I. At Five in the Morning
Now the darkness breaks,
Flight it slowly takes;
Now the morning wakes,
Roofs around to gild.
Now the day 's in sight,
Lamps give paler light,
Houses grow more white;
Markets all are filled.
Prom La Vilette
Comes young Susette,
Her flowers to set
Upon the quay.
His donkey Pierre
Is driving near,
From Vincenues here
His fruit brings he.
Florists ope their eyes,
Oysterwomen rise,
Grocers, who are wise,
Start from bed at dawn;
Artisans now toil,
Poets paper soil,
Pedants eyesight spoil,
Idlers only yawn.
I see Javotte,
Who cries, "Carotte!"
And sells a lot
Of parsnips cheap.
Her voice so shrill
The air can fill,
And drown it will
The chimney-sweep.
Now the gamester 's seen;
With a haggard mien,
And his pocket clean,
Swearing, home he goes;
While the drunkard lies
On his path, more wise,
Making music rise
From his blushing nose.
In yonder house
They still carouse,
Change loving vows,
And sing and play.
Through all the night,
In sorry plight,
A wretched wight
Before it lay.
Now the patient rings,
Till the servant brings
Draughts and other things,
Such as doctors know;
While his lady fair
Feigns with modest air
(Love is lurking there!)
For a bath to go.
Love's pilgrims creep
With purpose deep,
And measured step
Where none can see;
The diligence
Is leaving France,
To seek Mayence
Or Italy.
"Dear papa, adieu,
Good by, mother, too,
And the same to you,
Every little one."
Now the horses neigh,
Now the whip 's in play,
Windows ring away,
Out of sight they 're gone.
In every place
New things I trace,
No empty place
Can now be found.
But great and small,
And short and tall,
Tag rag and all,
In crowds abound.
Ne'er the like has been;
Now they all begin
Such a grievous din,
They will split my head;
How I feel it ache
With the noise they make;—
Paris is awake,
So I '11 go to bed.
II. At Five in the Afternoon
Now the motley throng,
As it rolls along
With its torrents strong,
Seems to ebb away.
Business-time has past,
Dinner comes at last,
Cloths are spreading fast,—
Night succeeds to day.
Here woodcock fine,
I can divine,
On fowl some dine,
And turkey too.
While here a lot
Of cabbage hot
All in the pot
With beef they stew.
Now the parasite
Hastes with footstep light,
Where the fumes invite
Of a banquet rare.
Yonder wretch I see,
For a franc dines he,
But in debt he'll be
For his sorry fare.
Hark, what a noise!
Sure every voice
Its force employs
To swell the sound.
Here softest strains
Tell lover's pains;
There proudly reigns
The drunken round.
Dinner's over, so
To cafés they go,
While their faces glow;
Then elate with wine
Yon gourmand so great
Falls, and with his weight
Crushes one, whom fate
Suffered not to dine.
The mocha steams,
The punch-bowl gleams
And perfume seems
To fill the air.
"Ice! ice!" they call,
And "Coffee" bawl,
"Could you at all
The paper spare?"
Journals they read o'er,
Liquors down they pour,
Or they sit before
Tables spread for play.
While with watchful eyes,
And with aspect wise,
Stands to criticise
The habitué.
There tragedy
They go to see,
Here comedy
Asserts her reign;
A juggler here,
A drama there,
Your purse would clear,
Nor sues in vain.
Now the lamps are bright,
Chandeliers alight,
Shops are quite a sight
While with wicked eye
Stands the little queen
Of the magazine,
And with roguish mien
Tempts the folks to buy.
A nook obscure
Will some allure,
Who there secure
May play their parts.
There thieves at will
Their pockets fill;
And lovers steal
The ladies' hearts.
Jeannot, and Claude, aud Blaise,
Nicolas and Nicaise,
Who all five from Falaise
To Paris lately came;
Admire with upturned faces,
Fast rooted to their places,
Paillasse's strange grimaces,
Naught paying for the same.
Her labors done,
Her dress put on,
To dance has gone
The gay grisette.
Her grandma dear
And neighbor near,
Their souls will cheer
With cool piquette.
Now 't is ten o'clock,
Now against a rock,
With a heavy shock,
Three new plays have struck.
From the doors the mob
Rushes,—mind your fob,—
Gentlefolks who rob
Try just now their luck.
"St. Jean," I say,
"Quick,—no delay!
My cab this way!"
The livery all
With wine accursed
Could almost burst,
But still athirst,
From taverns crawl.
Carriages with pride
Take their lords inside,
Then away they glide
In a solemn row.
Cabs retreat of course,
While the drivers hoarse
Swear with all their force,
As they backwards go.
Hark! what a rout!
They push about,
And loudly shout,
"Take care, take care!"
Some hurry, yet
Are soon upset,
Across some get
And home repair.
Trade begins to drop,
Finding custom stop,
Tradesmen shut up shop;
Here 's a contrast strange!
Noisy thoroughfare,
Crowd-encumbered square,
To a desert bare
Now is doomed to change.
A form I see
Approaching me,
"Qui vive!" says he;
At once I shrink;
As he draws nigh
Away go I,
'T is best to fly
All scrapes, I think.
Now there 's nauglit in sight
Save the lamps' pale light,—
Scattered through the night,
Timidly they peep;
These too disappear,
Nothing far or near
But the breeze I hear,—
All are fast asleep.
Marc Antolne Madelaine Besaugiers.
