That leads me to a rather grave subject. As a matter of fact, funerals are very important events in France. Three or four directors in black clothes and three-cornered hats march ahead, and the hearse is heavily draped. If the departed was a man of prominence there are a number of orations delivered, the crowd goes away excited over the condition of the republic, and is likely to break windows and show its feeling toward the political opponents of the deceased. When Zola was buried a hundred thousand people marched in the procession, and there were a number of street fights and duels as a climax.
But the biggest thing in the Latin Quarter so far as American tourists are concerned is the Bon Marché, I suppose the largest retail general store in the world. In most ways it is like our department stores, and announces that it has made its success by reason of faithful dealings with the public and by advertising. It has been running about fifty years; the original proprietor is dead, but the business moves on smoothly. The corporation has a method of division of profits among employés who have been with the store more than ten years. It also pensions its old employés, provides lectures and amusements for its workers, and has a paternal and cöoperative side that is interesting, although the corporation is in fact controlled by a few heavy stockholders.
Somehow I had the idea that our own country was the leader in the big department store business. But the Bon Marché and others in Paris took the idea out of me. It has many clerks who speak foreign languages, and it is said that a native of Timbuctoo or Arkansas could slip into the store and find some one who could speak his language.
The clerks in the Bon Marché get from $3 to $6 a week, with the exception of a few who have special qualifications. So I guess the old-age pension business is necessary. That is the ordinary wage paid store clerks in Paris.
It was at the Bon Marché that the ancient joke happened to me. I was looking at a price-mark, and, not understanding the figure, inquired in my pigeon French, “Est sees [6] auter set? [7].” The clerk answered “It is six.”
My French is a joke. From necessity I have learned enough French words to order a meal, buy a ticket and ask how much. I have found that a good bluff, plenty of signs and the throwing in of French and German words on the subject generally get about what I want. But often I fall down. The word for potatoes in French is “pommes.” I told a waiter I wanted “fried pommes,” and as the word for cold is “froid,” I got cold potatoes.
I went for a ride in the underground tube. Bought my tickets and got onto a train I knew was in the right direction. It stopped, everybody got out, and the porter insisted that I go too. I knew something was wrong, and I tackled the platform boss with good English. He couldn’t understand a word, so he waved his hands and clawed the air and talked French for a couple of minutes. Then he tried to walk off, but I hung on. I was away down below the surface of the ground and didn’t even know straight up. “Correspond” he kept saying, and I assured him I would be glad to do so if he would give me his address, but first I wanted to know where I was “at.” I knew he was swearing, but it was French swear and I didn’t mind. Finally he took me by the arm and walked me through a couple of passages and pointed to another platform. A light broke in on me, and I took the train which soon came. I learned afterward that “correspond” is French for “transfer.”