Several of the women ran to him and kissed him on both cheeks, which salutations he heartily returned, with interest.
One of his companions was Monsieur Bi-Bi-dans-la-Purée—so he was called, though seemingly he might have been in anything as well as soup. He was an exceedingly interesting figure. His sunken, drawn, smooth- shaven face gave terrible evidence of the excessive use of absinthe. A large hooked nose overshadowed a wide, loose mouth that hung down at the corners, and served to set forth in startling relief the sickly leaden color of his face. When he spoke, a few straggling teeth gleamed unpleasantly. He wore no overcoat, and his jacket hung open, disclosing a half-opened shirt that exposed his bare breast. His frayed trousers dragged the ground at his heels. But his eyes were the most terrible part of him; they shone with the wild, restless light of a madman, and their gaze was generally flitting and distrait, acknowledging no acquaintances. Afterwards, when Verlaine was dead, I often saw Monsieur Bi-Bi-dansla-Purée on the street, looking most desolate, a roll of white manuscript in his hand, his coat and shirt wide open, exposing his naked breast to the biting cold wind. He seemed to be living altogether in another world, and gazed about him with the same unseeing vacant stare that so startled me that night in the Soleil d'Or.
When Verlaine and his companions were seated—by displacing the artist—the recitations and songs recommenced; and it was noticeable that they were rendered with augmented spirit, that the famous poet of the slums might be duly impressed with the capabilities and hospitable intentions of his entertainers; for now all performed for Verlaine, not for one another. The distinguished visitor had removed his slouch hat, revealing the wonderful oblong dome of his bald head, which shone like the Soleil d'Or; and many were the kisses reverently and affectionately bestowed upon that glistening eminence by the poet's numerous female admirers in the throng.
A reckless-looking young woman, with a black hat drawn down over her eyes, and wearing glasses, was now reciting. Her hands were gloved in black, but the finger-tips were worn through,—a fact which she made all the more evident by a peculiar gesture of the fingers.
As the small hours grew larger these gay Bohemians waxed gayer and livelier. Formalities were gradually abandoned, and the constraint of dignity and reserve slowly melted under the mellowing influences of the place. Ceremonious observances were dropped one by one; and whereas there had been the most respectful and insistent silence throughout the songs, now all joined heartily in the choruses, making the dim lights dance in the exuberance of the enjoyment. I had earnestly hoped that Verlaine, splendid as was his dignity, might thaw under the gathering warmth of the hour, but beyond listening respectfully, applauding moderately, and returning the greetings that were given him, he held aloof from the influence of the occasion, and after draining his glass and bidding good-night to his many friends, with his two companions he made off to another rendezvous.
Monsieur le Directeur came over to our table and asked Bishop to favor the audience with a "chanson Américaine." This rather staggered my modest friend, but he finally yielded to entreaties. The director rang his little bell again and announced that "Monsieur Beeshup" would sing a song à l'Américaine. This was received with uproarious shouts by all, and several left their seats and escorted Bishop to the platform. I wondered what on earth he would sing. The accompanist, after a little coaching from Bishop, assailed the chords, and Bishop began drawling out his old favorite, "Down on the Farm." He did it nobly, too, giving the accompanist occasion for labor in finding the more difficult harmonies. The hearers, though they did not understand a word of the ditty, and therefore lost the whole of its pathos, nevertheless listened with curious interest and respect, though with evident veiled amusement. Many quick ears caught the refrain. At first there came an exceedingly soft chorus from the room, and it gradually rose until the whole crowd had thrown itself into the spirit of the melody, and swelled it to a mighty volume. Bishop led the singers, beating time with his right arm, his left thumb meanwhile hooked in the arm-hole of his waistcoat. "Bravo! Bravo, Beeshup! Bis!" they yelled, when it was finished, and then the room rang with a salvo of hand-clappings in unison: 1-2—3-4-5—1-2-3- 4-5—1-2-3-4-5—1—2—3!! A great ovation greeted him as he marched with glowing cheeks to his seat, and those who knew him crowded round him for a hand-shake. The musician asked him if he would sing the song in private for him, that he might write down the melody, to which Bishop agreed, on condition that the musician pose for him. Bishop had a singularly sharp eye for opportunities.
The sketch artist sauntered over and sat down at our table to have a chat with Bishop. He was a singular fellow. His manner was smoothed by a fine and delicate courtesy, bespeaking a careful rearing, whose effects his loose life and promiscuous associations could not obliterate. His age was about thirty-two, though he looked much older,—this being due in part to his hard life and in other part to the heavy whiskers that he wore. An absurd little round felt hat sat precariously on his riotous mane, and I was in constant apprehension lest it should fall off every time he shook his head. Over his shoulders was a blue cape covering a once white shirt that was devoid of a collar. His fingers were all black with the crayon that he had used in sketching. He said that he had already earned twelve sous that evening, making portraits at six sous a head! But there was not so much money to be made in a place like this as in the big cafés,—the frequenters were too poor.
