Paris and the Social Revolution Part 26

Poupelin, called also "_Mes Papiers_," he of the enormous yellow felt, "_pantalon d'enfant_," and "_redingote de centennaire_," who spent his time seeking t.i.tled office and recommendations therefor, when he was not occupied in one of the three positions which he accepted with equal alacrity and in which he was equally efficient,-or inefficient,-namely, teacher, school usher, and cook.

And M. Chaque, "_Orientaliste_," another genuine _bachelier_, who had a useful habit of carrying rice pudding in his hat and omelettes and beef _a la mode_ in his pockets,-ex-professor of a colonial school; author of a volume of travels in Greece (published by a reputable firm) with which he beset Greek enthusiasts orally and successfully; a constant reader of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, to which he had, once on a time, contributed an article; communicant of all the Christian or pagan sects that had churches or temples in Paris; privileged hanger-on of gaming-houses and soldiers' barracks; razor-sharpener and professional weeper at the cemetery of Montparna.s.se.

Two vagrant types (equally grotesque with those of Valles), who are now dead, but whom one need not have been long a.s.sociated with the _Quartier_ to remember, were Eugene Cochet and Amedee Cloux.

Cochet was an ex-prefect of the Department of the Eure, a rhymester and the author of an unpublished work of "philosophical reflections," who depended for his sustenance on the bounty of one or two restaurants and the _soupes populaires_, and who had a mania for decorations, like Poupelin. The students, who made Cochet the b.u.t.t of a great deal of good-natured chaffing, which he accepted gratefully as so much tribute to his worth, formally invested him one day with the star of the Legion of Honour (attached to a flaming red cravat) and with the insignia of ten fantastic foreign orders, notably with that of the Garter and that of the Green Elephant, which last consisted of a zinc elephant, painted green, suspended from a bailiff's chain.

Amedee Cloux, poet, emulated the literary forgeries of Chatterton at closer range. He had a marvellous facility for copying poetic styles, and he got his living for a time by the deaths of his more ill.u.s.trious brother poets. As soon as a well-known poet died, he produced imitations of his poetry, which he sold as posthumous works. His most successful efforts, "_Le Chien Mort_," attributed by him to Baudelaire, and "_Plus de Represailles_" and "_L'Ode a la Colonne Deboulonnee_," purporting to be by Eugene Vermesch, deceived both the public and the experts until the good Cloux, who was more of a joker than a vulgar swindler, acknowledged his ruse.

Of the freaks who now perch in (for they can hardly be said to inhabit) the _Quartier Latin_, far and away the most famous is Bibi-la-Puree,

"_Qui porte en son cur un vaste mepris Pour quiconque n'est Boheme ni poete._"

No Parisian of the period, perhaps, has been more written about, and none more photographed, sculptured, etched, and painted; and none has done more to divert his time than Bibi. Bibi is by turns an artist's model, a sponge, a simple beggar, a shoe-black, a tourist's guide, a watcher of bicycles at cafe doors, a dealer in photographs of himself and in original poems, a boon companion of poets and artists, and a confidant and counsellor of _etudiantes_; but he is first, last, and all the time Bibi the fop, the Beau Tibbs of Latium, the Beau Brummel of the Castalian gutter.

The first time I saw Bibi was in 1895, at an anarchist meeting addressed by Louise Michel, in the rue de la Montagne Ste. Genevieve, back of the Pantheon. He was m.u.f.fled to the eyes, conspirator-like, in the folds of a rusty, tattered Spanish cloak, faced with dirty red velvet, and wore besides a white yachting cap, white skin-tight pantaloons, gaping patent leather shoes fitted with cavalry spurs, and white gaiters.

The last time I saw Bibi he was pulling an unlighted cigar, and tenderly convoying to his lodging a poet, not of the most obscure, who had been imbibing too freely. He was dight in a red fez, a bright green velvet waistcoat under an Inverness cape (with no jacket intervening), a yellow silk neckerchief, cavalry boots, and baggy brown corduroy trousers; and, if I should itemise all the different costumes it has been my privilege to see Bibi wear between these dates, a large octavo volume would scarcely hold the list. Reputed in some quarters to be an ex-student, an ex-journalist, a political refugee, and a disguised n.o.bleman, and in others to be a blackmailer, a swindler, a thief, a police spy, and a pander, the mystery that envelopes Bibi's present as well as his past-a mystery which his autobiography, published in _L'Idee_, did appreciably nothing to dispel-gives him a curiosity-piquing charm.

There is no doubt as to Bibi's untidiness, his inordinate vanity, his a.s.surance, his unscrupulousness, and his genuine kindness of heart; but beyond this all is conjecture.

Jehan Rictus in a recent poem, to the recitation of which (at the _Noctambules_ or the _Grille_) Bibi often listens with his inscrutable smile, has given Bibi a large symbolic significance:-

_"On dit de Bibi: 'Chut! c'est un mouchard!'

D'autres: 'Taisez-vous, il est bachelier!'

Et d'autres encor': 'Bibi est rentier.'

Mais nul ne peut croire a la verite: Bibi-la-Puree, c'est le Grand-Dechard.

Et quel age a-t-il? On ne sait pas bien.

Son nom symbolique en le largougi Proclame qu'il est a.s.sez ancien, Quasi eternel comme la Misere.

Et trimballes-tu, tu trimballeras, O Bibi, toujours ta rare effigie.

Bibi-la-Puree jamais ne mourra._

_C'est le Pelerin, c'est le Solitaire Qui depuis toujours marche sur la Terre, C'est un sobriquet bon pour l'Etre Humain."_

Bibi was a humble follower and adorer-slave almost-of Verlaine, who playfully honored him with the following verses in his _Dedicaces_:-

A BIBI-PUReE

_Bibi-Puree, Type epatant Et drole tant!_

_Quel Dieu te cree Ce chic, pourtant, Qui nous agree_

_Pourtant, aussi, Ta gentillesse Notre liesse, Et ton souci De l'obligeance Notre gaiete, Ta pauvrete, Ton opulence?_

A sincere mourner for Verlaine since his death, Bibi regards it as his special mission to cherish the cult of the dead poet's memory.

The sincerity of Bibi's mourning, however, has not prevented him from turning an honest penny by selling the inscribed volumes Verlaine had given him, nor from turning many a dishonest penny by selling, as relics, copies of Verlaine's works supplied with forged inscriptions, and numerous other objects Verlaine never saw.

Thanks to Bibi's zeal, Verlaine's last cane and last pipe have been multiplied, like "the only true cross," and have taken up their abodes in the poetic shrines of two hemispheres.[77]

It is impossible to think of Bibi without thinking of the Mere Casimir, lately deceased, who was, for some reason, Bibi's most cordial aversion.

The Mere Casimir was a tiny, twisted, shrivelled old flower-woman, who claimed to be an _ex-danseuse_ of the _Opera_ and to have had for friends "princes and marquises," and who was ready at any moment, in consideration of a few sous, to prove it by executing certain grotesque Terpsich.o.r.ean movements on the sidewalk.

While the Mere Casimir was still alive, there was nothing that delighted the students more than bringing about an encounter between her and Bibi, and hearing the pair blackguard each other. Only once, so far as history records, was there a truce between them,-a certain _Mi-careme_, when, Bibi having been elected king and the Mere Casimir queen of the fete, they paraded the streets of Paris together in the same car. On that day the antipathetic pair were so impressed with the dignities and responsibilities of their position that they treated each other with royal magnanimity. Bibi even went farther than strict etiquette required. In descending from his throne at the breaking up of the cortege, he gallantly fell to his knees,-sight for G.o.ds and men!-and kissed the hand of his queen.

The Marquis de Soudin, a long-haired but relatively neat little man, with the noiseless step of a bird, who makes crayon portraits, at ten sous per head, at the _Grille_ and the _Noctambules_ and in the all-night restaurants of the _Halles Centrales_, is as much of a mystery in his way as Bibi, though he has lived in the _Quartier_ more than twenty-five years. He is said to have been crossed in love early in life, and his t.i.tle is believed by many to be genuine. However that may be, the little Soudin has the education and manners of a gentleman, and _n.o.blesse oblige_ inspires his conduct. He does no offence to any, and is a veritable providence to his poorer fellow-Bohemians. M. le Marquis makes poems as well as portraits, but not for money. "At least no merchant traffics in his heart."

The artist bard of Pere Lunette's,[78] who makes crayon portraits at ten sous a head, like the little marquis, and poems for money, unlike the little marquis, is also supposed by many to be of n.o.ble origin. He is a das.h.i.+ng, handsome fellow, with the felt and the swagger of a _mousquetaire_, and is, when he chooses to quit the vulgar role his position at Pere Lunette's imposes upon him, a lively and stimulating conversationalist. In summer, with his bosom friend Pere Jules, he tramps the country roads of France.

Achille Leroy, philosopher and poet (the anarchist author-editor-publisher-bookseller, referred to in the chapter on the oral propaganda of the anarchists), is another favourite with the students, upon whose quizzical, good-natured patronage he depends mainly for the sale of his wares.

Some years back, at the moment of the anarchist "Terror," Achille, whose illusions regarding his intellect are on a par with those of Bibi regarding his person, offered himself as a candidate for the Academy. He made the customary "visits" to the Academicians attired in the uniform of a Mexican general, and wherever he was not received left an ominous-looking bra.s.s kettle to which, along with his visiting card, this inscription was attached:

"_Je ne fais sauter que les idees._"

Other contemporary freaks who help to swell the picturesqueness and gaiety of the _Quartier_ are: the anarchist cobbler _chansonnier_ Pere La Purge (author of the _Chanson du Pere La Purge_, quoted in a previous chapter), whose customers (mainly the poets and artists of the _Quartier_) visit his shop in the rue de la Parcheminerie to enjoy the piquancy of the contrast between his ruddy, contented face and his anathemas against society; Gaillepand, a big, athletic-looking fellow, who, having failed to earn a living by legitimate sculpture, took to making plaster medallions of the celebrities of Paris, especially those of the _Quartier_, and selling them up and down the Boulevard St.

Michel, while his brother "_Mome l'Histoire_" (now dead) displayed his phenomenal memory by reciting biographies and poems; the Mere Souris (Mother Mouse), so called from her conical head and her funny little walk, ex-proprietor of an artists' restaurant and present palmist, fortune-teller, and reputed usurer,-in short, a very useful personage to the _etudiantes_; Victor Sainbault, author, editor, publisher, and bookseller, like Achille Leroy; and the poet Coulet, who gives author's readings before the terraces of the cafes, and who between times, if hearsay may be credited, provides petty bourgeois families with wedding, christening, and funeral verses at so much per yard.

It is because these freaks take themselves seriously, because they are unconscious humourists and involuntary _farceurs_, that they are amusing. But the _Quartier_ has always had among its choicer Bohemians a cla.s.s of conscious, almost professional humourists and deliberate _farceurs_, called _fumistes_,[79] who by drolly expressing their very disrespect for life have done much to make life worth the living.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SITE OF THE CHaTEAU ROUGE

_La rue Galande_]

The most renowned of the _Quartier fumistes_ who practised when those now in middle life were young was unquestionably Sapeck.

"Verily," says Emile Goudeau, "I owe a taper to Sapeck for having initiated me into this inner folly which manifests itself outwardly by imperturbable buffooneries.... Better to have kept alive, thanks to _insouciance_, than to have died stoically of _misere_, wrapped in the cloak of a Byronian hero. If we occasionally exceeded the proper limits of the laugh, at least we did not light the brazier of Escousse nor seek the rope of Gerard de Nerval; and that is something."

Sapeck is very likely dead now. At any rate, he is dead to the Quarter.

But, as he was the successor (according to the archaeologists of _fumisterie_) of Romien and Vivier, so he has his successors, one of whom the _rapin_ Karl, mystifier of Quesnay de Beaurepaire and abductor of the Comtesse Martel ("Gyp"), has almost earned the right to be regarded as his peer. Zo d'Axa, who is less a _fumiste_ than he has it in him to be, because he takes time to be a serious and talented author and to serve sentences in prison for his opinions, perpetrated a _fumisterie_ some five years back that has taken an honourable place among the cla.s.sics of its kind.

It will be best narrated as he narrated it himself in one of his celebrated _Feuilles_:-

"HE IS ELECTED

"_Good People of the City, Electors_,

"Listen to the edifying story of a pretty little white jacka.s.s, candidate in the capital. It is not a Mother Goose tale nor a sensation of the _Pet.i.t Journal_. It is a veracious narrative for the grown-up youngsters who still vote:-

"A little jacka.s.s, born in the land of La Fontaine and of Rabelais, ... made a campaign for a deputy's chair. When election day came, this jacka.s.s, this typical candidate, answering to the unequivocal name of _Nul_, executed a last-hour manuvre. On a warm Sunday in May, while the people crowded to the urns, the white jacka.s.s, the candidate _Nul_, enthroned on a triumphal car drawn by electors, traversed Paris, his _bonne ville_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ZO D'AXA'S NOVEL CANDIDATE