ARS SCRIBENDI

Observer, Volume XL, Issue 25, 21 February 1920, Page 29

ARS SCRIBENDI

(By F. E. BAUME.)

(Author of "Ma'mselle Inconnue," etc.)

" r PO be a great Avriter," said *- Pierre Le Buf Avisely, "one must be a poAverful intellect. .One must be able to grapple decisively Avith the problems of state. One must either be, a prude or the other thing. Again, sometimes if a brainless young man dies prematurely, and leaves some scrap-books behind him, he, too, becomes famous." Le Buf sat back after his speech and glared at us. Four of us Avere sitting in the cafe—Piron, the art critic of "Le Temps," Covercourt, a reporter on "Le Matin," avlio aspired to literary fame, and myself—not to forget' Le Buf, avlio, as city editor of the "Novello," a Radical daily, delighted to discourse to we younger fellows on all journalistic subjects. Generally we listened with the greatest attention: for in those days jobs Avere scarce and journalism was long, so to speak, and Le Buf was a poAver in the circles Aye strove to enter. HoAvever, young Covercourt, avlio had not yet been broken on the Avheel of the dailies, never took the city editor seriously. He never took anything seriously, as a matter of fact—l don't believe he could. He cheerfully owed all of us money Avhich Aye could never collect, but just as cheerfully met us after the papers had gone to press, and linked up Avith us along the boulevards, for the "biere" that Le Buf, dour felloav as he Avas, Avould supply at Legaro's cafe. "Le Buf," said Covercourt, " I can't Avrite, can I?" Le Buf glared under bushy eyobroAA's. "You AA'rite? You? A hack reporter on a centime rag? My dear little felloAv, if you would read French grammar occasionally, and Avould leave other people's business alone, you might succeed. As it is, you're no use to any rag—except as a reporter of picture slioavs!" This Avas a covert insult, but Covercourt didn't mind. He grinned cheerfully at the pedantic Le Buf. "You'd never publish any of my original short stories, would you?' he grinned. "Dieu et mon ame! swore Le Buf. "I would publish your obituary, let alone any of the clap-trap tripe you Avrite. I run a neAvspaper, not a children's magazine-" , , -, Covercourt got up. sknvly and walked over to Le Buf. "Bufy," he said, " I remember that. But I think, mon ami, that you will publish my stuff and Le Rire and Le Figaro, too, damn side better paper than jyburs; old lelloav. "Raoul Covercourt" will be underneath my stories—stories that you are rejecting. I write, old son; I don't clip musty cuttings, and draw my salary for bullying cub reporters!" , Le Buf greAV apoplectic. His red face grew a shade more purple. He spoke in an aggrieved tone. Loolc here my friend—don't give me any petits mots, if you please. You ye always been cheeky since I refused your Easter article—a rotten article it was, too!" We all smiled at Covercourt's ringing laugh, which followed Le But s protests. The boy was likeable for all his cheek. And he wrote fairly well, for all the city had said- Not a genius, mind, but good, readable stuff. He could write on a nationwide subject Avhere he could not write about a baby show—accuracy bored him. ~ ~ + "Le Buf," said Covercourt, "you're a big ape. But I'm buying you and rest another absinthe—!" • Paris—at least the newspaper pait of Paris, was very deeply grieved next morning to read of thejmtimely death of young Covercourt. ile had last been seen walking across the Pontoon bridge near the Rue St. Mayon, by himself. The gendarme

(For the Observer.)

at the hospital gate had said goodnight to him, and had received the usual cigarette. Young Raoul had then walked swiftly aAvay, in the direction of the bridge. The gendarme had not seen him again. Three hours later the Avaterman in charge of the Rue Lazare. seAver, on the left bank of the Seine, had picked up a hat. Inside was the name in marking ink, in the wellknoAvn sturdy characters, "Raoul Covercourt." The waterman kneAv him—was there a waterman in the precincts of Lutelia who didn't knoAv "young Covercourt, the writer"— and as fast as he possibly could run with the hat to No. 5 gendarmerie. A search Avas made, and further doAvn the Seine they found his stick, a quaint bamboo with carved bone handle. The gendarme broke the neAVs to me, at my office, and Aye Avept together. Covercourt had endeared himself to us all.

The three of us remaining had dejeuner at Simone's that day. We AA-ore crape on our arms out of respect to the dead, and even Le Buf stopped absinthing for a feAV minutes to add his eulogy to the cenotaph of Avords Aye were erecting.

"He Avas a nice boy," said Piron, "artistic to the finger-tips. He used to come and criticise my criticisms, if you please, after the Salon or Tuilleries. It's far too soon for him to go. I Avas hoping he'd make good Avith those short stories of his. He had some little ability in that direction."

"Hmph," grunted Le Buf, but our concerted* looks kept him quiet. We toasted the dead in silence.

Madame Bouey brought up my mail early one morning, and openly gloated over a black-edged letter. "Msieu is a mourner, no?" she said, timidly. "I, too, am a mourner— mv son's Avife has died in childbed."

I gravely remonstrated. After considerable argument I persuaded Madame that Avhile I Avas deeply sony for her daughter, I did not Avish to hear of the sordid details. Then I remembered the letter and my curiosity Avas aroused. I kneAv of none of my relatives who had died, and if they had I AveuldnM; have cared a snap, and I also knew that poor Covercourt, dear laddie, had no relatives alive—for which, in his lifetime, he should have been supremely happy. It Avas with eag-er-fingering, then, that I opened the note. I gasped as I read it:— Fleurry-a-Bois, Province. Dear M. Lavolet, — I understand that you were the best friend of poor Raoul Covercourt during his lifetime. Therefore, I take the liberty of asking you a favour. Some months ago, he was out here on a visit, and brought his scrap-book, in which there are eight unpublished short stories. I send them to you by next mail with the hope that the poor lad's ability will be recognised after his death. His Teacher, GASTEN NERY-KERY. I looked again at the curt epistle. Who in the name of the thousand and one devils of Confucius was Gaston Nery-Kery? And Avhat was he doing Avith Raoul's book? I resolved that Avhen the book came I would keep it. Confound Monsieur HaryScary or whatever he might call himself. Raoul Avas my protege, and I was entitled to the book. The stories contained in it were striking. There was no evidence of unusual literary powers; nevertheless the stuff Avas par, excellence and quite as good as any of the then "best-sellers" and better than a few. I had a talk with my editor, and he was of the same opinion as myself.

"You know, Lavolet," he said, "genius has often written less clever stuff than this. Take this story, "The water-rat." It is not exaggerated in its sordidness. Yet it exposes evils in the river banks and deals faithfully with the lives of the "water-rats." I think I shall publish it." So our Aveekly, the fourth luminary of Parisian newspapers, decided to publish the story of the water-rat. We took special care over the layout, and I remember myself Avriting a two-inch biographical paragraph, telling of the boy and his untimely death. I think I finished up by saying. . . . "There is no doubt, had he lived, Raoul Covercourt would have become a great litterateur." I laughed then at myself for being such a hypocrite: and I seemed to see Raoul's laughing face beside me, and he was saying, "You cheerful old liar! . Oh! You dear old liar!" And a tear came to my 03-0. I should dearly haA*e liked the lad to become a "best-seller." The story Avas a great success. The corpse of Raoul Covercourt was hailed as a master of French literature. Pakon-Fruilly, the critic, Avrote to "Le Matin" on the subject of the dead boy. He Avas, said Frailly, a new school of literature in himself. His very style Avas effective. I gloated a little. I knew the lad had it in him, and I remembered a certain sub-editor ; who once told me I was useless; to go and be an auctioneer, a minister, or some other " worthless being." But a journalist — never! "He Avas mistaken in me, as I Avas in Raoul. Raoul Avas a posthumous marvel.

All the .Aveekly papers came to me. Forty of them. But eight stories cannot go into forty papers, so I alloAved twenty-three of them to syndicate them—and the Soleil •service published each of them — pirated of course—in the American Sunday supplements. Le Buf Avas the first to see me regarding a special Covercourt supplement for his paper, and with the assistance of Piron, who wrote a beautiful sketch, Gastrobe, the etcher, and Holzberg, the painter, Aye brought out the supplement. There Avas not a corner of France that did not know the life history of Raoul Covercourt. His etching—Gastrobe's work, hung in most of the savant's homes, and in all the newspaper offices. The young poe:., Callender, a Scotchman, Avrobe a Ivric, on Raoul, and this was published Avidely. In fact, if people wished to say a story Avas realistic, they called it "a la Covercourt."

I Avas supremely happy. Raoul ahvays seemed to be near me, smiling at his success. Avernus evidently was not so far aAvay. I could picture the lad telling Pluto of the triumph up here on cold Mother Earth, and the old King of the Nether regions patting him kindly and encouragingly on the back, telling him it Avas very good, but to keep on with his story, all the same.

Le Buf, the old tAvo-face, used to tell everyone he met that he was a personal friend of the dead boy. He had helped in his first days of journalism by publishing his "Petits Pars" in the paper, which was quite untrue, but pardonable. France, iiir deed, Avas Covercourt mad.

I believe I fainted Avhen the young imp came into my office. In any case, I Avoke up to find him,solicitously bathing my face. He looked very Avell and very brown. Quite the opposite as to lioav a ghost that has been mouldering for three months should be. He seemed quite concerned about me.

"Baude, old fellow.," he was saying. "Baude, forgive me, forgive me. I only did it for a joke.

As my fright subsided, and my senses became clearer, I realised it all. Mon dieu. What a fiasco! What Avould prefidious England and scheming America say. All these thoughts flashed through my brain like an electric current. I roused myself Avith an effort. "Where,where the devil have you been, you young devil?" I cried.

"Well," he said, "I've been editing a country paper at Fleury-a-Bois for the last couple of monlhs. I was going to write to you and. tell you after I left, but when I saw I Avas supposed to be dead I thought of a great scheme. I didn't mean to pain you, old felloAV, it was that old fool, Le Buf . . . ."• A light dawned on me. "Le Buff, Avas it," I said. "Because lie said you couldn't Avrite, eh 1 Why Raoul—Gad? it's good to see you again—old Le Buf Avas one ef the first to want your stories. And the Covercourt Supplement! Lord! this is great!" Both of xis Avere holding our sides Avith laughter. "Raoul," I said, "what are you going to do?" "Do," he said. "Dear benefactor, I'm going to America, to be fa l mous. May I have copies «i my obituary, my stories, and my phiz?" "You may," I said. "Tell me. I suppose you planned all this beforehand, eh? And you thought that you'd beat Dumas and Doyle, and let your Derby—or Avas it a Stetson, and your cane float down the river, eh? You Avere " Covercourt, his face sober, leant across, his head on my knee. "No, old chap, I didn't. But Avhen I Avas Avalking over the bridge I bumped into a toper and my hat fell in. The old cVunkard took hold of my stick, and it followed after. It didn't Avorry me, I can assure you. But Avhen I got up there to Flcury-a-Bois, imd read of what a famous felloAV I Avas, do you blame me for not " '■i do not," I said. "Fleury-a-Bois? Why, that accounts for the lot tor from old Hari-Kari, or such mime—you young devil!" For the lad Avas grinning broadly. "You?" "Me," he replied u'ngrammatieallv. "Dear old chap, how could resist it?" "You couldn't," I said; "Now, are you going, to see Le Buf*?" "I am not!" said Raoul. Covercourt is a famous name in America. There is not an American magazine that has not his articles and stories, translated by Roger Gallet. Incidentally, although he is opulent, and famous, there is not a French magazine that will accept his stories. Naturally enomgbJ The three of us—Le Buf, Piron, and I, are still Avorking journalists, and avc meet occasionally. Le Buf becomes infuriated if we mention Covercourt. We mention him as frequently as Aye can!