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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)
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Back to Jane for a moment.3/25/2026 During my recent trip to Paris I visited Pere Lachaise Cemetery to pay my respects to the great and good of Paris and in Particular Jane Avril.
I have visited Jane on many occasions and had been somewhat concerned about the state of her gravestone/site for some time which seemed to be suffering more with the passing of the years due to the elements. I actually wrote an email to the Pere Lachaise Office some months ago and provided some detailed photos of the decay and condition. I was met with silence.... "Oh well, one tried!" So imagine my shock when I saw her gravesite during this my latest visit. (see above) What did this mean? I was concerned to say the least. I contacted my friend Maria from Sweden (also a great Jane Avril admirer) who in turn contacted her friend who had contacts at Pere Lachaise. This friend said that she had never seen the heavy wood and security on a grave before and she had been to the Paris cemeteries on many occasions. This wasn't reassuring! Well, the following day we discovered that restoration work would be taking place and that it would take about a month to complete. As a notable French historical figure her grave is a protected site and as such will be looked after and maintained. Now, I'm not suggesting for a moment that my email was responsible for the current efforts but one never knows what impact it actually had. Anyway, this is great news and the next time I'm in Paris I will see how it all looks. It seems like future generations of new admirers will be able to pay their respects where she rests in peace. Craig Part 4 - Boulevard Saint - Michel. (2)3/24/2026 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) Part 3 - Boulevard Saint - Michel (1)3/23/2026 Edouard explains perfectly well the geography of the Boulevard Saint Michel and it’s quite a stretch that I walked with some enthusiasm but I have to say that enthusiasm diminished as I continued my walk up and down the famous, ‘Boul-Mich.’ Time, it seems, has robbed it of its former character and many of the venues I went to visit no longer exist. More of that later.
This part is devoted solely to my visit to the site of the famous Bal Bullier ballroom which was created by Francois Bullier in the mid-nineteenth century. It was a popular venue for dancing and drinking. The regular entrance fee was two francs on a Thursday night but as you will read on Saturday night it was only one franc. It should also be noted that Jane Avril graced the Bal Bullier with her presence at the height of her own fame when she would attend and dance there on a Thursday night. This website is obviously devoted to her and so it would be remiss of me not to mention our Lady Jane should the opportunity arise. So, let’s get back to Edouard and Bishop and allow Edouard to regale us with their experience of the Bal Bullier. "Of course the proper name for the great thoroughfare of the Quartier Latin is the Boulevard Saint-Michel, but the boulevardiers call it the Boul' Mich', because it is easier to say." "The Boul' Mich' is the student's highway to relaxation. Mention of it at once recalls whirling visions of brilliant cafés, with their clattering of saucers and glasses, the shouting of their white-aproned garçons, their hordes of gay and wicked damsels dressed in the costliest and most fashionable gowns, and a multitude of riotous students howling class songs and dancing and parading to the different cafés as only students can. This is the head-quarters of the Bohemians of real Bohemia, whose poets haunt the dim and quaint cabarets and read their compositions to admiring friends; of flower-girls who offer you un petit bouquet, seulement dix centimes, and pin it into your button-hole before you can refuse; of Turks in picturesque native costume selling sweetmeats; of the cane man loaded down with immense sticks; of the stems a yard long; of beggars, gutter-snipes, hot-chestnut venders, ped-lers, singers, actors, students, and all manner of queer characters." "The life of the Boul' Mich' begins at the Panthéon, where repose the remains of France's great men, and ends at the Seine, where the gray Gothic towers and the gargoyles of Notre-Dame look down disdainfully upon the giddy traffic below. The eastern side of the Boul' is lined with cafés, cabarets, and brasseries including the sound of the wickedest café in Paris, the Café d'Harcourt." "It was often our wont on Saturday evenings to saunter along the Boul', and sometimes to visit the cafés. To Bishop particularly it was always a revelation and a delight, and he was forever studying and sketching the types that he found there. He was intimately acquainted in all the cafés along the line," "The Boul' Mich' is at its glory on Saturday nights, for the students have done their week's work, and the morrow is Sunday. Nearly everybody goes to the Bal Bullier. This is separated from the crowded Boul' Mich' by several squares of respectable dwelling-houses and shops, and a dearth of cafés prevails thereabout. At the upper end of the Luxembourg is a long stone wall brilliantly bedecked with lamps set in clusters,—the same wall against which Maréchal Ney was shot (a striking monument across the way recalls the incident). At one end of this yellow wall is an arched entrée, resplendent with the glow of many rows of electric lights and lamps, which reveal the coloured bas-reliefs of dancing students and grisettes that adorn the portal. Nearby stands a row of voitures, and others are continually dashing up and depositing Latin-Quarter swells with hair parted behind and combed forward toward the ears, and dazzling visions of the demi-monde in lace, silks, and gauze. And there is a constantly arriving stream of students and gaudily dressed women on foot. Big gardes municipaux stand at the door like stone images as the crowd surges past." "To-night is one-franc night. An accommodating lady at the box-office hands us each a broad card, and another, au vestiaire, takes our coats and hats and charges us fifty centimes for the honour. Descending the broad flight of softly carpeted red stairs, a brilliant, tumultuous, roaring vision bursts upon us, for it is between the dances, and the visitors are laughing and talking and drinking. The ball-room opens into a generous garden filled with trees and shrubbery ingeniously devised to assure many a secluded nook, and steaming garçons are flying hither and thither serving foaming bocks and coloured syrups to nymphs in bicycle bloomers, longhaired students under tam o'shanters, and the swells peculiar to le Quartier Latin." "The musicians were now playing a schottische, but large circles would be formed here and there in the hall, where clever exhibitions of fancy dancing would be given by students and by fashionably gowned damsels with a penchant for displaying their lingerie and hosiery. The front of the band-stand was the favourite place for this. Here four dashing young women were raising a whirlwind of lingerie and slippers, while the crowd applauded and tossed sous at their feet." "Next to us stood a fat, cheery-faced little man, bearing the unmistakable stamp of an American tourist. His hands were in his pockets, his silk hat was tipped back, and his beaming red face and bulging eyes showed the intensity of his enjoyment. Without the slightest warning the slippered foot of one of these dancers found his shining tile and sent it bounding across the floor. For a moment the American was dazed by the suddenness and unearthly neatness of the feat; then he emitted a whoop of wonder and admiration, and in English exclaimed,—"You god-darned bunch of French skirts—say, you're all right, you are, Marie! Bet you can't do it again!" "He confided to Bishop that his name was Pugson and that he was from Cincinnati." "Why," he exclaimed, joyously, "Paris is the top of the earth! You artists are an enviable lot, living over here all the time and painting— Gad! look at her!" and he was pushing his way through the crowd to get a better view of an uncommonly startling dancer, who was at the moment an indeterminate fluffy bunch of skirts, linen, and hosiery. Ah, what tales he will tell of Paris when he returns to Cincinnati, and how he will be accused of exaggerating!" "The four girls forming the centre of attraction were now doing all manner of astonishing things possible only to Parisian feminine anatomy. In another circle nearby was Johnson, the American architect, stirring enthusiastic applause as he hopped about, Indian fashion, with a little brunette whose face was hidden in the shadow of her immense hat, her hair en bandeau, à la de Mérode. Could this really be the quiet Johnson of the Ecole, who but a week ago had been showing his mother and charming sister over Paris? And there, too, was his close friend, Walden, of Michigan, leading a heavy blonde to the dance! There were others whom we knew. The little Siamese was flirting desperately with a vision in white standing near his friend, a Japanese, who, in turn, was listening to the cooing of a clinging bloomer girl. Many sober fellows whom I had met at the studio were there, but they were sober now only in the sense that they were not drunk. And there were law students, too, in velveteen caps and jackets, and students in the sciences, and students in music, and négligé poets, littérateurs, and artists, and every model and cocotte who could furnish her back sufficiently well to pass the censorship of the severe critic at the door. If she be attractively dressed, she may enter free; if not, she may not enter at all." "The gayety increased as the hours lengthened; the dancing was livelier, the shouting was more vociferous, skirts swirled more freely, and thin glasses fell crashing to the floor. It was pleasanter out in the cool garden, for it was dreadfully hard to keep from dancing inside. The soft gleam of the coloured lamps and lanterns was soothing, and the music was softened down to an echo. The broken rays of the lanterns embedded in the foliage laid bright patterns on the showy silks of the women, and the garçons made no noise as they flitted swiftly through the mazes of shrubbery." "At one end of the garden, surrounded by an hilarious group, were four wooden rocking-horses worked on springs. 'Astride of two of these were an army officer and his companion, a bloomer girl, who persistently twisted her ankles round her horse's head. The two others were ridden by a poet and a jauntily attired grisette. The four were as gleeful as children." "A flash-light photographer did a driving trade at a franc a flash, and there were a shooting-gallery, a fortune-teller, sou-in-the-slot machines, and wooden figures with pads on their other ends, by punching which we might see how hard we could hit." "We are back in the ball-room again,—it is hard to keep out. The gayety is at its height, the Bal Bullier is in full swing. The tables are piled high with saucers, and the garçons are bringing more. The room is warm and suffocating, the dancing and flirting faster than ever. Now and then a line is formed to "crack the whip," and woe betide anything that comes in its way!" "Our genial, generous new friend from Cincinnati was living the most glorious hour of his life. He had not been satisfied until he found and captured the saucy little wretch who had sent his hat spinning across the room; so now she was anchored to him, and he was giving exhibitions of American grace and agility that would have amazed his friends at home. For obviously he was a person of consequence there. When he saw us his face beamed with triumph, and he proudly introduced us to his mignonette-scented conquest, Mad-dem-mo-zel Madeleine (which he pronounced Madelyne), "the queen of the Latin Quarter. But blamed if I can talk the blooming lingo!" he exclaimed, ruefully. "You translate for me, won't you?" he appealed to Bishop, and Bishop complied. In paying compliments thus transmitted to Madeleine he displayed an adeptness that likely would have astounded his good spouse, who at that moment was slumbering in a respectable part of Paris." "At exactly a quarter-past midnight the band played the last piece, the lights began to go out, and the Bal Bullier was closed." Sadly, the Bal Bullier closed its doors for the final time in 1940. On its site was built the Jean Sarrailh University Sports Centre of the CROUS of Paris. The site itself was not easy to locate but fortunately for me the statue opposite the Bal Bullier still stands to this day and it proved useful in locating the exact position of the Bal Bullier. I gained some satisfaction that the statue which would have been seen by Edouard, Bishop and indeed, Jane Avril was now being seen and inspected by me. I was also able to enjoy the nearby Jardin du Luxembourg and walk through the beautiful gardens on what was a bright, warm and sunny afternoon. Life it seems has its compensations. So, Edouard and Bishop leave the Bal Bullier and continue back down the Boulevard Saint - Michel which is where we will pick up with them the next time. 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) Part 2 - École des Beaux-Arts3/22/2026 "It is about the fifteenth of October, after the long summer vacation, that the doors of the great École des Beaux-Arts are thrown open."
"The first week, called "la semaine des nouveaux," is devoted to the initiation and hazing of the new students, who come mostly from foreign countries and the French provinces. These festivities can never be forgotten—by the nouveaux." - La semaine des nouveaux – newbies week. These initiation festivities varied but they certainly left a mark on the new students at the École as one example below testifies. Another example mentioned in the book is, 'the paint brush duel' as illustrated by Edouard in Picture 3 above. "Early on the fifteenth of October, with his head erect and hope filling his soul, Bishop started for the Beaux-Arts, which was in the Rue Bonaparte, quite near to where both he and Edouard lived." The École des Beaux-Arts was in close proximity to where both Edouard and Bishop lived. In fact, it was 800 metres and an 11 minute walk for me to make the same journey that they would have made. "The gates of the École des Beaux-Arts aren’t that different to those today and are guarded by two prominent busts as they were back in 1898. The bust to the left as pictured above is Pierre Paul Puget (16th October 1620 or 31st October 1622 to 2nd December 1694) and was a French Baroque painter, sculptor, architect and engineer. The bust to the right as pictured above is Nicolas Poussin (?? June 1594 – 19th November 1665) and was a leading painter of the classical French Baroque style. Until the 20th century he remained a major inspiration for such classically-oriented artists as Jaques-Louis-David, Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and Paul Cezanne." Bishop was a student of the artist Gérôme a successful academic artist and one of Emperor Napoleon's favoured painters, he taught at the École des Beaux-Arts for over forty years "It is only in this government school of the four arts that the typical Bohemian students of Paris may be found, including the genuine type of French student, with his long hair, his whiskers, his Latin Quarter "plug" hat, his cape, blouse, wide corduroy trousers, sash, expansive necktie, and immense cane. The Ecole preserves this type more effectually than the other schools." "After the money had been collected from all the nouveaux the entire atelier of over sixty students, dressed in working blouses and old coats, formed in line, and with deafening shouts of "A boire! à boire!" placed the nouveaux in front to carry the class banner, and thus marched out into the Rue Bonaparte to the Café des Deux Magots, singing songs fit only for the studio. Their singing, shouting, and ridiculous capers drew a great crowd. At the café they created consternation with their shouting and howling until the arrival of great bowls of "grog Américain," cigarettes, and gâteaux. Rousing cheers were given to a marriage-party across the Place St.-Germain. After yelling themselves hoarse and nearly wrecking the café, the students marched back in a disorderly mob to the Ecole." - A boire – to drink! Then the real trouble began. "The guardian having conveniently disappeared, the students closed and barricaded the door. "A poil! à poil!" they yelled, dancing frantically about the frightened nouveaux; "à poil les sales nouveaux! à poil!" They seized a student and stripped him, despite his desperate resistance; then they tied his hands behind him and with paint and brushes decorated his body in the most fantastic designs that they could conceive. His oaths were frightful. He cursed them and swore to have the blood of all Frenchmen. He called them all types of names and the students enjoyed it immensely. "En broche!" they yelled, after they had made him a spectacle with the brushes; "en broche! Il faut le mettre en broche!" This was quickly done. They forced the student to his haunches, bound his wrists in front of his upraised knees, thrust a long pole between his elbows and knees, and thus bore him round the atelier at the head of a singing procession. Four times they went round; then they placed the helpless student on the model-stand for future reference. The bad French that the victim occasionally mixed with his tirade indicated the fearful damnation that he was doubtless dealing out in his own language." - A poil les sales nouveaux ! – get naked, you dirty newbies! - En broche Il faut le mettre en broche! - On a spit! He needs to be put on a spit! "A circle was then formed about him, and a solemn silence fell upon the crowd. A Frenchman named Joncierge, head of the reception committee, stepped forth, and in slow and impressive speech announced that it was one of the requirements of the Atelier Gérôme to brand all nouveaux over the heart with the name of the atelier, and that the branding of the student would now proceed. Upon hearing this, he emitted a fearful howl. But he was turned to face the red-hot studio stove and watch the branding-iron slowly redden in the coals. During this interval the students sang the national song, and followed it with a funeral march. Behind the student’s back a second poker was being painted to resemble a red-hot one." "The hot poker was taken from the fire, and its usefulness tested by burning a string with it. The student grew deathly pale. An intense silence sat upon the atelier as the iron was brought near the helpless young man. In a moment, with wonderful cleverness, the painted poker was substituted for the hot one and placed quickly against his breast. When the cold iron touched him he roared like a maddened bull, and rolled quivering and moaning upon the floor. The students were frantic with delight." "It was some time before this student could realise that he was not burned to a crisp. He was then taken across the atelier and hoisted to a narrow shelf fifteen feet from the floor, where he was left to compose himself and enjoy the tortures of the other nouveaux. He dared not move, however, lest he fall; and because he refused to take anything in good- nature, but glared hatred and vengeance down at them, they pelted him at intervals with water-soaked sponges." At the end of a year the nouveau drops his hated title and becomes a proud ancient, to bully to his heart's content, as those before him. I’m sure that was a great relief to them all. "The models—what stories there are! Every Monday morning from ten to twenty present themselves, male and female, for inspection in puris naturalibus before the critical gaze of the students of the different ateliers. One after another they mount the throne and assume such academic poses of their own choosing as they imagine will display their points to the best advantage. The students then vote upon them, for and against, by raising the hand. The massier, standing beside the model, announces the result, and, if the vote is favourable, enrols the model for a certain week to come." "There is intense rivalry among the models. Strange to say, most of the male models in the schools of Paris are from Italy, the southern part especially. As a rule, they have very good figures. They begin posing at the age of five or six, and follow the business until old age retires them. Crowds of them are at the gates of the Beaux-Arts early on Monday mornings. In the voting, a child may be preferred to his seniors, and yet the rate of payment is the same,—thirty francs a week." "Perhaps the most famous of the models of Paris was Sarah Brown, whose wild and exciting life has been the talk of the world. Her beautiful figure and glorious golden hair opened to her the whole field of modeldom. Offers for her services as model were more numerous than she could accept, and the prices that she received were very high. She was the mistress of one great painter after another, and she lived and reigned like a queen. Impulsive, headstrong, passionate, she would do the most reckless things. She would desert an artist in the middle of his masterpiece and come down to the studio to pose for the students at thirty francs a week. Gorgeously apparelled, she would glide into a studio, overturn all the easels that she could reach, and then shriek with laughter over the havoc and consternation that she had created. The students would greet her with shouts and form a circle about her, while she would banteringly call them her friends. Then she would jump upon the throne, dispossess the model there, and give a dance or make a speech, knocking off every hat that her parasol could reach. But no one could resist Sarah." Fortunately, or unfortunately, I was not subjected to any of the above antics during my visit to the École des Beaux-Arts. My visit was a much more sedate affair. That said, how joyous it must have been to have been a part of the whole initiation process even if it left one embarrassed for a time. Their journey as artists had truly begun and in spectacular fashion. So, it seems that life was never dull for both our artist friends at the École des Beaux-Arts and so we shall leave them to their fun and studies and catch up with them on the Boulevard Saint Michel where we shall join them in the cafes of their choice. All text taken from, Bohemian Paris of Today (Chapter 2 - Ecole des Beaux-Arts) by Cucuel and Morrow and Illustrated by Edouard Cucuel - 1899. All photos - Craig R. Whitfield (2026) Part 1 - Our Studio.3/21/2026 On arriving in Paris in 1898 Edouard and Bishop felt compelled to do and see all the usual sights that the city had to offer. I can certainly relate to this as the first time I arrived in Paris in 1999 I felt the same compulsion to see and do all that she had to offer. At this point in their journey they had located accommodation at a hotel but this was only a temporary arrangement.
"For two weeks we had been lodging temporarily in the top of a comfortable little hotel, called the Grand something (most of the Parisian hotels are Grand), the window of which commanded a superb view of the great city, the vaudeville playhouse of the world." "Day by day we had put off the inevitable evil of finding a studio. Every night found us in the cheapest seats of some theatre, and often we lolled on the terraces of the Café de la Paix, watching the pretty girls as they passed, their silken skirts saucily pulled up, revealing dainty laces and ankles. From the slippery floor of the Louvre galleries we had studied the masterpieces of David, Rubens, Rembrandt, and the rest; had visited the Panthéon, the Musée Cluny; had climbed the Eiffel Tower, and traversed the Bois de Boulogne and the Champs-Elysées. Then came the search for a studio and the settling to work. It would be famous to have a little home of our very own, where we could have little dinners of our very own cooking!" So, after the sightseeing came the unenviable task of finding a suitable place to live. A lot had to be considered, obviously a suitable location that was in close proximity to the Ecole des Beaux-Arts (more later) the art college of their choice, a studio that provided good light that would benefit both artists with their work and quite obviously a place at the right price. "It is with a shudder that I recall those eleven days of ceaseless studio-hunting. We dragged ourselves through miles of Quartier Latin streets, and up hundreds of flights of polished waxed stairs, behind puffing concierges in carpet slippers, the puffing changing to grumbling, as, dissatisfied, the concierges followed us down the stairs. The Quartier abounds with placards reading, "Atelier d'Artiste à Louer!" The rentals ranged from two hundred to two thousand francs a year, and the sizes from cigar-boxes to barns. But there was always something lacking. On the eleventh day we found a suitable place on the sixth (top) floor of a quaint old house in a passage off the Rue St.-André-des-Arts. There were overhead and side lights, and from the window a noble view of Paris over the house-tops." As can be seen from the above photos I had no problem locating the Rue St.-André-des-Arts and also located the, 'passage' of the Rue St.-André-des-Arts to which Edouard referred to. In fact, if you compare photos 4 and 6 above you can see the similarities between the two albeit separated by 128 years. Sadly, because no specific address is referred to in the book I couldn't locate the quaint old house but I did feel very sure that I was very close to it as I explored the area. This also provided me a great sense of their location in relation to the Ecole des Beaux-Arts on Rue Bonaparte and the nearby Les Deux Magots but more of that later. "A room of fair size joined the studio, and from its vine-laced window we could look into the houses across the court, and down to the bottom of the court as well. The studio walls were delightfully dirty and low in tone, and were covered with sketches and cartoons in oil and charcoal. The price was eight hundred francs a year, and from the concierge's eloquent catalogue of its charms it seemed a great bargain. The walls settled our fate,—we took the studio." So, the boys had moved into their new home and with Bishop installed as the cook and Edouard committed to keeping the place clean such was the division of labour between them both they went about their daily lives and observed the happenings around them. "The court, or, more properly, le passage, on which our window looked was a narrow little thoroughfare leading from the Rue St.-André-des-Arts to the Boulevard St.-Germain. It bore little traffic, but was a busy way withal. It had iron-workers' shops, where hot iron was beaten into artistic lamps, grills, and bed-frames; a tinsmith's shop; a blanchisserie, where our shirts were made white and smooth by the pretty blanchisseuses singing all day over their work; a wine-cellar, whose barrels were eternally blocking one end of the passage; an embossed picture-card factory, where twoscore women, with little hammers and steel dies, beat pictures into cards; a furniture shop, where everything old and artistic was sold, the Hôtel du Passage, and a bookbinder's shop." "Life begins at five o'clock in our court. The old gentleman beats his rugs, the milk-bottles rattle, the bread-carts rumble, Madame Gioté opens her milkstand, and the concierges drag the ash-cans out into the court, where a drove of rag-pickers fall upon them. These gleaners are a queer lot. Individuals and families pursue the quest, each with a distinct purpose. One will seek nothing but bones, glass, and crockery; another sifts the ashes for coal; another takes only paper and rags; another old shoes and hats; and so on, from can to can, none interfering with any of the others. The dogs are the first at the bins. They are regularly organized in working squads, travelling in fours and fives. They are quite adept at digging through the refuse for food, and they rarely quarrel; and they never leave one bin for another until they have searched it thoroughly." "The swish of water and a course brush broom announces the big, strong woman who sweeps the gutters of the Rue St. Andre des Arts. With broad sweeps of the broom she spreads the water over half the street and back into the gutter, making the worn yellow stones shine. She is coarsely clad and wears black sabots; and God knows how she can swear when the gleaners scatter the refuse into the gutter!" So, we leave the boys to settle into their new home and become familiar with their new surroundings and we will catch up with them again at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. All text taken from, Bohemian Paris of Today (Chapter 1 - Our Studio) by Cucuel and Morrow and Illustrated by Edouard Cucuel - 1899. All photos - Craig R. Whitfield (2026) Bohemian Paris of Today!3/17/2026 On Friday 9th March 2026 I flew to Paris to commence my, 'Bohemian Paris of Today Tour 2026.'
Some years ago I came across the book titled, 'Bohemian Paris of Today.' It was written and illustrated by the American artist Edouard Cucuel and published in 1899. (see above) The book chronicled the student days of Edouard Cucuel and his friend, 'Bishop' -a nickname - his real name was Guy Orlando Rose which is such a cool name for an artist in my opinion. They spent their student days in Paris in 1898. The actual book pictured (see above) actually belonged to the Cucuel family and was presented to Mrs K. E. Cucuel by Emile Cucuel who is believed to be the artist's father. It now belongs to me after I acquired it some years ago. I feel fortunate and honoured to be the custodian of the book. My trip aimed to capture something of the spirit of that time by visiting the places they lived, studied and the cafes and cabarets they and their friends visited. Oh, and did they get up to some stuff! To be fair, they were young and full of an adventurous spirit. All the venues had been researched and their addresses confirmed. In the following posts I want to share something of that trip and compare the Paris of 1898 that Edouard and 'Bishop' experienced to that of my own experience in 2026 and then conclude with how the trip made me feel. So, come with me to Paris over the coming weeks and let's see where it takes us. Craig 
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