with its graceful column touched by the shimmering lights of the Seine,
and dominated by the towers of Notre-Dame, Mr. Pugson, in trying to hurl
two carrots at once, incautiously released his hold upon the Dancing-
Girl, which incontinently rolled off the vegetables and was shattered
into a thousand fragments on the pavement of the bridge--along with Mr.
Pugson's heart. After a moment of silent misery he started to throw the
whole load of carrots into the river, but he quickly regained command
of himself. For the first time, however, his wonderful spirits were
dampened, and he was as moody and cross as a child, refusing to be
comforted even by Madeleine's cooing voice.
The number of carts that we now encountered converging from many
quarters warned us that we were very near the markets. Then rose the
subdued noise that night-workers make. There seemed to be no end of the
laden carts. The great Halles then came into view, with their cold glare
of electric lights, and thousands of people moving about with baskets
upon their backs, unloading the vegetable carts and piling the
contents along the streets. The thoroughfares were literally walled and
fortressed with carrots, cabbages, pumpkins, and the like, piled in neat
rows as high as our heads for square after square. Is it possible for
Paris to consume all of this in a day?
Every few yards were fat women seated before steaming cans of hot potage
and _café_ noir, with rows of generous white bowls, which they would
fill for a sou.
Not alone were the market workers here, for it seemed as though the
Boul' Mich' had merely taken an adjournment after the law had closed its
portals and turned it out of doors. The workers were silent and busy,
but largely interspersed among them were the demi-mondaines and the
singing and dancing students of the Quartier, all as full of life and
deviltry as ever. It was with these tireless revellers that the soup-
and coffee-women did their most thriving business, for fun brings a good
appetite, and the soup and coffee were good; but better still was
this unconventional, lawless, defiant way of taking them. Mr. Pugson's
spirits regained their vivacity under the spell, and he was so
enthusiastic that he wanted to buy out one of the pleasant-faced fat
women; we had to drag him bodily away to avert the catastrophe.
In the side streets leading away from the markets are _café_s and
restaurants almost without number, and they are open toute la nuit, to
accommodate the market people, having a special permit to do so; but
as they are open to all, the revellers from all parts of Paris assemble
there after they have been turned out of the boulevard _café_s at two
o'clock. It is not an uncommon thing early of a Sunday morning to see
crowds of merry-makers from a bal masqué finishing the night here, all
in costume, dancing and playing ring-around-a-rosy among the stacks of
vegetables and the unheeding market people. Indeed, it is quite a common
thing to end one's night's frivolity at the Halles and their _café_s,
and take the first 'buses home in the early morning.
The contingent from the Boul' Mich', after assisting the market people
to unload, and indulging in all sorts of pranks, invaded the élite
_café_s, among them the _Café Barrette, Au Veau Qui Tête, Au Chien Qui
Fume, and Le Caveau du Cercle._
[Illustration: 0149]
At this last-named place, singing and recitations with music were in
order, a small platform at one end of the room being reserved for
the piano and the performers. Part of the audience were in masquerade
costume, having come from a ball at Montmartre, and they lustily joined
the choruses. Prices are gilt-edged here,--a franc a drink, and not less
than ten sous to the garçon.
The contrast between the fluffy and silk-gowned demi-mondaines and
the dirty, roughly clad market people was very striking at the Café
Barrette. There the women sit in graceful poses, or saunter about and
give evidence of their style, silk gowns, India laces, and handsome
furs, greeting each new-comer with pleas for a sandwich or a bock; they
are always hungry and thirsty, but they get a commission on all sales
that they promote. A small string orchestra gave lively music, and took
up collections between performances. The array of gilt-framed mirrors
heightened the brilliancy of the place, already sufficiently aglow with
many electric lights. The Café Barrette is the last stand of the gaudy
women of the boulevards. With the first gray gleam of dawn they pass
with the night to which they belong.
It was with sincere feeling that Mr. Pugson bade us good-by at five
o'clock that morning as he jumped into a cab to join his good spouse at
the Hôtel Continental; but he bore triumphantly with him some sketches
of the showy women at the Café Barrette, which Bishop had made.
As for Madeleine, so tremendously liberal had she found Mr. Pugson that
her protestations of affection for him were voluble and earnest. She
pressed her card upon him and made him swear that he would find her
again. After we had bidden her good-night, Mr. Pugson drew the card
from his pocket, and thoughtfully remarked, as he tore it to pieces,--"I
don't think it is prudent to carry such things in your pocket."
[0152]
BOHEMIAN CAFÉS
[Illustration: 0153]
VERY often, instead of having dinner at the studio, we saunter over
to the Maison Dar-blay, passing the wall of the dismal Cimetière du
Montparnasse on the way. The Maison Darblay is in the little Rue de
la Gaieté, which, though only a block in length, is undoubtedly the
liveliest thoroughfare in the Quartier. That is because it serves as a
funnel between the Avenue du Maine and five streets that converge into
it at the upper end. Particularly in the early evening the little street
is crowded with people returning from their work. All sorts of boutiques
are packed into this minute thoroughfare,---jewelry-shops, pork-shops,
kitchens (where they cook what you bring while you wait on the
sidewalk), theatres, _cafés chantants_, fried-potato stalls, snail
merchants, moving vegetable- and fruit-markets, and everything else.
In the middle of the block, on the western side, between a millinery-
shop and a butcher-shop, stands the Maison Darblay, famous for its beans
and its patrons. A modest white front, curtained windows, and a row of
milk-cans give little hint of the charms of the interior. Upon entering
we encounter the vast M. Darblay seated behind a tiny counter, upon
which are heaped a pile of freshly ironed napkins, parcels of chocolate,
a big dish of apple-sauce, rows of bottles containing bitters that work
miracles with ailing appetites, and the tip-box. Reflecting M. Darblay's
beamy back and the clock on the opposite wall (which is always fifteen
minutes fast) hangs a long mirror resplendent in heavy gilt frame; it
is the pride of the establishment, and affords comfort to the actresses
when they adjust their hats and veils upon leaving.
[Illustration: 9154]
M. Darblay is manager of the establishment, and when it is reflected
that he weighs two hundred and sixty pounds, it may be imagined what
accurate adjustments he has to make in fitting himself behind the small
counter. When a boarder finishes his meal he goes to M. Darblay and
tells him what he has had, including napkin and bread, and M. Darblay
scores it all down on a slate with chalk and foots it up. After the bill
is paid, the tip-box is supposed by a current fiction to receive two
sous for Marie and Augustine, the buxom Breton maidens who serve the
tables; but so rarely does the fiction materialize that, when the rattle
of coins is heard in the box, the boarders all look up wonderingly to
see the possible millionaire that has appeared among them, and Marie and
Augustine shout at the top of their voices, "Merci bien, monsieur!"
[Illustration: 8155]
At the opposite end of the room, in full view, is the cuisine, with its
big range and ruddy fires. Here Madame Darblay reigns queen, her genial,
motherly red face and bright eyes beaming a welcome to all. She is from
Lausanne, on Lake Geneva, Switzerland, and the independent blood of
her race rarely fails its offices when M. Darblay incautiously seeks
to interfere with her duties and prerogatives, for he retreats under
an appalling volley of French from his otherwise genial spouse; on such
occasions he seeks his own corner as rapidly as he can manage his bulk
to that purpose. She is a famous cook. The memory of her poulets rôtis
and juicy gigots will last forever. But greatest of all are her haricots
blancs, cooked au beurre; it is at the shrine of her beans that her
devoted followers worship.
And her wonderful wisdom! She knows intuitively if you are out of sorts
or have an uncertain appetite, and without a hint she will prepare a
delicacy that no epicure could resist. She knows every little whim and
peculiarity of her boarders, and caters to them accordingly. The steaks
and chops are bought at the shop next door just when they are ordered,
and are always fresh.
There are eight marble-top tables lining the two walls, and each table
is held sacred to its proper occupants, and likewise are the numbered
hooks and napkins. An invasion of these preserves is a breech of
etiquette intolerable in Bohemia.
Even the white cat is an essential part of the establishment, for it
purringly welcomes the patrons and chases out stray dogs.
Situated as it is, in a group of three theatres and several _café_s
chantants, it is the rendezvous of the actors and actresses of the
neighborhood. They hold the three tables but one from the kitchen, on
one side, and they are a jolly crowd, the actresses particularly.
[Illustration: 0157]
They are a part of the Quartier and echo its spirit. Although full of
mischief and fun, the actresses would never be suspected of singing
the naughty songs that so delight the gallery gods and so often wring
a murmur of protest from the pit. There are ten who dine here, but from
their incessant chatter and laughter you would think them twenty. On
Friday evenings, when the songs and plays are changed, they rehearse
their pieces at dinner.
[Illustration: 0159]
Bishop is openly fond of Mademoiselle Brunerye, a sparkling little
brunette singer, who scolds him tragically for drawing horrible
caricatures of her when he sits before the footlights to hear her sing.
But it is always she that begins the trouble at the theatre. If Bishop
is there, she is sure to see him and to interpolate something in her
song about "_mon amant Américain_," and sing it pointedly at him, to the
amusement of the audience and his great discomfiture; and so he retorts
with the caricatures.
Upon entering the restaurant the actresses remove their hats and wraps
and make themselves perfectly at home. They are the life of Darblay's;
we couldn't possibly spare them.
One of the actors is a great swell,--M. Fontaine, leading man at the
Théâtre du Montparnasse, opposite.
[Illustration: 9160]
His salary is a hundred francs a week; this makes the smaller actors
look up to him, and enables him to wear a very long coat, besides
gloves, patent-leather shoes, and a shiny top-hat. He occupies the place
of honor, and Marie smiles when she serves him, and gives him a good
measure of wine. He rewards this attention by depositing two sous in the
tip-box every Friday night. Then there are M. Marius, M. Zecca, and
M. Dufauj who make people scream with laughter at the Gaieté, and M.
Coppée, the heavy villain of the terrible eyes in "Les Deux Gosses," and
Mademoiselle Walzy, whose dark eyes sparkle mischief as she peeps
over her glass, and Mademoiselle Minion, who kicks shockingly high
to accentuate her songs, and eight other actresses just as saucy and
pretty.
The students of the Quartier practically take charge of the theatres
on Saturday nights, and as they are very free with their expressions of
approval or disapproval, the faces of the stage-people wear an anxious
look at the restaurant on that evening. The students will throw the
whole theatre into an uproar with hisses that drive an actor off the
stage, or applause, recalls, and the throwing of two-sous bouquets and
kisses to an actress who has made a hit.
Promptly at six-forty-five every night the venerable M. Corneau enters
Darblay's, bringing a copy of _Le Journal_. He is extremely methodical,
so that any interruption of his established routine upsets him badly.
One evening he found a stranger in his seat, occupying the identical
chair that had been sacred to his use every evening for six years.
M. Corneau was so astonished that he hung his hat on the wrong hook,
stepped on the cat's tail, sulked in a corner, and refused to eat until
his seat had been vacated, and then he looked as though he wished it
could be fumigated. He has a very simple meal. One evening he invited
me--a rare distinction--to his room, which was in the top floor of one
of those quaint old buildings in the Rue du Moulin de Beurre. It could
then be seen what a devoted scientist and student he was. His room
was packed with books, chemicals, mineral specimens, and scientific
instruments. He was very genial, and brewed excellent tea over an
alcohol-stove of his own manufacture. Twenty years ago he was a
professor at the Ecole des Mines, where he had served many years; but
he had now grown too old for that, and was living his quiet, studious,
laborious life on a meagre pension.
At one table sit a sculptor, an artist, and a blind musician and his
wife. The sculptor is slender, delicate, and nervous, and is continually
rolling and smoking cigarettes. His blond hair falls in ringlets over
his collar, and he looks more the poet than the sculptor, for he is
dreamy and distrait, and seems to be looking within himself rather than
upon the world about him. Augustine serves him with an absinthe Pernod
au sucre, which he slowly sips while he smokes several cigarettes before
he is ready for his dinner.
[Illustration: 0162]
The artist is his opposite,--a big, bluff, hearty fellow, loud of voice
and full of life. And he is successful, for he has received a medal and
several honorable mentions at the Salon des Champs-Élysées, and has a
fine twilight effect in the Luxembourg Gallery. After dinner he and M.
Darblay play piquet for the coffee, and M. Darblay is generally loser.
[Illustration: 0163]
The blind musician is a kindly old man with a benevolent face and a
jovial spirit. He is the head professor of music at the Institution des
Aveugles, on the Boulevard des Invalides. His wife is very attentive to
him, taking his hat and cane, tucking his napkin under his chin, placing
the dishes where he knows how to find them, and reading the papers to
him. He knows where everybody sits, and he addresses each by name, and
passes many brisk sallies about the room.
One poet is vivacious, not at all like the dreamy species to which he
belongs. True, he wears long hair and a Quartier Latin "plug," but his
eyes are not vague, and he is immensely fond of Madame Darblay's beans,
of which he has been known to stow away five platefuls at a meal. Often
he brings in a copy of _Gil Bias_, containing a poem by himself in the
middle of the page and with illustrations by Steinlen.
A strange, solitary figure used to sit in one corner, speaking to no
one, and never ordering more than a bowl of chocolate and two sous of
bread. It was known merely that he was an Hungarian and an artist, and
from his patched and frayed clothes and meagre fare it was surmised that
he was poor. But he had a wonderful face. Want was plainly stamped upon
it, but behind it shone a determination and a hope that nothing could
repress. There was not a soul among the boarders but that would have
been glad to assist in easing whatever burden sat upon him, and no doubt
it was his suspicion of that fact and his dread of its manifestation
that made him hold absolutely aloof. Madame Darblay once or twice made
efforts to get nearer to him, but he gently and firmly repulsed her.
He was a pitiable figure, but his pride was invincible, and with eyes
looking straight forward, he held up his head and walked like a king. He
came and went as a shadow.
None knew where he had a room. There were many stories and conjectures
about him, but he wrapped his mantle of mystery and solitude about
him and was wholly inaccessible. It was clear to see that he lived in
another world,--a world of hopes, filled with bright images of peace and
renown. After a time his seat became vacant, and I shall presently tell
how it happened.
These will suffice as types of the Maison Darblay, though I might
mention old M. Decamp, eighty-four years of age, and as hearty and
jovial a man as one would care to see. In his younger days he had been
an actor, having had a fame during the Empire of Napoléon III. And there
were a professor of languages, who gave lessons at fifteen sous an hour,
a journalist of the _Figaro_, and two pretty milliner girls from the
shop next door.
The great event at the Maison Darblay came not long ago, when M.
Darblay's two charming daughters had a double wedding, each with
a comfortable dot, for M. Darblay had grown quite rich out of his
restaurant, owning several new houses. The girls were married
twice,--once at the Mairie on the Rue Gassendi, and again at the Eglise
St. Pierre, on the Avenue du Maine. Then came the great wedding-dinner
at the Maison Darblay, to which all the boarders were invited. The
tables were all connected, so as to make two long rows. The bridal-party
were seated at the end next the kitchen, and the front door was locked
to exclude strangers. M. Darblay was elegant in a new dress suit and
white shirt, but his tailor, in trying to give him a trim figure, made
the situation embarrassing, as M. Darblay's girth steadily increased
during the progress of the banquet. He made a very fine speech, which
was uproariously cheered.
[Illustration: 9166]
Madame Darblay was remarkably handsome in a red satin gown, and bore so
distinguished an air, and looked so transformed from her usual kitchen
appearance, that we could only marvel and admire. Then came the kissing
of the brides, a duty that was performed most heartily. Madame Darblay
was very happy and proud, and her dinner was a triumph to have lived
for.
Bishop sat opposite the wicked Mademoiselle Brunerye, and he and she
made violent love, and behaved with conspicuous lack of dignity. M.
Fontaine, the great, had one of the chic milliners for partner. Old M.
Decamp told some racy stories of the old régime. When the coffee and
liqueurs came on, the big artist brought out a guitar and the poet
a mandolin, and we had music. Then the poet read a poem that he had
written for the occasion. The actresses sang their sprightliest songs.
Mademoiselle Brunerye sang "_Ça fait toujours plaisir_" to Bishop. M.
Fontaine gave in a dramatic manner a scene from "_Les Deux Gosses_," the
heavy villain assisting, the cook's aprons and towels serving to
make the costumes. Bishop sang "Down on the Farm." In short, it was a
splendid evening in Bohemia, of a kind that Bohemians enjoy and know how
to make the most of.
[Illustration: 0167]
There was one silent guest, the strange young Hungarian artist. He ate
with a ravenous appetite, openly and unashamed. After he had had his
fill (and Madame Darblay saw to it that he found his plate always
replenished), he smiled occasionally at the bright sallies of the other
guests, but for the most part he sat constrained, and would speak only
when addressed,--he protested that his French was too imperfect. It
was so evident that he wished to escape notice entirely that no serious
effort was made to draw him out.
That was a hard winter. A few weeks after the wedding the Hungarian's
visits to the Maison Dar-blay suddenly ceased. The haunted look had been
deepening in his eyes, his gaunt cheeks had grown thinner, and he looked
like a hunted man. After his disappearance the gendarmes came to the
restaurant to make inquiries about him. Bishop and I were present. They
wanted to know if the young man had any friends there. We told them that
we would be his friends.
"Then you will take charge of his body?" they asked.
We followed them to the Rue Perceval, where they turned us over to the
concierge of an old building. She was very glad we had come, as the lad
seemed not to have had a friend in the world. She led us up to the sixth
floor, and then pointed to a ladder leading up to the roof. We ascended
it, and found a box built on the roof. It gave a splendid view of Paris.
The door of the box was closed. We opened it, and the young artist lay
before us dead. There were two articles of furniture in the room. One
was the bare mattress on the floor, upon which he lay, and the other was
an old dresser, from which some of the drawers were missing. The young
man lay drawn up, fully dressed, his coat-collar turned up about his
ears. Thus he had fallen asleep, and thus hunger and cold had slain
him as he slept. There was one thing else in the room, all besides,
including the stove and the bed-covering, having gone for the purchase
of painting material. It was an unfinished oil-painting of the
Crucifixion. Had he lived to finish it, I am sure it would have made him
famous, if for nothing else than the wonderful expression of agony in
the Saviour's face, an agony infinitely worse than the physical pain of
the crucifixion could have produced.
There was still one thing more,--a white rat that was, hunting
industriously for food, nibbling desiccated cheese-rinds that it found
on the shelves against the wall. It had been the artist's one friend and
companion in life.
And all that, too, is a part of life in Bohemian Paris.
On the Rue Marie, not far from the Gare Montparnasse, is the "Club," a
small and artistically dirty wine-shop and restaurant, patronized by
a select crowd of musketeers of the brush. The warm, dark tones of the
anciently papered walls are hidden beneath a cloud of oil sketches,
charcoal drawings, and caricatures of everything and everybody that the
fancies of the Bohemians could devise. Madame Annaie is mistress of the
establishment, and her cook, M. Annaie, wears his cap rakishly on one
side, and attends to his business; and he makes very good potages and
rôtis, considering the small prices that are charged. Yet even the
prices, though the main attraction, are paid with difficulty by a
majority of the habitués, who sometimes fall months in arrears. Madame
Annaie keeps a big book of accounts.
Of the members of the club, four are Americans, two Spaniards, one an
Italian, one a Welshman, one a Pole, one a Turk, one a Swiss, and the
rest French,--just fifteen in all, and all sculptors and painters except
one of the Americans, who is correspondent of a New York paper. At
seven o'clock every evening the roll is called by the Pole, who acts as
president, secretary, and treasurer of the club. A fine of two sous is
imposed for every absence; this goes to the "smoker" fund. Joanskouie,
the multiple officer, has not many burdensome duties, but even these few
are a severe tax upon his highly nervous temperament. Besides collecting
the fines he must gather up also the dues, which are a franc a month.
All the members are black-listed, including the president himself, and
the names of the delinquents are posted on the wall.
The marble-top tables are black with pencil sketches done at the expense
of Giles, the Welshman, who is the butt of the club. He is a very tall
and amazingly lean Welshman, with a bewhiskered face, a hooked nose,
and a frightful accent when he speaks either English or French. He is an
animal sculptor, but leaves his art carefully alone. He is very clever
at drawing horses, dogs, and funny cows all over the walls; but he is
so droll and stupid, so incredibly stupid, that "Giles" is the byword of
the club. Every month he receives a remittance of two hundred and fifty
francs, and immediately starts out to get the full worth of it in the
kinds of enjoyment that he finds on the Boul' Mich', where regularly
once a month he is a great favorite with the feminine habitués of the
_café_s. When his funds run low, he lies perdu till mid-day; then
he appears at Madame Annaie's, heavy-eyed and stupid, staying until
midnight. Sometimes he varies this routine by visiting his friends at
their studios, where he is made to pose in ridiculous attitudes.