If you wish to buy your tickets in advance for the evening performance at the Alcazar d’ÉtÉ, the open-air cafÉ concert of the Champs-ÉlysÉes, you go there some afternoon, and are ushered by a waiter through a narrow corridor of the adjoining restaurant, past little rooms, shining in copper pots and pans, and pungent with steaming sauces, through a pair of swinging doors well worn by hurrying waiters, and into a square room piled high with snow-white linen, pyramids of lump sugar, and rows of glittering silver. Half hidden in a corner among this spotless collection you discover a desk presided over by madame, who greets you pleasantly and produces for your inspection from beneath a litter of dinner checks and bills the seating diagram of the Alcazar.

“Does Monsieur wish seats for the evening, and in what location?” madame asks.

You suggest two in the third row.

“Bon,” replies madame, approvingly. She dips a pen in violet ink and writes carefully upon a checklike document the numbers of the chosen seats, tears this check from its stub, blots it, and scratches the corresponding numbers from the diagram. “VoilÀ, Monsieur,” and she hands you your ticket. Then she dives into the pocket of her petticoat for the key to a money-drawer from which to make your change. Finally, as you raise your hat to go, she adds, in parting assurance, with a little shrug of her shoulders beneath her worsted shawl: “I am sure Monsieur will find the seats excellent; I should have chosen them myself.”

All this takes time, but I must confess that I like the pantry method better than having my change blown at me through the pigeon-window of a draughty box-office, with the last rear seats in the house slapped out to me, all the desirable ones being in the mercenary hands of a band of sidewalk pirates.

Meanwhile, several newcomers are crowding about the table, among them three well-groomed men in top hats and frock coats, evidently having strolled over from their club, and a faultlessly dressed old baron, with a tea rose in his button-hole, who is now leaning over the desk, poring over the diagram through his black-rimmed monocle.

It is the first night of the new revue. This well-fed old baron! His beard is grizzled now and his bald pate shines beneath the rim of his stove-pipe hat. How many revues has he seen in his Parisian life! How many capricious dÉbutantes of cafÉ concerts and the theater has he known! How many has he seen flash into brilliant stars and then grow old and fade away! Some of them are staid old concierges now knitting away the short remnant of their lives. Some of them died young as roses will under gas-light. Les petites femmes! Ah! the good old days of the Palais Royal! The Orangerie! or the Tuileries and the Jardin Mabille! The days of brocades, of cashmeres, and pendent jewelry of malachite and old mine diamonds! What famous beauties then! and how they could wear their flounces and furbelows—the little minxes! What a reckless riot of costly gaiety! How much baccarat at the clubs! How many suppers at Bignon’s and the Maison DorÉe! How many years of all this! and yet on this sunny afternoon this old baron is as eager as a schoolboy over the new burlesque, and so he strolls out with his ticket up the Champs-ÉlysÉes, stopping for a full half hour to watch the Guignol and the children and the nurses. Later you will see him rolling through the Bois in his victoria, a queenly woman in black by his side, the tea-rose stuck jauntily under the turquoise collar of a sleek red spaniel in her lap. The baron is smoking. There is no conversation.

You will hear Polin at the Alcazar. He comes on at the end of a preliminary program of excellent variety before the revue. Fat jolly old Polin, whose song creations portray the happy-go-lucky lot of the common soldier. He reels in from the wings, convulsed with laughter over some recent adventure, the result of which has put him in the guard-house for ten days. He is fairly bursting his red-trousered uniform with merriment as he begins his first verse. He tells you every detail of his experience, painfully even, for he is now crying with laughter, his voice rising in little squeaks like the water in a pump and bubbling over as he reaches the point. He is manipulating the while a red cotton handkerchief, which is never still; now it mops his round genial face, now it is twisted nervously into a rope and jammed into his trousers’ pocket, and as speedily taken out to dust his knees. His last verse is smothered in chuckling glee; little jets of cleverly chosen words manage, however, to get over the footlights to his listeners. The song ends amid a thunder of applause and Polin bows awkwardly and retreats with his back to the audience, his cavalry boots combined with his red trousers flopping as he goes.

Parisians delight in caricature. It is as inborn with them as the art of pantomime. The political topic of the day, a new phase of the law or the government, the latest scandal, all come to the net of the writers of these revues.

Eve, the daughter of Madame Humbert, that shrewdest of modern swindlers, is presented as a Juno-like creature of lisping innocence. Shrewd, politic and extravagant Madame Humbert, the brains of that colossal robbery of millions of francs, steps on the stage. The brother, Daurignac, who posed as a painter, and the famous empty safe which played such an important role in the Humbert mÉnage, have been the theme for a dozen clever burlesques.

“Les Apaches,” a notorious band of cutthroats, who have lately infested Paris, and their beautiful accomplice, known as Casque d’Or, a term befitting her wealth of golden hair, have also furnished a well-worn topic for the revue writers. So, too, the capture of Miss Stone has inspired a clever revue, containing a whole stageful of pretty and shapely brigands. The book is by de Cottens and the music by Henri JosÉ, and it is presented in six tableaux at the Marigny with that idol of Paris, Germaine Gallois, in the principal role.

The Parisian revue is in structure traditionally ever the same, and the receipt for these musical puddings is never altered. There are two important characters which are never to be departed from—the commÈre and the compÈre. The first fifteen minutes are occupied with the introduction of a young man of leisure, the compÈre, who has just inherited a colossal fortune from a dying uncle. He brings with him an exaggerated outfit of clothes, all brand new, consisting of a sack suit of dove gray, lined with red satin; a voluminous red satin tie to match the suit, clasped with a heavy turquoise-studded ring; a gold-buttoned embroidered vest; a soft gray felt traveling hat; lemon kid gloves, and a rattan cane. He stalks about the stage, smiling—the stage picture of good health—and squaring his shoulders and curling the ends of his long mustache with that debonair air supposed to be consistent with good luck. His ecstasy over what fortune has bestowed upon him would put in the shade even the enthusiasm of the “found at last!” gentlemen of the Eureka advertisements.

Before he gets half way down the village street of the first act, the commÈre, a statuesque fairy queen in silk tights, with real gems that are the talk of Paris, who has been hunting for him all over the town, suddenly comes upon him in the village square, and, touching him with her wand, makes him her protÉgÉ.

The compÈre may come upon the stage as an old rouÉ, weighted with years and careworn. In this case, the good fairy immediately bestows upon him joyous youth and the satin apparel. She is running over with benefactions and, causing to appear suddenly a score of comely young grisettes and hard-working peasant girls who have been loitering around the town pump, arrayed in silk hose of assorted lengths, she urges him to select from these his mate. Just at this moment a plain little seamstress, in passing, runs into this barricade of village beauties, and at once becomes the victim of their badinage. Our youthful Croesus, seeing her distress, straightway chooses her for his bride, amid the discontented reproaches of the rest of the girls and to the inward satisfaction of the good fairy.

The plain little seamstress turns out to be superlatively beautiful, and as naÏve and witty as she is charming, especially if it is Lise Fleuron who plays the part.

It takes only a short time, in the second act, to clothe this stray Cinderella in a Paquin or a Worth creation, while her old gray and white clothes are neatly folded and laid away in the basket with which that very morning she had started early to market to buy a poulet and a salade for her sick grandmama. After this public shopping the happy pair is ready to start upon the honeymoon. Cinderella adds to her wardrobe a blue silk parasol, stuck in a rolled up traveling rug, while her happy companion decorates himself with a field-glass and dons an English shooting hat of impossible plaids.

In the third act they are joined by the good fairy and the revue passes before them. This is a hodgepodge of burlesques upon the topics of the day, ballets representing flowers and perfumes and the history of fashion, and choruses representing the different journals, the arts, inventions and manufactures. The costumes are superb and the massing of color exquisite.

Before the finale, an apotheosis of gorgeous color, with a stageful of kicking, giggling, romping gaiety, I catch a glimpse of the old baron. He has bowed to someone on the stage and is applauding vigorously. So, too, is the young vicomte with a scar across his cheek where a ball ploughed itself one chilly morning on the outskirts of Surennes, all on account of just such a cocotte as the good fairy who is now glancing under her stenciled eyelids at a swarthy little Italian in the front row.

And the Comte de B—— is shouting “Bravo!” from his box. It is he who has paid so highly to see Ninette included nightly in the program. She has been permitted by the amiable management, after the transfer of certain crisp bank-notes from the purse of the count to the pocket of the manager, to announce, in the third act, the approach of the soldiers, “as a personal favor to the Comte and because Madame is so beautiful.” To be in a revue and flattered by the press is as necessary to Ninette as to have a new gown for the Grand Prix. For, tho she is fair to look upon and has little bills springing up along the Rue de la Paix as thick as a field of bachelor’s-buttons, Ninette is not an actress. But Ninette enjoys her theatrical career. She takes the stage seriously, enjoying even the rigid discipline, because of its complete novelty. The old playgoers come to her salon, gravely kiss the tips of her fingers, and tell her how charming she has been in the revue. Then the journalists! Ah! how amiable they are! For the crisp bank-notes of the Comte which placed the crown of Thespis upon the blond head of Ninette did not all of them go into managerial pockets. But Ninette has begun to sing; listen! Yes, it is the line faintly announcing the soldiers. A final chorus, the curtain falls and the crowd rises and pours slowly out under the trees.

It is starlight. Passing and repassing like fire-flies the cabs go trundling by. Here and there in the shadow one is stopped and a fluff of lace and sheen of silk is bundled in. The baron walks home, the end of his cigar glowing cheerily. The revue is a success.

The Concert des Ambassadeurs with its revue and variety adjoins the Alcazar. One can dine leisurely on the balconies of either of the two restaurants adjoining these cafÉs, and watch the performance during dinner.

Near by is the Jardin de Paris enclosed by lattice and hedge, and ablaze at night with festoons of colored lights and crimson lanterns. Within, the crowd pours round the promenade thronged with demi-mondaines, in dÉcolletÉ gowns flashing in jet, in picture hats flaming in scarlet, their white hands glittering to the knuckles in showy rings. Some of these women are pretty and gowned in chic simplicity, some of them are coarsely bedizened and heavily rouged, with small cruel eyes and strident voices.

The variety performance at the end of the garden has just ended, and a fanfare of hunting horns announces the quadrille. The passing throng crowds about the estrade to watch the dancing. Another fanfare from the horns, and the orchestra commences a lively can-can. The crowd presses close against the low balustrade. “Grille d’Égout” gathers up her skirts, and a second later her black stockings are silhouetted in billows of cheap lingerie. The band crashes on. The other dancers execute pas seuls with their traditionally voluminous display, which, from its very boldness, is neither suggestive nor vulgar—it is if anything rather a common exhibition from which all illusion has vanished. They are a type unto themselves, these can-can dancers; half of them might easily pass for middle-aged housemaids, but there are some who unmistakably have been gathered from the riff-raff of such places as the “Ange Gabriel” and the cabaret of the “Rat Mort” in Montmartre.

An old man in a long coat of rusty black and a straight-brimmed top hat now joins the quartet. He is tall, square-jawed and clean-shaven, with twinkling gray eyes. He is seventy years old and has been a professional quadrille dancer all his life. Laying the smoldering stump of his cigarette in a safe corner of the balustrade, he flings himself into the measure. His gaunt Mephistophelian frame seems tireless as if hardened by the dancing of a lifetime. He executes with a certain precision and gravity the steps of a pas seul. When he finishes, he recovers the butt of his cigarette, smiles sardonically at the applauding crowd, and sits down to refresh himself over a “bock.” “Grille d’Égout,” passing, good-humoredly tips his hat sideways with the toe of her slipper, and his satanic majesty rises and leads her into a maze of steps, evidently in revenge, since she begs off, exhausted at the end of a quarter of an hour. The crowd cheers.

A shooting-gallery pops and cracks away at one end of the promenade, while next to it a much-mirrored bar dispenses so-called English and American drinks, villainous all, with a bottle of warm champagne, on tap and sold by the glass, as a questionable alternative.

Below the level of the garden, almost immediately under the orchestra, is the Crypte, where there are varied attractions.

There are two ways of getting down to this Crypte; one is by the stairs, and the other by a polished board-chute. Both are free, but the chute is the more popular. Here an amused crowd stands about waiting for some Mimi or Cora or Faustine to plant her neat patent leather boots on the board and slide to the subterranean regions beneath. Here there are living pictures, two pink samples of which stand guard at the entrance of this side-show, while within, a gray-haired pianist thumps out the incidental music to the tableaux from an ancient piano with a sleighbell tone.

At intervals the sentinels without change guard with Spring and Summer, while Autumn and Winter pass the hat, and Venus rising from the Sea tarries in the dressing-room to curl her hair and gossip with the leading victims of the Deluge.

Certain tremulous cries emerge from the other side of the Crypte to the accompaniment of a desert tom-tom and the tread and sway of Oriental dancing.

Yes, the Jardin de Paris with all its noise and glare was built especially to attract most of the smoking-room list of the incoming ships. It appeals in some mysterious way to that natural prey of the Parisian landlord, the traveler who allows himself to be held as a hostage in exchange for his pocket-book at one of the large dismal hotels built solely for his capture. Here in a heavily upholstered and silent reading-room he may read the papers and watch other unfortunates of his kind prowl about him, until at seven he is ushered by an overbearing maÎtre d’hÔtel into an even more elaborate hall of fame to the table d’hÔte, an occasion representing in gaiety a feast of refugees after a flood. If during his stay in Paris he has the good fortune to see anything Parisian he may count himself lucky.

The ThÉÂtre Marigny is to the Jardin de Paris what a cozily lit dinner-table glowing in shaded candles is to a bar-room, aglitter with brass and glass and electric lights. This jewel-box of a theater in the Champs-ÉlysÉes was fashioned for all seasons, but in summer it is in full bloom.

The approach to it among the trees is much the same as to the others, only that the roadway in front is packed at night with private carriages. Here a Parisian Équipage de luxe of an eastern prince crowds a new coupÉ, with a rhinestone clock and hidden cases of doeskin lined with silk, a tiny mirror, a diminutive powder-puff in a box with a golden top, a little of this and a little of that. It is the carriage of Julie la DrÔlesse; with this gilt encased arsenal one feels safe to look one’s best in any emergency thinks Julie—that is, if Julie ever really does any thinking. Does the little golden-puff remind her, I wonder, of the days when two sous of poudre de riz applied in a jiffy with a corner of her jupon sufficed to charm the habituÉs of the Rue Blanche? Ah! mes enfants!

Seen through the trees the ThÉÂtre Marigny looms like some gigantic flower of light, the reflection from the edge of its circular promenade illuminating in a hazy light the surrounding foliage. And such a promenade!—aglow with fairy lamps thrust in a setting of shining leaves, and with comfortable rattan chairs encircling the mosaic floor which during the intermission is brilliant with the passing throng.

“Mar-ga-rita” sing gayly the Neapolitans to the strum of guitars. A woman with an olive skin whose lithe body seems to have been poured into a delicate mold of Valenciennes lace, glides by on the arm of a Russian. Her jewels have bankrupted a prince.

Sundry old Frenchmen, in straight-brimmed hats with ribbons in their button-holes, pass; one is a senator, another a famous sculptor. At one’s elbows is a pretty blonde, her white neck encircled by a band of turquoise reaching nearly to her small pink ears, ever listening like tiny shells to the flattering murmur of the human sea about her.

Pop! goes a bottle of champagne in the bar. Crack! rips the spangled train of ThÉrÈse Derval under the clumsy heel of her admirer. “Fifty louis for your awkwardness, idiot!” snaps the quick-tempered ThÉrÈse.

“Mar-ga-rita” strum the guitars. But the bell is ringing for the curtain. The spectacular revue following the excellent variety is quite different from the revues of the other cafÉ concerts; at the Marigny they are poems of color—costumes which are the creation of artists. Nowhere is scenic art brought to a higher perfection than at the Marigny.

One sees a ballet in tones of violet and gray that is as delicate as an orchid. Again the stage is blazing in Spanish yellow and red as rich as a pomegranate crushed in the sun. Now the tableau changes to a scenic night bathed in pale moonlight with a ruined chÂteau harboring purple shadows and framed in a grove of cypresses.

From this grove may flutter a ballet of bats, or the summer night may vanish in a twinkling and in its place appear a garden of MarÉchal Niel roses blooming at a signal into another ballet.

Now enters a procession representing the history of fashion. Here are the exaggerated costumes of the Middle Ages, ermine and miniver, and those impossible head-dresses, the cornettes, hennins, and escoffions of the time of “Louis the Fair.” Then follow the grand apparel of the Medicis, and the transparent sheath-like tunics of the merveilleuses of the Directory, slit at the side and fastened with a cameo brooch, and the toilettes of the balls of the Restoration. Even more ridiculous costumes were worn, you remember, by women of society a hundred years ago openly in this very Champs-ÉlysÉes, the days when all Paris went mad over the costumes of the Athenian maidens. What a contrast are the creations of the present age to those seen during the Reign of Terror at Frascati’s! And yet I am sure that if any of the celebrated beauties of the Marigny had entered the court of Louis XVI. in a perfect gown of to-day, she would have been welcomed with wonder and delight.