culous, almost  as ridiculous
as that  sly, scoundrelly Pantaloon. He laughed  and took  the  outstretched
hand. "No rancour?" M. Binet insisted.
     "Oh, no rancour," said Andre-Louis.

        CHAPTER V. ENTER SCARAMOUCHE


     Dressed in the close-fitting suit of a bygone age, all black, from flat
velvet cap  to  rosetted shoes, his  face  whitened  and  a slight up-curled
moustache  glued to  his upper  lip, a  small-sword at his side and a guitar
slung behind him, Scaramouche surveyed himself in a mirror, and was disposed
to be sardonic - which was the proper mood for the part.
     He reflected that  his life, which until lately had been of a stagnant,
contemplative quality, had suddenly become excessively active. In the course
of one  week  he  had  been lawyer, mob-orator,  outlaw,  property-man,  and
finally buffoon. Last Wednesday he had been engaged in moving an audience of
Rennes to anger; on this Wednesday  he was to move an audience of Guichen to
mirth. Then he had been concerned to draw tears; to-day it was his  business
to provoke laughter. There was a difference, and  yet  there was a parallel.
Then as  now he had been a  comedian; and the  part  that he had played then
was, when you came  to  think of it,  akin  to the part he was  to play this
evening.  For what had  he  been at Rennes  but a  sort of Scaramouche - the
little skirmisher, the astute intriguer, spattering the seed of trouble with
a sly hand? The only  difference lay  in the fact  that to-day he went forth
under the  name that  properly  described his type, whereas last week he had
been disguised as a respectable young provincial attorney.
     He bowed to his reflection in the mirror.
     "Buffoon!" he apostrophized it.  "At  last you have  found yourself. At
last you have come into your heritage. You should be a great success.
     Hearing his  new name called out by M. Binet, he went below to find the
company assembled, and waiting in the entrance corridor of the inn.
     He was, of course, an object of great interest to all the company. Most
critically was he  conned by M. Binet  and mademoiselle;  by the former with
gravely searching eyes, by the latter with a curl of scornful lip.
     "You'll  do," M. Binet commended his  make-up.  "At least  you look the
part."
     "Unfortunately  men  are  not  always  what they  look," said  Climene,
acidly.
     "That  is  a  truth that  does  not  at  present  apply  to  me,"  said
Andre-Louis. "For it is the first time in my life that I look what I am."
     Mademoiselle curled her lip a little further,  and turned  her shoulder
to him. But  the others  thought  him very witty -  probably  because he was
obscure. Columbine encouraged him with a friendly  smile  that displayed her
large  white teeth, and M. Binet swore yet  once  again that  he  would be a
great success, since he threw himself with such spirit into the undertaking.
Then in a  voice that for  the moment he appeared to have borrowed from  the
roaring captain, M. Binet marshalled them for the short parade across to the
market-hall.
     The new  Scaramouche  fell  into place  beside Rhodomont.  The old one,
hobbling on  a  crutch, had  departed an  hour  ago  to take  the  place  of
doorkeeper,  vacated  of  necessity  by  Andre-Louis.  So that  the exchange
between those two was a complete one.
     Headed by Polichinelle banging his  great drum and Pierrot blowing  his
trumpet,  they set out,  and were duly passed in review  by the  ragamuffins
drawn up  in files to enjoy so  much of the  spectacle as was to be obtained
for nothing.
     Ten minutes later the three knocks sounded, and the curtains were drawn
aside  to reveal  a battered set that was partly garden,  partly  forest, in
which  Climene  feverishly  looked for the  coming  of Leandre. In the wings
stood the beautiful, melancholy  lover, awaiting his  cue,  and  immediately
behind him the unfledged Scaramouche, who was anon to follow him.
     Andre-Louis was assailed with nausea in that dread moment. He attempted
to take a lightning mental review of the first act of this scenario of which
he  was himself the  author-in-chief; but found his  mind  a complete blank.
With the perspiration starting  from his skin, he stepped back to the  wall,
where above a dim  lantern  was pasted  a sheet bearing the brief outline of
the piece. He was still studying  it, when his arm was clutched, and he  was
pulled  violently  towards  the  wings.  He  had  a  glimpse  of Pantaloon's
grotesque face, its eyes blazing, and he caught a raucous growl:
     "Climene has spoken your cue three times already."
     Before he realized  it, he had  been bundled on to the stage, and stood
there  foolishly,  blinking in  the  glare of the footlights, with their tin
reflectors.  So utterly foolish and bewildered did he look that  volley upon
volley of laughter welcomed him from the audience, which this evening packed
the hall  from  end  to end. Trembling  a little,  his bewilderment at first
increasing, he stood there to receive that rolling tribute to his absurdity.
Climene was  eyeing  him  with expectant mockery,  savouring in  advance his
humiliation;  Leandre  regarded  him  in  consternation, whilst  behind  the
scenes, M. Binet was dancing in fury.
     "Name  of  a name," he- groaned  to the rather  scared  members  of the
company assembled there, "what will happen when they discover that he  isn't
acting?"
     But they  never  did  discover  it. Scaramouche's bewildered  paralysis
lasted  but  a few  seconds.  He realized that he  was being laughed at, and
remembered that his Scaramouche was a  creature to be laughed with,  and not
at.  He must save the situation; twist  it to his  own advantage as best  he
could. And  now his real bewilderment  and  terror was  succeeded  by  acted
bewilderment  and  terror  far  more  marked,  but  not  quite so  funny. He
contrived to make it clearly  appear that his terror was of some one off the
stage.  He  took cover behind a  painted shrub, and thence,  the laughter at
last beginning to subside, he addressed himself to Climene and Leandre.
     "Forgive  me,  beautiful  lady, if  the abrupt  manner  of  my entrance
startled you. The truth is that  I have  never been the same since that last
affair of mine with Almaviva. My heart is not what it used to be. Down there
at  the  end of the lane  I  came face to  face  with  an  elderly gentleman
carrying  a  heavy cudgel, and the horrible thought  entered my mind that it
might  be your father,  and  that our little stratagem  to  get  you  safely
married might already have been  betrayed to him. I think  it was the cudgel
put such notion in my head. Not that I am afraid. I am  not really afraid of
anything. But  I could not help  reflecting that,  if it should  really have
been your father, and  he had  broken my  head  with his cudgel, your  hopes
would have perished with me. For  without me, what should  you have done, my
poor children?"
     A ripple of laughter from  the audience  had been steadily enheartening
him,  and  helping him to recover his  natural  impudence. It was clear they
found him comical.  They were to find him far more  comical than ever he had
intended, and this was  largely due to a fortuitous  circumstance upon which
he had  insufficiently reckoned.  The  fear  of recognition by some one from
Gavrillac or Rennes had been strong upon him. His face was sufficiently made
up to baffle recognition; but there remained his voice. To dissemble this he
had  availed himself of the fact that Figaro was a  Spaniard. He had known a
Spaniard at Louis le Grand who spoke a fluent but most extraordinary French,
with a  grotesque excess of sibilant  sounds. It  was  an accent that he had
often  imitated, as  youths  will imitate  characteristics that excite their
mirth. Opportunely he had bethought him  of that Spanish student, and it was
upon his  speech that to-night he modelled his own. The audience of  Guichen
found  it  as  laughable  on  his  lips as he and  his fellows had found  it
formerly on the lips of that derided Spaniard.
     Meanwhile,  behind the scenes, Binet - listening to that glib impromptu
of which the scenario gave no indication - had recovered from his fears.
     "Dieu  de  Dieu!"  he whispered,  grinning.  "Did he  do  it,  then, on
purpose?"
     It seemed to  him impossible that a man who had been so terror-stricken
as he had  fancied Andre-Louis, could have recovered his wits so quickly and
completely. Yet the doubt remained.
     To resolve it after the  curtain had  fallen upon  a first act that had
gone with a verve unrivalled until this hour in the  annals of  the company,
borne almost  entirely upon  the slim shoulders  of the new  Scaramouche, M.
Binet bluntly questioned him.
     They  were standing  in the  space that did  duty  as  green-room,  the
company  all  assembled  there,  showering  congratulations  upon their  new
recruit. Scaramouche, a little exalted at the moment by his success, however
trivial  he  might  consider  it  to-morrow, took then a full  revenge  upon
Climene  for  the malicious  satisfaction  with which  she had  regarded his
momentary blank terror.
     "I do not wonder  that you ask,"  said he. "Faith, I should have warned
you that I intended to do my best  from  the start to put  the audience in a
good humour with me. Mademoiselle very  nearly ruined everything by refusing
to reflect  any of  my terror. She  was not  even  startled.  Another  time,
mademoiselle, I shall give you full warning of my every intention."
     She  crimsoned under  her  grease-paint. But  before she could find  an
answer  of  sufficient  venom,  her  father was rating her soundly  for  her
stupidity  -  the more  soundly  because himself  he  had  been  deceived by
Scaramouche's supreme acting.
     Scaramouche's success in the first act was more than  confirmed  as the
performance proceeded. Completely master  of himself by now, and  stimulated
as only  success can stimulate, he warmed to his work. Impudent, alert, sly,
graceful, he incarnated the very ideal of Scaramouche, and he helped out his
own  native  wit  by  many  a remembered  line  from  Beaumarchais,  thereby
persuading  the  better informed  among  the  audience that here indeed  was
something of the real Figaro, and bringing them, as it were, into touch with
the great world of the capital.
     When at last the curtain fell for the last time, it was Scaramouche who
shared  with Climene  the honours of the evening, his name that  was coupled
with hers in the calls that summoned them before the curtains.
     As they stepped back,  and the  curtains screened  them again from  the
departing audience, M. Binet approached them, rubbing his  fat hands  softly
together.  This runagate young  lawyer,  whom  chance  had  blown  into  his
company, had evidently  been sent  by Fate to make his fortune for him.  The
sudden  success  at Guichen, hitherto  unrivalled, should  be  repeated  and
augmented elsewhere.  There  would  be  no more  sleeping  under  hedges and
tightening  of belts.  Adversity  was  behind  him.  He placed a  hand  upon
Scaramouche's shoulder, and  surveyed  him with a smile  whose oiliness  not
even his red paint and colossal false nose could dissemble.
     "And what have you to say to me now?" he asked him. "Was I wrong when I
assured you that you would succeed? Do you think I have followed my fortunes
in the theatre  for a lifetime without knowing a born actor when  I see one?
You are my discovery, Scaramouche. I have discovered you to yourself. I have
set your feet upon the road to fame and fortune. I await your thanks."
     Scaramouche laughed at him, and his laugh was not altogether pleasant.
     "Always Pantaloon!" said he.
     The great  countenance became  overcast. "I  see  that  you do  not yet
forgive me the  little stratagem by  which I forced you  to  do  justice  to
yourself. Ungrateful  dog!  As if I could have  had any purpose but  to make
you; and I  have  done  so. Continue as  you have begun, and you will end in
Paris. You may yet tread the stage  of the  Comedie Francaise, the  rival of
Talma, Fleury, and Dugazon. When that happens to you  perhaps you will  feel
the gratitude  that is  due to old Binet, for you  will owe  it all  to this
soft-hearted old fool."
     "If you were as good an actor on the stage as you are in private," said
Scaramouche,  "you  would  yourself have  won to  the Comedie Francaise long
since. But I bear no rancour, M. Binet." He laughed, and put out his hand.
     Binet fell upon it and wrung it heartily.
     "That, at  least,  is  something," he declared. "My  boy,  I have great
plans for you - for  us. To-morrow we go to Maure; there  is a fair there to
the end  of this  week. Then on Monday  we take our chances  at Pipriac, and
after that we must consider. It may be that I  am about to realize the dream
of  my  life. There must have been upwards of fifteen louis  taken to-night.
Where the devil is that rascal Cordemais?"
     Cordemais  was  the  name  of  the original  Scaramouche,  who  had  so
unfortunately  twisted  his  ankle.  That Binet  should refer to him  by his
secular designation was  a  sign that in the Binet company at least  he  had
fallen for ever from the lofty eminence of Scaramouche.
     "Let  us  go and find him, and then we'll  away to the inn and crack  a
bottle of the best Burgundy, perhaps two bottles."
     But Cordemais was not readily to be found. None of the company had seen
him since the close of the performance. M. Binet went round to the entrance.
Cordemais was not there.  At first he was  annoyed;  then as he continued in
vain to  bawl the  fellow's  name, he began  to grow  uneasy;  lastly,  when
Polichinelle,  who  was  with  them,  discovered Cordemais' crutch  standing
discarded  behind  the  door,  M. Binet became alarmed. A dreadful suspicion
entered his mind. He grew visibly pale under his paint.
     "But this  evening he couldn't walk without  the crutch!" he exclaimed.
"How then does he come to leave it there and take himself off?"
     "Perhaps he has gone on to the inn," suggested some one.
     "But he could n't walk without his crutch," M. Binet insisted.
     Nevertheless, since clearly  he was not anywhere about the market-hall,
to the inn they all trooped, and deafened the landlady with their inquiries.
     "Oh, yes, M. Cordemais came in some time ago."
     "Where is he now?"
     "He went away again at once. He just came for his bag."
     "For his bag!" Binet was on the point of an apoplexy. "How long ago was
that?"
     She glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. "It would be about half
an  hour ago.  It  was  a  few minutes before  the Rennes  diligence  passed
through."
     "The  Rennes diligence!" M. Binet was almost inarticulate. "Could he...
could he walk?" he asked, on a note of terrible anxiety.
     "Walk? He ran like a hare when he left the inn. I thought, myself, that
his agility  was  suspicious,  seeing how  lame he  had  been since  he fell
downstairs yesterday. Is anything wrong?"
     M. Binet had collapsed into a chair. He took his head in his hands, and
groaned.
     "The scoundrel was shamming all the time!" exclaimed Climene. "His fall
downstairs was a trick. He was playing for this. He has swindled us."
     "Fifteen louis at least - perhaps  sixteen!" said  M.  Binet.  "Oh, the
heartless blackguard! To swindle me who have been  as a father to him -  and
to swindle me in such a moment."
     >From  the ranks of  the  silent,  awe-stricken company, each member of
which was  wondering by  how  much of the loss his own meagre pay  would  be
mulcted, there came a splutter of laughter.
     M. Binet glared with blood-injected eyes.
     "Who laughs?" he roared.  "What  heartless wretch has  the audacity  to
laugh at my misfortune?"
     Andre-Louis, still in the sable glories of Scaramouche, stood  forward.
He was laughing still.
     "It  is you, is it? You  may  laugh on another  note,  my friend,  if I
choose a way to recoup myself that I know of."
     "Dullard!" Scaramouche  scorned him. "Rabbit-brained elephant! What  if
Cordemais has gone  with fifteen louis? Hasn't  he left you  something worth
twenty times as much?"
     M. Binet gaped uncomprehending.
     "You  are  between two  wines,  I  think.  You've  been  drinking,"  he
concluded.
     "So I have - at the  fountain of Thalia. Oh,  don't you see?  Don't you
see the treasure that Cordemais has left behind him?"
     "What has he left?"
     "A unique idea for the groundwork of  a scenario. It unfolds itself all
before  me. I'll borrow part of the  title from Moliere. We'll  call it 'Les
Fourberies de Scaramouche,' and if we don't leave the audiences of Maure and
Pipriac with sides  aching  from laughter I'll play the dullard Pantaloon in
future."
     Polichinelle  smacked fist  into palm. "Superb!" he said, fiercely. "To
cull fortune  from  misfortune,  to turn loss into  profit, that is  to have
genius.
     Scaramouche  made  a leg. "Polichinelle,  you are a fellow after my own
heart.  I love a  man who can discern my  merit. If Pantaloon had half  your
wit, we should have Burgundy to-night in spite of the flight of Cordemais."
     "Burgundy?" roared M. Binet, and before  he could get farther Harlequin
had clapped his hands together.
     "That is the spirit, M. Binet.  You heard him, landlady. He  called for
Burgundy."
     "I called for nothing of the kind."
     "But you heard him, dear madame. We all heard him."
     The others made  chorus,  whilst Scaramouche smiled at him,  and patted
his shoulder.
     "Up, man, a little courage. Did you not say that fortune awaits us? And
have we not now the wherewithal to  constrain fortune? Burgundy, then, to...
to toast 'Les Fourberies de Scaramouche.'"
     And M. Binet, who was not blind to the force of the idea, yielded, took
courage, and got drunk with the rest.

        CHAPTER VI. CLIMENEI


     Diligent search among the many scenarios of the  improvisers which have
survived  their day, has  failed  to  bring  to  light the  scenario of "Les
Fourberies de Scaramouche," upon which we are told the fortunes of the Binet
troupe came to be soundly established. They played it for the first  time at
Maure in the following week,  with Andre-Louis  - who  was  known by now  as
Scaramouche to all the company, and to the public alike - in the title-role.
If he had acquitted himself well as Figaro-Scaramouche, he excelled  himself
in the new piece, the scenario  of which would  appear  to be very much  the
better of the two.
     After  Maure came Pipriac, where  four performances were given,  two of
each of the scenarios that now formed  the backbone of the Binet repertoire.
In both Scaramouche, who was beginning to find himself,  materially improved
his  performances. So  smoothly  now did the two pieces run that Scaramouche
actually suggested to Binet that after Fougeray, which they were to visit in
the following week,  they should tempt  fortune in  a  real  theatre  in the
important town of Redon. The notion terrified Binet  at first, but coming to
think of it,  and his ambition being fanned  by  Andre-Louis,  he  ended  by
allowing himself to succumb to the temptation.
     It seemed to Andre-Louis in those days  that  he  had  found  his  real
metier, and not  only was  he beginning to like  it,  but actually  to  look
forward to a career as actor-author that might indeed lead him in the end to
that Mecca of  all  comedians, the Comedie  Francaise. And  there were other
possibilities. From the writing  of skeleton scenarios  for improvisers,  he
might presently pass to writing plays of dialogue, plays in the proper sense
of the word, after the manner of Chenier, Eglantine, and Beaumarchais.
     The fact that he dreamed  such dreams  shows us how  very kindly he had
taken  to  the  profession into which  Chance and M.  Binet between them had
conspired to thrust him. That he had real talent both as author and as actor
I do not doubt, and I am persuaded that had things fallen out differently he
would have won for himself a lasting place among French dramatists, and thus
fully have realized that dream of his.
     Now, dream though it was, he did not neglect the practical side of it.
     "You realize," he told M. Binet,  "that I  have it in my power to  make
your fortune for you.
     He and Binet  were sitting alone together in the  parlour of the inn at
Pipriac, drinking  a very excellent  bottle of Volnay.  It  was on the night
after  the fourth  and  last performance  there  of  "Les  Feurberies."  The
business in Pipriac had been as excellent  as in Maure and Guichen. You will
have gathered this from the fact that they drank Volnay.
     "I  will  concede it, my  dear  Scaramouche, so that  I  may  hear  the
sequel."
     "I  am disposed to exercise this power if the inducement is sufficient.
You will realize  that for fifteen  livres a month  a man does not sell such
exceptional gifts as mine.
     "There is an alternative," said M. Binet, darkly.
     "There is no alternative. Don't be a fool, Binet."
     Binet sat up as if  he had been prodded. Members of his company did not
take this tone of direct rebuke with him.
     "Anyway,  I make you  a present  of  it,"  Scaramouche pursued, airily.
"Exercise it if you please. Step outside and inform the police that they can
lay hands upon one Andre-Louis Moreau. But that will be the end of your fine
dreams of going to Redon, and  for the first time in your life playing in  a
real theatre. Without me, you can't do it, and  you  know it;  and I  am not
going to  Redon or anywhere else,  in fact I  am not even going to Fougeray,
until we have an equitable arrangement."
     "But what heat!"  complained  Binet, "and all for  what?  Why  must you
assume  that I have  the soul of a  usurer? When our  little arrangement was
made, I had no idea how could I? - that you would prove as valuable to me as
you are? You had but to remind me, my dear Scaramouche. I am a just man.  As
from to-day you shall have thirty livres a month.  See, I double it at once.
I am a generous man."
     "But you are not ambitious. Now listen to me, a moment."
     And he proceeded to unfold a scheme that filled Binet with a paralyzing
terror.
     "After Redon, Nantes," he said. "Nantes and the Theatre Feydau."
     M.  Binet choked in the act of drinking. The Theatre  Feydau was a sort
of provincial Comedie Francaise. The  great Fleury had played  there  to  an
audience  as critical as any in France. The very thought of Redon, cherished
as it  had  come  to be  by  M. Binet,  gave him at moments a  cramp in  the
stomach,  so  dangerously ambitious  did it  seem to  him. And  Redon was  a
puppet-show  by comparison with Nantes. Yet  this raw lad whom he had picked
up by chance three weeks ago,  and  who  in  that  time had blossomed from a
country attorney into author and actor, could talk of Nantes and the Theatre
Feydau without changing colour.
     "But  why not Paris and the Comedie Francaise?" wondered M. Binet, with
sarcasm, when at last he had got his breath.
     "That may come later," says impudence.
     "Eh? You've been drinking, my friend."
     But  Andre-Louis detailed  the plan that  had been forming in his mind.
Fougeray  should  be  a  training-ground for  Redon, and Redon  should  be a
training-ground for Nantes. They would stay in Redon as long  as Redon would
pay adequately to come and see them, working hard to  perfect themselves the
while. They would add three or four new players of talent to the company; he
would write three or four  fresh  scenarios, and these  should be tested and
perfected until the troupe was  in possession of at least half a dozen plays
upon which they could depend; they would lay out a portion of  their profits
on  better  dresses  and better scenery, and finally in a couple  of months'
time, if all went  well, they should  be ready  to make  their real  bid for
fortune  at Nantes. It was quite true that  distinction was usually demanded
of the  companies appearing at  the Feydau, but on the other hand Nantes had
not  seen a troupe of improvisers for a generation and longer. They would be
supplying a novelty to which all Nantes should flock provided that the  work
were really well done, and Scaramouche undertook - pledged himself - that if
matters were  left  in his own hands, his projected revival  of the Commedia
dell' Arte in all its glories would exceed whatever expectations  the public
of Nantes might bring to the theatre.
     "We'll  talk   of   Paris   after  Nantes,"  he   finished,   supremely
matter-of-fact, "just as we will definitely decide on Nantes after Redon."
     The persuasiveness that could sway a mob ended by sweeping M. Binet off
his feet. The prospect which  Scaramouche unfolded,  if terrifying, was also
intoxicating,  and  as  Scaramouche  delivered  a  crushing answer  to  each
weakening  objection  in  a measure  as  it was  advanced,  Binet  ended  by
promising to think the matter over.
     "Redon will point the way," said Andre-Louis, "and I  don't doubt which
way Redon will point."
     Thus  the great adventure of Redon dwindled to insignificance.  Instead
of  a  terrifying  undertaking in itself, it became  merely  a rehearsal for
something greater. In his momentary exaltation Binet proposed another bottle
of Volnay. Scaramouche waited until the cork was drawn before he continued.
     "The  thing  remains possible," said  he then, holding his glass to the
light, and speaking casually, "as long as I am with you."
     "Agreed,  my  dear  Scaramouche,  agreed.  Our  chance  meeting  was  a
fortunate thing for both of us."
     "For  both of us," said Scaramouche,  with stress. "That is  as I would
have it. So  that  I  do  not  think you will surrender me  just  yet to the
police."
     "As if  I could think  of such a thing!  My dear Scaramouche, you amuse
yourself.  I beg that you will  never,  never  allude to that little joke of
mine again."
     "It is  forgotten," said Andre-Louis. "And now for the remainder of  my
proposal. If I am to become the architect of your fortunes, if I am to build
them as I have planned them, I  must  also and in the same degree become the
architect of my own."
     "In the same degree?" M. Binet frowned.
     "In the same degree. From to-day, if  you  please, we will  conduct the
affairs of this company in a proper manner, and we will keep account-books."
     "I am an artist," said M. Binet, with pride. "I am not a merchant."
     "There is a business side  to your art, and that shall be conducted  in
the business  manner. I  have thought it all out for you.  You  shall not be
troubled  with  details that might hinder the  due exercise of your art. All
that you have to do is to say yes or no to my proposal."
     "Ah? And the proposal?"
     "Is  that  you constitute  me  your partner, with an equal share in the
profits of your company."
     Pantaloon's  great countenance grew  pale, his little  eyes  widened to
their  fullest  extent  as he  conned  the face of  his  companion.  Then he
exploded.
     "You are mad, of course, to make me a proposal so monstrous."
     "It has its injustices, I admit. But I have provided for them. It would
not, for instance, be fair that in addition to all that I am proposing to do
for you, I should also play Scaramouche and write your scenarios without any
reward outside of the half-profit which  would come to me as a partner. Thus
before the profits come to  be divided, there  is a  salary to be paid me as
actor, and a small sum for  each  scenario with which I provide the company;
that is a matter for mutual agreement. Similarly, you shall be paid a salary
as Pantaloon.  After those expenses are cleared up, as well as all the other
salaries and disbursements, the residue  is the profit to be divided equally
between us."
     It was not, as you can imagine, a proposal  that M. Binet would swallow
at a draught. He began with a point-blank refusal to consider it.
     "In that  case, my friend," said Scaramouche, "we part company at once.
To-morrow I shall bid you a reluctant farewell."
     Binet fell to raging. He spoke of ingratitude in feeling terms; he even
permitted himself another sly allusion to that little jest of his concerning
the police, which he had promised never again to mention.
     "As to that, you may do as you please. Play the informer, by all means.
But consider that you will just as  definitely  be deprived of  my services,
and  that without  me you  are nothing  -  as you were  before I joined your
company."
     M.  Binet  did not care what  the consequences might be.  A fig for the
consequences!  He would teach this impudent young  country attorney  that M.
Binet was not the man to be imposed upon.
     Scaramouche  rose.  "Very  well," said  he,  between  indifference  and
resignation.  "As you wish. But before you act, sleep on  the matter. In the
cold  light of  morning  you  may  see our  two proposals  in  their  proper
proportions. Mine spells fortune for both of us. Yours spells  ruin for both
of us. Good-night, M. Binet. Heaven help you to a wise decision.
     The decision to  which M.  Binet finally came  was, naturally, the only
one possible  in the face of so firm a resolve  as  that of Andre-Louis, who
held the trumps. Of course there  were  further discussions,  before all was
settled, and M. Binet was brought to an agreement only after an infinity  of
haggling surprising  in one who was an artist and not a man of business. One
or two concessions were made by Andre-Louis; he  consented, for instance, to
waive  his claim to  be  paid  for  scenarios, and he also consented that M.
Binet should appoint himself a salary that was out of all proportion to  his
deserts.
     Thus in the end the matter was  settled, and the announcement duly made
to the assembled company. There were, of course, jealousies and resentments.
But these were not deep-seated,  and they were readily swallowed when it was
discovered  that under the new arrangement the lot of the entire company was
to be materially improved from  the  point of  view of salaries. This  was a
matter  that  had  met with considerable opposition  from M.  Binet. But the
irresistible Scaramouche swept away all objections.
     "If we are to play at the Feydau, you want a company of self-respecting
comedians, and not a pack of cringing starvelings. The better we pay them in
reason, the more they will earn for us."
     Thus was conquered the company's resentment of this too swift promotion
of its latest recruit. Cheerfully now  - with one exception -  they accepted
the dominance of Scaramouche, a dominance  soon to be so firmly  established
that M. Binet himself came under it.
     The  one  exception  was  Climene. Her failure  to  bring to heel  this
interesting  young stranger, who had  almost  literally  dropped  into their
midst that  morning outside Guichen,  had begotten in her a malice which his
persistent ignoring of her had been steadily inflaming. She had remonstrated
with her father when  the new partnership was first formed. She had lost her
temper with him, and called  him a fool, whereupon M. Binet - in Pantaloon's
best manner - had lost his temper in  his turn and boxed her ears. She piled
it  up to the  account of Scaramouche, and spied her opportunity to pay  off
some of  that ever-increasing score. But opportunities were few. Scaramouche
was  too occupied just then. During the week  of preparation at Fougeray, he
was  hardly seen  save at the performances, whilst when  once they  were  at
Redon, he came and went like the wind between the theatre and the inn.
     The Redon  experiment had  justified itself  from the first. Stimulated
and  encouraged by this, Andre-Louis worked day  and night  during the month
that  they spent in that busy little town. The moment had been well  chosen,
for the trade in chestnuts of which Redon is the centre was just then at its
height. And  every afternoon the little theatre was packed  with spectators.
The fame of  the troupe had gone forth, borne by the chestnut-growers of the
district, who were  bringing their  wares to Redon market, and the audiences
were made up of people from the  surrounding country,  and from neighbouring
villages  as far  out as Allaire, Saint-Perrieux and Saint-Nicholas. To keep
the  business from slackening, Andre-Louis  prepared  a  new  scenario every
week.  He wrote three in  addition  to  those two with which he had  already
supplied  the company;  these  were  "The  Marriage  of Pantaloon," "The Shy
Lover," and "The  Terrible  Captain."  Of these the  last  was  the greatest
success. It  was based  upon the "Miles  Gloriosus"  of Plautus,  with great
opportunities for Rhodomont, and a good part for  Scaramouche as the roaring
captain's  sly  lieutenant. Its success was largely  due to  the  fact  that
Andre-Louis amplified the scenario to the extent of indicating very fully in
places the lines which the dialogue should follow, whilst  here and there he
had gone  so far  as to  supply  some of the  actual dialogue to be  spoken,
without, however, making it obligatory upon the actors to keep to the letter
of it.
     And  meanwhile as the business prospered, he became busy  with tailors,
improving  the  wardrobe  of  the  company,  which  was sorely  in  need  of
improvement. He ran to earth a couple of needy artists, lured them into  the
company to play small parts - apothecaries and notaries  - and  set them  to
beguile their leisure in painting new scenery, so as to be ready for what he
called the conquest of  Nantes, which was to  come in the new year. Never in
his life had  he worked so hard; never in his life had he  worked at all  by
comparison with his activities  now. His  fund of energy and  enthusiasm was
inexhaustible, like that of his good humour. He came and went, acted, wrote,
conceived, directed, planned, and executed, what time M. Binet took his ease
at  last in  comparative  affluence, drank Burgundy  every  night, ate white
bread  and other  delicacies,  and began  to  congratulate himself upon  his
astuteness in  having  made this industrious,  tireless fellow  his partner.
Having discovered how idle had been his fears of performing at Redon, he now
began to  dismiss the terrors with which  the  notion of Nantes had  haunted
him.
     And his  happiness  was reflected throughout the ranks of his  company,
with the  single exception  always  of Climene. She had  ceased to sneer  at
Scaramouche, haying realized at last that her sneers left him  untouched and
recoiled upon  herself.  Thus  her almost indefinable resentment of him  was
increased  by being stifled, until, at all costs,  an outlet for it must  be
found.
     One day  she threw herself  in  his way  as he was leaving the  theatre
after the  performance.  The others had  already gone, and she had  returned
upon pretence of having forgotten something.
     "Will you tell me what I have done to you?" she asked him, point-blank.
     "Done  to me, mademoiselle?" He did  not understand. She made a gesture
of impatience. "Why do you hate me?"
     "Hate you,  mademoiselle? I do not hate anybody. It  is the most stupid
of all the emotions. I have never hated - not even my enemies."
     "What Christian resignation!"
     "As for hating you, of all people!  Why...  I consider you  adorable. I
envy Leandre every day of my life.  I have  seriously thought of setting him
to play Scaramouche, and playing lovers myself."
     "I don't think you would be a success," said she.
     "That is the  only consideration that restrains me. And  yet, given the
inspiration  that  is  given  Leandre,  it  is  possible  that  I  might  be
convincing."
     "Why, what inspiration do you mean?"
     "The inspiration of playing to so adorable a Climene."
     Her lazy eyes were now alert to search that lean face of his.
     "You are laughing at me," said she, and swept past him into the theatre
on her pretended quest.  There was nothing to be done with such a fellow. He
was utterly without feeling. He was not a man at all.
     Yet  when she  came forth again  at the end  of  some five minutes, she
found him still lingering at the door.
     "Not gone yet?" she asked him, superciliously.
     "I was waiting  for you, mademoiselle.  You will be walking to the inn.
If I might escort you... "
     "But what gallantry! What condescension!"
     "Perhaps you would prefer that I did not?"
     "How could I prefer that, M.  Scaramouche? Besides, we  are  both going
the same way, and the streets are common to all. It is that I am overwhelmed
by the unusual honour."
     He looked into her piquant little  face, and noted how  obscured it was
by its cloud of dignity. He laughed.
     "Perhaps I feared that the honour was not sought."
     "Ah, now I understand," she cried. "It is for me to seek these honours.
I  am to woo a  man before he will pay me the homage of civility. It must be
so, since you, who clearly know everything,  have said so. It remains for me
to beg your pardon for my ignorance."
     "It amuses you to  be cruel," said Scaramouche. "No  matter.  Shall  we
walk?"
     They set out together, stepping briskly to warm their blood against the
wintry  evening  air.  Awhile they  went  in  silence,  yet  each  furtively
observing the other.
     "And  so,  you find  me cruel?" she  challenged him at length,  thereby
betraying the fact that the accusation had struck home.
     He looked at her with a half smile. "Will you deny it?"
     "You are the first man that ever accused me of that."
     "I  dare not suppose myself the first man to whom you have been  cruel.
That  were an assumption  too flattering  to myself. I must prefer  to think
that the others suffered in silence."
     "Mon  Dieu!  Have  you  suffered?"  She  was  between  seriousness  and
raillery.
     "I place the confession as an offering on the altar of your vanity."
     "I should never have suspected it."
     "How could you? Am I not what your father calls  a natural actor? I was
an actor long before I became Scaramouche. Therefore I have laughed. I often
do when I am hurt. When  you were pleased  to be disdainful, I acted disdain
in my turn."
     "You acted very well," said she, without reflecting.
     "Of course. I am an excellent actor."
     "And why this sudden change?"
     "In response to the change in you. You have grown weary of your part of
cruel madam - a dull part, believe me, and unworthy of your talents., Were I
a woman and had I your  loveliness and your grace, Climene, I should disdain
to use them as weapons of offence."
     "Loveliness and grace!" she echoed,  feigning amused  surprise. But the
vain baggage was mollified. "When was it that you discovered this beauty and
this grace, M. Scaramouche?"
     He looked at her a moment, considering the sprightly beauty of her, the
adorable femininity that from the first had so irresistibly attracted him.
     "One morning when I beheld you rehearsing a love-scene with Leandre."
     He caught the  surprise that leapt to her eyes, before  she veiled them
under drooping lids from his too questing gaze.
     "Why, that was the first time you saw me."
     "I had no earlier occasion to remark your charms."
     "You ask me to believe  too  much," said she, but her tone  was  softer
than he had ever known it yet.
     "Then  you'll refuse to believe  me if I confess that it was this grace
and  beauty that determined my  destiny that day by urging me  to join  your
father's troupe."
     At that  she  became  a little  out of breath. There  was no longer any
question of finding an outlet for resentment. Resentment was all forgotten.
     "But why? With what object?"
     "With the object of asking you one day to be my wife."
     She halted  under the  shock of that, and swung round  to face him. Her
glance met  his own  without, shyness  now; there was a hardening glitter in
her eyes,  a faint  stir of  colour in  her cheeks. She suspected him  of an
unpardonable mockery.
     "You go very fast, don't you?" she asked him, with heat.
     "I do. haven't you observed it? I am a man of sudden impulses. See what
I  have made of  the  Binet troupe in less  than a couple of months. Another
might have laboured for a year  and not achieved the  half of it. Shall I be
slower in love than in work? Would  it be reasonable  to expect it?  I  have
curbed and repressed myself not to scare you by precipitancy. In that I have
done  violence to  my  feelings, and more  than all in using  the same  cold
aloofness with which you chose to treat me. I have waited - oh! so patiently
- until you should tire of that mood of cruelty."
     "You are an amazing man," said she, quite c