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Updated: May 2, 2025
The thunders of the storm king are as a sonata against the staggering artillery of approbation when Pharnel of the Montparnasse sings "C'est pas difficile"; the howlings of the north wind are as zephyrs against the din of eulogy when Marius Reybas of the Bobino lifts a mighty larynx in "Mahi Mahi." Great talent? Well, maybe not.
A quartette of ruffians, Claquesous, Gueulemer, Babet, and Montparnasse governed the third lower floor of Paris, from 1830 to 1835. Gueulemer was a Hercules of no defined position. For his lair he had the sewer of the Arche-Marion. He was six feet high, his pectoral muscles were of marble, his biceps of brass, his breath was that of a cavern, his torso that of a colossus, his head that of a bird.
Outside, having sniffed to right and left, as if to see which way the wind blew, they ended by going up the street, reached the Place de l'Observatoire, and turned down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. This was their ordinary promenade; they reached the spot instinctively, being fond of the wide expanse of the outer boulevards, where they could roam and lounge at ease.
There were many soldiers on the Boulevard Montparnasse. He turned into a side street, feeling suddenly furtive and humble, as if he would hear any minute the harsh voice of a sergeant shouting orders at him. The silver in his breeches pocket jingled with every step. Andrews leaned on the balustrade of the balcony, looking down into the square in front of the Opera Comique.
And he rapidly related to the gamin how, on the morning of that very day, Babet, having been transferred to La Conciergerie, had made his escape, by turning to the left instead of to the right in "the police office." Gavroche expressed his admiration for this skill. "What a dentist!" he cried. Montparnasse added a few details as to Babet's flight, and ended with: "Oh! That's not all."
He found the Métro entrance at the exit of the Gare Montparnasse, took the train, and arrived, shortly afterwards, at the Gare du Nord, very sober. Very sober and angry. And when he reached his home in the provinces, he was still sober and still angry. Nor did he know what he should do. He did not know whether he should kill his wife or not. If he did, he must go back to the Front.
But Flanagan had had enough of intellectual conversation for one evening, and when Lawson made his suggestion, turned to Philip. "Oh gee, let's go where there are girls," he said. "Come to the Gaite Montparnasse, and we'll get ginny." "I'd rather go and see Cronshaw and keep sober," laughed Philip. There was a general disturbance.
There was a Métro entrance somewhere about the Gare Montparnasse and he tried to find it. The Métro would take him to the Gare du Nord. No good. Such crowds of people all about, and they called him Mon Vieux, and pulled him this way and that, laughing with him, offering him cigarettes and happy comments, received by a brain in which three bottles of wine were already fermenting.
The old man set me down at the corner of the Rue Racine. I have never met him again; I have never learned who he was. The other day, being in Paris, I made a pilgrimage to the Cemetery of Montparnasse, to look at Bibi's grave. The wooden cross we had erected over it was pied with weather-stains, the inscription more than half obliterated Né
The man and the child recognized each other silently amid the gloom: Montparnasse confined himself to the remark: "We need you. Come, lend us a hand." The lad asked for no further enlightenment. "I'm with you," said he.
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