The New Orleans Bulletin

AFTER THE PLAY.

A small American flag moved lazily in the afternoon wind—a fact, perhaps, entirely unnoticed by most of the passers-by on Chartres street—and a large, square transparency, on which it was artistically announced to the world, in large, red and blue letters, that within, after half-past 8 each evening, there was given a "brilliant variety performance," did not move at all—another fact which did not seem to occasion any surprise on the part of the denizens of that old neighborhood. In fact it would have taken something very startling to have occasioned any notice whatever down there, for the old Creoles had seen too much of the adventurous and exciting in their time to be moved by any but extraordinary occurrences. The saloon was like many of its kind. Numbers of tables, larger numbers of chairs, an ostentatious looking bar and a fifteen foot stage, whereon, the proprietor stated, Mlle. Blanche and Corinne and Mons. Jules regaled the esthetic tastes of an appreciating public nightly. "You takes your glace off beer an' you ze everytinks," said he.

At one table, in quiet conversation with a painted little blonde, sat a man of perhaps forty years, with long black hair and a short coat, a pair of eyes full of expression, and a pair of pants almost full of grease stains. To an American, he looked a little like Henri Rochefort, but this likeness did not seem to strike the young lady just mentioned, for she, in a most unrepublican way, ordered him to send for drinks. Two absinthes were brought, and over these potations they resumed their small talk.

The sun kept on his westward way, or rather the earth kept on its eastward way, and the clanging of milkmen's bells on the streets gave notice that the afternoon was waning and twilight not far off. Once in a while some homeward bound dray would rattle past, jarring the very glasses on the counter, and then, after a silence came, the ear could catch the distant cry of "creme-a-la-glace! Creme-a-la-glace!" Then it began to grow a little darker. You could just make out the sign of "Jean Guillet, Cordonnier," opposite, and then when the letters faded out the lamplighter came and night followed him.

The saloon was put in order, everything rearranged, and the chandeliers lighted. Two silent old gentlemen, with violins, dropped in, and a tall pianist after them. They took beer and then their seats, and the pieces of music for the evening were chosen. A preliminary squeak on the violins, a hurried staccato movement on the piano, and the trio leaned back waiting for half-past eight.

As for many centuries past that hour came around at last and a grand overture commenced, we are sorry to say to empty chairs. This didn't last long, however, for men by twos and fours dropped in, and before the ponderous finale the place was very crowded, and shouts for beer somewhat marred the intended effect.

There was a short pause and then "Mons. Jules—the great baritone of the salons of Paris and Bordeaux," stepped upon the stage and began to sing. It was the drinking song from Hamlet. Old opera goers toddling along with their stout canes stopped a moment to listen, young girls just budding in solfeggio hesitated and glanced over. The voice was rich, round and more than anything else sad, if that song can make a voice sad. Certainly this Mons. Jules had done well that night. He could certainly not belong to the class of singers who frequent variety halls, of this we were satisfied. After a final bravura he bowed himself off.

He soon made his appearance, however, in front and took a seat at a table near the stage. Introducing ourself, we ordered absinthe for him and started a conversation, interrupted now and again by the rapping of glasses on the tables and furious encores for Mlle. Corrinne, who succeeded admirably in exhibiting a considerable portion of her nether limbs. After a few minutes talk he seemed remarkably pleased with what he termed our camaraderie, and, leaning over, asked for a loan of two dollars.

"For what?" we asked.

"Medicine, monsieur."

His twelve stone baritone looked hearty, drank well, and, in fact, to all outward appearances, was well. What, then, was the reason of his asking for the loan of money for medicine? "Sick?"

"No monsieur."

"Who is the medicine for, then?"

"Ah! my kind sir, you don't know it then? It's for Helene, my wife. I gets only one dollar and a half every night here, and that for to-night has gone already for food for her and me. You no believe it, hey? Well, after I sing my 'Partant pour la Syrie' I will take you to my room; you will give me money then. I know nobody here in Nouvelle Orleans, nobody me. Helene and me come here to find opera, but we find none."

There was a little skirmish between the violins and the piano delivered a roll of musket shots, firing by file, and this Jules ran behind the curtain. It was drawn up and one new acquaintance stepped out. There was not a Frenchman in the house who did not regret when Jules had closed and finally left for Syria. His notes were full of pathos, and perhaps that other Syria he was bound for when the curtain fell, added something to his expression.

"Come," said he, "I'm going."

Joining him, we left the saloon, and as we turned the corner of Toulouse, beer, stage, lights and wild carouse vanished. We passed Bourbon, Dauphine, Burgundy, and still on. Where could he live? At last he turned into a dark, damp alleyway, and called on us to follow. It was an old Creole house, one story and attic, with a tile roof.

Reaching the door of the rear room, he un-locked it from the outside and walked in. The light was almost blinding. A chandelier of four jets was burning brightly, and they dazzled one. It was 11:30 o'clock, and there was a peculiar quiet in the air. "Why so many lights?" thought we. "If he can afford this extravagance in gas, he's pretty well to do."

He returned to the door, and made a motion for us to come in. We entered. Two large rooms with the folding doors between thrown open, two cots and a charcoal furnace, that was all. No, not all, for almost before we had finished taking a mental inventory of this scanty stock, a figure moved from behind the mosquito bar. A female figure, and one we trust we may not look upon its like again. A dress of blue satin, stained and greasy, with a long court train dragging its dirty breadth behind, two bracelets made from pieces of red tape, were all the adornments of this figure. Her face—such a face—was covered with deep, red scars and white blotches as a leper's, and looking out of it shone one eye, and only one. The hideousness of the picture startled us, and we involuntarily drew back. A corpse in a ball costume could not look worse.

Paying not the least attention to anything around her, she advanced a few steps, made a low and very graceful bow. "She thinks she's on the stage," whispered the baritone. There was a gurgling sound, and then in a deep, croaking voice, she commenced in French:

"Oh, what do I care for the world,
And what the world for me."

There were several stanzas, but each ended with the above refrain. It was as a voice from behind the door of a vault. Unearthly, without a shadow of melody, but yet seemed in keeping with the singer's appearance.

Wildly gesticulating with her arms, she kept up her song, when the baritone asked me to step into the back yard. "Now, Monsieur, do you think she wants medicine? Three years ago at the Vaudeville, in Paris, she was the star. Everybody was at her feet, carriages waited for her after the performance—now you see what she is. The great," and he shrugged his shoulders, and his moustache went up in a sort of scornful way, "the great Mlle. —, the queen of song," another shrug, "would fall, so what she do. The vitriol the damnation vitriol, she throw on poor Helene."

The man stood silent for a while, as if counting the drops falling from the leaky cistern faucet, and then went on: "Poor Helene's face gone, her voice follow and"—touching his forehead with his finger—"you see the rest." She thinks with the bright light she's on the boards. Le Docteur say she must have medicine; where will I get it?

"Who was the singer, did you say, that threw the vitriol?" we asked.

He placed his mouth to our ear and whispered a name. "Impossible!"

"Vraiment," said he.

"What, that world-known cantatrice?"

"Yes, yes; she! she!"

It is difficult to say just what were our thoughts. The great whom we had sat before and followed through all the passionate warblings in 'Lucie,' 'Leonora,' 'Marguerite,' and others—it seemed impossible—throwing vitriol! And then we have to dethrone this song princess from her seat in our memory. Sad indeed!

The baritone said he would get the medicine and we left. The cool wind from the river made the street lamps flicker, and the sky overhead spoke of approaching rain. Figures could be seen crossing the street, some distance off, and now and then the raps of the night watchman heard. We started for Royal street and there followed us the husky notes:

"Oh, what do I care for the world,
And what the world for me?"