“Come with us,” they said; “our car is at the door, and we will go out and see ‘Paris by night’ in our own way.”
Incongruous this, for Emily Emmins!
But my adaptability claimed me for its own, and, with what I fancied a French shrug of my shoulders, I mispronounced a French phrase of acquiescence, and declared myself ready to go.
With what I fancied a French shrug of my shoulders I mispronounced a French phrase of acquiescence.
Three stalwart Englishmen, and the dignified wife of one of them, might seem a strange party with which to visit Montmartre by night; but it was an ideal way to go. In the motor-car we could whiz from one ridiculous “Cabaret Unique” to another. We could look in at the absurd illusions of “Le Ciel,” we could jeer at the flimsy foolishness of “L’Enfer,” and make fun of its attractions diaboliques, yet all the time we were seeing the heart of Parisian Folly, and a very gay, good-humored, harmless little heart it is. Evil there might be, but none was observable, and the foolish young French people sat around with much the same air as that of young Americans at Coney Island.
The “Cabaret du Neant” is supposed to be a fearsome place, where guests sit around coffins and see ghosts. But so like substantial tables were the coffins, and so sociable and human the ghosts, that awe gave place to amusement.
Home we whizzed, through the poorly lighted streets, which are indeed an anachronism in Gay Paris By Night.
Next day came the great touring-car of my week-end hostess, to take me to her villa, at St. Germain-en-Laye.
The villa being a fascinating old French mansion, self-furnished, the house party being composed of most delightful people, the host and hostess past grand masters in the art of entertaining, the visit was, as might have been expected, merely a kaleidoscope of week-end delights.