Even in Montmartre there is some discretion.
And there is still another type of _Montmartroise_. The woman in this case is often a model of rational living and rare devotion, sharing the good and ill luck of her lover with the patience, pluck and fortitude of a _bonne fille_ and a good comrade.
If her jealous mate growls in his cups during their dinner in some favorite café, it is she who averts the row, pacifies the offended gentleman at the next table, quiets her _amant_ with a kiss, calls for the bill, sees that it is just, and continues by her alert brain and her intuition to please her quarrelsome lover by distracting his pugilistic mind towards a more peaceful mood.
When he wakes up he will be convinced more than ever that this Parisian demoiselle is, after all, his best friend.
If you wish to see “Mademoiselle of the Butte” in all her war-paint, go to the “Abbaye de Thélème” after midnight, where you will find her ready to eat, drink and be merry upon the slightest provocation. Follow her later to the Capitol among those who consume little suppers at big prices during the hours when the _sergents de ville_, pacing their beats outside, draw up the hoods of their night-cloaks to protect them from the chill of the early morning.
Still later you will find this nocturnal demoiselle, the idol of the generously drunk, picking up her skirts in a bacchanalian revel between the hours of three and four in the restaurant of the Rat Mort. Her eyes shine, her cheeks burn, the champagne and the lights seem to madden her, a madness of sheer ecstasy. Life for the moment is _en rose_. She feels herself a queen, defiant, seductive, dangerously beautiful. Four dancers from the Casino de Paris arrive amid screams and applause. Claudine is dancing on a table; an instant later she is being carried on the shoulders of a howling mob around the room. The music is drowned in the cries of “_bis, bis!_” One see through the whirl and glitter and smoke, flashing gems, the shimmer of silk hose, and the glint of bare arms.
Morning begins to pale. The streets are silent and deserted except for an occasional party of roisterers issuing from some closing café. Occasionally a woman passes coughing in the choking fog of the early morning. The ragpickers begin to make their rounds.