VERY often, instead of having dinner at the studio, we saunter over to the Maison Dar-blay, passing the wall of the dismal CimetiÈre du Montparnasse on the way. The Maison Darblay is in the little Rue de la GaietÉ, which, though only a block in length, is undoubtedly the liveliest thoroughfare in the Quartier. That is because it serves as a funnel between the Avenue du Maine and five streets that converge into it at the upper end. Particularly in the early evening the little street is crowded with people returning from their work. All sorts of boutiques are packed into this minute thoroughfare,—-jewelry-shops, pork-shops, kitchens (where they cook what you bring while you wait on the sidewalk), theatres, cafÉs chantants, fried-potato stalls, snail merchants, moving vegetable- and fruit-markets, and everything else.

In the middle of the block, on the western side, between a millinery- shop and a butcher-shop, stands the Maison Darblay, famous for its beans and its patrons. A modest white front, curtained windows, and a row of milk-cans give little hint of the charms of the interior. Upon entering we encounter the vast M. Darblay seated behind a tiny counter, upon which are heaped a pile of freshly ironed napkins, parcels of chocolate, a big dish of apple-sauce, rows of bottles containing bitters that work miracles with ailing appetites, and the tip-box. Reflecting M. Darblay's beamy back and the clock on the opposite wall (which is always fifteen minutes fast) hangs a long mirror resplendent in heavy gilt frame; it is the pride of the establishment, and affords comfort to the actresses when they adjust their hats and veils upon leaving.

M. Darblay is manager of the establishment, and when it is reflected that he weighs two hundred and sixty pounds, it may be imagined what accurate adjustments he has to make in fitting himself behind the small counter. When a boarder finishes his meal he goes to M. Darblay and tells him what he has had, including napkin and bread, and M. Darblay scores it all down on a slate with chalk and foots it up. After the bill is paid, the tip-box is supposed by a current fiction to receive two sous for Marie and Augustine, the buxom Breton maidens who serve the tables; but so rarely does the fiction materialize that, when the rattle of coins is heard in the box, the boarders all look up wonderingly to see the possible millionaire that has appeared among them, and Marie and Augustine shout at the top of their voices, "Merci bien, monsieur!"

At the opposite end of the room, in full view, is the cuisine, with its big range and ruddy fires. Here Madame Darblay reigns queen, her genial, motherly red face and bright eyes beaming a welcome to all. She is from Lausanne, on Lake Geneva, Switzerland, and the independent blood of her race rarely fails its offices when M. Darblay incautiously seeks to interfere with her duties and prerogatives, for he retreats under an appalling volley of French from his otherwise genial spouse; on such occasions he seeks his own corner as rapidly as he can manage his bulk to that purpose. She is a famous cook. The memory of her poulets rÔtis and juicy gigots will last forever. But greatest of all are her haricots blancs, cooked au beurre; it is at the shrine of her beans that her devoted followers worship.

And her wonderful wisdom! She knows intuitively if you are out of sorts or have an uncertain appetite, and without a hint she will prepare a delicacy that no epicure could resist. She knows every little whim and peculiarity of her boarders, and caters to them accordingly. The steaks and chops are bought at the shop next door just when they are ordered, and are always fresh.

There are eight marble-top tables lining the two walls, and each table is held sacred to its proper occupants, and likewise are the numbered hooks and napkins. An invasion of these preserves is a breech of etiquette intolerable in Bohemia.

Even the white cat is an essential part of the establishment, for it purringly welcomes the patrons and chases out stray dogs.

Situated as it is, in a group of three theatres and several cafÉs chantants, it is the rendezvous of the actors and actresses of the neighborhood. They hold the three tables but one from the kitchen, on one side, and they are a jolly crowd, the actresses particularly.

They are a part of the Quartier and echo its spirit. Although full of mischief and fun, the actresses would never be suspected of singing the naughty songs that so delight the gallery gods and so often wring a murmur of protest from the pit. There are ten who dine here, but from their incessant chatter and laughter you would think them twenty. On Friday evenings, when the songs and plays are changed, they rehearse their pieces at dinner.

Bishop is openly fond of Mademoiselle Brunerye, a sparkling little brunette singer, who scolds him tragically for drawing horrible caricatures of her when he sits before the footlights to hear her sing. But it is always she that begins the trouble at the theatre. If Bishop is there, she is sure to see him and to interpolate something in her song about "mon amant AmÉricain," and sing it pointedly at him, to the amusement of the audience and his great discomfiture; and so he retorts with the caricatures.

Upon entering the restaurant the actresses remove their hats and wraps and make themselves perfectly at home. They are the life of Darblay's; we couldn't possibly spare them.

One of the actors is a great swell,—M. Fontaine, leading man at the ThÉÂtre du Montparnasse, opposite.

His salary is a hundred francs a week; this makes the smaller actors look up to him, and enables him to wear a very long coat, besides gloves, patent-leather shoes, and a shiny top-hat. He occupies the place of honor, and Marie smiles when she serves him, and gives him a good measure of wine. He rewards this attention by depositing two sous in the tip-box every Friday night. Then there are M. Marius, M. Zecca, and M. Dufauj who make people scream with laughter at the GaietÉ, and M. CoppÉe, the heavy villain of the terrible eyes in "Les Deux Gosses," and Mademoiselle Walzy, whose dark eyes sparkle mischief as she peeps over her glass, and Mademoiselle Minion, who kicks shockingly high to accentuate her songs, and eight other actresses just as saucy and pretty.

The students of the Quartier practically take charge of the theatres on Saturday nights, and as they are very free with their expressions of approval or disapproval, the faces of the stage-people wear an anxious look at the restaurant on that evening. The students will throw the whole theatre into an uproar with hisses that drive an actor off the stage, or applause, recalls, and the throwing of two-sous bouquets and kisses to an actress who has made a hit.

Promptly at six-forty-five every night the venerable M. Corneau enters Darblay's, bringing a copy of Le Journal. He is extremely methodical, so that any interruption of his established routine upsets him badly. One evening he found a stranger in his seat, occupying the identical chair that had been sacred to his use every evening for six years. M. Corneau was so astonished that he hung his hat on the wrong hook, stepped on the cat's tail, sulked in a corner, and refused to eat until his seat had been vacated, and then he looked as though he wished it could be fumigated. He has a very simple meal. One evening he invited me—a rare distinction—to his room, which was in the top floor of one of those quaint old buildings in the Rue du Moulin de Beurre. It could then be seen what a devoted scientist and student he was. His room was packed with books, chemicals, mineral specimens, and scientific instruments. He was very genial, and brewed excellent tea over an alcohol-stove of his own manufacture. Twenty years ago he was a professor at the Ecole des Mines, where he had served many years; but he had now grown too old for that, and was living his quiet, studious, laborious life on a meagre pension.

At one table sit a sculptor, an artist, and a blind musician and his wife. The sculptor is slender, delicate, and nervous, and is continually rolling and smoking cigarettes. His blond hair falls in ringlets over his collar, and he looks more the poet than the sculptor, for he is dreamy and distrait, and seems to be looking within himself rather than upon the world about him. Augustine serves him with an absinthe Pernod au sucre, which he slowly sips while he smokes several cigarettes before he is ready for his dinner.

The artist is his opposite,—a big, bluff, hearty fellow, loud of voice and full of life. And he is successful, for he has received a medal and several honorable mentions at the Salon des Champs-ÉlysÉes, and has a fine twilight effect in the Luxembourg Gallery. After dinner he and M. Darblay play piquet for the coffee, and M. Darblay is generally loser.

The blind musician is a kindly old man with a benevolent face and a jovial spirit. He is the head professor of music at the Institution des Aveugles, on the Boulevard des Invalides. His wife is very attentive to him, taking his hat and cane, tucking his napkin under his chin, placing the dishes where he knows how to find them, and reading the papers to him. He knows where everybody sits, and he addresses each by name, and passes many brisk sallies about the room.

One poet is vivacious, not at all like the dreamy species to which he belongs. True, he wears long hair and a Quartier Latin "plug," but his eyes are not vague, and he is immensely fond of Madame Darblay's beans, of which he has been known to stow away five platefuls at a meal. Often he brings in a copy of Gil Bias, containing a poem by himself in the middle of the page and with illustrations by Steinlen.

A strange, solitary figure used to sit in one corner, speaking to no one, and never ordering more than a bowl of chocolate and two sous of bread. It was known merely that he was an Hungarian and an artist, and from his patched and frayed clothes and meagre fare it was surmised that he was poor. But he had a wonderful face. Want was plainly stamped upon it, but behind it shone a determination and a hope that nothing could repress. There was not a soul among the boarders but that would have been glad to assist in easing whatever burden sat upon him, and no doubt it was his suspicion of that fact and his dread of its manifestation that made him hold absolutely aloof. Madame Darblay once or twice made efforts to get nearer to him, but he gently and firmly repulsed her. He was a pitiable figure, but his pride was invincible, and with eyes looking straight forward, he held up his head and walked like a king. He came and went as a shadow.

None knew where he had a room. There were many stories and conjectures about him, but he wrapped his mantle of mystery and solitude about him and was wholly inaccessible. It was clear to see that he lived in another world,—a world of hopes, filled with bright images of peace and renown. After a time his seat became vacant, and I shall presently tell how it happened.

These will suffice as types of the Maison Darblay, though I might mention old M. Decamp, eighty-four years of age, and as hearty and jovial a man as one would care to see. In his younger days he had been an actor, having had a fame during the Empire of NapolÉon III. And there were a professor of languages, who gave lessons at fifteen sous an hour, a journalist of the Figaro, and two pretty milliner girls from the shop next door.

The great event at the Maison Darblay came not long ago, when M. Darblay's two charming daughters had a double wedding, each with a comfortable dot, for M. Darblay had grown quite rich out of his restaurant, owning several new houses. The girls were married twice,—once at the Mairie on the Rue Gassendi, and again at the Eglise St. Pierre, on the Avenue du Maine. Then came the great wedding-dinner at the Maison Darblay, to which all the boarders were invited. The tables were all connected, so as to make two long rows. The bridal-party were seated at the end next the kitchen, and the front door was locked to exclude strangers. M. Darblay was elegant in a new dress suit and white shirt, but his tailor, in trying to give him a trim figure, made the situation embarrassing, as M. Darblay's girth steadily increased during the progress of the banquet. He made a very fine speech, which was uproariously cheered.

Madame Darblay was remarkably handsome in a red satin gown, and bore so distinguished an air, and looked so transformed from her usual kitchen appearance, that we could only marvel and admire. Then came the kissing of the brides, a duty that was performed most heartily. Madame Darblay was very happy and proud, and her dinner was a triumph to have lived for.

Bishop sat opposite the wicked Mademoiselle Brunerye, and he and she made violent love, and behaved with conspicuous lack of dignity. M. Fontaine, the great, had one of the chic milliners for partner. Old M. Decamp told some racy stories of the old rÉgime. When the coffee and liqueurs came on, the big artist brought out a guitar and the poet a mandolin, and we had music. Then the poet read a poem that he had written for the occasion. The actresses sang their sprightliest songs. Mademoiselle Brunerye sang "Ça fait toujours plaisir" to Bishop. M. Fontaine gave in a dramatic manner a scene from "Les Deux Gosses," the heavy villain assisting, the cook's aprons and towels serving to make the costumes. Bishop sang "Down on the Farm." In short, it was a splendid evening in Bohemia, of a kind that Bohemians enjoy and know how to make the most of.

There was one silent guest, the strange young Hungarian artist. He ate with a ravenous appetite, openly and unashamed. After he had had his fill (and Madame Darblay saw to it that he found his plate always replenished), he smiled occasionally at the bright sallies of the other guests, but for the most part he sat constrained, and would speak only when addressed,—he protested that his French was too imperfect. It was so evident that he wished to escape notice entirely that no serious effort was made to draw him out.

That was a hard winter. A few weeks after the wedding the Hungarian's visits to the Maison Dar-blay suddenly ceased. The haunted look had been deepening in his eyes, his gaunt cheeks had grown thinner, and he looked like a hunted man. After his disappearance the gendarmes came to the restaurant to make inquiries about him. Bishop and I were present. They wanted to know if the young man had any friends there. We told them that we would be his friends.

"Then you will take charge of his body?" they asked.

We followed them to the Rue Perceval, where they turned us over to the concierge of an old building. She was very glad we had come, as the lad seemed not to have had a friend in the world. She led us up to the sixth floor, and then pointed to a ladder leading up to the roof. We ascended it, and found a box built on the roof. It gave a splendid view of Paris. The door of the box was closed. We opened it, and the young artist lay before us dead. There were two articles of furniture in the room. One was the bare mattress on the floor, upon which he lay, and the other was an old dresser, from which some of the drawers were missing. The young man lay drawn up, fully dressed, his coat-collar turned up about his ears. Thus he had fallen asleep, and thus hunger and cold had slain him as he slept. There was one thing else in the room, all besides, including the stove and the bed-covering, having gone for the purchase of painting material. It was an unfinished oil-painting of the Crucifixion. Had he lived to finish it, I am sure it would have made him famous, if for nothing else than the wonderful expression of agony in the Saviour's face, an agony infinitely worse than the physical pain of the crucifixion could have produced.

There was still one thing more,—a white rat that was, hunting industriously for food, nibbling desiccated cheese-rinds that it found on the shelves against the wall. It had been the artist's one friend and companion in life.

And all that, too, is a part of life in Bohemian Paris.

On the Rue Marie, not far from the Gare Montparnasse, is the "Club," a small and artistically dirty wine-shop and restaurant, patronized by a select crowd of musketeers of the brush. The warm, dark tones of the anciently papered walls are hidden beneath a cloud of oil sketches, charcoal drawings, and caricatures of everything and everybody that the fancies of the Bohemians could devise. Madame Annaie is mistress of the establishment, and her cook, M. Annaie, wears his cap rakishly on one side, and attends to his business; and he makes very good potages and rÔtis, considering the small prices that are charged. Yet even the prices, though the main attraction, are paid with difficulty by a majority of the habituÉs, who sometimes fall months in arrears. Madame Annaie keeps a big book of accounts.

Of the members of the club, four are Americans, two Spaniards, one an Italian, one a Welshman, one a Pole, one a Turk, one a Swiss, and the rest French,—just fifteen in all, and all sculptors and painters except one of the Americans, who is correspondent of a New York paper. At seven o'clock every evening the roll is called by the Pole, who acts as president, secretary, and treasurer of the club. A fine of two sous is imposed for every absence; this goes to the "smoker" fund. Joanskouie, the multiple officer, has not many burdensome duties, but even these few are a severe tax upon his highly nervous temperament. Besides collecting the fines he must gather up also the dues, which are a franc a month. All the members are black-listed, including the president himself, and the names of the delinquents are posted on the wall.

The marble-top tables are black with pencil sketches done at the expense of Giles, the Welshman, who is the butt of the club. He is a very tall and amazingly lean Welshman, with a bewhiskered face, a hooked nose, and a frightful accent when he speaks either English or French. He is an animal sculptor, but leaves his art carefully alone. He is very clever at drawing horses, dogs, and funny cows all over the walls; but he is so droll and stupid, so incredibly stupid, that "Giles" is the byword of the club. Every month he receives a remittance of two hundred and fifty francs, and immediately starts out to get the full worth of it in the kinds of enjoyment that he finds on the Boul' Mich', where regularly once a month he is a great favorite with the feminine habituÉs of the cafÉs. When his funds run low, he lies perdu till mid-day; then he appears at Madame Annaie's, heavy-eyed and stupid, staying until midnight. Sometimes he varies this routine by visiting his friends at their studios, where he is made to pose in ridiculous attitudes.

The "smoker" is held on the last Saturday night of each month, and all the members are present. Long clay pipes are provided, and a big bowl of steaming punch, highly seasoned, comes from Madame Annaie's kitchen. Mutually laudatory speeches and toasts, playing musical instruments, and singing songs are in order. The Spaniard, with castanets, skilfully executes the fandango on a table. Bishop does the danse du ventre. Joncierge gives marvellous imitations of Sarah Bernhardt and other celebrities, including Giles, whose drawl and stupidity he makes irresistibly funny. Nor do GÉrÔme, Bouguereau, and Benjamin Constant escape his mimicry. Haidor, the Turk, drawls a Turkish song all out of tune, and is rapturously encored. The Swiss and the Italian render a terrific duo from "Aida," and the Spaniards sing the "Bullfighters' Song" superbly. Sketches are dashed off continually. They are so clever that it is a pity Madame Annaie has to wipe them from the tables.

On Thanksgiving-day the Americans gave the club a Thanksgiving dinner. It was a great mystery and novelty to the other members, but they enjoyed it hugely. The turkeys were found without much trouble, but the whole city had to be searched for cranberries. At last they were found in a small grocery-shop in the American quarter, on the Avenue Wagram. Bishop superintended the cooking, M. Annaie serving as first assistant. How M. Annaie stared when he beheld the queer American mixtures that Bishop was concocting! "Mon Dieu! Not sugar with meat!" he cried, aghast, seeing Bishop serve the turkey with cranberry sauce. A dozen delicious pumpkin-pies that formed part of the menu staggered the old cook. The Italian cooked a pot of macaroni with mushroom sauce, and it was superb.

"The Hole in the Wall" eminently deserves its name. It is on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, within two blocks of the Bal Bullier. A small iron sign projecting over the door depicts two students looking down at the passers-by over bowls of coffee, rolls also being shown. It was painted by an Austrian student in payment of a month's board.

The Hole is a tiny place, just sufficiently large for its two tables and eight stools, fat Madame Morel, the proprietress, and a miniature zinc bar filled with absinthe and cognac bottles and drinking glasses.

The ceiling is so low that you must bend should you be very tall, for overhead is the sleeping-room of Madame Morel and her niece; it is reached by a small spiral stair.

A narrow slit in the floor against the wall, where the napkin-box hangs, leads down to the dark little kitchen. It is a tight squeeze for Madame Morel to serve her customers, but she has infinite patience and geniality, and discharges her numerous duties and bears her hardships with unfailing good-nature. It is no easy task to cook a halfdozen orders at once, wait on the tables, run out to the butcher-shop for a chop or a steak, and take in the cash. But she does all this, and much more, having no assistant. The old concierge next door, Madame Mariolde, runs in to help her occasionally, when she can spare a moment from her own multifarious duties. Madame Morel's toil-worn hands are not bien propre, but she has a kind heart. For seven years she has lived in this little Hole, and during that time has never been farther away than to the grocery-shop on the opposite corner.

Her niece leaves at seven o'clock in the morning to sew all day on the other side of town, returning at eight at night, tired and listless, but always with a half-sad smile. So we see little of her. Many nights I have seen her come in drenched and cold, her faded straw hat limp and askew, and her dark hair clinging to her wet face. For she has walked in the rain all the way from the Avenue de l'OpÉra, unable to afford omnibus fare. She usually earns from two to two and half francs a day, sewing twelve hours.

The most interesting of the frequenters of the Hole is a Slav from Trieste, on the Adriatic. He is a genius in his way, and full of energy and business sense. His vocation is that of a "lightning-sketch artist," performing at the theatres. He has travelled all over America and Europe, and is thoroughly hardened to the ways of the world. Whenever he runs out of money he goes up to the Rue de la GaietÉ and gives exhibitions for a week or two at one of the theatres there, receiving from fifty to sixty francs a week. The students all go to see him, and make such a noise and throw so many bouquets (which he returns for the next night) that the theatrical managers, thinking he is a great drawing-card, generally raise his salary as an inducement to make him prolong his stay when he threatens to leave.

But he is too thoroughly a Bohemian to remain long in a place. Last week he suddenly was taken with a desire to visit Vienna. Soon after he had gone four pretty Parisiennes called and wanted to know what had become of their amant.

D———, another of the habituÉs of the Hole, is a German musical student. Strangers would likely think him mentally deranged, so odd is his conduct.

He has two other peculiarities,—extreme sensitiveness and indefatigable industry. He brings his shabby violin-case every evening, takes out his violin after dinner, and at once becomes wholly absorbed in his practice. If he would play something more sprightly and pleasing the other habituÉs of the Hole would not object; but he insists on practising the dreariest, heaviest, and most wearing exercises, the most difficult Études, and the finest compositions of the masters. All this is more than the others can bear with patience always; so they wound his sensibilities by throwing bread and napkin-rings at him. I hen he retires to the kitchen, where, sitting on the cooler end of the range, he practises diligently under Madame Morel's benevolent protection. This is all because he has never found a concierge willing to permit him to study in his room, so tireless is his industry. If I do not mistake, this strange young man will be heard from some day.

Then there is W———, a student in sculpture, with exceptionally fine talent. He had been an American cowboy, and no trooper could swear more eloquently. He has been making headway, for the Salon has given him honorable mention for a strong bronze group of fighting tigers. His social specialty is poker-playing, and he has brought the entire Hole under the spell of that magic game.

Herr Prell, from Munich, takes delight in torturing the other habituÉs with accounts of dissections, as he is a medical student at the AcadÉmie de MÉdecine. The Swede, who drinks fourteen absinthes a day, throws stools at Herr Prell, and tries in other ways to make him fight; but Herr Prell only laughs, and gives another turn of the dissection-screw.

The glee club is one of the features of the Hole. It sings every night, but its supreme effort comes when one of the patrons of the Hole departs for home. On such occasions the departing comrade has to stand the dinner for all, after which, with its speeches and toasts, he is escorted to the railway station with great Éclat, and given a hearty farewell, the glee club singing the parting song at the station. Bishop is leading tenor of the glee club.