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Their arms were linked, and Binet's grip was firm and powerful. "Now, my friend," said he, "will you be M. Parvissimus and play Scaramouche to-morrow, or will you be Andre-Louis Moreau of Gavrillac and go to Rennes to satisfy the King's Lieutenant?" "And if it should happen that you are mistaken?" quoth Andre-Louis, his face a mask. "I'll take the risk of that," leered M. Binet.
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.
A chair was thrust forward. He crushed Scaramouche down into it. "Let us look at this foot of yours." Heedless of Scaramouche's howls of pain, he swept away shoe and stocking. "What ails it?" he asked, staring. "Nothing that I can see." He seized it, heel in one hand, instep in the other, and gyrated it. Scaramouche screamed in agony, until Climene caught Binet's arm and made him stop.
Rushing to the stairs, she ran out quickly to the square; and the wife of the mayor, who was talking to Lestiboudois in front of the church, saw her go in to the tax-collector's. She hurried off to tell Madame Caron, and the two ladies went up to the attic, and, hidden by some linen spread across props, stationed themselves comfortably for overlooking the whole of Binet's room.
They were on their way to Guichen, where they hoped to prosper at the fair that was to open on Monday next. They would make their triumphal entry into the town at noon, and setting up their stage in the old market, they would give their first performance that same Saturday night, in a new canevas or scenario of M. Binet's own, which should set the rustics gaping.
Nurse Rollet covered her with a petticoat and remained standing by her side. Then, as she did not answer, the good woman withdrew, took her wheel and began spinning flax. "Oh, leave off!" she murmured, fancying she heard Binet's lathe. "What's bothering her?" said the nurse to herself. "Why has she come here?" She had rushed thither; impelled by a kind of horror that drove her from her home.
The title chosen has M. Binet's approval. Of late years numerous studies have been published on the conception of matter, especially by physicists, chemists, and mathematicians.
At intervals they halted, the cacophony would cease abruptly, and Polichinelle would announce in a stentorian voice that at five o'clock that evening in the old market, M. Binet's famous company of improvisers would perform a new comedy in four acts entitled, "The Heartless Father."
He was very frosty, as much perhaps because he scented in M. Binet's manner something that was vaguely menacing as for any other reason. "We'll change the subject when I please," said M. Binet, allowing a glimpse of steel to glimmer through the silk of him. "To-morrow night you play Scaramouche.
"Oh, we are to talk of honour, are we? Really, M. Binet? It is clear you think me a fool." In the dark he did not see the flush that leapt to M. Binet's round face. It was some moments before he replied. "Perhaps you are right," he growled. "What guarantee do you want?" "I do not know what guarantee you can possibly give." "I have said that I will keep faith with you."
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