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Updated: June 2, 2025
Or what she leans against or what she wears or what her lips and eyes? If you know Paris, you know her. Whether in the Allée des Acacias or in the boulevard Montparnasse, she is the same: the real French girl of still abiding Parisian romance; the real French girl in whose baby daughter, some day, will be perpetuated the laughter of the soul of a city that will not fade.
People hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together in an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and careworn. It was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among all those white tombstones. Philip felt lonely in the world and strangely homesick. He wanted company.
In short, one day, M. Mabeuf quitted the Rue Mesieres, abdicated the functions of warden, gave up Saint-Sulpice, sold not a part of his books, but of his prints, that to which he was the least attached, and installed himself in a little house on the Rue Montparnasse, where, however, he remained but one quarter for two reasons: in the first place, the ground floor and the garden cost three hundred francs, and he dared not spend more than two hundred francs on his rent; in the second, being near Faton's shooting-gallery, he could hear the pistol-shots; which was intolerable to him.
The Bois was more to his taste, for he could stretch his horse's legs; but every day he could be found before some simple cafe in Montparnasse, sipping vermouth, and watching the gay, light life about him.
He did not even read the notices sent by a press-cutting agency. He had a model with him. She amused him for the time, but it was unsatisfactory working on "The King of Ys" from photographs. He loathed it, and gave it up. One evening Gaston and Andree met at the Gare Montparnasse. Jacques was gone on, but Annette was there. Meyerbeer was there also, at a safe distance.
In the Montparnasse quarter, near the Place Denfert, on the fifth floor of an old house they had found a flat of three rooms and a kitchen, all very small, and looking on to a tiny garden inclosed by four high walls.
Chateaubriand survives as a steak and Raspail as a Boulevard. The cemetery Montparnasse is densely populated, and I wandered long without finding the author of "Boule de Suif." It was a wilderness of artificial flowers, great wreaths made of beads.
"Ah, Madame Desjardins," he said, addressing the stout lady in the hat, "enchanted to see you back from the sea-side! you and your charming daughter. I do not know which looks the more young and blooming." Then, turning to the grim lady in black: "And I am charmed to pay my homage to Madame de Montparnasse.
"So you have a lodging?" "Yes, I have." "And where is your lodging?" "In the elephant," said Gavroche. Montparnasse, though not naturally inclined to astonishment, could not restrain an exclamation. "In the elephant!" "Well, yes, in the elephant!" retorted Gavroche. "Kekcaa?" This is another word of the language which no one writes, and which every one speaks.
It appeared that the arrival of these men was what Jondrette had been waiting for. A rapid dialogue ensued between him and the man with the cudgel, the thin one. "Is everything ready?" said Jondrette. "Yes," replied the thin man. "Where is Montparnasse?" "The young principal actor stopped to chat with your girl." "Which?" "The eldest." "Is there a carriage at the door?" "Yes."
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