“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