Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland

interest. “The diversity will be the spectacles in the cabarets of Montmartre which we, the fl âneurs, observe with a purpose.”
    “We tell the doormen that you’re going to write about their cabaret for Le Petit Journal and they’ll let us in free.”
    Paul gobbled the rest of his meal and stood up. “Where fi rst?”
    “Across the square. Le Rat Mort. But only to look for Angèle.”
    Place Pigalle on a summer night sizzled like rancid butter in a hot pan. He loved the yellow gaslight, the blare of a trumpet spilling out of a cabaret, the piano tripping up the scale, the jugglers entertaining at the fountain. The odor of grease and whores spewed out as they entered the café.
    Inside, the dead rat was still hanging from the ceiling, reminding patrons that this was one of the oldest cafés in Montmartre, and caricatures of the adventures of Le Rat were plastered on the walls to satisfy the Montmartrois’ taste for the bizarre. A ragged intellectual was ha-ranguing a group at Gambetta’s table about the bourgeois imitating the aristocracy. Manet reigned politely at table eight as usual, overdressed in his top hat. Models lounged on benches to attract painters. They spotted Auguste and backed him against the wall. His shoulder knocked down a picture of Rat painting at an easel.
    “I posed for Degas,” a stringy-haired blonde said. “We can start early. Morning light.” As if she knew something about art.
    “Puh! I modeled for Balzac,” another one bragged.
    Paul stifled a guffaw.
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    A third one spat on the fl oor. “I slept with Baudelaire!”
    “Ah, nice. Very nice.” Auguste peeled her fingers off his cast while Paul just stood there and laughed. Auguste surveyed the room, didn’t see Angèle, and tipped his head toward the door.
    Outside, Paul wrote feverishly in his notebook. “Oh, isn’t that rich.
    Modeled for Balzac.”
    “And the other one. She must have been twelve.”
    He steered Paul inside the Brasserie des Martyrs. Under gas lamps multiplied in the gilt-edged mirrors, the impresario blew on a trumpet.
    “Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies of the night and ladies of the day, ladies of the washtub and ladies of the satin drawing room. Gentlemen of the boulevards and gentlemen of the Butte, gentlemen of the stock exchange and gentlemen of the junk exchange, you are welcome all, true heirs of Gallic culture.”
    “Blowing smoke in their faces, those top hats who deigned to come to a common man’s entertainment,” Paul murmured.
    The impresario sang out the first line of “La Marseillaise,” urging on the children of the fatherland for whom the day of glory had arrived.
    At this the small orchestra fired off a salvo of the anthem.
    “Welcome to what?” The impresario pranced across the stage in
    patent leather shoes. “To our little hill of ragpickers? No!” He fl ung his red scarf over his shoulder. “To the seat of culture, the glory of the city, Montmartre! Welcome to what our honored statesmen Léon Gambetta so nobly named our salon of democracy, where, tonight, our native sons will delight you with poetry and our native daughters with song.”
    “He’s too full of himself,” Auguste said. “Let’s go. She isn’t here.”
    “Charming women of various prices,” Paul muttered as he wrote.
    At Chez Père Laplace, a rustic cabaret-gallery, used palettes smeared with paint hung on the wooden paneling.
    “Whose are they?” Paul asked.
    “Were they. Every hopeful in the quarter. It started when Manet gave Laplace the palette he’d used for Olympia, and when Pissarro heard of it, he painted a couple of peasants on a palette and offered to sell it to Laplace. They bickered over the price until Laplace grudgingly
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    paid him fifty francs. Then Claude Monet needed rent money and did the same. Now every two-bit amateur about to be kicked out of his garret has been hitting up Laplace for