THE TAVERNE DU PANTHÉON ON MARDIGRAS
Jehan Rictus more recently, in his terrible Soliloques du Pauvre, has expressed the same thought in another fashion:—
“Même si qu’un jour j’ tornais au riche Par un effet de vot’ Bonté, Ce jour-là j’ f’rai mett’e une affiche, On cherche à vendre un cœur gâté.”
The following poem embodies the experience of a Latin Quarter Bohemian whose hard-won victory came too late because his health was gone:—
I Do you remember, Marguerite, How first we met in the Latin Quarter? I was a poet, far from gay, And you, well, you were—somebody’s daughter. You dropped a glove upon the curb,— Say, was it Fate or yourself who willed it? I picked it up, a natural thing, Laid it within the hand that had filled it. “Merci, monsieur,” was all you said; But, somehow, I knew from your tone, as you said it, That, if I kept the hand awhile, It would not count to my discredit. [216] So, hand in hand, we strolled and we chatted, Happy as pups whose heads have been patted. We drank a bock on the Saint Michel; And, when we parted, I knew you so well That I even dropped the “Mademoiselle.” Do you remember I whispered low, As I gazed in your eyes, so dark, so sweet, “A bientôt, Marguerite, Au revoir and à bientôt”? II Do you remember, Marguerite, How we rubbed along in the Latin Quarter? I Roland, the poet, almost gay, And you, my mistress and—somebody’s daughter? There were only a bed and a chair or two In our tiny chamber under the mansard; But our thoughts were simple, our hearts were true, Something in each to the other answered. Fresh youth was there, and love was there, My hopes were strong, your face was fair; And we lived and loved as devoted a pair As ever old Paris sheltered. In a worn béret and a faded blouse, I scribbled for fame. You kept the house,— That is, as much as there was to keep. You must, sometimes, have suffered in silence then,— It was, oh, so little I earned with my pen!— But you never allowed me to see you weep. And whenever I left for an hour or so, My Marguerite, do you remember? Over and over you made me repeat, As if you’d a dread I’d get lost in the street, “A bientôt, Marguerite, Au revoir and à bientôt.” [217] III For ten long years, my Marguerite, Heart has beaten to heart in the Latin Quarter, The heart of the poet, almost gay, The heart of the mistress, the—somebody’s daughter. We’ve hold to each other through thick and through thin, As the years have gone out and the years have come in; And we’ve always held to the Latin Quarter. Now fame has come and my pen earns more, We have furnishings choice and books in store. What a change it is from the days of yore! The starving days when we lived on air! No more we climb to the hundredth stair; We have plenty to eat and plenty to wear; Whenever we wish, we can have a fire. Once that was the acme of our desire. We’re as snug and slick as the parvenus; But it’s come too late for me and for you, This luck that we prayed for when days were blue. My work is done in the Latin Quarter. God bless you, my dear, for your love for me! Bless God for my love for—somebody’s daughter! IV It’s over, over, Marguerite, The fair, fair life in the Latin Quarter. I’m dying, dearest; and, when I’m dead, You’ll be once more just—somebody’s daughter. But you’ll not be driven to work for bread, Or worse than work in the Latin Quarter. Thank God for that! You can hold up your head: So you’ve funds, it’s enough to be—somebody’s daughter. All that is mine will be yours, of course,— The world has been kind these last glad years,— Don’t be foolish, I beg of you, over my corse, [218] Just give what is natural,—a few real tears. Be a good girl, don’t yield to regret For the thing that is gone. What is must be. You were born for love, don’t you dare to forget! Make some poor devil happy, as you’ve made me! It’s the very last thing I shall ask, I ween; For I feel the whirr of Death’s sickle keen.... I know not what this death may mean, For I scarcely credit what churchmen tell Of a future heaven and a future hell. Without any future all is well, If the life that is past has been loving and true, As the life has been that we have to review; But my heart is breaking at leaving you. Well, just because it’s my habit so, And because it makes it more natural to go, I’ll say, quite as if we were likely to meet “A bientôt, Marguerite, Au revoir and à bientôt.”
THE INSTITUTE