"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 crepe mask. Without a
crepe mask I perceive no thrill in my role."