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So Andre-Louis once more removed his neckcloth and his coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his fine shirt, whilst Rhodomont procured him soap, a towel, and presently a broken comb, and even a greasy hair-ribbon, in case the gentleman should have lost his own.
After all, it may not be necessary." He was gone. Rhodomont stared at Polichinelle. Polichinelle stared at Rhodomont. "What the devil is he thinking of?" quoth the latter. "That is most readily ascertained by going to see," replied Polichinelle. He completed changing in haste, and despite what Scaramouche had said; and then followed with Rhodomont.
But it looked as if already they were too late, for in that moment they were assailed from behind. M. Binet had succeeded at last in breaking past Polichinelle and Rhodomont, who in view of his murderous rage had been endeavouring to restrain him.
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.
And I trust, for the sake of those who might attempt it, that the means taken to impose silence upon that eloquent voice will not be taken to impose silence upon mine." There was a faint murmur of applause from the Left, splutter of contemptuous laughter from the Right. "Rhodomont!" a voice called to him.
But it was not a result that he intended or even foresaw. So much was this the case that in the interval after the second act, he sought the dressing-room shared by Polichinelle and Rhodomont. Polichinelle was in the act of changing. "I shouldn't trouble to change," he said. "The piece isn't likely to go beyond my opening scene of the next act with Leandre." "What do you mean?" "You'll see."
"And what is more, that is what it will be; that is what it already is. Do you doubt it?" "I hope it," said the schooled Leandre. "You may believe it," said Scaramouche, and again the acclamations rolled into thunder. Polichinelle and Rhodomont exchanged glances: indeed, the former winked, not without mirth. "Sacred name!" growled a voice behind them.
"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.
But the other parts had all been built up into importance, with the exception of Leandre, who remained as before. The two great roles were now Scaramouche, in the character of the intriguing Sbrigandini, and Pantaloon the father. There was, too, a comical part for Rhodomont, as the roaring bully hired by Polichinelle to cut Leandre into ribbons.
In short, in my opinion and that of all the spectators of the fight, he was a very Rhodomont, having fought his men all the way from the Puerta de Xeres to the statues of the college of Maese Rodrigo, a good hundred paces and more.
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