"Madness!" objected Pitou. "Now listen to _me_--I am serious-minded,
and do not commit follies, like you fellows. Crepe masks are not being
worn this season. Believe me, if you loiter at a street corner with a
crepe 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 crepe mask! Put it
on when you attack the boy. I have always had a passion for crepe
masks, and this is the first opportunity that I find to gratify it. I
insist that somebody wears a crepe 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.