LE CABARET DU SOLEIL D'OR
IT is only the name of the Cabaret of the Golden Sun that suggests the glorious luminary of day. And yet it is really brilliant in its own queer way, though that brilliancy shines when all else in Paris is dark and dead,—at night, and in the latest hours of the night at that.
My acquaintance with the Golden Sun began one foggy night in a cold November, under the guidance of Bishop.
Lured by the fascinations of nocturnal life in the Quartier Latin, and by its opportunities for the study of life in its strangest phases, Bishop had become an habitual nighthawk, leaving the studio nearly every evening about ten o'clock, after he had read a few hours from treasured books gleaned from the stalls along the river, to prowl about with a sketchbook, in quest of queer characters and queer places, where strange lives were lived in the dark half of the day. His knowledge of obscure retreats and their peculiar habitués seemed unlimited. And what an infinite study they offer! The tourist, "doing" Bohemian Paris as he would the famous art galleries, or Notre-Dame, or the Madeleine, or the cafés on the boulevards, may, under the guidance of a wise and discerning student, visit one after another of these out-of-the-way resorts where the endless tragedy of human life is working out its mysteries; he may see that one place is dirtier or noisier than another, that the men and women are better dressed and livelier here than there, that the crowd is bigger, or the lights brighter; but he cannot see, except in their meaningless outer aspects, those subtle differences which constitute the heart of the matter. In distance it is not far from the Moulin Rouge to the Cabaret du Soleil d'Or, but in descending from the dazzling brilliancy and frothy abandon of the Red Mill to the smoke and grime of the Golden Sun, we drop from the summit of the Tour Eiffel to the rat-holes under the bridges of the Seine; and yet it is in such as the Cabaret of the Golden Sun that the true student finds the deeper, the more lastingly charming, the strangely saddening spell that lends to the wonderful Quartier Latin its distinctive character and everlasting fascination.
Though Bishop spoke to me very little of his midnight adventures, I being very busy with my own work, I began to have grave apprehensions on the score of his tastes in that direction; for during the afternoons ridiculous-looking, long-haired, but gentlemannered persons in shabby attire, well-seasoned with the aroma of absinthe and cigarettes, would favor our studio with a call, undoubtedly at Bishop's invitation. They brought with them black portfolios or rolls of paper tied with black string, containing verses,—their masterpieces, which were to startle Paris, or new songs, which, God favoring, were to be sung at La Scala or the Ambassadeurs, and thus bring them immortal fame and put abundant fat upon their lean ribs! Ah, the deathless hope that makes hunger a welcome companion here!
Bishop would cleverly entertain these aspiring geniuses with shop talk concerning literature and music, and he had a charming way of dwelling upon the finish and subtlety of their work and comparing it with that of the masters. It usually ended with their posing for him in different attitudes of his suggesting. Why waste money on professional models? As Bishop's acquaintances became more numerous among this class, we finally set aside Tuesday afternoons for their reception. Then they would come in generous numbers and enjoy themselves unreservedly with our cognac and biscuits. But ah, the rare pleasures of those afternoons,—as much for the good it did us to see their thin blood warmed with brandy and food as for their delightful entertainment of us and one another.
The studio was warm and cheerful on the night when Bishop invited me to accompany him out. I had been at work, and presently, when I had finished, I flung myself on the divan for a rest and a smoke, and then became aware of Bishop's presence. He was comfortably ensconced in the steamer-chair, propped up with pillows.