The room had a low ceiling crossed by heavy beams. Wrought-iron gas lamps gave a gloomy light upon the dark, time-browned color of the place. The beams were loaded with dust, cobwebs, and stains, the result of years of smoke and accumulation. Upon the walls were dozens of drawings by Steinlen, illustrating the poems of low life written by the proprietor of the café; for we were in the den of the famous Aristide Bruant, the poet of the gutter,—Verlaine had a higher place as the poet of the slums. There were also drawings by Chéret, Willett, and others, and some clever sketches in oil; the whole effect was artistic. In one corner was an old fireplace, rich in carvings of grotesque heads and figures, grilled iron-work, and shining copper vessels. The general impression was of a mediaeval gun-room.
Near the fireplace, upon a low platform, was a piano; grouped about it were four typical Bohemians of lower Bohemia; they wore loads of hair; their faces had a dissipated look, their fingers were heavily stained by cigarettes; they wore beards and négligé black cravats. These were all minor poets, and they took their turn in singing or reciting their own compositions, afterwards making a tour of the crowded tables with a tin cup and collecting the sous upon which they lived, and roundly cursing those who refused to contribute.
Bishop was so delighted with the pictures on the walls that he proceeded to examine them, but the bully with the stick thundered,—"Sit down!" and shook his bludgeon menacingly. Bishop sat down.
Then the brute swaggered up to us and demanded,—"What the devil do you want to drink, anyway? Speak up quick!" When he had brought the drinks he gruffly demanded, "Pay up!" Upon receiving the customary tip he frowned, glared at us with a threatening manner, and growled, "Humph! c'est pas beaucoup!" and swept the money into his pocket.
"Goodness! this is an awful place!" exclaimed Mr. Thompkins under his breath. He seemed to fear being brained at any moment. Retreat had been rendered impossible by the locking of the door.
We were prisoners at the will of our jailer, and so were all the others.
The great Bruant himself sat with a party of congenial Bohemians at a table near the piano and fireplace; they were drinking bocks and smoking cigarettes and long-stemmed pipes. On the wall behind them was a rack holding the pipes of the habitués of the café, mostly broken and well browned. Each pipe was owned by a particular Bohemian, and each had its special place in the rack. The other tables held a general assortment of lesser Bohemians and sight-seers, all cowed and silent under the domination of the bawling ruffian with the stick. Whenever he smiled (which was rare, a perpetual frown having creased a deep furrow between his eyes) they smiled also, in great relief, and hung upon every word that his occasional lapses into an approach to good nature permitted him to utter.
The poets and singers howled their productions in rasping voices, and put a strain upon the strength of the piano; and the minor Bohemians applauded them heartily and envied them their distinction.
In the midst of this performance there came a knock upon the door. The bully walked up to the wicket, peered out, and admitted an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a lady, evidently his wife. These the habitués greeted with the following song: