“And his cutting of quills,” growled Polichinelle. “Don’t forget that. It is most important to have by you a man who understands how to cut a quill, as I shall remember when I turn author.”
But not even that gibe could stir M. Binet out of his lethargy of content.
On Tuesday the success was repeated artistically and augmented financially. Ten louis and seven livres was the enormous sum that André-Louis, the doorkeeper, counted over to M. Binet after the performance. Never yet had M. Binet made so much money in one evening—and a miserable little village like Guichen was certainly the last place in which he would have expected this windfall.
“Ah, but Guichen in time of fair,” André-Louis reminded him. “There are people here from as far as Nantes and Rennes to buy and sell. Tomorrow, being the last day of the fair, the crowds will be greater than ever. We should better this evening’s receipts.”
“Better them? I shall be quite satisfied if we do as well, my friend.”
“You can depend upon that,” André-Louis assured him. “Are we to have Burgundy?”
And then the tragedy occurred. It announced itself in a succession of bumps and thuds, culminating in a crash outside the door that brought them all to their feet in alarm.
Pierrot sprang to open, and beheld the tumbled body of a man lying at the foot of the stairs. It emitted groans, therefore it was alive. Pierrot went forward to turn it over, and disclosed the fact that the body wore the wizened face of Scaramouche, a grimacing, groaning, twitching Scaramouche.
The whole company, pressing after Pierrot, abandoned itself to laughter.
“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.
Scaramouche took the hand, clutched it, heaved himself from the ground, then with a scream dropped back again.
“My foot!” he complained.
Binet rolled through the group of players, scattering them to right and left. Apprehension had been quick to seize him. Fate had played him such tricks before.
“What ails your foot?” quoth he, sourly.
“It’s broken, I think,” Scaramouche complained.
“Broken? Bah! Get up, man.” He caught him under the armpits and hauled him up.
Scaramouche came howling to one foot; the other doubled under him when he attempted to set it down, and he must have collapsed again but that Binet supported him. He filled the place with his plaint, whilst Binet swore amazingly and variedly.
“Must you bellow like a calf, you fool? Be quiet. A chair here, someone.”
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 Climène caught Binet’s arm and made him stop.
“My God, have you no feelings?” she reproved her father. “The lad has hurt his foot. Must you torture him? Will that cure it?”
“Hurt his foot!” said Binet. “I can see nothing the matter with his foot—nothing to justify all this uproar. He has bruised it, maybe …”
“A man with a bruised foot doesn’t scream like that,” said Madame over Climène’s shoulder. “Perhaps he has dislocated it.”
“That is what I fear,” whimpered Scaramouche.
Binet heaved himself up in disgust.
“Take him to bed,” he bade them, “and fetch a doctor to see him.”
It was done, and the doctor came. Having seen the patient, he reported that nothing very serious had happened, but that in falling he had evidently sprained his foot a little. A few days’ rest and all would be well.
“A few days!” cried Binet. “God of God! Do you mean that he can’t walk?”
“It would be unwise, indeed impossible for more than a few steps.”
M. Binet paid the doctor’s fee, and sat down to think. He filled himself a glass of Burgundy, tossed it off without a word, and sat thereafter staring into the empty glass.
“It is of course the sort of thing that must always be happening to me,” he grumbled to no one in particular. The members of the company were all standing in silence before him, sharing his dismay. “I might have known that this—or something like it—would occur to spoil the first vein of luck that I have found in years. Ah, well, it is finished. Tomorrow we pack and depart. The best day of the fair, on the crest of the wave of our success—a good fifteen louis to be taken, and this happens! God of God!”
“Do you mean to abandon tomorrow’s performance?”
All turned to stare with Binet at André-Louis.
“Are we to play Figaro-Scaramouche without Scaramouche?” asked Binet, sneering.
“Of course not.” André-Louis came forward. “But surely some rearrangement of the parts is possible. For instance, there is a fine actor in Polichinelle.”
Polichinelle swept him a bow. “Overwhelmed,” said he, ever sardonic.
“But he has a part of his own,” objected Binet.
“A small part, which Pasquariel could play.”
“And who will play Pasquariel?”
“Nobody. We delete it. The play need not suffer.”
“He thinks of everything,” sneered Polichinelle. “What a man!”
But Binet was far from agreement. “Are you suggesting that Polichinelle should play Scaramouche?” he asked, incredulously.
“Why not? He is able enough!”
“Overwhelmed again,” interjected Polichinelle.
“Play Scaramouche with that figure?” Binet heaved himself up to point a denunciatory finger at Polichinelle’s sturdy, thickset shortness.
“For lack of a better,” said André-Louis.
“Overwhelmed more than ever.” Polichinelle’s bow was superb this time. “Faith, I think I’ll take the air to cool me after so much blushing.”
“Go to the devil,” Binet flung at him.
“Better and better.” Polichinelle made for the door. On the threshold he halted and struck an attitude. “Understand me, Binet. I do not now play Scaramouche in any circumstances whatever.” And he went out. On
