JUST off the Boulevard St. Michel and up the narrow little rue Cujas, you will see at night the name “Marcel Legay” illumined in tiny gas-jets. This is a cabaret of chansonniers known as “Le Grillon,” where a dozen celebrated singing satirists entertain an appreciative audience in the stuffy little hall serving as an auditorium. Here, nightly, as the piÈce de rÉsistance—and late on the programme (there is no printed one)—you will hear the Bard of Montmartre, Marcel Legay, raconteur, poet, musician, and singer; the author of many of the most popular songs of Montmartre, and a veteran singer in the cabarets.

From these cabarets of the student quarters come many of the cleverest and most beautiful songs. Here men sing their own creations, and they have absolute license to sing or say what they please; there is no mincing of words, and many times these rare bohemians do not take the trouble to hide their clever songs and satires under a double entente. No celebrated man or woman, known in art or letters, or connected with the Government—from the soldier to the good President of the RÉpublique FranÇaise—is spared. The eccentricity of each celebrity is caught by them, and used in song or recitation.

Besides these personal caricatures, the latest political questions of the day—religion and the haut monde—come in for a large share of good-natured satire. To be cleverly caricatured is an honor, and should evince no ill-feeling, especially from these clever singing comedians, who are the best of fellows at heart; whose songs are clever but never vulgar; who sing because they love to sing; and whose versatility enables them to create the broadest of satires, and, again, a little song with words so pure, so human, and so pathetic, that the applause that follows from the silent room of listeners comes spontaneously from the heart.

It is not to be wondered at that “The Grillon” of Marcel Legay’s is a popular haunt of the habituÉs of the Quarter, who crowd the dingy little room nightly. You enter the “Grillon” by way of the bar, and at the further end of the bar-room is a small anteroom, its walls hung in clever posters and original drawings. This anteroom serves as a sort of green-room for the singers and their friends; here they chat at the little tables between their songs—since there is no stage—and through this anteroom both audience and singers pass into the little hall. There is the informality of one of our own “smokers” about the whole affair.

Furthermore, no women sing in “Le Grillon”—a cabaret in this respect is different from a cafÉ concert, which resembles very much our smaller variety shows. A small upright piano, and in front of it a low platform, scarcely its length, complete the necessary stage paraphernalia of the cabaret, and the admission is generally a franc and a half, which includes your drink.

In the anteroom, four of the singers are smoking and chatting at the little tables. One of them is a tall, serious-looking fellow, in a black frock coat. He peers out through his black-rimmed eyeglasses with the solemnity of an owl—but you should hear his songs!—they treat of the lighter side of life, I assure you. Another singer has just finished his turn, and comes out of the smoky hall, wiping the perspiration from his short, fat neck. The audience is still applauding his last song, and he rushes back through the faded green velvet portiÈres to bow his thanks.

A broad-shouldered, jolly-looking fellow, in white duck trousers, is talking earnestly with the owl-like looking bard in eyeglasses. Suddenly his turn is called, and you follow him in, where, as soon as he is seen, he is welcomed by cheers from the students and girls, and an elaborate fanfare of chords on the piano. When this popular poet-singer has finished, there follows a round of applause and a pounding of canes, and then the ruddy-faced, gray-haired manager starts a three-times-three handclapping in unison to a pounding of chords on the piano. This is the proper ending to every demand for an encore in “Le Grillon,” and it never fails to bring one.

It is nearly eleven when the curtain parts and Marcel Legay rushes hurriedly up the aisle and greets the audience, slamming his straw hat upon the lid of the piano. He passes his hand over his bald pate—gives an extra polish to his eyeglasses—beams with an irresistibly funny expression upon his audience—coughs—whistles—passes a few remarks, and then, adjusting his glasses on his stubby red nose, looks serio-comically over his roll of music. He is dressed in a long, black frock-coat reaching nearly to his heels. This coat, with its velvet collar, discloses a frilled white shirt and a white flowing bow scarf; these, with a pair of black-and-white check trousers, complete this every-day attire.

But the man inside these voluminous clothes is even still more eccentric. Short, indefinitely past fifty years of age, with a round face and merry eyes, and a bald head whose lower portion is framed in a fringe of long hair, reminding one of the coiffure of some pre-Raphaelite saint—indeed, so striking is this resemblance that the good bard is often caricatured with a halo surrounding this medieval fringe.

In the meantime, while this famous singer is selecting a song, he is overwhelmed with demands for his most popular ones. A dozen students and girls at one end of the little hall, now swimming in a haze of pipe and cigarette smoke, are hammering with sticks and parasols for “Le matador avec les pieds du vent”; another crowd is yelling for “La Goularde.” Marcel Legay smiles at them all through his eyeglasses, then roars at them to keep quiet—and finally the clamor in the room gradually subsides—here and there a word—a giggle—and finally silence.

“Now, my children, I will sing to you the story of Clarette,” says the bard; “it is a very sad histoire. I have read it,” and he smiles and cocks one eye. His baritone voice still possesses considerable fire, and in his heroic songs he is dramatic. In “The Miller who grinds for Love,” the feeling and intensity and dramatic quality he puts into its rendition are stirring. As he finishes his last encore, amidst a round of applause, he grasps his hat from the piano, jams it over his bald pate with its celestial fringe, and rushes for the door. Here he stops, and, turning for a second, cheers back at the crowd, waving the straw hat above his head. The next moment he is having a cooling drink among his confrÈres in the anteroom.

Such “poet-singers” as Paul Delmet and Dominique Bonnaud have made the “Grillon” a success; and others like Numa BlÉs, Gabriel Montoya, D’Herval, Fargy, Tourtal, and Edmond Teulet—all of them well-known over in Montmartre, where they are welcomed with the same popularity that they meet with at “Le Grillon.”

Genius, alas, is but poorly paid in this Bohemia! There are so many who can draw, so many who can sing, so many poets and writers and sculptors. To many of the cleverest, half a loaf is too often better than no bread.

You will find often in these cabarets and in the cafÉs and along the boulevard, a man who, for a few sous, will render a portrait or a caricature on the spot. You learn that this journeyman artist once was a well-known painter of the Quarter, who had drawn for years in the academies. The man at present is a wreck, as he sits in a cafÉ with portfolio on his knees, his black slouch hat drawn over his scraggly gray hair. But his hand, thin and drawn from too much stimulant and too little food, has lost none of its knowledge of form and line; the sketch is strong, true, and with a chic about it and a simplicity of expression that delight you. You ask why he has not done better.

“Ah!” he replies, “it is a long story, monsieur.” So long and so much of it that he can not remember it all! Perhaps it was the woman with the velvety black eyes—tall and straight—the best dancer in all Paris. Yes, he remembers some of it—long, miserable years—years of struggles and jealousy, and finally lies and fights and drunkenness; after it was all over, he was too gray and old and tired to care!

One sees many such derelicts in Paris among these people who have worn themselves out with amusement, for here the world lives for pleasure, for “la grande vie!” To the man, every serious effort he is obliged to make trends toward one idea—that of the bon vivant—to gain success and fame, but to gain it with the idea of how much personal daily pleasure it will bring him. Ennui is a word one hears constantly; if it rains toute le monde est triste. To have one’s gaiety interrupted is regarded as a calamity, and “tout le monde” will sympathize with you. To live a day without the pleasures of life in proportion to one’s purse is considered a day lost.

If you speak of anything that has pleased you one will, with a gay rising inflection of the voice and a smile, say: “Ah! c’est gai lÀ-bas—and monsieur was well amused while in that beautiful country?” “ah!—tiens! c’est gentil Ça!” they will exclaim, as you enthusiastically continue to explain. They never dull your enthusiasm by short phlegmatic or pessimistic replies. And when you are sad they will condone so genuinely with you that you forget your disappointments in the charming pleasantry of their sympathy. But all this continual race for pleasure is destined in the course of time to end in ennui!

The Parisian goes into the latest sport because it affords him a new sensation. Being blasÉ of all else in life, he plunges into automobiling, buys a white and red racer—a ponderous flying juggernaut that growls and snorts and smells of the lower regions whenever it stands still, trembling in its anger and impatience to be off, while its owner, with some automobiling Marie, sits chatting on the cafÉ terrace over a cooling drink. The two are covered with dust and very thirsty; Marie wears a long dust-colored ulster, and he a wind-proof coat and high boots. Meanwhile, the locomotive-like affair at the curbstone is working itself into a boiling rage, until finally the brave chauffeur and his chic companion prepare to depart. Marie adjusts her white lace veil, with its goggles, and the chauffeur puts on his own mask as he climbs in; a roar—a snort, a cloud of blue gas, and they are gone!

There are other enthusiasts—those who go up in balloons!

“Ah, you should go ballooning!” one cries enthusiastically, “to be ‘en ballon’—so poetic—so fin de siÈcle! It is a fantaisie charmante!”

In a balloon one forgets the world—one is no longer a part of it—no longer mortal. What romance there is in going up above everything with the woman one loves—comrades in danger—the ropes—the wicker cage—the ceiling of stars above one and Paris below no bigger than a gridiron! Paris! lost for the time from one’s memory. How chic to shoot straight up among the drifting clouds and forget the sordid little world, even the memory of one’s intrigues!

“Enfin seuls,” they say to each other, as the big Frenchman and the chic Parisienne countess peer down over the edge of the basket, sipping a little chartreuse from the same traveling cup; she, with the black hair and white skin, and gowned “en ballon” in a costume by Paillard; he in his peajacket buttoned close under his heavy beard. They seem to brush through and against the clouds! A gentle breath from heaven makes the basket decline a little and the ropes creak against the hardwood clinch blocks. It grows colder, and he wraps her closer in his own coat.

“Courage, my child,” he says; “see, we have gone a great distance; to-morrow before sundown we shall descend in Belgium.”

“Horrible!” cries the Countess; “I do not like those Belgians.”

“Ah! but you shall see, ThÉrÈse, one shall go where one pleases soon; we are patient, we aeronauts; we shall bring credit to La Belle France; we have courage and perseverance; we shall give many dinners and weep over the failures of our brave comrades, to make the dirigible balloon ‘pratique.’ We shall succeed! Then VoilÀ! our dÉjeuner in Paris and our dinner where we will.” ThÉrÈse taps her polished nails against the edge of the wicker cage and hums a little chansonette.

“Je t’aime”—she murmurs.

I did not see this myself, and I do not know the fair ThÉrÈse or the gentleman who buttons his coat under his whiskers; but you should have heard one of these ballooning enthusiasts tell it to me in the Taverne du PanthÉon the other night. His only regret seemed to be that he, too, could not have a dirigible balloon and a countess—on ten francs a week!