She had jewels in those days, and lingerie of Valenciennes lace. She was the incarnation of all that was reckless and extravagant. She elevated her toes where she pleased, tipping off the silk hats of the well-fed old roués who chanced to crowd too near the magic circle while she danced.
She had a ready wit, too, and a vocabulary interlarded with the argot of the gamine and gigolette of the barrière. All of leisure Paris patted her approvingly upon her bare shoulders and threw her their louis. But those were the days when La Goulue was younger. Now time has flown away with youth, her fervor and her grace.
She became stout—almost portly. One blue Monday this famous danseuse packed up her frills and her furbelows, folded carefully what was left of her Valenciennes lace, and said good-by to her old-time métier. It was a little sad—for La Goulue loved to dance.
She took another step in her career, perhaps the most daring and the most dangerous of all. She became a lion tamer, bought from a stranded menagerie some green “cat stock,” to use the vernacular of the circus world, moved from her Parisian residence to a wagon on wheels, and so became sole proprietor, manager and trainer of an animal show in a fête foraine.
In the dull season I found La Goulue in February beyond the fortifications of Paris, where in addition to her gipsy wagon on wheels she kept in her back yard screened from the curious eyes of the town children half a dozen cages—the cramped homes of four lions, one laughing hyena, two slinking panthers and a sad-looking bear.
The roof of her salon on wheels was interesting. The ribs supporting the ceiling were decorated with narrow fringe which had evidently served at one time to trim some circus paraphernalia. A bunk spanned one end of the barrack, and several trunks containing La Goulue’s effects occupied most of the remaining floor space.
It was a sunny morning, and a black and white kitten lay on its back upon the tumbled quilts of the bunk, playing with its tail, the tip of which the sunbeams streaming through the little square window over the bunk occasionally illumined.
Some cauliflower simmered on the stove for dinner.
In another corner sat “Monsieur La Goulue,” the lion tamer. He is a man about forty, tall, well-built, blond, with a determined jaw, and cool and collected in his manner, as befits his profession. He wore a blue flannel shirt, water-proof sabots, and four diamond rings.