Their laugh with equal splendour
Rings out whenever you go
To Monsieur and Madame Whistler,
Rue Antique du Bac, 1-1-0.

23 Rue Ballu, as springtime
Arrives, I express to M. Degas
My satisfaction that he rhymes
With the flower of the syringas.

Monet, whose vision’s led astray
Neither by summer nor winter,
Lives, while he’s painting, at Giverny,
Not far from Vernon, in the Eure.

Villa des Arts, near Avenue de
Clichy, Monsieur Renoir’s at work.
In front of a naked shoulder
He grinds something other than black1.

To Madame Laurent, Méry,
Who lives far from the profane,
In her maisonette, very
Select, at 9 Boulevard Lannes.

Amusing herself, refreshing
Her charming liver or spleen:
Madame Méry Laurent,
With waters of Savoie

In his overcoat of astrakhan,
To keep out the winds of jealousy,
Monsieur François Coppée in Caen,
Rue des Chanoines, is it three?

Monsieur Mendès, or Catullus,
To whom the muse from his palace,
Sends inspiration and billets-doux,
At 66 Rue Taitbout.

Farewell to the elm and the chestnut tree!
Towering above the forest floor,
He’s back, de Régnier, Henri,
Rue, number six, Boccador.

Our friend Vielé-Griffin
Savours his period of star-
Dom, like a solitary tiffin,
At Nazelles in the Indre-et-Loire.

When the amaranthine dawn looks
Over the bois, take these books
To Madame Eugène Manet
Rue, over there, Villejust, 40.

Mademoiselle Ponsot, may
Our best wishes in full flower
Greet you at the Swiss Châlet,
Route de Trouville, Honfleur.

Rue de la Barouillère, number 8,
Where Mademoiselle Wrotnowska pales,
Elfin student, up too late,
Working hard at her scales.

If you need a good doctor, well –
One with no wig, not balding? –
Try dear old Doctor Hutinel,
De la Boétie – got it? – thirteen.

Deep in Saint-James, Neuilly,
Dreamer, prudent and lucid,
Doctor Fournier thinks of only
One thing: courting the solitary orchid.

Esteemed Augusta Holmès2,
Relative – and most fair –
Of the harp-playing kings and queens,
At 40, Rue Juliette Lamber.

22 Rue Lavoisier, Hear ye!
Project the riches of your throat,
Dear Madame Degrandi,
So high they penetrate our quiet.

As age makes me grow heavier,
You, my thoughts, must take to the skies
For Rue, 11, Tratkir,
At the friendly Monsieur Séailles’.

Monsieur Grosclaude, at Montigny,
Takes careful aim at a leveret,
Or else, in his smart green livery,
Unnerringly casts his net.

Unless he’s up in the clouds,
Or the land of the ripening Lychee,
Monsieur Léon Dierx, dude, round
The corner, Avenue Clichy.

Wrapped up in your warm gaberdeen,
Read this note, when you get it,
Out loud; 6 Cour Saint-François,
Rue, is it Moreau? dear Verlaine.

Méry Laurent, you can’t blame
The thermal springs for that –
Having rounded off the same,
The whitest of Auvergnates.

Monsieur le Compte de Villiers
De l’Isle-Adam; whom we’re keen
To see amongst our familiars.
Paris, Place Clichy, sixteen.

At fifty-five, Avenue
Bugeaud, this gracious Helleu,
Paints in an unknown colour,
Somewhere between blue and pleasure.

Rue Laugier, so slow to traverse,
At seventy-five jut out
The railings of a cherished spot:
Here paints, here dreams Rochegrosse.

The poets having nothing but
The lyre, antique and bizarre,
Invoke Monsieur Lamoureux, at
Sixty-two Rue Saint-Lazare.

To the Muses’ backbitten hack,
Apt to display his spleen,
The dazzling Monsieur Henri Becque,
At Rue de l’Arcade, seventeen.

Girls, flowers and ornamental gourds,
He responds to all with emotion:
Monsieur Elémir Bourges,
At Samois, Seine-et-Marne.

All month long Paul Margueritte’s
Been riding a cob, not a stallion,
About the Haut-Samois streets,
Département de Seine-et-Marne.

Let the heavy knocker strike on
The door above which it’s raised,
Four, Rue – it opens up – Vignon,
To present you at Monsieur Duret’s.

When, over the enlightened city,
The dawn flies off in red and bronze,
Deliver this note to thirty-
Two, Rue Chalgrin, Rougon’s.

So the lady with soft
Winning airs at 9 Boulevard Lannes
Opens you, letter, like a heart,
With her nails’diaphanous span.

To the painter at Dupray,
I hope my verse delights you,
Charming fellow at work in Rue
D’Amsterdam, seventy-seven, eh?

That the very subtle Élisa,
Nymph of parterre and fan,
Without a tear, if it please her,
Should read me at Boulevard Lannes.

To Monsieur Besson (Louis, I mean,
No need for formal relations):
To the very page he’s writing, ten
Boulevard des Italiens.

I’m happy that Robert de Bonnières
Lives far from noise and clamour,
At 7, in the clean air
Of your avenue, oh Villars.

M. Dujardin – tending his peony,
Since the distinguished villain
Lives at thirteen, Rue Spontini,
Despite that swan and Lohengrin.

Rue, number two, des Dames,
At his soirées would so much as
Dream of a mind so sound and new
As Teodor Wyzewa’s.

Science being his gaoler,
The sage, Félix Wrotnowski,
Verses himself, Rue Barouillère,
In algebra, to be cliquey.

He finds out, this Charles Morice, in
Various condominiums,
That a ceiling alone cannot confine
The wing that dictates his poems.

Dressed up in coat and tails, like you,
A thing that slightly embarrasses,
Go letter, for me, to twelve Rue
Durantin, Monsieur Marras’s.

The writer of many rondels on-
Ly feels the arrival of January
From the verse he writes for Delzant:
Six Place Saint-François-Xavier.

Poets, vanished race of men,
Victor Margueritte’s one of them,
He’s lodging with his mother, Rue
Bellechasse, number forty-two.

When rosy dawn spreads her lips
In front of Victor Margueritte,
At Rue Brongniart, Sèvres (where’s that?)
Blow him a stentorian kiss.

Over there! Number five, Sèvres,
Then stop at Rue, hello? Brongniart,
And snuff out your fake fevers,
Margueritte, Victor, idler.

Let my silence stop on cue!
A new year greeting tries to wend
Its way to fifty-five Avenue
Bugeaud, to Monsieur Champsaur, friend.

She who, like a grand master,
Sketches a startling portrait,
Victoria Dewintre,
She’s at Cité Gaillard, eight.

This young man is Willy Ponsot
Famed from the front and the rear,
Who bites a heart like an abricot,
Calvados, Honfleur – north of here.

Marthe Duvivier, white feather
Shadowing a hat in brown.
Her voice pours out like a river
One, Rue Pierre – so broad – Charron.

To Madame Duvivier, Marthe.
If I were a baron,
This card would not want for art.
Rue, one or three, Pierre Charron.

Madame Schneider, you continue
To charm no less than the princely
Nightingales in Avenue
Versailles, number 1-2-3.

Lodging in Boulevard Rochechouart,
At number 2, my friend Léopold
Dauphin, he is – and this is his art –
More of a sylph than a kobold.

Who would not wish to be saved – true –
At the first opportunity,
By Doc Alfred Fournier, Rue –
Formerly Saint-Arnaud – Volney.

Willy Ponsot, whom we celebrate,
In profile, as from the rear,
Like a zebra owned by the state,
Calvados, Honfleur – north of here.

To Will Ponsot, notorious
In profile, and from the rear,
Who lives in a boat that’s famous,
Calvados, Honfleur – north of here.

                  Lelère undertakes
To abolish our ailments –
Méry, whose smile illuminates
His thermal establishments.

Fly, albatross, feathers hoary,
Your aviary sheltered from winds,
To Avenue Malakoff, ninety-
Nine, home of Monsieur Evans.

On the banks with bushes gleaming,
Stretched out under one or two,
Monsieur Bouillant Auguste dreaming,
Rue Oberkapmf, sixty-two.

Poem, up from your blotter,
Slip off to Madame Seignbos
At 1-3-3 Boulevard
Saint-Germain – fly delicious.

The music of frisky children
Rings out, when Madame Grenier,
In the Chaussée D’Antin,
Thirty-nine, claps, or sings top A.

To Willy Ponsot, whom we worship,
In profile, and from the rear,
In his maritime tip
In Calvados, Honfleur – north of here.

Mademoiselle Wrotnowska, in
Celebrating her birth, spare
No gift, and let none be forgotten,
Rue, 8, de la Barouillère.

My letter, don’t stop until
You reach the hand, small, familiar,
Of Wrotnowska, Gabrielle,
Eight Rue de la Barouillère.

Mademoiselle Mélanie
Laurent pours tea at midnight
In the Dresden china which she
Keeps at the said Barouillère, eight.

By kisses chilled to the bone,
Or if you knew them, animé
Rue, number 89, de Rome,
Go to Mesdames Mallarmé.

This word which hovered towards them
At Portrieux, la Roche-plate,
The Manet ladies’ retreat,
Now, in the Côtes-du-Nord, burst open.

Fly with the photon
To Paraÿs, Lot-et-Garonne,
My heart, which is not
To be snared, save by the apricot.

Hid in her wood of scented pine,
Go, amidst the mint and sage,
Madame Méry Laurent find,
Grand Hôtel, Plombières, Vosges.

Missive in sugary feet,
Off to the quiet green spot she loves,
Forty-seven Rue, yes, Lafitte,
Mademoiselle Abbéma’s.

Monsieur Vanier, fresh and keen,
Editor, come to check the masses,
Lives at number nineteen
Quai Saint-Michel, where water passes.

To Mademoiselle Holmès
Augusta, in the forty odds
Rue Juliette Lamber (it remains
To say – she’s kin to the Gods).

Paper, unless you’re very keen
To eat up all my hopes,
It’s at Rue de la Paix, fifteen,
You’ll be opened, at Evans’ house.

Fly to Siredey, twenty-three
Rue – elegant – Saint-Lazare.
That’s the doctor I trust – he
Can cure more than a strange catarrh.

Madame Madier whom we frequent
All too seldom. Letter, fly to
Where 50 fills the firmament,
Rue – oh, delights! – de Moscou.

Behind the glass looking at you
My friend Grignon, Aline.
Watch out for her at 4 Rue
Nollet, sweet quatrain.

Forty-nine Rue Ampère
Madame, Madame Allys
Arsel, one who tempers
Jewels with the fleur-de-lys.

I say to Monsieur Léo,
Rue Royale, Taverne Weber,
Without speaking up too
Loudly – you’ve filled my soul with fire.

Mademoiselle Gabrielle
Wrotnowska – lead on, lead on, oh pères,
Your dancing, prancing, glancing swell
To 8, Rue Barouillère.

Rue, 8, de la Barouillère.
My memory evokes a
Girl, beneath the branch of pear:
Gabrielle Wrotnowska.

Monsieur Mallarmé. How perverse
To flee from us, in search of calm;
Oh, postman, go with this verse
To Valvins, Avon, Seine-et-Marne.

1 Renoir was one of a number of impressionist artists who eliminated the colour black from their paintings.

2 Augusta Holmès was an Irish composer, and mistress of Catulle Mendès.