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apartment itself. But his genuine appreciation did not prevent him from carrying out, in that setting, an elaborate joke on Tom Geraghty, formerly Douglas Fairbanks' scenario writer, at this time a free-lance, and one of Chaplin's oldest friends.
There was a small crowd in Knoblock's apartment one night, and gradually conversation turned on Chaplin. Nearly all present agreed that he was really at the apex of his career, and that the London visit proved it. Tom Geraghty, with simple sincerity, suggested that the only thing to do, when such a peak was reached, was to die, since anything afterwards was bound to be an anti-climax and therefore inartistic.
Outside, a thunderstorm was raging, with sheets of lightning flashing across the dark sky; and together, Chaplin and Knoblock began to build an eerie atmosphere of tension and dread, helped by the gale rattling the window frames, the storm without, and a preoccupation with death, violence and the inexplicable force of nature in their conversation. Suddenly, a great flash of lightning turned every face livid, etched in the dark shadows of cupboard and corner. Chaplin, jerked suddenly to his feet as though by invisible forces, let out an eldritch shriek, grew rigid and fell upon his face.
There was a frightening silence, then confusion. Someone telephoned for a doctor, others carried the stiffened body into an adjoining bedroom, while Tom Geraghty was petrified with shock, and then overcome with anxiety. No one paid any attention to him, everyone rushed busily round, summoning a coroner, getting into touch with the police, while Geraghty's panic grew.
When Chaplin, enfolded in the sheet, with pillowcases for wings, floated into the room as an angel, Geraghty's panic turned to furious anger.
"It's blasphemy, that's what it is, blasphemy ! Blaspheming death ! " he roared. Never were angel's wings so securely clipped : and henceforward, in the circle of Chaplin's friends, that incident was referred to as the blaspheming death.
The same impulse that had taken Chaplin, without warning, across the Atlantic, took him as suddenly to Paris. Here, Chaplin found himself spiritually at home. The quicker tempo of living, the whole vibrant atmosphere of the lovely city answered something in him, and he was at once at ease. His French name — Chariot — pleased him enormously, and he signed it with elaborate flourishes whenever autograph-hunters approached him.
His fame and popularity in Paris were as great as in London, and his entry into the city was a repeat performance of his entry into London. His old friend Cami, the cartoonist, was there to greet him.