JULES DEPAQUIT

Jules Depaquit, an older man, a familiar figure about the Montmartre, was one of the few people who got along with Maurice. Depaquit worked out a meagre living doing art work for the magazine La Femme, which catered to the more prurient attitudes of the people. In addition to sexually oriented cartoons, he did line drawings for Campagne Napoleon Bonoparte, a business which turned out lithographic posters used by cafes and theatrical enterprises like the Moulin Rouge and the Moulin de la Galette. He also did the art work for periodicals like Charavari, La Parisienne, and La Diva, a journal that featured the latest operatic news.

The affinity Maurice and Depaquit had for each other was based on their mutual dedication to a night of drinking on the La Butte Pinson. Depaquit, on these journeys into oblivion, was a striking figure, dressed in provincial attire, gray jacket, black and white scarf, carelessly draped over his shoulder, corduroy pants tied with a red strap at the waist, dark blue beret, basque type, that was worn down on one side, giving him a dashing look. All aspects of Depaquit's life centered in booze--and how much he could pour into his body without becoming unconscious. Oblivion, he said, wiped out full pleasure at the different levels of intoxication. Depaquit was a debauched character, that was sure, but he had a certain elegance about how it was done; crudity, in his eyes, was outrageous, a disgusting perversion of the kind of standards in life he sought for himself. I am not sure, but I have the impression that Maurice was impressed by the panache exhibited by his drinking buddy: he could, in a strange way, appreciate things like this, just as he had his own order of inebriation, carefully planned to the last detail. Depaquit's idea of things going well, the perfect sequence of events, meant living to the bottom of each bottle. Curiously, the alcoholic fog which surrounded him didn't interfere with his strong interest in religion, philosophy, literature, art, and politics. There was no doubt of Depaquit's having a good mind, that he had strong leanings toward the humanist side of human existence, and that when it came to the people versus government, it was the people who counted with him. On occasion, when he was angered by taxes on the poor, or some other popular grievance against the State, he made speeches from one of the benches in the Place du Tertre, until the police, claiming he was disturbing the peace, dragged him off to the jailhouse. In most instances like this, the Prefect let him off with a warning because Depaquit was very popular with the electorate and the Prefect, an elected official, wasn't eager to jeopardized his position. As far as intoxication was concerned, Depaquit was exactly like Maurice, seeing each journey into oblivion as an event of prime importance. When he drank, he drank, and there were no buts about it. Depaquit considered a binge, once under way, as a trip which had to be finished. A half-finished drunk for him, was a grievous disappointment, "depressing," he called it, a waste of time and energy. "Money spent on an aborted binge," he had added, "is gone forever!" Both Maurice and Depaquit, when settled into a satisfying drunk, enjoyed every minute of it, even if it meant getting a few lumps from some of the rowdies who preyed on the drinking crowd. How Depaquit held on to his job at La Femme and Campagne Napoleon Bonaparte, was a mystery to everybody who knew him; nobody ever saw him work, and nobody ever saw him cold sober. Given these qualifications on Depaquit's side, the empathy which developed between him and Maurice was just right, a partnership of equals, particularly when it concerned the the philosophy of drinking, the nature and purpose of a really good binge, and a general contempt for social and legal law which, at times, made their lives difficult. Depaquit's appearance, when you first encountered him, was startling, enough almost, if you weren't used to this sort of thing, to give you the shakes. He had a mane of gray-streaked hair which fell down on his brow; he pushed it back up every few minutes; an enormous pock-marked nose, frequently wiped with the back of his hand, sunken, but piercing blue eyes, and a clefted jaw which had become his trademark around the hill. There was no question he had presence, that peculiar and compelling quality some people have, a sense about his personality which made him the center of attention, no matter where he was. It was obvious that Depaquit was a man you had to respect, a person not to be taken lightly, someone who should be watched carefully if you were dealing with him. A typical scene of debauchery involving Maurice and Depaquit, would have Depaquit carried along, funeral-style in a grocery cart, dead to the world, a crumpled corpse, followed by a ragged procession of mourners, hardly able to make it themselves, heads down in deference to their fallen comrade, chanting, "Hail Mary," "Hail Mary," over and over again. After Depaquit's body was deposited in his room which was on third floor of a rundown boarding house, the Hotel de Ville, Maurice would stay behind, sitting beside Depaquit's inert figure on the bed, in silent vigil, hoping his friend would revive, and they could continue the boozing to a satisfactory conclusion. If this didn't happen, Maurice would rejoin the wandering gang of drunks, they would miraculously obtain a half-dozen bottles of wine, and the group would end up at the Montmartre Cemetery, where they completed their evening. The favorite spot for a small fire to protect them from the chill of the Paris night, was at the grave of the composer, Hector Berlioz, a stone edifice so placed as to provide seats or enough room to lie down when the bottles of wine had been consumed. Maurice's landlord, Sergeant Gay, knew this, and arrived at the cemetery to pick him up in the morning, weaving his way through a bunch of sodden drunks, to drag him by the collar, and half push and carry him back to his bed in the room directly above the Cafe Casse-Croute. Depaquit's prolonged drinking sprees happened regularly on the hill, but the respect he got as a personality was not diminished in the least by them. People, in general, admired his liberal philosophy about life, his undoubted courage in backing causes that were not popular with the government, and, in particular, his fiery oratory which defended their rights. Depaquit got into the political arena a few times, playing the role of republican trouble maker, attacking the conservative wealthy class, who got away with a lot, having privileges, and paying lower taxes than the average citizen. They were his principle target, "Exploiters of the working class," he called them, "dirty bourgeois without conscience!" It was his slogan, very popular, with the Montmartrois, who knew cops took rake-offs from houses of prostitution, gambling, and looked the other way when criminal elements were committing crimes. The bourgeois, who could act tough because they had a lot of money behind everything they did, didn't take Depaquit's attacks on their position lightly. They hired thugs to beat Depaquit up, and in one incident, working through the Prefect, they framed him on a rape charge which was thrown out of court when it was disclosed that the victim was a notorious prostitute who had been in and out of jail for twenty years. Depaquit seized on the opportunity to make an impassioned speech in court about two levels of justice, "one for the poor," he said, "and one for the rich." The action, not very well received by the judge, resulted in a fine for civil disobedience of ten francs and a day in jail, which the magistrate suspended, because Depaquit had made a point of explaining that his accusations against the system didn't include this particular court. Depaquit considered his exoneration a great victory; celebrations were immediately planned with his liberal friends, and there was no doubt that the affair enhanced his political position in a positive way.

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