Latin is the Boulevard Saint-Michel, but the boulevardiers call it the
Boul' Mich', just as the students call the Quatre Arts the Quat'z' Arts,
because it is easier to say.
The Boul' Mich' is the student's highway to relaxation. Mention of it
at once recalls whirling visions of brilliant _café_s, with their
clattering of saucers and glasses, the shouting of their white-aproned
garçons, their hordes of gay and wicked damsels dressed in the costliest
and most fashionable gowns, and a multitude of riotous students howling
class songs and dancing and parading to the different _café_s as
only students can. This is the head-quarters of the Bohemians of real
Bohemia, whose poets haunt the dim and quaint cabarets and read their
compositions to admiring friends; of flower-girls who offer you un petit
bouquet, seulement dix centimes, and pin it into your button-hole
before you can refuse; of Turks in picturesque native costume selling
sweetmeats; of the cane man loaded down with immense sticks; of the
stems a yard long; of beggars, gutter-snipes, hot-chestnut venders, ped-
lers, singers, actors, students, and all manner of queer characters.
[Illustration: 9116]
The life of the Boul' Mich' begins at the Panthéon, where repose the
remains of France's great men, and ends at the Seine, where the gray
Gothic towers and the gargoyles of Notre-Dame look down disdainfully
upon the giddy traffic below. The eastern side of the Boul' is lined
with _café_s, cabarets, and brasseries.
This is historic ground, for where now is the old Hôtel Cluny are still
to be seen the ruins of Roman baths, and not a great distance hence are
the partly uncovered ruins of a Roman arena, with its tiers of stone
seats and its dens. The tomb of Cardinal Richelieu is in the beautiful
old chapel of the Sorbonne, within sound of the wickedest _café_ in
Paris, the Café d'Harcourt.
[Illustration: 0117]
In the immediate vicinity are to be found the quaint jumbled buildings
of old Paris, but they are fast disappearing. And the Quartier abounds
in the world's greatest schools and colleges of the arts and sciences.
It was often our wont on Saturday evenings to saunter along the Boul',
and sometimes to visit the _café_s. To Bishop particularly it was always
a revelation and a delight, and he was forever studying and sketching
the types that he found there. He was intimately acquainted in all the
_café_s along the line, and with the mysterious rendezvous in the dark
and narrow side streets.
American beverages are to be had at many of the _café_s on the Boul',--a
recent and very successful experiment. The idea has captured the fancy
of the Parisians, so that "_Bars Américains_," which furnish cocktails
and sours, are numerous in the _café_s. Imagine a Parisian serenely
sucking a manhattan through a straw, and standing up at that!
The Boul' Mich' is at its glory on Saturday nights, for the students
have done their week's work, and the morrow is Sunday. Nearly everybody
goes to the Bal Bullier. This is separated from the crowded Boul' Mich'
by several squares of respectable dwelling-houses and shops, and
a dearth of _café_s prevails thereabout. At the upper end of the
Luxembourg is a long stone wall brilliantly bedecked with lamps set in
clusters,--the same wall against which Maréchal Ney was shot (a striking
monument across the way recalls the incident). At one end of this yellow
wall is an arched entrée, resplendent with the glow of many rows of
electric lights and lamps, which reveal the colored bas-reliefs of
dancing students and gri-settes that adorn the portal. Near by stands
a row of voitures, and others are continually dashing up and depositing
Latin-Quarter swells with hair parted behind and combed forward toward
the ears, and dazzling visions of the demi-monde in lace, silks, and
gauze. And there is a constantly arriving stream of students and gaudily
dressed women on foot. Big gardes municipaux stand at the door like
stone images as the crowd surges past.
[Illustration: 0121]
To-night is one-franc night. An accommodating lady at the box-office
hands us each a broad card, and another, au vestiaire, takes our coats
and hats and charges us fifty centimes for the honor. Descending the
broad flight of softly carpeted red stairs, a brilliant, tumultuous,
roaring vision bursts upon us, for it is between the dances, and the
visitors are laughing and talking and drinking. The ball-room opens into
a generous garden filled with trees and shrubbery ingeniously devised to
assure many a secluded nook, and steaming garçons are flying hither and
thither serving foaming bocks and colored syrups to nymphs in bicycle
bloomers, longhaired students under tam o'shanters, and the swells
peculiar to le Quartier Latin.
"_Ah! Monsieur Beeshop, comment vas tu?_"
"_Tiens! le voilà, Beeshop!_"
"_Ah, mon ange!_" and other affectionate greetings made Bishop start
guiltily, and then he discovered Hélène and Marcelle, two saucy little
models who had posed at the École. There also was Fannie, formerly
(before she drifted to the _café_s) our blanchisseuse, leaning heavily
upon the arm of son amant, who, a butcher-boy during the day, was now
arrayed in a cutaway coat and other things to match, including a red
cravat that Fannie herself had tied; but he wore no cuffs. Many
other acquaintances presented themselves to Bishop, somewhat to his
embarrassment. One, quite a swell member of the demi-monde, for a
moment deserted her infatuated companion, a gigantic Martinique negro,
gorgeously apparelled, and ran up to tease Bishop to paint her portrait
à l'oil, and also to engage him for la prochaine valse.
[Illustration: 0123]
The musicians were now playing a schottische, but large circles would
be formed here and there in the hall, where clever exhibitions of fancy
dancing would be given by students and by fashionably gowned damsels
with a penchant for displaying their lingerie and hosiery. The front of
the band-stand was the favorite place for this. Here four dashing young
women were raising a whirlwind of lingerie and slippers, while the crowd
applauded and tossed sous at their feet.
Next to us stood a fat, cheery-faced little man, bearing the
unmistakable stamp of an American tourist. His hands were in his
pockets, his silk hat was tipped back, and his beaming red face
and bulging eyes showed the intensity of his enjoyment. Without the
slightest warning the slippered foot of one of these dancers found his
shining tile and sent it bounding across the floor. For a moment the
American was dazed by the suddenness and unearthly neatness of the
feat; then he emitted a whoop of wonder and admiration, and in English
exclaimed,--"You gol-darned bunch of French skirts--say, you're all
right, you are, Marie! Bet you can't do it again!"
He confided to Bishop that his name was Pugson and that he was from
Cincinnati.
"Why," he exclaimed, joyously, "Paris is the top of the earth!
You artists are an enviable lot, living over here all the time and
painting-- Gad! look at her!" and he was pushing his way through the
crowd to get a better view of an uncommonly startling dancer, who was at
the moment an indeterminate fluffy bunch of skirts, linen, and hosiery.
Ah, what tales he will tell of Paris when he returns to Cincinnati, and
how he will be accused of exaggerating!
The four girls forming the centre of attraction were now doing all
manner of astonishing things possible only to Parisian feminine anatomy.
In another circle near by was Johnson, the American architect, stirring
enthusiastic applause as he hopped about, Indian fashion, with a little
brunette whose face was hidden in the shadow of her immense hat, her
hair en bandeau, à la de Mérode. Could this really be the quiet Johnson
of the Ecole, who but a week ago had been showing his mother and
charming sister over Paris? And there, too, was his close friend,
Walden, of Michigan, leading a heavy blonde to the dance! There were
others whom we knew. The little Siamese was flirting desperately with a
vision in white standing near his friend, a Japanese, who, in turn, was
listening to the cooing of a clinging bloomer girl. Even Haidor, the
Turk, was there, but he was alone in the gallery. Many sober fellows
whom I had met at the studio were there, but they were sober now only in
the sense that they were not drunk. And there were law students, too, in
velveteen caps and jackets, and students in the sciences, and students
in music, and négligé poets, littérateurs, and artists, and every model
and cocotte who could furnish her back sufficiently well to pass the
censorship of the severe critic at the door. If she be attractively
dressed, she may enter free; if not, she may not enter at all.
[Illustration: 0125]
The gayety increased as the hours lengthened; the dancing was livelier,
the shouting was more vociferous, skirts swirled more freely, and thin
glasses fell crashing to the floor.
It was pleasanter out in the cool garden, for it was dreadfully hard
to keep from dancing inside. The soft gleam of the colored lamps and
lanterns was soothing, and the music was softened down to an echo. The
broken rays of the lanterns embedded in the foliage laid bright patterns
on the showy silks of the women, and the garçons made no noise as they
flitted swiftly through the mazes of shrubbery.
At one end of the garden, surrounded by an hilarious group, were four
wooden rocking-horses worked on springs. 'Astride of two of these were
an army officer and his companion, a bloomer girl, who persistently
twisted her ankles round her horse's head. The two others were ridden
by a poet and a jauntily attired gri-sette. The four were as gleeful as
children.
[Illustration: 9128]
A flash-light photographer did a driving trade at a franc a flash,
and there were a shooting-gallery, a fortune-teller, sou-in-the-slot
machines, and wooden figures of negroes with pads on their other ends,
by punching which we might see how hard we could hit.
We are back in the ball-room again,--it is hard to keep out. The gayety
is at its height, the Bal Bullier is in full swing. The tables are piled
high with saucers, and the garçons are bringing more. The room is warm
and suffocating, the dancing and flirting faster than ever. Now and then
a line is formed to "crack the whip," and woe betide anything that comes
in its way!
[Illustration: 0131]
Our genial, generous new friend from Cincinnati was living the most
glorious hour of his life. He had not been satisfied until he found and
captured the saucy little wretch who had sent his hat spinning across
the room; so now she was anchored to him, and he was giving exhibitions
of American grace and agility that would have amazed his friends at
home. For obviously he was a person of consequence there. When he saw
us his face beamed with triumph, and he proudly introduced us to
his mignonette-scented conquest, Mad-dem-mo-zel Madeleine (which he
pronounced Madelyne), "the queen of the Latin Quarter. But blamed if I
can talk the blooming lingo!" he exclaimed, ruefully. "You translate for
me, won't you?" he appealed to Bishop, and Bishop complied. In paying
compliments thus transmitted to Madeleine he displayed an adeptness
that likely would have astounded his good spouse, who at that moment was
slumbering in a respectable part of Paris.
But the big black Martinique negroes,--they haunted and dominated
everything, and the demimonde fell down and worshipped them. They
are students of law and medicine, and are sent hither from the French
colonies by the government, or come on their private means.
[Illustration: 0132]
They are all heavy swells, as only negroes can be; their well-fitted
clothes are of the finest and most showy material; they wear shining
silk hats, white waistcoats, white "spats," patent leathers, and very
light kid gloves, not to mention a load of massive jewelry. The girls
flutter about them in bevies, like doves to be fed.
At exactly a quarter-past midnight the band played the last piece, the
lights began to go out, and the Bal Bullier was closed.
Out into the boulevard surged the heated crowd, shouting, singing, and
cutting capers as they headed for the Boul' Mich', there to continue the
revelries of which the Bal Bullier was only the beginning. "A la Taverne
du Panthéon!" "Au Café Lorrain!" "Au Café d'Harcourt!" were the cries
that range through the streets, mingled with the singing of half a
thousand people.
[Illustration: 0133]
In this mob we again encountered our American acquaintance with his
prize, and as he was bent on seeing all that he could of Paris, he
begged us to see him through, explaining that money was no object with
him, though delicately adding that our friends must make so many calls
upon our hospitality as to prove a burden at times. He had only two days
more in Paris, and the hours were precious, and "we will do things up in
style," he declared buoyantly. He did.
Bishop's arm was securely held by a little lassie all in soft creamy
silks. She spoke Engleesh, and demurely asked Bishop if "we will go to
ze _café_ ensemble, n'est-ce-pas?" and Bishop had not the heart to eject
her from the party. And so five of us went skipping along with the rest,
Mr. Pugson swearing by all the gods that Paris was the top of the earth!
When we reached the lower end of the Jardin du Luxembourg, at the old
Palais, the bright glow of the _café_s, with their warm stained windows
and lighthearted throngs, stretched away before us. Ah, le Boul' Mich'
never sleeps! There are still the laughing grisettes, the singing and
dancing students, the kiosks all aglow; the marchand de marrons is
roasting his chestnuts over a charcoal brazier, sending out a savory
aroma; the swarthy Turk is offering his wares with a princely grace;
the flower-girls flit about with freshly cut carnations, violets, and
Maréchal Niel roses,--"This joli bouquet for your sweetheart," they
plead so plaintively; the pipe man plies his trade; the cane man mobs
us, and the sellers of the last editions of the papers cry their wares.
[Illustration: 9134]
An old pedler works in and out among the _café_ tables with a little
basket of olives, deux pour un sou. The crawfish seller, with his little
red écrevisses neatly arranged on a platter; Italian boys in white
blouses bearing baskets filled with plaster casts of works of the old
masters gewgaw pedlers,--they are still all busily at work, each adding
his mite to the din.
The _café_s are packed, both inside and out, but the favorite seats are
those on the sidewalk under the awnings.
[Illustration: 0135]
We halted at the Café d'Harcourt. Here the crowd was thickest, the
sidewalk a solid mass of humanity; and the noise and the waiters as they
yelled their orders, they were there. And des femmes--how many! The Café
d'Harcourt is the head-quarters of these wonderful creations of clothes,
paint, wicked eyes, and graceful carriage. We worked our way into the
interior. Here the crowd was almost as dense as without, but a chance
offered us a vacant table; no sooner had we captured it than we were
compelled to retreat, because of a battle that two excited demoiselles
were having at an adjoining table. In another part of the room there was
singing of "Les sergents sont des brave gens," and in the middle of the
floor a petite cocotte, her hat rakishly pulled down over her eyes, was
doing a dance very gracefully, her white legs gleaming above the
short socks that she wore, and a shockingly high kick punctuating the
performance at intervals.
[Illustration: 0137]
At other tables were seated students with their friends and mistresses,
playing dominoes or recounting their petites histoires. One table drew
much attention by reason of a contest in drinking between two seasoned
habitués, one a Martinique negro and the other a delicate blond poet.
The negro won, but that was only because his purse was the longer.
Every consommation is served with a saucer, upon which is marked the
price of the drink, and the score is thus footed à la fin de ces joies.
There are some heavy accounts to be settled with the garçons.
"_Ah! voilà Beeshop!" "Tiens! mon vieux!" "Comment vas-tu?_" clamored
a half-dozen of Bishop's feminine acquaintances, as they surrounded our
table, overwhelming us with their conflicting perfumes.
[Illustration: 0139]
These denizens of the Boul' have an easy way of making acquaintances,
but they are so bright and mischievous withal that no offence can be
taken; and they may have a stack of saucers to be paid for. Among the
many _café_ frequenters of this class fully half know a few words
of English, Italian, German, and even Russian, and are so quick of
perception that they can identify a foreigner at a glance. Consequently
our table was instantly a target, principally on account of Mr. Pugson,
whose nationality emanated from his every pore.
[Illustration: 0141]
"Ah, milord, how do you do? I spik Engleesh a few. Es eet not verra
a beautiful night?" is what he got. "You are si charmant, monsieur!"
protested another, stroking Bishop's Valasquez beard; and then, archly
and coaxingly, "_Qu'est-ce que vous m'offrez, monsieur? Payez-moi un
bock?_ Yes?" Mr. Pugson made the garçons start. He ordered "everything
and the best in the house" (in English); but it was the lordliness of
his manner that told, as he leaned back in his chair and smoked his
Londrès and eyed Madeleine with intense satisfaction. In the eyes of
the beholders that action gave him the unmistakable stamp of an American
millionaire. "Tell you, boys," he puffed, "I'm not going to forget Paree
in a hurry." And Mademoiselle Madeleine, how she revelled! Mr. Pugson
bought her everything that the venders had to sell, besides, for
himself, a wretched plaster cast of a dancing-girl that he declared was
"dead swell."
"I'll take it home and startle the natives," he added; but he didn't,
as we shall see later. Then he bought three big canes as souvenirs for
friends, besides a bicycle lamp, a mammoth pipe, and other things. A
hungry-looking sketch artist who presented himself was engaged on the
spot to execute Mr. Pugson's portrait, which he made so flattering as to
receive five francs instead of one, his price.
At a neighboring table occupied by a group of students was Bi-Bi-dans-
la-Purée, one of the most famous characters of the Quartier and
Montmartre. With hilarious laughter the students were having fun with
Bi-Bi by pouring the contents of their soup-plates and drinking-glasses
down his back and upon his sparsely covered head; but what made them
laugh more was Bi-Bi's wonderful skill in pulling grotesque faces. In
that line he was an artist. His cavernous eyes and large, loose mouth
did marvellous things, from the ridiculous to the terrible; and he could
literally laugh from ear to ear. Poor Bi-Bi-dans-la-Purée!
[Illustration: 0143]
He had been a constant companion of the great Verlaine, but was that no
more, since Verlaine had died and left him utterly alone. You may see
him any day wandering aimlessly about the Quartier, wholly oblivious to
the world about him, and dreaming doubtless of the great dead poet of
the slums, who had loved him.
Here comes old Madame Carrot, a weazened little hunchback, anywhere
between sixty and a hundred years of age. She is nearly blind, and her
tattered clothes hang in strips from her wreck of a form. A few thin
strands of gray hair are all that cover her head.
"_Bon soir, Mère Carrot! ma petite mignonne, viens donc qu'on
t'embrasse! Où sont tes ailes?_" and other mocking jests greet her as
she creeps among the tables. But Mère Carrot scorns to beg: she would
earn her money. Look! With a shadowy remnant of grace she picks up the
hem of her ragged skirt, and with a heart-breaking smile that discloses
her toothless gums, she skips about in a dance that sends her audience
into shrieks of laughter, and no end of sous are flung at her feet. She
will sing, too, and caricature herself, and make pitiful attempts at
high kicking and anything else that she is called upon to do for the
sous that the students throw so recklessly. There are those who say that
she is rich.
In the rear end of the _café_ the demoiselle who had anchored herself
to the Martinique negro at the Bal Bullier was on a table kicking the
negro's hat, which he held at arm's length while he stood on a chair.
"_Plus haut! plus haut encore!_" she cried; but each time, as he kept
raising it, she tipped it with her dainty slipper; and then, with a
magnificent bound, she dislodged with her toe one of the chandelier
globes, which went crashing with a great noise to the floor; and then
she plunged down and sought refuge in her adorer's arms.
The night's excitement has reached its height now. There is a dizzy
whirl of skirts, feathers, "plug" hats, and silken stockings; and there
is dancing on the tables, with a smashing of glass, while lumps of sugar
soaked in cognac are thrown about. A single-file march round the room is
started, each dragging a chair and all singing, "_Oh, la pauvre fille,
elle est malade!_" Mr. Pugson, tightly clutching his canes and his
Dancing-Girl, joins the procession, his shiny hat reposing on the pretty
head of Mademoiselle Madeleine. But his heart almost breaks with regret
because he cannot speak French.
I began to remonstrate with Bishop for his own unseemly levity, but the
gloved hand of Mademoiselle Madeleine was laid on my lips, and her own
red lips protested, "_Taisez-vous donc! c'est absolument inexcusable de
nous faire des sermons en ce moment! En avant!_" And we went.
It was two o'clock, and the _café_s were closing, under the municipal
regulation to do so at that hour, and the Boul' was swarming with
revellers turned out of doors.
At the corner of the Rue Racine stands a small boulangerie, where some
of the revellers were beating on the iron shutters and crying, "_Voilà
du bon fromage au lait!_" impatient at the tardiness of the fat baker
in opening his shop; for the odor of hot rolls and croissants came up
through the iron gratings of the kitchen, and the big cans of fresh milk
at the door gave further comforting assurances.
Lumbering slowly down the Boul' were ponderous carts piled high with
vegetables, on their way to the great markets of Paris, the Halles
Centrales. The drivers, half asleep on the top, were greeted with
demands for transportation, and a lively bidding for passengers arose
among them. They charged five sous a head, or as much more as they could
get, and soon the carts were carrying as many passengers as could find a
safe perch on the heaped vegetables.
"_Aux Halles! aux Halles! nous allons aux Halles! Oh, la, la, comme
ils sont bons, les choux et les potirons!_" were the cries as the carts
lumbered on toward the markets.
Mr. Pugson had positively refused to accept our resignation, and stoutly
reminded us of our promise to see him through. So our party arranged
with a masculine woman in a man's coat on payment of a franc a head, and
we clambered upon her neatly piled load of carrots. Mr. Pugson, becoming
impatient at the slow progress of the big Normandy horses, began to pelt
them with carrots. The market-woman protested vigorously at this waste
of her property, and told Mr. Pugson that she would charge him two sous
apiece for each subsequent carrot. He seized upon the bargain with true
American readiness, and then flung carrots to his heart's content, the
driver meanwhile keeping count in a loud and menacing voice. It was a
new source of fun for the irrepressible and endlessly jovial American.
Along the now quiet boulevard the carts trundled in a string. All at
once there burst from them all an eruption of song and laughter, which
brought out numerous gendarmes from the shadows. But when they saw the
crowd they said nothing but "_Les étudiants_," and retreated to the
shadows.