THE CAFÉ DU PROGRÈS

The CafÉ de ProgrÈs stands in the Rue de —— half-way down to the river. It's the place where merchants most do congregate. The manager of the Banque de —— leads them. The place that the first bank manager in the town frequents daily is thereby given a tone which no other cafÉ in D—— can have. So it is the first among the lounging-places only. That leads to a rough division of all the cafÉs in the town into two great classes: those you lounge and drink in, and those to which you go for a meal. In the one you will see the French relaxing (there are some rich "retired" gentlemen who do nothing but relax); in the other you will see the English officer satisfying his hunger more or less incontinently. Need I say which is the place of interest?

Our favourite seat used to be upon a small dais in recess overlooking the billiard-table immediately and the whole room generally. Its only disadvantage was that it did not overlook that other recess—separated from it by a partition—in which ThÉrÈse mixed the drinks and brewed the coffee.

The billiard-table occupied one-half the room; the other half centred round the stove. The tables were arranged in concentric circles about it. The regular denizens of the place—the men who lived there—would, during the snow, come early, occupy the innermost circle of tables, and omit to move out until sundown. And sometimes they would stay far into the night. The retired business-man is more amenable to a sense of cosiness than any other mortal of his age. He would get ThÉrÈse to bring him snacks—they were not meals—at intervals during the day. And there he would settle himself, with his boon companions, for twelve hours on end.

Cards is the diversion: cards and dominoes. The habitual inner circle there is made up by the proprietor, the ex-Mayor of the town, le directeur de la Banque de ——, and the manager of the Usine de ——. The last named used to have inscrutable spells of absence—inscrutable until it was explained that the occasion was the visit of M. —— the elder, himself, from Paris—a man of iron and the proprietor of the Usine. He it was who quelled with his own hand and voice an ugly strike of his ouvriers who dared ask for more money.

The ex-Mayor was never absent. He was a well preserved old dog whom no severity of weather was allowed to keep from the post of duty by the stove. The whole room was obsequious to him by force of habit. He was the presiding genius over the cafÉ: he, rather than the proprietor himself. He would come rolling in, and fairly rattle the glasses with his "Bonjour, messieurs!" He usually walked over to the buffet before seating himself, and, if so minded, greeted ThÉrÈse with a fatherly kiss, which she—poor girl!—thought dignified her; whereas ThÉrÈse, to be accurate, was worth far more than the embraces of this pompous old aristocrat. With his intimates he shook hands noisily, and slapped them on the back. The herd half-rose in its seat throughout the room in traditional deference. I suspect it was the general obsequiousness, rather than the interest of the game, or of the company, which brought the old egoist here daily.

The directeur of the bank is not worth considering. He was the incarnation of obsequiousness. It was plain that he had habitually sold his soul to patrons. And since it is likely that at one time the ex-Mayor was his chief patron (and perhaps was so still), you will believe that he was more slavish toward him than the humblest townsman sipping his cognac. You almost looked for him to lick his master's mighty hand.

The proprietor was a sinewy fellow who had been a soldier. It was wounds he had had; which had not, however, incapacitated him for vigorous action. Also, he had been a prisoner of war in Germany. These German experiences he would recount to you with much wealth of gesture, and a wealth of exaggeration too, if by chance—or by design—he were drunk enough. He was in a state of perennial intoxication; at any hour of any day or night it was only a question of degree.

In the game of cards in a French cafÉ the stake is superfluous. Englishmen profess they require the stake to hold their interest. Usually the French play with counters only. The interest of the game is enough. It is a very voluble game with them. They excite themselves seemingly beyond all reason. You might imagine them a nest of pirates, inflamed with liquor, playing in some den of the sea with fair captives for stakes. These French enthusiasts upset the drink by thumping down their cards. They have rare disputes; but they are not quarrels.

ThÉrÈse is the girl who carries drinks. She has dimples and a happy smile. French girls are either very free or super-continent; there is no middle course. ThÉrÈse is of the latter class, but not puritanical. Subalterns have been seen attempting to kiss her in the seclusion of a recess. They have been routed. The only occasion on which ThÉrÈse allowed herself to be kissed was New Year's Day. Then it was general. Everyone was doing it—in the street—the merest acquaintances. That day ThÉrÈse submits as a matter of course. That day, too, the ex-Mayor gallantly embraced that old hag, her aunt, to the diversion of the populace.

The aunt brews and dispenses behind the buffet. She objects to ThÉrÈse's loitering when she serves, even though loitering may be good for trade. ThÉrÈse describes her as a very sober-minded woman.

The billiard-table attracts a lot of attention—from onlookers as well as from players. There the directeur of the banque plays his chief accountant and drinks champagne and grenadine between the shots—a poisonous combination, that, but a popular. The French like things sweet, and they like them definitely coloured. The directeur is a handsome fellow, with a perfectly balanced head and a curiously pleasing harmony of nose and chin in profile. His accountant is a loose-looking youth.

The billiard-table is a favourite resort of officers' batmen. They have nothing else to do, and they can play half a day for almost nothing at all. I always remember an acute-looking Scotch batman in kilts (servant to the Rents-Officer). He was proud of his calves and of his French—and (justly) of his billiards. He could bring discomfiture upon any Frenchman who would play with him. He is the sort of officer's servant (and there are many of them, the voluptuous dogs!) who could carry a commission with ease and credit. But they prefer the whole days of idleness on which they are free to follow their own devices.

The facteurs drop in for a drink on their rounds. They hobnob here a great part of the day, seemingly. And there is poor Marcelle at the pork-shop pining for the letter from her garÇon in the line which this gossiping dog has in his serviette beside the cognac. All facteurs are discharged soldiers, and should know better. There is, I fear, but a belated delivery of letters in this easy-going old town.

On market-day the cafÉ is filled with les paysans, who have come in to vend their pigs and cattle, rabbits, eggs, butter, and vegetables. The elderly ladies from the farms, with their generous growth of moustache, sit and drink neat cognac with a masculinity that is but fitting. The young girls sip white wine. The old men gossip, between draughts, with their pipes trembling in their toothless gums. There are no young men.