T a tightness in her throat when she thought of his worn boots and thin attire, which he was forced to wear heedless of weather, because no other garments were possessed by him. Perhaps it was the gay talk of Hélène, inveterate gossip of the studios, that finally made the barber a well-known character, and might have brought him much business had he been able to give his heart to it. The youngest child playing in the streets of the XIIIème arrondissement came in time to know the whole story of Figaro, the king, and all Montmartre after a fashion loved him for his gentleness and kindly manners; sympathised with him for all that he was not. That the students and workmen who were his clients could not believe his talesbe that made nothing. They merely considered that the barber was a little mad, and counted it virtue that they did not laugh at him. Sometimes they even mocked, but without meaning to make him ridiculous. That would be on a rainy afternoon when a number of workmen, all unshaven, students who had scarcely begun to shave, and perhaps an artist or two who had little use for barbers' services, would crowd together I for shelter and entertainment in the little shop. Then they would ask, for the hundredth time, why M. Mêrot was so certain that he was their king. Patiently explanatory he would again tell the story-how his great ancestor, Louis, the Well Come Beloved, contracted an early unrecognised marriage with a beautiful young Duchesse of the Court; how there was but one child of that semi-secret marriage before the young wife died; how the king then married Marie Leczinska who became the mother of the Dauphin Louis; how, for political reasons, the son of the Dauphin by Princess Marie-Josephede-Saxe, a Bourbon certainly yet not the rightful heir, was then crowned King of France, Louis XVI, in place of Henri Mêrot's royal grandfather seven times removed. Thus the kingly line failed to perpetuate the true succession. It The little barber had the documents necessary to prove all this carefully treasured by his friends the royalists. was, on the whole, an amusing story, and the rude audience, apparently convinced, listening with closest interest, would lead this poor Figaro to tell them a dozen other marvels equally extravagant, for his wealth of historical information was amazing. A way as good as any other to spend an idle afternoon! Not until they were safely outside the shop would they laugh at the tales of Figaro, King of France, saying to each other: " 'Qu'il est fou, hein, ce petit babillard!" but saying it gently withal, for he had amused them, and for his many virtues they admired him. You will see that, despite ill-success and poverty, M. Mêrot managed to exist quite happily. It is a something, mes amis, to be convinced that one is, in truth, a king, even a monarch in a realm of dreams, for the dream continues to be real enough though the king's hand is daily occupied in scraping lather from a workman's chin. Such dreams, mes amis, have power to make life endurable, even life the most sordid and insufferable. There is no way of escape for the man who can feel both joy and suffering less keenly, but the dreamer, though more sensitive, may release himself from all that is disagreeable in this world. Only the body suffers, being cold, hungry, or overtaken by fatigue. For those fortunate few to whom the gift is given, alors, the time comes when flesh can endure no more, or perhaps only chooses to endure no more. Then swiftly a door opens, giving egress to a world of dreams. The winged spirit speeds forth to seek the elysium of heart's desire, green fields, the open sea, even a seat upon a cushioned throne. Spirit, free as flowing wind, ceases to recognise the bonds of fact or touches only such reality as may be agreeable. Detached from the body as in a dream, the transient pleasures of the dreamer may seem to him the keenest ecstasy. No; one will not, then, pity this poor Figaro, Henri Mêrot. Starving, he enjoyed a royalist banquet twelve times in each year, and feasted with the memory nightly when he ate his brown bread, washed down with sour wine. Aching with cold, he had but to summon visionary servitors to be clothed in scarlet and ermine, while a spluttering candle-end became a furnace to heat his palace halls. palace halls. Stumbling with weariness afoot in the streets of Paris, he beheld the carriage of the king, complete with eight prancing white horses, gorgeous footmen, and mounted equerries, the king riding in state, and he was the king. One may quite easily believe that, in the end, Figaro, the king, possessed the qualities of that enchanted Indian prince whom fire would not burn, or water wet, or the wind blow upon. His world was not the world that we live in, but a world of his own, protected from all assault. It is, perhaps, almost admissible that the king, Figaro, was a happy man. Contrast his estate with all that it might have been had he, in sober earnest, been a king. Then, indeed, would he have been forced to awaken rudely; to meet reality sternly face to face; to engage himself in many complications, forming no friendships but only alliances; his thoughts forever dwelling his with questions of polity; kingly body, however weary, never free from the demands of rank and ceremonial; & slave, in fact, mes amis, to his own highly exalted state. One would not choose that lot voluntarily. It were better to be be a dreaming barber like Henri Mêrot. Perhaps, messieurs, he was a little mad. The common people have sound judgment in such things. One may readily believe with them that any departure from the normal dead level of mediocrity is a kind of madness and unforgivable. Only one likes to think that this madness which afflicted the little barber was, nevertheless, a gracious thing, making his life more rich than if he had been quite sane. His mere existence gave pleasure to those faded royalists whose wasted lives had otherwise been without interest to them. They, in turn, gave his illusion matter to feed upon. His Hélène moved, a vision of beauty, through the dream. As for the bourgeoisie and the canaille, to whom his madness afforded some amusement, he detested them in their various classes, but sometimes liked them well as individuals. They, too, passed through the dream scarcely recognised as having a separate existence in reality. Hélas, that the commonalty may not for ever be ignored in their obscurity! Even Figaro, their king, to whom they gave the shadow of mocking allegiance, dwelling among them equally obscure, could not for ever escape the natural reaction of proletariat against aristocrat. Rudely they invaded his world of dreams, and brought all his creation tumbling about his ears. To-night, mes amis, even the most unobserving will be aware that we have spring in Paris. One breathes a perfume indefinable. We see the tables in the cafés deserted as the patrons VOL. COXVI.-NO. MCCCIX. move into the open air. One walks along the boulevards more jauntily. Those who are lovers accept the renewed warmth with gratitude, although they have no welcome for the later dusk. It is a tradition among us that the chestnut-trees in the Bois are blooming now. The good bourgeois, who all through the winter has hidden behind a mask of facial hair, now thinks of visiting a barber. Note that I purchased a new hat but yesterday. Our midinettes, who are Paris, again dance four abreast along the boulevards at noon. This morning my old vendor of journals, who keeps the kiosk at the corner, smiled for the first time this year. Good people have become used to the minor sacrifices of the Lenten season, which kindly custom has robbed of onerous exactions. Yes; it is spring in Paris. A week since we celebrated the fête of Mardi-Gras. There are those to whom Mardi-Gras is yet a religious festival. To others the day is a feast of an entirely different kind. Among many of our workmen of the XIIIème arrondissement, and to those students and artists who compose the silly Republic of Montmartre, the day marks only their annual Feast of Fools, not less riotous than the ancient medieval celebrations. The procession this year was exceptionally ostentatious, as was also the retraite aux flambeaux in the evening. In all 2 D ceaseless bombardment of confetti, bon-bons, and coloured streamers, with the masked crowd shouting applause as the procession passed. this, one may imagine, such an the whole procession under a aristocrat as Figaro, the king, would not, voluntarily, take an active part. He would not be greatly pleased at the spectacle of thousands of men and women playing the clown for each other's amusement. He would not even close his little shop in recognition of the fête. Scarcely, one thinks, would he be aware that the masses considered the occasion of some importance. A I picture for you now that mad procession on Boulevard Rochechouart, extending from Clichy almost to the Place Pigalle. King Folly himself rode backwards on an ass surrounded by a crowd of leaping, dancing, jesting, bedizened courtiers ; float after float burlesqued all things sacred and profane. There were caricatured notabilities of the Government; a farcical Académie Française ; a mad Académie des Beaux-Arts; an even crazier School of Futurists. gargantuan King of Fools in papier-mâché, with a huge grinning head, bobbed and bowed cynically to the applauding mob, followed by a giant Queen of Fools even more grotesque and hideous. The Queen of Love and Beauty, surrounded by her own court of artist's models, dark and fair, rode high above the heads of the mob on a flower decorated golden throne. On foot there were many hundreds of students, artists, workmen, and otherwise respectable bourgeois of the quarter, clad in every kind of fanciful masquerade, The Queen of Love and Beauty for the occasion was one whom you will recognise -Hélène, model and sometimes mannequin, friend of the unrecognised King of France, chosen for pulchritude rather than for her manners. One explains, all simply, that after the fashion of such reigning queens, she is permitted to have her vagaries. It surprises no one, therefore, when, as the procession nears the entrance from the Place Pigalle to the rue de la Boule, the voice of a burly cavalier is heard crying loudly from the pavement "Oh, là, belle Hélène ! Descends, alors, de ton piédestal! Viens avec nous Hélène!" The cry is echoed by a hundred voices : 66 Come down, little Queen! We Not long the fair one preserved her dignity. One considers that it was not amusing riding thus above the heads of her loyal subjects. Were they to dance and sing and enjoy themselves while she scarcely dared to move an eyelash as she endured the playing of this role too wearisome! Tiens! The honour was hers -now, also, for the fun! All swiftly was the golden throne deserted. Light as a swooping swallow the Queen of Beauty leaped down from her high place, silken robes fluttering about her like airy wings. The arms of the eager mob received her, together with several of her maids as well. Quoi donc! Was that gorgeous throne to remain vacant? But not at all! It would be ridiculous thus going empty through the streets. Some one, a quick-witted student probably, noted at once that the Float of the Throne had halted opposite the entrance to rue de la Boule. Figaro! Naturellement ! There could be no more suitable occupant. A king in readiness for them! The unknown shouted. Others, recognising instantly the merit of the notion, took up the cry Notre Roi, Figaro! Plaçonsle sur le trône! Allons vite! Cherchons notre Figaro!" Many who knew where the barber lived moved in a body toward the rue de la Boule. Une idée épatante, n'est-ce-pas? Nevertheless, such an idea as may only obtain entry into the collective heads of the debased mob; a proposal that failed to consider the convenience of Figaro, the aristocrat, their king! The Feast of Fools overflowed into the sombre passage of rue de la Boule. Gay colours flashed between the dingy walls. Voices, harsh with foolish merriment, echoed through all the length of the drab street. whirlpool of disorderly buffoons swirled about the entrance to the barber's shop. A They took the king, Figaro, by surprise They lifted him bodily into the street. Some one threw a purple robe over the worn garments of Henri Mêrot. Another crowned him with a gilded pasteboard crown. His feeble protests, for he saw no fun in this, were lost in the merry shouting of the revellers. Away from the rue de la Boule to the Place Pigalle! There, raised on high, the throne awaited him. Figaro was heaved upward by lusty arms. Maids-in-waiting, scantily attired, greeted him. The king enthroned ! Here, mes amis, was a most amusing spectacle! Above all amusing as the king peered down, lips trembling a little, a certain uneasiness in his mild blue eyes. "Subjects of Montmartrehail your king!' One with lungs like bellows hurled the command over the heads of the moving bedizened mob. "Long live Figaro, our King of France! Those who knew all of the old man's story answered the command as with a single cry. Those who did not appreciate the jest were not long in learning the point of it. "It is the barber-the little barber of rue de la Boule. Figaro, the Pretender -a crazy old man, who thinks he should be king!" The procession began slowly to move again. Voilà! There you have it, mes amis, the king's coronation, his brave subjects about him crazily celebrating the occasion. Men and women rocked with laughter seeing him sitting there, so pale, so puzzled, so |