"Humph," said Lajeunie. "Well, since the synopsis has a happy ending, I consent. But I make one condition—I must wear a crêpe mask. Without a crêpe mask I perceive no thrill in my rôle."
"Madness!" objected Pitou. "Now listen to me—I am serious-minded, and do not commit follies, like you fellows. Crêpe masks are not being worn this season. Believe me, if you loiter at a street corner with a crêpe mask on, some passer-by will regard you, he may even wonder what you are doing there. It might ruin the whole job."
"Pitou is right," announced Tricotrin, after profound consideration.
"Well, then," said Lajeunie, "you must wear a crêpe mask! Put it on when you attack the boy. I have always had a passion for crêpe masks, and this is the first opportunity that I find to gratify it. I insist that somebody wears a crêpe mask, or I wash my hands of the conspiracy."
"Agreed! In the alley it will do no harm; indeed it will prevent the boy identifying me. Good, on Thursday night then! In the meantime we shall rehearse the crime assiduously, and you and Pitou can practise your whistles."
With what diligence did the poet write each day now! How lovingly he selected his superlatives! Never in the history of the Press had such ardent care been lavished on a criticism—truly it was not until Thursday afternoon that he was satisfied that he could do no more. He put the pages in his pocket, and, too impatient even to be hungry, roamed about the quartier, reciting to himself the most hyperbolic of his periods.
And dusk gathered over Paris, and the lights sprang out, and the tense hours crept away.
It was precisely half-past eleven when the three conspirators arrived at the doors of the Comédie Moderne, and lingered near by until the audience poured forth. Labaregue was among the first to appear. He paused on the steps to take a cigarette, and stepped briskly into the noise and glitter of the Boulevard. The young men followed, exchanging feverish glances. Soon the glow of the Café de l'Europe was visible. The critic entered, made a sign to a waiter, and seated himself gravely at a table.
Many persons gazed at him with interest. To those who did not know, habitués whispered, "There is Labaregue—see, he comes to write his criticism on the revival of La Curieuse!" Labaregue affected unconsciousness of all this, but secretly he lapped it up. Occasionally he passed his hand across his brow with a gesture profoundly intellectual.
Few there remarked that at brief intervals three shabby young men strolled in, who betrayed no knowledge of one another, and merely called for bocks. None suspected that these humble customers plotted to consign the celebrity's criticism to the flames.