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Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 107, September 22nd, 1894
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
IN PARIS OUT OF THE SEASON.
(With some Notes on a Detective Melodrama at the Ambigu.)
Dear Mr. Punch,—When I announced my intention of running over toParis for a few days, my friend Buzzard looked at me with a stonycontempt. "To Paris?" he said, "at this time of year! Why, you must bemad. What on earth are you going to do there?" I tried to explain toBuzzard, whose frigid superiority frightens me, that I liked Paris, thatI was going there pour me dégourdir; that it was just as possible tobreakfast at Ledoyen's or Voisin's, and to dine at Durand's or Joseph'sin September as at any other time; that a few theatres were still open;that the Boulevards were there for the flâneur; but I failed topenetrate his scorn, even with the most idiomatic French at my command.However, I determined that Buzzard, like the weight of the elephant inthe problem, must be neglected; and here I am in the Rue de Rivoli withanother madman like unto myself. We take our café complet in bed; wewear beautiful French ties, made of foulard, with two vast endsfloating like banners in the Parisian breeze—in a word, we arethoroughly enjoying ourselves in an entirely non-Britishfashion—which I take, indeed, to be of the essence of a pleasantholiday. What care we for the echoes of the Trades Union Congress; forthe windiest of Keir Hardie'sblatancies; for the malignities of Mr.Chamberlain, or the failure of LordRosebery's Ladas at Doncaster? Weare in Paris, and the sight of a cuirassier trotting past with hisgreat black crinière waving behind, or of the lady bicyclists scuddingby in knickerbockers, excites us more than even the latest ravings ofthe newest woman in London. Buzzard be blowed! You may tell him I saidso.
I want to let Mr. Conan Doyle know that there is a great openingfor him here. If I may judge by the latest detective drama, theideas of the Parisian public with regard to the acumen and generalpower of a detective are still very primitive. Yet Gaboriau didsomething in this line, and, in the Vicomte de Bragelonne, did notd'Artagnan show himself on the occasion of a certain duel to be adetective of unmatchable force? Still the fact remains that theplay-going Parisian public is easily satisfied in the matter of detectives.Listen, if you doubt me, to a plain unvarnished account of"La Belle Limonadière," the "Grand drame nouveau en cinqactes, huit tableaux," which is now running gloomily, but withimmense success, at the Ambigu.
Madame de Mazerolles, a wealthy