Noctambule

Scarcely do I scribble that last line on the back of an old envelope when a voice hails me. It is a fellow free-lance, a short-story man called MacBean. He is having a feast of Marennes and he asks me to join him.     MacBean is a Scotsman with the soul of an Irishman. He has a keen, lean, spectacled face, and if it were not for his gray hair he might be taken for a student of theology. However, there is nothing of the Puritan in MacBean. He loves wine and women, and money melts in his fingers.     He has lived so long in the Quarter he looks at life from the Parisian angle. His knowledge of literature is such that he might be a Professor, but he would rather be a vagabond of letters. We talk shop. We discuss the American short story, but MacBean vows they do these things better in France. He says that some of the contes printed every day in the Journal are worthy of Maupassant. After that he buys more beer, and we roam airily over the fields of literature, plucking here and there a blossom of quotation. A fine talk, vivid and eager. It puts me into a kind of glow.     MacBean pays the bill from a handful of big notes, and the thought of my own empty pockets for a moment damps me. However, when we rise to go, it is well after midnight, and I am in a pleasant daze. The rest of the evening may be summed up in the following jingle:     Noctambule      Zut! it's two o'clock.      See! the lights are jumping.      Finish up your bock,      Time we all were humping.      Waiters stack the chairs,      Pile them on the tables;      Let us to our lairs      Underneath the gables.      Up the old Boul' Mich'      Climb with steps erratic.      Steady . . . how I wish      I was in my attic!      Full am I with cheer;      In my heart the joy stirs;      Couldn't be the beer,      Must have been the oysters.      In obscene array      Garbage cans spill over;      How I wish that they      Smelled as sweet as clover!      Charing women wait;      Cafes drop their shutters;      Rats perambulate      Up and down the gutters.      Down the darkened street      Market carts are creeping;      Horse with wary feet,      Red-faced driver sleeping.      Loads of vivid greens,      Carrots, leeks, potatoes,      Cabbages and beans,      Turnips and tomatoes.      Pair of dapper chaps,      Cigarettes and sashes,      Stare at me, perhaps      Desperate Apachs.      "Needn't bother me,      Jolly well you know it;      Parceque je suis      Quartier Latin pote.      "Give you villanelles,      Madrigals and lyrics;      Ballades and rondels,      Odes and panegyrics.      Poet pinched and poor,      Pricked by cold and hunger;      Trouble's troubadour,      Misery's balladmonger."      Think how queer it is!      Every move I'm making,      Cosmic gravity's      Center I am shaking;      Oh, how droll to feel      (As I now am feeling),      Even as I reel,      All the world is reeling.      Reeling too the stars,      Neptune and Uranus,      Jupiter and Mars,      Mercury and Venus;      Suns and moons with me,      As I'm homeward straying,      All in sympathy      Swaying, swaying, swaying.      Lord! I've got a head.      Well, it's not surprising.      I must gain my bed      Ere the sun be rising;      When the merry lark      In the sky is soaring,      I'll refuse to hark,      I'll be snoring, snoring.      Strike a sulphur match . . .      Ha! at last my garret.      Fumble at the latch,      Close the door and bar it.      Bed, you graciously      Wait, despite my scorning . . .      So, bibaciously      Mad old world, good morning.