. The real Latin quarter . And how the old lady would bustle outwith the little oil lamp, placing it in thecenter of the long table amid the forest ofvin ordinaires, with a Voila, mes enfants ! and a cheery word for all these good boysand girls, whom she regarded quite as herown children. It seemed to them then that there wouldnever be anything else but dinners atMadame Girauds for as many years asthey pleased, for no one ever thought ofliving out ones days, except in this goodBohemia of Paris. They could not imaginethat old Jacquemart would ever die, or thatLa Belle Louise would grow old, and
. The real Latin quarter . And how the old lady would bustle outwith the little oil lamp, placing it in thecenter of the long table amid the forest ofvin ordinaires, with a Voila, mes enfants ! and a cheery word for all these good boysand girls, whom she regarded quite as herown children. It seemed to them then that there wouldnever be anything else but dinners atMadame Girauds for as many years asthey pleased, for no one ever thought ofliving out ones days, except in this goodBohemia of Paris. They could not imaginethat old Jacquemart would ever die, or thatLa Belle Louise would grow old, and goback to Marseilles, to live with her dried-up old aunt, who sold garlic and bad cheesein a little box of a shop, up a crooked street!Or that Francine would marry Martin, thepainter, and that the two would bury them-selves in an adorable little spot in Brittany,where they now live in a thatched farm-house, full of Martins pictures, and have avegetable garden of their own—and a cow—and some children ! But they did !86. A STUDIO DEJEUNER And those memorable dinners in the oldstudio back of the Gare Montparnasse!when paints and easels were pushed aside,and the table spread, and the piano rolledup beside it. There was the buying of thechicken, and the salad that Francine wouldsmother in a dressing into which she wouldput a dozen different things — herbs andspices and tiny white onions ! And whata jolly crowd came to these impromptufeasts! How much noise they used tomake ! How they danced and sang untilthe gray morning light would creep inthrough the big skylight, when all thesegood bohemians would tiptoe down the87 waxed stairs, and slip past the differentateliers for fear of waking those painterswho might be asleep—a thought that neveroccurred to them until broad daylight, andthe door had been opened, after hours ofpandemonium and music and noise ! In a little hotel near the Odeon, therelived a family of just such bohemians—six struggling poets, each with an imagi-nati
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, booksubjectartists, bookyear1901
