She hovered over customers, flying about breathlessly, a long cigarette holder in her hand, pausing now and then, to shout commands to waiters passing drinks around. As she moved about, she left a heavy fragrance behind, which reminded me of the prostitutes who work their trade in the Place Pigalle. There was no doubt in anyone's mind, however, that Adele gave the Cafe Lapin Agile a certain panache, she knew exactly what she was doing, and she did it in a way that left a lasting impression.
Discipline at the cafe was enforced by an ex-pugilist, named Joseph, a misshapen hulk of a man, who threw unruly drinkers out on the Rue Vincent unceremoniously, whenever they disturbed the regular routines. Joseph had a way about him, he was no hooligan, doing his work with a certain efficiency which gained your respect. The rough stuff, however, became less and less, as the level of patronage rose a notch or two--and, eventually, the Cafe Lapin Agile became a mecca for the creative types who lived on the hill. For me, the place was a vital connection with the latest in the art world, a precious source of information not obtainable anywhere else.
Maurice, at this stage, had firmly established himself as a notorious drunk and troublemaker, feared by the residents of the La Butte Pinson, an irritant to the police, and a familiar figure at the Charitee Hospital, where he was taken when his injuries required professional medical attention. None of these realities had much effect on him, he accepted the hostility he encountered as a natural consequence of the boozing, something he tolerated as a by-product of his actions.
Being a person of romantic nature, I was naturally drawn toward men, but unfortunately, Maurice was hostile to the idea, seeing outsiders, my friends, as detrimental to his interests. The few men who came to the Rue Cortot, were attacked on the street, or subjected to humilations that discouraged them from seeing me. You couldn't blame them for losing interest in a romantic attachment which might get them busted up if they became serious about it.
Getting out, once in awhile, as I did in the old days, at the Chat Noir, was difficult under the circumstances, but I managed it a couple of times a month, walking the kilometer or so to the Cafe Lapin Agile, and sitting with my friends at our special table, under Picasso's "Harlequin." Seated at the table, on a regular basis, was Derain, Vlaminck, Braque, Max Jacobs, Van Dongen, Dufy, Roualt, and Picasso, all down on their luck. Life for them was a precarious proposition from day to day, a good meal being a rare experience, except for Picasso, who ate frequently with the Steins at 27 Rue Fleurs. The bunch had tried everything to dent the art market, walking around with their paintings to the galleries, but couldn't sell anything. There was no cash in their pockets, which was nothing to Bruant, who didn't expect payment for his generosity.
We sat together at our table, sipping wine, chatting easily, enjoying the respite from our troubles. Bruant had fired Adele and Joseph, deciding they didn't meet his standards, a fact that was dramatically illustrated when Joseph insulted the respected art critic from L"Evenement, Tabarant, by heaving him out on the hard cobblestones of the Rue Vincent, merely because he was making references to Adele's sexual orientation, something that a lot of people wondered about. In Adele's place he hired Frede Gerard, musician, raconteur, and master guitarist. Frede was a keen student of early musical compositions, traditional peasant tunes, folk ballads, as well as comtemporary popular songs, which he performed with a witty monologue, spiced with observations about Montmartrois characters, that usually brought down the house.
The customers loved Frede's interpretation of ancient ballads, his forte, shouting for an encore just before the cafe closed in the small hours of the morning. Bruant encouraged this type of music, because it was perfect for the ambiance of the Cafe Lapin Agile, giving Frede a carte-blanche to be on stage as much as he wished as long as he put on a good show. Frede rapidly became the big attraction--nobody could resist him--which brought in new patrons, making Bruant happy over the situation. When Frede was performing, people crowded around, pushing as close as possible. Bruant put in a spotlight, at considerable expense, placed on the entertainer, making him stand out in the darkness. Frede was an impressive individual, with a full red beard, brilliant blue eyes, and flashed white teeth as he sang. He dressed casually, American style, quite informal, and his guitar hung from a multi-colored strap slung over his shoulder. The singer's clear voice was audible all over the cafe, and his witty remarks, spaced between songs, had the customers with tears in their eyes from laughing so hard. When Frede wasn't center-stage, he played his pretty guitar music in the background, mixing it with the monotone of voices from the tables, an effect that seemed perfect--at least to me. Maurice, who was not a habitue of the Cafe Lapin Agile, hating either talk or music to divert him from the necessary concentration required for a binge, usually, drank at other cafes. He wanted, more than anything else, to achieve an orderly process of inebriation, no interruptions. His painting, going on hand in hand with the boozing, was described, by most critics, as an "Act of God," "A Divine Manifestation," comments, which, in my mind, made no sense. Utrillos sold easily, no sweat at all, grabbed by the bummers who followed him around. The amount of cash involved, was small, hardly enough to finance a respectable drunk, a clear indication of a larcenous situation. When Max Jacobs tried to tell Maurice he was being cheated, Maurice, rolled his eyes, scratched his head, put on a distant look, indicating he was no longer interested. Max was a saint in helping me get Maurice home; available at all hours, ready to lend a hand. Once, when we dragged Maurice from a drainage ditch in front of the Cafe des Martyrs, carrying and pushing him to his cot at the Rue Cortot, Max stood a moment, looking down at the sprawled figure, lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating his face momentarily, and said: "God played a dirty trick on Maurice by putting talent into such a miserable body...."