Their dark hours, no doubt, came with the daylight, and in these meetings at the cabaret they found an agreeable way in which to while away the dismal interval that burdened their lives when they were not asleep; for the cabaret was warm and bright, warmer and brighter than their own wretched little rooms au cinquième,—and coal and candles are expensive luxuries! Here, if their productions haply could not find a larger and more remunerative audience, they could at least be heard,—by a few, it is true, but a most appreciative few, and that is something of value equal to bread. And then, who could tell but what fame might unexpectedly crown them in the end? It has happened thus.
"But why worry?" asked the musician. "'Laugh, and the world laughs with you. If we do not live a long life, it is at least a jolly one,' is our motto and certainly they gave it most faithful allegiance."
I learned from Bishop that the musical director received three francs a night for his services. Should singers happen to be lacking, or should the evening be dull for other reason, he himself must sing and recite; for the tension of the Soleil d'Or must be kept forever taut. The old white-haired pianist received two francs a night, and each of these contributors to the gayety of the place was given a drink gratis. So there was at least some recompense besides the essential one of appreciation from the audience.
Glasses clinked merrily, and poets and composers flitted about the room to chat with their contemporaries. A sketch artist, deftly drawing the portrait of a baritone's jolly little mistress, was surrounded by a bantering group, that passed keen, intelligent, and good-natured criticism on the work as it rapidly grew under his hands. The whitehaired pianist sat puffing at his cigarette and looking over some music with a rather pretty young woman who had written popular songs of La Villette.
The opening of the doors and the straggling entrance of three men sent an instant hush throughout the room.
"Verlaine!" whispered the musician to me.
It was indeed the great poet of the slums,—the epitome and idol of Bohemian Paris, the famous man whose verses had rung throughout the length and breadth of the city, the one man who, knowing the heart and soul of the stragglers who found light and warmth in such places as the Soleil d'Or, had the brains and grace to set the strange picture adequately before the wondering world.
The musical director, as well as a number of others in the place, stepped forward, and with touching deference and tenderness greeted the remarkable man and his two companions. It was easy to pick out Verlaine without relying upon the special distinction with which he was greeted. He had the oddest slanting eyes, a small, stubby nose, and wiry whiskers, and his massive forehead heavily overhung his queerly shaped eyes. He was all muffled up to the chin; wore a badly soiled hat and a shabby dark coat. Under one arm he carried a small black portfolio.
