Part 9: A Night in Montmartre (1) - Le Cabaret du Ciel.

We now come to what is my favourite part of, Bohemian Paris of Today. Bishop is joined by his American friend Herbert Thompkins and Edouard and Bishop are determined to give Herbert the experience of his life in, A Night in Montmartre. Bishop and Edouard decide that he should experience, 'Heaven, Death, Hell and Bruant' all in the same night. If Herbert thought he was in for a gentle relaxing evening he had another thing coming! Let us start with Heaven!  

Le Cabaret du Ciel is not difficult to locate as the address at 53 Boulevard de Clichy is easy enough to find. That said, when you arrive your heart might sink as you discover that this once great venue of entertainment is now a Monoprix. Naturally, I went inside just to register my presence in this once great place separated by time. What would Edouard, Bishop and Herbert think about it all today? Obviously, they, like me, would have met the world as they found it but with the benefit of hindsight I found the current arrangements quite depressing. 

Anyway, that is now - let's journey back through the years and join Bishop, Edouard and Herbert as they start out on their night to remember. 

Near the end of a recent December Bishop received a note signed "A. Herbert Thomp-kins," written at the Hôtel de l'Athénée, saying that the writer was in Paris for four days with his wife before proceeding to Vienna to join some friends. It closed by asking, "Could you call at the hotel this evening, say at seven?"

This note created great excitement at our studio early one morning, the facteur having climbed six flights of stairs (it being near to New Year) to deliver it; for Mr. Thompkins was one of Bishop's warmest friends in America. His unexpected arrival in Paris at this unseasonable time of the year was indeed a surprise, but a most agreeable one. So, Bishop spent the whole of the afternoon in creasing his best trousers, ransacking our trunks for a clean collar to wear with my blue-fronted shirt, polishing his top-hat, and getting his Velasquez whiskers trimmed and perfumed at the coiffeur's. It was not every day that friends of Mr. Thompkins's type made their appearance in Paris.

Bishop, after hours spent in absorbing mental work, at last disclosed his plan to me. Of course, he would not permit me to keep out of the party, and besides, he needed my advice.

Here was Mr. Thompkins in Paris, and unless he were wisely guided, he would leave without seeing the city,—except those parts and phases of it that tourists cannot keep from stumbling over. It would be both a duty and a pleasure to introduce him to certain things of which he might otherwise die in ignorance, to the eternal undevelopment of his soul. But here was the rub: Would Mr. Thompkins care to be so radically different here for one night—just one night—from what he was at home? I could not see how any harm could come to Mr. Thompkins or anyone else with sense, nor how Bishop could possibly entertain him in any way that would be disagreeable to a man of brains. But Bishop was evidently keeping something back. For that matter, he never did explain it, and I have not bothered about inferences. What Mr. Thompkins was at home I do not know. True, he was very much confused and embarrassed a number of times during the evening, but one thing I know,—he enjoyed himself immensely. And that makes me say that no matter what he was at home, he was a gentleman and philosopher while exploring an outlandish phase of Parisian Bohemian life that night under our guidance. He had a prim, precise way of talking, and was delightfully innocent and unworldly. My! it would have been a sin for him to miss what he saw that night. So, I told Bishop very emphatically that no matter what Mr. Thompkins was at home, nobody who knew him was likely to see him in Paris at that time of the year, and that it was Bishop's duty as a friend to initiate him. Bishop was very happy over my advice; but when he insisted that we should take a cab for the evening's outing, I sternly reminded him of the bruises that our funds would receive on New Year's, and thus curbed his extravagance. He surrendered with a pang, for after all his preparation he felt like a duke, and for that night, while entertaining his friend, he wanted to be a duke, not a grubbing student.

We met Mr. Thompkins at the hotel, and I found him a delightful man, with a pleasant sparkle of the eye and a certain stiffness of bearing. It was his intention to have us dine with him, but Bishop gently took him in hand, and gradually gave him to understand that on this night in a lifetime he was in the hands of his friends, to do as they said, and to ask no questions. Mr. Thompkins looked a little puzzled, a little apprehensive, and withal not unwilling to be sacrificed.

The first thing we did was to introduce Mr. Thompkins to a quiet restaurant famous for its coquilles St.-Jacques; it is in the old Palais Royal.

Mr. Thompkins's enjoyment of the meal was as generous as his praise of Bishop's skill in ordering it, and he declared that the wines particularly were a rare treat. By the time that dinner had been finished he was enthusiastic about Paris. He said that it was a wonderful city, and that he was entirely at our disposal for the night.

"I suppose, gentlemen," he suggested, "that you are going to invite me to the opera. Now, I have no objections to that, and I am sure I shall be delighted,—it is only one evening in a lifetime, perhaps. But I shall insist that you go as my guests."

Bishop laughed merrily, and slapped his friend on the back in a way that I never should have employed with a man of so much dignity.

"The opera, old man!" cried Bishop. "Why, you blessed idiot, you act like a tourist! The opera! You can go there any time. To-night we shall see Paris!" and he laughed again. "The opera!" he repeated. "Oh, my! You can fall over the opera whenever you please. This is an opportunity for a tour of discovery."

Mr. Thompkins laughed with equal heartiness, and declared that nothing would delight him more than to be an explorer—for one night in a lifetime.

"The Boul' Mich' or Montmartre?" Bishop whispered to me.

"Montmartre," I replied; "Heaven, Death, Hell, and Bruant."

Never had the Avenue de l'Opéra appeared so brilliant and lively as on that cold, crisp December night, as we strolled towards the boulevards. Its thousands of lights, its dashing equipages with the jingling harness of horses drawing handsome women and men to the Opéra, its swiftly moving cabs and heavy 'buses rolling over the smooth wooden pavement, the shouts of drivers and the cracking of whips, the throngs of gay people enjoying the holiday attractions, the endless rows of gaudy booths lining the street, the flood of light and colour everywhere, the cuirassiers of the Garde Municipale mounted on superb horses standing motionless in the Place de l'Opéra, their long boots and steel breastplates and helmets glistening,—these all had their place,—while the broad stairs of the Opéra were crowded with beautifully gowned women and fashionable men pouring in to hear Sibyl Sanderson sing in "Samson and Delilah,"—all this made a wonderful picture of life and beauty, of colour, motion, vivacity, and enjoyment. Above the entrance to the Opéra red marble columns reflected the yellow light of the gilded foyer and of the yellow blaze from the Café de la Paix across the way.

We mounted a Montmartre 'bus and were pulled up the hill to the Boul' Clichy, the main artery of that strange Bohemian mountain with its eccentric, fantastic, and morbid attractions. Before us, in the Place Blanche, stood the great Moulin Rouge, the long skeleton arms of the Red Mill marked with red electric lights and slowly sweeping across the heavens, while fanciful figures of students and dancing girls looked out the windows of the mill, and a great crowd of lively, chatting, laughing people were pushing their way toward the entrance of this famous dance- hall of Paris. Mr. Thompkins, entranced before the brilliant spectacle, asked somewhat hesitatingly if we might enter; but Bishop, wise in the ways of Montmartre, replied,—"Not yet. It is only a little after nine, and the Moulin does not get wide awake for some hours yet. We have no time to waste while waiting for that. We shall first visit heaven."

Mr. Thompkins looked surprised, but made no response. Presently we reached the gilded gates of Le Cabaret du Ciel. They were bathed in a cold blue light from above. Angels, gold-lined clouds, saints, sacred palms and plants, and other paraphernalia suggestive of the approach to St. Peter's domain, filled all the available space about the entrée. A bold white placard, "Bock, i Franc," was displayed in the midst of it all. Dolorous church music sounded within, and the heavens were unrolled as a scroll in all their tinsel splendour as we entered to the bidding of an angel.

Flitting about the room were many more angels, all in white robes and with sandals on their feet, and all wearing gauzy wings swaying from their shoulder-blades and brass halos above their yellow wigs. These were the waiters, the garçons of heaven, ready to take orders for drinks. One of these, with the face of a heavy villain in a melodrama and a beard a week old, roared unmelodiously,—"The greetings of heaven to thee, brothers! Eternal bliss and happiness are for thee. Mayst thou never swerve from its golden paths! Breathe thou its sacred purity and renovating exaltation. Prepare to meet thy great Creator—and don't forget the garçon!"

A very long table covered with white extended the whole length of the chilly room, and seated at it, drinking, were scores of candidates for angelship,—mortals like ourselves. Men and women were they, and though noisy and vivacious, they indulged in nothing like the abandon of the Boul' Mich' cafés. Gilded vases and candelabra, together with foamy bocks, somewhat relieved the dead whiteness of the table. The ceiling was an impressionistic rendering of blue sky, fleecy clouds, and stars, and the walls were made to represent the noble enclosure and golden gates of paradise.

"Brothers, your orders! Command me, thy servant!" growled a ferocious angel at our elbows, with his accent de la Villette, and his brass halo a trifle askew.

Mr. Thompkins had been very quiet, for he was Wonder in the flesh, and perhaps there was some distress in his lace, but there was courage also. The suddenness of the angel's assault visibly disconcerted him,—he did not know what to order. Finally, he decided on a verre de Chartreuse, green. Bishop and I ordered bocks.

"Two sparkling draughts of heaven's own brew and one star-dazzler!" yelled our angel.

"Thy will be done," came the response from a hidden bar.

Obscured by great masses of clouds, through whose intervals shone golden stars, an organ continually rumbled sacred music, which had a depressing rather than a solemn effect, and even the draughts of heaven's own brew and the star-dazzler failed to dissipate the gloom.

Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the head of St. Peter, whiskers and all, appeared in a hole in the sky, and presently all of him emerged, even to his ponderous keys clanging at his girdle. He gazed solemnly down upon the crowd at the tables and thoughtfully scratched his left wing. From behind a dark cloud, he brought forth a vessel of white crockery (which was not a wash-bowl) containing (ostensibly) holy water. After several mysterious signs and passes with his bony hands he generously sprinkled the sinners below with a brush dipped in the water; and then, with a parting blessing, he slowly faded into mist.

"Did you ever? Well, well, I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Thompkins, breathlessly.

The royal cortège of the kingdom of heaven was now forming at one end of the room before a shrine, whereon an immense golden pig sat sedately on his haunches, looking friendly and jovial, his loose skin and fat jowls hanging in folds. Lighted candles sputtered about his golden sides. As the participants in the pageant, all attachés of the place, formed for the procession, each bowed reverently and crossed himself before the huge porker. A small man, dressed in a loose black gown and black skull- cap, evidently made up for Dante, whom he resembled, officiated as master of ceremonies. He mounted a golden pulpit, and delivered, in a loud, rasping voice, a tedious discourse on heaven and allied things. He dwelt on the attractions of heaven as a perpetual summer resort, an unbroken round of pleasures in variety, where sweet strains of angelic music (indicating the wheezy organ), together with unlimited stores of heaven's own sparkling fire of life, at a franc a bock, and beautiful golden-haired cherubs, of la Villette's finest, lent grace and perfection to the scheme.

The parade then began its tour about the room, Dante, carrying a staff surmounted by a golden bull, serving as drum-major. Angel musicians, playing upon sacred lyres and harps, followed in his wake, but the dolorous organ made the more noise. Behind the lyre angels came a number of the notables whom Dante immortalized,—at least, we judged that they were so intended. The angel garçons closed the cortège, their gauzy wings and brass halos bobbing in a stately fashion as they strode along.

The angel garçons now sauntered up and gave us each a ticket admitting us to the angel-room and the other delights of the inner heaven.

"You are English?" he asked. "Yes? Ah, thee English are very generous," eyeing his fifty-centime tip with a questioning shrug. "Can you not make me un franc? Ah, I am damn cold in these tights," pointing to his calves, which were encased in diaphanous pink tights. He got his franc.

Dante announced in his rasping voice that those mortals wishing to become angels should proceed up to the angel-room. All advanced and ascended the inclined passage-way leading into the blue. At the farther end of the passage sat old St. Peter, solemn and shivering, for it was draughty there among the clouds. He collected our tickets, gave the password admitting us to the inner precincts, and resented Bishop's attempts to pluck a feather from his wings. We entered a large room, all a glamour of gold and silver. The walls were studded with blazing nuggets, coloured canvas rocks, and electric lights. We took seats on wooden benches fronting a cleft in the rocks, and waited.

Soon the chamber in which we sat became perfectly dark, the cleft before us shining with a dim bluish light. The cleft then came to life with a bevy of female angels floating through the limited ethereal space, and smiling down upon us mortals. One of the lady angel's tights bagged at the knees, and another's wings were not on straight; but this did not interfere with her flight, any more than did the stationary position of the wings of all. But it was all very easily and gracefully done, swooping down, soaring, and swinging in circles like so many great eagles. They seemed to discover something of unusual interest in Mr. Thompkins, for they singled him out to throw kisses at him. This made him blush and fidget, but a word from Bishop reassured him,—it was only once in a lifetime!

After these angels had gyrated for some time, the head angel of the angel-room requested those who desired to become angels to step forward. A number responded, among them some of the naughty dancing-girls of the Moulin Rouge. They were conducted through a concealed door, and presently we beheld them soaring in the empyrean just as happy and serene as though they were used to being angels. It was a marvel to see wings so frail transport with so much ease a very stout young woman from the audience, and their being fully clothed did not seem to make any difference.

Mr. Thompkins had sat in a singularly contemplative mood after the real angels had quit torturing him, and surprised us beyond measure by promptly responding to a second call for those aspiring to angelhood. He disappeared with another batch from the Moulin Rouge, and soon afterwards we saw him floating like an airship. He even wore his hat. To his disgust and chagrin, however, one of the concert-hall angels persisted in flying in front of him and making violent love to him. This brought forth tumultuous applause and laughter, which completed Mr. Thompkins's misery. At this juncture the blue cleft became dark, the angel-room burst into light, and soon Mr. Thompkins re-joined us.

As we filed out into the passage Father Time stood with long whiskers and scythe, greeted us with profound bows, and promised that his scythe would spare us for many happy years did we but drop sous into his hour-glass.

There was no conversation among us when we emerged upon the boulevard, for Mr. Thompkins was in a retrospective frame of mind. Bishop embraced the opportunity to lead us up the Boulevard Clichy to the Place Pigalle. As we neared the Place we saw on the opposite side of the street two flickering iron lanterns that threw a ghastly green light down upon the barred dead-black shutters of the building, and caught the faces of the passers-by with sickly rays that took out all the life and transformed them into the semblance of corpses. Across the top of the closed black entrance were large white letters, reading simply: "Cafe du Néant" (The Cafe of Nothingness - The Cafe of Death)

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)