Bohemian Paris of To-day / Second Edition

by W. C. Morrow; Edward Cucuel

That was a hard winter. A few weeks after the wedding the Hungarian's visits to the Maison Dar-blay suddenly ceased. The haunted look had been deepening in his eyes, his gaunt cheeks had grown thinner, and he looked like a hunted man. After his disappearance the gendarmes came to the restaurant to make inquiries about him. Bishop and I were present. They wanted to know if the young man had any friends there. We told them that we would be his friends.

"Then you will take charge of his body?" they asked.

We followed them to the Rue Perceval, where they turned us over to the concierge of an old building. She was very glad we had come, as the lad seemed not to have had a friend in the world. She led us up to the sixth floor, and then pointed to a ladder leading up to the roof. We ascended it, and found a box built on the roof. It gave a splendid view of Paris. The door of the box was closed. We opened it, and the young artist lay before us dead. There were two articles of furniture in the room. One was the bare mattress on the floor, upon which he lay, and the other was an old dresser, from which some of the drawers were missing. The young man lay drawn up, fully dressed, his coat-collar turned up about his ears. Thus he had fallen asleep, and thus hunger and cold had slain him as he slept. There was one thing else in the room, all besides, including the stove and the bed-covering, having gone for the purchase of painting material. It was an unfinished oil-painting of the Crucifixion. Had he lived to finish it, I am sure it would have made him famous, if for nothing else than the wonderful expression of agony in the Saviour's face, an agony infinitely worse than the physical pain of the crucifixion could have produced.

There was still one thing more,—a white rat that was, hunting industriously for food, nibbling desiccated cheese-rinds that it found on the shelves against the wall. It had been the artist's one friend and companion in life.

And all that, too, is a part of life in Bohemian Paris.

On the Rue Marie, not far from the Gare Montparnasse, is the "Club," a small and artistically dirty wine-shop and restaurant, patronized by a select crowd of musketeers of the brush. The warm, dark tones of the anciently papered walls are hidden beneath a cloud of oil sketches, charcoal drawings, and caricatures of everything and everybody that the fancies of the Bohemians could devise. Madame Annaie is mistress of the establishment, and her cook, M. Annaie, wears his cap rakishly on one side, and attends to his business; and he makes very good potages and rôtis, considering the small prices that are charged. Yet even the prices, though the main attraction, are paid with difficulty by a majority of the habitués, who sometimes fall months in arrears. Madame Annaie keeps a big book of accounts.

Of the members of the club, four are Americans, two Spaniards, one an Italian, one a Welshman, one a Pole, one a Turk, one a Swiss, and the rest French,—just fifteen in all, and all sculptors and painters except one of the Americans, who is correspondent of a New York paper. At seven o'clock every evening the roll is called by the Pole, who acts as president, secretary, and treasurer of the club. A fine of two sous is imposed for every absence; this goes to the "smoker" fund. Joanskouie, the multiple officer, has not many burdensome duties, but even these few are a severe tax upon his highly nervous temperament. Besides collecting the fines he must gather up also the dues, which are a franc a month. All the members are black-listed, including the president himself, and the names of the delinquents are posted on the wall.

The marble-top tables are black with pencil sketches done at the expense of Giles, the Welshman, who is the butt of the club. He is a very tall and amazingly lean Welshman, with a bewhiskered face, a hooked nose, and a frightful accent when he speaks either English or French. He is an animal sculptor, but leaves his art carefully alone. He is very clever at drawing horses, dogs, and funny cows all over the walls; but he is so droll and stupid, so incredibly stupid, that "Giles" is the byword of the club. Every month he receives a remittance of two hundred and fifty francs, and immediately starts out to get the full worth of it in the kinds of enjoyment that he finds on the Boul' Mich', where regularly once a month he is a great favorite with the feminine habitués of the cafés. When his funds run low, he lies perdu till mid-day; then he appears at Madame Annaie's, heavy-eyed and stupid, staying until midnight. Sometimes he varies this routine by visiting his friends at their studios, where he is made to pose in ridiculous attitudes.

The "smoker" is held on the last Saturday night of each month, and all the members are present. Long clay pipes are provided, and a big bowl of steaming punch, highly seasoned, comes from Madame Annaie's kitchen. Mutually laudatory speeches and toasts, playing musical instruments, and singing songs are in order. The Spaniard, with castanets, skilfully executes the fandango on a table. Bishop does the danse du ventre. Joncierge gives marvellous imitations of Sarah Bernhardt and other celebrities, including Giles, whose drawl and stupidity he makes irresistibly funny. Nor do Gérôme, Bouguereau, and Benjamin Constant escape his mimicry. Haidor, the Turk, drawls a Turkish song all out of tune, and is rapturously encored. The Swiss and the Italian render a terrific duo from "Aida," and the Spaniards sing the "Bullfighters' Song" superbly. Sketches are dashed off continually. They are so clever that it is a pity Madame Annaie has to wipe them from the tables.

On Thanksgiving-day the Americans gave the club a Thanksgiving dinner. It was a great mystery and novelty to the other members, but they enjoyed it hugely. The turkeys were found without much trouble, but the whole city had to be searched for cranberries. At last they were found in a small grocery-shop in the American quarter, on the Avenue Wagram. Bishop superintended the cooking, M. Annaie serving as first assistant. How M. Annaie stared when he beheld the queer American mixtures that Bishop was concocting! "Mon Dieu! Not sugar with meat!" he cried, aghast, seeing Bishop serve the turkey with cranberry sauce. A dozen delicious pumpkin-pies that formed part of the menu staggered the old cook. The Italian cooked a pot of macaroni with mushroom sauce, and it was superb.