The Butte, then, the real Montmartre, is in Paris, but not of it, and yet, of necessity, perpetually conscious of it,—a community which is and which is not a provincial town, which has an _esprit de corps_ not inconsistent with independence, a unity not destructive of variety, and a sociability admirably accordant with a seemly privacy; while the _Montmartrois_ sees Paris without being blinded by it, touches Paris without being crushed by it, and is stimulated by Paris without losing his identity therein.
“_J’ vis en philosophe et p’tê’t’ bien Qu’étant presqu’heureux avec rien, J’ai su résoudre un grav’ problème, A mon septième_,”
sings a _chansonnier_ of Montmartre. And it is indeed this ability to “be almost happy with nothing,” this fairy-godmother power to transform by a simple flourish a pumpkin into a coach, a dowdy into a fair princess, and a cabbage into a rose, this talent, amounting to genius, for squeezing so very much more out of life than there really is in it, that lifts completely out of the commonplace the life of Montmartre.
For four hundred to five hundred francs a year, monsieur and madame,—as in the Latin Quarter every Jack has his Jill, so on the Butte every _Montmartrois_ has his _Montmartroise_,—monsieur and madame may have a _logement_,[91] consisting of two or three rooms and a kitchen with peerless views of Paris and the valley of the Seine; and in the shops of the _brocanteurs_ they may procure antique furnishings of real beauty and durability, not, alas! for the proverbial song, but for less than the bourgeois pay for their ugly, up-to-date flimflams.
Prices are dearer at Montmartre than in several other parts of Paris. Nevertheless, there is no district where, day in and day out, there is so much genuine poetry and so much honest zest in living.
Louise France,[92] a dramatic artist of vigorous talent, who has been associated with nearly all the important literary movements of Montmartre, is said to have welcomed a party of friends to her modest _logement_ one day with, “_Maintenant, en guise d’apéritif, je vais vous offrir une vue splendide sur Paris: c’est tout ce que je possède_.”
Good Madame France is a thorough _Montmartroise_, and the incident is admirably representative of the jocund humour of the Butte. The _Montmartrois_ will not only regale himself with a view from a window in lieu of an _apéritif_, but he will merrily substitute a _chanson_ for a roast, console himself with a kiss for the absence of the dessert, and warm himself, as my friend L——, who has not had a fire for three winters, expresses it, with sunsets and tobacco smoke,—his own, if possible.