kept quiet on the surface only by the persuasion that all goes well. At a hint to the contrary it would boil over.”
“Would it so?” said Scaramouche, thoughtfully. “The knowledge may be useful.” And then he changed the subject. “You know that La Tour d’Azyr is here?”
“In Nantes? He has courage if he shows himself. They are not a docile people, these Nantais, and they know his record and the part he played in the rising at Rennes. I marvel they haven’t stoned him. But they will, sooner or later. It only needs that some one should suggest it.”
“That is very likely,” said Andre–Louis, and smiled. “He doesn’t show himself much; not in the streets, at least. So that he has not the courage you suppose; nor any kind of courage, as I told him once. He has only insolence.”
At parting Le Chapelier again exhorted him to give thought to what he proposed. “Send me word if you change your mind. I am lodged at the Cerf, and I shall be here until the day after to-morrow. If you have ambition, this is your moment.”
“I have no ambition, I suppose,” said Andre–Louis, and went his way.
That night at the theatre he had a mischievous impulse to test what Le Chapelier had told him of the state of public feeling in the city. They were playing “The Terrible Captain,” in the last act of which the empty cowardice of the bullying braggart Rhodomont is revealed by Scaramouche.
After the laughter which the exposure of the roaring captain invariably produced, it remained for Scaramouche contemptuously to dismiss him in a phrase that varied nightly, according to the inspiration of the moment. This time he chose to give his phrase a political complexion:
“Thus, O thrasonical coward, is your emptiness exposed. Because of your long length and the great sword you carry and the angle at which you cock your hat, people have gone in fear of you, have believed in you, have imagined you to be as terrible and as formidable as you insolently make yourself appear. But at the first touch of true spirit you crumple up, you tremble, you whine pitifully, and the great sword remains in your scabbard. You remind me of the Privileged Orders when confronted by the Third Estate.”
It was audacious of him, and he was prepared for anything — a laugh, applause, indignation, or all together. But he was not prepared for what came. And it came so suddenly and spontaneously from the groundlings and the body of those in the amphitheatre that he was almost scared by it — as a boy may be scared who has held a match to a sun-scorched hayrick. It was a hurricane of furious applause. Men leapt to their feet, sprang up on to the benches, waving their hats in the air, deafening him with the terrific uproar of their acclamations. And it rolled on and on, nor ceased until the curtain fell.
Scaramouche stood meditatively smiling with tight lips. At the last moment he had caught a glimpse of M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s face thrust farther forward than usual from the shadows of his box, and it was a face set in anger, with eyes on fire.
“Mon Dieu!” laughed Rhodomont, recovering from the real scare that had succeeded his histrionic terror, “but you have a great trick of tickling them in the right place, Scaramouche.”
Scaramouche looked up at him and smiled. “It can be useful upon occasion,” said he, and went off to his dressing-room to change.
But a reprimand awaited him. He was delayed at the theatre by matters concerned with the scenery of the new piece they were to mount upon the morrow. By the time he was rid of the business the rest of the company had long since left. He called a chair and had himself carried back to the inn in solitary state. It was one of many minor luxuries his comparatively affluent present circumstances permitted.
Coming into that upstairs room that was common to all the troupe, he found M. Binet talking loudly and vehemently. He had caught sounds of his voice whilst yet upon the stairs. As he entered Binet broke off short, and wheeled to face him.
“You are here at last!” It was so odd a greeting that Andre–Louis did no more than look his mild surprise. “I await your explanations of the disgraceful scene you provoked to-night.”
“Disgraceful? Is it disgraceful that the public should applaud me?”
“The public? The rabble, you mean. Do you want to deprive us of the patronage of all gentlefolk by vulgar appeals to the low passions of the mob?”
Andre–Louis stepped past M. Binet and forward to the table. He shrugged contemptuously. The man offended him, after all.
“You exaggerate grossly — as usual.”
“I do not exaggerate. And I am the master in my own theatre. This is the Binet Troupe, and it shall be conducted in the Binet way.”
“Who are the gentlefolk the loss of whose patronage to the Feydau will be so poignantly felt?” asked Andre–Louis.
“You imply that there are none? See how wrong you are. After the play to-night M. le Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr came to me, and spoke to me in the severest terms about your scandalous outburst. I was forced to apologize, and . . . ”
“The more fool you,” said Andre–Louis. “A man who respected himself would have shown that gentleman the door.” M. Binet’s face began to empurple. “You call yourself the head of the Binet Troupe, you boast that you will be master in your own theatre, and you stand like a lackey to take the orders of the first insolent fellow who comes to your green-room to tell you that he does not like a line spoken by one of your company! I say again that had you really respected yourself you would have turned him out.”
There was a murmur of approval from several members of the company, who, having heard the arrogant tone assumed by the Marquis, were filled with resentment against the slur cast upon them all.
“And I say further,” Andre–Louis went on, “that a man who respects himself, on quite other grounds, would have been only too glad to have seized this pretext to show M. de La Tour d’Azyr the door.”
“What do you mean by that?” There was a rumble of thunder in the question.
Andre–Louis’ eyes swept round the company assembled at the supper-table. “Where is Climene?” he asked, sharply.
Leandre leapt up to answer him, white in the face, tense and quivering with excitement.
“She left the theatre in the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr’s carriage immediately after the performance. We heard him offer to drive her to this inn.”
Andre–Louis glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. He seemed unnaturally calm.
“That would be an hour ago — rather more. And she has not yet arrived?”
His eyes sought M. Binet’s. M. Binet’s eyes eluded his glance. Again it was Leandre who answered him.
“Not yet.”
“Ah!” Andre–Louis sat down, and poured himself wine. There was an oppressive silence in the room. Leandre watched him expectantly, Columbine commiseratingly. Even M. Binet appeared to be waiting for a cue from Scaramouche. But Scaramouche disappointed him. “Have you left me anything to eat?” he asked.
Platters were pushed towards him. He helped himself calmly to food, and ate in silence, apparently with a good appetite. M. Binet sat down, poured himself wine, and drank. Presently he attempted to make conversation with one and another. He was answered curtly, in monosyllables. M. Binet did not appear to be in favour with his troupe that night.
At long length came a rumble of wheels below and a rattle of halting hooves. Then voices, the high, trilling laugh of Climene floating upwards. Andre–Louis went on eating unconcernedly.
“What an actor!” said Harlequin under his breath to Polichinelle, and Polichinelle nodded gloomily.
She came in, a leading lady taking the stage, head high, chin thrust forward, eyes dancing with laughter; she expressed triumph and arrogance. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was some disorder in the mass of nut-brown hair that crowned her head. In her left hand she carried an enormous