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Gradually, as we sat at our table, watching Bruant and the company, it dawned upon us that Bruant did not exhaust the formalities of his entertainment upon the coming guest but reserved one for the parting guest which in our judgment was scarcely so amusing. For to every woman who left his café, Bruant's goodbye was a hearty kiss on both cheeks.
Those which he has designed for Aristide Bruant's volume of songs, Dans la rue, are masterpieces of their kind. They contain treasures of bitter observation, quaintness and knowledge. The soul of the lower classes is shown in them with intense truth, bitter revolt and comprehensive philosophy.
The Dutch insult and have taken off Bruant's head, He was brought before the Supreme Court of Holland, condemned, and executed. Alderman Maynell, I hear, is dead.
France, or Salis, however, still drew a rigid line that refused women the same right in France, and with the American's first whiff he was bidding her good-night and politely, but firmly, showing her the door. A third night, and I do not know that it was not the most amusing, the end of our journey was Bruant's Cabaret du Mirliton, in the remote Boulevard Rochechouart.
A scowl was on Bruant's handsome face as he strode up and down his café-museum, for the striding, it seemed, was only part of the regular performance. He should at the same time have been singing the songs we had come to hear, and he could not without the pianist who accompanied him, and the pianist had chosen this night of all others to be late.
I daresay there was not one of us who did not own a copy of Bruant's Dans la Rue, but we had bought it less because of his verses some of us had not read a line of them than because of Steinlen's illustrations, and I can still hear Harland upbraiding us for our literary indifference and urging it as a duty that we should not only read Bruant's songs, but go at once to hear him sing them.
And as it was not very long after that his Mademoiselle Miss appeared, I have an idea that he hurried us off to Bruant's not solely to improve our literary taste, but quite as much to collect incidents for that gay little tale. Bruant ran the Mirliton on the principle that the less easily pleasure is come by, the more it will be prized.
Neither wit nor art entered into the entertainment as at the Chat Noir and Bruant's. Vice was at no trouble to disguise itself. On the contrary, it made rather a cynical display, I thought, and cynicism in vice is never agreeable. I give my impressions. I may be wrong.
The Dutch insult and have taken off Bruant's head, He was brought before the Supreme Court of Holland, condemned, and executed. Alderman Maynell, I hear, is dead.
A Parisian and a boulevardier evidently, for he was singing gaily to himself that song of Aristide Bruant's, "La Noire," the well-known song of the 113th Regiment of the Line "La Noire est fille du canton Qui se fout du qu'en dira-t-on. Nous nous foutons de ses vertus, Puisqu'elle a les tetons pointus. Voil
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