Bohemian Paris of To-day / Second Edition

by W. C. Morrow; Edward Cucuel

In contrast to the grace and abandon of the female figures were the coarseness and clumsiness of their male partners.

The work was nearly finished, but Bishop professed to be dissatisfied with the foreground architecture and with the drawing of a hand belonging to one of the male dancers. After boring me at length with a speech on the necessity of having a model for that hand, he sheepishly asked me if I would pose for the elusive member. It was then that curiosity prompted me to inquire where he had found the original of this remarkable scene.

"Mon enfant sculpteur," he replied, with the patronizing air of a man of the world, "this is the Moulin de la Galette."

"And where is that?" I asked.

"I will show you to-morrow night, if you agree."

To-morrow would be Sunday. When it had passed and the evening was come, and after we had enjoyed two courses of Madame Darblay's juicy gigots and irresistible beans, with the incomparable sauce afforded by the presence of the sunny actresses who were there, we walked over to the Boulevard St.-Jacques and waited for the Montmartre 'bus to come along. These small, ancient omnibuses are different from the other vehicles of that breed in Paris, in that instead of having a narrow curved stairway at the rear leading up to the impériale, there are but three or four iron foot-rests against the outside of the rear wall, with an iron rod on either side to cling to in mounting. Now, the traveller who would reach the impériale must be something of either an acrobat or a sailor, because, first, as these 'buses do not stop, a running leap has to be made for the ladder, and, second, because of the pitching and rolling of the lumbering vehicle, the catching and climbing are not easy. If you carry a cane or a parcel, it must be held in the teeth until the ascent is made, for both hands have all they can do in the ladder exercise.

The gleam of the red lamp coming down the street prepared us for a test of our agility. As only one could mount the ladder at a time, and as I was the first to attack the feat, Bishop had to run behind for nearly a block before I could give him the right of way up the ladder. The conductor registered deux sur l'impériale as we swung to the top and took seats forward, just behind the driver. Ladies and fat gentlemen are rarely, or never, found riding on the impériale of the Montmartre line.

We wrapped up in our big warm coats and lay back smoking three-sous cigars (always three-sous ones on Sunday), and as the driver cracked his whip and the heavy machine went rolling along, we enjoyed the wonderful treat of seeing gay Paris of a Sunday night from the top of an omnibus. There is hardly anything more delightful, particularly from the top of a St. Jacques-Montmartre 'bus, which generally avoids the broad, brilliant streets and goes rolling and swaying through the narrow, crooked streets of old Paris. Here there is hardly room for such a vehicle to pass, and one is anxious lest one's feet sweep off the gas-lamps that fly past. An intimate view of the domestic life of Paris presents itself likewise, for, being on a level with the second story windows, you have flitting visions of the Parisian ménage in all its freedom and variety. At this time of the evening the windows are wide open and the dinner-tables are spread near them, for a view of the street below.

On, on we rumbled, through seemingly interminable miles of crooked streets, over the gay Boul' Mich', and the Place St.-Michel; across the river, which reflected the myriads of lights along its walls and bridges; past the Halles, the greatest marketplace in the world; past the grand boulevards, a confusing glitter of colors and lights; past the Folies-Bergère, where flaming posters announced Loie Fuller in the throes of a fire dance; and at last to the steep grade of Montmartre. Here a third horse was added to the pair, and slowly we were dragged up the slope.