windmills and the trees. We struck out briskly, intending to catch the
last St.-Jacques 'bus home, and with that purpose we threaded the
maze of steep passages and streets on our way to the Rue Muller. Upon
reaching the top of the hill, behind the great skeleton of the Sacred
Heart, where all was silent and still as the grave, we suddenly
discovered the shadowy figures of men slipping out from a dark little
street. We knew what it meant. With a common impulse we sprang forward,
for it was now a run for our lives. I had recognized Crespin in the
lead. With headlong speed we dashed down the steep incline, swinging our
canes to check an attack in the rear. We had dodged out of our proper
way to the Rue Muller, and now it was a matter of speed, endurance, and
luck to reach blindly some street where life and protection might be
found.
A man clutched my coat. I beat him off with my stick, but the skirt of
my coat was hanging loose, nearly ripped off. A cord went whizzing past
me and caught Bishop's hat, but he went sturdily on bareheaded. Stones
flew past us, and presently one caught me a terrific, sickening blow in
the back. I did not fall, but I staggered in my flight, for a strange
heaviness came into my legs, and my head soon began to ache violently.
Crespin was desperately active. I could hear him panting heavily as he
gained upon us. His long shadow, cast by the moon, showed that he was
about to spring upon Bishop. I swung my cane blindly, but with all
my might, and it fell upon his head and laid him low; but he quickly
scrambled to his feet again. The ruffians were now upon us,--they were
better used to the hill than we.
"Separate!" gasped Bishop. "It is our only chance." At the next corner
we suddenly swung apart, taking opposite directions. I plunged on alone,
glad to hear for a time that footfalls were following,--they meant that
the pursuit had not concentrated on Bishop. But after a while I realized
that I was no longer pursued. I stopped and listened. There was no
sound. Weak and trembling, with an aching back and a splitting head, I
sat down in a door-way and rested. That luxury was quickly interrupted
by my reflecting that possibly Bishop had been overtaken; and I knew
what that would mean. I ran back up the hill as rapidly as my weakness
and trembling and pain permitted. At last I found myself at the corner
where we had separated. There was no sound from any direction. I could
only hope for the best and search and listen blindly through this puzzle
of streets and passages.
Presently I realized that I was near the fortifications of Paris,
close to St. Ouen,--that is to say, at the other end of Paris from the
Quartier Latin, which was eight miles away. There was nothing to do
but walk home. It was nearly four o'clock when I arrived. And there was
Bishop in bed, nursing a big lump on his head, made by a flying stone.
He had reached a street where a gendarme was, and that meant safety; and
then he had taken a cab for home, where he was looking very ridiculous
poulticing his lump and making himself sick fretting about me.
[Illustration: 5255]
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTE
[Illustration: 0256]
NEAR the end of a recent December Bishop received a note signed "A.
Herbert Thomp-kins," written at the Hôtel de l'Athénée, saying that the
writer was in Paris for four days with his wife before proceeding to
Vienna to join some friends. It closed by asking, "Could you call at the
hotel this evening, say at seven?"
This note created great excitement at our studio early one morning, the
facteur having climbed six flights of stairs (it being near to New Year)
to deliver it; for Mr. Thompkins was one of Bishop's warmest friends in
America. His unexpected arrival in Paris at this unseasonable time of
the year was indeed a surprise, but a most agreeable one. So Bishop
spent the whole of the afternoon in creasing his best trousers,
ransacking our trunks for a clean collar to wear with my blue-fronted
shirt, polishing his top-hat, and getting his Velasquez whiskers trimmed
and perfumed at the coiffeur's. It was not every day that friends of Mr.
Thompkins's type made their appearance in Paris.
Bishop, after hours spent in absorbing mental work, at last disclosed
his plan to me. Of course he would not permit me to keep out of the
party, and besides, he needed my advice.
[Illustration: 0257]
Here was Mr. Thompkins in Paris, and unless he were wisely guided he
would leave without seeing the city,--except those parts and phases of
it that tourists cannot keep from stumbling over. It would be both a
duty and a pleasure to introduce him to certain things of which he might
otherwise die in ignorance, to the eternal undevelopment of his soul.
But here was the rub: Would Mr. Thompkins care to be so radically
different here for one night--just one night--from what he was at home?
I could not see how any harm could come to Mr. Thompkins or any one else
with sense, nor how Bishop could possibly entertain him in anyway that
would be disagreeable to a man of brains. But Bishop was evidently
keeping something back. For that matter, he never did explain it, and I
have not bothered about inferences. What Mr. Thompkins was at home I do
not know. True, he was very much confused and embarrassed a number of
times during the evening, but one thing I know,--he enjoyed himself
immensely. And that makes me say that no matter what he was at home, he
was a gentleman and philosopher while exploring an outlandish phase of
Parisian Bohemian life that night under our guidance. He had a prim,
precise way of talking, and was delightfully innocent and unworldly. My!
it would have been a sin for him to miss what he saw that night. So I
told Bishop very emphatically that no matter what Mr. Thompkins was at
home, nobody who knew him was likely to see him in Paris at that time
of the year, and that it was Bishop's duty as a friend to initiate
him. Bishop was very happy over my advice; but when he insisted that we
should take a cab for the evening's outing, I sternly reminded him of
the bruises that our funds would receive on New Year's, and thus
curbed his extravagance. He surrendered with a pang, for after all his
preparation he felt like a duke, and for that night, while entertaining
his friend, he wanted to be a duke, not a grubbing student.
We met Mr. Thompkins at the hotel, and I found him a delightful man,
with a pleasant sparkle of the eye and a certain stiffness of bearing.
It was his intention to have us dine with him, but Bishop gently took
him in hand, and gradually gave him to understand that on this night in
a lifetime he was in the hands of his friends, to do as they said, and
to ask no questions. Mr. Thompkins looked a little puzzled, a little
apprehensive, and withal not unwilling to be sacrificed.
The first thing we did was to introduce Mr. Thompkins to a quiet
restaurant famous for its coquilles St.-Jacques; it is in the old Palais
Royal. This is the dinner that Bishop ordered:
Huîtres Portugaises.
Sauterne. Médoc.
Consommé.
Coquilles St.-Jacques.
Macaroni à la Milanaise.
Filet de bouf.
Pommes nouvelles sautées.
Crème petit Suisse.
Eclairs.
Café.
Mr. Thompkins's enjoyment of the meal was as generous as his praise
of Bishop's skill in ordering it, and he declared that the wines
particularly were a rare treat. By the time that dinner had been
finished he was enthusiastic about Paris. He said that it was a
wonderful city, and that he was entirely at our disposal for the night.
"I suppose, gentlemen," he suggested, "that you are going to invite me
to the opera. Now, I have no objections to that, and I am sure I shall
be delighted,--it is only one evening in a lifetime, perhaps. But I
shall insist that you go as my guests."
Bishop laughed merrily, and slapped his friend on the back in a way that
I never should have employed with a man of so much dignity.
"The opera, old man!" cried Bishop. "Why, you blessed idiot, you act
like a tourist! The opera! You can go there any time. To-night we shall
see Paris!" and he laughed again. "The opera!" he repeated. "Oh, my! You
can fall over the opera whenever you please. This is an opportunity for
a tour of discovery."
Mr. Thompkins laughed with equal heartiness, and declared that nothing
would delight him more than to be an explorer--for one night in a
lifetime.
"The Boul' Mich' or Montmartre?" Bishop whispered to me.
"Montmartre," I replied; "Heaven, Death, Hell, and Bruant."
Never had the Avenue de l'Opéra appeared so brilliant and lively as on
that cold, crisp December night, as we strolled towards the boulevards.
Its thousands of lights, its dashing equipages with the jingling harness
of horses drawing handsome women and men to the Opéra, its swiftly
moving cabs and heavy 'buses rolling over the smooth wooden pavement,
the shouts of drivers and the cracking of whips, the throngs of gay
people enjoying the holiday attractions, the endless rows of gaudy
booths lining the street, the flood of light and color everywhere, the
cuirassiers of the Garde Municipale mounted on superb horses standing
motionless in the Place de l'Opéra, their long boots and steel
breastplates and helmets glistening,--these all had their place,--while
the broad stairs of the Opéra were crowded with beautifully gowned women
and fashionable men pouring in to hear Sibyl Sanderson sing in "Samson
and Delilah,"--all this made a wonderful picture of life and beauty, of
color, motion, vivacity, and enjoyment. Above the entrance to the Opéra
red marble columns reflected the yellow light of the gilded foyer and of
the yellow blaze from the Café de la Paix across the way.
We mounted a Montmartre 'bus and were pulled up the hill to the Boul'
Clichy, the main artery of that strange Bohemian mountain with its
eccentric, fantastic, and morbid attractions. Before us, in the Place
Blanche, stood the great Moulin Rouge, the long skeleton arms of the
Red Mill marked with red electric lights and slowly sweeping across the
heavens, while fanciful figures of students and dancing girls looked out
the windows of the mill, and a great crowd of lively, chatting, laughing
people were pushing their way toward the entrance of this famous dance-
hall of Paris. Mr. Thompkins, entranced before the brilliant spectacle,
asked somewhat hesitatingly if we might enter; but Bishop, wise in the
ways of Montmartre, replied,--"Not yet. It is only a little after nine,
and the Moulin does not get wide awake for some hours yet. We have no
time to waste while waiting for that. We shall first visit heaven."
[Illustration: 0263]
Mr. Thompkins looked surprised, but made no response. Presently we
reached the gilded gates of Le Cabaret du Ciel. They were bathed in a
cold blue light from above. Angels, gold-lined clouds, saints, sacred
palms and plants, and other paraphernalia suggestive of the approach to
St. Peter's domain, filled all the available space about the entrée. A
bold white placard, "_Bock, i Franc_," was displayed in the midst of it
all. Dolorous church music sounded within, and the heavens were unrolled
as a scroll in all their tinsel splendor as we entered to the bidding of
an angel.
Flitting about the room were many more angels, all in white robes and
with sandals on their feet, and all wearing gauzy wings swaying from
their shoulder-blades and brass halos above their yellow wigs. These
were the waiters, the garçons of heaven, ready to take orders for
drinks. One of these, with the face of a heavy villain in a melodrama
and a beard a week old, roared unmelodiously,--"The greetings of heaven
to thee, brothers! Eternal bliss and happiness are for thee. Mayst thou
never swerve from its golden paths! Breathe thou its sacred purity and
renovating exaltation. Prepare to meet thy great Creator--and don't
forget the garçon!"
A very long table covered with white extended the whole length of the
chilly room, and seated at it, drinking, were scores of candidates for
angelship,--mortals like ourselves. Men and women were they, and though
noisy and vivacious, they indulged in nothing like the abandon of the
Boul' Mich' _café_s. Gilded vases and candelabra, together with foamy
bocks, somewhat relieved the dead whiteness of the table. The ceiling
was an impressionistic rendering of blue sky, fleecy clouds, and stars,
and the walls were made to represent the noble enclosure and golden
gates of paradise.
[Illustration: 8264]
"Brothers, your orders! Command me, thy servant!" growled a ferocious
angel at our elbows, with his accent de la Villette, and his brass halo
a trifle askew.
Mr. Thompkins had been very quiet, for he was Wonder in the flesh, and
perhaps there was some distress in his lace, but there was courage also.
The suddenness of the angel's assault visibly disconcerted him,--he did
not know what to order. Finally he decided on a verre de Chartreuse,
green. Bishop and I ordered bocks.
"Two sparkling draughts of heaven's own brew and one star-dazzler!"
yelled our angel.
"Thy will be done," came the response from a hidden bar.
Obscured by great masses of clouds, through whose intervals shone golden
stars, an organ continually rumbled sacred music, which had a depressing
rather than a solemn effect, and even the draughts of heaven's own brew
and the star-dazzler failed to dissipate the gloom.
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the head of St. Peter, whiskers
and all, appeared in a hole in the sky, and presently all of him
emerged, even to his ponderous keys clanging at his girdle. He gazed
solemnly down upon the crowd at the tables and thoughtfully scratched
his left wing. From behind a dark cloud he brought forth a vessel of
white crockery (which was not a wash-bowl) containing (ostensibly) holy
water. After several mysterious signs and passes with his bony hands he
generously sprinkled the sinners below with a brush dipped in the water;
and then, with a parting blessing, he slowly faded into mist.
"Did you ever? Well, well, I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Thompkins,
breathlessly.
[Illustration: 0266]
The royal cortège of the kingdom of heaven was now forming at one end of
the room before a shrine, whereon an immense golden pig sat sedately on
his haunches, looking friendly and jovial, his loose skin and fat jowls
hanging in folds. Lighted candles sputtered about his golden sides. As
the participants in the pageant, all attachés of the place, formed for
the procession, each bowed reverently and crossed himself before the
huge porker. A small man, dressed in a loose black gown and black skull-
cap, evidently made up for Dante, whom he resembled, officiated as
master of ceremonies. He mounted a golden pulpit, and delivered, in a
loud, rasping voice, a tedious discourse on heaven and allied things.
He dwelt on the attractions of heaven as a perpetual summer resort, an
unbroken round of pleasures in variety, where sweet strains of angelic
music (indicating the wheezy organ), together with unlimited stores of
heaven's own sparkling fire of life, at a franc a bock, and beautiful
goldenhaired cherubs, of la Villette's finest, lent grace and perfection
to the scheme.
[Illustration: 8268]
The parade then began its tour about the room, Dante, carrying a staff
surmounted by a golden bull, serving as drum-major. Angel musicians,
playing upon sacred lyres and harps, followed in his wake, but the
dolorous organ made the more noise. Behind the lyre angels came a number
of the notables whom Dante immortalized,--at least, we judged that they
were so intended. The angel garçons closed the cortège, their gauzy
wings and brass halos bobbing in a stately fashion as they strode along.
The angel garçons now sauntered up and gave us each a ticket admitting
us to the angel-room and the other delights of the inner heaven.
"Youarre Eengleesh?" he asked. "Yes? Ah, theece Eengleesh arre verra
genereauz," eyeing his fifty-centime tip with a questioning shrug.
"Can you not make me un franc? Ah, eet ees dam cold in theece laigs,"
pointing to his calves, which were encased in diaphanous pink tights. He
got his franc.
Dante announced in his rasping voice that those mortals wishing to
become angels should proceed up to the angel-room. All advanced and
ascended the inclined passage-way leading into the blue. At the farther
end of the passage sat old St. Peter, solemn and shivering, for it was
draughty there among the clouds. He collected our tickets, gave the
password admitting us to the inner precincts, and resented Bishop's
attempts to pluck a feather from his wings. We entered a large room,
all a glamour of gold and silver. The walls were studded with blazing
nuggets, colored canvas rocks, and electric lights. We took seats on
wooden benches fronting a cleft in the rocks, and waited.
Soon the chamber in which we sat became perfectly dark, the cleft before
us shining with a dim bluish light. The cleft then came to life with a
bevy of female angels floating through the limited ethereal space, and
smiling down upon us mortals. One of the lady angel's tights bagged at
the knees, and another's wings were not on straight; but this did not
interfere with her flight, any more than did the stationary position
of the wings of all. But it was all very easily and gracefully done,
swooping down, soaring, and swinging in circles like so many great
eagles. They seemed to discover something of unusual interest in Mr.
Thompkins, for they singled him out to throw kisses at him. This made
him blush and fidget, but a word from Bishop reassured him,--it was only
once in a lifetime!
After these angels had gyrated for some time, the head angel of the
angel-room requested those who desired to become angels to step forward.
A number responded, among them some of the naughty dancing-girls of
the Moulin Rouge. They were conducted through a concealed door, and
presently we beheld them soaring in the empyrean just as happy and
serene as though they were used to being angels. It was a marvel to see
wings so frail transport with so much ease a very stout young woman from
the audience, and their being fully clothed did not seem to make any
difference.
Mr. Thompkins had sat in a singularly contemplative mood after the
real angels had quit torturing him, and surprised us beyond measure by
promptly responding to a second call for those aspiring to angelhood.
He disappeared with another batch from the Moulin Rouge, and soon
afterwards we saw him floating like an airship. He even wore his hat.
To his disgust and chagrin, however, one of the concert-hall angels
persisted in flying in front of him and making violent love to him.
This brought forth tumultuous applause and laughter, which completed
Mr. Thompkins's misery. At this juncture the blue cleft became dark, the
angel-room burst into light, and soon Mr. Thompkins rejoined us.
As we filed out into the passage Father Time stood with long whiskers
and scythe, greeted us with profound bows, and promised that his scythe
would spare us for many happy years did we but drop sous into his hour-
glass.
There was no conversation among us when we emerged upon the boulevard,
for Mr. Thompkins was in a retrospective frame of mind. Bishop embraced
the opportunity to lead us up the Boulevard Clichy to the Place Pigalle.
As we neared the Place we saw on the opposite side of the street two
flickering iron lanterns that threw a ghastly green light down upon the
barred dead-black shutters of the building, and caught the faces of the
passers-by with sickly rays that took out all the life and transformed
them into the semblance of corpses. Across the top of the closed black
entrance were large white letters, reading simply: "_Cafe du Néant_"
The entrance was heavily draped with black cerements, having white
trimmings,--such as hang before the houses of the dead in Paris. Here
patrolled a solitary croque-mort, or hired pall-bearer, his black cape
drawn closely about him, the green light reflected by his glazed
top- hat. A more dismal and forbidding place it would be difficult to
imagine. Mr. Thompkins paled a little when he discovered that this was
our destination,--this grisly caricature of eternal nothingness,--and
hesitated at the threshold. Without a word Bishop firmly took his arm
and entered. The lonely croque-mort drew apart the heavy curtain and
admitted us into a black hole that proved later to be a room. The
chamber was dimly lighted with wax tapers, and a large chandelier
intricately devised of human skulls and arms, with funeral candles held
in their fleshless fingers, gave its small quota of light.
Large, heavy, wooden coffins, resting on biers, were ranged about
the room in an order suggesting the recent happening of a frightful
catastrophe. The walls were decorated with skulls and bones, skeletons
in grotesque attitudes, battle-pictures, and guillotines in action.
Death, carnage, assassination were the dominant note, set in black
hangings and illuminated with mottoes on death. A half-dozen voices
droned this in a low monotone:
"Enter, mortals of this sinful world, enter into the mists and
shadows of eternity. Select your biers, to the right, to the left;
fit yourselves comfortably to them, and repose in the solemnity and
tranquillity of death; and may God have mercy on your souls!"
A number of persons who had preceded us had already pre-empted their
coffins, and were sitting beside them awaiting developments and enjoying
their consommations, using the coffins for their real purpose,--tables
for holding drinking-glasses. Alongside the glasses were slender tapers
by which the visitors might see one another.
[Illustration: 0273]
There seemed to be no mechanical imperfection in the illusion of a
charnel-house; we imagined that even chemistry had contributed its
resources, for there seemed distinctly to be the odor appropriate to
such a place.
We found a vacant coffin in the vault, seated ourselves at it on rush-
bottomed stools, and awaited further developments.
[Illustration: 8274]
Another croque-mort--a garçon he was--came up through the gloom to take
our orders. He was dressed completely in the professional garb of a
hearse-follower, including claw-hammer coat, full-dress front, glazed
tile, and oval silver badge. He droned,--"_Bon soir, Macchabées! * Buvez
les crachats d'asthmatiques, voilà des sueurs froides d'agonisants.
Prenez donc des certificats de décès, seulement vingt sous. C'est pas
cher et c'est artistique!_"
* This word (also Maccabe, argot Macabit) is given in Paris by sailors
to cadavers found floating in the river.
Bishop said that he would be pleased with a lowly bock. Mr. Thompkins
chose cherries à l'eau-de-vie, and I, une menthe.
"One microbe of Asiatic cholera from the last corpse, one leg of a
lively cancer, and one sample of our consumption germ!" moaned the
creature toward a black hole at the farther end of the room.
Some women among the visitors tittered, others shuddered, and Mr.
Thompkins broke out in a cold sweat on his brow, while a curious
accompaniment of anger shone in his eyes. Our sleepy pallbearer soon
loomed through the darkness with our deadly microbes, and waked the
echoes in the hollow casket upon which he set the glasses with a thump.
"Drink, Macchabées!" he wailed: "drink these noxious potions, which
contain the vilest and deadliest poisons!"
"The villain!" gasped Mr. Thompkins; "it is horrible, disgusting,
filthy!"
The tapers flickered feebly on the coffins, and the white skulls grinned
at him mockingly from their sable background. Bishop exhausted all
his tactics in trying to induce Mr. Thompkins to taste his bran-died
cherries, but that gentleman positively refused,--he seemed unable to
banish the idea that they were laden with disease germs.