Bohemian Paris of To-day / Second Edition

by W. C. Morrow; Edward Cucuel

This night, however, all that was forgotten. It was the one free, happy night of the week, the night of abandon and the dance, of laughter, drinking, and jollity, for which one and all had longed for a whole impatient and dreary week; and Henri, Jacques, and Louis could spend on drinks with other of their feminine acquaintances the sous that their mistresses had provided. The band played lustily; the lights shone; the room was filled with laughter,—let the dance go on!

Stationed in different parts of the room were the big soldiers of the Garde Municipale, in their picturesque uniform so familiar to all the theatre-goers of Paris. They were here to preserve order, for the dancers belong to an inflammable class, and a blaze may spring up at any moment. Equally valuable as a repressing force was a burly, thick- necked, powerful man who strolled hither and thither, his glance everywhere and always veiling a threat. He wore a large badge that proclaimed him the master of ceremonies. True, he was that, which was something, but he was a great deal more,—a most astonishingly prompt and capable bouncer. The male frequenters of the place were evidently in mortal terror of him, for his commanding size and threatening manner, and his superbly developed muscles, contrasted strikingly with the cringing manner and weak bodies of Henri and his kind; and should he look their way with a momentary steadiness of glance and poise of figure, their conversation would instantly cease, and they would slink away.

We seated ourselves at a vacant table that commanded a sweeping view of the floor and the promenade. A seedy-looking garçon worked his way through the crowd and took our order for beer; and mean, stale beer it was. But we did not care for that. Bishop was all afire with enjoyment of the scene, for, he protested, the place was infinitely rich in types and character,—the identical types that the great Steinlen loves to draw. And here is an interesting thing: The girls all were of that chic and petite order so peculiar to certain classes of Parisian women, some hardly so high as Bishop's shoulder, which is itself not very high; and though they looked so small, they were fully developed young women, though many of them were under twenty. They wore no hats, and for the most part, unlike their gorgeous sisters of the boulevard cafés, they were dressed plainly, wearing black or colored waists and skirts. But ah!—and here the unapproachable instinct-skill of the French-woman shows itself,—on these same waists and skirts were placed here and there, but always just where they ought to be, bows and ribbons; and it was they that worked the miracle of grace and style. And the girls had a certain beauty, a beauty peculiar to their class,—not exactly beauty, but pleasing features, healthy color, and, best of all and explaining all, an archness of expression, a touch of sauciness, that did for their faces what the bows and ribbons did for their gowns.

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Near us a large door opened into the garden of the Moulin; it was filled with trees and benches and tables, and amidst the dark foliage glowed colored Chinese lanterns, which sifted a soft light upon the revellers assembled beneath them in the cool evening air. On one side of the garden stretched Paris far down and away, and on the other side blazed the Moulin de la Galette through the windows.

A waltz was now being danced. Strange to say, it was the one dismal feature of the evening, and that was because the French do not know how to dance it, "reversing" being unknown. And there was an odd variety of ways in which the men held their partners and the dancers each other. Some grasped each other tightly about the waist with both arms, or similarly about the necks or shoulders, and looked straight into each other's face without a smile or an occasional word. It was all done in deadly earnest, as a serious work. It was in the quadrille that the fun came, when the girls varied the usual order by pointing their toes toward the chandeliers with a swish of white skirts that made the by- standers cry, "Encore, Marcelle!" The men, yearning for a share of the applause, cut up all sorts of antics and capers, using their arms and legs with incredible agility, making grotesque faces, and wearing hideous false noses and piratical moustaches.

Securing a partner for a dance was the easiest thing possible. Any girl was eligible,—simply the asking, the assent, and away they went.

Bishop's pencil kept moving rapidly as he caught fleeting notes of faces, dresses, attitudes—everything—for his unfinished piece at the studio. A number of promenaders, attracted by his sketching, stopped to watch him. That dance was now finished, and the dancers separated wherever they stopped, and turned away to seek their separate friends; there was no waste of time in escorting the girls to seats, for that is not fashionable at Montmartre. The girls came flocking about Bishop, curious over his work, and completely shut out his view. "Oh!" exclaimed one saucy petite blonde, "let me see my portrait! I saw you sketching me during the dance."

"Et moi,—moi aussi!" cried the others, until Bishop, overwhelmed, surrendered his book for the inspection of bright, eager eyes.