"Tout les clients sont des cochons—
La faridon, la faridon donne.
Et surtout les ceux qui s'en vont—
La faridon, la faridon donne."
The gentleman, somewhat abashed by this reception, hesitated a moment, then sought seats. The two had hardly seated themselves when the burly ruffian with the stick began to recite a villanous poem reflecting upon the chastity of married women, emphasizing it with atrocious side remarks. The gentleman sprang from his seat in a rage and advanced threateningly upon the brute, who stood leering at him and taking a firmer hold upon his stick; but the visitor's wife caught the outraged man by the arm and restrained him. A wordy war ensued (for the gentleman was a Frenchman), in which the choicest argot of Montmartre and La Villette was exhausted by the ruffian. He closed by shouting,—"You were not invited to enter here. You asked the privilege of entering; your wish was granted. If you don't like it here, get out!"
The gentleman flung down a franc upon the table, the bolts were withdrawn, and he and his wife passed out while the roysterers sang,—
Tout les clients sont des cochons," etc.,
amid the laughter of the smaller Bohemians.
Aristide Bruant now rose from his table and strode to the centre of the room. A perfect silence fell. He is rather a small man, slender, and of delicate build; he has a thin, sallow face, with piercing black eyes, prominent cheek-bones, and long raven-black hair falling over his shoulders from beneath a broad black slouch hat down over his eyes. His unbuttoned coat showed a red flannel shirt open at the throat; a broad sash was about his waist; his trousers were tucked into top-boots,—the ensemble reminding one of Buffalo Bill. He glared sullenly round upon the people, and then sprang lightly upon a table. From that perch he recited one of his poems, selected from his book of songs and monologues. It does not bear reproduction here. For that matter, being written in the argot of Montmartre, it could hardly be understood even by French scholars unfamiliar with Montmartre.
Happily Mr. Thompkins understood not a word of it, smiling perfunctorily out of politeness while Bruant was uttering things that might have shocked the most hardened Parisians. There were several young women present, and while Bruant was reciting they ogled him with genuine adoration. The other poets hung reverently upon his every word.