from the utter absence of spirit and levity among the other guests, and
enjoying only the dismay and trepidation of new and strange arrivals, a
rather good-looking young fellow, dressed in a black clerical coat,
came through a dark door and began to address the assembled patrons. His
voice was smooth, his manner solemn and impressive, as he delivered a
well-worded discourse on death. He spoke of it as the gate through
which we must all make our exit from this world,--of the gloom, the
loneliness, the utter sense of helplessness and desolation. As he warmed
to his subject he enlarged upon the follies that hasten the advent of
death, and spoke of the relentless certainty and the incredible variety
of ways in which the reaper claims his victims. Then he passed on to the
terrors of actual dissolution, the tortures of the body, the rending of
the soul, the unimaginable agonies that sensibilities rendered acutely
susceptible at this extremity are called upon to endure. It required
good nerves to listen to that, for the man was perfect in his rôle. From
matters of individual interest in death he passed to death in its larger
aspects. He pointed to a large and striking battle scene, in which the
combatants had come to hand-to-hand fighting, and were butchering one
another in a mad lust for blood. Suddenly the picture began to glow, the
light bringing out its ghastly details with hideous distinctness. Then
as suddenly it faded away, and where fighting men had been there were
skeletons writhing and struggling in a deadly embrace.
A similar effect was produced with a painting giving a wonderfully
realistic representation of an execution by the guillotine. The bleeding
trunk of the victim lying upon the flap-board dissolved, the flesh
slowly disappearing, leaving only the white bones. Another picture,
representing a brilliant dance-hall filled with happy revellers, slowly
merged into a grotesque dance of skeletons; and thus it was with the
other pictures about the room.
All this being done, the master of ceremonies, in lugubrious tones,
invited us to enter the chambre de la mort. All the visitors rose, and,
bearing each a taper, passed in single file into a narrow, dark passage
faintly illuminated with sickly green lights, the young man in clerical
garb acting as pilot. The cross effects of green and yellow lights
on the faces of the groping procession were more startling than
picturesque. The way was lined with bones, skulls, and fragments of
human bodies.
[Illustration: 0277]
"O Macchabées, nous sommes devant la porte de la chambre de la mort!"
wailed an unearthly voice from the farther end of the passage as we
advanced. Then before us appeared a solitary figure standing beneath a
green lamp. The figure was completely shrouded in black, only the eyes
being visible, and they shone through holes in the pointed cowl. From
the folds of the gown it brought forth a massive iron key attached to
a chain, and, approaching a door seemingly made of iron and heavily
studded with spikes and crossed with bars, inserted and turned the key;
the bolts moved with a harsh, grating noise, and the door of the chamber
of death swung slowly open.
"O Macchabées, enter into eternity, whence none ever return!" cried the
new, strange voice.
The walls of the room were a dead and unrelieved black. At one side two
tall candles were burning, but their feeble light was insufficient even
to disclose the presence of the black walls of the chamber or indicate
that anything but unending blackness extended heavenward. There was not
a thing to catch and reflect a single ray of the light and thus become
visible in the blackness.
Between the two candles was an upright opening in the wall; it was of
the shape of a coffin. We were seated upon rows of small black caskets
resting on the floor in front of the candles. There was hardly a whisper
among the visitors. The black-hooded figure passed silently out of view
and vanished in the darkness.
Presently a pale, greenish-white illumination began to light up the
coffin-shaped hole in the wall, clearly marking its outline against the
black. Within this space there stood a coffin upright, in which a pretty
young woman, robed in a white shroud, fitted snugly. Soon it was evident
that she was very much alive, for she smiled and looked at us saucily.
But that was not for long. From the depths came a dismal wail:
"O Macchabée, beautiful, breathing mortal, pulsating with the warmth and
richness of life, thou art now in the grasp of death! Compose thy soul
for the end!"
Her face slowly became white and rigid; her eyes sank; her lips
tightened across her teeth; her cheeks took on the hollowness of
death,-- she was dead. But it did not end with that. From white the face
slowly grew livid... then purplish black.... The eyes visibly shrank
into their greenish-yellow sockets.... Slowly the hair fell away....
The nose melted away into a purple putrid spot. The whole face became a
semi- liquid mass of corruption. Presently all this had disappeared, and
a gleaming skull shone where so recently had been the handsome face of
a woman; naked teeth grinned inanely and savagely where rosy lips had
so recently smiled. Even the shroud had gradually disappeared, and an
entire skeleton stood revealed in the coffin.
The wail again rang through the silent vault:
"Ah, ah, Macchabée! Thou hast reached the last stage of dissolution,
so dreadful to mortals. The work that follows death is complete. But
despair not, for death is not the end of all. The power is given to
those who merit it, not only to return to life, but to return in any
form and station preferred to the old. So return if thou deservedst and
desirest."
[Illustration: 0280]
With a slowness equal to that of the dissolution, the bones became
covered with flesh and cerements, and all the ghastly steps were
reproduced reversed. Gradually the sparkle of the eyes began to shine
through the gloom; but when the reformation was completed, behold!
there was no longer the handsome and smiling young woman, but the sleek,
rotund body, ruddy cheeks, and self-conscious look of a banker. It was
not until this touch of comedy relieved the strain that the rigidity
with which Mr. Thompkins had sat between us began to relax, and a smile
played over his face,--a bewildered, but none the less a pleasant,
smile. The prosperous banker stepped forth, sleek and tangible, and
haughtily strode away before our eyes, passing through the audience
into the darkness. Again was the coffin-shaped hole in the wall dark and
empty.
He of the black gown and pointed hood now emerged through an invisible
door, and asked if there was any one in the audience who desired to
pass through the experience that they had just witnessed. This created a
suppressed commotion; each peered into the face of his neighbor to find
one with courage sufficient for the ordeal. Bishop suggested to Mr.
Thompkins in a whisper that he submit himself, but that gentleman very
peremptorily declined. Then, after a pause, Bishop stepped forth and
announced that he was prepared to die. He was asked solemnly by the
doleful person if he was ready to accept all the consequences of his
decision. He replied that he was. Then he disappeared through the black
wall, and presently appeared in the greenish-white light of the open
coffin. There he composed himself as he imagined a corpse ought, crossed
his hands upon his breast, suffered the white shroud to be drawn about
him, and awaited results,--after he had made a rueful grimace that threw
the first gleam of suppressed merriment through the oppressed audience.
He passed through all the ghastly stages that the former occupant of the
coffin had experienced, and returned in proper person to life and to his
seat beside Mr. Thompkins, the audience applauding softly.
A mysterious figure in black waylaid the crowd as it filed out. He held
an inverted skull, into which we were expected to drop sous through
the natural opening there, and it was with the feeling of relief from a
heavy weight that we departed and turned our backs on the green lights
at the entrance.
What a wonderful contrast! Here we were in the free, wide, noisy,
brilliant world again. Here again were the crowds, the venders, saucy
grisettes with their bright smiles, shining teeth, and alluring glances.
Here again were the bustling _café_s, the music, the lights, the life,
and above all the giant arms of the Moulin Rouge sweeping the sky.
"Now," quietly remarked Bishop, "having passed through death, we will
explore hell."
Mr. Thompkins seemed too weak, or unresisting, or apathetic to protest.
His face betrayed a queer mixture of emotions, part suffering, part
revulsion, part a sort of desperate eagerness for more.
[Illustration: 0284]
We passed through a large, hideous, fanged, open mouth in an enormous
face from which shone eyes of blazing crimson. Curiously enough, it
adjoined heaven, whose cool blue lights contrasted strikingly with
the fierce ruddiness of hell. Red-hot bars and gratings through which
flaming coals gleamed appeared in the walls within the red mouth. A
placard announced that should the temperature of this inferno make one
thirsty, innumerable bocks might be had at sixty-five centimes each. A
little red imp guarded the throat of the monster into whose mouth we had
walked; he was cutting extraordinary capers, and made a great show of
stirring the fires. The red imp opened the imitation heavy metal door
for our passage to the interior, crying,--"Ah, ah, ah! still they come!
Oh, how they will roast!" Then he looked keenly at Mr. Thompkins. It was
interesting to note how that gentleman was always singled out by these
shrewd students of humanity. This particular one added with great gusto,
as he narrowly studied Mr. Thompkins, "Hist! ye infernal whelps; stir
well the coals and heat red the prods, for this is where we take our
revenge on earthly saintliness!"
"Enter and be damned,--the Evil One awaits you!" growled a chorus of
rough voices as we hesitated before the scene confronting us.
Near us was suspended a caldron over a fire, and hopping within it were
half a dozen devil musis dans, male and female, playing a selection from
"Faust" on stringed instruments, while red imps stood by, prodding with
red-hot irons those who lagged in their performance.
Crevices in the walls of this room ran with streams of molten gold and
silver, and here and there were caverns lit up by smouldering fires from
which thick smoke issued, and vapors emitting the odors of a volcano.
Flames would suddenly burst from clefts in the rocks, and thunder
rolled through the caverns. Red imps were everywhere, darting about
noiselessly, some carrying beverages for the thirsty lost souls, others
stirring the fires or turning somersaults. Everything was in a high
state of motion.
Numerous red tables stood against the fiery walls; at these sat the
visitors. Mr. Thompkins seated himself at one of them. Instantly
it became aglow with a mysterious light, which kept flaring up and
disappearing in an erratic fashion; flames darted from the walls, fires
crackled and roared. One of the imps came to take our order; it was
for three coffees, black, with cognac; and this is how he shrieked the
order:
"Three seething bumpers of molten sins, with a dash of brimstone
intensifier!" Then, when he had brought it, "This will season your
intestines, and render them invulnerable, for a time at least, to the
tortures of the melted iron that will be soon poured down your throats."
The glasses glowed with a phosphorescent light. "Three francs seventy-
five, please, not counting me. Make it four francs. Thank you well.
Remember that though hell is hot, there are cold drinks if you want
them."
Presently Satan himself strode into the cavern, gorgeous in his imperial
robe of red, decked with blazing jewels, and brandishing a sword from
which fire flashed. His black moustaches were waxed into sharp points,
and turned rakishly upward above lips upon which a sneering grin
appeared. Thus he leered at the new arrivals in his domain. His
appearance lent new zest to the activity of the imps and musicians, and
all cowered under his glance. Suddenly he burst into a shrieking laugh
that gave one a creepy feeling. It rattled through the cavern with a
startling effect as he strode up and down. It was a triumphant, cruel,
merciless laugh. All at once he paused in front of a demure young
Parisienne seated at a table with her escort, and, eying her keenly,
broke into this speech:
"Ah, you! Why do you tremble? How many men have you sent hither to
damnation with those beautiful eyes, those rosy, tempting lips? Ah, for
all that, you have found a sufficient hell on earth. But you," he added,
turning fiercely upon her escort, "you will have the finest, the most
exquisite tortures that await the damned. For what? For being a fool. It
is folly more than crime that hell punishes, for crime is a disease and
folly a sin. You fool! For thus hanging upon the witching glance and
oily words of a woman you have filled all hell with fuel for your
roasting. You will suffer such tortures as only the fool invites,
such tortures only as are adequate to punish folly. Prepare for the
inconceivable, the unimaginable, the things that even the king of
hell dare not mention lest the whole structure of damnation totter and
crumble to dust."
The man winced, and queer wrinkles came into the corners of his mouth.
Then Satan happened to discover Mr. Thompkins, who shrank visibly under
the scorching gaze. Satan made a low, mocking bow.
"You do me great honor, sir," he declared, unctuously. "You may have
been expecting to avoid me, but reflect upon what you would have missed!
We have many notables here, and you will have charming society. They
do not include pickpockets and thieves, nor any others of the weak,
stunted, crippled, and halting. You will find that most of your
companions are distinguished gentlemen of learning and ability, who,
knowing their duty, failed to perform it. You will be in excellent
company, sir," he concluded, with another low bow. Then, suddenly
turning and sweeping the room with a gesture, he commanded, "To the
hot room, all of you!" while he swung his sword, from which flashes of
lightning trailed and thunder rumbled.
We were led to the end of a passage, where a red-hot iron door barred
further progress.
"Oh, oh, within there!" roared Satan. "Open the portal of the hot
chamber, that these fresh arrivals may be introduced to the real
temperature of hell!"
[Illustration: 0290]
After numerous signals and mysterious passes the door swung open, and
we entered. It was not so very hot after all. The chamber resembled the
other, except that a small stage occupied one end. A large green snake
crawled out upon this, and suddenly it was transformed into a red devil
with exceedingly long, thin legs, encased in tights that were ripped
in places. He gave some wonderful contortion feats. A poor little white
Pierrot came on and assisted the red devil in black art performances. By
this time we discovered that in spite of the halfmolten condition of
the rock-walls, the room was disagreeably chilly. And that ended our
experience in hell.
Bishop then led us to the closed, dark front of a house in front of
which stood a suspicious-looking man, who eyed us contemptuously. Bishop
told him that we should like to enter. The man assented with a growl. He
beat upon the door with a stick; a little wicket opened, and a villanous
face peered out at us.
"What do you want?" came from it in gruff tones.
"To enter, of course," responded Bishop.
"Are they, all right, do you think?" asked the face of the sentinel.
"I think they are harmless," was the answer.
Several bolts and locks grated, and the stubborn door opened.
"Enter, you vile specimens of human folly!" hissed the inside guard as
we passed within. "D------all three of you!"
We had no sooner found ourselves inside than this same person, a short,
stout man, with long hair and a powerful frame, and the face of a
cutthroat, struck a table with the heavy stick that he carried, and
roared to us,--"Sit down!"
Mr. Thompkins involuntarily cowered, but he gathered himself up and
went with us to seats at the nearest table. While we were doing this the
habitués of the place greeted us with this song, sung in chorus:
"Oh, là là! c'te gueule--
C'te binette.
Oh, là là, c'te gueule,
Qu'il a."
"What are they saying?" asked Mr. Thompkins; but Bishop spared him by
explaining that it was only the latest song.
[Illustration: 0294]
The room had a low ceiling crossed by heavy beams. Wrought-iron gas
lamps gave a gloomy light upon the dark, time-browned color of the
place. The beams were loaded with dust, cobwebs, and stains, the result
of years of smoke and accumulation. Upon the walls were dozens of
drawings by Steinlen, illustrating the poems of low life written by the
proprietor of the _café_; for we were in the den of the famous Aristide
Bruant, the poet of the gutter,--Verlaine had a higher place as the poet
of the slums. There were also drawings by Chéret, Willett, and others,
and some clever sketches in oil; the whole effect was artistic. In one
corner was an old fireplace, rich in carvings of grotesque heads and
figures, grilled iron-work, and shining copper vessels. The general
impression was of a mediaeval gun-room.
Near the fireplace, upon a low platform, was a piano; grouped about it
were four typical Bohemians of lower Bohemia; they wore loads of hair;
their faces had a dissipated look, their fingers were heavily stained by
cigarettes; they wore beards and négligé black cravats. These were all
minor poets, and they took their turn in singing or reciting their own
compositions, afterwards making a tour of the crowded tables with a tin
cup and collecting the sous upon which they lived, and roundly cursing
those who refused to contribute.
Bishop was so delighted with the pictures on the walls that he proceeded
to examine them, but the bully with the stick thundered,--"Sit down!"
and shook his bludgeon menacingly. Bishop sat down.
Then the brute swaggered up to us and demanded,--"What the devil do you
want to drink, anyway? Speak up quick!" When he had brought the drinks
he gruffly demanded, "Pay up!" Upon receiving the customary tip he
frowned, glared at us with a threatening manner, and growled, "Humph!
_c'est pas beaucoup!_" and swept the money into his pocket.
"Goodness! this is an awful place!" exclaimed Mr. Thompkins under his
breath. He seemed to fear being brained at any moment. Retreat had been
rendered impossible by the locking of the door.
We were prisoners at the will of our jailer, and so were all the others.
The great Bruant himself sat with a party of congenial Bohemians at a
table near the piano and fireplace; they were drinking bocks and smoking
cigarettes and long-stemmed pipes. On the wall behind them was a rack
holding the pipes of the habitués of the _café_, mostly broken and well
browned. Each pipe was owned by a particular Bohemian, and each had its
special place in the rack. The other tables held a general assortment
of lesser Bohemians and sight-seers, all cowed and silent under the
domination of the bawling ruffian with the stick. Whenever he smiled
(which was rare, a perpetual frown having creased a deep furrow between
his eyes) they smiled also, in great relief, and hung upon every word
that his occasional lapses into an approach to good nature permitted him
to utter.
The poets and singers howled their productions in rasping voices, and
put a strain upon the strength of the piano; and the minor Bohemians
applauded them heartily and envied them their distinction.
In the midst of this performance there came a knock upon the door.
The bully walked up to the wicket, peered out, and admitted an elderly
gentleman, accompanied by a lady, evidently his wife. These the habitués
greeted with the following song:
"Tout les clients sont des cochons--
La faridon, la faridon donne.
Et surtout les ceux qui s'en vont--
La faridon, la faridon donne."
The gentleman, somewhat abashed by this reception, hesitated a moment,
then sought seats. The two had hardly seated themselves when the burly
ruffian with the stick began to recite a villanous poem reflecting
upon the chastity of married women, emphasizing it with atrocious side
remarks. The gentleman sprang from his seat in a rage and advanced
threateningly upon the brute, who stood leering at him and taking a
firmer hold upon his stick; but the visitor's wife caught the outraged
man by the arm and restrained him. A wordy war ensued (for the gentleman
was a Frenchman), in which the choicest argot of Montmartre and La
Villette was exhausted by the ruffian. He closed by shouting,--"You were
not invited to enter here. You asked the privilege of entering; your
wish was granted. If you don't like it here, get out!"
The gentleman flung down a franc upon the table, the bolts were
withdrawn, and he and his wife passed out while the roysterers sang,--
Tout les clients sont des cochons," etc.,
amid the laughter of the smaller Bohemians.
Aristide Bruant now rose from his table and strode to the centre of the
room. A perfect silence fell. He is rather a small man, slender, and of
delicate build; he has a thin, sallow face, with piercing black eyes,
prominent cheek-bones, and long raven-black hair falling over his
shoulders from beneath a broad black slouch hat down over his eyes. His
unbuttoned coat showed a red flannel shirt open at the throat; a broad
sash was about his waist; his trousers were tucked into top-boots,--the
ensemble reminding one of Buffalo Bill. He glared sullenly round upon
the people, and then sprang lightly upon a table. From that perch
he recited one of his poems, selected from his book of songs and
monologues. It does not bear reproduction here. For that matter, being
written in the argot of Montmartre, it could hardly be understood even
by French scholars unfamiliar with Montmartre.
Happily Mr. Thompkins understood not a word of it, smiling perfunctorily
out of politeness while Bruant was uttering things that might have
shocked the most hardened Parisians. There were several young women
present, and while Bruant was reciting they ogled him with genuine
adoration. The other poets hung reverently upon his every word.
A mighty burst of applause greeted the finish of the recitation; but
Bruant slouched indifferently to his seat, ignoring the ovation.
The bully with the stick immediately stopped the noise by yelling,
"Silence!" This he followed up with the contribution-cup for the
benefit of the idol of Montmartre. With the cup he brought the volume
of Bruant's poems from which he had given the recitation,--a cheaply
printed pamphlet. No one dared refuse to buy, and no change was
returned. Was not this the great Aristide Bruant, the immortal of
Montmartre?
[Illustration: 0300]
He was followed by other poets with songs and the banging of the piano.
We presently rose to leave, but the bully shouted,--"Sit down! How dare
you insult the young poet who is now singing?" We submissively resumed
our seats. After a while, in a lull, we respectfully rose again, and the
bully, shouting, "Get out!" unbarred the door and we were free.
Mr. Thompkins was more deeply puzzled than he had been before that
night. He could not understand that such a resort, where one is bullied
and insulted, could secure patronage.
"But this is Paris, Mr. Thompkins," explained Bishop, somewhat vaguely;
"and this particular part of Paris is Montmartre."
Midnight was now close at hand, but Montmartre was in the height of
its gayety. Students, Bohemians, and cocottes were skipping and singing
along the boulevard,--singing the songs of Bruant. The _café_s were
crowded, the theatres and concert halls only in the middle of their
programmes. Cabs were dashing about, some stopping at the Moulin Rouge,
others at the Elysée Montmartre, still others picking up fares for more
distant attractions.
Bishop halted in front of a quiet-looking house with curtained windows,
and bluntly asked Mr. Thompkins if he would like to go to church. Mr.
Thompkins caught his breath, and an odd, guilty look came into his face.
But before he could make reply Bishop was leading the way within. The
interior of the place certainly looked like a church,--it was fitted
to have that significance. The cold, gray stone walls rose to a vaulted
Gothic ceiling; Gothic pillars and arches and carved wood completed
the architectural effect; statues of saints appeared in niches, some
surmounted by halos of lighted candles; and there were banners bearing
scriptural mottoes.
[Illustration: 9303]