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Charlot Cheers Rive Gauche Crowds; Then Holds Wassail in Montmarte - originally published September 22, 1921, in the New York Herald (Paris Edition)

A taxi drew up by the Cafe de la Rotonde and some newcomers took possession of a terrace table, ordered bocks, lighted cigarettes and nonchalantly surveyed the other tables, the moon, and the world in general so far as it entered within their vision. One of the men wore a lightist tan overcoat and a soft velours hat pulled low on his forehead, and it was when he suddenly removed this head covering and ran a hand over his black hair with a gesture of contentment that events began to take a turn out of the usual.

"For heaven’s sake, Charlie, keep that hat on if you want to stay incog. here," admonished the other man in his party. The velour was hastily jerked back into position, and the man called "Charlie" slunk down just as far as he could into his coat collar. But it was too late. "Oh, Charlot! c’est Charlot!" screamed a young Parisienne, fixing worshipful eyes on the hapless comedian, and then beginning a triumphal rush that ended in ignominious retreat under guard of a watchful waiter.

In the end, however, the people won, and the waiters had to surrender. Round the section where the action was taking place there was suddenly a solid, high wall of humanity, largely supported by such tottery foundations as tables and chairs. In the centre sat Charlie, trying to see what the Latin Quarter is like. There was no way to improve the situation, so he took it with a smile, had a handshake for the acquaintances and friends of acquaintances who felt entitled to the attention, and a genuine bit of consolation when he discovered in the crowd Miss Iris Tree, daughter of Sir Herbert Tree.

"Isn’t it extraordinary, astonishing?" he asked once when he found the space around him rapidly contracting, merely because everyone wanted to look at him. "I think I will open a chain of restaurants and eat on exhibition. Or I might go to restaurants and cafes on a commission basis. Tonight reminds me of the day I arrived in Paris. Once the police shoved me into the sidelines to make room for myself to go past. My French was not adequate to the situation, but fortunately I was rescued. Next thing I knew I was in a taxi with a strange man. I asked him where he came from and where he was going, and he said: ‘I don’t know; I just got pushed here.’

"I say, Dudley, let’s leave this place and go somewhere quiet now," was Charlie’s next remark addressed to Mr. Dudley Field Malone, with whom he took dinner at the Tour d’Argent and started the night under the auspicious influence of good roast duck. But his companions disillusioned him. "This is a quiet place, Charlie. You should have seen how calm, how almost bored everyone was until you came." He accepted, ate with his usual good humor and was let to the Petit Napolitain next door to see the pictures exposed there, and at his heels came all Montparnasse, and ahead of him departed all semblance of peace and quiet.

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"My idea is don't let's walk where we go." Charlie caught sight of the friendly retreat offered by a taxi when he finally emerged, and he made a dash for it. "Oh, vous allez partir; e'est pas gentil!" "Hang around here!" "Resiez ici, Charlot!" the chorus of shouts went up. "Signez, signez!" pleaded one man, standing on the running-board with paper and pencil in his hand. Roses fell in the car. A kiss hit the mark from somewhere, and the king of the films rolled triumphantly down the boulevard du Montparnasse.

"Nice, everything turned out just as we hoped. I feel sure no one recognised us," Charlie laughed. And then: "I wonder what they want me to do, anyway! I would like to know what they want," he said seriously to his companions.

The Latin Quarter probably relapsed into utter drabness. Charlie continued to enjoy himself. On and on he went to that other part of Paris called Montmartre, and in the wake of the taxi there were snatches of gay songs drifting through the dark streets; then came a hill and a splutter from the engine and a choke with the air of finality about it.

"Il n'y a pas d'essence," beamed the driver, proud to have discovered what was the trouble. "On ne peut pas marcher plus loin."

"Nice place to find it out!" commented one of the occupants of the car, regarding the isolated aspect of the landscape. But it was not the philosophical Charlie. He had discovered an obscure little cafe and was making for it. That is the kind he enjoys--"Where there is just room for a few to go in," like some unnamed retreat where he watched the hours slip by in company of Jacques Capeau and members of the Vieu Colombier, after visiting the Medrano circus and the wonderful Italian clowns the other night, or like some others of more ancient memory.

There were only three or four others who had the good fortune to be in that little cafe and they either failed to recognise Charlot, or they were resolved to allow him to have a good time. There was no camera and no crowd to watch and he could follow his whims, to play the old piano, to sing a few choice music-hall selections, to tip a straw hat jauntily over one eye and promenade, with the gait of the Charlot on the screen combining oddly with his immaculate tailormades.

There was one other scene worth looking on before Charlie decided to call it a night and make his way back to his hotel. It is in the Lapin Agile, high on the hill of the Sacre Coeur. Lights burn low in the room as the hands of the clock go toward 2 o'clock. Round the wooden tables, leaning against the rough stone walls, are not more than ten or twelve left from the crowd of the evening. There a tall man stands up in the half light to play wistful, crying melodies, play them it seems as never before with all the fire of his Viennese blood and temper. A man stands there to recite a dramatic poem in which he puts feeling and a wonderful voice that makes even the knowledge of his French words unnecessary to understand him. Men sing and play the banjo or guitar. Best of all, old "Frede" himself, the ancien patron, with his flowing gray beard and his sixty odd years, plays and sings and tells a few shrewd facts about art. And his face is happy while he pours his best wine in honor of his guests.

In the midst of all this is Charlie Chaplin, moved and deeply content because he is seeing a part of Paris that he wants to know. He orders wine and more toasts are drunk, and then a huge tome is brought out and he affixes his "trade mark," hat, moustache, stick and shoes, besides others that have gone down there during many years. And he signs his name to pieces of paper --until he comes to one offered by the Viennese violinist. "I am going to wait until tomorrow and send a real letter," he decides. "There is something more personal and sincere about it I think."

Charlie left for Berlin yesterday afternoon, but he expects to be back in Paris on Thursday.

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