A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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"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!"

THE DOLL IN THE PINK SILK DRESS

How can I write the fourth Act with this ridiculous thing posed among
my papers? What thing? It is a doll in a pink silk dress--an elaborate
doll that walks, and talks, and warbles snatches from the operas. A
terrible lot it cost! Why does an old dramatist keep a doll on his
study table? I do not keep it there. It came in a box from the
Boulevard an hour ago, and I took it from its wrappings to admire its
accomplishments again--and ever since it has been reminding me that
women are strange beings.

Yes, women are strange, and this toy sets me thinking of one woman in
particular: that woman who sued, supplicated for my help, and then,
when she had all my interest--Confound the doll; here is the incident,
just as it happened!

It happened when all Paris flocked to see my plays and "Paul de
Varenne" was a name to conjure with. Fashions change. To-day I am a
little out of the running, perhaps; younger men have shot forward. In
those days I was still supreme, I was master of the Stage.

Listen! It was a spring morning, and I was lolling at my study window,
scenting the lilac in the air. Maximin, my secretary, came in and said:

"Mademoiselle Jeanne Laurent asks if she can see you, monsieur."

"Who is mademoiselle Jeanne Laurent?" I inquired.

"She is an actress begging for an engagement, monsieur."

"I regret that I am exceedingly busy. Tell her to write."

"The lady has already written a thousand times," he mentioned, going.
"'Jeanne Laurent' has been one of the most constant contributors to our
waste-paper basket."

"Then tell her that I regret I can do nothing for her. Mon Dieu! is it
imagined that I have no other occupation than to interview nonentities?
By the way, how is it you have bothered me about her, why this unusual
embassy? I suppose she is pretty, hein?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And young?"

"Yes, monsieur."

I wavered. Let us say my sympathy was stirred. But perhaps the lilac
was responsible--lilac and a pretty girl seem to me a natural
combination, like coffee and a cigarette. "Send her in!" I said.

I sat at the table and picked up a pen.

"Monsieur de Varenne--" She paused nervously on the threshold.

Maximin was a fool, she was not "pretty"; she was either plain, or
beautiful. To my mind, she had beauty, and if she hadn't been an
actress come to pester me for a part I should have foreseen a very
pleasant quarter of an hour. "I can spare you only a moment,
mademoiselle," I said, ruffling blank paper.

"It is most kind of you to spare me that."

I liked her voice too. "Be seated," I said more graciously.

"Monsieur, I have come to implore you to do something for me. I am
breaking my heart in the profession for want of a helping hand. Will
you be generous and give me a chance?"

"My dear mademoiselle--er--Laurent," I said, "I sympathise with your
difficulties, and I thoroughly understand them, but I have no
engagement to offer you--I am not a manager."

She smiled bitterly. "You are de Varenne--a word from you would 'make'
me!"

I was wondering what her age was. About eight-and-twenty, I thought,
but alternately she looked much younger and much older.

"You exaggerate my influence--like every other artist that I consent to
see. Hundreds have sat in that chair and cried that I could 'make'
them. It is all bosh. Be reasonable! I cannot 'make' anybody."

"You could cast me for a part in Paris. You are 'not a manager,' but
any manager will engage a woman that you recommend. Oh, I know that
hundreds appeal to you, I know that I am only one of a crowd; but,
monsieur, think what it means to me! Without help, I shall go on
knocking at the stage doors of Paris and never get inside; I shall go
on writing to the Paris managers and never get an answer. Without help
I shall go on eating my heart out in the provinces till I am old and
tired and done for!"

Her earnestness touched me. I had heard the same tale so often that I
was sick of hearing it, but this woman's earnestness touched me. If I
had had a small part vacant, I would have tried her in it.

"Again," I said, "as a dramatist I fully understand the difficulties of
an actress's career; but you, as an actress, do not understand a
dramatist's. There is no piece of mine going into rehearsal now,
therefore I have no opening for you, myself; and it is impossible for
me to write to a manager or a brother author, advising him to
entrust a part, even the humblest, to a lady of whose capabilities I
know nothing."

"I am not applying for a humble part," she answered quietly.

"Hein?"

"My line is lead."

I stared at her pale face, speechless; the audacity of the reply took
my breath away.

"You are mad," I said, rising.

"I sound so to you, monsieur?"

"Stark, staring mad. You bewail that you are at the foot of the ladder,
and at the same instant you stipulate that I shall lift you at a bound
to the top. Either you are a lunatic, or you are an amateur."

She, too, rose--resigned to her dismissal, it seemed. Then, suddenly,
with a gesture that was a veritable abandonment of despair, she
laughed.

"That's it, I am an amateur!" she rejoined passionately. "I will tell
you the kind of 'amateur' I am, monsieur de Varenne! I was learning my
business in a fit-up when I was six years old--yes, I was playing parts
on the road when happier children were playing games in nurseries. I
was thrust on for lead when I was a gawk of fifteen, and had to wrestle
with half a dozen roles in a week, and was beaten if I failed to make
my points. I have supered to stars, not to earn the few francs I got
by it, for by that time the fit-ups paid me better, but that I might
observe, and improve my method. I have waited in the rain, for hours,
at the doors of the milliners and modistes, that I might note how great
ladies stepped from their carriages and spoke to their footmen--and when
I snatched a lesson from their aristocratic tones I was in heaven, though
my feet ached and the rain soaked my wretched clothes. I have played good
women and bad women, beggars and queens, ingénues and hags. I was born
and bred on the stage, have suffered and starved on it. It is my life and
my destiny." She sobbed. "An 'amateur'!"

I could not let her go like that. She interested me strongly; somehow I
believed in her. I strode to and fro, considering.

"Sit down again," I said. "I will do this for you: I will go to the
country to see your performance. When is your next show?"

"I have nothing in view."

"Bigre! Well, the next time you are playing, write to me."

"You will have forgotten all about me," she urged feverishly, "or your
interest will have faded, or Fate will prevent your coming."

"Why do you say so?"

"Something tells me. You will help me now, or you will never help me--
my chance is to-day! Monsieur, I entreat you--"

"To-day I can do nothing at all, because I have not seen you act."

"I could recite to you."

"Zut!"

"I could rehearse on trial."

"And if you made a mess of it? A nice fool I should look, after
fighting to get you in!"

A servant interrupted us to tell me that my old friend de Lavardens was
downstairs. And now I did a foolish thing. When I intimated to
mademoiselle Jeanne Laurent that our interview must conclude, she
begged so hard to be allowed to speak to me again after my visitor
went, that I consented to her waiting. Why? I had already said all that
I had to say, and infinitely more than I had contemplated. Perhaps she
impressed me more powerfully than I realised; perhaps it was sheer
compassion, for she had an invincible instinct that if I sent her away
at this juncture, she would never hear from me any more. I had her
shown into the next room, and received General de Lavardens in the
study.

Since his retirement from the Army, de Lavardens had lived in his
chateau at St. Wandrille, in the neighbourhood of Caudebec-en-Caux, and
we had met infrequently of late. But we had been at college together; I
had entered on my military service in the same regiment as he; and we
had once been comrades. I was glad to see him.

"How are you, my dear fellow? I didn't know you were in Paris."

"I have been here twenty-four hours," he said. "I have looked you up at
the first opportunity. Now am I a nuisance? Be frank! I told the
servant that if you were at work you weren't to be disturbed. Don't
humbug about it; if I am in the way, say so!"

"You are not in the way a bit," I declared. "Put your hat and cane
down. What's the news? How is Georges?"

"Georges" was Captain de Lavardens, his son, a young man with good
looks, and brains, an officer for whom people predicted a brilliant
future.

"Georges is all right," he said hesitatingly. "He is dining with me
to-night. I want you to come, too, if you can. Are you free?"

"To-night? Yes, certainly; I shall be delighted."

"That was one of the reasons I came round--to ask you to join us." He
glanced towards the table again. "Are you sure you are not in a hurry
to get back to that?"

"Have a cigar, and don't be a fool. What have you got to say for
yourself? Why are you on the spree here?"

"I came up to see Georges," he said. "As a matter of fact, my dear
chap, I am devilish worried."

"Not about Georges?" I asked, surprised.

He grunted. "About Georges."

"Really? I'm very sorry."

"Yes. I wanted to talk to you about it. You may be able to give me a
tip. Georges--the boy I hoped so much for"--his gruff voice quivered--
"is infatuated with an actress."

"Georges?"

"What do you say to that?"

"Are you certain it is true?"

"True? He makes no secret of it. That isn't all. The idiot wants to
marry her!"

"Georges wants to marry an actress?"

"Voilà!"

"My dear old friend!" I stammered.

"Isn't it amazing? One thinks one knows the character of one's own son,
hein? And then, suddenly, a boy--a boy? A man! Georges will soon be
thirty--a man one is proud of, who is distinguishing himself in his
profession, he loses his head about some creature of the theatre and
proposes to mar his whole career."

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