just as she had addressed him.
“Aline!”
CHAPTER 8
THE DREAM
“The door,” Aline commanded her footman, and “Mount here beside me,” she commanded Andre–Louis, in the same breath.
“A moment, Aline.”
He turned to his companion, who was all amazement, and to Harlequin and Columbine, who had that moment come up to share it. “You permit me, Climene?” said he, breathlessly. But it was more a statement than a question. “Fortunately you are not alone. Harlequin will take care of you. Au revoir, at dinner.”
With that he sprang into the cabriolet without waiting for a reply. The footman closed the door, the coachman cracked his whip, and the regal equipage rolled away along the quay, leaving the three comedians staring after it, open-mouthed . . . Then Harlequin laughed.
“A prince in disguise, our Scaramouche!” said he.
Columbine clapped her hands and flashed her strong teeth. “But what a romance for you, Climene! How wonderful!”
The frown melted from Climene’s brow. Resentment changed to bewilderment.
“But who is she?”
“His sister, of course,” said Harlequin, quite definitely.
“His sister? How do you know?”
“I know what he will tell you on his return.”
“But why?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe him if he said she was his mother.”
Following the carriage with their glance, they wandered on in the direction it had taken. And in the carriage Aline was considering Andre–Louis with grave eyes, lips slightly compressed, and a tiny frown between her finely drawn eyebrows.
“You have taken to queer company, Andre,” was the first thing she said to him. “Or else I am mistaken in thinking that your companion was Mlle. Binet of the Theatre Feydau.”
“You are not mistaken. But I had not imagined Mlle. Binet so famous already.”
“Oh, as to that . . . ” mademoiselle shrugged, her tone quietly scornful. And she explained. “It is simply that I was at the play last night. I thought I recognized her.”
“You were at the Feydau last night? And I never saw you!”
“Were you there, too?”
“Was I there!” he cried. Then he checked, and abruptly changed his tone. “Oh, yes, I was there,” he said, as commonplace as he could, beset by a sudden reluctance to avow that he had so willingly descended to depths that she must account unworthy, and grateful that his disguise of face and voice should have proved impenetrable even to one who knew him so very well.
“I understand,” said she, and compressed her lips a little more tightly.
“But what do you understand?”
“The rare attractions of Mlle. Binet. Naturally you would be at the theatre. Your tone conveyed it very clearly. Do you know that you disappoint me, Andre? It is stupid of me, perhaps; it betrays, I suppose, my imperfect knowledge of your sex. I am aware that most young men of fashion find an irresistible attraction for creatures who parade themselves upon the stage. But I did not expect you to ape the ways of a man of fashion. I was foolish enough to imagine you to be different; rather above such trivial pursuits. I conceived you something of an idealist.”
“Sheer flattery.”
“So I perceive. But you misled me. You talked so much morality of a kind, you made philosophy so readily, that I came to be deceived. In fact, your hypocrisy was so consummate that I never suspected it. With your gift of acting I wonder that you haven’t joined Mlle. Binet’s troupe.”
“I have,” said he.
It had really become necessary to tell her, making choice of the lesser of the two evils with which she confronted him.
He saw first incredulity, then consternation, and lastly disgust overspread her face.
“Of course,” said she, after a long pause, “that would have the advantage of bringing you closer to your charmer.”
“That was only one of the inducements. There was another. Finding myself forced to choose between the stage and the gallows, I had the incredible weakness to prefer the former. It was utterly unworthy of a man of my lofty ideals, but — what would you? Like other ideologists, I find it easier to preach than to practise. Shall I stop the carriage and remove the contamination of my disgusting person? Or shall I tell you how it happened?”
“Tell me how it happened first. Then we will decide.”
He told her how he met the Binet Troupe, and how the men of the marechaussee forced upon him the discovery that in its bosom he could lie safely lost until the hue and cry had died down. The explanation dissolved her iciness.
“My poor Andre, why didn’t you tell me this at first?”
“For one thing, you didn’t give me time; for another, I feared to shock you with the spectacle of my degradation.”
She took him seriously. “But where was the need of it? And why did you not send us word as I required you of your whereabouts?”
“I was thinking of it only yesterday. I have hesitated for several reasons.”
“You thought it would offend us to know what you were doing?”
“I think that I preferred to surprise you by the magnitude of my ultimate achievements.”
“Oh, you are to become a great actor?” She was frankly scornful.
“That is not impossible. But I am more concerned to become a great author. There is no reason why you should sniff. The calling is an honourable one. All the world is proud to know such men as Beaumarchais and Chenier.”
“And you hope to equal them?”
“I hope to surpass them, whilst acknowledging that it was they who taught me how to walk. What did you think of the play last night?”
“It was amusing and well conceived.”
“Let me present you to the author.”
“You? But the company is one of the improvisers.”
“Even improvisers require an author to write their scenarios. That is all I write at present. Soon I shall be writing plays in the modern manner.”
“You deceive yourself, my poor Andre. The piece last night would have been nothing without the players. You are fortunate in your Scaramouche.”
“In confidence — I present you to him.”
“You — Scaramouche? You?” She turned to regard him fully. He smiled his close-lipped smile that made wrinkles like gashes in his cheeks. He nodded. “And I didn’t recognize you!”
“I thank you for the tribute. You imagined, of course, that I was a scene-shifter. And now that you know all about me, what of Gavrillac? What of my godfather?”
He was well, she told him, and still profoundly indignant with Andre–Louis for his defection, whilst secretly concerned on his behalf.
“I shall write to him to-day that I have seen you.”
“Do so. Tell him that I am well and prospering. But say no more. Do not tell him what I am doing. He has his prejudices too. Besides, it might not be prudent. And now the question I have been burning to ask ever since I entered your carriage. Why are you in Nantes, Aline?”
“I