Part 7

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

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

Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre.

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

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

Says Gaston: “Milk and eggs.”

Says Pierre: “Companions of her own age.”

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

Says Paul: “Nothing better than a farm.”

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

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

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

Concludes Xavier: “We have done admirably.”

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

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

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

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

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

Says Paul: “Country air is still indispensable.”

Says Gaston: “Always milk and eggs.”

Says Pierre: “Honest folk about her.”

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

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

Says Paul: “Gold.”

Says Gaston: “Bank-notes.”

Says Pierre: “A dot.”

Says Aimery: “A fortune.”

Says Xavier: “A veritable heiress.”

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

And then, toasts. And then, cheers.

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

VIII

MONSIEUR LE ROUÉ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, night-time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But old de Mô’s expression is nevertheless anxious.

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

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

IX

FRENCH LIFE AND THE FRENCH STAGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now for M. Bourget, on his side it would be permissible to object that a gentleman who takes thick strawberry syrup in his champagne commits no less of an enormity than the dramatist who writes his plays in a frock coat; and that therefore, he, M. Bourget, considers himself untouched by the allegations directed against him from that hostile and eccentric quarter. Nevertheless, an examination of M. Bourget’s dramatic work—_Un Divorce_, _L’Emigré_, _La Barricade_—compels the comparison that whereas his fellow-playwrights adopt the theatre exclusively as a sphere in which to hold up a vivid, faithful, scrupulously impartial picture of scenes from actual life—_la vie vivante_—M. Bourget uses the stage, ponderously, as a platform or a pulpit. His views on social questions—the dominant ideas, the passions of the hour—are well known. They are autocratic, severe: in the French sense of the word, “correct.” But it unfortunately happens that _l’homme correct_ possesses none of those indispensable attributes required of the playwright—an open mind, imagination, a sense of humour. A firm clerical and the irreconcilable antagonist of divorce, M. Bourget naturally maintains that in a spiritual emergency, women, as well as men, are more efficaciously helped to right conduct by priestly government than by habits of self-reliance. Then his sympathies have ever rested undisguisedly with the classes he has portrayed in his novels—the languid worldling of the Faubourg St Germain, the _haute bourgeoisie_, the despotic _châtelain_.