THE FRENCH ALMANACKS FOR 1860. THE French Almanacks come to us this year in their customary guise of yellow and red, and yellow and blue, and the green and blue stamp of the Prefecture of Police on 'colportage," which ensures fealty and docility. There are the same familiar types, long-nosed, wide-mouthed victims, bearded and parded sharpers-the same stereotyped models for beauty and fashion in bourgeoisie and aristocracy alike; but, alas! in novelty or humour there is a manifest falling off. As far as our old friends, the "Almanach Comique" and the " Almanach pour Rire," are concerned, they might as well have for frontispiece an extinguisher bearing a wellknown profile. It will be at once felt to what straits are fun and sprightliness reduced in the land of bellicose despotism, when we find that the fact of the sickly trees in the Champs Elysées having been bandaged, and of Devisme having invented an explosive ball, are almost all that Cham seems to have found to exercise his clever pencil upon as novelties. An importunate tailor is represented as addressing one of these trees so clothed, and recommending a change of garments; a peasant is helping them to ass's milk, and false collars are affixed to their ugly physiognomies as they outgrow their swaddling-clothes. With the "balle explosible de Devisme," children of four years may go forth to shoot lions, but to an adult the practice may be attended by inconveniences, as illustrated by two other sketches, in one of which the fragments of the lion blown up into the air are projected against the sportsman himself, and in the other, a whale similarly treated that is to say, having an explosive ball lodged in its insideblows up boat and crew and sportsmen all together. Risum teneatis, amici? It is but fair to say that Cham has made one hit in the same almanack. The subjects are two French sailors in China-French to the pointed nose and gaping mouths. One has a stick in his hand. "What!" says his mate to him, "don't you know that they eat with sticks in this country? You have taken that stick from a Chinese house-you have taken the soupspoon; robbery of plate, my good fellow, and you will be in for it." The inevitable jealous husband, who asks a negro to come and nurse his wife Me no doctor," says the African. "You black, that is all I want; come and take care of my wife"-is a pure niaiserie; and the "fashionable" returning from a steeple-chase, the ground strewed with the wounded, mumbling how delighted he has been: "C'était cha-mant! cha-mant! pa-ole d'honneur !" (an "elegant" of Paris can no more speak his own language correctly than a fashionable piece of affectation in our own country), would be almost repulsive were it not that the illustration has a wider bearing. The same pencil would evidently, had it dared, have given another and a different application to the sentiment. The fields of Magenta and Solferino would have been the scene of suffering; but who would have been the cold-blooded, indifferent-or, if you will have it so, stoical-looker-on ? "Will monsieur purchase a ticket for the theatre ?" "No, my good fellow, on joue la comédie chez moi," is in Cham's better style. So also the pickpocket, who remarks," Sir, there is an eclipse taking place." "I don't see it," replies the victim, with his 66 nose in the air, whilst he is being relieved of his watch. "You will, then, presently, sir," continues the sharper, with infinite gusto. We give the following, not so much as a specimen of humour as the sketch of a type, with characteristic accessories : Before speaking of Mademoiselle Bibiane Filandrin, I must ask permission to describe the little coterie in which I met her for the first time. It was at the Odéon that I had one evening the misfortune to make acquaintance with a lady whose hair hung in long "repentirs" (what a word for ringlets ?), and who wore a red scarf on a light blue dress. From her mouth, however, issued forth a string of well-turned phrases. The lady dressed badly, but she spoke well. She was a blue-stocking. I was weak enough to allow myself to be invited for the evening of the Thursday ensuing. On her card was "Aspasie de Villiers," and, considering her spare habit, she might have added "-Cotterets." The Thursday that followed, having ascended four stories, I was received by a female domestic some forty years of age, dressed as a lady's-maid, and who introduced me into the boudoir of her mistress. Madame Aspasie de Villiers had on a dress of black velvet that evening, without any ornaments, so that she had the appearance of a first-class hearse. We were alone, and we spoke of our labours. "I," said Madame Aspasie, "lead a miserable life enough. I pass my whole time in writing books for children. I am sufficiently reasonable to persevere in an occupation which enables me to live, but I am not sufficiently insensible not to suffer at being obliged to indite tales which are entitled Easter Eggs,' "The Young Girl and the Canary,' and so forth, when I would like to be writing romances after the fashion of Balzac and Georges Sand. I have, indeed, begun one, and you must favour me with your opinion upon it." To my infinite horror, Madame Aspasie rose to open her desk, and I was lost, had not the maid come in to announce company. What an escape! The company was composed of all that contemporaneous literature, be it epileptic or realist, has among it most seedy and hirsute. The soirée was opened by Mademoiselle Pamela Črapuzot, who favoured us with a fragment of an unpublished poem on Agues Sorel, which was received with tremors of enthusiasm. M. Venceslas Sardinenski, a young Gascon from the North, a Pole excessively refugeed, followed with the outline of a drama, entitled "The Heroine of Cracow." There were five dead bodies to each act, making a total of twenty-five victims, without reckoning the "assistants." After M. Sardinenski, Madame Zoé Grenouillet made her appearance. She must have weighed something like a hundred kilos; and she was so nicely set in her pearl-grey dress, that she resembled a bale of goods in its wrapper. Madame Grenouillet recited, in a stentorian voice, a little unpublished novel, called "The Young Consumptive;" a subject exceedingly new. She was followed by a young lady, seventeen years of age, who sang a sonnet on "Green Peas." All that was wanting was an ear for time. I had got hold of my hat, and was about to make a desperate attempt at flight, when Mademoiselle Bibiane Filandrin, a meteor of twelve years of age, was announced. Blue-stockings have their families, just as roses and fish have theirs. On the other side of the "barrières" blue-stockings are no longer bluestockings, they are transformed into muses. Every town with ten thousand inhabitants has at least one muse-to amuse it. Châtellerault, the country of pocket-knives, witnessed the birth within its walls of one of these poetic stars, and. that was Bibiane Filandrin. Nothing so precocious had been witnessed for a distance of twenty leagues. What was most remarkable in her was that impatience of genius which never permitted her to finish what she began. This impatience dated with her, indeed, from before her birth, for she was in such a hurry to honour Châtellerault with her appearance that she came before her time, and after a period of only seven months' incuba, tion. This impatience on her part was attended with disagreeable consequences for it did not give her father time to recognise her, and to the act that registered her birth were added the significant words "père inconnu." This drawback did not prevent the little Bibiane from cutting her teeth or learning La Fontaine's fables. By the time she was three years of age she could recite without blushing: "La cigale ayant chanté a fable which is, at the best, the glorification of egoism, but which little girls repeat with pleasure, because the prominent idea with them is a grasshopper that is asked out to dance. By the time she was four years of age, Bibiane made her auditors weep at her recital of Théramène. At six she won the first prize in literature, and had the honour of being embraced by the sous-préfet. Two years later she complimented in verse, after her own fashion, a princess who was passing through the town, and received an acknowledgment in twelve penknives. Henceforth the child was adopted by the Muse, and the local paper opened its columns to her effusions. Her reign was consecrated. She had nothing to do but to rhyme; and she rhymed accordingly. Bibiane's mother was not only poor, but stupid; and she took the child about like a magic lantern. In return for the exhibition of the little marvel, the wellto-do citizens of Châtellerault gave the mother their turned-off bonnets and their old dresses. At last, like all other provincial poets, Bibiane penned a magnificent ode to a great poet of Paris, and was in return invited to a seat at the great intellectual banquet, at which her place was already marked out. The Journey to Paris was forthwith resolved upon. The mother wept with joy. She packed up her rags; Bibiane took her laurels and penknives, and both started for the great city with fifty letters of recommendation. They landed in Paris at one of those "hôtels garnis," the staircases of which are fetid, the passages obscure, and the rooms unfurnished. Their first visit was to the great poet, who invited them to take a seat, and, after allowing them to admire him in all his glory and his robe de chambre, showed them the door. Several months were spent in delivering their numerous letters of recommendation, in not being received, and in dining at "trente-deux sous." And as no one exclaimed as they went by, as they used to do at Châtellerault, "There is the celebrated little Bibiane, with madame her mother," the latter decided that the Parisians, the great poet included, were so many impudent fools. Madame Zoé Grenouillet had met the little marvel at a builder's, who gave soirées to artists and masons. The next day she presented her to Madame Aspasie de Villiers. It was thus that I had the good fortune to make acquaintance with Mademoiselle Bibiane Filandrin. Bibiane Filandrin's great speciality lay in improvisation. And how she was flattered at Madame Aspasie's! I would wish to remember all that this young Corinne improvised upon all kinds of subjects. The most difficult rhymes, the most obsolete words, did not make her hesitate for a moment: Bibiane knew everything, understood everything, and admitted no obstacles; her inspiration surmounted with the greatest intrepidity alike all social barriers, prejudices, and scruples. Four lines have alone remained impressed in my memory; but they will suffice to give you an idea of the prodigious poetic facility of Bibiane Filandrin. Here they are: "Je sais que comme tout, la mort aura mon cœur ; Certains qu'aux pieds de Dieu toujours les anges l'eurent." The four lines were received with thunders of applause. As to myself, I was too much saturated with emotion to await the conclusion of the soirée; so taking advantage of a round of refreshments and cigarettes, I disappeared in a cloud of tobacco. I felt, indeed, ill at ease in the midst of all these women, who abused the weed and the dictionary of rhymes at the same time. What has become of this little feminine coterie? I am not certain. But I have heard say that Madame Aspasie de Villiers keeps a table d'hôte; that Madame Zoé Grenouillet puts on leeches, and that Mademoiselle Bibiane Filandrin has taken place as lady's-maid with a demoiselle who spends the whole summer in the Château des Fleurs. A common expression, "c'est un homme comme il faut," admits of a great variety of meanings. To the public at large, un homme comme il faut is just simply a well-dressed man; to most ladies, un homme comme il faut, is one who is civil and attentive to them; to men, un homme comme il faut, is a gentleman; on the Bourse, a Croesus; at Chantilly, a Seymour; on the Boulevards, a spendthrift. The world generalises, individuals particularise. With the latter, un homme comme il faut becomes un homme comme il me faut. Thus, with the restaurants, he is a gourmet; and with tradesmen, a man who bleeds freely. We have one more version to give, and, as it is embodied in a lively and characteristic sketch of life and manners, we will make a clear breast of it, and extract the whole: "Good-by, Bichette. Upon my word of honour, if it was not that Tamaillou was the chief in my office, I would not have accepted his invitation to join this shooting party." "Never mind. Good-by, Bichon. Had you refused him he might have felt hurt. We must keep on good terms with our superiors; and then, twenty-four hours will soon be over." "Yes, but I fear you will be dull during my absence." "I shall think that you are amusing yourself, and that will comfort me." "I will bring home some first-rate game for you." "A hare! I am so fond of hare." "You shall have one of the first quality. "Good-by, Bichon.” Good-by, Bichette." Thus it was that Narcisse Giromel parted from his beloved wife Cornelia, on one of the latter days of the shooting season, which happened also to be the evening of the Sunday before Lent (Dimanche-Gras). Arrived at the house of his friend and chief, Tamaillou, Narcisse Giromel deposited his gun in a corner, hung up his game-bag on a peg, and, rubbing his hands, exclaimed, "Well, here I am. Have they brought our dresses ?" His host pointed to an arm-chair, on which lay two costumes of "pierrots." "Delicious!" shouted Narcisse. "And Bichette ?" said his host, inquiringly. "Bichette has been good. I promised her some game." "You monster!" "Well, I suppose it is so." It is five in the morning, the scene a restaurant on the Boulevards. At that hour and at that period, certain restaurants have an aspect that is peculiar to themselves. Chiefs and helps, all alike, in the kitchen are in full movement. The lady of the counter is seated at her post of command, surveillance, and receipt. Customers are arriving, order their suppers, and select their cabinets. Waiters are hurrying to and fro. As the number of arrivals increases, it becomes a rush of clowns, pantaloons, columbines, shepherdesses, and débardeurs. The passages become encumbered, the possession of cabinets becomes a matter of dispute-some are carried by assault. The waiters become confused amidst the number of orders given in various directions at once. It is the moment for mistakes and quiproquos. These night customers in no one way resemble those of the day. All ages have their representatives, although the great majority are young people. But these carry generally in their weary features an impression of anticipated old age, which brings the two extremes into strange approximation. We only speak here of the men; the women almost all possess the talent of fixing spring on their features, and that principally when seen by candlelight. Oh, if they had but the power to make themselves as pretty as they do juvenile! Sons of good families devouring their patrimony and their existence; moneyed men in a hurry to ruin themselves, and who do not find the Bourse sufficiently expeditious; husbands happy in an escapade; women in search of adventures, such are the principal customers of these houses, whose nocturnal habits and physiognomy are, to an observing man, the subjects of a study that is not without its in terest. "Garçon, un potage-deux oeufs !" "Here, sir!" A generous paymaster is in question, and the waiter darts off with the rapidity of lightning. "Un potage-deux œufs!" he shouts out on reaching the kitchen door. "Be quick! "You must wait a moment," retorts the chief, whose ears are assailed by a multiplicity of demands. The waiter, however, persists. They are for a gentleman who is in a great hurry." "Then he must wait. Give him the newspaper." "He does not want it." "Then go and sit down." At last, the soup and eggs are ready, the waiter seizes upon them, and runs with them to the lady at the counter. "Un potage-deux œufs, for No. 3.” At the same moment some one pushes his elbow. Fearing an accident, he places his dishes on the counter, and turns round to confront the disturber, exclaiming, "Maladroit!" Not so awkward neither, for the blow came from another waiter, who adopted that means to secure a similar order, without the trouble of going to the kitchen for it. "Mon potage-deux œufs !" exclaims the waiter, when, on turning round, he finds that his dishes are gone. And then he hurries away, asking every waiter he meets if he has seen his potage-deux œufs, and he thrusts his head into the different cabinets, still calling after his potage-deux œufs. In the mean time, the following colloquy is being carried on in a subdued voice at the extreme end of the corridor, between a pierrette" (feminine pierrot) and a third waiter. "Mon petit Philippe, one word, if you please." Ten, to be agreeable to you.' رو "You know that I have left the viscount ?" "Oh yes, I have heard his friends have sent for him into Touraine to marry him." ; "Marriage of spite, mon cher. I have run out of the ball-room for a moment I have been besieged by M. Dubourg and M. de Saint-Paul. Both have placed their hearts and a supper at my feet. Before deciding which to accept, I wish for some information. You know them, Philippe, they are both customers. Give me your advice frankly; you would not like to deceive a poor woman. What is M. Dubourg ?" "A very good-looking fellow." "I am not blind; but of his means ?" "Oh, as to that, he is a man who verifies his bill, picks up his change, and leaves a franc for the waiter." 66 Really ?" "I have also heard that at every change of connexion, he has the furniture which he has presented to the fair one, repurchased by a broker at a nominal price, so that the same goods have now served to set up six mistresses." "Thank you, I shall not be the seventh. Now, what do you think of M. de Saint-Paul?" Long grey hair, sparely decorating a head that is not over handsome, and a decided tendency to corpulence." "But I ask you if he is good?" |