"However—I anticipate your objection—I do not hold such a paper. Therefore, that scene is cut. Well, let us find another! Where is your fertility of resource? Mon Dieu! why should I speak to him at all?"
"I do not figure myself that you will speak to him, you will never get the chance."
"Precisely my own suspicion. What follows? Instead of wasting my time seeking an interview which would not be granted—"
"And which would lead to nothing even if it were granted!"
"And which would lead to nothing even if it were granted, as you point out; instead of doing this, it is evident that I must write Labaregue's criticism myself!"
"Hein?" ejaculated Pitou, sitting up in bed.
"I confess that I do not perceive yet how it is to be managed, but obviously it is the only course. I must write what is to be said, and La Voix must believe that it has been written by Labaregue. Come, we are getting on famously—we have now decided what we are to avoid!"
"By D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis," cried Pitou, "this will be the doughtiest adventure in which we have engaged!"
"You are right, it is an adventure worthy of our steel … pens! We shall enlighten the public, crown an artiste, and win her heart by way of reward—that is to say, I shall win her heart by way of reward. What your own share of the booty will be I do not recognize, but I promise you, at least, a generous half of the dangers."
"My comrade," murmured Pitou; "ever loyal! But do you not think that La Voix will smell a rat? What about the handwriting?"