On New Year’s Eve all Paris is merry.
New Year’s is of more importance to the French than Christmas and is made much of. It is the custom to send bonbons and flowers to one’s friends, and to acquaintances cards ad libitum.
In the booths the “ready-while-you-wait” printers do a thriving trade, and the stores for bonbons are open until long past midnight. The stroke of twelve announcing the new year is a signal for all of Paris to embrace. In the cafés along the thronged boulevards and in the public balls you will see the general custom carried out with considerable zest.
High up in Montmartre at the ball of the Moulin de la Galette on the last night of the year, at the approach of midnight the roll of a drum announced the hour, and Father Time with his scythe appeared in the orchestra gallery and melodramatically waved good-by to the old year. Twelve! pealed out the bells, and a great cheer rose from the dancers. Father Time became a youth bearing a placard 1903, and a thousand dancing couples stopped to embrace and wish each other “une bonne année.” Simultaneously the orchestra crashed into a lively galop, glasses were drained, fresh corks popped from fizzing bottles amid cheers and screams. Everyone was happy, and perhaps a few turned over a new leaf.
Chapter Five
MONTMARTRE
“Mesdames et Messieurs,” announced the genial major-domo of the cabaret. “I have the honor to present to you our sympathetic comrade Mademoiselle Marcelle Tournon in her répertoire.” He bowed low to a pretty dark-haired woman advancing through the crowded aisle, and, extending his hand, led her ceremoniously to the platform in front of the piano.
“Come, friends,” cried the director, his ruddy face beaming with enthusiasm, “a double-ban of applause for our distinguish artiste.”
Simultaneously there rose a cheer from the roomful of bohemians followed by a double round of handclapping in appreciative greeting. Then, settling themselves beneath the rifts of pipe and cigarette smoke, they remained quiet to listen to the singer. Marcelle smiled graciously in recognition. The owl-like accompanist ran a light arpeggio over the keys, and the singer, raising her music, poured forth her mellow voice in “Pierrot.” “Poor Pierrot, you could not give a necklace to Columbine,” sang Marcelle, “and so she left you. Columbine, grown vain and selfish, leaves you to shiver and think in your garret. The strings of your lute are broken, the tunes will not come any more, and your poor heart is aching from a cruel little crack clear across it that never, never, can be mended.