Here, under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, congregate old actors and old actresses, who are engaged either at vast, shabby, outlying theatres (Batignolles, Ternes, Belleville, Bouffes du Nord), or who are only awaiting an engagement somewhere, anywhere.

Old actors and actresses on the kerbstone, old actors and old actresses in this dingy little cafÉ, with the hard benches, grimy windows and dusty floor. Among the old actors, old Cottin.

How, as he stands dejectedly on the kerbstone or sits gloomily before his glass of coffee, how, if he liked, could old Cottin amuse and surprise us with his tales! His Majesty King Edward VII., when Prince of Wales, was pleased to compliment old Cottin on his humorous expression and wink and grin; old Cottin who has lost that grin, and whose expression is more tragic than comic, and whose dim eye winks no longer. The name—“Cottin”—appeared in gigantic characters on the bills; the entrance of Cottin was the signal for laughter and applause. But if ever the name of Cottin again appear on a theatrical poster it will be in some obscure, out-of-the-way theatre; and if ever Cottin again addresses an audience it will be feebly, unspontaneously, from a rough, draughty old stage. And if we could witness the awakening and rising of old Cottin in his chilly little attic, we should not see him attended by a valet as in former days: but assist at the spectacle of old Cottin brushing vehemently away at his threadbare clothes, and stitching up a rent with a darning needle, and clipping the fray from off his collars and cuffs with blunt, rusty scissors, and generally aspiring to smarten himself up, with the object of obtaining an engagement somewhere, anywhere.

Under the shadow of the great Porte St-Martin, on the kerbstone or in the dingy little cafÉ, in his greasy hat and threadbare clothes, old Cottin awaits the arrival of small suburban or provincial managers. It is their practice to come here when in need of an actor who will play innumerable rÔles, at forty or fifty francs a week; and they pick out their actors brusquely, roughly, and with many a coarse joke. But once old Cottin dealt only with renowned, illustrious managers.

“Mon bon Cottin,” said the renowned, illustrious managers.

“Mon cher directeur,” said the renowned, illustrious Cottin.

“Epatant, Étourdissant, extraordinaire,” was the boulevardier’s enthusiastic appreciation of Cottin.

Poor old Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre!

Let us not go prying into the secrets of Cottin’s life; the cause of his gloom and downfall is not our affair. Nor are we entitled to search the careers of these other old actors and actresses who, perhaps in their day, were almost as famous as Cottin; and who, like him, have very much come down in the world. Anyhow, there is genuine, friendly sympathy between these shabby, clean-shaven old fellows—and also between their sisters, who are over-stout or over-thin, over-“made-up” or over-pale, over-garrulous or over-still. In this cafÉ, they are chez eux, they are en famille. In this cafÉ, they speak frankly, easily of themselves. Madame Marguerite de BrÉmont, for instance: a woman of sixty, with great black eyebrows, a powdered face, and a deep, deep voice. Enormous is Madame Marguerite de BrÉmont, who is cast for the part of chiffonniÈre, mad-woman, hideous, unnatural mother, at the Batignolles Theatre, at forty-five francs a week. With her, a shabby black bag, and also, as a last coquetterie, a black satin reticule, from which she occasionally produces an old powder puff, and a handkerchief edged (by her own hand) with coarse yellow lace. Such a deep, deep voice, and such sweeping, melodramatic gestures with, alas! rough, large hands. Forty-five francs a week, but, honour of honours, a benefit performance this summer. And Madame Marguerite de BrÉmont is telling a group of superannuated comedians that, upon this glorious occasion, the manager will allow her to have the pick of the Batignolles wardrobe. She will appear in no fewer than five melodramatic rÔles, “created” by her twenty, thirty years ago; and, in looking over the Batignolles wardrobe, she has been particularly impressed by a heavy, yellow velvet dress trimmed lavishly with pearls.

“Yellow was my colour,” says Madame Marguerite de BrÉmont, “and, for jewellery, I always wore pearls.”

“Our Marguerite,” observes an emaciated old fellow, “will have an extraordinary reception. We shall all cry: ‘Vive la de BrÉmont!’”

“Ma chÈre,” puts in a faded, wrinkled woman, with bright (and bad) gold hair, “I have always said that yellow was your colour. All women have their hair, but the actresses of to-day wear any colour, and the result is deplorable.”

“Yes, yes,” says the de BrÉmont, “I shall appear in yellow.” And she powders her face feverishly, at the prospect of once again appearing in yellow and pearls.

“C’est bien, Ça”: exclaims old Cottin, at the conclusion of an anecdote. A charming anecdote, related thus, by a little imp of a man, with the comedian’s large mouth and ever-changing expression.... In an actor’s charitable home the doyen of them all is an old fellow of eighty-four, who was a favourite in his day. He passes the time pleasantly enough, in toddling about the garden on a stick, and in reading faded, yellow Press criticisms of years and years ago that describe him as “marvellous,” “incomparable,” “irresistible.” But, one morning, he hears that his sister-in-law—once a brilliant vaudeville actress—is homeless and penniless, at the tragic age of seventy-nine, and he becomes gloomy and silent: and he asks to see the manager of the home. “We are full,” replies the manager, “and so we cannot receive your sister-in-law.” The old fellow’s eyes become dim, and at last the old fellow explains: “I wish to marry my sister-in-law.” Gently the manager observes: “But even if you marry her, there will be a difficulty. Our rations are limited, and if you marry her there will only be one portion for the two.” A meeting between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old woman of seventy-nine. And a marriage between the old fellow of eighty-four and the old woman of seventy-nine, attended by all the old actors and old actresses of the Home, not one of whom tells less than sixty, not one of whom can toddle about without a stick. Bottles of champagne, from the manager of the Home. An address, from the aged inmates of the Home. And to-day the old couple toddle about together in the garden, and together read the Press criticisms of years and years ago, and together recall the days when the one was a brilliant vaudeville actress, and the other was a “marvellous, an incomparable, an irresistible” comedian.

A flashy-looking young man in a check suit and pink shirt looks in, and tells old Cottin and others that “there is nothing to-day”—an agent for the suburban, the provincial theatres.

“By all means, yellow,” he says carelessly, in reply to Madame Marguerite de BrÉmont’s anxious question as to what colour she should wear. Then, more amiably: “I subscribe for twenty francs, and if you receive a bouquet of roses, yellow roses, preserve it in memory of your devoted Jules.”

“Ce bon Jules!” exclaims the de BrÉmont, as Jules, the agent, hurries out of the cafÉ. “Il a du coeur, celui-lÀ.” And opens the black bag. And scribbles down something—probably “20 francs”—in a little greasy book, with a stump of a pencil. And heaves a deep sigh of satisfaction. And expresses the hope that she will not be too ÉmotionnÉe on the night of her benefit.

At least thirty old actors and old actresses in the cafÉ: and most of them with empty glasses. A lull, during which many look vacantly before them, while others tap with their boots on the floor and drum with their fingers on the tables. Great yawns, and occasional stretching of arms, and often the exclamation: “Mais je m’ennuie, je m’ennuie!” In a corner, a dingy waiter is sprawled over a racing paper, and behind the counter, the burly proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, dozes. Outside, the hoarse shouts of the camelots, selling the evening papers. Outside, the animation of the boulevards.

“Messieurs, Mesdames.”

A quick, brusque voice, and a short, stout little man, with a huge watch-chain, an umbrella, a thick black moustache, a double chin and a great swollen neck.

“Has Jules been here? What is the use of Jules? What is the use of any agent? I call at his office; he is not there. I ask where he is; no one can tell. I come here—although I have not a moment to spare.”

A manager; at last, a manager! And the manager of one of the vast, shabby, outlying theatres, who also sends companies out on tour.

“I have need of four men, two ladies, and a child, for The Terror of the Fortifications. Tour starts at St Quentin on Monday week, and lasts twenty-one weeks. I want workers. Salary for men, not more than fifty francs; for women, forty to fifty; for the child, twenty-five.”

“Mais c’est bien, c’est trÈs bien, Monsieur le Directeur,” says old Cottin, say old Cottin’s comrades. And old Cottin and three of his friends, and the faded, wrinkled lady with the bright (and bad) gold hair, and one of her friends, all rise before Monsieur le Directeur.

“I will try to find the child,” says the faded woman.

“Girl,” says the director. “Small, thin and not over eleven. Come to see me to-morrow morning at twelve.” And the stout director waddles out.

“They say it is Épatant, the Terror of the Fortifications,” observes an old actor.

“Ah,” replies old Cottin absentmindedly: old Cottin, late of a boulevard theatre.

“Au revoir,” says Madame Marguerite de BrÉmont, picking up her reticule and bag. “Au revoir, and good luck. I shall tell the director to-night that I have chosen the yellow and pearls.”

Four old actors, and two old actresses, at one table, with their heads together.

“The curtain rises in a hovel,” says one of the old actors, and proceeds to narrate the plot of The Terror of the Fortifications.