“No, she never worked with the cats before,” he said; “she’s new to the show business; she said her folks live in Nantes. She worked here in a chocolate factory until she saw my ‘ad’ last week and joined my show. We gave her a rehearsal Monday and we put her on the bill next night. She’s a good looker with plenty of grit, and is a winner with the bunch in front.”
“How did you get her to take the job?” I said.
“Well,” he replied, “she balked at the act at first, but I showed her two violet notes from a couple of swell fairies who wanted the job, and after that she signed for six weeks.”
“Who wrote the notes?” I said, queryingly.
“I wrote ’em!” he exclaimed dryly, and he bit the corner of his stubby mustache and smiled. “This is the last act in the olio, so you will have to excuse me. So long!” and he disappeared in the gloom.
There are streets and boulevards in the Quarter, sections of which are alive with the passing throng and the traffic of carts and omnibuses. Then one will come to a long stretch of massive buildings, public institutions, silent as convents—their interminable walls flanking garden or court.
The Boulevard St. Germain is just such a highway until it crosses the Boulevard St. Michel—the liveliest roadway of the Quarter. Then it seems to become suddenly inoculated with its bustle and life, and from there on is crowded with bourgeoise and animated with the commerce of market and shop.
An Englishman once was so fired with a desire to see the gay life of the Latin Quarter that he rented a suite of rooms on this same Boulevard St. Germain at about the middle of this long, quiet stretch. Here he stayed a fortnight, expecting daily to see from his “chambers” the gaiety of a Bohemia of which he had so often heard. At the end of his disappointing sojourn, he returned to London, firmly convinced that the gay life of the Latin Quarter was a myth. It was to him.
