Part 40 (1/2)
It was the end of a talk on one November evening, about three weeks after I had returned to Paris. I had dined at home with Blanquette, and was in the midst of a drawing which I blush to say I was doing for _Le Fou Rire_, an unprincipled comic paper fortunately long since defunct--(fortunately? Tartuffe that I am. Many a welcome louis did I get from it in those necessitous days)--when she looked up from her sewing and asked when the Master was coming back. The question led to an answer, the answer to an observation, and the observation to the discussion of the Subject.
”There is no way out of it, _mon pauvre Asticot, je vais me fich' a l'eau, comme je l'ai dit_.”
”In the meanwhile, my dear,” said I, throwing down the crow-quill pen and pus.h.i.+ng my drawing away, ”if you remain in this pestilential condition of morbidness, you will die without the necessity of drowning yourself. Instead of making ourselves miserable, let us go and dance at the Bal Jasmin. _Veux-tu?_”
”This evening?” she asked, startled. She had never grown accustomed to the suddenness of the artistic temperament.
”Of course this evening. You don't suppose I would ask you to dance next month so as to cure you of indigestion to-night.”
”But nothing is wrong with my stomach, _mon cher_,” said the literal Blanquette.
”It is indigestion of the heart,” said I, after the manner of Paragot, ”and dancing with me at the Bal Jasmin will be the best thing in the world for you.”
”It would give you pleasure?”
This was charmingly said. It implied that she would sacrifice her feelings for my sake. But her eyes brightened and her cheeks flushed a little. Women are rank hypocrites on occasion.
Ten minutes later Blanquette, wearing her black Sunday gown set off by a blue silk scarf embroidered at the edges with a curious kind of pink forget-me-not, her hair tidily coiled on top and fixed with my tortoise-sh.e.l.l comb, announced that she was ready. We started. In those days I did not drive to b.a.l.l.s in luxurious hired vehicles. I walked, pipe in mouth, correctly giving my arm to Blanquette. No doubt everybody thought us lovers. It is odd how wrong everybody can be sometimes.
The Bal Jasmin was situated in the Rue Mouffetard. It has long since disappeared with many a haunt of my youth's revelry. The tide of frolic has set northward, and Montmartre, which to us was but a geographical term, now dazzles the world with its venal splendour. But the Moulin de la Galette and the Bal Tabarin of the present day lack the gaiety of the Bal Jasmin. It was not well frequented; it gathered round its band-stand people with shocking reputations; the sight of a man in a dress coat would have transfixed the a.s.sembly like some blood-curdling ghost. The ladies would have huddled together in a circle round the wearer and gazed at him open-mouthed. He would subsequently have had to pay for the ball's liquid refreshment. The Bal Jasmin did not employ meretricious ornament to attract custom. A low gallery containing tables ran around the bare hall, the bal.u.s.trade being of convenient elbow height from the floor, so that the dancers during intervals of rest could lounge and talk with the drinkers. In the middle was a circular bandstand where greasy musicians fiddled with perspiring zeal. At the doors a sergent de ville stood good-humouredly and nodded to the ladies and gentlemen with whom he had a professional acquaintance.
Everybody came to dance. If good fortune, such as a watch or a freshly subventioned student, fell into their mouths, they swallowed it like honest, sensible souls; but they did not make reprehensible adventure the main object of their evening. They danced the quadrilles, not for payment and the delectation of foreigners as at the Jardin de Paris, but for their own pleasure. A girl kicked off your hat out of sheer kindness of heart and animal spirits; and if you waltzed with her, she danced with her strange little soul throbbing in her feet. There were, I say, the most dreadfully shocking people at the Bal Jasmin; but they could teach the irreproachable a lesson in the art of enjoyment.
As I came with Blanquette, and danced only with Blanquette, and sat with Blanquette over bock or syrup in the gallery, the unwritten etiquette of the place caused us to be undisturbed. Like the rest of the a.s.sembly we enjoyed ourselves. Dancing was Blanquette's one supreme accomplishment.
Old Pere Paragot had taught her to play the zither indifferently well, but he had made her dance divinely: and Blanquette, I may here mention incidentally, had been my instructress in the art. Seeing her thick-set, coa.r.s.e figure, and holding your arm around her solid waist as you waited for the bar, you would not have dreamed of the fairy lightness it a.s.sumed the moment feet moved in time with the music. If life had been a continuous waltz no partner of hers less awkward than a rhinoceros could have avoided falling in love with her. But waltzes ended all too soon and the thistle-down sylph of a woman became my plain homely Blanquette, uninspiring of romance save in the hardware bosom of the _quincaillier_ at the corner of the Rue des Saladiers.
The _bal_ was crowded. Gaunt ill-shaven men, each a parody of one of the Seven Deadly Sins, capered grotesquely with daughters of Rahab in cheap hats and feathers. Shop a.s.sistants and neat, bare-headed work-girls, students picturesquely long-haired and floppily trousered and cravated, and poorly clad models, a whole army of nondescripts, heaven knows with what means of livelihood, all dancing, drinking, eating, laughing, jesting, smoking, primitively love-making, moving, shouting, a phantasmagoria of souls making merry beyond the pale of reputable life; such were the frequenters of the Bal Jasmin. Gas flared in two concentric circles of flame around the hall and around the central bandstand. There was no ventilation. The _bal_ sweltered in perspiration. Hollow-voiced abjects hawked penny paper fans between the dances, and the whole room was a-flutter.
Blanquette, who had forgotten tragedy for the time, sat with me at a table by the bal.u.s.trade and alternately sipped her syrup and water and looked, full of interest, at the scene below, now and then clutching my arm to direct my attention to startling personalities. The light in her eyes and the colour in her coa.r.s.e cheeks made her almost pretty. You have never seen ugliness in a happy face. And Blanquette was happy.
”Don't you want to go and dance with any other _pet.i.te femme_?” she asked generously. ”I will wait for you here.”
I declined with equal magnanimity to leave her alone.
”Suppose some rapscallion came up and asked you to dance?”
”I can take care of myself, _mon pet.i.t_ Asticot,” she laughed, bracing her strong arms. ”And suppose I wanted to go off with him? They are amusing sometimes, people like that. There is one. _Regarde-moi ce type-la._”
The ”_type_” in question was a fox-faced young man, unwashed and collarless, wearing the peaked cap of Paris villainy. He crossed the hall accompanied by two of the brazenest hussies that ever emerged from the shadow of the fortifications. As they pa.s.sed the sergent de ville they all c.o.c.ked themselves up with an air of braggadocio.
”He makes me s.h.i.+ver,” said I. Blanquette shrugged her shoulders.
”One must have all sorts of people in the world, as there are so many things to make people different. It is only a chance that I have not become like those girls. It's no one's fault.”
”'There, but by the grace of G.o.d, goes John Bunyan,'” I quoted reflectively. ”You are developing philosophy, Blanquette _cherie_, and your gentle toleration of the infamous does you credit. But only the master would get what wasn't infamous out of them.”
The band struck up a waltz. Blanquette drank her syrup quickly and rose.