Aristide Bruant now rose from his table and strode to the centre of the room. A perfect silence fell. He is rather a small man, slender, and of delicate build; he has a thin, sallow face, with piercing black eyes, prominent cheek-bones, and long raven-black hair falling over his shoulders from beneath a broad black slouch hat down over his eyes. His unbuttoned coat showed a red flannel shirt open at the throat; a broad sash was about his waist; his trousers were tucked into top-boots,--the ensemble reminding one of Buffalo Bill. He glared sullenly round upon the people, and then sprang lightly upon a table. From that perch he recited one of his poems, selected from his book of songs and monologues. It does not bear reproduction here. For that matter, being written in the argot of Montmartre, it could hardly be understood even by French scholars unfamiliar with Montmartre. Happily Mr. Thompkins understood not a word of it, smiling perfunctorily out of politeness while Bruant was uttering things that might have shocked the most hardened Parisians. There were several young women present, and while Bruant was reciting they ogled him with genuine adoration. The other poets hung reverently upon his every word. A mighty burst of applause greeted the finish of the recitation; but Bruant slouched indifferently to his seat, ignoring the ovation. The bully with the stick immediately stopped the noise by yelling, "Silence!" This he followed up with the contribution-cup for the benefit of the idol of Montmartre. With the cup he brought the volume of Bruant's poems from which he had given the recitation,--a cheaply printed pamphlet. No one dared refuse to buy, and no change was returned. Was not this the great Aristide Bruant, the immortal of Montmartre? [Illustration: 0300] He was followed by other poets with songs and the banging of the piano. We presently rose to leave, but the bully shouted,--"Sit down! How dare you insult the young poet who is now singing?" We submissively resumed our seats. After a while, in a lull, we respectfully rose again, and the bully, shouting, "Get out!" unbarred the door and we were free. Mr. Thompkins was more deeply puzzled than he had been before that night. He could not understand that such a resort, where one is bullied and insulted, could secure patronage. "But this is Paris, Mr. Thompkins," explained Bishop, somewhat vaguely; "and this particular part of Paris is Montmartre." Midnight was now close at hand, but Montmartre was in the height of its gayety. Students, Bohemians, and cocottes were skipping and singing along the boulevard,--singing the songs of Bruant. The _café_s were crowded, the theatres and concert halls only in the middle of their programmes. Cabs were dashing about, some stopping at the Moulin Rouge, others at the Elysée Montmartre, still others picking up fares for more distant attractions.