with the musician and the aesthetic poet. How deliciously sharp and
refreshing was the cold, biting air as we stepped out into the night! It
seemed as though I had been breathing molasses. The fog was thicker than
ever, and the night was colder. The two twisted gas-lamps were no longer
burning as we crossed the slippery stone-paved court and ascended to the
narrow street. The musician wrapped a gray muffler about his throat and
thrust his hands deep into his pockets. The poet had no top-coat, but he
buttoned his thin jacket tightly about him, and shivered.
"Shall we have some lait chaud and a croissant?" inquired the musician.
Yes, anything hot would be good, even milk; but where could we get it?
"Ah, you shall see!"
We had not gone far when it gave me a start to recognize a figure that
we had seen in the Boul' Mich' on our way to the Soleil d'Or. It was
that of an outcast of the boulevards, now slinking through the shadows
toward the river. We had been accosted by him in front of one of the
brilliant _café_s, as, trembling and rubbing his hands, a picture of
hopeless dejection and misery, and in a quavering voice he begged us to
buy him a drink of brandy.
[Illustration: 0210]
It probably saved him from an attack of delirium tremens that night, but
here he was drifting, with a singular fatality, toward the river and
the Morgue. Now, that his day's work of begging was done, all his jackal
watchfulness had disappeared, and an inner vision seemed to look forth
from his bleared eyes as their gaze strained straight and dull toward
the black river. It may have been a mere fancy, but the expression in
his eyes reminded me strongly of similar things that I had seen on the
slabs in the Morgue.
We crossed the Rue du Haut-Pavé again to the river wall, and arrived
at the bridge leading back of Notre-Dame and past the Morgue. On the
farther end of the bridge, propped against the parapet, was a small
stand, upon a corner of which a dim lamp was burning. In front were a
number of milk-cans, and on a small counter were a row of thick white
bowls and a basket of croissants. Inside, upon a small stove, red with
heat, were two kettles from which issued clouds of steam bearing an odor
of boiling milk. A stout woman, her face so well wrapped in a shawl
that only the end of her red nose was visible, greeted us,--"_Bon jour,
messieurs. En voulez-vous du bon lait bien chaud?_"
She poured out four bowls of steaming milk, and gave us each a roll.
For this luxury we paid three sous each; and a feast it was, for the
shivering poet, at least, for he licked the hot bowl clean and ate the
very crumbs of his croissant.
As we were bound for widely separated quarters, our Bohemian friends
bade us an affectionate good-night, and were soon swallowed up in the
gloom. We turned towards home and the Boul' Mich'. All the _café_s were
closed and dark, but the boulevard was alive with canal-boatmen, street-
sweepers, and rumbling vegetable- and milk-carts. The streets were being
washed clean of all evidences of the previous day's life and turmoil,
and the great city was creeping forth from its lair to begin another.
[Illustration: 5213]
THE CAFÉ PROCOPE
IN the short, busy little street, the Rue de l'Ancienne-Comédie, which
runs from the Boulevard St. Germain, in a line from the Théâtre National
de l'Odéon and connecting with the Rue Mazarin, its continuation, the
heavy dome of the Institut looming at its end, is to be found probably
the most famous _café_ in Paris, for in its day it has been the
rendezvous of the most noted French littérateurs, politicians, and
savants. What is more, the Procope was the first _café_ established in
Paris, originating the appellation "_café_" to a place where coffee
is served, for it was here that coffee was introduced to France as an
after-dinner comforter.
That was when the famous _café_ was in its glory. Some of the great
celebrities who made it famous have been dead for nearly two hundred
years, though its greatest fame came a century afterwards; and now the
_café_, no longer glorious as it was when the old Théâtre Français stood
opposite, reposes in a quiet street far from the noise and glitter and
life of the boulevards, and lives on the splendid memories that crowd
it. Other _café_s by the thousand have sprung into existence, and
the word has spread to coffee saloons and restaurants throughout
Christendom; and the ancient rive droite nurses the history and relics
of the golden days of its glory, alone in a quiet street, surrounded by
tightly shut shops, and the calm of a sleeping village.
Still, it retains many of its ancient characteristics and much of the
old-time quaintness peculiar to itself and setting it wholly apart, and
it is yet the rendezvous of littérateurs and artists, who, if not so
famous as the great men in whose seats they sit, play a considerable
rôle in the life of modern Paris.
The front of the _café_ is a neat little terrace off the street,
screened by a fanciful net-work of vines and shrubbery that spring from
green painted boxes and that conceal cosey little tables and corners
placed behind them. Instead of the usual showy plate-windows, one still
finds the quaint old window-panes, very small carreaux, kept highly
polished by the tireless garçon apprentice.
Tacked to the white pillars are numerous copies of _Le Procope_, a
weekly journal published by Théo, the proprietor of the _café_. Its
contributors are the authors, journalists, and poets who frequent
the _café_, and it publishes a number of portraits besides, and some
spirited drawings. It is devoted in part to the history of the _café_
and of the celebrities who have made it famous, and publishes portraits
of them, from Voltaire to Paul Verlaine. This same journal was published
here over two hundred years ago, in 1689, and it was the means then by
which the patrons of the establishment kept in closer touch with their
contemporaries and the spirit of the time. Théo is proprietor and
business manager, as well as editor.
[Illustration: 0215]
The following two poems will give an idea of the grace of the matter
contained in Le Procope:
À UNE ESPAGNOLE
Au loin, quand, l'oil rêveur et d'ennuis l'âme pleine,
Je suivrai sur les flots le vol des alcyons
Chaque soir surgira dans les derniers rayons
Le profil triste et doux d'Ida, de ma sirène.
La figure et de lys et d'iris transparente,
Ressortira plus blanche en l'ombre des cheveux
Profonds comme un mystère et troublants et mes yeux
Boiront dans l'Idéal sa caresse enivrante.
Et je rechercherai l'énigme du sourire
Railleur ou de pitié qui luisait dans ses yeux
En des paillettes d'or sous ses beaux cils ombreux....
Et je retomberai dans la tristesse... et dire
Qu'un seul mot me rendrait et la vie et l'espoir:
Belle, mon rendez-vous n'est-il point pour ce soir?
L Birr.
PETITE CHANSON DÉSOLÉE
Je suis seul dans la grande ville
Où nul n'a fêté mon retour,
Cour vide, et cerveau qui vacille,
Sans projet, sans but, sans amour
Je suis seul dans la grande ville.
Le dos voûté, les bras ballants,
Je marche au hasard dans la foule
A longs pas lourds et nonchalants,
On me pousse, heurte, refoule,
Le dos voûté, les bras ballants.
Je suis accablé de silence,
De ce silence intérieur,
Tel un brouillard subtil et dense,
Qui tombe à plis lourds sur le cour,
Je suis accablé de silence.
Ah! quand viendront les jours heureux,
Quand viendra la chère attendue
Qu'espère mon cour amoureux,
Qu'implore mon âme éperdue,
Ah! quand viendront les jours heureux!
Achille Segard.
Here is a particularly charming little poem, written in the musical
French of two or three centuries ago:
UN BAYSER
Sur vostre lèvre fraîche et rose,
Ma mye, ah! laissiez-moi poser
Cette tant bonne et doulce chose,
Un bayser.
Telle une fleur au jour éclose,
le vois vostre teint se roser;
Si ie vous redonnois,--ie n'ose,
Un bayser.
Laissiez-moi vous prendre, inhumaine,
A chascun iour de la sepmaine
Un bayser.
Trop tôt viendront vieil aage et peine!
Lors n'aurez plus, l'eussiez-vous reine,
Un bayser.
Maistre Guillaume.
The modern gas illumination of the _café_, in contrast to the fashion of
brilliant lighting that prevails in the showy _café_s of the boulevards,
must nevertheless be a great advance on the ancient way that it had
of being lighted with crude oil lamps and candelabra. But the dim
illumination is in perfect keeping with the other appointments of the
place, which are dark, sombre, and funereal. The interior of the Procope
is as dark as a finely colored old meerschaum pipe. The woodwork, the
chairs, and the tables are deeply stained by time, the contrasting white
marble tops of the tables suggesting gravestones; and with all these go
the deeply discolored walls and the many ancient paintings,--even the
caisse, behind which sits Madame Théo, dozing over her knitting. This
caisse is a wonderful piece of furniture in itself, of some rich dark
wood, beautifully carved and decorated.
Madame Théo is in black, her head resting against the frame of an
old crayon portrait of Voltaire on the wall behind her. A fat and
comfortable black cat is asleep in the midst of rows of white saucers
and snowy napkins. The only garçon, except the garçon apprentice, is
sitting in a corner drowsing over an evening paper, but ever ready to
answer the quiet calls of the customers. For in the matter of noise and
frivolity the Café Procope is wholly unlike the boulevard _café_s. An
atmosphere of refined and elegant suppression pervades the place; the
roystering spirit that haunts the boulevards stops at the portals of the
Procope. Here all is peace and tranquillity, and that is why it is the
haunt of many earnest and aspiring poets and authors; for hither they
may bring their portfolios in peace and security, and here they may
work upon their manuscripts, knowing that their neighbors are similarly
engrossed and that intrusion is not to be feared. And then, too, are
they not sitting on the same chairs and writing at the same tables that
have been occupied by some of the greatest men in all the brilliant
history of France? Is not this the place in which greatness had budded
and blossomed in the centuries gone? Are not these ancient walls the
same that echoed the wit, badinage, and laughter of the masters? And
there are the portraits of the great themselves, looking down benignly
and encouragingly upon the young strugglers striving to follow in their
footsteps, and into the ghostly mirrors, damaged by time and now sending
back only ghosts of shadows, they look as the great had looked before
them. It is here, therefore, that many of the modern geniuses of France
have drawn their inspiration, shaking off the endless turmoil of the
noisy and bustling world, living with the works and memories of the
ancient dead, and working out their destiny under the magic spell that
hovers about the place. It is for this reason that the habitués are
jealous of the intrusion of the curious and worldly. In this quiet and
secure retreat they feel no impinging of the wearing and crippling world
that roars and surges through the busy streets and boulevards.
[Illustration: 0221]
M. Théo de Bellefond is the full name of the proprietor, but he is
commonly known as M. Théo. He is a jolly little man, with an ambitious
round stomach, a benevolent face covered with a Vandyke beard, and a
shining bald head. A large flowing black cravat, tied into an artistic
négligé bow, hides his shirt. M. Théo came into possession of the
Procope in 1893, a fact duly recorded on a door panel, along with the
names of over a score of the celebrities who have made the Procope
their place of rest, refection, and social enjoyment. M. Procope was a
journalist in his day, but now the ambition that moves him is to restore
the ancient glory of the Procope; to make it again the centre of French
brains and power in letters, art, and politics. To this end he exerts
all his journalistic tact, a fact clearly shown by the able manner
in which he conducts his journal, _Le Procope_. He has worked out the
history of the _café_, and has at the ends of his fingers the life-
stories of its famous patrons.
The Café Procope was founded in 1689 by François Procope, where it now
stands. Opposite was the Comédie Française, which also was opened
that year. The _café_ soon became the rendezvous of all who aspired to
greatness in art, letters, philosophy, and politics. It was here that
Voltaire, in his eighty-second year, while attending the rehearsals of
his play, "Irène," descended from his chaise-à-porteur at the door
of the Café Procope, and drank the coffee which the _café_ had made
fashionable. It was here also that he became reconciled to Piron, after
an estrangement of more than twenty years.
Ste.-Foix made trouble here one day about a cup of chocolate. A duel
with the proprietor of the _café_ was the immediate result, and after
it Ste.-Foix, badly wounded, exclaimed, "Nevertheless, monsieur, your
sword-thrust does not prevent my saying that a very sickly déjeuner is
une tasse de chocolat!"
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, after the successful representation of "Le Devin
de Village," was carried in triumph to the Procope by Condorcet, who,
with Jean-Jacques on his shoulders, made a tour of the crowded _café_,
yelling, "Vive la Musique Française!" Diderot was fond of sitting in a
corner and manufacturing paradoxes and materialistic dissertations to
provoke the lieutenant of police, who would note everything he said
and report it to the chief of police. The lieutenant, ambitious though
stupid, one night told his chief that Diderot had said one never saw
souls; to which the chief returned, "M. Diderot se trompe. L'âme est un
esprit, et M. Diderot est plein d'esprit."
Danton delighted in playing chess in a quiet corner with a strong
adversary in the person of Marat. Many other famous revolutionists
assembled here, among them Fabre d'Eglantine, Robespierre, d'Holbach,
Mirabeau, Camille Desmoulins. It was here that Camille Desmoulins was to
be strangled by the reactionists in the Revolution; it was here that the
first bonnet rouge was donned. The massacre of December, 1792, was here-
planned, and the killing began at the very doors of the _café_. Madame
Roland, Lucille Desmoulins, and the wife of Danton met here on the ioth
of August, the day of the fall of the monarchy, when bells rang and
cannon thundered. It was later that Bonaparte, then quite young and
living in the Quai Conti, in the building which the American Art
Association now occupies, left his hat at the Procope as security for
payment for a drink, he having left his purse at home. In short, the old
_café_ of the Rue des Fossés-St.-Ger-main (its old name) was famous as
the meeting-place of celebrities. Legendre, the great geometrician,
came hither. One remembers the verses of Masset: "Je joue aux
dominos quelquefois chez Procope." Here Gambetta made speeches to the
reactionist politicians and journalists. He engaged in more than one
prise de bec with le père Coquille, friend of Veuillot. Coquille always
made sprightly and spirited replies when Gambetta roared, thundered, and
swore.
Since then have followed days of calm. In later times Paul Verlaine was
a frequenter of the Procope, where he would sit in his favorite place
in the little rear salon at Voltaire's table. This little salon, in the
rear of the _café_, is held sacred, for its chair and table are the
ones that Voltaire used to occupy. The table is on one side of the small
room. On the walls are many interesting sketches in oil by well-known
French artists, and there are fine ceiling decorations; but all these
are seen with difficulty, so dim is the light in the room. Since
Voltaire's time this table has become an object of curiosity and
veneration. When celebrated habitués of the _café_ died this table was
used as an altar, upon which for a time reposed the bust of the decedent
before crêpe-covered lanterns.
During the Revolution Hébert jumped upon this table, which had been
placed before the door of the _café_, and harangued the crowd gathered
there, exciting them to such a pitch that they snatched the newspapers
from the hands of the news-venders. In a moment of passionate appeal he
brought down his heavy boot-heel upon the marble with such force as to
split it.
In the _café_ are three doors that are decorated in a very interesting
fashion. On the panels of one, well preserved in spite of the numerous
transformations through which the establishment has gone, M. Théo
conceived the happy idea of inscribing in gold letters the names of the
illustrious who have visited the _café_ since its founding. Many of the
panels of the Avails are taken with full-length portraits by Thomas,
representing, among others, Voltaire, Rousseau, Robespierre, Diderot,
Danton and Marat playing chess, Mirabeau, and Gambetta. There are
smaller sketches by Corot, d'Aubigny, Vallon, Courbet, Willette, and
Roedel. Some of them are not fine specimens of art.
M. Théo is a devoted collector of rare books and engravings. His
library, which contains many very rare engravings of the eighteenth
century and more than one book of priceless value, is open to his
intimate friends only, with whom he loves to ramble through his
treasures and find interesting data of his _café_.
LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE
BISHOP had been industriously at work upon a large black-and-white
drawing. The subject was a ball-room scene,--of evident low degree,
judging from the abandon of the whirling figures and the queer types
that were depicted. White lace skirts were sweeping high in air,
revealing black-stockinged ankles and gauzy lingerie in a way unknown to
the monde propre.
[Illustration: 8228]
In contrast to the grace and abandon of the female figures were the
coarseness and clumsiness of their male partners.
The work was nearly finished, but Bishop professed to be dissatisfied
with the foreground architecture and with the drawing of a hand
belonging to one of the male dancers. After boring me at length with a
speech on the necessity of having a model for that hand, he sheepishly
asked me if I would pose for the elusive member. It was then that
curiosity prompted me to inquire where he had found the original of this
remarkable scene.
"_Mon enfant sculpteur_," he replied, with the patronizing air of a man
of the world, "this is the Moulin de la Galette."
"And where is that?" I asked.
"I will show you to-morrow night, if you agree."
To-morrow would be Sunday. When it had passed and the evening was come,
and after we had enjoyed two courses of Madame Darblay's juicy gigots
and irresistible beans, with the incomparable sauce afforded by the
presence of the sunny actresses who were there, we walked over to the
Boulevard St.-Jacques and waited for the Montmartre 'bus to come along.
These small, ancient omnibuses are different from the other vehicles of
that breed in Paris, in that instead of having a narrow curved stairway
at the rear leading up to the impériale, there are but three or four
iron foot-rests against the outside of the rear wall, with an iron rod
on either side to cling to in mounting. Now, the traveller who would
reach the impériale must be something of either an acrobat or a sailor,
because, first, as these 'buses do not stop, a running leap has to be
made for the ladder, and, second, because of the pitching and rolling
of the lumbering vehicle, the catching and climbing are not easy. If you
carry a cane or a parcel, it must be held in the teeth until the ascent
is made, for both hands have all they can do in the ladder exercise.
The gleam of the red lamp coming down the street prepared us for a test
of our agility. As only one could mount the ladder at a time, and as I
was the first to attack the feat, Bishop had to run behind for nearly
a block before I could give him the right of way up the ladder. The
conductor registered deux sur l'impériale as we swung to the top and
took seats forward, just behind the driver. Ladies and fat gentlemen are
rarely, or never, found riding on the impériale of the Montmartre line.
We wrapped up in our big warm coats and lay back smoking three-sous
cigars (always three-sous ones on Sunday), and as the driver cracked his
whip and the heavy machine went rolling along, we enjoyed the wonderful
treat of seeing gay Paris of a Sunday night from the top of an omnibus.
There is hardly anything more delightful, particularly from the top of a
St. Jacques-Montmartre 'bus, which generally avoids the broad, brilliant
streets and goes rolling and swaying through the narrow, crooked streets
of old Paris. Here there is hardly room for such a vehicle to pass, and
one is anxious lest one's feet sweep off the gas-lamps that fly past.
An intimate view of the domestic life of Paris presents itself likewise,
for, being on a level with the second story windows, you have flitting
visions of the Parisian ménage in all its freedom and variety. At this
time of the evening the windows are wide open and the dinner-tables are
spread near them, for a view of the street below.
On, on we rumbled, through seemingly interminable miles of crooked
streets, over the gay Boul' Mich', and the Place St.-Michel; across
the river, which reflected the myriads of lights along its walls and
bridges; past the Halles, the greatest marketplace in the world; past
the grand boulevards, a confusing glitter of colors and lights; past
the Folies-Bergère, where flaming posters announced Loie Fuller in the
throes of a fire dance; and at last to the steep grade of Montmartre.
Here a third horse was added to the pair, and slowly we were dragged up
the slope.
At the Boulevard Clichy we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a
terrific uproar; bells, steam-whistles, hand-organs, bands of music,
drums, and calliopes made the bedlam. The streets were blocked with
moving masses of laughing people, and the scene was gayly illuminated
by rows of lamps overhead and on hundreds of stands, merry-go-rounds,
theatres, circuses, museums, and all kinds of catchpenny attractions
that lined the boulevard. For this was the Fête de Clichy. Far down the
street, almost hidden by a curve, could be seen the illuminated arms of
the Moulin Rouge slowly revolving through the night.
Still on and up crawled the 'bus, now in the very heart of Montmartre,
through the lively, crowded, bright streets on the great hill of Paris.
Here are hot-chestnut venders at the corners; fried-potato women,
serving crisp brown chips; street hawkers, with their heavy push-carts;
song-sellers, singing the songs that they sell, to make purchasers
familiar with the airs; flower-girls; gaudy shops; bright restaurants
and noisy _café_s,--all constituting that distinctive quarter of Paris,
Montmartre.
At last the summit of the hill was made, and the panting horses must
have been glad that it was all down-hill ahead. Bishop gave the signal
to alight a block before the desired street was reached, for by the time
we could touch the ground the 'bus had covered that distance on the
down run. Bishop led the way up a dim little street,--the Rue Muller, I
noticed on the wall. It was very steep, and at last ended at the bottom
of a flight of stone steps that seemed to run into the sky. Their length
was marked by lamps glowing one above another in long rows. It was hard
work climbing to the top.
The top at last! We seemed to be among the clouds. Far below us lay the
great shining city, spreading away into distance; and although it was
night, the light of a full moon and untold thousands of lamps in the
streets and buildings below enabled us easily to pick out the great
thoroughfares and the more familiar structures. There was the Opéra,
there the Panthéon, there Notre-Dame, there St.-Sulpice, there the
Invalides, and, uplifted to emulate the eminence on which we stood,
the Tour Eiffel, its revolving searchlight at the apex shining like an
immense meteor or comet with its misty trail stretching out over the
city. The roar of life faintly reached our ears from the vast throbbing
plain, where millions of human mysteries were acting out their
tragedies. The scene was vast, wonderful, entrancing.