Chapter IV: Preface (3)

How, as he stands dejectedly on the kerbstone or sits gloomily before his glass of coffee, how, if he liked, could old Cottin amuse and surprise us with his tales! His Majesty King Edward VII., when Prince of Wales, was pleased to compliment old Cottin on his humorous expression and wink and grin; old Cottin who has lost that grin, and whose expression is more tragic than comic, and whose dim eye winks no longer. The name—“Cottin”—appeared in gigantic characters on the bills; the entrance of Cottin was the signal for laughter and applause. But if ever the name of Cottin again appear on a theatrical poster it will be in some obscure, out-of-the-way theatre; and if ever Cottin again addresses an audience it will be feebly, unspontaneously, from a rough, draughty old stage. And if we could witness the awakening and rising of old Cottin in his chilly little attic, we should not see him attended by a valet as in former days: but assist at the spectacle of old Cottin brushing vehemently away at his threadbare clothes, and stitching up a rent with a darning needle, and clipping the fray from off his collars and cuffs with blunt, rusty scissors, and generally aspiring to smarten himself up, with the object of obtaining an engagement somewhere, anywhere.

Under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, on the kerbstone or in the dingy little café, in his greasy hat and threadbare clothes, old Cottin awaits the arrival of small suburban or provincial managers. It is their practice to come here when in need of an actor who will play innumerable rôles, at forty or fifty francs a week; and they pick out their actors brusquely, roughly, and with many a coarse joke. But once old Cottin dealt only with renowned, illustrious managers.

“Mon bon Cottin,” said the renowned, illustrious managers.

“Mon cher directeur,” said the renowned, illustrious Cottin.

“Epatant, étourdissant, extraordinaire,” was the boulevardier’s enthusiastic appreciation of Cottin.

Poor old Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre!

Let us not go prying into the secrets of Cottin’s life; the cause of his gloom and downfall is not our affair. Nor are we entitled to search the careers of these other old actors and actresses who, perhaps in their day, were almost as famous as Cottin; and who, like him, have very much come down in the world. Anyhow, there is genuine, friendly sympathy between these shabby, clean-shaven old fellows—and also between their sisters, who are over-stout or over-thin, over-“made-up” or over-pale, over-garrulous or over-still. In this café, they are _chez eux_, they are _en famille_. In this café, they speak frankly, easily of themselves. Madame Marguerite de Brémont, for instance: a woman of sixty, with great black eyebrows, a powdered face, and a deep, deep voice. Enormous is Madame Marguerite de Brémont, who is cast for the part of _chiffonnière_, mad-woman, hideous, unnatural mother, at the Batignolles Theatre, at forty-five francs a week. With her, a shabby black bag, and also, as a last _coquetterie_, a black satin reticule, from which she occasionally produces an old powder puff, and a handkerchief edged (by her own hand) with coarse yellow lace. Such a deep, deep voice, and such sweeping, melodramatic gestures with, alas! rough, large hands. Forty-five francs a week, but, honour of honours, a benefit performance this summer. And Madame Marguerite de Brémont is telling a group of superannuated comedians that, upon this glorious occasion, the manager will allow her to have the pick of the Batignolles wardrobe. She will appear in no fewer than five melodramatic rôles, “created” by her twenty, thirty years ago; and, in looking over the Batignolles wardrobe, she has been particularly impressed by a heavy, yellow velvet dress trimmed lavishly with pearls.

“Yellow was my colour,” says Madame Marguerite de Brémont, “and, for jewellery, I always wore pearls.”

“Our Marguerite,” observes an emaciated old fellow, “will have an extraordinary reception. We shall all cry: ‘Vive la de Brémont!’”

“Ma chère,” puts in a faded, wrinkled woman, with bright (and bad) gold hair, “I have always said that yellow was your colour. All women have their hair, but the actresses of to-day wear any colour, and the result is deplorable.”

“Yes, yes,” says the de Brémont, “I shall appear in yellow.” And she powders her face feverishly, at the prospect of once again appearing in yellow and pearls.

“C’est bien, ça”: exclaims old Cottin, at the conclusion of an anecdote. A charming anecdote, related thus, by a little imp of a man, with the comedian’s large mouth and ever-changing expression.... In an actor’s charitable home the doyen of them all is an old fellow of eighty-four, who was a favourite in his day. He passes the time pleasantly enough, in toddling about the garden on a stick, and in reading faded, yellow Press criticisms of years and years ago that describe him as “marvellous,” “incomparable,” “irresistible.” But, one morning, he hears that his sister-in-law—once a brilliant vaudeville actress—is homeless and penniless, at the tragic age of seventy-nine, and he becomes gloomy and silent: and he asks to see the manager of the home. “We are full,” replies the manager, “and so we cannot receive your sister-in-law.” The old fellow’s eyes become dim, and at last the old fellow explains: “I wish to marry my sister-in-law.” Gently the manager observes: “But even if you marry her, there will be a difficulty. Our rations are limited, and if you marry her there will only be one portion for the two.” A meeting between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old woman of seventy-nine. And a marriage between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old woman of seventy-nine, attended by all the old actors and old actresses of the Home, not one of whom tells less than sixty, not one of whom can toddle about without a stick. Bottles of champagne, from the manager of the Home. An address, from the aged inmates of the Home. And to-day the old couple toddle about together in the garden, and together read the Press criticisms of years and years ago, and together recall the days when the one was a brilliant vaudeville actress, and the other was a “marvellous, an incomparable, an irresistible” comedian.

A flashy-looking young man in a check suit and pink shirt looks in, and tells old Cottin and others that “there is nothing to-day”—an agent for the suburban, the provincial theatres.

“By all means, yellow,” he says carelessly, in reply to Madame Marguerite de Brémont’s anxious question as to what colour she should wear. Then, more amiably: “I subscribe for twenty francs, and if you receive a bouquet of roses, yellow roses, preserve it in memory of your devoted Jules.”

“Ce bon Jules!” exclaims the de Brémont, as Jules, the agent, hurries out of the café. “Il a du cœur, celui-là.” And opens the black bag. And scribbles down something—probably “20 francs”—in a little greasy book, with a stump of a pencil. And heaves a deep sigh of satisfaction. And expresses the hope that she will not be too _émotionnée_ on the night of her benefit.

At least thirty old actors and old actresses in the café: and most of them with empty glasses. A lull, during which many look vacantly before them, while others tap with their boots on the floor and drum with their fingers on the tables. Great yawns, and occasional stretching of arms, and often the exclamation: “Mais je m’ennuie, je m’ennuie!” In a corner, a dingy waiter is sprawled over a racing paper, and behind the counter, the burly proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, dozes. Outside, the hoarse shouts of the _camelots_, selling the evening papers. Outside, the animation of the boulevards.

“Messieurs, Mesdames.”

A quick, brusque voice, and a short, stout little man, with a huge watch-chain, an umbrella, a thick black moustache, a double chin and a great swollen neck.

“Has Jules been here? What is the use of Jules? What is the use of any agent? I call at his office; he is not there. I ask where he is; no one can tell. I come here—although I have not a moment to spare.”

A manager; at last, a manager! And the manager of one of the vast, shabby, outlying theatres, who also sends companies out on tour.

“I have need of four men, two ladies, and a child, for _The Terror of the Fortifications_. Tour starts at St Quentin on Monday week, and lasts twenty-one weeks. I want workers. Salary for men, not more than fifty francs; for women, forty to fifty; for the child, twenty-five.”

“Mais c’est bien, c’est très bien, Monsieur le Directeur,” says old Cottin, say old Cottin’s comrades. And old Cottin and three of his friends, and the faded, wrinkled lady with the bright (and bad) gold hair, and one of her friends, all rise before Monsieur le Directeur.

“I will try to find the child,” says the faded woman.

“Girl,” says the director. “Small, thin and not over eleven. Come to see me to-morrow morning at twelve.” And the stout director waddles out.

“They say it is _épatant_, the _Terror of the Fortifications_,” observes an old actor.

“Ah,” replies old Cottin absentmindedly: old Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre.

“Au revoir,” says Madame Marguerite de Brémont, picking up her reticule and bag. “Au revoir, and good luck. I shall tell the director to-night that I have chosen the yellow and pearls.”

Four old actors, and two old actresses, at one table, with their heads together.

“The curtain rises in a hovel,” says one of the old actors, and proceeds to narrate the plot of _The Terror of the Fortifications_.

VII

THE LATIN QUARTER

1. MÈRE CASIMIR

“Il était une fois.”

After weeks of summer idleness the students of the Latin Quarter return in October to the Boul’ Mich’ more exhilarated, more extravagant, more garrulous than ever. They are delighted to be back; they are impatient to _conspuer_ certain professors; to parade the streets with lanterns and guys; to disturb the sleep of the bourgeois; to run into debt with their landlords, to embrace the policemen—to commit a hundred other follies. Clad in new corduroys, covered with astonishing hats, they call for big _bocks_—then question the waiter. But ere he can give a recital of what has taken place on the Rive Gauche during the holidays, the waiter—_ce sacré_ François—has to hear how Paul (of the Faculty of Medicine) has been bathing, Pierre (of the Law) bicycling, Gaston (of the Fine Arts) gardening; and how all three of them wore “le boating” costume (whatever that may signify), with white shoes, pale blue waistbands and green umbrellas; and how their food was of the simplest, and their drink, pure, babylike milk.

Adventures? Romances?

Well, for an entire month, Paul was as sad, as lovesick, as pale as a pierrot. _She_ was a blonde ... in a cottage... as sweet and fresh as a rose... as modest as the violet... as innocent as a child... who got up with the lark and retired with the sun. And Paul rose equally early, to peep over the hedge of her garden and to hear her sing, as she fed greedy, speckled poultry; and, from a lane, watched her window—then wandered sentimentally and wistfully abroad—at night. Suddenly, she vanished. And when Paul learnt that she had departed for Normandy to become the bride of a cousin, Paul of the Faculty of Medicine—Paul, the gayest character in the Latin Quarter and the hero of many an affair of the heart—Paul, lost his appetite, Paul, experienced the agonies of insomnia, Paul, aged at least a hundred years all at once.

Thus Paul. No less reminiscent Pierre and Gaston. So that their lady friends, Mesdemoiselles Mimi and Musette—at once jealous and impatient—proceed to relate their own experiences; which, by the way, are but flights of imagination, conceived with the idea of infuriating the students.

_He also_ was blonde—and wore an _incomparable_ suit of “le boating.” How _he_ swam—far more magnificently than Paul! How _he_ bicycled—far more swiftly than Pierre! How _he_ gardened: producing infinitely choicer flowers than Gaston’s!

“Enough! You have never left Paris. All those wonderful friends of yours do not exist,” cry the students. And the _sacré_ waiter François (who has been toying all this time with his napkin) at last is permitted to relate what has been happening in the Latin Quarter during the summer holidays.

As a rule, however, he has little to say. Of course, the Boul’ Mich’ has been dull. Tourists from “sinister” Germany and from _la vieille Angleterre_ have “looked” for students and amusements—naturally in vain. Mademoiselle Mimi owes nine francs for refreshments. And Mademoiselle Musette two francs eighty centimes for a cab fare. That is all.

But when the students “ushered” in the present autumn season, François the waiter had important, solemn news to impart. And it was with sincere sorrow that they learnt that death, in their absence, had claimed the queer little old woman who carried a match-tray in her trembling, bony hands; who performed feeble, vague dances; who piped old-time airs, and related old-time anecdotes; and who had lived amongst Mürger’s sons, ever since they could remember, under the name of Mère Casimir....

No city but Paris could have produced the little old woman: and no other community would have put up with her. Were there a Mère Casimir in London, she would be living in a work-house, strictly superintended, constantly reprimanded, and constantly, too, she would appear in the dock of the police court, and the magistrate would say: “I don’t know what to do with you. You are perfectly incorrigible.” Then this headline amidst the evening newspaper police reports: “Her Seventy-Seventh Appearance. Magistrate Doesn’t Know What To Do With Her. But She Gets One Month All the Same.”

In Paris, however, Mère Casimir was free. A shabby old creature, bent over her tray of matches, no taller than your walking-stick. Like her amazing friend, Bibi la Purée, she rarely strayed from the Latin Quarter. Just as he spoke of himself as “Bibi,” so she invariably referred to herself as “la Mère Casimir.” But whereas “Bibi” had ever led a vagabond life, Mère Casimir had known luxurious times, triumphant times: times when worldlings ogled and worshipped her, as she posed on the stage of the Opera and drove out in semi-state to the Bois.

And she laughed in a feeble, cracked voice, when she described those brilliant days; and rubbed her withered, trembling old hands; and nodded and nodded her bowed, white head; and piped the first line of that haunting, melancholy refrain:

“Il était une fois.”

Il était une fois. Once upon a time! But the descent from luxury to poverty had neither saddened nor hardened Mère Casimir. Deeply attached to the students and to Mesdemoiselles Musette and Mimi, she professed a greater affection for them than ever she had borne M. le Marquis or Monseigneur le Duc.

“Des idiots,” she said of the latter.

“Des cœurs—real hearts,” was her favourite way of describing the kindly Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.

Many years have elapsed since first I saw Mère Casimir in the Café Procope—“le café de M. de Voltaire,” now, also, no more. It was one o’clock in the morning. The olive-man and the nougat-merchant had paid their last call; the flower-woman had said good-night; the next visitor was Mère Casimir. So feeble was she that she could scarcely push open the door: and when a waiter let her in, she curtsied to him, then curtsied to the customers. No one bought her matches: but she was given _bock_. Sous were collected on her behalf by a student; they were to persuade her to dance. But Mère Casimir had grown stiff with time. She could do no more than hop and curtsy, bob and bend, smile and crow, kiss and wave her withered old hand.

“Il était une fois,” she protested, at the end.

“Once upon a time.” Invited to seat herself at my table, Mère Casimir told me how she had shone at the Opera; how she had attended notorious, extravagant suppers and balls; how she had broken hearts; how Napoleon III. himself had noticed her; how she used to sing Béranger ditties.... She would sing one now ... one of her favourites.... “Listen.” Rising, she piped feebly again.

Ah, the Elysée! Mère Casimir compared it contemptuously to the Tuileries, and sighed. What was a President to an Emperor? What was the Opera to-day? and the Bois? and the Jockey Club? “The vulgar Republic has changed all that,” she complained. “It disgusts me—this Republic.”

Suddenly the old woman became silent. Bent in half behind the table, she was scarcely visible. Minutes went by, but she remained motionless. And at last the waiter, thinking her asleep, called out:

“Eh bien, la vieille?”

Then, Mère Casimir started, and nodded her head, and rose, and thanked the customers with a last curtsy, and told them she hoped to dance to them on another occasion; and, before going out into the darkness, murmured again:

“Il était une fois.”

A few nights later I met her on the Boul’ Mich’ whilst she was passing from table to table on the terrace of the Café d’Harcourt.

The students were kind to her; so were Mürger’s daughters, Mesdemoiselles Musette and Mimi. And she was given olives and nougat, and a number of sous, and even a rose. And the waiters were friendly also; and so was the stout, black-coated proprietor.

In return, Mère Casimir sang her song and danced her dance, and was applauded and encored—even by the policeman at the corner.

At two o’clock in the morning, when the Latin Quarter cafés close, the old woman disappeared.

No one knew where she lived. But she could be seen feebly making her way up the Boul’ Mich’ and, turning, to pass the Panthéon. There the streets soon become narrow and dim. Apaches and _chiffonniers_ abound. One or two sinister-looking wine-shops remind one of those in the _Mystères de Paris_. Through the grimy windows, one can watch the customers, seated at rude tables within.

And once, while exploring this neighbourhood, I perceived Mère Casimir seated next to Bibi la Purée behind one of those windows; with a bottle of wine in front of them. And I entered and approached them, apologising for my intrusion.

Bibi was the host: Bibi, “the original with an amazing past,” who in days gone by had been Verlaine’s valet and friend: and who—after the death of the “Master”—became obsessed with an unholy passion for umbrellas; anyone’s umbrellas—all umbrellas—new, middle-aged, decrepit. Bibi, tall and gaunt, with sunken cheeks, lurid green eyes, an eternal, wonderful grin, and—— But Bibi cannot be described in passing. Bibi deserves a chapter to himself, and Bibi has had that chapter elsewhere.[1]

Well, Bibi was the host, and Mère Casimir his guest. Several nights a week they met in this manner. There in the grimy wine-shop they exchanged reminiscences: Bibi, of Verlaine; Mère Casimir, of M. le Marquis and other _roués_ under the Empire. There they drank sour red wine and took pinches of snuff: Bibi provided the wine, Mère Casimir the snuff. There they chanted Béranger ditties: Bibi huskily, Mère Casimir in her feeble, cracked voice. There they were happy and at peace: an extraordinary couple.

At intervals rough-looking men slouched in and out. Whispering went on in corners. But no one heeded Bibi and Mère Casimir, and they themselves paid no attention to the dubious drinkers in the place.

“He is gay, isn’t he, my Bibi?” the old woman would inquire.

“She is still young, isn’t she, la Mère Casimir?” the old fellow demanded.

Then Mère Casimir laughed in her feeble, cracked voice, and rubbed her withered old hands, and nodded her bowed white head, and piped the first line of the sad refrain:

“Il était une fois.”

[1] _Paris of the Parisians._

2. GLOOM ON THE RIVE GAUCHE

Sometimes in the Latin Quarter come grave moments, grim and gloomy moments—moments when the students shun the cafés; when their lady friends, Mesdemoiselles Mimi and Musette—Mürger’s daughters, Daughters of Bohemia—look pale and anxious, and whisper together as though alarmed; when the spectator, observing this depression, becomes himself depressed. At such a time the women whose clothes are shabby, whose faces are tragical (the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years ago) come out of those corners to which their unattractiveness has condemned them; come out, and congregate—skeletons some of them, swollen, shapeless creatures the rest—all, considering their usual comparative obscurity, ominous. When the temper of the Quarter is blithe, they must look on forlornly from the background. No one heeds them; no one invites them to accept an olive or sip a _bock_. But when the Quarter has been horrified by some tragedy, some crime, they, on account of their memories and experiences, on account, too, of their own connection with tragedy—they, then, are sought after; they, then, talk the most; they, then, hold the longest and completest version of the matter that has brought on the gloom.

Recently, at three o’clock in the morning, I heard these shabby, solitary women chattering more ominously than usual in Madame Bertrand’s hospitable milk-shop. There, after the cafés have been closed, the students assemble to devour sandwiches, _brioches_, hot rolls; but upon the occasion in question the only customers present were Mürger’s elderly, unattractive daughters. And whilst sipping hot milk or coffee, and biting hungrily into a penny roll, they listened to the tale of a woman—the palest, the most wasted of this forlorn group of women, whose coat and skirt were red, whose boots were muddy, whose gloves betrayed stitching done upstairs in her dim back room.

Occasionally her narrative was interrupted by a short, sharp cough. She lost her breath; pressed her hand to her breast; cleared her throat.

“Continue,” said the others impatiently. “I continue,” she replied.

And then, whilst listening also, I learnt that a certain Marcelle played the chief rôle in the story: Marcelle, blithest of Mürger’s younger daughters, Marcelle the _vraie gamine_, Marcelle the lively little lady who always wore a bicycling suit, yet never bicycled; who appeared seventeen, but in reality was twenty-two; who danced down the Boul’ Mich’ arm-in-arm with the students—she the gayest of the party, her step the lightest, her Chinese lantern the largest; who was liked by one and all, and to whom everyone was _mon cher_.... Marcelle the Candid! A brunette, she took it into her head to become a blonde. “C’est chic d’être blonde,” she cried: then some days later appeared on the Boul’ Mich’ with flaxen hair. And she drew attention to this striking metamorphosis, exclaiming: “Inspect me; stare at me! Am I not ravishing? Isn’t it a success? Such a dye! Only five francs a bottle—a large bottle—also perfumed!” And drank a toast... “to the new colour!” And vowed that, with it, began a new era. And afterwards, when relating reminiscences, naïvely explained: “That was in the days when I was a brunette.” And constantly sang, in a shrill voice, that favourite sentimental ballad, _Les Blondes_.... Marcelle the Sympathetic! Each student found in her a patient, a friendly listener. She was ready to bear with chaotic, interminable narratives of jealousies, worries, woes. She would propose a drive, a long drive, in an open cab—the grievance to be unfolded on the way. “Tell the _cocher_,” she would say to the student, “to choose a deserted route—so that you may rage and despair, and weep as much as you please. Open your poor heart, _mon cher_. Keep nothing back. _Allez_, you can trust Marcelle.”... Marcelle the Sentimental, the Nature-loving! After a noisy luncheon-party in the country, she would command an adjournment to the wood. Childlike she sought for flowers, running hither and thither, uttering shrill little cries of astonishment and rapture. And lingered and lingered in the wood. And vowed she would not return to Paris before the departure of the very last train. And asked naïve questions about the moon and the stars. And murmured: “How sweet is the country, how exquisite!”—shrinking nevertheless from the bats and mosquitoes. And went to bed immediately upon reaching Paris—so as not to spoil “the impression” of the country. And dreamt happily, dreamt as she had never dreamt before—“mon cher!”

Bright Marcelle; and, in spite of her follies, admirable Marcelle! The shabby, solitary women—the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years ago—had in her a friend.

Had?... Had; but have no longer.

“_Murdered!_” said the woman in the red dress—huskily—in Madame Bertrand’s hospitable milk-shop, of Marcelle the Blonde. Murdered; but no matter how. Murdered; and lying in a room, round the corner, with candles burning by the death-bed.

“Tall, tall candles,” continued the woman. “They burn brightly; and she is not alone. To-day I have seen her three times. There were only two wreaths this morning, but there must be more than twenty now. To-morrow the concierge will do nothing but take up wreaths.”

And the woman coughed, the other women murmured; then the husky voice was heard again:—

“They have telegraphed for her brother; her parents are dead. He is a peasant. He has never been to Paris. He is twenty-three. He adored her. I have seen letters of his which called her ‘ma petite sœur bien aimée.’ He would have cut himself into pieces for Marcelle.”

A husky, husky voice. Gestures accompanying each word, and now and again the short, sharp cough.

As the hour advanced, Madame Bertrand’s stout, bearded manager (installed behind the counter) began to doze. The servant who distributed the cups of milk and coffee settled herself on a stool in the background and closed her eyes. From the coffee urns, the urns of milk, arose fumes; the urns of boiling water hissed. Past the shop, crawled a market-cart, packed thick and high with vegetables, and, on the top of the vegetables, sat a sturdy peasant woman, her head enveloped in a handkerchief. Through the windows one might see two policemen gossiping over the way; a vagrant limping by; the eternal _chiffonnier_, stooping over the gutter in quest of stumps of cigars and cigarettes. Only in the milk-shop was there light, a pale, unbecoming light from the lamp overhead. Only here was there colour, the colours of the shabby women’s dresses: faded blue, dingy yellow, red. Only _chez_ Madame Bertrand was there a group—a group of frightened, haunted women, fifteen or so. No woman went her way. None felt strong, secure enough to endure the solitude of her dim _chambre meublée_. Perhaps they remained there until dawn. Perhaps they were still there, when the first workman passed. And no doubt he, after glancing through the windows, shrugged his shoulders and soliloquised: “There they are, the abandoned ones, making another merry night of it.”

Gloom, next day. Gloom, on the day after. And greater gloom on the gloomiest day of all—the day of the funeral.

A sombre day: clouds hanging close over the Latin Quarter. A damp day; in the air, mist. A day when the householders of a certain narrow street came to their doors; when other residents appeared at their windows; when spectators assembled on the kerbstone; when a group of shabby, forlorn women stood silently beside a hearse—the shabbiest, the most wasted, a woman in red.

She had no other dress. Those in faded blue and dingy yellow, had no other dresses. In Paris, black failing... “one does one’s best.”

The hearse had just received its light burden, and the coffin was being covered—thrice covered—with flowers: mere nosegays, bouquets, wreath after wreath. By the doorstep, stood Marcelle’s concierge—a stout woman—crying. Farther away, three policemen—erect and motionless. Few students to be seen. But they had sent their tributes of affection, for the flowers continued to come—came and came—accompanied by cards and ribbons: one card bearing the inscription: “To Our Blonde Marcelle.” Then, after the last flower had been laid, Mürger’s young and charming daughters, Mürger’s elderly and tragical daughters, gathered behind the hearse. Slowly it advanced, slowly it disappeared—the policemen saluting, the concierge weeping, the spectators removing their hats, the bourgeoise householder crossing herself, the Daughters of Mürger following immediately behind the hearse; the woman in red, still the most noticeable.

The most noticeable, perhaps, because her arm was drawn through the arm of a young man: bareheaded, dressed in a coarse black suit: red-eyed, red-eared, ungainly, uncouth: of the fields, of the earth, unmistakably, a peasant. With stooping shoulders and bowed head; stupefied, wrecked; Marcelle’s peasant brother followed his “petite sœur bien aimée” to her grave—in the compassionate charge of the shabby, husky-voiced woman in red.

Across the bridge, past Notre-Dame: past theatres, banks, cafés and fine shops: past hospitals, past hovels, past drinking dens. On and on, on and on—the mourners silently and sorrowfully following Marcelle. Still on: the mourners accompanying Marcelle, once most blithe of Mürger’s daughters, farther and farther from Mürger’s land. Onward always, through the gloom, through the mist, to Marcelle’s last destination. Then back again, through the mist, through the gloom, without Marcelle: and Marcelle the Blonde, Marcelle the _Vraie Gamine_, only a memory, only a name.

3. THE DAUGHTER OF THE STUDENTS

The month of July—eleven years ago. The year was one of those dear, amazing years when, in Paris, everybody has a foe, a feud and a fear; everybody a flush on his face and a gleam in his eye; everybody a little adventure with the plain police, the mounted police or the Garde Républicaine. We are on the march, on the run.

The Ministry of the moment is—well, who _is_ Prime Minister this morning? Never mind his name; he is sure to be a swindler, a “bandit.” Nothing but “bandits” among the public men. No purity among the public men; they have all, all “touched” money in the Panama affair. No; M. Duval is _not_ an exception. He is as villainous as the rest. If you persist in your declaration that he is an exception, you must have some sinister, interested reason. _You_, Monsieur, are no better than M. Duval. You, too, are a bandit. I say it again, bandit, bandit, bandit. Come out and fight. Come out and——

Such a tumult, such a panic in Paris! Houses searched by the police, and hundreds of suspected persons arrested. And in the midst of the panic the good Bohemians of the Latin Quarter also rise, and march with sticks and lanterns to the house of Senator Bérenger, and smash his windows, and groan, and call upon him to come out and be slain on the spot.

Unhappy Senator Bérenger, who deemed that the Quat-z-Arts ball—the great annual ball of the students—was improper!

“It was Art,” shout the students.

“It was a shocking spectacle,” pronounces the Senator.

“Come out and be slain,” shout the students.

“Arrest them,” orders the Senator. And then—O then—a revolution in the Quarter; then, the wild, terrifying “Seven Days’ Bagarre.”

There blaze bonfires; there, arise barricades; there, lie omnibuses overturned on the Boul’ Mich’; there, march furious bands of students who charge and are charged by the police. Mercy, how we march and how we run! On the fifth day, we are bandaged, and we limp, but we resume our manifestations.

“Come out and be slain,” we yell, below the Senator’s window.

“Arrest them,” orders the Senator. “It was Art,” we almost sob, in the ear of the interviewer.

“It was a shocking spectacle,” declares the Senator.

“You must, you shall be slain,” we cry in frenzy. And then, in the Quarter, appears the Army; and the Army goes for us; and before such overwhelming odds, we fly; and twenty of us who fly and fly find ourselves at last, dishevelled and breathless, in a dim, deserted side street.

Not a sound; we are too much exhausted to speak.

A moon and stars, silence and peace. Twenty dishevelled and exhausted students, who sit on the kerbstone, on doorsteps, to rest. And then, all of a sudden, a Cry. A feeble, plaintive Cry from a doorstep: and on the doorstep, a bundle. Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students before the bundle; a bundle—that cries. An amazing discovery, a sensational surprise! The bundle is a Child; the bundle is a _Gosse_; the bundle is a bud of a Girl.

Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students strangely in possession of a baby; and who nurse the baby, and who seek to win her confidence, with awkward caresses, and by swinging her to and fro, and by assuring her that she is safe and sound. And, finally, twenty good Bohemians who resolve to adopt the Child, and introduce her formally to their colleagues, and proclaim her before all the good Bohemians of the Rive Gauche: “The Adopted Daughter of the Students of the Latin Quarter.” But, the name, the name? The Saint for the day is Lucie: so, Lucie. The _gosse_ was found on the last night of the Bagarre: so, Bagarre. Thus, with the polite prefix, we get:

Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre.

Does Paul buy books on the nursing of infants, or the bringing up of children? And Gaston; does he go blushing into a shop and stammer out a request for a baby’s complete outfit? At all events, awkwardness and unrest in the Quarter. It is such a responsibility to have a Daughter; it is such an anxiety to attend adequately to her needs! And so, after infinite discussion, it is determined that Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre shall reside in the home of Enfants Trouvés, until the best-hearted of foster-mothers in the whole of France shall have been found.

Says Paul, gravely: “Country air is indispensable.”

Says Gaston: “Milk and eggs.”

Says Pierre: “Companions of her own age.”

Do the good Bohemians of the Latin France go forth gravely in quest of foster-mothers? Do they pass from province to province, comparing foster-mothers, testing the milk and eggs, studying local death-rates, wondering and wondering which is the healthiest and most invigorating of the various airs? At all events, Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre is ultimately taken to a farm.

Says Paul: “Nothing better than a farm.”

Says Gaston: “Fresh milk and eggs every morn.”

Says Pierre: “Cows and ducks and hens to marvel at.”

Says Aimery: “None of the pernicious influences and surroundings of the city.”

Concludes Xavier: “We have done admirably.”

Thus, the Committee; a Committee of Five, whose duty it is to deal with the foster-mother, whose privilege it is to “look after the affairs” of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre. Always “sitting,” this Committee; sitting before ledgers and ink in the Taverne Lorraine, gifts and subscriptions to be acknowledged; instructions to be sent to the foster-mother; inquiries after the health of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre to be answered; interviewers to be received; in fine, much business in the Taverne Lorraine.

And then, all the students of the Latin Quarter have a right to demand news of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre; for all the students are her fathers; and so, naturally enough, they are anxious to know whether she has spoken her first word, and cut her first tooth, and staggered her first step. It is well that the Committee is patient and amiable; it is fortunate that the Committee rejoices in its work; else there would be cries of: “Laissez-moi tranquille,” and “Fichez-moi la paix” and “Décampe, ou je t’assomme.”

Now and then, the Committee visits Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre at her farm; and on their return a general meeting is held in the Taverne Lorraine—with Paul in the chair, Paul on the health, appearance and pastimes of Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre. Paul on the foster-mother, on the farm; Paul, also, on Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s diet. Paul, finally, on Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s approaching birthday. And, indeed, on each of her birthdays, the students’ adopted Daughter receives gifts and an address; and on Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, more gifts; and upon every visit of the Committee, a souvenir of some kind or another. Explains Paul most wisely: “Children like that.”

Ah me, the responsibility, the anxiety of having a Daughter! The moment comes when she has measles and chicken-pox; and then, what dark days for the father. And Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre is no exception; Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre has chicken-pox, has measles. In the Latin Quarter, alarm and emotion. All Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s many fathers _énervés_ and agitated. All the fathers suggesting precautions and remedies. All the fathers trying to remember what their parents did when they had chicken-pox and measles. Does the Committee study books on those diseases? At all events, the Committee is in constant communication with the farm. Also, the Committee proceeds solemnly to the farm. The telegram to Paris: “No complications. Malady following its ordinary course.” Another telegram: “Think it wiser to remain the night.” A third telegram: “Good night. Took nourishment this morning.” And in the _Etudiant_ and the _Cri du Quartier_, the brilliant organs of the Quarter, the announcement in large type: “We rejoice to announce that the adopted Daughter of the students of the Latin Quarter is now allowed to take air in her garden. To all her fathers she returns her warmest thanks for their sympathy, messages and offerings. But the quite unusual number of her fathers render it impossible to thank each one of them individually.” Follows Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre’s signature, the scrawling letters, L. B., faithfully reproduced. Says Paul: “I gave her a pencil-box. Children adore that.”

However, four years have elapsed since Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre pained her many dear fathers by having chicken-pox. To-day, she has turned eleven, but she still resides far away from “the pernicious influences and surroundings of the city.”

Says Paul: “Country air is still indispensable.”

Says Gaston: “Always milk and eggs.”

Says Pierre: “Honest folk about her.”

Down to the farm goes the Committee: and back comes the Committee with the report that Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre can now dive her hand into the pockets of the Committee’s dear corduroy waistcoat. She has grown; she is almost a _jeune fille_. How, by the way, stands her banking account? Well: but since the occasion for increasing it now presents itself, let the occasion be used to the utmost. The fête of Mi-Carême: the proceeds of the fête to be set aside for “la fille adoptive des étudiants, la petite Lucie Bagarre.” A grand _bal masqué_ at Bullier’s. Says Paul: “In order to attract the public, we must be amazing.” All the fathers scheming how to be amazing. All the fathers painting themselves and donning fantastic costumes. All the fathers calling upon Paris to swell their fund by visiting Bullier’s. And Paris responds: Paris flocks to Bullier’s.

An amazing spectacle, and an amazing night: the good Bohemians have succeeded in being entirely amazing. Bullier’s packed; Bullier’s all light, all colour, all movement, when the Committee of Five proudly surveys the scene.

Says Paul: “Gold.”

Says Gaston: “Bank-notes.”

Says Pierre: “A dot.”

Says Aimery: “A fortune.”

Says Xavier: “A veritable heiress.”

Say the innumerable fathers: “The _richissime_ Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre.”

And then, toasts. And then, cheers.

And then, the resolution that an address, signed by all her fathers, shall be presented to their dear adopted Daughter: who, at this advanced noisy hour, is lying fast asleep in her farm.

VIII

MONSIEUR LE ROUÉ

Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le Roué—who could fail to admire him for the constant, anxious endeavours he makes, the innumerable secret devices he employs to appear juvenile and sprightly! That his figure may be elegant, he wears stays. That the crow’s feet may not be conspicuous he (or rather his valet) covers them over with a subtle, greasy preparation. That his moustache may not droop, he has it waxed to the extremest degree of rigidity. And that people may not say: “Old le Roué is a wreck” and “Old le Roué is played out,” he goes about the Amazing City—here, there and everywhere—with a glass in his eye and a flower in his button-hole, like the gayest of young worldlings.

However, it has to be recorded that despite all his endeavours, despite all his artifices, M. le Roué remains a shaky, shrunken old fellow, with scanty white hair, a tired, pallid face and a thin, feeble voice. Once upon a time—say forty years ago—he was deemed one of the most brilliant, the most irresistible ornaments of _le Tout Paris_; but to-day—forty years after—he has attained that tragic period in the life of a vain, superannuated _viveur_, when no one, except his valet, is permitted to see him until two o’clock in the afternoon; and thus no one, save that faithful attendant, could give us a picture of M. le Roué when, after the curtains have been drawn and daylight has been let into the room, the old gentleman is served with his cup of chocolate and morsel of dry toast.

Still, if we cannot witness his awakening, we may assuredly assume that M. le Roué is not a pleasant spectacle in the morning. And it is equally safe to suppose that his temper is detestable, his language deplorable, when the valet shaves his wan cheek, and fastens his stays, and helps him into his heavy fur coat; and thus, in a word, turns him into the impeccable if rickety old beau who lunches every day on the stroke of two o’clock in Sucré’s white-and-gold restaurant.

“Monsieur se porte bien?” inquires the _maître d’hôtel_, respectfully handing him the menu.

“Pas mal, pas mal,” replies M. le Roué, in his thin, feeble voice. And although the old gentleman has been advised to keep strictly to a diet of plain foods and Vichy water, both the dishes and the wines that he orders are elaborate and rich.

Once again I exclaim: “Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le Roué,” and once again I demand: “Who could fail to admire him?”

He declines to belong to the past, he refuses to go into retirement; so long as he can stand up in his stays he is heroically determined to lead the life of a _viveur_, a rake. See him, here in Sucré’s restaurant, revelling over his lobster; behold him kissing his trembling, white hand to the lady book-keeper, a handsome young woman with sparkling diamond earrings; and hear him, moreover, entertaining Joseph, the _maître d’hôtel_, with an account of the lively supper-party he presided over last night, at which Mesdemoiselles Liane de Luneville and Marguerite de Millefleurs (beautiful, brilliant ornaments of the _demi-monde_) were present, and Mademoiselle Pauline Boum, of the Casino de Paris, performed her latest “eccentric” dance.

All this from a gentleman half-way through the seventies! All this from a shaky, shrunken old fellow who ought, at the present moment, to be taking a careful constitutional in the Parc Monceau on the arm of some mild, elderly female relative—instead of rejoicing over lobster and Château-Yquem in Sucré’s white-and-gold restaurant.

“Monsieur is extraordinary,” says the _maître d’hôtel_, by way of flattery.

“Monsieur is a monster,” says the handsome lady book-keeper, shaking her diamond earrings.

And old le Roué the “Extraordinary,” old le Roué “the Monster,” smiles, winks a dim eye and laughs. But it has to be stated that his smile is a leer and that his laugh is a cackle.

From Sucré’s restaurant M. le Roué proceeds slowly, leaning heavily on his walking-stick, to a quiet, comfortable café, where he meets another heroic old rake—the Marquis de Mô.

But there is this striking difference between the two: whereas old le Roué is delicately made, frail, shrunken, old de Mô is enormous, apoplectic, with flowing white whiskers, a round, bumpy bald head, a fiery complexion and a huge gouty foot which is ever encased in a wonderful elastic shoe. Le Roué and de Mô rejoiced extravagantly together in the latter brilliant days of the Second Empire. And to-day, in the year of 1912, they love to recall their past conquests, duels, follies, and never tire of abusing the Republican régime.

“What a Government, what an age!” complains le Roué.

“Abominable—odious—sinister,” declares de Mô.

Also, our superannuated _viveurs_ recall affectionate memories of a dear, mutual friend, the late Comte Robert de Barsac, who died last year, of a vague illness, shortly after he had riotously celebrated his seventieth birthday. The truth was, old de Barsac could not keep pace with old le Roué and old de Mô. His face became leaden in colour and his speech rambling and incoherent. And one night, he suddenly passed away in his sleep from exhaustion.

“Ce pauvre cher Robert!” exclaims le Roué sadly. “Ce pauvre cher Robert!” sighs de Mô.

Then there is another old friend, still living, of whom le Roué and de Mô speak affectionately as they sit together in their corner of the quiet, comfortable café.

She is “Madeline”—who, once upon a time, was the “star” actress at the Variétés theatre. In truth, Marguerite de Prèsles (as she figured on the bills) was something of a queen: the queen of the half-world. The newspapers of that period, in alluding to her wit, beauty and charm, called her the “exquisite Madeline”; the “adorable Madeline”; the “incomparable” Madeline de Prèsles. Le Roué and de Mô worshipped at her shrine. And to-day—forty years after—they often visit her at Pichon’s gaudy night restaurant: where the “adorable” Variétés actress of years ago makes constant rounds of the place—with tinselled boxes of chocolates and a basket of flowers!

Yes; “Madeline” sells chocolates and flowers _chez_ Pichon! And the gold hair has turned white and the slim figure has swollen, and the once pretty, bejewelled little hands have become knotted and coarse; and the old lady herself—the former radiant “star” of the Variétés—lives in a sombre _hôtel meublé_ on the outskirts of Paris, where she passes most of the day in making up bouquets and button-holes for the painted, rackety company that assembles nightly at Pichon’s.

Thus some romance is left in old le Roué and old de Mô. They still seek out “Madeline.” They make her presents on New Year’s Day; nor do they ever fail to remember her birthday. Once they offered her an annuity—but whilst expressing her thanks and declaring herself “touched,” she assured her old admirers that she was content with the income she derived from her speculations in flowers and chocolates: although (so she added) she held but a scornful opinion of the modern young worldlings—the young worldlings of the “odious,” “sinister” Republic—who were her customers _chez_ Pichon. And so, attached, by force of memories and by reason of their long, constant gallantry, so attached is “Madeline” to old le Roué, and old de Mô, that when those two valiant old rakes are seized with rheumatism or gout, and are obliged most unwillingly and angrily to lie up, she pays them daily visits; and refreshes and embellishes their rooms with her flowers; and reminds them vivaciously and wittily of the epoch—the wonderful epoch—when all three of them were gay, brilliant ornaments of the Amazing City....

And now, night-time.

Behold M. le Roué dining royally, and haunting the _coulisses_ of the Opera, and playing baccarat, with trembling hands, in the Cercle Doré, and entertaining (as we have already recorded) Mesdemoiselles Liane de Luneville and Marguerite de Millefleurs, and the eccentric Mademoiselle Pauline Boum, to supper in a gilded, bemirrored _cabinet particulier_.

All this he does long after the innumerable electric advertising devices (Fontain’s Perfumes—Carré’s Gloves—Cherry Brandy of the Maison Joyeux et Fils) have begun to blink and dance on the boulevards; and long after M. le Roué, with his five and seventy years, should have been tucked up in bed—his old brain at rest and his old head enveloped in a night-cap.

But M. le Roué declines to return home, M. le Roué refuses to close his dim eyes, until he has visited one of those modern rackety “American” bars—the “High Life,” for instance—where the young worldlings of to-day sit upon high stools, and absorb cocktails, _crème de menthe_ and icy “sherry-cobblers.” And it is wonderful to witness frail, shaky M. le Roué climb up on to his stool; and the spectacle becomes still more wonderful when apoplectic, gouty old de Mô laboriously follows his example.

Thus M. le Roué goes to the “High Life,” goes here, there and everywhere, like the gayest and most adventurous of young worldlings. And wherever he goes, the waiters and attendants exclaim: “Monsieur is astonishing!” and “Monsieur is extraordinary!” and their flattery pleases the old gentleman.

“Pas mal, pas mal,” he replies in his thin, feeble voice, and with his leer.

However, there come times when M. le Roué is particularly shaky and shrunken, when he looks peculiarly superannuated and frail; and at these times he resents the obsequious compliments of the waiters.

“No, no,” he cries shrilly. “I am a very old man, and I am feeling very weak and very ill.” After which confession, he buries his head in his trembling, white hands, and mutters to himself, strangely, beneath his breath.

The waiters then look at him curiously. And old de Mô protests: “What nonsense, _mon ami_; what folly, _mon vieux_. There is nothing the matter with you. You are perfectly well.”

But old de Mô’s expression is nevertheless anxious.

Is he about to lose his last remaining companion of years ago? Is he shortly to sit in that corner of the quiet, comfortable café—alone?

He cannot but acknowledge to himself that in old le Roué’s face there is the same leaden colour and in old le Roué’s speech the same incoherency that manifested themselves in their mutual dear friend and contemporary, the late Comte Robert de Barsac, a short while before he vaguely passed away.

IX

FRENCH LIFE AND THE FRENCH STAGE

1. M. PAUL BOURGET, THE REACTIONARY PLAYWRIGHT, AND M. PATAUD, WHO PUT OUT THE LIGHTS OF PARIS

In a boulevard café, over his favourite, strange mixture of strawberry syrup and champagne, a well-known Paris journalist recently called my attention to the profusion of playwrights of high, indisputable ability now writing for the French stage.

“There are not enough theatres to accommodate them all,” he said. “The papers inform us that X—— has just finished a new _chef-d’œuvre_, but often four, six, even ten months will elapse ere the masterpiece can be produced. Why? Because there is no room for X——. He must wait his turn; and in his leisure—O admirable fertility—he writes yet another play.”

“Nevertheless you have three important _répétitions générales_ this week,” I remarked. “Capus to-morrow, Donnay at the Français on Wednesday, and de Flers and Caillavet, the Inexhaustible, on Friday.”

“Charming Capus, delightful Donnay, amazing de Flers and Caillavet,” exclaimed my companion. “Listen; we are free for an hour. Let us run over the names of our leading playwrights—a formidable list. Garçon, another glass”—and away went the waiter in quest of more syrup and champagne.

Of course, no mere “running over” of the great name of Rostand. Both of us soon found ourselves reciting passages from _Cyrano_, _Chantecler_, _La Princesse Lointaine_—my friend eloquently and emotionally, myself alas! with the natural embarrassment and self-consciousness of the foreigner. “Au trot, au galop,” said my companion, glancing at the clock. And rapidly we proceeded to review the “formidable list” of France’s leading dramatists:—Paul Hervieu, the cultured, polished author of _Le Dédale_ and _La Course au Flambeau_. Violent, destructive Henri Bernstein—_La Griffe_, _La Rafale_, _Samson_. Henri Lavedan, brilliantly audacious in _Le Nouveau Jeu_, delightfully ironical in the _Marquis de Priola_, but serious, profound (a veritable _tour de force_) in _Le Duel_. Then Capus, the tolerant, the sympathetic: _Nôtre Jeunesse_, _Les Passagères_, _Monsieur Piégois_. Émile Fabre, wonderful manipulator of stage “crowds,” _Les Ventres Dorés_. Lively, brilliant de Flers and Caillavet, _Le Roi_, _L’Ane de Buridan_, _L’Amour Veille_. Worldly, cynical Abel Hermant, _Les Transatlantiques_, _Monsieur de Courpière_. Jules Lemaître, tender in _La Massière_, tragical in _Bertrad_. Brieux: the amusing _Hannetons_, sombre, harrowing _Maternité_. Georges Porto-Riche, _L’Amoureuse_, perhaps the finest modern comedy in the repertoire of the French National Theatre. Sound admirable Donnay, _Amants_, _Le Retour de Jérusalem_. Anatole France, the incomparable _Crainquebille_. MM. Arquillière and Bernède, with their masterly pictures of military life, _La Grande Famille_, _Sous l’Epaulette_. Romantic, vigorous Jean Richepin, _Le Chemineau_. Sardonic, anarchical Octave Mirbeau, _Les Affaires sont les Affaires_, _Le Foyer_. Humane, chivalrous Pierre Wolff, _L’Age d’Aimer_ and _Le Ruisseau_. Georges Ancey, earnest investigator into the hidden crafty practices of the Catholic Church, _Ces Messieurs_. Gentle, elegant Romain Coolus, _L’Enfant chérie_ and _Une Femme Passa_. Grim, lurid André de Lorde of the Grand Guignol. Ardent, passionate Henri Bataille, _Un Scandale_, _La Vierge Folle_, _La Femme Nue_.

“Formidable, formidable!” exclaimed our Paris journalist, wiping his brow.

“There remains M. Paul Bourget,” I said.

“M. Paul Bourget is ponderous, prejudiced, pedantic,” objected my companion. “I have just seen his latest photograph, which shows him seated at his writing-desk in a frock coat. Novels of life in the Faubourg St Germain, such as M. Bourget has produced, may possibly be written in a frock coat—_not_ plays.”

“No doubt the coat was only put on for the visit of the photographer,” I charitably suggested.

“M. Paul Bourget’s plays convey the impression—no, the conviction—that they were written in the conventional, cramped armour of a frock coat,” was the solemn, categorical retort.