“O-là-là,
C’tte gueule qu’elle a!
wherewith ladies crossing the threshold of Bruant’s establishment are welcomed, Miss only smiled in a dazed way, never dreaming, I suppose, that it was meant for her and her companions, but fancying that we had entered in the middle of a noisy chorus. Then, when we had secured places, and ordered our bocks, I dare say she employed a few minutes in glancing round her, and receiving a general impression of the queer little room,—with its dark colouring, its profuse jumble of ornaments and paintings, its precious old Fifteenth Century fireplace, its giant mirliton suspended from the ceiling, its dubious clients, and its improbable orderer and master, handsome, brigandish-looking Aristide, in his scarlet neck-cloth, his patent-leather riding-boots and corduroy knickerbockers: all visible through an atmosphere rendered opalescent by candlelight struggling with cigarette-smoke.
At Bruants, as everybody knows, it is against the rules to call a spade a spade; you must find a stronger name for it, and reserve the comparatively inoffensive “spade” for some such mild implement as a teaspoon. This is among Aristide’s numerous dainty methods of certifying his scorn for the shifty refinements of modern life; and besides, for reasons that are not obvious, he thinks it’s funny, and expects people to laugh. So, when presently he swaggered up to our little group of peaceable art-students, slapping our shoulders with violent good-fellowship, he must needs hail us as mes mufles, mes cochons, et cetera; and we of course had to approve ourselves no milksops by smiling delightedly. Then he lowered his voice, and told us he was in great distress.
“I’ve no piano-banger. The cut-purse who usually does for me has sent word that he’s laid up. Any of these chits here know how to thump the ivories?”—chits being rather a liberal translation of the term that he employed.
“Chit yourself!” cried Zélie, playfully. “Vieux chien!”
“Can you play the piano?” Chalks asked in English of Mademoiselle Miss. “Bruant wants somebody to play his accompaniments.”
“I can play a little. I could try,” she answered simply.
And Bruant led her to the instrument, where she sat with her back to the company, and worked hard for its entertainment, till, in about an hour, the delinquent pianist turned up, apparently recovered from his indisposition, and took her place.
Now what were we to make of this? A young woman going to Bruants (than which there is scarcely a shadier resort in all the shady by-ways of Bohemia)—going to Bruant’s for the first time in her life, boldly gets up, and takes part in the performance! How were we to penetrate beneath the surface of her conduct, and perceive the world of innocence, the supreme unconsciousness of evil, that lay hidden there, and accounted for it? Bruant himself, to our shame be it owned,—rough, ribald, rowdy Aristide,—saw what we were blind to.