Chapter X: Part 10

Presently you move a little out of all this and have a seat near the outer edge of the terrace, and begin to accumulate a pile of cups and saucers each with the price of the order burned in the bottom. So far as out of doors goes, you are now the audience and the passing crowd the show. The number has dwindled, but in characteristics it remains the same—sociable, good-humored, easy in manner, and quick in intelligence. It will be seen to differ from the night throngs of other cities not only in variety and exuberance, but in dramatic qualities as well. _Camelots_ rush up to you crying the latest editions of the evening papers, and suddenly, with furtive glances over their shoulders, thrust some questionable commodity under your nose and protest it is a bargain. Jolly parties sweep along, arm in arm, in lines that cross the sidewalk from house to curb. Lady visitors, with eyes full of excited delight, pause for a wistful glance down Rue de la Paix where the establishments of famed milliners and modistes stand in gloom, little dreaming that they may be touching elbows this minute with the very _chefs des jupes_, _corsagères_, and _garnisseuses_ that they are to visit in the morning. _Chic_ grisettes trip smilingly by, who have dined frugally at Duval’s on chocolate and bread, to have another rose to their corsages. There are _blasé_ clubmen from the exclusive _cercles_ of Place de la Concorde and the Champs-Élysées, and supercilious representatives of the American colony of the Boulevard Haussmann. Here comes D’Artagnan himself, capable and alert, arm in arm with blustering Porthos. Ragged _voyous_ with shifty looks run to open the carriage doors. From time to time there saunters by in cap and cape that model policeman, the affable and accommodating _sergent de ville_, and if you look around for a _camelot_ then, you will find him attending very strictly to business. And so the fascinating procession troops merrily by: roaring students from the Boul’ Miche’, black-eyed soldiers in shakos and baggy red trousers, members of the Institute, pretty working-girls who handle their skirts with the captivating grace of _comediennes_, the shapely dress-models they nickname “quails,” conceited _figurantes_ from the _cafés-concerts_, famous models, _cocottes_,—frail daughters of Lutetia,—with complexions like Italian sunsets, impudent _gamins_ chattering in unintelligible _argot_, _dilettanti_, _poseurs_, and the usual concomitants of beggars and thieves. What a jumble of happiness and misery! What an amazing spectacle, with the shimmer of silks and the glint of pearl ranged beside the mendicant in his rags!

What a wealth of material, too, for the capable! One sees how Balzac found the best types of his “Human Comedy” on the boulevards; why Victor Hugo tramped them day and night and read shop signs by the hour in search for characters and the names to fit them; where Zola got the misery that he put between covers; where Molière secured impressions that he transplanted so effectually to the stage. How Dumas must have known these streets! And Flaubert and De Maupassant! Nor are they exhausted yet; or ever will be. Where the entire gamut of the emotions is so incessantly run as here, vital, human material can never be lacking.

As one o’clock wears round, it is easy to distinguish a change in the appearance of the crowd.

“The tumult and the shouting dies,
The captains and the kings depart.”

Something of that wan and forlorn look is beginning to appear that makes even these buildings themselves seem dejected and remorseful, by the time the street cleaners advance to flood the boulevards and the sky beyond Père-Lachaise is paling to dawn. The heart says, “Let’s keep it up”; the body says, “To bed.” And now, too, the crasser comedies of the fag end of the night receive their _premières_. Amaryllis has lost her Colin and laments loudly with Florian:—

“C’est mon ami,
Rendez-le moi;
J’ai son amour,
Il a ma foi.”

Mlle. Fifi demands her carriage and bundles out into it, with the red-faced Baron hurrying after, carrying her amazing hat; and off they go toward the Champs-Élysées. A stag party of revelers hails a victoria and sinks limply onto its cushions; and they, too, head for the Champs-Élysées with one hanging onto the _cocher_ and reciting dramatically:—

“Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami Pierrot.”

Everyone smiles, for they know whither, they are bound. For Pré Catelon, of course, in the Bois de Boulogne, where they will chase the ducks and chickens around the little farmyard and make speeches to the mild-eyed cows and recover themselves gradually on mugs of cold milk.

Clearly, it is time to depart. One does not want the lees of this sparkling cup. A man is a fool to abuse his pleasures—though this may sound naïve at one o’clock in the morning. Go, while everything is still charming and delightful. The seasoned _boulevardier_ can do it, for he has a viewpoint that is all his own; it is by no means that of France, nor yet that of Paris by day, but of Paris by night—_his_ Paris. It is opportunism applied to society. Not the mad, reckless _après-moi-le-déluge_ folly rout of the late Louises, but rather a conception of the importance of few things and the inconsequence of many. He sings with Villon: “Where are the snows of yester-year?” He searches the classics, and has “Carpe Diem” framed. He skims Holy Writ and puts his finger on “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” “Life is poetry,” quoth he, “in spite of a limping line here and there! Why fuss over Waterloo, or the Place de Grève, or the guillotine, or the tumbrils that rattled up the Rue Royale? The present alone is ours; enjoy it to the uttermost! Life is beautiful and of the moment. Lights are sparkling. Fountains are splashing. The night is delicious with fragrance and enchanting with music and laughter. Join me!” he cries. “I raise my glass: _To the lilies of France and the Bright Eyes of the Daughters of Paris!_”

THE END

The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTS
U. S. A.