After experiencing, 'heaven' and 'death,' it's time for Bishop, Edouard and Herbert Tompkins to experience, 'Hell' at Le Cabaret de l'Enfer. They return to 53 Boulevard de Clichy were is it located next door to the, Cabaret du Ciel which is situated to the left of, 'Hell.' As with the, Cabaret du Ciel it was easy to locate but the same sense of loss prevails. Le Cabaret de l'Enfer closed its doors for the final time in 1950. 

But, right now, in this moment its door are open again, so let's join Bishop, Edouard and Herbert as they continue their, 'Night in Montmartre.'

"Now," quietly remarked Bishop, "having passed through death, we will explore hell."

Mr. Thompkins seemed too weak, or unresisting, or apathetic to protest. His face betrayed a queer mixture of emotions, part suffering, part revulsion, part a sort of desperate eagerness for more.

We passed through a large, hideous, fanged, open mouth in an enormous face from which shone eyes of blazing crimson. Curiously enough, it adjoined heaven, whose cool blue lights contrasted strikingly with the fierce ruddiness of hell. Red-hot bars and gratings through which flaming coals gleamed appeared in the walls within the red mouth. A placard announced that should the temperature of this inferno make one thirsty, innumerable bocks might be had at sixty-five centimes each. A little red imp guarded the throat of the monster into whose mouth we had walked; he was cutting extraordinary capers, and made a great show of stirring the fires. The red imp opened the imitation heavy metal door for our passage to the interior, crying,—"Ah, ah, ah! still, they come! Oh, how they will roast!" Then he looked keenly at Mr. Thompkins. It was interesting to note how that gentleman was always singled out by these shrewd students of humanity. This particular one added with great gusto, as he narrowly studied Mr. Thompkins, "Hist! ye infernal whelps; stir well the coals and heat red the prods, for this is where we take our revenge on earthly saintliness!"

"Enter and be damned,—the Evil One awaits you!" growled a chorus of rough voices as we hesitated before the scene confronting us.

Near us was suspended a caldron over a fire, and hopping within it were half a dozen devil musis dans, male and female, playing a selection from "Faust" on stringed instruments, while red imps stood by, prodding with red-hot irons those who lagged in their performance.

Crevices in the walls of this room ran with streams of molten gold and silver, and here and there were caverns lit up by smouldering fires from which thick smoke issued, and vapours emitting the odours of a volcano. Flames would suddenly burst from clefts in the rocks, and thunder rolled through the caverns. Red imps were everywhere, darting about noiselessly, some carrying beverages for the thirsty lost souls, others stirring the fires or turning somersaults. Everything was in a high state of motion.

Numerous red tables stood against the fiery walls; at these sat the visitors. Mr. Thompkins seated himself at one of them. Instantly it became aglow with a mysterious light, which kept flaring up and disappearing in an erratic fashion; flames darted from the walls, fires crackled and roared. One of the imps came to take our order; it was for three coffees, black, with cognac; and this is how he shrieked the order:

"Three seething bumpers of molten sins, with a dash of brimstone intensifier!" Then, when he had brought it, "This will season your intestines, and render them invulnerable, for a time at least, to the tortures of the melted iron that will be soon poured down your throats." The glasses glowed with a phosphorescent light. "Three francs seventy- five, please, not counting me. Make it four francs. Thank you well. Remember that though hell is hot, there are cold drinks if you want them."

Presently Satan himself strode into the cavern, gorgeous in his imperial robe of red, decked with blazing jewels, and brandishing a sword from which fire flashed. His black moustaches were waxed into sharp points, and turned rakishly upward above lips upon which a sneering grin appeared. Thus, he leered at the new arrivals in his domain. His appearance lent new zest to the activity of the imps and musicians, and all cowered under his glance. Suddenly he burst into a shrieking laugh that gave one a creepy feeling. It rattled through the cavern with a startling effect as he strode up and down. It was a triumphant, cruel, merciless laugh. All at once he paused in front of a demure young Parisienne seated at a table with her escort, and, eying her keenly, broke into this speech:

"Ah, you! Why do you tremble? How many men have you sent hither to damnation with those beautiful eyes, those rosy, tempting lips? Ah, for all that, you have found a sufficient hell on earth. But you," he added, turning fiercely upon her escort, "you will have the finest, the most exquisite tortures that await the damned. For what? For being a fool. It is folly more than crime that hell punishes, for crime is a disease and folly a sin. You fool! For thus hanging upon the witching glance and oily words of a woman you have filled all hell with fuel for your roasting. You will suffer such tortures as only the fool invites, such tortures only as are adequate to punish folly. Prepare for the inconceivable, the unimaginable, the things that even the king of hell dare not mention lest the whole structure of damnation totter and crumble to dust."

The man winced, and queer wrinkles came into the corners of his mouth. Then Satan happened to discover Mr. Thompkins, who shrank visibly under the scorching gaze. Satan made a low, mocking bow.

"You do me great honour, sir," he declared, unctuously. "You may have been expecting to avoid me, but reflect upon what you would have missed! We have many notables here, and you will have charming society. They do not include pickpockets and thieves, nor any others of the weak, stunted, crippled, and halting. You will find that most of your companions are distinguished gentlemen of learning and ability, who, knowing their duty, failed to perform it. You will be in excellent company, sir," he concluded, with another low bow. Then, suddenly turning and sweeping the room with a gesture, he commanded, "To the hot room, all of you!" while he swung his sword, from which flashes of lightning trailed and thunder rumbled.

We were led to the end of a passage, where a red-hot iron door barred further progress.

"Oh, oh, within there!" roared Satan. "Open the portal of the hot chamber, that these fresh arrivals may be introduced to the real temperature of hell!"

After numerous signals and mysterious passes the door swung open, and we entered. It was not so very hot after all. The chamber resembled the other, except that a small stage occupied one end. A large green snake crawled out upon this, and suddenly it was transformed into a red devil with exceedingly long, thin legs, encased in tights that were ripped in places. He gave some wonderful contortion feats. A poor little white Pierrot came on and assisted the red devil in black art performances. By this time, we discovered that in spite of the half molten condition of the rock-walls, the room was disagreeably chilly.

​And that ended our experience in hell.

After their experiences you would be forgiven for thinking that a gentle walk home would be in order but no, that was not the plan. Next, they attended Le Mirliton to experience the acid tongued comedian and singer Aristide Bruant. 

​We will catch up with our protagonists there.

All text taken from, Bohemian Paris of Today (Chapter 9 - A Night in Montmartre) by Cucuel and Morrow and Illustrated by Edouard Cucuel - 1899. All photos - Craig R. Whitfield (2026)

One of the easiest cafes to locate in Paris is, The Cafe Procope which is celebrated as the oldest café/restaurant in Paris. It opened its doors for the first time in 1686. The Café Propcope is located at 13 Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie which is situated in the 6th Arrondissement of Paris. 

Opened by Sicillan chef Francesco Procoplo dei Coltelli, it pioneered the concept of the European coffee house, Introducing coffee and gelato to Parisian society! Eat your heart out, Costa, Starbucks and Café Nero - other coffee outlets are available. 

It served as the primary meeting ground for intellectual icons like Voltaire, Rousseau, and Denis Diderot.

During the French Revolution, radical figures such as Robespierre, Danton, and Marat used the café to debate political philosophy.

So, we re-join Edouard and Bishop as they enjoy the experience offered by The Café Procope. 

​In the short, busy little street, the Rue de l'Ancienne-Comédie, which runs from the Boulevard St. Germain, in a line from the Théâtre National de l'Odéon and connecting with the Rue Mazarin, its continuation, the heavy dome of the Institute looming at its end, is to be found probably the most famous café in Paris, for in its day it has been the rendezvous of the most noted French littérateurs, politicians, and savants. What is more, the Procope was the first café established in Paris, originating the appellation "café" to a place where coffee is served, for it was here that coffee was introduced to France as an after-dinner comforter.

That was when the famous café was in its glory. Some of the great celebrities who made it famous have been dead for nearly two hundred years, though its greatest fame came a century afterwards; and now the café, no longer glorious as it was when the old Théâtre Français stood opposite, reposes in a quiet street far from the noise and glitter and life of the boulevards, and lives on the splendid memories that crowd it. Other cafés by the thousand have sprung into existence, and the word has spread to coffee saloons and restaurants throughout Christendom; and the ancient rive droite nurses the history and relics of the golden days of its glory, alone in a quiet street, surrounded by tightly shut shops, and the calm of a sleeping village.

Still, it retains many of its ancient characteristics and much of the old-time quaintness peculiar to itself and setting it wholly apart, and it is yet the rendezvous of littérateurs and artists, who, if not so famous as the great men in whose seats they sit, play a considerable role in the life of modern Paris.

The front of the café is a neat little terrace off the street, screened by a fanciful net-work of vines and shrubbery that spring from green painted boxes and that conceal cosey little tables and corners placed behind them. Instead of the usual showy plate-windows, one still finds the quaint old window-panes, very small carreaux, kept highly polished by the tireless garçon apprentice.

Tacked to the white pillars are numerous copies of Le Procope, a weekly journal published by Théo, the proprietor of the café. Its contributors are the authors, journalists, and poets who frequent the café, and it publishes a number of portraits besides, and some spirited drawings. It is devoted in part to the history of the café and of the celebrities who have made it famous, and publishes portraits of them, from Voltaire to Paul Verlaine. This same journal was published here over two hundred years ago, in 1689, and it was the means then by which the patrons of the establishment kept in closer touch with their contemporaries and the spirit of the time. Théo is proprietor and business manager, as well as editor.

The modern gas illumination of the café, in contrast to the fashion of brilliant lighting that prevails in the showy cafés of the boulevards, must nevertheless be a great advance on the ancient way that it had of being lighted with crude oil lamps and candelabra. But the dim illumination is in perfect keeping with the other appointments of the place, which are dark, sombre, and funereal. The interior of the Procope is as dark as a finely coloured old meerschaum pipe. The woodwork, the chairs, and the tables are deeply stained by time, the contrasting white marble tops of the tables suggesting gravestones; and with all these go the deeply discoloured walls and the many ancient paintings,—even the caisse, behind which sits Madame Théo, dozing over her knitting. This caisse is a wonderful piece of furniture in itself, of some rich dark wood, beautifully carved and decorated.

Madame Théo is in black, her head resting against the frame of an old crayon portrait of Voltaire on the wall behind her. A fat and comfortable black cat is asleep in the midst of rows of white saucers and snowy napkins. The only garçon, except the garçon apprentice, is sitting in a corner drowsing over an evening paper, but ever ready to answer the quiet calls of the customers. For in the matter of noise and frivolity the Café Procope is wholly unlike the boulevard cafés. An atmosphere of refined and elegant suppression pervades the place; the roystering spirit that haunts the boulevards stops at the portals of the Procope. Here all is peace and tranquillity, and that is why it is the haunt of many earnest and aspiring poets and authors; for hither they may bring their portfolios in peace and security, and here they may work upon their manuscripts, knowing that their neighbours are similarly engrossed and that intrusion is not to be feared. And then, too, are they not sitting on the same chairs and writing at the same tables that have been occupied by some of the greatest men in all the brilliant history of France? Is not this the place in which greatness had budded and blossomed in the centuries gone? Are not these ancient walls the same that echoed the wit, badinage, and laughter of the masters? And there are the portraits of the great themselves, looking down benignly and encouragingly upon the young strugglers striving to follow in their footsteps, and into the ghostly mirrors, damaged by time and now sending back only ghosts of shadows, they look as the great had looked before them. It is here, therefore, that many of the modern geniuses of France have drawn their inspiration, shaking off the endless turmoil of the noisy and bustling world, living with the works and memories of the ancient dead, and working out their destiny under the magic spell that hovers about the place. It is for this reason that the habitués are jealous of the intrusion of the curious and worldly. In this quiet and secure retreat they feel no impinging of the wearing and crippling world that roars and surges through the busy streets and boulevards.

M. Théo de Bellefond is the full name of the proprietor, but he is commonly known as M. Théo. He is a jolly little man, with an ambitious round stomach, a benevolent face covered with a Vandyke beard, and a shining bald head. A large flowing black cravat, tied into an artistic negligée bow, hides his shirt. M. Théo came into possession of the Procope in 1893, a fact duly recorded on a door panel, along with the names of over a score of the celebrities who have made the Procope their place of rest, refection, and social enjoyment. M. Procope was a journalist in his day, but now the ambition that moves him is to restore the ancient glory of the Procope; to make it again the centre of French brains and power in letters, art, and politics. To this end he exerts all his journalistic tact, a fact clearly shown by the able manner in which he conducts his journal, Le Procope. He has worked out the history of the café, and has at the ends of his fingers the life- stories of its famous patrons.

The Café Procope was founded in 1689 by François Procope, where it now stands. Opposite was the Comédie Française, which also was opened that year. The café soon became the rendezvous of all who aspired to greatness in art, letters, philosophy, and politics. It was here that Voltaire, in his eighty-second year, while attending the rehearsals of his play, "Irène," descended from his chaise-à-porteur at the door of the Café Procope, and drank the coffee which the café had made fashionable. It was here also that he became reconciled to Piron, after an estrangement of more than twenty years.

Ste.-Foix made trouble here one day about a cup of chocolate. A duel with the proprietor of the café was the immediate result, and after it Ste.-Foix, badly wounded, exclaimed, "Nevertheless, monsieur, your sword-thrust does not prevent my saying that a very sickly déjeuner is une tasse de chocolat!"

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, after the successful representation of "Le Devin de Village," was carried in triumph to the Procope by Condorcet, who, with Jean-Jacques on his shoulders, made a tour of the crowded café, yelling, "Vive la Musique Française!" Diderot was fond of sitting in a corner and manufacturing paradoxes and materialistic dissertations to provoke the lieutenant of police, who would note everything he said and report it to the chief of police. The lieutenant, ambitious though stupid, one night told his chief that Diderot had said one never saw souls; to which the chief returned, "M. Diderot se trompe. L'âme est un esprit, et M. Diderot est plein d'esprit."

Danton delighted in playing chess in a quiet corner with a strong adversary in the person of Marat. Many other famous revolutionists assembled here, among them Fabre d'Eglantine, Robespierre, d'Holbach, Mirabeau, Camille Desmoulins. It was here that Camille Desmoulins was to be strangled by the reactionists in the Revolution; it was here that the first bonnet rouge was donned. The massacre of December, 1792, was here- planned, and the killing began at the very doors of the café. Madame Roland, Lucille Desmoulins, and the wife of Danton met here on the ioth of August, the day of the fall of the monarchy, when bells rang and cannon thundered. It was later that Bonaparte, then quite young and living in the Quai Conti, in the building which the American Art Association now occupies, left his hat at the Procope as security for payment for a drink, he having left his purse at home. In short, the old café of the Rue des Fossés-St.-Ger-main (its old name) was famous as the meeting-place of celebrities. Legendre, the great geometrician, came hither. One remembers the verses of Masset: "Je joue aux dominos quelquefois chez Procope." Here Gambetta made speeches to the reactionist politicians and journalists. He engaged in more than one prise de bec with le père Coquille, friend of Veuillot. Coquille always made sprightly and spirited replies when Gambetta roared, thundered, and swore.

Since then have followed days of calm. In later times Paul Verlaine was a frequenter of the Procope, where he would sit in his favourite place in the little rear salon at Voltaire's table. This little salon, in the rear of the café, is held sacred, for its chair and table are the ones that Voltaire used to occupy. The table is on one side of the small room. On the walls are many interesting sketches in oil by well-known French artists, and there are fine ceiling decorations; but all these are seen with difficulty, so dim is the light in the room. Since Voltaire's time this table has become an object of curiosity and veneration. When celebrated habitués of the café died this table was used as an altar, upon which for a time reposed the bust of the decedent before crêpe-covered lanterns.

During the Revolution Hébert jumped upon this table, which had been placed before the door of the café, and harangued the crowd gathered there, exciting them to such a pitch that they snatched the newspapers from the hands of the news-venders. In a moment of passionate appeal he brought down his heavy boot-heel upon the marble with such force as to split it.

In the café are three doors that are decorated in a very interesting fashion. On the panels of one, well preserved in spite of the numerous transformations through which the establishment has gone, M. Théo conceived the happy idea of inscribing in gold letters the names of the illustrious who have visited the café since its founding. Many of the panels of the Avails are taken with full-length portraits by Thomas, representing, among others, Voltaire, Rousseau, Robespierre, Diderot, Danton and Marat playing chess, Mirabeau, and Gambetta. There are smaller sketches by Corot, d'Aubigny, Vallon, Courbet, Willette, and Roedel. Some of them are not fine specimens of art.

M. Théo is a devoted collector of rare books and engravings. His library, which contains many very rare engravings of the eighteenth century and more than one book of priceless value, is open to his intimate friends only, with whom he loves to ramble through his treasures and find interesting data of his café.

​All text taken from, Bohemian Paris of Today (Chapter 7 - The Café Procope) by Cucuel and Morrow and Illustrated by Edouard Cucuel - 1899. All photos - Craig R. Whitfield (2026)

We join up with Eduoard and Bishop at the Maison Darblay. Sadly, this is another location that couldn’t be located nor could, ‘The Club’ or the ‘Hole in the Wall’ as later mentioned. Once again, however, I was in the location as I walked up and down the Rue de la Gaieté where I located the Théâtre du Montparnasse. (see photo 5 and 9 above) Photo 9 was taken at the turn of the 20th Century. Maison Darblay sat opposite so I must have been literally outside it as I took the photo of the Théâtre du Montparnasse.

According to research, ‘The Hole in the Wall,’ was on the Boulevard du Montparnasse within 2 blocks of the already mentioned Bal Bullier and, ‘The Club’ was situated on Rue Marie which isn’t far from the Rue Montparnasse a small and artistically dirty wine shop and restaurant both have been lost to time.

Limited as I was for sights I decided to take in the Cimetière du Montparnasse where I spent time with Guy de Maupassant, Jane Birkin, Serge Gainsbourg and Man Ray. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon on yet another warm, sunny and dry afternoon.
 
“VERY often, instead of having dinner at the studio, we saunter over to the Maison Darblay, passing the wall of the dismal Cimetière du Montparnasse on the way. The Maison Darblay is in the little Rue de la Gaieté, which, though only a block in length, is undoubtedly the liveliest thoroughfare in the Quartier. That is because it serves as a funnel between the Avenue du Maine and five streets that converge into it at the upper end. Particularly in the early evening the little street is crowded with people returning from their work. All sorts of boutiques are packed into this minute thoroughfare,—-jewellery-shops, pork-shops, kitchens (where they cook what you bring while you wait on the sidewalk), theatres, cafés chantants, fried-potato stalls, snail merchants, moving vegetable- and fruit-markets, and everything else.”
 
“In the middle of the block, on the western side, between a millinery- shop and a butcher-shop, stands the Maison Darblay, famous for its beans and its patrons. A modest white front, curtained windows, and a row of milk-cans give little hint of the charms of the interior. Upon entering we encounter the vast M. Darblay seated behind a tiny counter, upon which are heaped a pile of freshly ironed napkins, parcels of chocolate, a big dish of apple-sauce, rows of bottles containing bitters that work miracles with ailing appetites, and the tip-box. Reflecting M. Darblay's beamy back and the clock on the opposite wall (which is always fifteen minutes fast) hangs a long mirror resplendent in heavy gilt frame; it is the pride of the establishment, and affords comfort to the actresses when they adjust their hats and veils upon leaving.”
 
“M. Darblay is manager of the establishment, and when it is reflected that he weighs two hundred and sixty pounds, it may be imagined what accurate adjustments he has to make in fitting himself behind the small counter. When a boarder finishes his meal he goes to M. Darblay and tells him what he has had, including napkin and bread, and M. Darblay scores it all down on a slate with chalk and foots it up. After the bill is paid, the tip-box is supposed by a current fiction to receive two sous for Marie and Augustine, the buxom Breton maidens who serve the tables; but so rarely does the fiction materialize that, when the rattle of coins is heard in the box, the boarders all look up wonderingly to see the possible millionaire that has appeared among them, and Marie and Augustine shout at the top of their voices, "Merci bien, monsieur!"

“At the opposite end of the room, in full view, is the cuisine, with its big range and ruddy fires. Here Madame Darblay reigns queen, her genial, motherly red face and bright eyes beaming a welcome to all. She is from Lausanne, on Lake Geneva, Switzerland, and the independent blood of her race rarely fails its offices when M. Darblay incautiously seeks to interfere with her duties and prerogatives, for he retreats under an appalling volley of French from his otherwise genial spouse; on such occasions he seeks his own corner as rapidly as he can manage his bulk to that purpose. She is a famous cook. The memory of her poulets rôtis and juicy gigots will last forever. But greatest of all are her haricots blancs, cooked au beurre; it is at the shrine of her beans that her devoted followers worship.”
 
“And her wonderful wisdom! She knows intuitively if you are out of sorts or have an uncertain appetite, and without a hint she will prepare a delicacy that no epicure could resist. She knows every little whim and peculiarity of her boarders, and caters to them accordingly. The steaks and chops are bought at the shop next door just when they are ordered, and are always fresh.
There are eight marble-top tables lining the two walls, and each table is held sacred to its proper occupants, and likewise are the numbered hooks and napkins. An invasion of these preserves is a breach of etiquette intolerable in Bohemia.”
 
“Even the white cat is an essential part of the establishment, for it purringly welcomes the patrons and chases out stray dogs.”
 
“Situated as it is, in a group of three theatres and several cafés chantants, it is the rendezvous of the actors and actresses of the neighbourhood. They hold the three tables but one from the kitchen, on one side, and they are a jolly crowd, the actresses particularly.”

“They are a part of the Quartier and echo its spirit. Although full of mischief and fun, the actresses would never be suspected of singing the naughty songs that so delight the gallery gods and so often wring a murmur of protest from the pit. There are ten who dine here, but from their incessant chatter and laughter you would think them twenty. On Friday evenings, when the songs and plays are changed, they rehearse their pieces at dinner.”

“Bishop is openly fond of Mademoiselle Brunerye, a sparkling little brunette singer, who scolds him tragically for drawing horrible caricatures of her when he sits before the footlights to hear her sing. But it is always she that begins the trouble at the theatre. If Bishop is there, she is sure to see him and to interpolate something in her song about "mon amant Américain," and sing it pointedly at him, to the amusement of the audience and his great discomfiture; and so he retorts with the caricatures.”
 
“Upon entering the restaurant the actresses remove their hats and wraps and make themselves perfectly at home. They are the life of Darblay's; we couldn't possibly spare them.”
 
“One of the actors is a great swell,—M. Fontaine, leading man at the Théâtre du Montparnasse opposite. His salary is a hundred francs a week; this makes the smaller actors look up to him, and enables him to wear a very long coat, besides gloves, patent-leather shoes, and a shiny top-hat. He occupies the place of honour, and Marie smiles when she serves him, and gives him a good measure of wine. He rewards this attention by depositing two sous in the tip-box every Friday night. Then there are M. Marius, M. Zecca, and M. Dufauj who make people scream with laughter at the Gaieté, and M. Coppée, the heavy villain of the terrible eyes in "Les Deux Gosses," and Mademoiselle Walzy, whose dark eyes sparkle mischief as she peeps over her glass, and Mademoiselle Minion, who kicks shockingly high to accentuate her songs, and eight other actresses just as saucy and pretty.”
 
“The students of the Quartier practically take charge of the theatres on Saturday nights, and as they are very free with their expressions of approval or disapproval, the faces of the stage-people wear an anxious look at the restaurant on that evening. The students will throw the whole theatre into an uproar with hisses that drive an actor off the stage, or applause, recalls, and the throwing of two-sous bouquets and kisses to an actress who has made a hit.”
 
“Promptly at six-forty-five every night the venerable M. Corneau enters Darblay's, bringing a copy of Le Journal. He is extremely methodical, so that any interruption of his established routine upsets him badly. One evening he found a stranger in his seat, occupying the identical chair that had been sacred to his use every evening for six years. M. Corneau was so astonished that he hung his hat on the wrong hook, stepped on the cat's tail, sulked in a corner, and refused to eat until his seat had been vacated, and then he looked as though he wished it could be fumigated. He has a very simple meal. One evening he invited me—a rare distinction—to his room, which was in the top floor of one of those quaint old buildings in the Rue du Moulin de Beurre. It could then be seen what a devoted scientist and student he was. His room was packed with books, chemicals, mineral specimens, and scientific instruments. He was very genial, and brewed excellent tea over an alcohol-stove of his own manufacture. Twenty years ago he was a professor at the Ecole des Mines, where he had served many years; but he had now grown too old for that, and was living his quiet, studious, laborious life on a meagre pension.”
 
“At one table sit a sculptor, an artist, and a blind musician and his wife. The sculptor is slender, delicate, and nervous, and is continually rolling and smoking cigarettes. His blond hair falls in ringlets over his collar, and he looks more the poet than the sculptor, for he is dreamy and distrait, and seems to be looking within himself rather than upon the world about him. Augustine serves him with an absinthe Pernod au sucre, which he slowly sips while he smokes several cigarettes before he is ready for his dinner.”

“The artist is his opposite,—a big, bluff, hearty fellow, loud of voice and full of life. And he is successful, for he has received a medal and several honourable mentions at the Salon des Champs-Élysées, and has a fine twilight effect in the Luxembourg Gallery. After dinner he and M. Darblay play piquet for the coffee, and M. Darblay is generally loser.”

“The blind musician is a kindly old man with a benevolent face and a jovial spirit. He is the head professor of music at the Institution des Aveugles, on the Boulevard des Invalides. His wife is very attentive to him, taking his hat and cane, tucking his napkin under his chin, placing the dishes where he knows how to find them, and reading the papers to him. He knows where everybody sits, and he addresses each by name, and passes many brisk sallies about the room.”
 
“One poet is vivacious, not at all like the dreamy species to which he belongs. True, he wears long hair and a Quartier Latin "plug," but his eyes are not vague, and he is immensely fond of Madame Darblay's beans, of which he has been known to stow away five platefuls at a meal. Often he brings in a copy of Gil Bias, containing a poem by himself in the middle of the page and with illustrations by Steinlen.”
 
“A strange, solitary figure used to sit in one corner, speaking to no one, and never ordering more than a bowl of chocolate and two sous of bread. It was known merely that he was an Hungarian and an artist, and from his patched and frayed clothes and meagre fare it was surmised that he was poor. But he had a wonderful face. Want was plainly stamped upon it, but behind it shone a determination and a hope that nothing could repress. There was not a soul among the boarders but that would have been glad to assist in easing whatever burden sat upon him, and no doubt it was his suspicion of that fact and his dread of its manifestation that made him hold absolutely aloof. Madame Darblay once or twice made efforts to get nearer to him, but he gently and firmly repulsed her. He was a pitiable figure, but his pride was invincible, and with eyes looking straight forward, he held up his head and walked like a king. He came and went as a shadow.”
 
“None knew where he had a room. There were many stories and conjectures about him, but he wrapped his mantle of mystery and solitude about him and was wholly inaccessible. It was clear to see that he lived in another world,—a world of hopes, filled with bright images of peace and renown. After a time his seat became vacant, and I shall presently tell how it happened.”
 
“These will suffice as types of the Maison Darblay, though I might mention old M. Decamp, eighty-four years of age, and as hearty and jovial a man as one would care to see. In his younger days he had been an actor, having had a fame during the Empire of Napoléon III. And there were a professor of languages, who gave lessons at fifteen sous an hour, a journalist of the Figaro, and two pretty milliner girls from the shop next door.”
 
“The great event at the Maison Darblay came not long ago, when M. Darblay's two charming daughters had a double wedding, each with a comfortable dot, for M. Darblay had grown quite rich out of his restaurant, owning several new houses. The girls were married twice,—once at the Mairie on the Rue Gassendi, and again at the Eglise St. Pierre, on the Avenue du Maine. Then came the great wedding-dinner at the Maison Darblay, to which all the boarders were invited. The tables were all connected, so as to make two long rows. The bridal-party were seated at the end next the kitchen, and the front door was locked to exclude strangers. M. Darblay was elegant in a new dress suit and white shirt, but his tailor, in trying to give him a trim figure, made the situation embarrassing, as M. Darblay's girth steadily increased during the progress of the banquet. He made a very fine speech, which was uproariously cheered.”

“Madame Darblay was remarkably handsome in a red satin gown, and bore so distinguished an air, and looked so transformed from her usual kitchen appearance, that we could only marvel and admire. Then came the kissing of the brides, a duty that was performed most heartily. Madame Darblay was very happy and proud, and her dinner was a triumph to have lived for.”
 
“Bishop sat opposite the wicked Mademoiselle Brunerye, and he and she made violent love, and behaved with conspicuous lack of dignity. M. Fontaine, the great, had one of the chic milliners for partner. Old M. Decamp told some racy stories of the old régime. When the coffee and liqueurs came on, the big artist brought out a guitar and the poet a mandolin, and we had music. Then the poet read a poem that he had written for the occasion. The actresses sang their sprightliest songs. Mademoiselle Brunerye sang "Ça fait toujours plaisir" to Bishop. M. Fontaine gave in a dramatic manner a scene from "Les Deux Gosses," the heavy villain assisting, the cook's aprons and towels serving to make the costumes. Bishop sang "Down on the Farm." In short, it was a splendid evening in Bohemia, of a kind that Bohemians enjoy and know how to make the most of.”

“There was one silent guest, the strange young Hungarian artist. He ate with a ravenous appetite, openly and unashamed. After he had had his fill (and Madame Darblay saw to it that he found his plate always replenished), he smiled occasionally at the bright sallies of the other guests, but for the most part he sat constrained, and would speak only when addressed,—he protested that his French was too imperfect. It was so evident that he wished to escape notice entirely that no serious effort was made to draw him out.”
 
“That was a hard winter. A few weeks after the wedding the Hungarian's visits to the Maison Dar-blay suddenly ceased. The haunted look had been deepening in his eyes, his gaunt cheeks had grown thinner, and he looked like a hunted man. After his disappearance the gendarmes came to the restaurant to make inquiries about him. Bishop and I were present. They wanted to know if the young man had any friends there. We told them that we would be his friends.
"Then you will take charge of his body?" they asked.”
 
“We followed them to the Rue Perceval, where they turned us over to the concierge of an old building. She was very glad we had come, as the lad seemed not to have had a friend in the world. She led us up to the sixth floor, and then pointed to a ladder leading up to the roof. We ascended it, and found a box built on the roof. It gave a splendid view of Paris. The door of the box was closed. We opened it, and the young artist lay before us dead. There were two articles of furniture in the room. One was the bare mattress on the floor, upon which he lay, and the other was an old dresser, from which some of the drawers were missing. The young man lay drawn up, fully dressed, his coat-collar turned up about his ears. Thus he had fallen asleep, and thus hunger and cold had slain him as he slept. There was one thing else in the room, all besides, including the stove and the bed-covering, having gone for the purchase of painting material. It was an unfinished oil-painting of the Crucifixion. Had he lived to finish it, I am sure it would have made him famous, if for nothing else than the wonderful expression of agony in the Saviour's face, an agony infinitely worse than the physical pain of the crucifixion could have produced.”
 
“There was still one thing more,—a white rat that was, hunting industriously for food, nibbling desiccated cheese-rinds that it found on the shelves against the wall. It had been the artist's one friend and companion in life.”
 
“And all that, too, is a part of life in Bohemian Paris.”
 
“On the Rue Marie, not far from the Gare Montparnasse, is the "Club," a small and artistically dirty wine-shop and restaurant, patronized by a select crowd of musketeers of the brush. The warm, dark tones of the anciently papered walls are hidden beneath a cloud of oil sketches, charcoal drawings, and caricatures of everything and everybody that the fancies of the Bohemians could devise. Madame Annaie is mistress of the establishment, and her cook, M. Annaie, wears his cap rakishly on one side, and attends to his business; and he makes very good potages and rôtis, considering the small prices that are charged. Yet even the prices, though the main attraction, are paid with difficulty by a majority of the habitués, who sometimes fall months in arrears. Madame Annaie keeps a big book of accounts.”
 
“Of the members of the club, four are Americans, two Spaniards, one an Italian, one a Welshman, one a Pole, one a Turk, one a Swiss, and the rest French,—just fifteen in all, and all sculptors and painters except one of the Americans, who is correspondent of a New York paper. At seven o'clock every evening the roll is called by the Pole, who acts as president, secretary, and treasurer of the club. A fine of two sous is imposed for every absence; this goes to the "smoker" fund. Joanskouie, the multiple officer, has not many burdensome duties, but even these few are a severe tax upon his highly nervous temperament. Besides collecting the fines he must gather up also the dues, which are a franc a month. All the members are black-listed, including the president himself, and the names of the delinquents are posted on the wall.”
 
“The marble-top tables are black with pencil sketches done at the expense of Giles, the Welshman, who is the butt of the club. He is a very tall and amazingly lean Welshman, with a be whiskered face, a hooked nose, and a frightful accent when he speaks either English or French. He is an animal sculptor, but leaves his art carefully alone. He is very clever at drawing horses, dogs, and funny cows all over the walls; but he is so droll and stupid, so incredibly stupid, that "Giles" is the byword of the club. Every month he receives a remittance of two hundred and fifty francs, and immediately starts out to get the full worth of it in the kinds of enjoyment that he finds on the Boul' Mich', where regularly once a month he is a great favourite with the feminine habitués of the cafés. When his funds run low, he lies perdu till mid-day; then he appears at Madame Annaie's, heavy-eyed and stupid, staying until midnight. Sometimes he varies this routine by visiting his friends at their studios, where he is made to pose in ridiculous attitudes.”
 
“The "smoker" is held on the last Saturday night of each month, and all the members are present. Long clay pipes are provided, and a big bowl of steaming punch, highly seasoned, comes from Madame Annaie's kitchen. Mutually laudatory speeches and toasts, playing musical instruments, and singing songs are in order. The Spaniard, with castanets, skilfully executes the fandango on a table. Bishop does the danse du ventre. Joncierge gives marvellous imitations of Sarah Bernhardt and other celebrities, including Giles, whose drawl and stupidity he makes irresistibly funny. Nor do Gérôme, Bouguereau, and Benjamin Constant escape his mimicry. Haidor, the Turk, drawls a Turkish song all out of tune, and is rapturously encored. The Swiss and the Italian render a terrific duo from "Aida," and the Spaniards sing the "Bullfighters' Song" superbly. Sketches are dashed off continually. They are so clever that it is a pity Madame Annaie has to wipe them from the tables.”
 
“On Thanksgiving-day the Americans gave the club a Thanksgiving dinner. It was a great mystery and novelty to the other members, but they enjoyed it hugely. The turkeys were found without much trouble, but the whole city had to be searched for cranberries. At last they were found in a small grocery-shop in the American quarter, on the Avenue Wagram. Bishop superintended the cooking, M. Annaie serving as first assistant. How M. Annaie stared when he beheld the queer American mixtures that Bishop was concocting! "Mon Dieu! Not sugar with meat!" he cried, aghast, seeing Bishop serve the turkey with cranberry sauce. A dozen delicious pumpkin-pies that formed part of the menu staggered the old cook. The Italian cooked a pot of macaroni with mushroom sauce, and it was superb.”
 
"The Hole in the Wall" eminently deserves its name. It is on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, within two blocks of the Bal Bullier. A small iron sign projecting over the door depicts two students looking down at the passers-by over bowls of coffee, rolls also being shown. It was painted by an Austrian student in payment of a month's board.
The Hole is a tiny place, just sufficiently large for its two tables and eight stools, fat Madame Morel, the proprietress, and a miniature zinc bar filled with absinthe and cognac bottles and drinking glasses.”
 
“The ceiling is so low that you must bend should you be very tall, for overhead is the sleeping-room of Madame Morel and her niece; it is reached by a small spiral stair.”

“A narrow slit in the floor against the wall, where the napkin-box hangs, leads down to the dark little kitchen. It is a tight squeeze for Madame Morel to serve her customers, but she has infinite patience and geniality, and discharges her numerous duties and bears her hardships with unfailing good-nature. It is no easy task to cook a half-dozen orders at once, wait on the tables, run out to the butcher-shop for a chop or a steak, and take in the cash. But she does all this, and much more, having no assistant. The old concierge next door, Madame Mariolde, runs in to help her occasionally, when she can spare a moment from her own multifarious duties. Madame Morel's toil-worn hands are not bien propre, but she has a kind heart. For seven years she has lived in this little Hole, and during that time has never been farther away than to the grocery-shop on the opposite corner.”
 
“Her niece leaves at seven o'clock in the morning to sew all day on the other side of town, returning at eight at night, tired and listless, but always with a half-sad smile. So we see little of her. Many nights I have seen her come in drenched and cold, her faded straw hat limp and askew, and her dark hair clinging to her wet face. For she has walked in the rain all the way from the Avenue de l'Opéra, unable to afford omnibus fare. She usually earns from two to two and half francs a day, sewing twelve hours.”
 
“The most interesting of the frequenters of the Hole is a Slav from Trieste, on the Adriatic. He is a genius in his way, and full of energy and business sense. His vocation is that of a "lightning-sketch artist," performing at the theatres. He has travelled all over America and Europe, and is thoroughly hardened to the ways of the world. Whenever he runs out of money he goes up to the Rue de la Gaieté and gives exhibitions for a week or two at one of the theatres there, receiving from fifty to sixty francs a week. The students all go to see him, and make such a noise and throw so many bouquets (which he returns for the next night) that the theatrical managers, thinking he is a great drawing-card, generally raise his salary as an inducement to make him prolong his stay when he threatens to leave.”
 
“But he is too thoroughly a Bohemian to remain long in a place. Last week he suddenly was taken with a desire to visit Vienna. Soon after he had gone four pretty Parisiennes called and wanted to know what had become of their amant.”
 
“Another of the habitués of the Hole, is a German musical student. Strangers would likely think him mentally deranged, so odd is his conduct.”

“He has two other peculiarities,—extreme sensitiveness and indefatigable industry. He brings his shabby violin-case every evening, takes out his violin after dinner, and at once becomes wholly absorbed in his practice. If he would play something more sprightly and pleasing the other habitués of the Hole would not object; but he insists on practising the dreariest, heaviest, and most wearing exercises, the most difficult études, and the finest compositions of the masters. All this is more than the others can bear with patience always; so they wound his sensibilities by throwing bread and napkin-rings at him. Then he retires to the kitchen, where, sitting on the cooler end of the range, he practises diligently under Madame Morel's benevolent protection. This is all because he has never found a concierge willing to permit him to study in his room, so tireless is his industry. If I do not mistake, this strange young man will be heard from some day.”
 
“Then there is a student in sculpture, with exceptionally fine talent. He had been an American cowboy, and no trooper could swear more eloquently. He has been making headway, for the Salon has given him honourable mention for a strong bronze group of fighting tigers. His social specialty is poker-playing, and he has brought the entire Hole under the spell of that magic game.”
 
“Herr Prell, from Munich, takes delight in torturing the other habitués with accounts of dissections, as he is a medical student at the Académie de Médecine. The Swede, who drinks fourteen absinthes a day, throws stools at Herr Prell, and tries in other ways to make him fight; but Herr Prell only laughs, and gives another turn of the dissection-screw.”
 
“The glee club is one of the features of the Hole. It sings every night, but its supreme effort comes when one of the patrons of the Hole departs for home. On such occasions the departing comrade has to stand the dinner for all, after which, with its speeches and toasts, he is escorted to the railway station with great éclat, and given a hearty farewell, the glee club singing the parting song at the station. Bishop is leading tenor of the glee club.” 

So, we leave the boys to their singing and we will join up with them again at Le Cabaret Du Soleil D'Or. 

All text taken from, Bohemian Paris of Today (Chapter 5 - Bohemian Cafes) by Cucuel and Morrow and Illustrated by Edouard Cucuel - 1899. All photos - Craig R. Whitfield (2026)

Their experience of the Boulevard Saint-Michel was a much more joyous affair than the one I experienced. The main focus of this post is the Café d'Harcourt and Café Barrette. Despite my best efforts I couldn’t locate the Café Barrette and seems to have been lost to time. The only consolation I took was that I must have walked straight past it at some point but who knows what it has become in 2026? As for the Café d'Harcourt as can be seen in photos 8 and 9 above... well, enough said!
 
We rejoin Edouard and Bishop as they take in the delights of the Café d'Harcourt which was situated at 47 Boulevard Saint – Michel at the corner of the Place de la Sorbonne.
 
"Out into the boulevard surged the heated crowd, shouting, singing, and cutting capers as they headed for the Boul' Mich', there to continue the revelries of which the Bal Bullier was only the beginning. “Au Café d'Harcourt!" were the cries that range through the streets, mingled with the singing of half a thousand people."
 
"When we reached the lower end of the Jardin du Luxembourg, at the old Palais, the bright glow of the cafés, with their warm stained windows and light-hearted throngs, stretched away before us. Ah, le Boul' Mich' never sleeps!"
 
"The cafés are packed, both inside and out, but the favourite seats are those on the sidewalk under the awnings."
 
"We halted at the Café d'Harcourt. Here the crowd was thickest, the sidewalk a solid mass of humanity; and the noise and the waiters as they yelled their orders, they were there. And des femmes—how many! The Café d'Harcourt is the head-quarters of these wonderful creations of clothes, paint, wicked eyes, and graceful carriage. We worked our way into the interior. Here the crowd was almost as dense as without, but a chance offered us a vacant table; no sooner had we captured it than we were compelled to retreat, because of a battle that two excited demoiselles were having at an adjoining table. In another part of the room there was singing of "Les sergents sont des brave gens," and in the middle of the floor a petite cocotte, her hat rakishly pulled down over her eyes, was doing a dance very gracefully, her white legs gleaming above the short socks that she wore, and a shockingly high kick punctuating the performance at intervals."
 
"At other tables were seated students with their friends and mistresses, playing dominoes or recounting their petites histoires. One table drew much attention by reason of a contest in drinking between two seasoned habitués."
 
"Every consommation is served with a saucer, upon which is marked the price of the drink, and the score is thus footed à la fin de ces joies. There are some heavy accounts to be settled with the garçons."
 
"Ah! voilà Beeshop!" "Tiens! mon vieux!" "Comment vas-tu?" clamoured a half-dozen of Bishop's feminine acquaintances, as they surrounded our table, overwhelming us with their conflicting perfumes."


"These denizens of the Boul' have an easy way of making acquaintances, but they are so bright and mischievous withal that no offence can be taken; and they may have a stack of saucers to be paid for. Among the many café frequenters of this class fully half know a few words of English, Italian, German, and even Russian, and are so quick of perception that they can identify a foreigner at a glance. Consequently our table was instantly a target, principally on account of Mr. Pugson, whose nationality emanated from his every pore."
 
"Ah, milord, how do you do? I speak English a few. Is it not a very beautiful night? “You are so charming, monsieur!" protested another, stroking Bishop's Valasquez beard; and then, archly and coaxingly, "Qu'est-ce que vous m'offrez, monsieur? Payez-moi un bock? Yes?" Mr. Pugson made the garçons start. He ordered "everything and the best in the house" (in English); but it was the lordliness of his manner that told, as he leaned back in his chair and smoked his Londrès and eyed Madeleine with intense satisfaction. In the eyes of the beholders that action gave him the unmistakable stamp of an American millionaire. "Tell you, boys," he puffed, "I'm not going to forget Paris in a hurry." And Mademoiselle Madeleine, how she revelled! Mr. Pugson bought her everything that the venders had to sell, besides, for himself, a wretched plaster cast of a dancing-girl that he declared was "dead swell."
 
"I'll take it home and startle the natives," he added; but he didn't, as we shall see later. Then he bought three big canes as souvenirs for friends, besides a bicycle lamp, a mammoth pipe, and other things. A hungry-looking sketch artist who presented himself was engaged on the spot to execute Mr. Pugson's portrait, which he made so flattering as to receive five francs instead of one, his price."
 
"At a neighbouring table occupied by a group of students was Bi-Bi-dans- la-Purée, one of the most famous characters of the Quartier and Montmartre. With hilarious laughter the students were having fun with Bi-Bi by pouring the contents of their soup-plates and drinking-glasses down his back and upon his sparsely covered head; but what made them laugh more was Bi-Bi's wonderful skill in pulling grotesque faces. In that line he was an artist. His cavernous eyes and large, loose mouth did marvellous things, from the ridiculous to the terrible; and he could literally laugh from ear to ear. Poor Bi-Bi-dans-la-Purée!"
 
"He had been a constant companion of the great Verlaine, but was that no more, since Verlaine had died and left him utterly alone. You may see him any day wandering aimlessly about the Quartier, wholly oblivious to the world about him, and dreaming doubtless of the great dead poet of the slums, who had loved him."
 
"Here comes old Madame Carrot, a little hunchback, anywhere between sixty and a hundred years of age. She is nearly blind, and her tattered clothes hang in strips from her wreck of a form. A few thin strands of gray hair are all that cover her head."
 
"Bon soir, Mère Carrot! ma petite mignonne, viens donc qu'on t'embrasse! Où sont tes ailes?" and other mocking jests greet her as she creeps among the tables. But Mère Carrot scorns to beg: she would earn her money. Look! With a shadowy remnant of grace she picks up the hem of her ragged skirt, and with a heart-breaking smile that discloses her toothless gums, she skips about in a dance that sends her audience into shrieks of laughter, and no end of sous are flung at her feet. She will sing, too, and caricature herself, and make pitiful attempts at high kicking and anything else that she is called upon to do for the sous that the students throw so recklessly. There are those who say that she is rich."
 
"In the rear end of the café the demoiselle who had anchored herself to a fellow at the Bal Bullier was on a table kicking his hat, which he held at arm's length while he stood on a chair. "Plus haut! plus haut encore!" she cried; but each time, as he kept raising it, she tipped it with her dainty slipper; and then, with a magnificent bound, she dislodged with her toe one of the chandelier globes, which went crashing with a great noise to the floor; and then she plunged down and sought refuge in her adorer's arms."

"The night's excitement has reached its height now. There is a dizzy whirl of skirts, feathers, "plug" hats, and silken stockings; and there is dancing on the tables, with a smashing of glass, while lumps of sugar soaked in cognac are thrown about. A single-file march round the room is started, each dragging a chair and all singing, "Oh, la pauvre fille, elle est malade!" Mr. Pugson, tightly clutching his canes and his Dancing-Girl, joins the procession, his shiny hat reposing on the pretty head of Mademoiselle Madeleine. But his heart almost breaks with regret because he cannot speak French."
 
"I began to remonstrate with Bishop for his own unseemly levity, but the gloved hand of Mademoiselle Madeleine was laid on my lips, and her own red lips protested, "Taisez-vous donc! c'est absolument inexcusable de nous faire des sermons en ce moment! En avant!" And we went."
 
"It was two o'clock, and the cafés were closing, under the municipal regulation to do so at that hour, and the Boul' was swarming with revellers turned out of doors."
 
"In the side streets leading away from the markets are cafés and restaurants almost without number, and they are open toute la nuit, to accommodate the market people, having a special permit to do so; but as they are open to all, the revellers from all parts of Paris assemble there after they have been turned out of the boulevard cafés at two o'clock. It is not an uncommon thing early of a Sunday morning to see crowds of merry-makers from a bal masqué finishing the night here, all in costume, dancing and playing ring-around-a-rosy among the stacks of vegetables and the unheeding market people. Indeed, it is quite a common thing to end one's night's frivolity at the Halles and their cafés, and take the first 'buses home in the early morning."
 
"The contingent from the Boul' Mich', after assisting the market people to unload, and indulging in all sorts of pranks, invaded the élite cafés, among them the Café Barrette, Au Veau Qui Tête, Au Chien Qui Fume, and Le Caveau du Cercle."

"At this last-named place, singing and recitations with music were in order, a small platform at one end of the room being reserved for the piano and the performers. Part of the audience were in masquerade costume, having come from a ball at Montmartre, and they lustily joined the choruses. Prices are gilt-edged here,—a franc a drink, and not less than ten sous to the garçon."
 
"The contrast between the fluffy and silk-gowned demi-mondaines and the dirty, roughly clad market people was very striking at the Café Barrette. There the women sit in graceful poses, or saunter about and give evidence of their style, silk gowns, India laces, and handsome furs, greeting each new-comer with pleas for a sandwich or a bock; they are always hungry and thirsty, but they get a commission on all sales that they promote. A small string orchestra gave lively music, and took up collections between performances. The array of gilt-framed mirrors heightened the brilliancy of the place, already sufficiently aglow with many electric lights. The Café Barrette is the last stand of the gaudy women of the boulevards. With the first gray gleam of dawn they pass with the night to which they belong."
 
"It was with sincere feeling that Mr. Pugson bade us good-by at five o'clock that morning as he jumped into a cab to join his good spouse at the Hôtel Continental; but he bore triumphantly with him some sketches of the showy women at the Café Barrette, which Bishop had made."
 
"As for Madeleine, so tremendously liberal had she found Mr. Pugson that her protestations of affection for him were voluble and earnest. She pressed her card upon him and made him swear that he would find her again. After we had bidden her good-night, Mr. Pugson drew the card from his pocket, and thoughtfully remarked, as he tore it to pieces,—"I don't think it is prudent to carry such things in your pocket."
 
The Café d'Harcourt like the Bal Bullier closed its doors in 1940 and as you can see from the photos above it is somewhat depressing to see what has become of it. This wasn’t an isolated fate for the wonderful cafes that once existed as the next few posts will evidence.
 
That said, while in the area I was able to comfort myself with a visit to nearby Notre Dame Cathedral. It was to be the first time I had entered the Cathedral since the fire of 2019. Thank goodness she stood firm despite the fire and is now beautifully restored for future generations to enjoy!
 
We will next catch up with Edouard and Bishop as they continue to visit the cafes and cabarets of old Paris.  

All text taken from, Bohemian Paris of Today (Chapter 4 - Boulevard Saint-Michel) by Cucuel and Morrow and Illustrated by Edouard Cucuel - 1899. All photos - Craig R. Whitfield (2026)