Part 5

To the unspeakable relief of the officers, the march was then resumed. The Pont du Carrousel was the next object of assault; here was performed the solemn ceremony of the annual sacrifice of the Quat'z' Arts to the river Seine. The mighty Bellona was the sacrifice. She was trundled to the centre of the bridge and drawn close to the parapet, while the disciples of the four arts gathered about with uncovered heads. The first bright flashes of the morning sun, sweeping over the towers of Notre-Dame, tipped Bellona's upraised sword with flame. The band played a funeral march. Prayers were said, and the national hymn was sung; then Bellona was sent tottering and crashing over the parapet, and with a mighty plunge she sank beneath the waters of the Seine. A vast shout rang through the crisp morning air. Far below, poor Bellona rose in stately despair, and then slowly sank forever.

The parade formed again and proceeded to the Beaux-Arts, the last point of attack. Up the narrow Rue Bonaparte went singing the tired procession; the gates of the Ecole opened to admit it, cabs and all, and the doors were shut again. Then in the historic court-yard of the government school, surrounded by remnants of the beautiful architecture of once stately chateaux and palaces, and encircled by graceful Corinthian columns, the students gave a repetition of the grand ball at the Moulin Rouge. A strange and incongruous sight it was in the brilliant sunshine, and the neighboring windows and balconies were packed with onlookers. But by halfpast seven every trace of the Bal des Quat'z' Arts had disappeared,--the great procession had melted away to the haunts of Bohemia.

BOULEVARD SAINT-MICHEL

OF course the proper name for the great thoroughfare of the Quartier Latin is the Boulevard Saint-Michel, but the boulevardiers call it the Boul' Mich', just as the students call the Quatre Arts the Quat'z' Arts, because it is easier to say.

The Boul' Mich' is the student's highway to relaxation. Mention of it at once recalls whirling visions of brilliant _café_s, with their clattering of saucers and glasses, the shouting of their white-aproned garçons, their hordes of gay and wicked damsels dressed in the costliest and most fashionable gowns, and a multitude of riotous students howling class songs and dancing and parading to the different _café_s as only students can. This is the head-quarters of the Bohemians of real Bohemia, whose poets haunt the dim and quaint cabarets and read their compositions to admiring friends; of flower-girls who offer you un petit bouquet, seulement dix centimes, and pin it into your button-hole before you can refuse; of Turks in picturesque native costume selling sweetmeats; of the cane man loaded down with immense sticks; of the stems a yard long; of beggars, gutter-snipes, hot-chestnut venders, ped- lers, singers, actors, students, and all manner of queer characters.

The life of the Boul' Mich' begins at the Panthéon, where repose the remains of France's great men, and ends at the Seine, where the gray Gothic towers and the gargoyles of Notre-Dame look down disdainfully upon the giddy traffic below. The eastern side of the Boul' is lined with _café_s, cabarets, and brasseries.

This is historic ground, for where now is the old Hôtel Cluny are still to be seen the ruins of Roman baths, and not a great distance hence are the partly uncovered ruins of a Roman arena, with its tiers of stone seats and its dens. The tomb of Cardinal Richelieu is in the beautiful old chapel of the Sorbonne, within sound of the wickedest _café_ in Paris, the Café d'Harcourt.

In the immediate vicinity are to be found the quaint jumbled buildings of old Paris, but they are fast disappearing. And the Quartier abounds in the world's greatest schools and colleges of the arts and sciences.

It was often our wont on Saturday evenings to saunter along the Boul', and sometimes to visit the _café_s. To Bishop particularly it was always a revelation and a delight, and he was forever studying and sketching the types that he found there. He was intimately acquainted in all the _café_s along the line, and with the mysterious rendezvous in the dark and narrow side streets.

American beverages are to be had at many of the _café_s on the Boul',--a recent and very successful experiment. The idea has captured the fancy of the Parisians, so that "_Bars Américains_," which furnish cocktails and sours, are numerous in the _café_s. Imagine a Parisian serenely sucking a manhattan through a straw, and standing up at that!

The Boul' Mich' is at its glory on Saturday nights, for the students have done their week's work, and the morrow is Sunday. Nearly everybody goes to the Bal Bullier. This is separated from the crowded Boul' Mich' by several squares of respectable dwelling-houses and shops, and a dearth of _café_s prevails thereabout. At the upper end of the Luxembourg is a long stone wall brilliantly bedecked with lamps set in clusters,--the same wall against which Maréchal Ney was shot (a striking monument across the way recalls the incident). At one end of this yellow wall is an arched entrée, resplendent with the glow of many rows of electric lights and lamps, which reveal the colored bas-reliefs of dancing students and gri-settes that adorn the portal. Near by stands a row of voitures, and others are continually dashing up and depositing Latin-Quarter swells with hair parted behind and combed forward toward the ears, and dazzling visions of the demi-monde in lace, silks, and gauze. And there is a constantly arriving stream of students and gaudily dressed women on foot. Big gardes municipaux stand at the door like stone images as the crowd surges past.

To-night is one-franc night. An accommodating lady at the box-office hands us each a broad card, and another, au vestiaire, takes our coats and hats and charges us fifty centimes for the honor. Descending the broad flight of softly carpeted red stairs, a brilliant, tumultuous, roaring vision bursts upon us, for it is between the dances, and the visitors are laughing and talking and drinking. The ball-room opens into a generous garden filled with trees and shrubbery ingeniously devised to assure many a secluded nook, and steaming garçons are flying hither and thither serving foaming bocks and colored syrups to nymphs in bicycle bloomers, longhaired students under tam o'shanters, and the swells peculiar to le Quartier Latin.

"_Ah! Monsieur Beeshop, comment vas tu?_"

"_Tiens! le voilà, Beeshop!_"

"_Ah, mon ange!_" and other affectionate greetings made Bishop start guiltily, and then he discovered Hélène and Marcelle, two saucy little models who had posed at the École. There also was Fannie, formerly (before she drifted to the _café_s) our blanchisseuse, leaning heavily upon the arm of son amant, who, a butcher-boy during the day, was now arrayed in a cutaway coat and other things to match, including a red cravat that Fannie herself had tied; but he wore no cuffs. Many other acquaintances presented themselves to Bishop, somewhat to his embarrassment. One, quite a swell member of the demi-monde, for a moment deserted her infatuated companion, a gigantic Martinique negro, gorgeously apparelled, and ran up to tease Bishop to paint her portrait à l'oil, and also to engage him for la prochaine valse.

The musicians were now playing a schottische, but large circles would be formed here and there in the hall, where clever exhibitions of fancy dancing would be given by students and by fashionably gowned damsels with a penchant for displaying their lingerie and hosiery. The front of the band-stand was the favorite place for this. Here four dashing young women were raising a whirlwind of lingerie and slippers, while the crowd applauded and tossed sous at their feet.

Next to us stood a fat, cheery-faced little man, bearing the unmistakable stamp of an American tourist. His hands were in his pockets, his silk hat was tipped back, and his beaming red face and bulging eyes showed the intensity of his enjoyment. Without the slightest warning the slippered foot of one of these dancers found his shining tile and sent it bounding across the floor. For a moment the American was dazed by the suddenness and unearthly neatness of the feat; then he emitted a whoop of wonder and admiration, and in English exclaimed,--"You gol-darned bunch of French skirts--say, you're all right, you are, Marie! Bet you can't do it again!"

He confided to Bishop that his name was Pugson and that he was from Cincinnati.

"Why," he exclaimed, joyously, "Paris is the top of the earth! You artists are an enviable lot, living over here all the time and painting-- Gad! look at her!" and he was pushing his way through the crowd to get a better view of an uncommonly startling dancer, who was at the moment an indeterminate fluffy bunch of skirts, linen, and hosiery. Ah, what tales he will tell of Paris when he returns to Cincinnati, and how he will be accused of exaggerating!

The four girls forming the centre of attraction were now doing all manner of astonishing things possible only to Parisian feminine anatomy. In another circle near by was Johnson, the American architect, stirring enthusiastic applause as he hopped about, Indian fashion, with a little brunette whose face was hidden in the shadow of her immense hat, her hair en bandeau, à la de Mérode. Could this really be the quiet Johnson of the Ecole, who but a week ago had been showing his mother and charming sister over Paris? And there, too, was his close friend, Walden, of Michigan, leading a heavy blonde to the dance! There were others whom we knew. The little Siamese was flirting desperately with a vision in white standing near his friend, a Japanese, who, in turn, was listening to the cooing of a clinging bloomer girl. Even Haidor, the Turk, was there, but he was alone in the gallery. Many sober fellows whom I had met at the studio were there, but they were sober now only in the sense that they were not drunk. And there were law students, too, in velveteen caps and jackets, and students in the sciences, and students in music, and négligé poets, littérateurs, and artists, and every model and cocotte who could furnish her back sufficiently well to pass the censorship of the severe critic at the door. If she be attractively dressed, she may enter free; if not, she may not enter at all.

The gayety increased as the hours lengthened; the dancing was livelier, the shouting was more vociferous, skirts swirled more freely, and thin glasses fell crashing to the floor.

It was pleasanter out in the cool garden, for it was dreadfully hard to keep from dancing inside. The soft gleam of the colored lamps and lanterns was soothing, and the music was softened down to an echo. The broken rays of the lanterns embedded in the foliage laid bright patterns on the showy silks of the women, and the garçons made no noise as they flitted swiftly through the mazes of shrubbery.

At one end of the garden, surrounded by an hilarious group, were four wooden rocking-horses worked on springs. 'Astride of two of these were an army officer and his companion, a bloomer girl, who persistently twisted her ankles round her horse's head. The two others were ridden by a poet and a jauntily attired gri-sette. The four were as gleeful as children.

A flash-light photographer did a driving trade at a franc a flash, and there were a shooting-gallery, a fortune-teller, sou-in-the-slot machines, and wooden figures of negroes with pads on their other ends, by punching which we might see how hard we could hit.

We are back in the ball-room again,--it is hard to keep out. The gayety is at its height, the Bal Bullier is in full swing. The tables are piled high with saucers, and the garçons are bringing more. The room is warm and suffocating, the dancing and flirting faster than ever. Now and then a line is formed to "crack the whip," and woe betide anything that comes in its way!

Our genial, generous new friend from Cincinnati was living the most glorious hour of his life. He had not been satisfied until he found and captured the saucy little wretch who had sent his hat spinning across the room; so now she was anchored to him, and he was giving exhibitions of American grace and agility that would have amazed his friends at home. For obviously he was a person of consequence there. When he saw us his face beamed with triumph, and he proudly introduced us to his mignonette-scented conquest, Mad-dem-mo-zel Madeleine (which he pronounced Madelyne), "the queen of the Latin Quarter. But blamed if I can talk the blooming lingo!" he exclaimed, ruefully. "You translate for me, won't you?" he appealed to Bishop, and Bishop complied. In paying compliments thus transmitted to Madeleine he displayed an adeptness that likely would have astounded his good spouse, who at that moment was slumbering in a respectable part of Paris.

But the big black Martinique negroes,--they haunted and dominated everything, and the demimonde fell down and worshipped them. They are students of law and medicine, and are sent hither from the French colonies by the government, or come on their private means.

They are all heavy swells, as only negroes can be; their well-fitted clothes are of the finest and most showy material; they wear shining silk hats, white waistcoats, white "spats," patent leathers, and very light kid gloves, not to mention a load of massive jewelry. The girls flutter about them in bevies, like doves to be fed.

At exactly a quarter-past midnight the band played the last piece, the lights began to go out, and the Bal Bullier was closed.

Out into the boulevard surged the heated crowd, shouting, singing, and cutting capers as they headed for the Boul' Mich', there to continue the revelries of which the Bal Bullier was only the beginning. "A la Taverne du Panthéon!" "Au Café Lorrain!" "Au Café d'Harcourt!" were the cries that range through the streets, mingled with the singing of half a thousand people.

In this mob we again encountered our American acquaintance with his prize, and as he was bent on seeing all that he could of Paris, he begged us to see him through, explaining that money was no object with him, though delicately adding that our friends must make so many calls upon our hospitality as to prove a burden at times. He had only two days more in Paris, and the hours were precious, and "we will do things up in style," he declared buoyantly. He did.

Bishop's arm was securely held by a little lassie all in soft creamy silks. She spoke Engleesh, and demurely asked Bishop if "we will go to ze _café_ ensemble, n'est-ce-pas?" and Bishop had not the heart to eject her from the party. And so five of us went skipping along with the rest, Mr. Pugson swearing by all the gods that Paris was the top of the earth!

When we reached the lower end of the Jardin du Luxembourg, at the old Palais, the bright glow of the _café_s, with their warm stained windows and lighthearted throngs, stretched away before us. Ah, le Boul' Mich' never sleeps! There are still the laughing grisettes, the singing and dancing students, the kiosks all aglow; the marchand de marrons is roasting his chestnuts over a charcoal brazier, sending out a savory aroma; the swarthy Turk is offering his wares with a princely grace; the flower-girls flit about with freshly cut carnations, violets, and Maréchal Niel roses,--"This joli bouquet for your sweetheart," they plead so plaintively; the pipe man plies his trade; the cane man mobs us, and the sellers of the last editions of the papers cry their wares.

An old pedler works in and out among the _café_ tables with a little basket of olives, deux pour un sou. The crawfish seller, with his little red écrevisses neatly arranged on a platter; Italian boys in white blouses bearing baskets filled with plaster casts of works of the old masters gewgaw pedlers,--they are still all busily at work, each adding his mite to the din.

The _café_s are packed, both inside and out, but the favorite seats are those on the sidewalk under the awnings.

We halted at the Café d'Harcourt. Here the crowd was thickest, the sidewalk a solid mass of humanity; and the noise and the waiters as they yelled their orders, they were there. And des femmes--how many! The Café d'Harcourt is the head-quarters of these wonderful creations of clothes, paint, wicked eyes, and graceful carriage. We worked our way into the interior. Here the crowd was almost as dense as without, but a chance offered us a vacant table; no sooner had we captured it than we were compelled to retreat, because of a battle that two excited demoiselles were having at an adjoining table. In another part of the room there was singing of "Les sergents sont des brave gens," and in the middle of the floor a petite cocotte, her hat rakishly pulled down over her eyes, was doing a dance very gracefully, her white legs gleaming above the short socks that she wore, and a shockingly high kick punctuating the performance at intervals.

At other tables were seated students with their friends and mistresses, playing dominoes or recounting their petites histoires. One table drew much attention by reason of a contest in drinking between two seasoned habitués, one a Martinique negro and the other a delicate blond poet. The negro won, but that was only because his purse was the longer.

Every consommation is served with a saucer, upon which is marked the price of the drink, and the score is thus footed à la fin de ces joies. There are some heavy accounts to be settled with the garçons.

"_Ah! voilà Beeshop!" "Tiens! mon vieux!" "Comment vas-tu?_" clamored a half-dozen of Bishop's feminine acquaintances, as they surrounded our table, overwhelming us with their conflicting perfumes.

These denizens of the Boul' have an easy way of making acquaintances, but they are so bright and mischievous withal that no offence can be taken; and they may have a stack of saucers to be paid for. Among the many _café_ frequenters of this class fully half know a few words of English, Italian, German, and even Russian, and are so quick of perception that they can identify a foreigner at a glance. Consequently our table was instantly a target, principally on account of Mr. Pugson, whose nationality emanated from his every pore.

"Ah, milord, how do you do? I spik Engleesh a few. Es eet not verra a beautiful night?" is what he got. "You are si charmant, monsieur!" protested another, stroking Bishop's Valasquez beard; and then, archly and coaxingly, "_Qu'est-ce que vous m'offrez, monsieur? Payez-moi un bock?_ Yes?" Mr. Pugson made the garçons start. He ordered "everything and the best in the house" (in English); but it was the lordliness of his manner that told, as he leaned back in his chair and smoked his Londrès and eyed Madeleine with intense satisfaction. In the eyes of the beholders that action gave him the unmistakable stamp of an American millionaire. "Tell you, boys," he puffed, "I'm not going to forget Paree in a hurry." And Mademoiselle Madeleine, how she revelled! Mr. Pugson bought her everything that the venders had to sell, besides, for himself, a wretched plaster cast of a dancing-girl that he declared was "dead swell."

"I'll take it home and startle the natives," he added; but he didn't, as we shall see later. Then he bought three big canes as souvenirs for friends, besides a bicycle lamp, a mammoth pipe, and other things. A hungry-looking sketch artist who presented himself was engaged on the spot to execute Mr. Pugson's portrait, which he made so flattering as to receive five francs instead of one, his price.

At a neighboring table occupied by a group of students was Bi-Bi-dans- la-Purée, one of the most famous characters of the Quartier and Montmartre. With hilarious laughter the students were having fun with Bi-Bi by pouring the contents of their soup-plates and drinking-glasses down his back and upon his sparsely covered head; but what made them laugh more was Bi-Bi's wonderful skill in pulling grotesque faces. In that line he was an artist. His cavernous eyes and large, loose mouth did marvellous things, from the ridiculous to the terrible; and he could literally laugh from ear to ear. Poor Bi-Bi-dans-la-Purée!

He had been a constant companion of the great Verlaine, but was that no more, since Verlaine had died and left him utterly alone. You may see him any day wandering aimlessly about the Quartier, wholly oblivious to the world about him, and dreaming doubtless of the great dead poet of the slums, who had loved him.

Here comes old Madame Carrot, a weazened little hunchback, anywhere between sixty and a hundred years of age. She is nearly blind, and her tattered clothes hang in strips from her wreck of a form. A few thin strands of gray hair are all that cover her head.

"_Bon soir, Mère Carrot! ma petite mignonne, viens donc qu'on t'embrasse! Où sont tes ailes?_" and other mocking jests greet her as she creeps among the tables. But Mère Carrot scorns to beg: she would earn her money. Look! With a shadowy remnant of grace she picks up the hem of her ragged skirt, and with a heart-breaking smile that discloses her toothless gums, she skips about in a dance that sends her audience into shrieks of laughter, and no end of sous are flung at her feet. She will sing, too, and caricature herself, and make pitiful attempts at high kicking and anything else that she is called upon to do for the sous that the students throw so recklessly. There are those who say that she is rich.

In the rear end of the _café_ the demoiselle who had anchored herself to the Martinique negro at the Bal Bullier was on a table kicking the negro's hat, which he held at arm's length while he stood on a chair. "_Plus haut! plus haut encore!_" she cried; but each time, as he kept raising it, she tipped it with her dainty slipper; and then, with a magnificent bound, she dislodged with her toe one of the chandelier globes, which went crashing with a great noise to the floor; and then she plunged down and sought refuge in her adorer's arms.

The night's excitement has reached its height now. There is a dizzy whirl of skirts, feathers, "plug" hats, and silken stockings; and there is dancing on the tables, with a smashing of glass, while lumps of sugar soaked in cognac are thrown about. A single-file march round the room is started, each dragging a chair and all singing, "_Oh, la pauvre fille, elle est malade!_" Mr. Pugson, tightly clutching his canes and his Dancing-Girl, joins the procession, his shiny hat reposing on the pretty head of Mademoiselle Madeleine. But his heart almost breaks with regret because he cannot speak French.

I began to remonstrate with Bishop for his own unseemly levity, but the gloved hand of Mademoiselle Madeleine was laid on my lips, and her own red lips protested, "_Taisez-vous donc! c'est absolument inexcusable de nous faire des sermons en ce moment! En avant!_" And we went.

It was two o'clock, and the _café_s were closing, under the municipal regulation to do so at that hour, and the Boul' was swarming with revellers turned out of doors.

At the corner of the Rue Racine stands a small boulangerie, where some of the revellers were beating on the iron shutters and crying, "_Voilà du bon fromage au lait!_" impatient at the tardiness of the fat baker in opening his shop; for the odor of hot rolls and croissants came up through the iron gratings of the kitchen, and the big cans of fresh milk at the door gave further comforting assurances.