In the meantime,
almost distracted by the patronage that assails him in every direction,
the lemonade-vendor strides hither and thither, supplying floods of
nectar at two centimes the glass; while the audience, skilled in the
combination of enjoyments, eats, drinks, and vociferates to its heart's
content. Fabulous meats, and pies of mysterious origin, are brought out
from baskets and hats. Pocket-handkerchiefs spread upon benches do duty
as table-cloths. Clasp-knives, galette, and sucre d'orge pass from hand
to hand--nay, from mouth to mouth--and, in the midst of the tumult, the
curtain rises.
All is, in one moment, profoundly silent. The viands disappear; the
lemonade-seller vanishes; the boys outside the gallery-rails clamber
back to their places. The drama, in the eyes of the Parisians, is almost
a sacred rite, and not even the noisiest _gamin_ would raise his voice
above a whisper when the curtain is up.
The vaudeville that follows is, to say the least of it, a perplexing
performance. It has no plot in particular. The scene is laid in a
lodging-house, and the discomforts of one Monsieur Choufleur, an elderly
gentleman in a flowered dressing-gown and a gigantic nightcap, furnish
forth all the humor of the piece. What Monsieur Choufleur has done to
deserve his discomforts, and why a certain student named Charles should
devote all the powers of his mind to the devising and inflicting of
those discomforts, is a mystery which we, the audience, are never
permitted to penetrate. Enough that Charles, being a youth of
mischievous tastes and extensive wardrobe, assumes a series of disguises
for the express purpose of tormenting Monsieur Choufleur, and is
unaccountably rewarded in the end with the hand of Monsieur Choufleur's
daughter; a consummation which brings down the curtain amid loud
applause, and affords entire satisfaction to everybody.
It is by this time close upon midnight, and, leaving the theatre with
the rest of the audience, we find a light rain falling. The noisy
thoroughfare is hushed to comparative quiet. The carriages that roll by
are homeward bound. The waiters yawn at the doors of the cafés and
survey pedestrians with a threatening aspect. The theatres are closing
fast, and a row of flickering gas-lamps in front of a faded transparency
which proclaims that the juvenile _Tableaux Vivants_ are to be seen
within, denotes the only place of public amusement yet open to the
curious along the whole length of the Boulevart du Temple.
"And now, _amigo_, where shall we go?" says Müller. "Are you for a
billiard-room or a lobster supper? Or shall we beat up the quarters of
some of the fellows in the Quartier Latin, and see what fun is afoot on
the other side of the water?"
"Whichever you please. You are my guest to-night, and I am at your
disposal."
"Or what say you to dropping in for an hour among the Chicards?"
"A capital idea--especially if you again entertain the society with a
true story of events that never happened."
"_Allons donc_!--
'C'était de mon temps
Que brillait Madame Grégoire.
J'allais à vingt ans
Dans son cabaret rire et boire.'
--confound this drizzle! It soaks one through and through, like a
sponge. If you are no fonder of getting wet through than I am, I vote we
both run for it!"
With this he set off running at full speed, and I followed.
The rain soon fell faster and thicker. We had no umbrellas; and being by
this time in a region of back-streets, an empty fiacre was a prize not
to be hoped for. Coming presently to a dark archway, we took shelter and
waited till the shower should pass over. It lasted longer than we had
expected, and threatened to settle into a night's steady rain. Müller
kept his blood warm by practicing extravagant quadrille steps and
singing scraps of Béranger's ballads; whilst I, watching impatiently for
a cab, kept peering up and down the street, and listening to
every sound.
Presently a quick footfall echoed along the wet pavement, and the figure
of a man, dimly seen by the blurred light of the street-lamps, came
hurrying along the other side of the way. Something in the firm free
step, in the upright carriage, in the height and build of the passer-by,
arrested my attention. He drew nearer. He passed under the lamp just
opposite, and, as he passed, flung away the end of his cigar, which
fell, hissing, into the little rain-torrent running down the middle of
the street. He carried no umbrella; but his hat was pulled low, and his
collar drawn up, and I could see nothing of his face. But the gesture
was enough.
For a moment I stood still and looked after him; then, calling to Müller
that I should be back presently, I darted off in pursuit.