At all other seasons Paris might have been
Patagonia for any thing I saw or heard or knew of its brilliant gayety
and splendid variety. But during those holidays of his and mine, my
enjoyment and his were equal, I verily believe, though probably not (as
I then imagined) perfect. Pleasant days of joyous _camaraderie_ and
_flanerie_!--in which every thing, from being new to me, was almost as
good as new to my indulgent companion: the Rue de Rivoli, the Tuileries,
the Boulevard, the Palais Royal, the _dejeuner a la fourchette_ at the
Cafe Riche, the dinner in the small _cabinet_ at the Trois Freres, or
the Cadran Bleu, and the evening climax of the theater on the Boulevard,
where Philippe, or Leontine Fay, or Poitier and Brunet, made a school of
dramatic art of the small stages of the Porte St. Martin, the Varietes,
and the Vaudeville.
My father's days in Paris, in which he escaped from the hard labor and
heavy anxiety of his theatrical life of actor, manager, and proprietor,
and I from the dull routine of school-room studies and school-ground
recreations, were pleasant days to him, and golden ones in my girlish
calendar. I remember seeing, with him, a piece called "Les deux
Sergens," a sort of modern Damon and Pythias, in which the heroic
friends are two French soldiers, and in which a celebrated actor of the
name of Philippe performed the principal part.
Pages:
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133