sky,--the skeleton of that beautiful but unfinished Church of the Sacré-
Cour, crowning the very summit of Montmartre.
There seemed to be no life here, for not a soul did we meet, and not a
light shone except that of the moon. Bishop guided me through a maze of
steep stony passages, between the walls of dark gardens, turning now
to the right, again to the left, through archways and courts; and I
wondered how he could remember them all. Before I could fully comprehend
our position we were confronted by two black, gaunt, uncanny objects
with long outstretched arms that cut across the sky like giant skeleton
sentinels forbidding our farther advance. But the sounds of lively music
and the glow of rows of white-globed lamps quickly banished the illusion
and advertised the fact that we were in a very material and sensual
world, for they announced the Moulin de la Galette at the foot of
the passage. The spectres against the sky were only very, very old
windmills, relics of the time, three centuries gone, when windmills
crowded the summit of Montmartre to catch all the winds that blew. Now
they stand, stark, dead, silent, and decaying; their stately revolutions
are no more; and the skeleton frames of their fans look down on a
marvellous contrast, the intensely real life of the Galette.
[Illustration: 0234]
We fell in line with many others at the ticket office, and paid the
fifty centimes admission fee (ladies twenty-five centimes). We were
relieved of our hats and canes by a stout old woman in the vestiaire,
who claimed two sous from each. Following the up-hill passage of the
entrance, the walls of which are painted with flowers and garden scenes,
we entered the great ball-room. What a brilliant scene of life and
light!--at first a blur of sound, light, and movement, then gradually
resolving into the simple elements composing it. The floor was covered
with dancers, and the girls were making a generous display of graceful
anatomy. A large band at the farther end of the room, on an inclined
stand, was the vortex of the din. The promenade encircling the hall was
crowded with hatless laughing girls and smooth-faced boys wearing caps
or flat-brimmed low-crowned hats; their trousers fitted tight at the
knees, and their heads were closely cropped. These were strolling in
groups, or watching the dancers, or sitting at the rows of wooden tables
drinking. All within the vast hall had gone to enjoy their Sunday night
as much as possible. To most of the girls this was the one night in
the week when, not tired out from the drudgery of hard work, they could
throw aside all cares and live in the way for which their cramped and
meagre souls yearned. This is a rendezvous for the humble workers of
the city, where they may dress as best they can, exchange their petites
histoires, and abandon themselves to the luxury of the dance; for they
are mostly shop-girls, and blanchisseuses, and the like, who, when
work fails them, have to hover about the dark streets at night, that
prosperous-looking passers-by may be tempted by the pleading of their
dark saucy eyes, or be lured by them to some quiet spot where their
lovers lie in wait with a lithe and competent black slung-shot. No mercy
for the hapless bourgeois then! For the dear Henris and Jacques and
Louises must have their sous for the comforts of life, as well as the
necessities, and such luxuries as tobacco and drink must be considered;
and if the money wherewith all this may be bought is not produced by
Marcelle or Hélène or Marie, she will get a beating for her slothfulness
or lack of skill, and will be driven into the street with a hurting
back to try again. And so Henri, Jacques, or Louis basks in the sun, and
smokes cigarettes with never a care, except that of making his devoted
little mistress perform her duties, knowing well how to retain her
affection by selfishness and brutality.
This night, however, all that was forgotten. It was the one free, happy
night of the week, the night of abandon and the dance, of laughter,
drinking, and jollity, for which one and all had longed for a whole
impatient and dreary week; and Henri, Jacques, and Louis could spend on
drinks with other of their feminine acquaintances the sous that their
mistresses had provided. The band played lustily; the lights shone; the
room was filled with laughter,--let the dance go on!
Stationed in different parts of the room were the big soldiers of the
Garde Municipale, in their picturesque uniform so familiar to all
the theatre-goers of Paris. They were here to preserve order, for the
dancers belong to an inflammable class, and a blaze may spring up at
any moment. Equally valuable as a repressing force was a burly, thick-
necked, powerful man who strolled hither and thither, his glance
everywhere and always veiling a threat. He wore a large badge that
proclaimed him the master of ceremonies. True, he was that, which was
something, but he was a great deal more,--a most astonishingly prompt
and capable bouncer. The male frequenters of the place were evidently
in mortal terror of him, for his commanding size and threatening manner,
and his superbly developed muscles, contrasted strikingly with the
cringing manner and weak bodies of Henri and his kind; and should
he look their way with a momentary steadiness of glance and poise of
figure, their conversation would instantly cease, and they would slink
away.
We seated ourselves at a vacant table that commanded a sweeping view
of the floor and the promenade. A seedy-looking garçon worked his way
through the crowd and took our order for beer; and mean, stale beer it
was. But we did not care for that. Bishop was all afire with enjoyment
of the scene, for, he protested, the place was infinitely rich in types
and character,--the identical types that the great Steinlen loves to
draw. And here is an interesting thing: The girls all were of that chic
and petite order so peculiar to certain classes of Parisian women, some
hardly so high as Bishop's shoulder, which is itself not very high;
and though they looked so small, they were fully developed young women,
though many of them were under twenty. They wore no hats, and for the
most part, unlike their gorgeous sisters of the boulevard _café_s, they
were dressed plainly, wearing black or colored waists and skirts. But
ah!--and here the unapproachable instinct-skill of the French-woman
shows itself,--on these same waists and skirts were placed here and
there, but always just where they ought to be, bows and ribbons; and it
was they that worked the miracle of grace and style. And the girls had
a certain beauty, a beauty peculiar to their class,--not exactly beauty,
but pleasing features, healthy color, and, best of all and explaining
all, an archness of expression, a touch of sauciness, that did for their
faces what the bows and ribbons did for their gowns.
[Illustration:0240]
Near us a large door opened into the garden of the Moulin; it was filled
with trees and benches and tables, and amidst the dark foliage glowed
colored Chinese lanterns, which sifted a soft light upon the revellers
assembled beneath them in the cool evening air. On one side of the
garden stretched Paris far down and away, and on the other side blazed
the Moulin de la Galette through the windows.
A waltz was now being danced. Strange to say, it was the one dismal
feature of the evening, and that was because the French do not know how
to dance it, "reversing" being unknown. And there was an odd variety of
ways in which the men held their partners and the dancers each other.
Some grasped each other tightly about the waist with both arms, or
similarly about the necks or shoulders, and looked straight into each
other's face without a smile or an occasional word. It was all done in
deadly earnest, as a serious work. It was in the quadrille that the
fun came, when the girls varied the usual order by pointing their toes
toward the chandeliers with a swish of white skirts that made the by-
standers cry, "Encore, Marcelle!" The men, yearning for a share of the
applause, cut up all sorts of antics and capers, using their arms
and legs with incredible agility, making grotesque faces, and wearing
hideous false noses and piratical moustaches.
Securing a partner for a dance was the easiest thing possible. Any girl
was eligible,--simply the asking, the assent, and away they went.
Bishop's pencil kept moving rapidly as he caught fleeting notes of
faces, dresses, attitudes--everything--for his unfinished piece at the
studio. A number of promenaders, attracted by his sketching, stopped
to watch him. That dance was now finished, and the dancers separated
wherever they stopped, and turned away to seek their separate friends;
there was no waste of time in escorting the girls to seats, for that
is not fashionable at Montmartre. The girls came flocking about Bishop,
curious over his work, and completely shut out his view. "Oh!" exclaimed
one saucy petite blonde, "let me see my portrait! I saw you sketching me
during the dance."
"_Et moi,--moi aussi!_" cried the others, until Bishop, overwhelmed,
surrendered his book for the inspection of bright, eager eyes.
"Has not monsieur a cigarette?" archly asked a girl with a decided nez
retroussé. "_Oui_," I answered, handing her a packet, from which with
exquisite, unconscious daintiness she selected one. The whole bevy then
made a similar request, and we were soon enveloped in a blue haze.
"_Vous ferez mon portrait, n'est-ce-pas?_" begged a dark-eyed beauty of
Bishop, in a smooth, pleasant voice. She had a striking appearance. A
mass of rebellious black hair strove persistently to fall over her oval
face, and when she would neglect to push it back her eyes, dark and
melancholy, shone through its tangle with a singular wild lustre. Her
skin was dark, almost swarthy, but it was touched with a fine rosy glow
of health and youth. Her features were perfect; the nose was slightly
romanesque, the chin firm, the lips red and sensuous. When she drew our
attention with her request she was standing before us in a rigid, half-
defiant, half-commanding posture; but when she quickly added, "I will
pose for you,--see?" and sat down beside me, opposite Bishop, her
striking native grace asserted itself, for from a statue of bronze she
suddenly became all warmth and softness, every line in her perfect,
lithe figure showing her eagerness, and eloquent with coaxing.
It was clear that Bishop was deeply impressed by the striking picture
that she made; it was her beautiful wild head that fascinated him most.
"No, I am first," insisted a little vixen, hard-featured and determined.
"_Jamais de la vie!" "C'est moi!_" protested others, with such fire
that I feared there would be trouble. The turmoil had the effect of
withdrawing Bishop's attention momentarily from the beautiful tigress
beside me. He smiled in bewilderment. He would be happy to draw them
all, but---- At last he pacified them by proposing to take them in
turn, provided they would be patient and not bother him. To this they
poutingly agreed; and Bishop, paying no more attention to the girl
beside me, rapidly dashed off sketch after sketch of the other girls.
Exclamations of surprise, delight, or indignation greeted each of the
portraits as it was passed round. Bishop was seeking "character," and as
he was to retain the portraits, he made no efforts at flattery.
All this time the dark-eyed one had sat in perfect silence and stillness
beside me, watching Bishop in wonder. She had forgotten her hair, and
was gazing through it with more than her eyes as his pencil worked
rapidly. I studied her as well as I could as she sat all heedless of
my existence. Her lips slightly curved at the corners into a faint
suggestion of a smile, but as Bishop's work kept on and the other girls
monopolized him, the lips gradually hardened. The shadow of her chin
fell upon her smooth throat, not darkening it too much for me to observe
that significant movements within it indicated a struggle with her self-
control. Bishop was now sketching a girl, the others having run off to
dance; they would return in their order. The girl beside me said to me,
in a low voice, without looking at me,--"_Monsieur est Anglais?_"
"No," I answered.
"Ah! Américain?"
"Yes."
"And your friend?" nodding toward Bishop. "American also."
"Is he----" but she suddenly checked herself with odd abruptness, and
then quickly asked, with a shallow pretence of eager interest, "Is
America far from Paris?" And so she continued to quiz me rather
vacantly concerning a great country of whose whereabouts she had not
the slightest idea. Then she was silent, and I imagined that she was
gathering herself for some supreme effort. Suddenly she turned her
marvellous eyes full toward me, swept the wild hair from her face,
looked almost fiercely at me a moment, and, rigid from head to foot,
asked, half angrily, and then held her breath for the answer,--"Is he
married?"
The question was asked so suddenly and so strangely, and with so
commanding a manner, that I had not a moment to consider the wisdom of
lying.
"No," I answered.
She sank back into her chair with a deep breath, all softness and grace
again, and her wild hair fell back over her face.
She had lost all interest in the ball. While her companions were
enjoying themselves in the dance, she sat motionless and silent beside
me, watching Bishop. An uncomfortable feeling had taken possession of
me. Presently I abruptly asked her why she did not dance.
She started. "Dance?" she replied. She looked over the hall, and an
expression of scorn and disgust came into her face. "Not with that
espèce de voyous," she vehemently added; and then she turned to watch
Bishop again.
I now noticed for the first time that a group of the human vampires,
standing apart at a little distance, were watching us closely and
talking in low tones among themselves. My attention had been drawn to
them by a defiant look that the girl had shot at them. One of them
was particularly repulsive. He was rather larger and stronger than the
others. His garb was that of his species,--tight trousers, a négligé
shirt, and a rakish cap being its distinguishing articles. He stood with
his hands in his pockets and his head thrust forward. He had the low,
brutal face of his kind. It was now pale with rage.
I asked the girl what her name was.
"Hélène," she answered, simply.
Her other name?
Oh, just Hélène. Sometimes it was Hélène Crespin, for Crespin was her
lover's name. All this with perfect frankness.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"_C'est lui avec la casquette_," she answered, indicating the brute whom
I have just described, but I had expected that. "I hate him now!" she
vehemently added.
No, she had neither father nor mother; had no recollection of parents.
Sometimes she worked in a printing shop in the Rue Victor Massé when
extra hands were needed.
After the girl who had been posing was dismissed another took her place;
then another, and another, and others; and still others were waiting.
The girl beside me had been watching these proceedings with increasing
impatience. Some of the girls were so delighted that they threw their
arms round Bishop's neck and kissed him. Others called him endearing
names. At last it was evident that the dark girl could bear it no
longer. She had been growing harder and harder, more and more restless.
I continued to watch her narrowly,--she had forgotten my existence.
Gradually the natural rich color in her cheeks deepened, her eyes blazed
through the tangled hair, her lips were set. Suddenly, after a girl had
been more demonstrative than the others, she rose and confronted Bishop.
All this time he had not even looked at her, and that, while making me
uneasy, had made her furious.
We three were alone. True, we were observed by many, for invasions
by foreigners were very rare at the Moulin de la Galette, and we were
objects of interest on that account; and the sketching by Bishop had
sent our fame throughout the hall.
In a low, quiet voice the girl said to Bishop, as he looked up at her
wonderingly,--"You promised to draw mine long ago."
I had never seen my friend more embarrassed than he was at that moment.
He stumbled over his excuses, and then asked her to pose to suit her
fancy. He did it very gently, and the effect was magical. She sank
into her chair and assumed the indolently graceful pose that she had
unconsciously taken when she first seated herself. Bishop gazed at her
in silence a long time before he began the sketch; and then he worked
with a sure and rapid hand. After it was finished he handed it to her.
Instantly she was transfigured. She stared at the picture in wonder
and delight, her lips parted, her chest hardly moving from her nearly
suppressed breathing.
"Do I look like that?" she asked, suspiciously. Indeed, it was an
exquisite little piece of work, for Bishop had idealized the girl and
made a beautiful portrait.
"Did you not see me draw it while looking at you?" he replied, somewhat
disingenuously.
"Will you give it to me?" she asked, eagerly.
"Certainly."
"And will you sign your name to it?"
Bishop cheerfully complied. Then she took it, kissed it, and pressed it
to her bosom; and then, leaning forward, and speaking with a richness
and depth of voice that she had not betrayed before, and in the deepest
earnestness, said,--"_Je vous aime!_"
Bishop, staggered by this forthright declaration of affection, blushed
violently and looked very foolish. But he rallied and assured her that
her love was reciprocated, for who, he asked, could resist so beautiful
a face, so warm a heart? If he had only known, if I could only have told
him! The girl sank back in her chair with a quizzical, doubting smile
that showed perfect white teeth and changed to bright dimples the
suggestion of a smile that fluttered at her mouth-corners. She carefully
folded the sketch and daintily tucked it away in her bosom.
Bishop had now quitted work,--Hélène had seen to that. She had moved her
chair close to his, and, looking him straight in the eyes, was rattling
away in the untranslatable argot of Montmartre. It is not the argot of
the slums, nor that of the thieves, nor that of the students, but that
of Montmartre; and there are no ways of expressing it intelligibly in
English. Presently she became more serious, and with all the coaxing
and pleading of which her ardent, impetuous nature was capable, she
begged,-- "Let me be your model. _Je suis bien faite_, and you can teach
me to pose. You will be kind to me. I have a good figure. I will do
everything, everything for you! I will take care of the studio. I will
cook, I will bring you everything, everything you want. You will let
me live with you. I will love no one else. You will never be sorry nor
ashamed. If you will only----" That is the best translation I can give;
it is certainly what she meant, though it indicates nothing of the
impetuosity, the abandon, the eagerness, the warmth, the savage beauty
that shone from her as she spoke.
Bishop rose to the occasion. He sprang to his feet. "I must dance after
that!" he exclaimed, catching her up, laughing, and dragging her upon
the floor. He could dance superbly. A waltz was being played, and it was
being danced in the stiff and stupid way of the people. Very soon Bishop
and Hélène began to attract general attention, for never before had
Montmartre seen a waltz danced like that. He reversed, and glided,
and threw into the queen of dances all the grace and freedom that it
demands. At first Hélène was puzzled and bewildered; but she was agile
both of mind and body, and under Bishop's sure guidance she put them to
excellent use. Rapidly she caught the grace and spirit of the waltz,
and danced with a verve that she had never known before. Swiftly and
gracefully they skimmed the length of the great hall, then back, and
wherever they went the dancers watched them with astonishment and
delight, and gradually abandoned their own ungraceful efforts, partly in
shame, partly in admiration, and partly with a desire to learn how the
miracle was done. Gradually the floor was wholly abandoned except for
these two, and all eyes watched them. Hélène was happy and radiant
beyond all ways of telling. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled,
her lithe figure developed all the ease, grace, and suppleness of a cat.
Some muttered expressions of contempt spoken near me caused me to listen
without turning round. They were meant for my ears, but I gave no heed.
I knew well enough from whom they came,--Crespin and his friends. And
I realized that we were in for it. True, there were the big guards and
there was the capable bouncer, and they would glance my way now and
then, seemingly to let Crespin know that all was understood and that it
must be hands off with him. There was no danger here, but
afterwards--The waltz came to an end, and the two were vigorously
applauded. This was a critical moment, but Bishop handled it adroitly.
He conducted Hélène to a seat remote from our table, bowed low, and left
her, and came over to me. I told him of my fears, but he laughed. He had
got rid of Hélène with perfect address, and perhaps she was nursing an
angry and aching heart after her glorious triumph; perhaps Bishop had
whispered to her something of the danger and suggested that they have
nothing more to do with each other that evening.
[Illustration: 9251]
Presently I saw her start and look round. Crespin was behind her, livid
with rage. She promptly rose and followed him into the garden. Bishop
had not seen the movement. We were near the door leading into the
garden, and by turning a little I could see the couple outside, not
far away. Crespin was standing with a bullying air, and was evidently
cursing her. She had tossed back her hair and was looking him defiantly
in the face. I saw her lips move in speech. Instantly the ruffian dealt
her a violent blow upon the chest, and she staggered back against a
tree, which prevented her falling.
"Come, let us stop that," I said to Bishop. "Hélène's lover is beating
her in the garden." Bishop sprang to his feet and followed me. As he
glanced out the window at the couple, whom I pointed out, he saw Crespin
approach the dazed girl and deal her a terrible blow in the mouth, and
he saw the blood that followed the blow.
We arrived in the garden as a crowd was gathering. Bishop pushed his way
ahead and was about to spring upon the brute, when Hélène saw him. With
a supreme effort she leaped forward, thrust Bishop aside with a command
to mind his own affairs, threw herself into her lover's arms, and kissed
him, smearing his face with her blood. He glared at us, triumphant. The
guards arrived, and Hélène and her lover disappeared among the trees in
the darkness.
"Oh, another unfaithful cocotte!" laughed one in the crowd, explaining
to the guards; and they returned to their drinking and dancing,
remarking, "Beat a woman, and she will love you."
They had all missed the heroism and devotion of Hélène's interference.
It was to keep a knife out of the body of the man she loved that she
smeared her lover's face with her blood. We saw her no more.
We returned to the hall and strolled round the promenade, for we needed
that to become calm again. And the girls mobbed Bishop, for he had
passed out the word that he wanted a model, and that he would pay a
franc an hour. A franc an hour! And so they mobbed him. Was not that
more than they could hope to earn by a whole day's hard work? Yes, they
would all pose gladly, but only in costume, bien entendu! So Bishop was
busy taking down the names of Marcelle, Lorette, Elise, Marie, and the
rest, with the names of the queer and unheard-of streets in which they
lived, mostly in the quarters of Montmartre and the Batignolles.
The can-can was now raging on the floor, and the tired garçons were
dodging about with their glassladen trays. Dancing, making love,
throwing lumps of sugar, the revellers enjoyed themselves.