"
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 Cafe 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.
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