Part 5

Thousands and thousands of candles in the handsome cafés of the _grands boulevards_, and all of them in vulgar bottles. Thus, infinite candle grease; also, more verdigris. But what a difference between the tempers of the bourgeois and the boulevardier! M. le Boulevardier laughs, jokes, rejoices. He is in search of a friend,—and so picketh up a bottle and makes a tour of the café. “Clever fellows; they struck just at the right hour,” he says, of the strikers. Amiable, too, are the English visitors to Paris in Darkness. A charming young girl near me produces picture post cards and writes hurriedly by candlelight. And I expect she is writing: “MY DEAR,—Such fun, such excitement, I wish you were here. All the electric lights have gone out and we’ve only got candles. It’s too funny. I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow. Best love from ETHEL.”

On the terraces of the cafés strings of Chinese lanterns are being put up by the waiters; down the boulevards rush frantic hawkers with revolutionary newspapers, _The Social War_ and _The Voice of the People_; along them, at a trot, comes a detachment of cuirassiers. “The troops,” cries a Parisian. “Clemenceau is at it again,” says another. “A few years ago Clemenceau fiercely denounced the practice of sending troops against the strikers,” remarks a third. “But to-day M. Clemenceau is Prime Minister,” replies a fourth.

Now, candles burn down and have to be replaced. Now, too, theatrical managers, newspaper men and all those most affected by the darkness discuss the probable length of the strike. “A couple of days at the most,” says a manager. “Perhaps only twenty-four hours,” says his friend. “Clemenceau is already taking measures to——”

But even as he speaks the electric lights break into a dull glow,—jump excitedly,—then flash. The strike is over; it was but a two-hours’ strike, intended as a protest against the killing of three strikers by the troops at Villeneuve-St-Georges and as a proof of what the Electricians’ Trade Union can do.

So away go the candles and the old lamps. The bands strike up; the card-players resume their games; the newspapers go to press. “The assassins had to give in,” says the bourgeois exultingly. “The electricians will surprise us again,” says the boulevardier, with a laugh. “I’m so sorry it’s all over,” says the charming young English girl, glancing at her post cards. And so am I: for I love the cries, the confusion, the amazing aspect of Paris, when it is dark.

2. BIRDS OF THE STATE AT THE POST OFFICE

From a very fascinating English girl, domiciled in Yorkshire, I have just received the following request:—“I hear you are having another postal strike in Paris, and that carrier-pigeons are being used. How charming! And what a lucky man you are to be living in such an exciting country! Down here nothing ever happens. So do be a dear and send me a letter by a pigeon—it would be lovely.”

Thus news travels slowly to my very fascinating correspondent’s home in Yorkshire. The postal strike, the general strike and all the other strikes are over: and yet it is certain that if I could but gratify Miss Ethel Grahame’s desire I should rise considerably in her esteem. Strike or no strike, she would dearly love to have a pigeon, that had flown all the way from the _grands boulevards_ to Scarborough, come tapping at her window. To her friends she would say: “Look! A letter from Paris! And brought all that long, long distance by a pigeon!” Naturally, cries of astonishment from the friends. Then, great headlines in the local papers: “Pigeon-Carrying Extraordinary,” and “Pigeon as Postman,” and “The Pigeon from Paris.” Next, consternation of Miss Ethel Grahame’s innumerable admirers, who would immediately proceed to fear and hate me as a formidable rival. And finally, and best of all, my letter put carefully away, and preserved for ever and for ever, in a scented desk.

Dreams, only dreams! I know nothing about pigeons; and then it has been stated that every pigeon in France, who is anything of a carrier, has been requisitioned by the Government. The postal strike is over, but the carrier-pigeons of Paris and of the provinces nevertheless remain at the exclusive disposal of the Cabinet. They have become State birds; they may fly only for the Republic.

So, what a life! As I cross the Luxembourg Gardens (the pleasantest of all the Paris parks), this fine, sunny afternoon, I reflect bitterly over the absurdity and irony of things. Gorgeous, costly birds, such as the parrot or the peacock, I could easily obtain; but a plain carrier-pigeon, no! Since the French Government is responsible for my predicament, may it fall! And may the State birds (if ever employed) play M. Clemenceau and his colleagues false! And——

A pigeon! Yes—there, on the path before me—a fine, strong, handsome pigeon; the very pigeon to make the trip from Paris to Scarborough. And my heart beats. And my brow throbs. And I am all excitement, all emotion, when—O bitter disappointment!—it suddenly occurs to me that this must be an ordinary pigeon, one of those idle, good-for-nothing pigeons that hop about public gardens in quest of crumbs. That is his life; that is all he is capable of doing. O fool that I was, to have thought for a moment that here was the very bird to go tapping at Miss Ethel Grahame’s window!

Yes, what a life! As I make my way to the _grands boulevards_ it dawns upon me that I have never seen a carrier-pigeon, and that therefore I have no idea what he looks like. Also, suppose I wonderfully succeeded in securing one, what should I say to him, what should I do with him? In fact, how does one tell a carrier-pigeon where to go? And——

Two pigeons on the steps of this church, but of the before-mentioned greedy, good-for-nothing kind. Then, more pigeons in this poulterer’s, but dormant, dead. And next, on the menu of a café, the intimation in bold, red letters: “This Day: Braised Pigeon and Green Peas.”

In this café, in their accustomed corner, I find M. Henri Durand and M. Marcel Bertrand, two amiable, chatty, middle-aged little Frenchmen with whom I am on cordial, confidential terms. Thinking they may help me, I tell them of my trouble, and extraordinary are their expressions when I have finished.

“My admirable but unfortunate friend, you are ill,” gasps M. Bertrand. “My excellent but unhappy neighbour from Across the Channel, the heat has disturbed you,” cries M. Durand. And then (after I have denied that I am suffering either from illness or from the heat) M. Bertrand solemnly holds forth:

“You ask for a carrier-pigeon to take a letter to a very adorable miss who lives in Yorkshire. But, my poor old one, French pigeons have never heard of Yorkshire,—and neither have I and neither has our friend Durand here, and neither, I am sure, has anyone in France. But I will not insist: this Yorkshire is not the point. The point is, every carrier-pigeon in France has been proclaimed a bird of the State. In Paris, there are 15,000; in the provinces, 150,000, thus 165,000 in all; and all of them have been mobilised—yes, mobilised by order of the Government. In fact, a carrier-pigeon to-day occupies the same position as a soldier or a sailor. True, he cannot fight; but upon command, he must fly. And yet you ask for one of these State birds! Unfortunate friend, you might as well ask for a regiment or a military balloon, or a war-ship.”

But still more extraordinary revelations follow. I hear, for instance, that the 15,000 carrier-pigeons in Paris are housed in the various ministries—yes, every ministry in Paris is a vast dovecot. Two thousand pigeons for the Minister of War; three thousand pigeons for the Minister of Justice, and six thousand pigeons for the Prime Minister.

“He also keeps pigeons at his private residence,” states M. Bertrand. “If he heard you wanted one of his State birds, he would have you arrested.”

“So,” I sigh, “there is nothing to be done.” And sympathetically M. Bertrand replies: “Alas, my poor, lovesick one, nothing. I regret it with all my heart, but you must tell the blonde, adorable miss that birds of the State may fly only for their own country.”

Then up speaks M. Durand, and I learn that the 15,000 State birds in Paris are being wonderfully looked after, even spoilt. Never such comfortable, pleasant dovecots; never such plentiful, excellent fare! “It is to be hoped,” concludes M. Durand, “that they are not being overfed, and that they are not contracting idle, luxurious habits; for that would be disastrous.”

And here I rise. And after I have taken leave of MM. Durand and Bertrand, I go to the nearest post office and send Miss Ethel Grahame the following expensive telegram:—

“Deeply sorry no pigeon available. Have done my very best. Writing full particulars. Can only say meanwhile that every pigeon in France has been proclaimed a Bird of the State.”

3. AFTER THE STORM AT VILLENEUVE-ST-GEORGES

Down here at Villeneuve-St-Georges, the sandpit district ten miles away from Paris, there has been a savage collision between the soldiers and the strikers. The sandpit men—some five or six thousand powerful navvies in all—raised barricades in the narrow, cobbled streets. When the dragoons and cuirassiers advanced, they were met with shower upon shower of flints, bottles, bricks. Revolvers, too, were fired at them. From windows, guns were discharged. Rising in his stirrups, an officer at last shouted forth the terrible official ultimatum: “Retire! Let all good citizens withdraw, for we are about to use force and arms.” Then, three bugle calls: the final warning. But still the officer hesitated to give the order to open fire. Again, the three bugle calls; and yet again. The horses plunged and reared; now and again a soldier, struck by a huge brick, was thrown from his saddle to the ground. Fierce shouts of execration from the strikers, the captain of the cuirassiers unsaddled by half a paving-stone. For the last time, the three bugle calls. And immediately after them the command: “Fire!”

There were yells of agony, there were frightful oaths—and there was a frantic retreat. The strikers fled to the open fields, a few hundred yards away. The troops demolished the barricades, and occupied every street. When darkness had descended upon Villeneuve-St-Georges it was known that three strikers had been shot dead, and nearly a hundred more or less seriously wounded. Four officers and a number of soldiers had been injured. At nine o’clock a group of strikers, pushing a barrow containing the body of one of the dead strikers, stopped before the general commanding the troops, and said: “Salute your victim.” The general gravely saluted. Away went the strikers with their barrow. All night long the cuirassiers and dragoons patrolled Villeneuve-St-Georges and the surrounding open country. In the town itself no one could sleep for the clatter on the cobble-stones of the horses’ hoofs.

Such were the scenes in the sandpit district yesterday; but to-day—the day after—a comparative calm has succeeded the storm. When I enter Villeneuve-St-Georges, officers and soldiers are walking and riding about the streets, and now and again a patrolling party goes by. Here and there, groups of strikers, in their baggy blue trousers. And in the wine-shops, which are full, long, animated conversations. Who was in the wrong? No one denies that it was the strikers who fired first; no one disputes the patience of the troops, who remained imperturbable, motionless in their saddles, amidst a storm of bricks and bottles, for two whole hours. Then, most of the soldiers fired in the air: had they fired on the men the slaughter would have been terrific. Here in this wine-shop, I hear all this, and not only from the soldiers, but from the strikers, who are present. Yes; the soldiers and strikers, twenty-four hours after the conflict, are drinking and conversing together: fraternising, resting their hands on one another’s shoulders. Very rough and very large are the hands of the navvies: the hands that hurled the bottles and bricks. And very grimy, very weary, very eyesore are the dragoons and cuirassiers, after having patrolled the district all night.

Extraordinary this “fraternising”! The enemies of yesterday sit at the same table. The men in uniform and the men in the baggy blue trousers clink glasses together.

“Of course I have done my military service, but I was never sent to a strike,” says one of the navvies.

“You were lucky,” replies a dragoon, with a laugh.

Who was at fault? “It is all the fault of les patrons—the masters,” states a striker; and he proceeds to relate how he and his colleagues are underpaid and overworked: how they are treated as slaves by the masters. It is also “Clemenceau’s fault.” Why did he send troops? There was no disorder: there was no need for soldiers. “Clemenceau has treated us as he treated the miners at Courrières.” And the men in the blue trousers mutter angrily against the French Premier.

Another wine-shop, and the same scene: strikers and soldiers fraternising. Says one of the former: “Let us have another coffee; for to-night we may be fighting again.” Replies a cuirassier: “One never knows. But remember we are the stronger.” Officers passing down the street glance into the open doors of the wine-shops, and smile indulgently at the strange spectacle. “The General!” suddenly cries a navvy. And the General it is: a tall, slim man, keen-eyed, grey-headed, dignified. After looking up and down the street, he enters a café with three officers. Coffee and a liqueur for M. le Général. A penny cigar for M. le Général. A dozen navvies crowd into the café, sit down, and scrutinise M. le Général. He smiles, then resumes his conversation with the officers. But he rises all of a sudden to shake hands warmly with the Captain of the cuirassiers who was thrown off his horse by half a paving-stone in yesterday’s conflict. The Captain’s head is bandaged; one sees only his nose and his ears, and his left hand is in a sling.

“Ça va mieux?” asks the General.

“Ce n’est rien, mon Général,” replies the Captain.

“It was not his fault. And he saluted the body of our comrade,” says a navvy, of the General.

“He must suffer, but he does not show it. And he looks sympathetic,” says another striker, of the Captain.

Amazing this good-fellowship! Only in France could it be witnessed, and for the reason that in France every man is, or has been, a soldier. The officers call their men “my children.” The officers also call the strikers “my children”; how often, down at bleak, tragical Courrières, did I hear them implore the miners to retreat, whilst the flints and bricks were flying savagely about them; and how often were the three bugle calls sounded, when, according to stern military law, they should have been sounded but once! “My children,” cried an old Colonel at Courrières, “for the love of heaven, retire. It will break our hearts to shoot. Once again, for the love of heaven, retire.”

Such then is the condition, the temper of Villeneuve-St-Georges to-day: twenty-four hours after the battle. Nor will the battle be resumed. The strike of the sandpit men—like all strikes in France—has been quashed by the soldiers. Only memories remain, and relics, and landmarks. By the side of the street lies the debris of the barricades. On the walls are dents, scratches, holes made by the bullets. Now and again an injured man, soldier or striker, more or less bandaged, passes by. In the wine-shops and cafés, the men in uniform and the men in the baggy blue trousers continue to discuss yesterday’s conflict over their coffee, and fraternise.

VI

COTTIN & COMPANY

Here, under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, congregate old actors and old actresses, who are engaged either at vast, shabby, outlying theatres (Batignolles, Ternes, Belleville, Bouffes du Nord), or who are only awaiting an engagement somewhere, anywhere.

Old actors and actresses on the kerbstone, old actors and old actresses in this dingy little café, with the hard benches, grimy windows and dusty floor. Among the old actors, old Cottin.

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.