THE CONSPIRACY FOR CLAUDINE

"Once," remarked Tricotrin, pitching his pen in the air, "there were four suitors for the Most Beautiful of her Sex. The first young man was a musician, and he shut himself in his garret to compose a divine melody, to be dedicated to her. The second lover was a chemist, who experimented day and night to discover a unique perfume that she alone might use. The third, who was a floriculturist, aspired constantly among his bulbs to create a silver rose, that should immortalise the lady's name."

"And the fourth," inquired Pitou, "what did the fourth suitor do?"

"The fourth suitor waited for her every afternoon in the sunshine, while the others were at work, and married her with great éclat. The moral of which is that, instead of cracking my head to make a sonnet to Claudine, I shall be wise to put on my hat and go to meet her."

"I rejoice that the dénoûment is arrived at," Pitou returned, "but it would be even more absorbing if I had previously heard of Claudine."

"Miserable dullard!" cried the poet; "do you tell me that you have not previously heard of Claudine? She is the only woman I have ever loved."

"A—ah," rejoined Pitou; "certainly, I have heard of her a thousand times—only she has never been called 'Claudine' before."

"Let us keep to the point," said Tricotrin. "Claudine represents the devotion of a lifetime. I think seriously of writing a tragedy for her to appear in."

"I shall undertake to weep copiously at it if you present me with a pass," affirmed Pitou. "She is an actress, then, this Claudine? At what theatre is she blazing—the Montmartre?"

"How often I find occasion to lament that your imagination is no larger than the quartier! Claudine is not of Montmartre at all, at all. My poor friend, have you never heard that there are theatres on the Grand Boulevard?"

"Ah, so you betake yourself to haunts of fashion? Now I begin to understand why you have become so prodigal with the blacking; for some time I have had the intention of reproaching you with your shoes—our finances are not equal to such lustre."

"Ah, when one truly loves, money is no object!" said Tricotrin. "However, if it is time misspent to write a sonnet to her, it is even more unprofitable to pass the evening justifying one's shoes." And, picking up his hat, the poet ran down the stairs, and made his way as fast as his legs would carry him to the Comédie Moderne.

He arrived at the stage-door with no more than three minutes to spare, and disposing himself in a graceful attitude, waited for mademoiselle Claudine Hilairet to come out. It might have been observed that his confidence deserted him while he waited, for although it was perfectly true that he adored her, he had omitted to add that the passion was not mutual. He was conscious that the lady might resent his presence on the door-step; and, in fact, when she appeared, she said nothing more tender than—

"Mon Dieu, again you! What do you want?"

"How can you ask?" sighed the poet. "I came to walk home with you lest an electric train should knock you down at one of the crossings. What a magnificent performance you have given this evening! Superb!"

"Were you in the theatre?"

"In spirit. My spirit, which no official can exclude, is present every night, though sordid considerations force me to remain corporally in my attic. Transported by admiration, I even burst into frantic applause there. How perfect is the sympathy between our souls!"

"Listen, my little one," she said. "I am sorry for your relatives, if you have any—your condition must be a great grief to them. But, all the same, I cannot have you dangling after me and talking this bosh. What do you suppose can come of it?"

"Fame shall come of it," averred the poet, "fame for us both! Do not figure yourself that I am a dreamer. Not at all! I am practical, a man of affairs. Are you content with your position in the Comédie Moderne? No, you are not. You occupy a subordinate position; you play the rôle of a waiting-maid, which is quite unworthy of your genius, and understudy the ingénue, who is a portly matron in robust health. The opportunity to distinguish yourself appears to you as remote as Mars. Do I romance, or is it true?"

"It is true," she said. "Well?"

"Well, I propose to alter all this—I! I have the intention of writing a great tragedy, and when it is accepted, I shall stipulate that you, and you alone, shall thrill Paris as my heroine. When the work of my brain has raised you to the pinnacle for which you were born, when the theatre echoes with our names, I shall fall at your feet, and you will murmur, 'Gustave—I love thee!'"

"Why does not your mother do something?" she asked. "Is there nobody to place you where you might be cured? A tragedy? Imbecile, I am comédienne to the finger-tips! What should I do with your tragedy, even if it were at the Français itself?"

"You are right," said Tricotrin; "I shall turn out a brilliant comedy instead. And when the work of my brain has raised you to the pinnacle for which you were born, when the theatre echoes with our names—"

She interrupted him by a peal of laughter which disconcerted him hardly less than her annoyance.

"It is impossible to be angry with you long," she declared, "you are too comic. Also, as a friend, I do not object to you violently. Come, I advise you to be content with what you can have, instead of crying for the moon!"

"Well, I am not unwilling to make shift with it in the meantime," returned Tricotrin; "but friendship is a poor substitute for the heavens—and we shall see what we shall see. Tell me now, they mean to revive La Curieuse at the Comédie, I hear—what part in it have you been assigned?" "Ah," exclaimed mademoiselle Hilairet, "is it not always the same thing? I dust the same decayed furniture with the same feather brush, and I say 'Yes,' and 'No,' and 'Here is a letter, madame.' That is all."

"I swear it is infamous!" cried the poet. "It amazes me that they fail to perceive that your gifts are buried. One would suppose that managers would know better than to condemn a great artiste to perform such ignominious roles. The critics also! Why do not the critics call attention to an outrage which continues year by year? It appears to me that I shall have to use my influence with the Press." And so serious was the tone in which he made this boast, that the fair Claudine began to wonder if she had after all underrated the position of her out-at- elbows gallant.

"Your influence?" she questioned, with an eager smile. "Have you influence with the critics, then?"

"We shall see what we shall see," repeated Tricotrin, significantly. "I am not unknown in Paris, and I have your cause at heart—I may make a star of you yet. But while we are on the subject of astronomy, one question! When my services have transformed you to a star, shall I still be compelled to cry for the moon?"

Mademoiselle Hilairet's tones quivered with emotion—as she murmured how grateful to him she would be, and it was understood, when he took leave of her, that if he indeed accomplished his design, his suit would be no longer hopeless.

The poet pressed her hand ardently, and turned homeward in high feather; and it was not until he had trudged a mile or so that the rapture in his soul began to subside under the remembrance that he had been talking through his hat.

"In fact," he admitted to Pitou when the garret was reached, "my imagination took wings unto itself; I am committed to a task beside which the labours of Hercules were child's play. The question now arises how this thing, of which I spoke so confidently, is to be effected. What do you suggest?"

"I suggest that you allow me to sleep," replied Pitou, "for I shall feel less hungry then."

"Your suggestion will not advance us," demurred Tricotrin. "We shall, on the contrary, examine the situation in all its bearings. Listen! Claudine is to enact the waiting-maid in La Curieuse, which will be revived at the Comédie Moderne in a fortnight's time; she will dust the Empire furniture, and say 'Yes' and 'No' with all the intellect and animation for which those monosyllables provide an opening. Have you grasped the synopsis so far? Good! On the strength of this performance, it has to be stated by the foremost dramatic critic in Paris that she is an actress of genius. Now, how is it to be done? How shall we induce Labaregue to write of her with an outburst of enthusiasm in La Voix ?"

"Labaregue?" faltered Pitou. "I declare the audacity of your notion wakes me up!"

"Capital," said Tricotrin, "we are making progress already! Yes, we must have Labaregue—it has never been my custom to do things by halves. Dramatically, of course, I should hold a compromising paper of Labaregue's. I should say, 'Monsieur, the price of this document is an act of justice to mademoiselle Claudine Hilairet. It is agreed? Good! Sit down—you will write from my dictation!'"

"However—" said Pitou.

"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?"

"It is a weak point which had already presented itself to me. Could I have constructed the situation to my liking, Labaregue would have the custom to type-write his notices; however, as he is so inconsiderate as to knock them off in the Café de l'Europe, he has not that custom, and we must adapt ourselves to the circumstances that exist. The probability is that a criticism delivered by the accredited messenger, and signed with the familiar 'J.L.' will be passed without question; the difference in the handwriting may be attributed to an amanuensis. When the great man writes his next notice, I shall make it my business to be taking a bock in the Café de l'Europe, in order that I may observe closely what happens. There is to be a répétition générale at the Vaudeville on Monday night—on Monday night, therefore, I hope to advise you of our plan of campaign. Now do not speak to me any more—I am about to compose a eulogy on Claudine, for which Labaregue will, in due course, receive the credit."

The poet fell asleep at last, murmuring dithyrambic phrases; and if you suppose that in the soberness of daylight he renounced his harebrained project, it is certain that you have never lived with Tricotrin in Montmartre.

No, indeed, he did not renounce it. On Monday night—or rather in the small hours of Tuesday morning—he awoke Pitou with enthusiasm.

"Mon vieux," he exclaimed, "the evening has been well spent! I have observed, and I have reflected. When he quitted the Vaudeville, Labaregue entered the Café de l'Europe, seated himself at his favourite table, and wrote without cessation for half an hour. When his critique was finished, he placed it in an envelope, and commanded his supper. All this time I, sipping a bock leisurely, accorded to his actions a scrutiny worthy of the secret police. Presently a lad from the office of La Voix appeared; he approached Labaregue, received the envelope, and departed. At this point, my bock was finished; I paid for it and sauntered out, keeping the boy well in view. His route to the office lay through a dozen streets which were all deserted at so late an hour; but I remarked one that was even more forbidding than the rest—a mere alley that seemed positively to have been designed for our purpose. Our course is clear—we shall attack him in the rue des Cendres."

"Really?" inquired Pitou, somewhat startled.

"But really! We will not shed his blood; we will make him turn out his pockets, and then, disgusted by the smallness of the swag, toss it back to him with a flip on the ear. Needless to say that when he escapes, he will be the bearer of my criticism, not of Labaregue's. He will have been too frightened to remark the exchange."

"It is not bad, your plan."

"It is an inspiration. But to render it absolutely safe, we must have an accomplice."

"Why, is he so powerful, your boy?"

"No, mon ami, the boy is not so powerful, but the alley has two ends—I do not desire to be arrested while I am giving a lifelike representation of an apache. I think we will admit Lajeunie to our scheme—as a novelist he should appreciate the situation. If Lajeunie keeps guard at one end of the alley, while you stand at the other, I can do the business without risk of being interrupted and removed to gaol."

"It is true. As a danger signal, I shall whistle the first bars of my
Fugue."

"Good! And we will arrange a signal with Lajeunie also. Mon Dieu! will not Claudine be amazed next day? I shall not breathe a word to her in the meantime; I shall let her open La Voix without expectation; and then—ah, what joy will be hers! 'The success of the evening was made by the actress who took the role of the maidservant, and who had perhaps six words to utter. But with what vivacity, with what esprit were they delivered! Every gesture, every sparkle of the eyes, betokened the comedienne. For myself, I ceased to regard the fatuous ingénue, I forgot the presence of the famous leading lady; I watched absorbed the facial play of this maidservant, whose brains and beauty, I predict, will speedily bring Paris to her feet'!"

"Is that what you mean to write?"

"I shall improve upon it. I am constantly improving—that is why the notice is still unfinished. It hampers me that I must compose in the strain of Labaregue himself, instead of allowing my eloquence to soar. By the way, we had better speak to Lajeunie on the subject soon, lest he should pretend that he has another engagement for that night; he is a good boy, Lajeunie, but he always pretends that he has engagements in fashionable circles."

The pair went to him the following day, and when they had climbed to his garret, found the young literary man in bed.

"It shocks me," said Pitou, "to perceive that you rise so late,
Lajeunie; why are you not dashing off chapters of a romance?"

"Mon Dieu!" replied Lajeunie, "I was making studies among the beau monde until a late hour last night at a reception; and, to complete my fatigue, it was impossible to get a cab when I left."

"Naturally; it happens to everybody when he lacks a cab-fare," said Tricotrin. "Now tell me, have you any invitation from a duchess for next Thursday evening?"

"Thursday, Thursday?" repeated Lajeunie thoughtfully. "No, I believe that I am free for Thursday."

"Now, that is fortunate!" exclaimed Tricotrin. "Well, we want you to join us on that evening, my friend."

"Indeed, we should be most disappointed if you could not," put in
Pitou.

"Certainly; I shall have much pleasure," said Lajeunie. "Is it a supper?"

"No," said Tricotrin, "it is a robbery. I shall explain. Doubtless you know the name of 'mademoiselle Claudine Hilairet'?"

"I have never heard it in my life. Is she in Society?"

"Society? She is in the Comédie Moderne. She is a great actress, but— like us all—unrecognised."

"My heart bleeds for her. Another comrade!"

"I was sure I could depend upon your sympathy. Well, on Thursday night they will revive La Curieuse at the Comédie, and I myself propose to write Labaregue's critique of the performance. Do you tumble?"

"It is a gallant action. Yes, I grasp the climax, but at present I do not perceive how the plot is to be constructed."

"Labaregue's notices are dispatched by messenger," began Pitou.

"From the Café de l'Europe," added Tricotrin.

"So much I know," said Lajeunie.

"I shall attack the messenger, and make a slight exchange of manuscripts," Tricotrin went on.

"A blunder!" proclaimed Lajeunie; "you show a lack of invention. Now be guided by me, because I am a novelist and I understand these things. The messenger is an escaped convict, and you say to him, 'I know your secret. You do my bidding, or you go back to the galleys; I shall give you three minutes to decide!' You stand before him, stern, dominant, inexorable—your watch in your hand."

"It is at the pawn-shop."

"Well, well, of course it is; since when have you joined the realists? Somebody else's watch—or a clock. Are there no clocks in Paris? You say, 'I shall give you until the clock strikes the hour.' That is even more literary—you obtain the solemn note of the clock to mark the crisis."

"But there is no convict," demurred Tricotrin; "there are clocks, but there is no convict."

"No convict? The messenger is not a convict?"

"Not at all—he is an apple-cheeked boy."

"Oh, it is a rotten plot," said Lajeunie; "I shall not collaborate in it!"

"Consider!" cried Tricotrin; "do not throw away the chance of a lifetime, think what I offer you—you shall hang about the end of a dark alley, and whistle if anybody comes. How literary again is that! You may develop it into a novel that will make you celebrated. Pitou will be at the other end. I and the apple-cheeked boy who is to die— that is to say, to be duped—will occupy the centre of the stage—I mean the middle of the alley. And on the morrow, when all Paris rings with the fame of Claudine Hilairet, I, who adore her, shall have won her heart!"

"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.

Without a sign of recognition, taciturn and impassive, the three young men waited, their eyes bent upon the critic's movements.

By-and-by Labaregue thrust his "copy" into an envelope that was provided. Some moments afterwards one of the young men asked another waiter for the materials to write a letter. The paper he crumpled in his pocket; in the envelope he placed the forged critique.

A quarter of an hour passed. Then a youth of about sixteen hurried in and made his way to Labaregue's table. At this instant Lajeunie rose and left. As the youth received the "copy," Tricotrin also sauntered out. When the youth again reached the door, it was just swinging behind Pitou.

The conspirators were now in the right order—Lajeunie pressing forward, Tricotrin keeping pace with the boy, Pitou a few yards in the rear.

The boy proceeded swiftly. It was late, and even the Boulevard showed few pedestrians now; in the side streets the quietude was unbroken. Tricotrin whipped on his mask at the opening of the passage. When the messenger was half-way through it, the attack was made suddenly, with determination.

"Fat one," exclaimed the poet, "I starve—give me five francs!"

" Comment? " stammered the youth, jumping; "I haven't five francs, I!"

"Give me all you have—empty your pockets, let me see! If you obey, I shall not harm you; if you resist, you are a dead boy!"

The youth produced, with trepidation, a sou, half a cigarette, a piece of string, a murderous clasp knife, a young lady's photograph, and Labaregue's notice. The next moment the exchange of manuscripts had been deftly accomplished.

"Devil take your rubbish," cried the apache; "I want none of it—there!
Be off, or I shall shoot you for wasting my time."

The whole affair had occupied less than a minute; and the three adventurers skipped to Montmartre rejoicing.

And how glorious was their jubilation in the hour when they opened La Voix and read Tricotrin's pronouncement over the initials "J.L."! There it was, printed word for word—the leading lady was dismissed with a line, the ingénue received a sneer, and for the rest, the column was a panegyric of the waiting-maid! The triumph of the waiting-maid was unprecedented and supreme. Certainly, when Labaregue saw the paper, he flung round to the office furious.

But La Voix did not desire people to know that it had been taken in; so the matter was hushed up, and Labaregue went about pretending that he actually thought all those fine things of the waiting-maid.

The only misfortune was that when Tricotrin called victoriously upon Claudine, to clasp her in his arms, he found her in hysterics on the sofa—and it transpired that she had not represented the waiting-maid after all. On the contrary, she had at the last moment been promoted to the part of the ingénue, while the waiting-maid had been played by a little actress whom she much disliked.

"It is cruel, it is monstrous, it is heartrending!" gasped Tricotrin, when he grasped the enormity of his failure; "but, light of my life, why should you blame me for this villainy of Labaregue's?"

"I do not know," she said; "however, you bore me, you and your 'influence with the Press.' Get out!"