Adjoining the ballroom is a quaint summer garden.
A flight of wooden steps leads from the garden to the table-like rock above, crowned by the ancient windmill bearing the date 1256.
I entered the Galette one crisp morning by way of the lane in the rear and through the door of the buvette. Sleepy waiters were scrubbing and polishing after the ball of the night. The tiled floor of the buvette was as spotless as soap and water could make it. Some coffee steamed cheerily on the stove, and the pots and pans hanging above it shone invitingly. In the ballroom a garçon was rewaxing the floor; through the skylight streamed the morning sun, shining prismatically through the crystals of the chandeliers. I went out into the garden and climbed the stairs leading to the old mill.
It stood gaunt and black against the sky, outstretching its skeleton arms. Its body was warped and weather-beaten. It seemed to have died in its shell like some mammoth scorpion.
From a Poster
THE MOULIN ROUGE
What a “vie de Bohème” it has seen in its lifetime!
It has been danced around by grisettes and students in the moonlights and daylights of ages past, and has served faithfully as a refuge and fortress during the horrors of the siege of ’71. Beside it still glow the lights of this famous old ball up to which climb nightly a merry pilgrimage of the great-grandchildren of Bohemia.
Some months ago what is probably the most noted of bohemian resorts, the Moulin Rouge, closed its doors—the famous Red Mill had come to an end, and Paris mourned its death in caricature. For months its façade was barricaded with scaffolds, and rumor was current that the old hall was to be transformed into a music-hall.