In my almost daily perambulations through the brilliant, through the drab, and through the ambiguous quarters of Paris, I constantly come upon street scenes that bring me inquisitively to a standstill. Not that they are particularly novel or startling. Indeed, to the Parisian they are such banal, everyday spectacles that he passes them by without so much as a glance. But for me, familiar though I am with the physiognomy of the Amazing City, these street scenes, amusing or pathetic, sentimental or grim, possess an indefinable, a never-failing charm.

For instance, I dote on a certain ragged, weather-beaten old fellow who is always and always to be discovered, on a boulevard bench, under a dim gas-lamp, at the precise hour of eleven. Across his knees—unfolded—a newspaper. And spread forth on the newspaper, scores and scores of cigarette ends and cigar stumps, which have been industriously amassed in the streets, and on the terraces of cafÉs, during the day. Every night, on this same boulevard bench, at the same hour of eleven, the old fellow counteth up his spoil.

“Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven,” he mutters.

“Eh bien, le vieux, how are affairs?” asks a policeman. But the old fellow, bent in half over the newspaper, hears him not. When—O joy!—he comes upon a particularly fine bit of cigar, he holds it up to the gas-lamp, measures it closely with his eye, then packs it carefully away in his waistcoat pocket. But when—O gloom!—he has a long run of bad luck in the way of wretched, almost tobaccoless cigarette ends, he breaks out into guttural expressions of indignation and disgust.

The night wears on. Up go the shutters of the little wine-shop opposite. Rarely a passer-by. Scarcely a sound.

“One hundred and two. One hundred and three. One hundred and four,” counts the weather-beaten old fellow under the gas-lamp.

Then, the street singers of Paris, with harmonium, violin and a bundle of tender, sentimental songs. Four of them, as a rule; four men in jerseys, scarlet waistbands and blue corduroy trousers. They, too, come out particularly at night and establish themselves under a gas-lamp. And all around them stand charming, bareheaded girls from the neighbouring blanchisseries and milliners’ shops; and the adorers of those maidens—young, amorous MM. Georges, Ernest and Henri—from the grocer’s, the butcher’s, the printer’s; and workmen and charwomen and concierges; and probably a cabman or two, and most likely a soldier, a lamp-lighter, a policeman.

“Love is Always in Season, the latest and greatest of valse-songs, created by the incomparable Mayol,” announces the vocalist. A chord from the harmonium and violin, and the singer, in a not unmelodious voice, proceeds to assure us that “though the snow may fall, or the skies may frown, or the seas may roar, Love, sweet love, is Always in Season.”

General applause. Cries of “C’est chic, Ça” from the charming, bareheaded girls. Sighs and sentimental glances from their faithful adorers.

“Buy Love is Always in Season. Only two sous, only two sous! The Greatest, the most Exquisite valse-song of the day,” cries the vocalist, holding up copies of the song. “Buy it at once, and we will sing it all together.”

At least twenty copies are sold. “Attention,” cries the vocalist. And then, under the gas-lamp, what a spectacle and what song! Everyone sings; yes, even this huge, apoplectic cabman: “Though the snow may fall....” Everyone sings: the soldier, the workmen, the decrepit old charwomen: “Though the skies may frown....” Everyone sings: the very policeman’s lips are moving. And how the charming, bareheaded girls sing and sing; and how amorously, how passionately do their adorers raise their voices: “Though the seas may roar.... What matter, what matter!... Since love, sweet love, is always in season!”

Of course children, with their lively, irresponsible games, provide delightful street scenes. No piano-organs, alas! to which they may dance. We have but three or four piano-organs in Paris, and these play only in elegant quarters, for the pleasure of portly, solemn butlers. However, the children hold theatrical performances on the pavement, which, if animated and dramatic, are scarcely convincing; indeed they must be pronounced bewildering, chaotic. RenÉ, aged six, proclaims himself Napoleon; Jeanne, his sister, declares herself Sarah Bernhardt; AndrÉ strangely states that he is an Aeroplane; others most incoherently become a Horse, the President of the Republic, Aunt Berthe, a Steamer on the Seine, the Dog at the neighbouring chemist’s, and (this, a favourite, amazing rÔle) the Eiffel Tower! Then, when the parts have been duly selected, after no end of wrangling, then, the play! Much extraordinary dialogue between Napoleon and the divine Sarah; more between the Eiffel Tower and the President of the Republic; still more between the Aeroplane, the Seine Steamer and Aunt Berthe. And then dancing and singing and skipping and——

Well, at once the most irresponsible and irresistible street scene in Paris. Or, at least, second only in irresponsibility to the fÊtes of Mardi Gras and Mi-CarÊme.

Year after year, the cynic is to be heard declaring that confetti has “gone out” and that no one really rejoices at carnival time; but year after year, when Mardi Gras and Mi-CarÊme come round, confetti flies swiftly and thickly and gaily in Paris, and only a rare, elegant boulevardier, or some dull, heavy bourgeois remains indifferent to the excitement of the scene.

Confetti, in fact, everywhere! Already at nine o’clock this morning—blithe morning of Mardi Gras—it has got on to my staircase, and from thence into the dining-room and on to the breakfast-table. Suddenly, confetti in my coffee. A moment later, confetti on the butter. And when I unfold the newspapers, a shower of confetti.

“It is extraordinary,” I murmur to the servant.

“Most certainly, confetti is extraordinary,” she assents. “It goes where it pleases; it does what it likes; it respects nobody and nothing—impossible to stop it.”

“And only nine o’clock in the morning,” I remark, removing a new speck of confetti from the butter.

“At seven o’clock, when I went to Mass, it had got into the church,” relates my servant. “It was also in the sacristy when I went to see M. le CurÉ. Truly, it is the most astonishing thing in the world; and yet it is only a little bit of coloured paper.”

As time wears on the tradesmen’s assistants bring more confetti into the house. Somehow or other it enters my boots, and finds a resting-place in my pockets. At luncheon, lots of confetti. At dinner, pink, green, yellow, orange and purple confetti with every course. And when at eight o’clock I set forth to view the rejoicings on the Grands Boulevards, my servant, leaning over the banisters, impudently pelts me with confetti.

A cold night and occasionally a shower—but the boulevards are thronged with I don’t know how many thousands of Parisians. Here, there and everywhere electrical advertising signs dance and blink dizzily. Each cafÉ is brilliantly illuminated. More pale, fierce light from the street lamps. And, heavens! what a din of voices, and whistles, and musical instruments!

“Who is without confetti? Who is without confetti?” shout scores of men, women and children, holding up long, bulky paper bags, supposed to contain two pounds of the bright-coloured stuff. And the bags sell and sell. And the little rounds of paper fly and fly. And down they fall in their hundreds of thousands on to the ground, making it a soft, agreeable carpet of confetti.

Of course, no traffic. In the midst of the crowd groups of policemen; and the policemen are pelted, and the policemen must shake confetti out of eyes, and beards, and ears, and moustaches. However, they are amiable; and, indeed, everyone is good-tempered. No rudeness and no roughness. Here is Edouard, aged eight, in the crowd—dressed as a soldier, with a wooden gun and a paper helmet. There is Yvonne, aged seven, in the throng—all in white, with a wand tied at the top with a huge creamy bow. And Edouard and Yvonne are perfectly safe. And that old married couple—plainly from the provinces—are entirely safe. And——

A splash of confetti in my face. Then, a deluge of confetti over my hat. And I am pleased, and I am flattered; for my assailant is an English girl, with blue eyes, and gold hair, and an incomparable complexion.

Despite the cold, every seat and every table on the terraces of the cafÉs are occupied. Past the terraces surges the crowd, casting confetti at the glasses of beer, coffee and liqueurs, which the consumers have carefully covered over with saucers. But, always unconquerable, the confetti enters the glasses; and thus one drinketh benedictine À la confetti, and chartreuse À la confetti, and——

“Who wants a nose? Who wants a nose?” shouts a hawker, holding up a collection of long, vivid red noses. And the red noses are bought; and so, too, are false beards and moustaches, and artificial eyebrows, and huge cardboard ears.

Then, what costumes in the crowd! Of course, any number of pierrots and clowns, who gesticulate and grimace; and ladies in dominoes, and men in heavy scarlet mantles and black masks. Over there, an Arab; here, a Greek soldier in the Albanian kilt—the picturesque “fustanella.” And confetti—red, blue, yellow, green, white, orange, purple—sprinkled over, and clinging to, all these different costumes, and flying above them and all around them, a fantastic spectacle!

Confetti, again, in the fur coats of chauffeurs; a whirl of it—bright yellow—around three colossal negroes from darkest Africa; and a fierce battle of it, waged by an admiring Parisian against two fascinating young ladies from New York. Darkest Africa grins, displaying glistening white teeth. New York utters shrill little cries. And Motordom—represented by the three chauffeurs—imitates the many savage sounds emitted by 60-horse-power machines.

“Your health!” cries a clown, plunging a handful of confetti into a glass which, for only a second or two, has remained uncovered.

“Vive la Vie! Vive la Vie!” shout a procession of students from the Latin Quarter.

“Who is without Confetti? Who wants a nose? Who desires a moustache?” yell the hawkers.

And now, rain. Down it comes, finely, steadily, soddening the carpet of confetti, spotting the fantastic costumes, scattering the crowd. Edouard (in his paper helmet) and Yvonne (with her wand) are hurried along homewards—much against their will—by their parents; the hawkers disappear with the remaining paper bags; the dizzy advertising signs give a last blink and go out; the policemen congregate beneath the street lamps and in doorways—the carnival is over.

However, memories remain, and these memories are—confetti.

It has flown, but it has not gone. Every hour of every day, for many a week, it will turn up in one’s home, in one’s clothing, at one’s meals... still bold, vivid, ungovernable, unconquerable....

And now, after colour and gaiety—ambiguity, gloom. Away to remote, neglected corners of Paris; to the terrain vague—the waste ground—of the Amazing City, which, this particular afternoon, lies steeped in a damp fog, and strewn with sodden newspapers and broken bottles, and pots and pans without handles, hats without brims, and battered old shoes. On the waste, prowling about amidst the wreckage, a gaunt, vagabond cat. Gathering together odds and ends, the aged, bent chiffonniÈre—a hag of a woman, half demented, with fingers like claws, that go scraping and digging about in the refuse. Then three ragged children—skeletons almost—also interested in the rubbish, who are savagely snarled at by the chiffonniÈre when they approach her preserves. Fog, damp and puddles. Mounds of overturned earth, subsidences, crevices. A rusty engine lying disabled on its side. Quantities of coarse, savage thistles. Gloom unrelieved. The chiffonniÈre and the ragged children becoming more and more ghostly and ghastly in the half-light. The kind of scene depicted so tragically by the great-hearted Steinlen, and sung of so despairingly by the humane poet, Rictus. Sung of, too, by lesser poets than the author of the Soliloque d’un Pauvre. For terrain vague is a favourite theme with the chansonniers of Montmartre, and in their songs they are fond of describing how they have passed from comfortable, bourgeois neighbourhoods on to “waste ground.” The bourgeois was dozing in his chair; Madame la Bourgeoise was knitting a hideous woollen shawl; Mademoiselles the three daughters were respectively tinkling away at the piano, pasting picture cards into an album, absorbing a sickly novel. As a heartrending, an overwhelming contrast, behold—after the snugness of the bourgeoisie—the wretchedness, the misÈre noire of the human phantoms poking about on the waste ground!

“Would that I had a bourgeois here on this terrain vague; a bourgeois I might terrify and harrow!” declaim the realistic chansonniers of the Montmartre cabarets. “‘Bourgeois,’ I would cry, ‘what do you see? Bourgeois, look well, look again, look always. Bourgeois, do you understand? It is well, wretched, cowardly Bourgeois—you tremble!’”

No less attracted by terrain vague are the frail, wistful poets of Paris, the poets (as they have been so admirably denominated) of “mists and half-moons, dead leaves and lost illusions.” On to the waste they bring Pierrot, their favourite, eternal hero. Midnight has long struck. A half-moon casts silvery shafts on to the wreckage—and on to Pierrot, who, as he stands there forlornly amidst the debris, proceeds to disclose the secret: “Pourquoi sont pÂles les Pierrots....” Only the cheeks of the vulgar are rosy; for the vulgar cannot feel. But the artist is stung day after day by ironies, cruelties, bitter awakenings—and so is frail, and so is pale. How he suffers, how tragically is he disillusioned! There was a blonde... but she was capricious. There was a brune... but she, too, was fickle. There was a rousse, an auburn-haired goddess... but alas! she also was false. And Pierrot sobs. And Pierrot goes on his knees to the half-moon. And Pierrot prays. And suddenly a radiant figure appears on the waste ground, and a sweet, melodious voice murmurs: “Why sigh for the blonde? Why grieve for the brune? Why weep for the rousse? Am I not enough?” And Pierrot, looking up with his pale, tear-stained face, beholds his Muse, smiling down upon him—

Farther away—away, this time, to one of the environs of Paris, and down there, by the river-side, the annual fÊte. Not an empty corner, not a vacant space; nothing but booths, “side-shows,” shooting-galleries, roundabouts, caravans—“all the fun of the fair.” Confusion, exhilaration, and a hundred different, frenzied sounds. All this babel lasts a week; but at the end of the week, departure and gloom. Gone the caravans and their picturesque inmates. Gone the “distractions.” There stood the shooting-gallery, with its targets, grotesque dummies and strings of clay pipes. One fired twice for a penny. If successful, one was rewarded with paper flowers, or a shocking cigar, or (in exceptional cases) a strident alarm clock; if a bad marksman, one was consoled with a slice of hard, gritty ginger-bread. Farther on revolved the roundabout. One rode a rickety steed, with only one stirrup. One turned to the accompaniment of a husky, exhausted old organ. What appalling liberties it took with the Valse Bleue! Next, one visited the palmist, inspected a seedy lion, stared at optical illusions, shook hands with a dwarf, bought sticks of nougat, rode again on the round about, returned to——

But all over now, and nothing but memories and souvenirs about: broken clay pipes, splinters of bottles and wood, shavings, scraps of cloth, hand-bills and rusty, bent nails, the eternal old battered hat, the equally inevitable old boot, and a hoof or two from the rickety horses that revolved to the haunting tune of the Valse Bleue.

The usual mounds of refuse. Also, the turf damaged with ruts, and burnt away in places by the fair people’s fires. The annual fÊte over, not a soul but myself loiters on this portion of the Seine river-bank. Only gloom and desolation. Nothing but waste. Again, terrain vague.