The Argosy — page 303: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

« THE DEBUT OF MADEMOISELLE AGATHE. ‘¢ N O,” said Jules Laroche, swallowing the remainder of his matutinal cup of coffee, and buttoning his coat with the dis- _ engaged hand. “ No; Agathe is quite right: Boquillard will never do.” Having come to this conclusion, he gave his hat a final brush, lit a cigarette, and after carefully locking his outside door, leisurely descended the stairs of No. 23, Rue du Sentier, hung the key of his apartment on its particular hook in the porters lodge, and sallied forth in the direction of the boulevard. As he emerged on that populous thorough- fare, he was accosted by a young man walking rapidly eastward, with a roll of paper under his arm. “ C’est toi, Jules !” ‘‘ Emest! you're out early. Do you read your drama to-day ?” ‘Yes ; at ten for a quarter past ; and you?” ‘*Not for another couple of hours. Darbois has called the people for twelve, but Amanda js sure to be late.” ‘What ! does she play in your piece ?” ‘Not if I can help it,” replied Jules, with a significant shrug ; “ but she does pretty much as she likes at the Nonpareil, and if she chooses. to take the part, I suppose she must. It’s only a one-act thing, after all.” ‘Well, bonne chance,” said Ernest. ‘ You're not going my way ?” *‘Can’t,” answered the other. ‘I’ve nearly missed an appointment as itis. But you'll find me between four and five at the Café des. Vaniétés.” “ C’est entendu,” and the friends parted. Ernest striding away at a postman-like pace towards the Ambigu, while his brother dramatist, crossing the muddy macadam with infinite precaution, gained the opposite side of the boulevard without a speck on his highly varnished ' boots ; and a minute or two later disappeared beneath a porte-cochétre of the Rue Rougemont. “ Bonjour, Madame Boquillard,” said Jules, as he entered the small but neatly furnished sanctum of the concierge. ‘ Where’s Agathe ? ” ‘‘T expect her every moment,” replied the portress, who was busily engaged in shelling peas, and glancing occasionally through the little window at her liege-lord thumping the carpeted staircase with a worn- out broom. ‘She went to the Conservatoire an hour ago to take her singing lesson of Monsieur Chose, the professor with a black wig, you know.” ‘Old rascal!” muttered Jules, lighting another cigarette. ‘“ He told VOL. XIX. T GONMGIOO SS (CO)