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Updated: May 5, 2025
I used to come and spend Sundays here occasionally with a friend of mine, Rose Leveque, with whom I lived in the Rue Pigalle, and Rose had a sweetheart, while I had none. He used to bring us here, and one Saturday he told me laughing that he should bring a friend with him the next day. I quite understood what he meant, but I replied that it would be no good; for I was virtuous, monsieur.
But Madame de Fondege was wrong, for she vainly plied the girl with questions all the way from the Rue de la Ville l'Eveque to the Rue Pigalle. She could only obtain this unvarying and obstinate reply: "Nothing has happened. What do you suppose could have happened?" Never in her whole life had Madame de Fondege been so incensed. "The blockhead!" she mentally exclaimed.
Unwilling to waste any more time, she hastily entered a grocer's shop at the corner of the Rue Pigalle and the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and anxiously inquired: "Do you know any photographer in this neighborhood, monsieur?" Her agitation made this question seem so singular that the grocer looked at her closely for a moment, as if to make sure that she was not jesting.
Pigalle sauntered slowly over to my table. "You know Handy?" he asked, slowly, in his broken English. "Who's that?" "The hole man that ees just go out. 'Is name ees Handy Gor-don." He rolled his great expressive eyes. "'E's cra-zee man. Also wot you call loafer: 'e do not work wen 'e wish not to. But, mon Dieu, 'ow 'e can play, that man!"
Upon that, I came to a decision; I went to the rue Pigalle, and, for a very large sum in gold a post-chaise and three horses were placed at my disposal, when unfortunately the formality of a passport, with which I had neglected to supply myself, and without which, in virtue of the decrees of the consulate of 17 Nivose, year VII., the post agents were not permitted to deliver horses to travellers "
I remember it, as if it were yesterday. I used to come and spend Sundays here occasionally with a friend of mine, Rose Levéque, with whom I lived in the Rue Pigalle, and Rose had a sweetheart, while I had not. He used to bring us here, and one Saturday, he told me, laughing, that he should bring a friend with him the next day.
We ate bear for dinner. I have written to the Prefect of Police to have Louise Michel released. There was no fighting to-day. The positions taken were fortified. December 2. Louise Michel has been released. She came to thank me. Last evening M. Coquelin called to recite several pieces from Les Chatiments. It is freezing. The basin of the Pigalle fountain is frozen over.
A circle of statues was set out there; and you could see the back of a faun; the profile of a young girl with full cheeks; the face of a bronze Gaul, a colossal bit of romanticism which irritated one by its stupid assumption of patriotism; the trunk of a woman hanging by the wrists, some Andromeda of the Place Pigalle; and others, and others still following the bends of the pathways; rows of shoulders and hips, heads, breasts, legs, and arms, all mingling and growing indistinct in the distance.
"You know most of the young ladies who come here, I suppose?" he asked. "But certainly!" the man answered with a smile, "Monsieur desires?" "I want the address of a young lady named Mermillon Flossie, I think they call her," Duncombe said. "Thirty-one, Rue Pigalle," the man answered promptly. "But she should be here within an hour. She never misses." Duncombe thanked him, and hailed a carriage.
Those which escaped the destructive rage of the modern Vandals, have been transported to the MUSEUM OF FRENCH MONUMENTS. The most remarkable are the statue of Pierre de Gondi, archbishop of Paris, the mausoleum of the Conte d'Harcourt, designed by his widow, the modern Artemisia, and executed by Pigalle, together with the group representing the vow of St. Lewis, by Costou the elder.
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