Part 6

“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.