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It was spent in erecting and preparing the stage at one end of the market-hall; and he began to realize how hard-earned were to be his monthly fifteen livres. At first there were four of them to the task or really three, for Pantaloon did no more than bawl directions. Stripped of their finery, Rhodomont and Leandre assisted Andre-Louis in that carpentering.
The fat man was the first to recover, and he announced it after his own fashion in one of the ready sarcasms in which he habitually dealt. "Hark!" he cried, "the very gods laugh at you, Leandre." Then he addressed the roof of the barn and its invisible tenant. "Hi! You there!" Andre-Louis revealed himself by a further protrusion of his tousled head. "Good-morning," said he, pleasantly.
I rely on you to come here, like one of Moliere's old men, to scold your nephew Leandre for his folly, while the Tenth Muse lies hidden in my bedroom; you must work on her feelings; strike hard, be brutal, offensive. I, you understand, shall express my blind devotion, and shall seem to be deaf, so that you may have to shout at me. "Come, if you can, at seven o'clock. "Yours, "E. LOUSTEAU."
He gave me, as a precept, to round off the elbows and to turn my toes outward and counselled me, beyond this, to go and see Leandre at the fair of Saint Germain and to adjust myself exactly on him. We dined together with a good appetite, and we parted shedding floods of tears.
But you... Oh, you, you come out here and smoke, and take the air, and talk of her as another man's leavings. I wonder I didn't strike you for the word." He tore his arm from the other's grip, and looked almost as if he would strike him now. "You should have done it," said Andre-Louis. "It's in your part." With an imprecation Leandre turned on his heel to go. Andre-Louis arrested his departure.
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.
"To be general, because he is always wrong. To be particular, because I judge the audience of Guichen to be too sophisticated for 'The Heartless Father." "You would put it more happily," interposed Andre-Louis who was the cause of this discussion "if you said that 'The Heartless Father' is too unsophisticated for the audience of Guichen." "Why, what's the difference?" asked Leandre.
Leandre a dull dog, as you will have conceived looked contemptuously down upon the little man. "And you, what were you born for?" he wondered. "Nobody knows," was the candid admission. "Nor yet why. It is the case of many of us, my dear, believe me." "But why" M. Binet took him up, and thus spoilt the beginnings of a very pretty quarrel "why do you say that Leandre is wrong?"
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.
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