Argosy, Vol. 123, No. 2 — page 72: what you’re looking at

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

206 soned cup, the knife or the pen which stabs as cruelly. “Tf you are a critic—allow me to intro- duce ourselves. Caparolle, etcher, and Charlot, beloved of the muses—poetry on any subject—cash on delivery. Reduction on quantity. A little publicity from you would not come amiss.” The stranger shook his head with a be- nign smile. “You are on the wrong track, my dear M. Caparolle, my dear M. Charlot. I am neither a murderer nor a journalist. I might describe myself, since you are cu- rious, as a philosopher—a_philanthro- pist.”’ ““T have heard of such beings,” rejoined Charlot, amazed; “ but I must confess I never expected to see a philanthropist in the flesh. Still, what you tell me does not explain your predilection for death. I am not above telling you that at the moment I have some vague idea of saying adieu to this bright world. In fact, monsieur, there is every prospect of my having to eat salad by the root some few feet below earth’s green coverlet.”’ Their neighbor’s eye seemed to be meas- uring Charlot from head to foot, and the ‘poet grew uneasy under the scrutiny. ‘“‘ What is it?” he asked. | “One of our stock sizes,”’ anSwered the gentleman dreamily. ‘“ Yes. I fancy we could fit you out very nicely. If you care to go to the expense, I think I could promise you a thoroughly satisfactory job. Is it possible that you are contemplating suicide?” ‘“ Heaven!” cried Caparolle. “I may warn you that my friend may prattle of suicide, but between ourselves he has not ‘the slightest intention of carrying out any of his threats.” “Thank you, my dear Caparolle,” said Charlot gratefully. “I knew you would step in at the crucial moment and save me from my rashness. As for you, tempter, T am afraid that I cannot join the suicide club in which you are interested, for such I take it is the idea which lies at the root of your mysterious hints.” It was their new friend’s turn to look blank. With a graceful flourish of his hand ~help you out. THE ARGOSY. as though he opened a carriage door he drew outa pocketbook and handed them a card: ALPHONSE CROQUEMORT DIRECTOR OF FUNERALS ‘Ten classes,” he announced sonorous- ly. “Ten classes of funerals. First-class, service at the church, draperies inside and outside, catafalque, candles innumerable, - music, flowers. silver hearse, pall with sil ver tear-drops, symbolical of the eyes which weep the passing of the beloved. Or perhaps another class, not so expensive, but quite satisfactory, I can promise you, posi- tively consoling to the bereaved mourner— comfortable casket, couch of chaste re- pose—”’ ; “ Dieu!” Caparolle interrupted, “in a minute I shall be tempted to make away with myself. You are no funeral director, you are a poet, my dear Alphonse.”’ ‘““T have been called so in my time,” said M. Croquemort with a gratified smile; “several of my epitaphs have had quite a vogue. One in particular—‘ Now at rest, Heaven’s guest ’— has been in great de- mand this past season. The idea is rather appealing.” . ‘“Stop!”’ Charlot commanded, a bright vision of easy money rising before his eyes, ‘TI have an idea. I am looking for some- thing to do just now--some work not too arduous. Suppose I engage myself to sup- ply you with suitable verses, guaranteed to comfort the living and please the departed, A reduction for a quantity, eh?” The undertaker shook his head. ‘“T am desolated. I have all the inscrip- tions I want for the present. I compose my own in my spare time.”’ Charlot’s face fell. “Wait a minute,” said the undertaker. | “You seem a good fellow, and I’d like to Can you drive a carriage?” _“T can,” replied the poet. ‘“ May I res fer you to Caparolle.” ‘ As a charioteer,” responded the etcher, COMICLO© S C©@