Scores of men, celebrated in art and in literature, have, for a longer or shorter period of their lives, been bohemians of the Latin Quarter. And yet these years spent in cafÉs and in studios have not turned them out into the world a devil-me-care lot of dreamers. They have all marched and sung along the “Boul’ Miche”; danced at the “Bullier”; starved, struggled, and lived in the romance of its life. It has all been a part of their education, and a very important part too, in the development of their several geniuses, a development which in later life has placed them at the head of their professions. These years of camaraderie—of a life free from all conventionalities, in daily touch with everything about them, and untrammeled by public censure or the petty views of prudish or narrow minds, have left them free to cut a straight swath merrily toward the goal of their ideals, surrounded all the while by an atmosphere of art and good-fellowship that permeates the very air they breathe.

If a man can work at all, he can work here, for between the working-hours he finds a life so charming, that once having lived it he returns to it again and again, as to an old love.

How many are the romances of this student Quarter! How many hearts have been broken or made glad! How many brave spirits have suffered and worked on and suffered again, and at last won fame! How many have failed! We who come with a fresh eye know nothing of all that has passed within these quaint streets—only those who have lived in and through it know its full story.

Pochard has seen it; so has the little old woman who once danced at the opera; so have old Bibi La PurÉe, and Alphonse, the gray-haired garÇon, and MÈre Gaillard, the flower-woman. They have seen the gay boulevards and the cafÉs and generations of grisettes, from the true grisette of years gone by, in her dainty white cap and simple dress turned low at the throat, to the tailor-made grisette of to-day.

Yet the eyes of the little old woman still dance; they have not grown tired of this ever-changing kaleidoscope of human nature, this paradise of the free, where many would rather struggle on half starved than live a life of luxury elsewhere.

And the students are equally quixotic. I knew one once who lived in an air-castle of his own building—a tall, serious fellow, a sculptor, who always went tramping about in a robe resembling a monk’s cowl, with his bare feet incased in coarse sandals; only his art redeemed these eccentricities, for he produced in steel and ivory the most exquisite statuettes. One at the Salon was the sensation of the day—a knight in full armor, scarcely half a foot in height, holding in his arms a nymph in flesh-tinted ivory, whose gentle face, upturned, gazed sweetly into the stern features behind the uplifted vizor; and all so exquisitely carved, so alive, so human, that one could almost feel the tender heart of this fair lady beating against the cold steel breastplate.

Another “bon garÇon”—a painter whose enthusiasm for his art knew no bounds—craved to produce a masterpiece. This dreamer could be seen daily ferreting around the Quarter for a studio always bigger than the one he had. At last he found one that exactly fitted the requirements of his vivid imagination—a studio with a ceiling thirty feet high, with windows like the scenic ones next to the stage entrances of the theaters. Here at last he could give full play to his brush—no subject seemed too big for him to tackle; he would move in a canvas as big as a back flat to a third act, and commence on a “Fall of Babylon” or a “Carnage of Rome” with a nerve that was sublime! The choking dust of the arena—the insatiable fury of the tigers—the cowering of hundreds of unfortunate captives—and the cruel multitude above, seated in the vast circle of the hippodrome—all these did not daunt his zeal.

Once he persuaded a venerable old abbÉ to pose for his portrait. The old gentleman came patiently to his studio and posed for ten days, at the end of which time the abbÉ gazed at the result and said things which I dare not repeat—for our enthusiast had so far only painted his clothes; the face was still in its primary drawing.

“The face I shall do in time,” the enthusiast assured the reverend man excitedly; “it is the effect of the rich color of your robe I wished to get. And may I ask your holiness to be patient a day longer while I put in your boots?”

“No, sir!” thundered the irate abbÉ. “Does monsieur think I am not a very busy man?”

Then softening a little, he said, with a smile:

“I won’t come any more, my friend. I’ll send my boots around to-morrow by my boy.”

But the longest red-letter day has its ending, and time and tide beckon one with the brutality of an impatient jailer.

On my studio table is a well-stuffed envelope containing the documents relative to my impending exile—a stamped card of my identification, bearing the number of my cell, a plan of the slave-ship, and six red tags for my baggage.

The three pretty daughters of old PÈre Valois know of my approaching departure, and say cheering things to me as I pass the concierge’s window.

PÈre Valois stands at the gate and stops me with: “Is it true, monsieur, you are going Saturday?”

“Yes,” I answer; “unfortunately, it is quite true.”

The old man sighs and replies: “I once had to leave Paris myself”; looking at me as if he were speaking to an old resident. “My regiment was ordered to the colonies. It was hard, monsieur, but I did my duty.”

The morning of my sailing has arrived. The patron of the tobacco-shop, and madame his good wife, and the wine merchant, and the baker along the little street with its cobblestone-bed, have all wished me “bon voyage,” accompanied with many handshakings. It is getting late and PÈre Valois has gone to hunt for a cab—a “galerie,” as it is called, with a place for trunks on top. Twenty minutes go by, but no “galerie” is in sight. The three daughters of PÈre Valois run in different directions to find one, while I throw the remaining odds and ends in the studio into my valise. At last there is a sound of grating wheels below on the gravel court. The “galerie” has arrived—with the smallest of the three daughters inside, all out of breath from her run and terribly excited. There are the trunks and the valises and the bicycle in its crate to get down. Two soldiers, who have been calling on two of the daughters, come up to the studio and kindly offer their assistance. There is no time to lose, and in single file the procession starts down the atelier stairs, headed by PÈre Valois, who has just returned from his fruitless search considerably winded, and the three girls, the two red-trousered soldiers and myself tugging away at the rest of the baggage.

It is not often one departs with the assistance of three pretty femmes de mÉnage, a jolly old concierge, and a portion of the army of the French Republic. With many suggestions from my good friends and an assuring wave of the hand from the aged cocher, my luggage is roped and chained to the top of the rickety, little old cab, which sways and squeaks with the sudden weight, while the poor, small horse, upon whom has been devolved the task of making the 11.35 train, Gare St. Lazare, changes his position wearily from one leg to the other. He is evidently thinking out the distance, and has decided upon his gait.

“Bon voyage!” cry the three girls and PÈre Valois and the two soldiers, as the last trunk is chained on.

The dingy vehicle groans its way slowly out of the court. Just as it reaches the last gate it stops.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, poking my head out of the window.

“Monsieur,” says the aged cocher, “it is an impossibility! I regret very much to say that your bicycle will not pass through the gate.”

A dozen heads in the windows above offer suggestions. I climb out and take a look; there are at least four inches to spare on either side in passing through the iron posts.

“Ah!” cries my cocher enthusiastically, “monsieur is right, happily for us!”

He cracks his whip, the little horse gathers itself together—a moment of careful driving and we are through and into the street and rumbling away, amid cheers from the windows above. As I glance over my traps, I see a small bunch of roses tucked in the corner of my roll of rugs with an engraved card attached. “From Mademoiselle Ernestine Valois,” it reads, and on the other side is written, in a small, fine hand, “Bon voyage.”

I look back to bow my acknowledgment, but it is too late; we have turned the corner and the rue Vaugirard is but a memory!

*****

But why go on telling you of what the little shops contain—how narrow and picturesque are the small streets—how gay the boulevards—what they do at the “Bullier”—or where they dine? It is Love that moves Paris—it is the motive power of this big, beautiful, polished city—the love of adventure, the love of intrigue, the love of being a bohemian if you will—but it is Love all the same!

“I work for love,” hums the little couturiÈre.

“I work for love,” cries the miller of Marcel Legay.

“I live for love,” sings the poet.

“For the love of art I am a painter,” sighs Edmond, in his atelier—“and for her!”

“For the love of it I mold and model and create,” chants the sculptor—“and for her!”

It is the Woman who dominates Paris—“Les petites femmes!” who have inspired its art through the skill of these artisans.

“Monsieur! monsieur! Please buy this fisherman doll!” cries a poor old woman outside of your train compartment, as you are leaving Havre for Paris.

“Monsieur!” screams a girl, running near the open window with a little fishergirl doll uplifted.

“What, you don’t want it? You have bought one? Ah! I see,” cries the pretty vendor; “but it is a boy doll—he will be sad if he goes to Paris without a companion!”

Take all the little fishergirls away from Paris—from the Quartier Latin—and you would find chaos and a morgue!

L’amour! that is it—L’amour!—L’amour!—L’amour!