Part 21

From a Seine bridge one notes the wizard liberties the reckless moon takes with the colonnaded dome of the sombre Panthéon. And, more astonishing still, the magic tricks it plays with the adorned and enormous bulk of Notre Dame—now veiling, now revealing massive buttress and delicate rose-window, some recessed arch tucked full of sculptured saints all snugly foot to head, or a goblin band of hideous gargoyles that leer ghoulishly down from out the purple haze of the towers. One could well wish, however, for a closer view of that exquisite survivor of the Valois kings, the peerless Tour Saint-Jacques, at the first sight of which the most indifferent exclaim with delight over so rare a vision of grace and lace-like beauty, over long slender windows delicately foliated, over traceries of stone like petrified festoons, and an ensemble so suggestive of some dainty ivory-carving a million times enlarged. With a glimpse of the round pointed towers of the dread Conciergerie comes something of the horror of the days of the Terror, and one fancies ghastly forms beckoning him at the windows with white, frightened faces and hanging hair and eyes with hideous rings, and delicate praying hands upheld to passers-by, and iron bars clutched by the little white fingers of Marie Antoinette and her court.

From such a gruesome fancy it is a relief to turn and look down on the dark rippling Seine and watch the wavy ribbons of light swim quiveringly out from the bridge lamps. And there in the cool of their stone wharves, still panting and perspiring from the violent exertions of the earlier evening, lie the fat little open-deck steamers that haul the lovers home. For many a happy pair this day has been dining deliciously _à deux_ under the gay terrace awnings of one or another of the romantic, flower-embowered inns that overlook the river all the way from Charenton to gray old Argenteuil, where Héloïse in her nunnery fought her losing fight against love and the memory of Abélard. Some of these steamers appear alarmingly apoplectic, so that one wonders how they have managed to wheeze safely under all those low arches with the garlanded “N’s” and past so many formidable buttresses all sculptured cap-a-pie.

If now you turn and look upward and about you, lo! the heaped and cluttered roofs of Paris—the most fantastic and romantic of spectacles! It is singular, almost startling, to see how they stare down as though to study you, and with apparently as much curious intentness and dark suspicion as you do them. There must be whole volumes of stories to each of them. Out of the ponderous Mansard roofs impudent, leering little dormer windows wink down and squint up, each with his rakish peaked roof like a jockey cap over one ear. And up above even them are whole groves of blackened chimney-stacks leaning all askew, like barricades for _sansculottes_. You look expectantly to see miserable white Pierrot come forth, guitar in hand, and sing sadly of Colombine to the pallid moon.

Suddenly, to the right, the lift of a cloud unveils the bronze dome of the solemn Hôtel des Invalides, and your heart beats high with thoughts of the marvelous man who lies under it among his tattered battle-flags on a pavement inscribed with his victories. It is a sobering reflection that now in the darkness and stillness of that chamber the only eyes that are looking down on his porphyry sarcophagus are those of the bronze Christ that hangs on the cross in the little side chapel of the tomb.

“Tout-Paris,” as smart society calls itself, spends the early summer at Trouville. All the most exclusive names of the two-volume Bottin are then inscribed in the hotel registers of this _recherché_ resort, nor are their owners to be looked for in town again until long after the derbies have reappeared in the hatters’ windows. But while Fashion is flirting on the beaches and betting on the little wooden horses of the Trouville Casino, what is left at home after “All Paris” has gone is quite sufficient to keep the boulevards lively. What walking-space remains is eagerly employed by the tens of thousands of visitors. One may not, therefore, see the fashionable show of winter, but he finds an acceptable substitute in the vivacious summer throngs with their perpetual atmosphere of Mardi Gras.

As midnight wanes and the multitude waxes, it is amusing to speculate upon the scattered sources of the innumerable tiny streams that come gradually trickling in. The outlying attractions hold firmly enough up to this hour, but the magnet of the boulevards is strongest in the end.

Montmartre, you may be sure, has been up to her old tricks. What “La Butte” has to learn about promiscuous entertaining may be classed among the negligible quantities. Somewhere in that honeycomb of _moulins_, _cabarets_, penny-shows, spectacles, _revues_, tiny theatres with sensational rococo façades and cafés with fantastic names dedicated to the riotous and the _risqué_, diversion is bound to be forthcoming for any amusement hunter _blasé_ with the usual. All the way down from the quaint little shops and crooked, cobble-stoned streets of the rustic upper region above the Moulin de la Galette to the blazing purlieus of the Place de Clichy and the Place Pigalle, there is always something on hand at midnight to amaze the neophyte. You may indulge or not, as inclination dictates, but you are pretty apt to be astonished, when you look at your watch, to see how long you have lingered. French ingenuity has lavished itself on every form of “attraction” from vaudeville and _bals publics_ to papier-maché establishments devoted to parodies of Heaven and Hell. The Boulevard de Clichy is the heart of “La Butte,” but the life it pumps along its arteries flows principally from one show to another. You may settle down on a bench under the trees, if you like, and resolve to view life only in the open in defiance of all the devils rampant in the neighborhood, but presently a flashing electric sign shrieks out an overlooked novelty and you find yourself saying, “Oh, well, since I am in Paris,” etc., etc., and off you go.

The excuse of being in Paris covers a multitude of sins. To do as the Parisians do serves purposes rarely indulged by Parisians themselves. It must be because “everything is different here.” The frolicsome party in pink stockings who dropped her heel playfully on my bashful friend’s shoulder in an aside of the “quadrille” at the Moulin Rouge was merely turning one of the tricks that pass as _chic_ on Montmartre. She was of the assured and robust type that supports the “pyramid” in acrobatic feats, and the effect this had of dazing my friend arose rather from astonishment at its unconventionality than delight at its skill. This much I gathered when he seized my arm and hurried me away and eventually choked out, “Do you know, I have to keep saying to myself ‘_Mullen, can this be you!_’” I think it was quite as hard on him at the Jardin de Paris, on the Champs-Élysées, when he saw beautifully gowned Paris girls step out of the crowd and go down the chutes on their shoulders, screaming with laughter, in a whirl of skirts and flash of lingerie. _In Paris!_ What American would dream of trying the tricks at home that he accomplishes with the ease of an expert on and under the tables of the “Rat Mort” or the Café Tabarin? It is a pretty problem as to whether he has saved up a special surplus of buoyancy for this city alone, or whether he has become infected with the natural high spirits of the Parisians and discovers too late that he is unable to control them as they do. The men who want “one more fling” before settling down head straight for Paris. It is probable if they could not get here that they would dispense with the fling altogether.

Nor is the _Rive Gauche_ without its votaries at midnight. If the Latin Quarter stands for anything it is for unconventionality and comfortable enjoyment. If it is Thursday night the famous Bal Bullier is in full blast, and visitors are gazing down from the encircling boxes upon a jolly whirl of students in velvet coats and black slouch hats cutting fantastic capers in the quadrilles with their latest _bonnes_ and pretty models. Mimi and Musette are on the arms of Rudolphe and Marcel, “contented with little, happy with more.” Those so disposed need not long remain uncompanioned if they take a turn among the tables under the trees of the enclosed garden, where from any cozy corner a soft voice at any moment may ask you for a cigarette. With so auspicious a start there is no reason, if you are that sort, why you should not be swearing eternal devotion before you have finished one _citron glacé_.

And no matter what night it is there is the old “Boul’ Miche’” as always, the resort and delight of artists and students from time immemorial. Would you sup, there are cafés, _tavernes_, _brasseries_, and restaurants of every price and description. You can have a _plat du jour_ of venerable beef and a quantity of _vin ordinaire_ for the modest outlay of one franc fifty; and your payment is received with many a cheery “Merci, monsieur,” and “S’il vous plaît,” and hearty “Bon soir,” and all the rest of that captivating civility that prevails to the last corner of the city. It is perhaps more agreeable to join the few remaining Henri Murger types among the crowds on the terraces of the Taverne du Panthéon or the Café Soufflot and listen to the vigorous talk that goes on over the little glasses of anisette and vermouth. It always seems to be that “hour of the apéritif” pronounced by Baudelaire,—

“L’heure sainte de l’absinthe.”

When the flower-women and peddlers become too numerous before the café and you are weary with declining nuts and nougats and ten-olives-for-two-sous, you may have a look into Les Noctambules or some other smoke-laden _cabaret_. The old-timers will grin behind their cigars at your “stung-again” expression when the polite _garçon_ adds to the price of your first refreshment a franc or so for the _consommation_ of what was advertised as a free show; but shortly you get the run of things and settle down to attend the _chansonnier_, who is the ox-eyed gentleman in the long beard who strides up to the consumptive piano and pours forth an original and impassioned rhapsody to our old friend “Parfait Amour.”

A little of this goes a long ways. When you have politely heard him through, you are apt to think better of the boulevards and to start bowing your way into the street. How still and deserted the familiar places appear where by day is so much life and stir—such bustling about of stout market-women in aprons, such racing of delivery-boys in white blouses shouldering trays and boxes, such a concourse of the little fruit wagons they push and the two-wheeled carts they haul! In the little wineshops that dot the side streets one sees the portly proprietors in shirt-sleeves behind the shining zinc bars polishing glasses and chatting with their patrons, who are workmen in jerseys and corduroy trousers and cabmen in glazed hats and whips in hand. The loveliness of the Luxembourg Gardens fairly shouts for appreciation. One could scarcely linger too long under the chestnuts and sycamores, among the puffing fountains, the bronzes and marbles, the beds of dahlias and geraniums, the oleanders of the Terrace and the great stone urns that drip petunias and purple clematis. As you cross the Seine by the old Pont Neuf and lean a moment on its broad balustrade, kindly thoughts go out to the garrets that may now be sheltering those pathetic stooping figures that bend all day above the long lines of book-shelves along the quays, and never buy, and you wish “good luck” to the good-natured book-sellers who never annoy them with importunities, but sit indulgently oblivious on the benches opposite and smoke their pipes and read their papers. So great a love of books will at least insure the old _habitués_ from ever being included in that dread toll of two-a-day that the Seine regularly pays into the Morgue.

It is like getting home to be back on the boulevards,—gay, gleaming, brimming, and confused. The air hums with the incessant shuffle of feet on the asphalt sidewalks and the pounding of hoofs on the wood-paved streets. The eyes ache with trying to miss none of the faces that flash past or any of the good-fellowship that abounds. The bubbling current drifts one along by little kiosks all a-flutter with magazines and newspapers, by advertising pillars flaming in play-bills of many colors, by crowded curb benches, glowing shop windows and table-lined café fronts. The wise drop out where the red lights mark tobacco _bureaux_ and replenish their cigar-supply from government boxes with the prices stamped on them, rather than pay double for the same article in a restaurant later on. As you proceed to your favorite café it is immensely diverting to catch the glimpses of good cheer from those you pass. It is the same sort of thing in each case and yet somehow always different. On the red divans that extend around the rooms, with mirrors at their backs and _petits verres_ on marble-topped tables before them, one beholds formidable arrays of _bons vivants_, all taking their ease with as hearty a will as the very kings of Yvetot. Military men with red noses and white imperials, politicians with pervasive smiles, litterati bearded like the Assyrian kings and wearing rosettes of the Legion of Honor, fat merchants in fat diamonds, and pot-hatted _élégants_ who advertise smart tailors with as much exuberant grace as Roland himself. Happily for Paris, champagne is never out of season, and popping corks are held by many to make sweeter music than some of the orchestras in restaurant corners. The tide of life appears at flood. La Belle Ninette, of the Folies, _très fêtée et très admirée_, fares daintily on out-of-season delicacies, thanks to the enduring ardor of the _distingué_ Marquis opposite, and drops candied fruits with the prettiest air imaginable into the nervous mouth of her favorite poodle, who is himself rejoicing in a new silver collar set with garnets. _La séduisante_ Gabrielle, at an adjoining table, having once been a _blanchisseuse_ herself, appropriately excels in a toilette of cloudlike gossamer, and is quite the adored of the rheumatic old party beside her, who has probably been doting on the ballet for two generations. The talk is largely of _la belle_ this and _la belle_ that, of the latest display of extravagance, the most recent spectacle, the most promising plays for the fall, or the drollest freaks of the new fashions. One sees foreign faces from all quarters of the earth, as though it were some kind of international congress, with both hemispheres fully represented. Long accustomed to seeing the world without leaving home, nothing surprises Paris. A Chinese admiral, a Bedouin sheik, a Spitzbergen Eskimo, a lotus-lover of Tahiti, a Russian Grand Duke, or a millionaire hemp-grower of Yucatan pass practically unremarked. It would be a matter of no comment if “the Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat.” _L’amour_ is the point of common contact, and even so one has little chance against a rich old _roué_ in the eyes of a _première danseuse_ or a far-visioned _chanteuse_ of the Marigny. Business flourishes in the cafés. The harried waiters are kept bowing right and left and hurry off crying “tout de suite.” Each open door sends out its vision of fluttering hands and shrugging shoulders and one hears an incessant rapid fire of “Bien!” “Dis donc!” “Écoutez!” “Mais non!” “Précisément!” “Allons!” “Oh, là là!”— and so on and on. At Maxim’s and the Olympia you would think there was a riot. Ice pails are as numerous as pulse-beats.

When you reach your café at last, on the corner by the Opera House, perhaps, the ponderous _maître d’hôtel_ assigns you a _garçon_, whose name is doubtless François, Gustave, or Adolphe, and who is very businesslike in short jacket and white apron. To him goes your order for a _filet de bœuf_, or perhaps a _fricandeau_, or, better still, a sole with shrimp sauce; and as you await its preparation you think with satisfaction of the self-appreciative observation of Brillat-Savarin, “One eats everywhere; one dines only in Paris.”

The life you then see about you is the usual thing here; to a stranger, novel and amusing; to a Parisian, altogether important and absorbing—an indispensable part of his existence. The setting is of soft carpets, palms, red velvet divans, chandeliers, and a crush of small, marble-topped tables. The place is crowded to the point of discomfort. A thin veil of smoke hangs over all. There are people in all kinds of street clothes and evening dress, ladies in opera cloaks and gentlemen in immaculate white waistcoats. There are ordinary individuals and fantastic “types”; ruddy, portly _bourgeois_ who shout “mon vieux” at each other and make a prodigious racket generally; and nervous old _beaux_ in _toupées_ who fancy themselves in drafts. Occupations vary. Ladies are dining on champagne and truffles; the man at your elbow is writing a letter; another is looking through the illustrated papers; another has called for ink and paper and is casting up the day’s expenditures; rubbers of dominoes and écarté are being played out; there is a continual running to the telephone-booths and you hear the muffled calls of “Allô!”—and all the time an orchestra is holding forth in the corner. The clatter of chairs and dishes and the confused rattle of conversation is amazing. Wit whets on wit. Everybody has an opinion and is anxious to back it. Politicians bang their fists on the tables and address one another as “citoyen.” Philosophers have it out, Cartesian against Hegelian. Poets quote from their latest lyrics and are tremendously applauded. Novelists dispose of rival books with a scornful shrug and a withering _mot_. And the playwright, by universal concession, is supreme cock of the walk.

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.