Bohemian Paris of To-day / Second Edition

by W. C. Morrow; Edward Cucuel

At the Boulevard Clichy we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a terrific uproar; bells, steam-whistles, hand-organs, bands of music, drums, and calliopes made the bedlam. The streets were blocked with moving masses of laughing people, and the scene was gayly illuminated by rows of lamps overhead and on hundreds of stands, merry-go-rounds, theatres, circuses, museums, and all kinds of catchpenny attractions that lined the boulevard. For this was the Fête de Clichy. Far down the street, almost hidden by a curve, could be seen the illuminated arms of the Moulin Rouge slowly revolving through the night.

Still on and up crawled the 'bus, now in the very heart of Montmartre, through the lively, crowded, bright streets on the great hill of Paris. Here are hot-chestnut venders at the corners; fried-potato women, serving crisp brown chips; street hawkers, with their heavy push-carts; song-sellers, singing the songs that they sell, to make purchasers familiar with the airs; flower-girls; gaudy shops; bright restaurants and noisy cafés,—all constituting that distinctive quarter of Paris, Montmartre.

At last the summit of the hill was made, and the panting horses must have been glad that it was all down-hill ahead. Bishop gave the signal to alight a block before the desired street was reached, for by the time we could touch the ground the 'bus had covered that distance on the down run. Bishop led the way up a dim little street,—the Rue Muller, I noticed on the wall. It was very steep, and at last ended at the bottom of a flight of stone steps that seemed to run into the sky. Their length was marked by lamps glowing one above another in long rows. It was hard work climbing to the top.

The top at last! We seemed to be among the clouds. Far below us lay the great shining city, spreading away into distance; and although it was night, the light of a full moon and untold thousands of lamps in the streets and buildings below enabled us easily to pick out the great thoroughfares and the more familiar structures. There was the Opéra, there the Panthéon, there Notre-Dame, there St.-Sulpice, there the Invalides, and, uplifted to emulate the eminence on which we stood, the Tour Eiffel, its revolving searchlight at the apex shining like an immense meteor or comet with its misty trail stretching out over the city. The roar of life faintly reached our ears from the vast throbbing plain, where millions of human mysteries were acting out their tragedies. The scene was vast, wonderful, entrancing.

Far above us still a maze of rafters, beams, and scaffolding fretted the sky,—the skeleton of that beautiful but unfinished Church of the Sacré- Cour, crowning the very summit of Montmartre.

There seemed to be no life here, for not a soul did we meet, and not a light shone except that of the moon. Bishop guided me through a maze of steep stony passages, between the walls of dark gardens, turning now to the right, again to the left, through archways and courts; and I wondered how he could remember them all. Before I could fully comprehend our position we were confronted by two black, gaunt, uncanny objects with long outstretched arms that cut across the sky like giant skeleton sentinels forbidding our farther advance. But the sounds of lively music and the glow of rows of white-globed lamps quickly banished the illusion and advertised the fact that we were in a very material and sensual world, for they announced the Moulin de la Galette at the foot of the passage. The spectres against the sky were only very, very old windmills, relics of the time, three centuries gone, when windmills crowded the summit of Montmartre to catch all the winds that blew. Now they stand, stark, dead, silent, and decaying; their stately revolutions are no more; and the skeleton frames of their fans look down on a marvellous contrast, the intensely real life of the Galette.

We fell in line with many others at the ticket office, and paid the fifty centimes admission fee (ladies twenty-five centimes). We were relieved of our hats and canes by a stout old woman in the vestiaire, who claimed two sous from each. Following the up-hill passage of the entrance, the walls of which are painted with flowers and garden scenes, we entered the great ball-room. What a brilliant scene of life and light!—at first a blur of sound, light, and movement, then gradually resolving into the simple elements composing it. The floor was covered with dancers, and the girls were making a generous display of graceful anatomy. A large band at the farther end of the room, on an inclined stand, was the vortex of the din. The promenade encircling the hall was crowded with hatless laughing girls and smooth-faced boys wearing caps or flat-brimmed low-crowned hats; their trousers fitted tight at the knees, and their heads were closely cropped. These were strolling in groups, or watching the dancers, or sitting at the rows of wooden tables drinking. All within the vast hall had gone to enjoy their Sunday night as much as possible. To most of the girls this was the one night in the week when, not tired out from the drudgery of hard work, they could throw aside all cares and live in the way for which their cramped and meagre souls yearned. This is a rendezvous for the humble workers of the city, where they may dress as best they can, exchange their petites histoires, and abandon themselves to the luxury of the dance; for they are mostly shop-girls, and blanchisseuses, and the like, who, when work fails them, have to hover about the dark streets at night, that prosperous-looking passers-by may be tempted by the pleading of their dark saucy eyes, or be lured by them to some quiet spot where their lovers lie in wait with a lithe and competent black slung-shot. No mercy for the hapless bourgeois then! For the dear Henris and Jacques and Louises must have their sous for the comforts of life, as well as the necessities, and such luxuries as tobacco and drink must be considered; and if the money wherewith all this may be bought is not produced by Marcelle or Hélène or Marie, she will get a beating for her slothfulness or lack of skill, and will be driven into the street with a hurting back to try again. And so Henri, Jacques, or Louis basks in the sun, and smokes cigarettes with never a care, except that of making his devoted little mistress perform her duties, knowing well how to retain her affection by selfishness and brutality.