His song was only one of the numbers on a very interesting programme. This was the training school of the young poets and song-writers of upper Bohemia; this was where they made their début and met the test of that discriminating criticism which decided them to advance upon the world or conceal themselves for yet a while from its cruel glare; and were they not but repeating the ordeal of the ancient Greeks, out of which so many noble things passed into literature? These critics were as frank with their disapproval as generous with their acceptance.
Among those who sang were Gustave Corbet, Marius Geffroy, Eugene Lemercier, Xavier Privas, Delarbre, and Henri Brallet, men as yet unknown, but likely to make a mark under the training, inspiration, and severe checks of the Café du Conservatoire. One of the goals for which these writers strive, and one that, if they win it, means to them recognition, is to have their poems published in Gil Blas, with illustrations by the peerless Steinlen, as are the works of Legay, and also of Bruant, le Terrible.
Marcel Legay is a familiar figure on the boulevards, where his dainty person is often seen after nightfall, hurrying to one or another of his haunts, with a small roll of music under his arm, and his fluffy hair streaming over his shoulders. On certain nights of every week he sings over in the Latin Quarter, at the Cabaret des Noctambules, Rue Champollion, near the Chapel of the Sorbonne.
The other singers that night at the Café du Conservatoire each affected his peculiar style of habit, gesture, and pose that he deemed most fetching. The entire programme was of songs: hence the name, Café du Conservatoire.
After we had deft, Bishop bought some Brevas cigars; thus fortified, we headed for the Moulin Rouge.
It was evident that Mr. Thompkins had reserved his enthusiasm for the great dance-hall of Montmartre,—Le Moulin Rouge,—with its women of the half world, its giddiness, its glare, its noise, its naughtiness.
