Then, Mère Casimir started, and nodded her head, and rose, and thanked the customers with a last curtsy, and told them she hoped to dance to them on another occasion; and, before going out into the darkness, murmured again:
“Il était une fois.”
A few nights later I met her on the Boul’ Mich’ whilst she was passing from table to table on the terrace of the Café d’Harcourt.
The students were kind to her; so were Mürger’s daughters, Mesdemoiselles Musette and Mimi. And she was given olives and nougat, and a number of sous, and even a rose. And the waiters were friendly also; and so was the stout, black-coated proprietor.
In return, Mère Casimir sang her song and danced her dance, and was applauded and encored—even by the policeman at the corner.
At two o’clock in the morning, when the Latin Quarter cafés close, the old woman disappeared.
No one knew where she lived. But she could be seen feebly making her way up the Boul’ Mich’ and, turning, to pass the Panthéon. There the streets soon become narrow and dim. Apaches and chiffonniers abound. One or two sinister-looking wine-shops remind one of those in the Mystères de Paris. Through the grimy windows, one can watch the customers, seated at rude tables within.
And once, while exploring this neighbourhood, I perceived Mère Casimir seated next to Bibi la Purée behind one of those windows; with a bottle of wine in front of them. And I entered and approached them, apologising for my intrusion.
Bibi was the host: Bibi, “the original with an amazing past,” who in days gone by had been Verlaine’s valet and friend: and who—after the death of the “Master”—became obsessed with an unholy passion for umbrellas; anyone’s umbrellas—all umbrellas—new, middle-aged, decrepit. Bibi, tall and gaunt, with sunken cheeks, lurid green eyes, an eternal, wonderful grin, and—— But Bibi cannot be described in passing. Bibi deserves a chapter to himself, and Bibi has had that chapter elsewhere.[1]
Well, Bibi was the host, and Mère Casimir his guest. Several nights a week they met in this manner. There in the grimy wine-shop they exchanged reminiscences: Bibi, of Verlaine; Mère Casimir, of M. le Marquis and other roués under the Empire. There they drank sour red wine and took pinches of snuff: Bibi provided the wine, Mère Casimir the snuff. There they chanted Béranger ditties: Bibi huskily, Mère Casimir in her feeble, cracked voice. There they were happy and at peace: an extraordinary couple.