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"As the priest said when he kissed the serving-wench," snarled Scaramouche, and went on eating. "His humour, like your own, you will observe, is acrid," said Pantaloon. He passed on. "Then that rascal with the lumpy nose and the grinning bucolic countenance is, of course, Pierrot. Could he be aught else?" "I could play lovers a deal better," said the rustic cherub.
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.
At the same time, M. Scaramouche, you'll observe that I did not flaunt my trespass quite as openly as you and your companions." Having donned his boots, Andre-Louis came nimbly to the ground in his shirt-sleeves, his riding-coat over his arm. As he stood there to don it, the little cunning eyes of the heavy father conned him in detail.
On its middle finger a diamond of great price drew almost at once by its effulgence the eyes of all. Her father sprang to meet her with an unusual display of paternal tenderness. "At last, my child!" He conducted her to the table. She sank into a chair, a little wearily, a little nervelessly, but the smile did not leave her face, not even when she glanced across at Scaramouche.
He rolled forward with his ponderous yet curiously noiseless gait. Scaramouche turned to her, smiling, and handed her the candle. "If you will leave us, Climene, I will ask your hand of your father in proper form." She vanished, a little fluttered, lovelier than ever in her mixture of confusion and timidity.
"The gentleman," said Andre-Louis, "is the devil; or rather, I should prefer to say upon reflection, that the devil is a gentleman by comparison." "And yet," interposed the villainous-looking fellow who played Scaramouche, "by your own confessing you don't hesitate, yourself, to trespass upon his property." "Ah, but then, you see, I am a lawyer.
"I always said you should change parts with me," cried Harlequin. "You're such an excellent tumbler. Have you been practising?" "Fool!" Scaramouche snapped. "Must you be laughing when I've all but broken my neck?" "You are right. We ought to be weeping because you didn't break it. Come, man, get up," and he held out a hand to the prostrate rogue.
I am not sure if she told me that they intended to go. Lord Barrymore danced the pas Russe with Delpini, and then performed Scaramouche in the petite piece. I asked how he danced; Mr. Lewis said very ill. How did he perform the other part? execrably bad. "Do you think," I said, "that he would have known how to snuff the candles?" "I rather think not," says Mr. Lewis.
"If you will be blind to your interests, you will presently be a head without a body. And what use is that? Can the shoulders of Pantaloon carry the mantle of Figaro? You laugh. Of course you laugh. The notion is absurd. The proper person for the mantle of Figaro is Scaramouche, who is naturally Figaro's twin-brother."
"Is the scoundrel at his political tricks again?" They turned to confront M. Binet. Moving with that noiseless tread of his, he had come up unheard behind them, and there he stood now in his scarlet suit of Pantaloon under a trailing bedgown, his little eyes glaring from either side of his false nose. But their attention was held by the voice of Scaramouche.
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