The Adventures of a Modest Man

"You know what our students are, monsieur," he said, twisting his short blond moustache; "however – if monsieur wishes – ?"

So, with my daughters in the centre, and Captain de Barsac and myself thrown out in strong flanking parties, we began our march.

The famous cafés of the Latin Quarter were all ablaze with electricity and gas and colored incandescent globes. On the terraces hundreds of tables and chairs stood, occupied by students in every imaginable civilian costume, although the straight-brimmed stovepipe and the béret appeared to be the favorite headgear. At least a third of the throng was made up of military students from the Polytechnic, from Fontainebleau, and from Saint-Cyr. Set in the crowded terraces like bunches of blossoms were chattering groups of girls – bright-eyed, vivacious, beribboned and befrilled young persons, sipping the petit-verre or Amer-Picon, gossiping, babbling, laughing like dainty exotic birds. To and fro sped the bald-headed, white-aproned waiters, balancing trays full of glasses brimming with red and blue and amber liquids.

Here was the Café d'Harcourt, all a-glitter, with music playing somewhere inside – the favorite resort of the medical students from the Sorbonne, according to Captain de Barsac. Here was the Café de la Source, with its cascade of falling water and its miniature mill-wheel turning under a crimson glow of light; here was the famous Café Vachette, celebrated as the centre of all Latin Quarter mischief; and, opposite to it, blazed the lights of the "Café des Bleaus," so called because haunted almost exclusively by artillery officers from the great school of Fontainebleau.

Up the boulevard and down the boulevard moved the big double-decked tram-cars, horns sounding incessantly; cabs dashed up to the cafés, deposited their loads of students or pretty women, then darted away toward the river, their lamps shining like stars.

It was truly a fairy scene, with the electric lights playing on the foliage of the trees, turning the warm tender green of the chestnut leaves to a wonderful pale bluish tint, and etching the pavements underfoot with exquisite Chinese shadows.

"It is a shame that this lovely scene should not be entirely respectable," said Alida, resentfully.

"Vice," murmured de Barsac to me, "could not exist unless it were made attractive."

As far as the surface of the life before us was concerned, there was nothing visible to shock anybody; and, under escort, there is no earthly reason why decent women of any age should not enjoy the spectacle of the "Boul' Mich." on a night in springtime.

An innocent woman, married or unmarried, ought not to detect anything unpleasant in the St. Michel district; but, alas! what is known as "Smart Society" is so preternaturally wise in these piping times o' wisdom, that the child is not only truly the father of the man, but also his instructor and interpreter – to that same man's astonishment and horror. It may always have been so – even before the days when our theatres were first licensed to instruct our children in object lessons of the seven deadly sins – but I cannot recollect the time when, as a youngster, I was tolerantly familiar with the scenes now nightly offered to our children through the courtesy of our New York theatre managers.

Slowly we turned to retrace our steps, strolling up the boulevard through the fragrant May evening, until we came to the gilded railing which encircles the Luxembourg Gardens from the School of Mines to the Palais-du-Sénat.

Here Captain De Barsac took leave of us with all the delightful and engaging courtesy of a well-bred Frenchman; and he seemed to be grateful for the privilege of showing us about over a district as tiresomely familiar to him as his own barracks.

I could do no less than ask him to call on us, though his devotion to Dulcima both on shipboard and here made me a trifle wary.

"We are stopping," said I, "at the Hôtel de l'Univers – "

He started and gazed at me so earnestly that I asked him why he did so.

"The – the Hôtel de l'Univers?" he repeated, looking from me to Dulcima and from Dulcima to Alida.

"Is it not respectable?" I demanded, somewhat alarmed.

" – But – but perfectly, monsieur. It is, of course, the very best hotel of that kind – "

"What kind?" I asked.

"Why – for the purpose. Ah, monsieur, I had no idea that you came to Paris for that. I am so sorry, so deeply grieved to hear it. But of course all will be well – "

He stopped and gazed earnestly at Dulcima.

"It is not – not you, mademoiselle, is it?"

My children and I stared at each other in consternation.

"What in heaven's name is the matter with that hotel?" I asked.

Captain de Barsac looked startled.

"Is there anything wrong with the guests there?" asked Dulcima, faintly.

"No – oh, no – only, of course, they are all under treatment – "

"Under treatment!" I cried nervously. "For what!!!"

"Is it possible," muttered the captain, "that you went to that hotel not knowing? Did you not notice anything peculiar about the guests there?"

"They all seem to wear court-plaster or carry their arms in slings," faltered Dulcima.

"And they come from all over the world – Russia, Belgium, Spain," murmured Alida nervously. "What do they want?"

"Thank heaven!" cried De Barsac, radiantly; "then you are not there for the treatment!"

"Treatment for what?" I groaned.

"Hydrophobia!"

I wound my arms around my shrinking children.

"It is the hotel where all the best people go who come to Paris for Pasteur's treatment," he said, trying to look grave; but Dulcima threw back her pretty head and burst into an uncontrollable gale of laughter; and there we stood on the sidewalk, laughing and laughing while passing students grinned in sympathy and a cloaked policeman on the corner smiled discreetly and rubbed his chin.

That evening, after my progeny were safely asleep, casting a furtive glance around me I slunk off to my old café – the Café Jaune. I hadn't been there in over twenty years; I passed among crowded tables, skulked through the entrance, and slid into my old corner as though I had never missed an evening there.

They brought me a Bock. As I lifted the icy glass to my lips, over the foam I beheld Williams, smiling.

"Eh bien, mon vieux?" he said, pleasantly.

"By gad, Williams, this seems natural – especially with you sitting next."

"It sure does," he said.

I pointed toward a leather settee. "Archie used to sit over there with his best girl. Do you remember? And that was Dillon's seat – and Smithy and Palmyre – Oh, Lord! – And Seabury always had that other corner."… I paused, lost in happy reminiscences. "What has become of Jack Seabury?" I inquired.

"The usual."

"Married?"

"Oh, very much."

"Where does he live."

"In Philadelphia."

I mused for a while.

"So he's married, too," I said, thoughtfully. "Well – it's a funny life, isn't it, Williams."

"I've never seen a funnier. Seabury's marriage was funny too – I mean his courtship."