the tourist, who buys drinks as he
listens to stories of murders, some of which have been committed, for
it is true that some of the real _apaches_ go there (I know because my
friend Fernand did and it was in l'Ange Gabriel that he knocked all
the teeth down the throat of Angelique, _sa gigolette_. You may find
the life of these creatures vividly and amusingly described in that
amazing book of Charles-Henry Hirsch, "Le Tigre et Coquelicot" It is
the only book I have read about the _apaches_ of modern Paris that is
worth its pages). But the idea of l'Ange Gabriel was not amusing to me
this evening and I leaned forward to ask my chauffeur if he had it in
mind to substitute another attraction for my desired _bal musette_.
His reply was reassuring; it took the form of a gesture, the waving of
a hand towards a small lighted globe depending over the door of a
little _marchand de vin_. On this globe was painted in black letters
the single word, _bal_. We were in the narrow Rue des Gravilliers--I
was there for the first time--and the _bal_ was the Bal des
Gravilliers.

The bar is so small, when one enters, that there is no intimation of
the really splendid aspect of the dancing room. For here there are two
rooms separated by the dancing floor, two halls filled with tables,
with long wooden benches between them. Benches also line the walls,
which are white with a grey-blue frieze; the lighting is brilliant.
The musicians play in a little balcony, and here there are two of
them, an accordionist and a guitarist. The performer on the accordion
is a _virtuoso_; he takes delight in winding florid ornament, after
the manner of some brilliant singer impersonating Rosina in _Il
Barbiere_, around the melodies he performs. As in the Rue Jessaint a
_sou_ is demanded in the middle of each dance. But there comparison
must cease, for the life here is gayer, more of a character. The types
are of the _Halles_.... There are strange exits....

A short woman enters; "_elle s'avance en se balancant sur ses hanches
comme une pouliche du haras de Cordoue_"; she suggests an operatic
Carmen in her swagger. She is slender, with short, dark hair, cropped
_a la_ Boutet de Monvel, and she flourishes a cigarette, the smoke
from which wreathes upward and obscures--nay makes more subtle--the
strange poignancy of her deep blue eyes. Her nose is of a snubness. It
is the _mome_ Estelle, and as she passes down the narrow aisle,
between the tables, there is a st