THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 2252, 29 April 1897, Page 49

THE SKETCHER

A HAUNT OP THE PARIS THIEVES.

At night this riverside corner is the meeting placß of thieves and assassins, and thus it has acquired a character that ia dangerous and its own. Thither after dark the birds that prey upon society flock to find shelter and companionship. Their favourite house of call stands in the Rae Galande, and that the idea of bloodshed may be ever present to those prowlers in dark places their tavsrn is known as the Chateau Rouge, and is painted an ominous colour. The chateau, indeed, as its familiars term it with affection, is a club of criminals, and withal so admirably conduoted that even the casual visitor is nob likely to meet with the slightest incivility when within its walls. Though the scoundrel with whom you drink a glass of kirsch would be only too rejoiced in other circumstances to empty your pockets and throw you into the Seine, he respects the laws of hospitality, and is quite content to beg a cigarette or levy a light tax of halfpence. Tbe house itself is a marvel of architecture, and might have been the pride of the quarter. For here, says tradition, dwelt Gabrlelle D'Eatree, the beautiful Duchess of Beaufort, whom the gallant Henry adored, and whose death even his fickleness deplored for a fortnight. Tbe bouse and street have changed vastly since the gayest of monarchs visited the fairest of his mistresses. And yet in change's despite they are the same. Through the wicket of 57 Rue Galande,. once passed courtiers and their ladies ; through the same wicket there slouches today the burglar or assassin, upon whose j shoulder tbe hand of justice will most certainly fall. And by an accident of mercy the gateway, the courtyard, the window even have been spared, not because they were Gabrielle's, not because they belong to the Chateau Rougo, but because Time and Chance and Vandalism conspired to forget them. But you must put away the memory of Henry and his court when you enter this tavern of plunder and bloodshed. To arrive at the real horror you crosV a yard, and thence a glass door will lead you to the zinc-covered bar. There stands the landlord, a burly man in his shirt-sleeves. The friend of criminals, the agent of the police, he stands half way between crime and justice, and. while he gives shelter to tbe hunted wrong-doer, he may not resent the swift, sure descent of the avenger. The character of his clients js suggested by the legend, wbicb stands out upon the wall : You are requested to pay before being served; and you understand the" necessity of a sharp scrutiny when you leave the bar, and catch sight of the ruffians who throng the salon, as they call their meeting place. Now, it is the peculiar humour of these draggled pilgrims to dignify their club with such fine names as befit its traditions, and the great Henry may well smile in the shades at the ironical transformation of the house that once he knew so pleasantly. But the salon is noble in nothing more than in name. It is the true haunt of squalor, and not even curiosity will save the visitors from a shock of disgust. There, huddled in corners or sprawled upon the long table, sleeps a motley gang of ragamuffins. Men and women of all ages catch a moment's repose under the gas, biding their eyes behind a battered bat, or shrouding their head with the tatters of a threadbare coat. The conditions of the club are simple and moderate. Tbe purchase of one drink makes the vagabond free of the house, and he may sleep in any corner he chooße until 3in t the morning, when he is turned pitilessly cut into the street, and bidden to face whatever surprise of wind or snow, sleet or rain, providence may have in store for him. Meanwhile he enjoys the warmth and fool air of tbe chateau ; if sleep be not vouchsafed to his fatigue or drunkenness, he sips his glass, he smokes his cigarette, and babbles to bi3 neighbour of the -trade which they both follow. The interior is decorated as appropriately as the outside. There is every a suggestion of the prevailing red, and a set of rude piotares ecrawled upon the wall represent the crimes in which the frequenters and tbeir colleagues have bad a share. Should a stranger enter, there is an instant hubbub, for then the criminal sees tbe one hope of plunder permitted to his boar of ease. He shakes sleep from bis eyelids, and is eager to provide such entertainment as is proper to the occasion. He will offer to sing the song of the house ; he will, recite in a voice raucous with absinthe and fatigue the story of the last murder, neatly contrived in couplets. While the avaricious or accomplished are bent on your amusement, the idle growl that their reßt is interrupted ; and all those who can shake off the yoke of lethargy crowd aboat you to beg a cigarette. These demands mre easily satisfied, though At times the

I wounded vaniiy of a singer or strong man may cause a disturbance or even bloodshed. Once upon a time, when a disconsolate rascal, whose receding chin and forehead left his nose a genuine promontory, was singing the tedious song of the house, the strong man, bursting in upon the performance, ( claimed an instant right to exhibit his talent. I The singer modestly complained that he was j only obeying a request ; the strong man was obdurate, and would have driven his quaking rival from the room had not the burly landlord suddenly appeared, armed with the yard of load piping wherewith he is wont to keep order in thia unsavoury haunt of the Muses. At sight of the landlord's weapon even the strong man recoiled; the timid ' minstrel piped nervously until he reached the ! laßt verae, and every one shuddered at the ; awf nl vengaanoe which would inevitably be j wreaked when 3 o'clock found them all upon ! the street. But the salon is not tbe chatean's only apartment. In the corner opens another room, worthily styled the Hall of the Dead, • There, in a darkness broken only by a flickering j point of gas, lie the poor wretches who have t drunk their glass and who demand sleep rather than converse. On the ground, with neither mattresses nor covering, they curl and ; twist; when a heavy sleep has overtaken j them they might be bo many bundles of raga, j and when thsy turn restlessly in their splen- ! did hovel they show like spectres in the half 1 penetrable gloom. Such is the haunt of the : cut- throats and pick-pookets in the Rue ' Galande, and it is none tbe less genuine bej cause certain writers have advertised it into fame.— From "Vanishing Paris," MaoMillan'a j> Magazine.