that had fetched in the better-class bourgeoisie, which filled more than
half of the twenty-sous places and three quarters of the twelve-sous seats.
The lure had drawn them. Whether it was to continue to do so would depend
upon the manner in which the canevas over which he had laboured to the glory
of Binet was interpreted by the company. Of the merits of the canevas itself
he had no doubt. The authors upon whom he had drawn for the elements of it
were sound, and he had taken of their best, which he claimed to be no more
than the justice due to them.
The company excelled itself. The audience followed with relish the sly
intriguings of Scaramouche, delighted in the beauty and freshness of
Climene, was moved almost to tears by the hard fate which through four long
acts kept her from the hungering arms of the so beautiful Leandre, howled
its delight over the ignominy of Pantaloon, the buffooneries of his
sprightly lackey Harlequin, and the thrasonical strut and bellowing
fierceness of the cowardly Rhodomont.
The success of the Binet troupe in Guichen was assured. That night the
company drank Burgundy at M. Binet's expense. The takings reached the sum of
eight louis, which was as good business as M. Binet had ever done in all his
career. He was very pleased. Gratification rose like steam from his fat
body. He even condescended so far as to attribute a share of the credit for
the success to M. Parvissimus.
"His suggestion," he was careful to say, by way of properly delimiting
that share, "was most valuable, as I perceived at the time."
"And his cutting of quills," growled Polichinelle. "Don't forget that.
It is most important to have by you a man who understands how to cut a
quill, as I shall remember when I turn author."
But not even that gibe could stir M. Binet out of his lethargy of
content.
On Tuesday the success was repeated artistically and augmented
financially. Ten louis and seven livres was the enormous sum that
Andre-Louis, the doorkeeper, counted over to M. Binet after the performance.
Never yet had M. Binet made so much money in one evening - and a miserable
little village like Guichen was certainly the last place in which he would
have expected this windfall.
"Ah, but Guichen in time of fair," Andre-Louis reminded him. "There are
people here from as far as Nantes and Rennes to buy and sell. To-morrow,
being the last day of the fair, the crowds will be greater than ever. We
should better this evening's receipts."
"Better them? I shall be quite satisfied if we do as well, my friend."
"You can depend upon that," Andre-Louis assured him. "Are we to have
Burgundy?"
And then the tragedy occurred. It announced itself in a succession of
bumps and thuds, culminating in a crash outside the door that brought them
all to their feet in alarm.
Pierrot sprang to open, and beheld the tumbled body of a man lying at
the foot of the stairs. It emitted groans, therefore it was alive. Pierrot
went forward to turn it over, and disclosed the fact that the body wore the
wizened face of Scaramouche, a grimacing, groaning, twitching Scaramouche.
The whole company, pressing after Pierrot, abandoned itself to
laughter.
"I always said you should change parts with me," cried Harlequin.
"You're such an excellent tumbler. Have you been practising?"
"Fool!" Scaramouche snapped. "Must you be laughing when I've all but
broken my neck?"
"You are right. We ought to be weeping because you didn't break it.
Come, man, get up," and he held out a hand to the prostrate rogue.
Scaramouche took the hand, clutched it, heaved himself from the ground,
then with a scream dropped back again.
"My foot!" he complained.
Binet rolled through the group of players, scattering them to right and
left. Apprehension had been quick to seize him. Fate had played him such
tricks before.
"What ails your foot?" quoth he, sourly.
"It's broken, I think," Scaramouche complained.
"Broken? Bah! Get up, man." He caught him under the armpits and hauled
him up.
Scaramouche came howling to one foot; the other doubled under him when
he attempted to set it down, and he must have collapsed again but that Binet
supported him. He filled the place with his plaint, whilst Binet swore
amazingly and variedly.
"Must you bellow like a calf, you fool? Be quiet. A chair here, some
one."
A chair was thrust forward. He crushed Scaramouche down into it.
"Let us look at this foot of yours."
Heedless of Scaramouche's howls of pain, he swept away shoe and
stocking.
"What ails it?" he asked, staring. "Nothing that I can see." He seized
it, heel in one hand, instep in the other, and gyrated it. Scaramouche
screamed in agony, until Climene caught Binet's arm and made him stop.
"My God, have you no feelings?" she reproved her father. "The lad has
hurt his foot. Must you torture him? Will that cure it?"
"Hurt his foot!" said Binet. "I can see nothing the matter with his
foot - nothing to justify all this uproar. He has bruised it, maybe... "
"A man with a bruised foot doesn't scream like that," said Madame over
Climene's shoulder. "Perhaps he has dislocated it."
"That is what I fear," whimpered Scaramouche.
Binet heaved himself up in disgust.
"Take him to bed," he bade them, "and fetch a doctor to see him."
It was done, and the doctor came. Having seen the patient, he reported
that nothing very serious had happened, but that in falling he had evidently
sprained his foot a little. A few days' rest and all would be well.
"A few days!" cried Binet. "God of God! Do you mean that he can't
walk?"
"It would be unwise, indeed impossible for more than a few steps."
M. Binet paid the doctor's fee, and sat down to think. He filled
himself a glass of Burgundy, tossed it off without a word, and sat
thereafter staring into the empty glass.
"It is of course the sort of thing that must always be happening to
me," he grumbled to no one in particular. The members of the company were
all standing in silence before him, sharing his dismay. "I might have known
that this - or something like it - would occur to spoil the first vein of
luck that I have found in years. Ah, well, it is finished. To-morrow we pack
and depart. The best day of the fair, on the crest of the wave of our
success - a good fifteen louis to be taken, and this happens! God of God!"
"Do you mean to abandon to-morrow's performance?"
All turned to stare with Binet at Andre-Louis.
"Are we to play 'Figaro-Scaramouche' without Scaramouche?" asked Binet,
sneering.
"Of course not." Andre-Louis came forward. "But surely some
rearrangement of the parts is possible. For instance, there is a fine actor
in Polichinelle."
Polichinelle swept him a bow. "Overwhelmed," said he, ever sardonic.
"But he has a part of his own," objected Binet.
"A small part, which Pasquariel could play."
"And who will play Pasquariel?"
"Nobody. We delete it. The play need not suffer."
"He thinks of everything," sneered Polichinelle. "What a man!"
But Binet was far from agreement. "Are you suggesting that Polichinelle
should play Scaramouche?" he asked, incredulously.
"Why not? He is able enough!"
"Overwhelmed again," interjected Polichinelle.
"Play Scaramouche with that figure?" Binet heaved himself up to point a
denunciatory finger at Polichinelle's sturdy, thick-set shortness.
"For lack of a better," said Andre-Louis.
"Overwhelmed more than ever." Polichinelle's bow was superb this time.
"Faith, I think I'll take the air to cool me after so much blushing."
"Go to the devil," Binet flung at him.
"Better and better." Polichinelle made for the door. On the threshold
he halted and struck an attitude. "Understand me, Binet. I do not now play
Scaramouche in any circumstances whatever." And he went out. On the whole,
it was a very dignified exit.
Andre-Louis shrugged, threw out his arms, and let them fall to his
sides again. "You have ruined everything," he told M. Binet. "The matter
could easily have been arranged. Well, well, it is you are master here; and
since you want us to pack and be off, that is what we will do, I suppose."
He went out, too. M. Binet stood in thought a moment, then followed
him, his little eyes very cunning. He caught him up in the doorway. "Let us
take a walk together, M. Parvissimus," said he, very affably.
He thrust his arm through Andre-Louis', and led him out into the
street, where there was still considerable movement. Past the booths that
ranged about the market they went, and down the hill towards the bridge. "I
don't think we shall pack to-morrow," said M. Binet, presently. "In fact, we
shall play to-morrow night."
"Not if I know Polichinelle. You have... "
"I am not thinking of Polichinelle."
"Of whom, then?"
"Of yourself."
"I am flattered, sir. And in what capacity are you thinking of me?"
There was something too sleek and oily in Binet's voice for Andre-Louis'
taste.
"I am thinking of you in the part of Scaramouche."
"Day-dreams," said Andre-Louis. "You are amusing yourself, of course."
"Not in the least. I am quite serious."
"But I am not an actor."
"You told me that you could be."
"Oh, upon occasion... a small part, perhaps... "
"Well, here is a big part - the chance to arrive at a single stride.
How many men have had such a chance?"
"It is a chance I do not covet, M. Binet. Shall we change the subject?"
He was very frosty, as much perhaps because he scented in M. Binet's manner
something that was vaguely menacing as for any other reason.
"We'll change the subject when I please," said M. Binet, allowing a
glimpse of steel to glimmer through the silk of him. "To-morrow night you
play Scaramouche. You are ready enough in your wits, your figure is ideal,
and you have just the kind of mordant humour for the part. You should be a
great success."
"It is much more likely that I should be an egregious failure."
"That won't matter," said Binet, cynically, and explained himself. "The
failure will be personal to yourself. The receipts will be safe by then."
"Much obliged," said Andre-Louis.
"We should take fifteen louis to-morrow night."
"It is unfortunate that you are without a Scaramouche," said
Andre-Louis.
"It is fortunate that I have one, M. Parvissimus." Andre-Louis
disengaged his arm. "I begin to find you tiresome," said he. "I think I will
return."
"A moment, M. Parvissimus. If I am to lose that fifteen louis...
you'll not take it amiss that I compensate myself in other ways?"
"That is your own concern, M. Binet."
"Pardon, M. Parvissimus. It may possibly be also yours." Binet took his
arm again. "Do me the kindness to step across the street with me. Just as
far as the post-office there. I have something to show you."
Andre-Louis went. Before they reached that sheet of paper nailed upon
the door, he knew exactly what it would say. And in effect it was, as he had
supposed, that twenty louis would be paid for information leading to the
apprehension of one Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of Gavrillac, who was wanted
by the King's Lieutenant in Rennes upon a charge of sedition.
M. Binet watched him whilst he read. Their arms were linked, and
Binet's grip was firm and powerful.
"Now, my friend," said he, "will you be M. Parvissimus and play
Scaramouche to-morrow, or will you be Andre-Louis Moreau of Gavrillac and go
to Rennes to satisfy the King's Lieutenant?"
"And if it should happen that you are mistaken?" quoth Andre-Louis, his
face a mask.
"I'll take the risk of that," leered M. Binet. "You mentioned, I think,
that you were a lawyer. An indiscretion, my dear. It is unlikely that two
lawyers will be in hiding at the same time in the same district. You see it
is not really clever of me. Well, M. Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of
Gavrillac, what is it to be?"
"We will talk it over as we walk back," said Andre-Louis.
"What is there to talk over?"
"One or two things, I think. I must know where I stand. Come, sir, if
you please."
"Very well," said M. Binet, and they turned up the street again, but M.
Binet maintained a firm hold of his young friend's arm, and kept himself on
the alert for any tricks that the young gentleman might be disposed to play.
It was an unnecessary precaution. Andre-Louis was not the man to waste his
energy futilely. He knew that in bodily strength he was no match at all for
the heavy and powerful Pantaloon.
"If I yield to your most eloquent and seductive persuasions, M. Binet,"
said he, sweetly, "what guarantee do you give me that you will not sell me
for twenty louis after I shall have served your turn?"
"You have my word of honour for that." M. Binet was emphatic.
Andre-Louis laughed. "Oh, we are to talk of honour, are we? Really, M.
Binet? It is clear you think me a fool."
In the dark he did not see the flush that leapt to M. Binet's round
face. It was some moments before he replied.
"Perhaps you are right," he growled. "What guarantee do you want?"
"I do not know what guarantee you can possibly give."
"I have said that I will keep faith with you."
"Until you find it more profitable to sell me."
"You have it in your power to make it more profitable always for me to
keep faith with you. It is due to you that we have done so well in Guichen.
Oh, I admit it frankly."
"In private," said Andre-Louis.
M. Binet left the sarcasm unheeded.
"What you have done for us here with 'Figaro-Scaramouche,' you can do
elsewhere with other things. Naturally, I shall not want to lose you. That
is your guarantee."
"Yet to-night you would sell me for twenty louis."
"Because - name of God! - you enrage me by refusing me a service well
within your powers. Don't you think, had I been entirely the rogue you think
me, I could have sold you on Saturday last? I want you to understand me, my
dear Parvissimus."
"I beg that you'll not apologize. You would be more tiresome than
ever."
"Of course you will be gibing. You never miss a chance to gibe. It'll
bring you trouble before you're done with life. Come; here we are back at
the inn, and you have not yet given me your decision."
Andre-Louis looked at him. "I must yield, of course. I can't help
myself."
M. Binet released his arm at last, and slapped him heartily upon the
back. "Well declared, my lad. You'll never regret it. If I know anything of
the theatre, I know that you have made the great decision of your life.
To-morrow night you'll thank me."
Andre-Louis shrugged, and stepped out ahead towards the inn. But M.
Binet called him back.
"M. Parvissimus!"
He turned. There stood the man's great bulk, the moonlight beating down
upon that round fat face of his, and he was holding out his hand.
"M. Parvissimus, no rancour. It is a thing I do not admit into my life.
You will shake hands with me, and we will forget all this."
Andre-Louis considered him a moment with disgust. He was growing angry.
Then, realizing this, he conceived himself ridiculous, 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.
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.
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
half of the twenty-sous places and three quarters of the twelve-sous seats.
The lure had drawn them. Whether it was to continue to do so would depend
upon the manner in which the canevas over which he had laboured to the glory
of Binet was interpreted by the company. Of the merits of the canevas itself
he had no doubt. The authors upon whom he had drawn for the elements of it
were sound, and he had taken of their best, which he claimed to be no more
than the justice due to them.
The company excelled itself. The audience followed with relish the sly
intriguings of Scaramouche, delighted in the beauty and freshness of
Climene, was moved almost to tears by the hard fate which through four long
acts kept her from the hungering arms of the so beautiful Leandre, howled
its delight over the ignominy of Pantaloon, the buffooneries of his
sprightly lackey Harlequin, and the thrasonical strut and bellowing
fierceness of the cowardly Rhodomont.
The success of the Binet troupe in Guichen was assured. That night the
company drank Burgundy at M. Binet's expense. The takings reached the sum of
eight louis, which was as good business as M. Binet had ever done in all his
career. He was very pleased. Gratification rose like steam from his fat
body. He even condescended so far as to attribute a share of the credit for
the success to M. Parvissimus.
"His suggestion," he was careful to say, by way of properly delimiting
that share, "was most valuable, as I perceived at the time."
"And his cutting of quills," growled Polichinelle. "Don't forget that.
It is most important to have by you a man who understands how to cut a
quill, as I shall remember when I turn author."
But not even that gibe could stir M. Binet out of his lethargy of
content.
On Tuesday the success was repeated artistically and augmented
financially. Ten louis and seven livres was the enormous sum that
Andre-Louis, the doorkeeper, counted over to M. Binet after the performance.
Never yet had M. Binet made so much money in one evening - and a miserable
little village like Guichen was certainly the last place in which he would
have expected this windfall.
"Ah, but Guichen in time of fair," Andre-Louis reminded him. "There are
people here from as far as Nantes and Rennes to buy and sell. To-morrow,
being the last day of the fair, the crowds will be greater than ever. We
should better this evening's receipts."
"Better them? I shall be quite satisfied if we do as well, my friend."
"You can depend upon that," Andre-Louis assured him. "Are we to have
Burgundy?"
And then the tragedy occurred. It announced itself in a succession of
bumps and thuds, culminating in a crash outside the door that brought them
all to their feet in alarm.
Pierrot sprang to open, and beheld the tumbled body of a man lying at
the foot of the stairs. It emitted groans, therefore it was alive. Pierrot
went forward to turn it over, and disclosed the fact that the body wore the
wizened face of Scaramouche, a grimacing, groaning, twitching Scaramouche.
The whole company, pressing after Pierrot, abandoned itself to
laughter.
"I always said you should change parts with me," cried Harlequin.
"You're such an excellent tumbler. Have you been practising?"
"Fool!" Scaramouche snapped. "Must you be laughing when I've all but
broken my neck?"
"You are right. We ought to be weeping because you didn't break it.
Come, man, get up," and he held out a hand to the prostrate rogue.
Scaramouche took the hand, clutched it, heaved himself from the ground,
then with a scream dropped back again.
"My foot!" he complained.
Binet rolled through the group of players, scattering them to right and
left. Apprehension had been quick to seize him. Fate had played him such
tricks before.
"What ails your foot?" quoth he, sourly.
"It's broken, I think," Scaramouche complained.
"Broken? Bah! Get up, man." He caught him under the armpits and hauled
him up.
Scaramouche came howling to one foot; the other doubled under him when
he attempted to set it down, and he must have collapsed again but that Binet
supported him. He filled the place with his plaint, whilst Binet swore
amazingly and variedly.
"Must you bellow like a calf, you fool? Be quiet. A chair here, some
one."
A chair was thrust forward. He crushed Scaramouche down into it.
"Let us look at this foot of yours."
Heedless of Scaramouche's howls of pain, he swept away shoe and
stocking.
"What ails it?" he asked, staring. "Nothing that I can see." He seized
it, heel in one hand, instep in the other, and gyrated it. Scaramouche
screamed in agony, until Climene caught Binet's arm and made him stop.
"My God, have you no feelings?" she reproved her father. "The lad has
hurt his foot. Must you torture him? Will that cure it?"
"Hurt his foot!" said Binet. "I can see nothing the matter with his
foot - nothing to justify all this uproar. He has bruised it, maybe... "
"A man with a bruised foot doesn't scream like that," said Madame over
Climene's shoulder. "Perhaps he has dislocated it."
"That is what I fear," whimpered Scaramouche.
Binet heaved himself up in disgust.
"Take him to bed," he bade them, "and fetch a doctor to see him."
It was done, and the doctor came. Having seen the patient, he reported
that nothing very serious had happened, but that in falling he had evidently
sprained his foot a little. A few days' rest and all would be well.
"A few days!" cried Binet. "God of God! Do you mean that he can't
walk?"
"It would be unwise, indeed impossible for more than a few steps."
M. Binet paid the doctor's fee, and sat down to think. He filled
himself a glass of Burgundy, tossed it off without a word, and sat
thereafter staring into the empty glass.
"It is of course the sort of thing that must always be happening to
me," he grumbled to no one in particular. The members of the company were
all standing in silence before him, sharing his dismay. "I might have known
that this - or something like it - would occur to spoil the first vein of
luck that I have found in years. Ah, well, it is finished. To-morrow we pack
and depart. The best day of the fair, on the crest of the wave of our
success - a good fifteen louis to be taken, and this happens! God of God!"
"Do you mean to abandon to-morrow's performance?"
All turned to stare with Binet at Andre-Louis.
"Are we to play 'Figaro-Scaramouche' without Scaramouche?" asked Binet,
sneering.
"Of course not." Andre-Louis came forward. "But surely some
rearrangement of the parts is possible. For instance, there is a fine actor
in Polichinelle."
Polichinelle swept him a bow. "Overwhelmed," said he, ever sardonic.
"But he has a part of his own," objected Binet.
"A small part, which Pasquariel could play."
"And who will play Pasquariel?"
"Nobody. We delete it. The play need not suffer."
"He thinks of everything," sneered Polichinelle. "What a man!"
But Binet was far from agreement. "Are you suggesting that Polichinelle
should play Scaramouche?" he asked, incredulously.
"Why not? He is able enough!"
"Overwhelmed again," interjected Polichinelle.
"Play Scaramouche with that figure?" Binet heaved himself up to point a
denunciatory finger at Polichinelle's sturdy, thick-set shortness.
"For lack of a better," said Andre-Louis.
"Overwhelmed more than ever." Polichinelle's bow was superb this time.
"Faith, I think I'll take the air to cool me after so much blushing."
"Go to the devil," Binet flung at him.
"Better and better." Polichinelle made for the door. On the threshold
he halted and struck an attitude. "Understand me, Binet. I do not now play
Scaramouche in any circumstances whatever." And he went out. On the whole,
it was a very dignified exit.
Andre-Louis shrugged, threw out his arms, and let them fall to his
sides again. "You have ruined everything," he told M. Binet. "The matter
could easily have been arranged. Well, well, it is you are master here; and
since you want us to pack and be off, that is what we will do, I suppose."
He went out, too. M. Binet stood in thought a moment, then followed
him, his little eyes very cunning. He caught him up in the doorway. "Let us
take a walk together, M. Parvissimus," said he, very affably.
He thrust his arm through Andre-Louis', and led him out into the
street, where there was still considerable movement. Past the booths that
ranged about the market they went, and down the hill towards the bridge. "I
don't think we shall pack to-morrow," said M. Binet, presently. "In fact, we
shall play to-morrow night."
"Not if I know Polichinelle. You have... "
"I am not thinking of Polichinelle."
"Of whom, then?"
"Of yourself."
"I am flattered, sir. And in what capacity are you thinking of me?"
There was something too sleek and oily in Binet's voice for Andre-Louis'
taste.
"I am thinking of you in the part of Scaramouche."
"Day-dreams," said Andre-Louis. "You are amusing yourself, of course."
"Not in the least. I am quite serious."
"But I am not an actor."
"You told me that you could be."
"Oh, upon occasion... a small part, perhaps... "
"Well, here is a big part - the chance to arrive at a single stride.
How many men have had such a chance?"
"It is a chance I do not covet, M. Binet. Shall we change the subject?"
He was very frosty, as much perhaps because he scented in M. Binet's manner
something that was vaguely menacing as for any other reason.
"We'll change the subject when I please," said M. Binet, allowing a
glimpse of steel to glimmer through the silk of him. "To-morrow night you
play Scaramouche. You are ready enough in your wits, your figure is ideal,
and you have just the kind of mordant humour for the part. You should be a
great success."
"It is much more likely that I should be an egregious failure."
"That won't matter," said Binet, cynically, and explained himself. "The
failure will be personal to yourself. The receipts will be safe by then."
"Much obliged," said Andre-Louis.
"We should take fifteen louis to-morrow night."
"It is unfortunate that you are without a Scaramouche," said
Andre-Louis.
"It is fortunate that I have one, M. Parvissimus." Andre-Louis
disengaged his arm. "I begin to find you tiresome," said he. "I think I will
return."
"A moment, M. Parvissimus. If I am to lose that fifteen louis...
you'll not take it amiss that I compensate myself in other ways?"
"That is your own concern, M. Binet."
"Pardon, M. Parvissimus. It may possibly be also yours." Binet took his
arm again. "Do me the kindness to step across the street with me. Just as
far as the post-office there. I have something to show you."
Andre-Louis went. Before they reached that sheet of paper nailed upon
the door, he knew exactly what it would say. And in effect it was, as he had
supposed, that twenty louis would be paid for information leading to the
apprehension of one Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of Gavrillac, who was wanted
by the King's Lieutenant in Rennes upon a charge of sedition.
M. Binet watched him whilst he read. Their arms were linked, and
Binet's grip was firm and powerful.
"Now, my friend," said he, "will you be M. Parvissimus and play
Scaramouche to-morrow, or will you be Andre-Louis Moreau of Gavrillac and go
to Rennes to satisfy the King's Lieutenant?"
"And if it should happen that you are mistaken?" quoth Andre-Louis, his
face a mask.
"I'll take the risk of that," leered M. Binet. "You mentioned, I think,
that you were a lawyer. An indiscretion, my dear. It is unlikely that two
lawyers will be in hiding at the same time in the same district. You see it
is not really clever of me. Well, M. Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of
Gavrillac, what is it to be?"
"We will talk it over as we walk back," said Andre-Louis.
"What is there to talk over?"
"One or two things, I think. I must know where I stand. Come, sir, if
you please."
"Very well," said M. Binet, and they turned up the street again, but M.
Binet maintained a firm hold of his young friend's arm, and kept himself on
the alert for any tricks that the young gentleman might be disposed to play.
It was an unnecessary precaution. Andre-Louis was not the man to waste his
energy futilely. He knew that in bodily strength he was no match at all for
the heavy and powerful Pantaloon.
"If I yield to your most eloquent and seductive persuasions, M. Binet,"
said he, sweetly, "what guarantee do you give me that you will not sell me
for twenty louis after I shall have served your turn?"
"You have my word of honour for that." M. Binet was emphatic.
Andre-Louis laughed. "Oh, we are to talk of honour, are we? Really, M.
Binet? It is clear you think me a fool."
In the dark he did not see the flush that leapt to M. Binet's round
face. It was some moments before he replied.
"Perhaps you are right," he growled. "What guarantee do you want?"
"I do not know what guarantee you can possibly give."
"I have said that I will keep faith with you."
"Until you find it more profitable to sell me."
"You have it in your power to make it more profitable always for me to
keep faith with you. It is due to you that we have done so well in Guichen.
Oh, I admit it frankly."
"In private," said Andre-Louis.
M. Binet left the sarcasm unheeded.
"What you have done for us here with 'Figaro-Scaramouche,' you can do
elsewhere with other things. Naturally, I shall not want to lose you. That
is your guarantee."
"Yet to-night you would sell me for twenty louis."
"Because - name of God! - you enrage me by refusing me a service well
within your powers. Don't you think, had I been entirely the rogue you think
me, I could have sold you on Saturday last? I want you to understand me, my
dear Parvissimus."
"I beg that you'll not apologize. You would be more tiresome than
ever."
"Of course you will be gibing. You never miss a chance to gibe. It'll
bring you trouble before you're done with life. Come; here we are back at
the inn, and you have not yet given me your decision."
Andre-Louis looked at him. "I must yield, of course. I can't help
myself."
M. Binet released his arm at last, and slapped him heartily upon the
back. "Well declared, my lad. You'll never regret it. If I know anything of
the theatre, I know that you have made the great decision of your life.
To-morrow night you'll thank me."
Andre-Louis shrugged, and stepped out ahead towards the inn. But M.
Binet called him back.
"M. Parvissimus!"
He turned. There stood the man's great bulk, the moonlight beating down
upon that round fat face of his, and he was holding out his hand.
"M. Parvissimus, no rancour. It is a thing I do not admit into my life.
You will shake hands with me, and we will forget all this."
Andre-Louis considered him a moment with disgust. He was growing angry.
Then, realizing this, he conceived himself ridiculous, 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.
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.
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