The Real Latin Quarter Part 4

"What atelier?" commands the jury "Cormon."

The student answers, while the jury glance at his makeup.

"To the left!" cries the jury, and you pa.s.s in to the ball.

But if you are unknown they will say simply, "Connais-pas! To the right!" and you pa.s.s down a long covered alley--confident, if you are a "nouveau," that it leads into the ball-room--until you suddenly find yourself in the street, where your ticket is torn up and all hope of entering is gone.

It is hopeless to attempt to describe the hours until morning of this annual artistic orgy. As the morning light comes in through the windows, it is strange to see the effect of diffused daylight, electricity, and gas--the bluish light of early morning reflected on the flesh tones--upon nearly three thousand girls and students in costumes one might expect to see in a baccha.n.a.lian feast, just before the fall of Rome. Now they form a huge circle, the front row sitting on the floor, the second row squatting, the third seated in chairs, the fourth standing, so that all can see the dancing that begins in the morning hours--the wild impromptu dancing of the moment. A famous beauty, her black hair bound in a golden fillet with a circle wrought in silver and studded with Oriental turquoises clasping her superb torso, throws her sandals to the crowd and begins an Oriental dance--a thing of grace and beauty--fired with the intensity of the innate nature of this beautifully modeled daughter of Bohemia.

As the dance ends, there is a cry of delight from the great circle of barbarians. "Long live the Quat'z' Arts!" they cry, amid cheers for the dancer.

The ball closes about seven in the morning, when the long procession forms to return to the Latin Quarter, some marching, other students and girls in cabs and on top of them, many of the girls riding the horses.

Down they come from the "Moulin Rouge," shouting, singing, and yelling.

Heads are thrust out of windows, and a volley of badinage pa.s.ses between the fantastic procession and those who have heard them coming.

Finally the great open court of the Louvre is reached--here a halt is made and a general romp occurs. A girl and a type climb one of the tall lamp-posts and prepare to do a mid-air balancing act, when rescued by the others. At last, at the end of all this horse-play, the march is resumed over the Pont du Carrousel and so on, cheered now by those going to work, until the Odeon is reached. Here the odd procession disbands; some go to their favorite cafes where the festivities are continued--some to sleep in their costumes or what remains of them, wherever fortune lands them--others to studios, where the gaiety is often kept up for days.

Ah! but life is not all "couleur de rose" in this true Bohemia.

"One day," says little Marguerite (she who lives in the rue Monge), "one eats and the next day one doesn't. It is always like that, is it not, monsieur?--and it costs so much to live, and so you see, monsieur, life is always a fight."

And Marguerite's brown eyes swim a little and her pretty mouth closes firmly.

"But where is Paul?" I ask.

"I do not know, monsieur," she replies quietly; "I have not seen him in ten days--the atelier is closed--I have been there every day, expecting to find him--he left no word with his concierge. I have been to his cafe too, but no one has seen him--you see, monsieur, Paul does not love me!"

I recall an incident that I chanced to see in pa.s.sing the little shop where Marguerite works, that only confirms the truth of her realization.

Paul had taken Marguerite back to the little shop, after their dejeuner together, and, as I pa.s.sed, he stopped at the door with her, kissed her on both cheeks, and left her; but before they had gone a dozen paces, they ran back to embrace again. This occurred four times, until Paul and Marguerite finally parted. And, as he watched her little heels disappear up the wooden stairs to her work-room above, Paul blew a kiss to the pretty milliner at the window next door, and, taking a long whiff of his cigarette, sauntered off in the direction of his atelier whistling.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A MORNING'S WORK]

It is ideal, this student life with its student loves of four years, but is it right to many an honest little comrade, who seldom knows an hour when she is away from her ami? who has suffered and starved and slaved with him through years of days of good and bad luck--who has encouraged him in his work, nursed him when ill, and made a thousand golden hours in this poet's or painter's life so completely happy, that he looks back on them in later life as never-to-be-forgotten? He remembers the good dinners at the little restaurant near his studio, where they dined among the old crowd. There were Lavaud the sculptor and Francine, with the figure of a G.o.ddess; Moreau, who played the cello at the opera; little Louise Dumont, who posed at Julian's, and old Jacquemart, the very soul of good fellows.h.i.+p, who would set them roaring with his inimitable humor.

What good dinners they were!--and how long they sat over their coffee and cigarettes under the trees in front of this little restaurant--often ten and twelve at a time, until more tables had to be pushed together for others of their good friends, who in pa.s.sing would be hailed to join them. And how Marguerite used to sing all through dinner and how they would all sing, until it grew so late and so dark that they had to puff their cigarettes aglow over their plates, and yell to Madame Giraud for a light! And how the old lady would bustle out with the little oil lamp, placing it in the center of the long table amid the forest of vin ordinaires, with a "Voila, mes enfants!" and a cheery word for all these good boys and girls, whom she regarded quite as her own children.

It seemed to them then that there would never be anything else but dinners at Madame Giraud's for as many years as they pleased, for no one ever thought of living out one's days, except in this good Bohemia of Paris. They could not imagine that old Jacquemart would ever die, or that La Belle Louise would grow old, and go back to Ma.r.s.eilles, to live with her dried-up old aunt, who sold garlic and bad cheese in a little box of a shop, up a crooked street! Or that Francine would marry Martin, the painter, and that the two would bury themselves in an adorable little spot in Brittany, where they now live in a thatched farm-house, full of Martin's pictures, and have a vegetable garden of their own--and a cow--and some children! But they DID!

[Ill.u.s.tration: A STUDIO DeJEUNER]

And those memorable dinners in the old studio back of the Gare Montparna.s.se! when paints and easels were pushed aside, and the table spread, and the piano rolled up beside it. There was the buying of the chicken, and the salad that Francine would smother in a dressing into which she would put a dozen different things--herbs and spices and tiny white onions! And what a jolly crowd came to these impromptu feasts! How much noise they used to make! How they danced and sang until the gray morning light would creep in through the big skylight, when all these good bohemians would tiptoe down the waxed stairs, and slip past the different ateliers for fear of waking those painters who might be asleep--a thought that never occurred to them until broad daylight, and the door had been opened, after hours of pandemonium and music and noise!

In a little hotel near the Odeon, there lived a family of just such bohemians--six struggling poets, each with an imagination and a love of good wine and good dinners and good times that left them continually in a state of bankruptcy! As they really never had any money--none that ever lasted for more than two days and two nights at the utmost, their good landlord seldom saw a sou in return for his hospitable roof, which had sheltered these six great minds who wrote of the moon, and of fate, and fortune, and love.

For days they would dream and starve and write. Then followed an auction sale of the total collection of verses, hawked about anywhere and everywhere among the editeurs, like a crop of patiently grown fruit.

Having sold it, literally by the yard, they would all saunter up the "Boul' Miche," and forget their past misery, in feasting, to their hearts' content, on the good things of life. On days like these, you would see them pa.s.sing, their black-brimmed hats adjusted jauntily over their poetic locks--their eyes beaming with that exquisite sense of feeling suddenly rich, that those who live for art's sake know! The keenest of pleasures lie in sudden contrasts, and to these six poetic, impractical Bohemians, thus suddenly raised from the slough of despond to a state where they no longer trod with mortals--their cup of happiness was full and spilling over. They must not only have a good time, but so must every one around them. With their great riches, they would make the world gay as long as it lasted, for when it was over they knew how sad life would be. For a while--then they would scratch away--and have another auction!

[Ill.u.s.tration: DAYLIGHT]

Unlike another good fellow, a painter whom I once knew, who periodically found himself without a sou, and who would take himself, in despair, to his lodgings, make his will, leaving most of his immortal works to his English aunt, go to bed, and calmly await death! In a fortunate s.p.a.ce of time his friends, who had been hunting for him all over the Quarter, would find him at last and rescue him from his chosen tomb; or his good aunt, fearing he was ill, would send a draft! Then life would, to this impractical philosopher, again become worth living. He would dispatch a "pet.i.t bleu" to Marcelle; and the two would meet at the Cafe Cluny, and dine at La Perruse on filet de sole au vin blanc, and a bottle of Haut Barsac--the bottle all cobwebs and cradled in its basket--the garcon, as he poured its golden contents, holding his breath meanwhile lest he disturb its long slumber.

There are wines that stir the soul, and this was one of them--clear as a topaz and warming as the noonday sun--the same warmth that had given it birth on its hillside in Bordeaux, as far back as '82. It warmed the heart of Marcelle, too, and made her cheeks glow and her eyes sparkle--and added a rosier color to her lips. It made her talk--clearly and frankly, with a full and a happy heart, so that she confessed her love for this "bon garcon" of a painter, and her supreme admiration for his work and the financial success he had made with his art. All of which this genial son of Bohemia drank in with a feeling of pride, and he would swell out his chest and curl the ends of his long mustache upwards, and sigh like a man burdened with money, and secure in his ability and success, and with a peaceful outlook into the future--and the fact that Marcelle loved him of all men! They would linger long over their coffee and cigarettes, and then the two would stroll out under the stars and along the quai, and watch the little Seine boats crossing and recrossing, like fireflies, and the lights along the Pont Neuf reflected deep down like parti-colored ribbons in the black water.

[Ill.u.s.tration: (pair of high heeled shoes)]

CHAPTER V

"A DeJEUNER AT LAVENUE'S"

If you should chance to breakfast at "Lavenue's," or, as it is called, the "Hotel de France et Bretagne," for years famous as a rendezvous of men celebrated in art and letters, you will be impressed first with the simplicity of the three little rooms forming the popular side of this restaurant, and secondly with the distinguished appearance of its clientele.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MADEMOISELLE f.a.n.n.y AND HER STAFF]

As you enter the front room, you pa.s.s good Mademoiselle f.a.n.n.y at the desk, a cheery, white-capped, genial old lady, who has sat behind that desk for forty years, and has seen many a "bon garcon" struggle up the ladder of fame--from the days when he was a student at the Beaux-Arts, until his name became known the world over. It has long been a favorite restaurant with men like Rodin, the sculptor--and Colin, the painter--and the late Falguiere--and Jean Paul Laurens and Bonnat, and dozens of others equally celebrated--and with our own men, like Whistler and Sargent and Harrison, and St. Gaudens and Macmonnies.

These three plain little rooms are totally different from the "other side," as it is called, of the Maison Lavenue. Here one finds quite a gorgeous cafe, with a pretty garden in the rear, and another room--opening into the garden--done in delicate green lattice and mirrors. This side is far more expensive to dine in than the side with the three plain little rooms, and the gentlemen with little red ribbons in their b.u.t.tonholes; but as the same good cook dispenses from the single big kitchen, which serves for the dear and the cheap side the same good things to eat at just half the price, the reason for the popularity of the "cheap side" among the crowd who come here daily is evident.

[Ill.u.s.tration: RODIN]

It is a quiet, restful place, this Maison Lavenue, and the best place I know in which to dine or breakfast from day to day. There is an air of intime and cosiness about Lavenue's that makes one always wish to return.

[Ill.u.s.tration: (group of men dining)]

You will see a family of rich bourgeois enter, just in from the country, for the Montparna.s.se station is opposite. The fat, sunburned mama, and the equally rotund and genial farmer-papa, and the pretty daughter, and the newly married son and his demure wife, and the two younger children--and all talking and laughing over a good dinner with champagne, and many toasts to the young couple--and to mama and papa, and little Josephine--with ices, and fruit, and coffee, and liqueur to follow.

All these you will see at Lavenue's on the "cheap side"--and the beautiful model, too, who poses for Courbel, who is breakfasting with one of the jeunesse of Paris. The waiters after 2 P.M. dine in the front room with the rest, and jump up now and then to wait on madame and monsieur.

It is a very democratic little place, this popular side of the house of M. Lavenue, founded in 1854.

And there is a jolly old painter who dines there, who is also an excellent musician, with an ear for rhythm so sensitive that he could never go to sleep unless the clock in his studio ticked in regular time, and at last was obliged to give up his favorite atelier, with its picturesque garden----

"For two reasons, monsieur," he explained to me excitedly; "a little girl on the floor below me played a polka--the same polka half the day--always forgetting to put in the top note; and the fellow over me whistled it the rest of the day and put in the top note false; and so I moved to the rue St. Peres, where one only hears, within the cool court-yard, the distant hum of the busy city. The roar of Paris, so full of chords and melody! Listen to it sometimes, monsieur, and you will hear a symphony!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "LA FILLE DE LA BLANCHISSEUSE"

By Bellanger.--Estampe Moderne]

And Mademoiselle f.a.n.n.y will tell you of the famous men she has known for years, and how she has found the most celebrated of them simple in their tastes, and free from ostentation--"in fact it is always so, is it not, with les hommes celebres? C'est toujours comme ca, monsieur, toujours!"

and mentions one who has grown gray in the service of art and can count his decorations from half a dozen governments. Madame will wax enthusiastic--her face wreathed in smiles. "Ah! he is a bon garcon; he always eats with the rest, for three or four francs, never more! He is so amiable, and, you know, he is very celebrated and very rich"; and madame will not only tell you his entire history, but about his work--the beauty of his wife and how "aimables" his children are.

Mademoiselle f.a.n.n.y knows them all.

But the men who come here to lunch are not idlers; they come in, many of them, fresh from a hard morning's work in the studio. The tall sculptor opposite you has been at work, since his morning coffee, on a group for the government; another, bare-armed and in his flannel s.h.i.+rt, has been building up ma.s.ses of clay, punching and modeling, and sc.r.a.ping away, all the morning, until he produces, in the rough, the body of a giantess, a huge caryatide that is destined, for the rest of her existence, to hold upon her broad shoulders part of the facade of an American building. The "giantess" in the flesh is lunching with him--a Juno-like woman of perhaps twenty-five, with a superb head well poised, her figure firm and erect. You will find her exceedingly interesting, quiet, and refined, and with a knowledge of things in general that will surprise you, until you discover she has, in her life as a model, been thrown daily in conversation with men of genius, and has acquired a smattering of the knowledge of many things--of art and literature--of the theater and its playwrights--plunging now and then into medicine and law and poetry--all these things she has picked up in the studios, in the cafes, in the course of her Bohemian life. This "vernis," as the French call it, one finds constantly among the women here, for their days are pa.s.sed among men of intelligence and ability, whose lives and energy are surrounded and encouraged by an atmosphere of art.

In an hour, the sculptor and his Juno-like model will stroll back to the studio, where work will be resumed as long as the light lasts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A TRUE TYPE]