Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub

What a strange life they lead, huddled three and sometimes four in the stuffy cabin of their dingy boat, while below in the hold their apples are carefully allotted all the space they need. When weather conditions permit, the minute cooking stove is brought out on deck and the cooking is done in the open air. And in what wierd-looking pots and saucepans! But even though the poker serves to stir the soup, a savory odor rises from the steaming kettle, and its contents are eagerly devoured by a robust and ravenous family whose bright eyes and glowing cheeks betoken perfect health.

Toward the beginning of spring, when the first green buds begin to appear on the trees, the view from the apple boats is extremely charming. We therefore asked permission to come aboard to make an etch

[blocks in formation]
[graphic][subsumed][merged small][subsumed]
[graphic][merged small]

"Take it. Ther're twenty-four sous the right rises the Hôtel de Ville and the inside. All I've been able to economize so far."

Need I add that the little hoard was returned to its owner, and that when the proofs were pulled, Master Paul Dechamps was perhaps the first person to receive one, duly addressed and forwarded to the lock where his boat was stationed on its homeward voyage. And I have carefully preserved, among my many souvenirs, the grateful letter written on a sheet of paper bought for the occasion, all decorated with flowers in each corner. The following year, when he returned, Paul escorted me to the cabin where, framed and hanging in the place of honor, next to the "Bonne Vierge," was our little sketch of the Ile St. Louis.

Standing on the west point of the island the view that spreads out before one is extremely picturesque and interesting. On

barracks so well known during the Commune. Farther along on the same side is the Théatre Sarah Bernhardt, faced by the Châtelet, and in the distance the gray slate roofing of the Louvre may be seen.

On the left bank is the Quai aux Fleurs, brilliant with its display of flowers and renowned because of the house where Abelard and Héloïse abided. Then the great frowning Palais de Justice lifts its haughty towers above the river's banks. After that comes a little green spot, the park at the extremity of the Ile de la Cité, and finally, the Quai Voltaire, just distinguishable in the hazy atmosphere. Often, when standing on this spot at midnight, the roar of the great metropolis having subsided, I have counted as many as fifteen different clocks that strike the hour, one after the other, from the towers of the many public buildings in the quarter.

[graphic][subsumed][subsumed][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

Beneath the clump of trees at the foot of the Quai d'Orléans, a driveway descends toward the water. It is here that one must come, either at sunset or during a gathering storm, to get the finest view of Notre Dame de Paris. It is at such moments that the great Gothic monster grows larger and larger in the deepening shadow. Higher and higher it soars in the obscurity, smaller and smaller seem to grow the surrounding buildings, as though cowering before so awe-inspiring a phenomenon. Now it changes into a phantom ship afloat in the semi-darkness. The slender spire resembles a main-mast whose point is lost in the clouds, while against the great black hull break the waves of a tenebrous and silent sea. Before one rolls the river dark and sulky; the boats that glide by leave a strange crimson wake, and horses brought to bathe at the embankment shiver as though in terror, and, snorting, dash ashore like the hippocamps of old.

It all lasts but a moment. With the last ray of the departing sun, night drops her mantle like a curtain at the end of a play.

The principal artery of the island is the vertical rue St. Louis-en-l'Ile, an animated, narrow, commercial street that greatly resembles the grand'rue of a provincial city. One may reach it by following any of the dingy passages that open onto either quay, and some of which, up until 1870, bore the most curious names. At the corner of what is at present the rue Le Regrattier, high up in a niche, stands a queer stone statue of a headless woman and an old white sign, now almost obliterated, announces rue de la Femme sans Teste."

La

The parish church stands in the midst of hundreds of little dwellings that press close about its immense nave. Its great openwork tower, its forged iron clock that overhangs the street like the signs of long ago, its time-blackened walls harmonize in a happy manner with the general physiognomy of the street.

All the little Parisian industries can be found here. Displays of fruits, vegetables, fish, cheese, and wares of all kinds are made on counters that open directly onto the narrow sidewalk, and one can study at leisure the amusing cries of the street venders. Anonymous persons elsewhere, they are well known by name here on the island, and they are acclaimed with shouts of joy by the

whole community when they appear at the commencement of each season, pushing their little carts before them.

"Il arrive, il arrive le maquereau." (Mackerel.)

"Harengs qui glacent, harengs nouveaux.” (Fresh herring.)

"La reine Claude au sucre, la reine Claude." (Plums.)

66

There are cries in all kevs and of all descriptions. Certain among them are soft and tender, foretelling the spring time. A la tendresse la verduresse" sings an old woman in a quaking voice, and no matter where I may hear them in the future these four words and three notes will always recall Paris; Paris with the thousand little ripples on the Seine, the tender green shoots just visible on the dark branches of the Italian poplars, the clear blue sky and delightful air that fills one with joy and brings a smile to one's lips.

To be sure, there are other characteristic calls, some very grave and solemn, usually sung by deep voices-"Tonneaux, tonneaux," while others are sharp and strident

"Vitrier, vitrier," or "Raccommodeur de jaiences et porcelaines." Certain among them are regular songs, and a most curious thing to remark is the fact that a bass scissors-grinder or a tenor barrel-seller is as rare as a white blackbird.

One Sunday morning in November, while walking in the rue St. Louis, an unfamiliar cry greeted my ears. "La loterie, la loterie," sang a gruff masculine voice, and presently from around the corner of the rue Budé appeared an old vender carrying a long bamboo pole from which were suspended two chickens and a turkey, all plumed and ready to cook. "La loterie, la loterie, two sous for the turkey and one for the chicken." He was quickly surrounded by a score of people and from upper windows men and women shouted: "Take a chance for me, take one for me." There was a chinking of coppers, followed by little shrieks of laughter from girls and children who plunged their hands into the sack for numbers, and finally, "No more" reached my ears.

The crowd gathered closer, there was a moment of breathless silence and "thirtyeight" rang out from the centre of the group.

"Who is it? Where is he? What's your number?" and various other questions

[graphic][merged small]

passed from mouth to mouth. Finally an old woman with a white bonnet and wooden sabots elbowed her way to the front, produced the lucky number and bore away in triumph the turkey that cost her

two sous.

Unlicensed lotteries being strictly forbidden in France, the whole public raffle lasted but a few seconds, and here, in the heart of the great capital, I had witnessed perhaps the only scene of its kind in the whole country.

The rue St. Louis is not only filled to overflowing with street merchants, but also with little shops of all descriptions, where one can procure almost any article. In fact, I have often found there certain things that the great commercial houses of Paris have been unable to furnish me. Behind

the dark counters sit old, gray-haired men and women, who have passed their entire lives there, refusing to move with time and progress.

Sometimes, during the summer months, they leave their stuffy dwellings and wander toward a tiny park, at the eastern extremity of the island. Here, beneath the trees that surround a memorial monument to Barye, they sit and gaze on the panorama before them.

It has hardly changed; save for one more bridge the view of the river is the same as it was fifty years ago. The old wooden stockade that unites the island with the Quai Henri IV still holds its own, and who knows, those are perhaps the same fishermen that have been angling there for the last half century.

« НазадПродовжити »