“The more fool you,” said André-Louis. “A man who respected himself would have shown that gentleman the door.” M. Binet’s face began to empurple. “You call yourself the head of the Binet Troupe, you boast that you will be master in your own theatre, and you stand like a lackey to take the orders of the first insolent fellow who comes to your greenroom to tell you that he does not like a line spoken by one of your company! I say again that had you really respected yourself you would have turned him out.”
There was a murmur of approval from several members of the company, who, having heard the arrogant tone assumed by the Marquis, were filled with resentment against the slur cast upon them all.
“And I say further,” André-Louis went on, “that a man who respects himself, on quite other grounds, would have been only too glad to have seized this pretext to show M. de La Tour d’Azyr the door.”
“What do you mean by that?” There was a rumble of thunder in the question.
André-Louis’ eyes swept round the company assembled at the supper-table. “Where is Climène?” he asked, sharply.
Leandre leapt up to answer him, white in the face, tense and quivering with excitement.
“She left the theatre in the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr’s carriage immediately after the performance. We heard him offer to drive her to this inn.”
André-Louis glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. He seemed unnaturally calm.
“That would be an hour ago—rather more. And she has not yet arrived?”
His eyes sought M. Binet’s. M. Binet’s eyes eluded his glance. Again it was Leandre who answered him.
“Not yet.”
“Ah!” André-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. “Have you left me anything to eat?” he asked.
Platters were pushed towards him. He helped himself calmly to food, and ate in silence, apparently with a good appetite. M. Binet sat down, poured himself wine, and drank. Presently he attempted to make conversation with one and another. He was answered curtly, in monosyllables. M. Binet did not appear to be in favour with his troupe that night.
At long length came a rumble of wheels below and a rattle of halting hooves. Then voices, the high, trilling laugh of Climène floating upwards. André-Louis went on eating unconcernedly.
“What an actor!” said Harlequin under his breath to Polichinelle, and Polichinelle nodded gloomily.
She came in, a leading lady taking the stage, head high, chin thrust forward, eyes dancing with laughter; she expressed triumph and arrogance. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was some disorder in the mass of nut-brown hair that crowned her head. In her left hand she carried an enormous bouquet of white camellias. 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. It was only Leandre, observing her closely, with hungry, scowling stare, who detected something as of fear in the hazel eyes momentarily seen between the fluttering of her lids.
André-Louis, however, still went on eating stolidly, without so much as a look in her direction. Gradually the company came to realize that just as surely as a scene was brooding, just so surely would there be no scene as long as they remained. It was Polichinelle, at last, who gave the signal by rising and withdrawing, and within two minutes none remained in the room but M. Binet, his daughter, and André-Louis. And then, at last, André-Louis set down knife and fork, washed his throat with a draught of Burgundy, and sat back in his chair to consider Climène.
“I trust,” said he, “that you had a pleasant ride, mademoiselle.”
“Most pleasant, monsieur.” Impudently she strove to emulate his coolness, but did not completely succeed.
“And not unprofitable, if I may judge that jewel at this distance. It should be worth at least a couple of hundred louis, and that is a formidable sum even to so wealthy a nobleman as M. de La Tour d’Azyr. Would it be impertinent in one who has had some notion of becoming your husband, to ask you, mademoiselle, what you have given him in return?”
M. Binet uttered a gross laugh, a queer mixture of cynicism and contempt.
“I have given nothing,” said Climène, indignantly.
“Ah! Then the jewel is in the nature of a payment in advance.”
“My God, man, you’re not decent!” M. Binet protested.
“Decent?” André-Louis’ smouldering eyes turned to discharge upon M. Binet such a fulmination of contempt that the old scoundrel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Did you mention decency, Binet? Almost you make me lose my temper, which is a thing that I detest above all others!” Slowly his glance returned to Climène, who sat with elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her palms, regarding him with something between scorn and defiance. “Mademoiselle,” he said, slowly, “I desire you purely in your own interests to consider whither you are going.”
“I am well able to consider it for myself, and to decide without advice from you, monsieur.”
“And now you’ve got your answer,” chuckled Binet. “I hope you like it.”
André-Louis had paled a little; there was incredulity in his great sombre eyes as they continued steadily to regard her. Of M. Binet he took no notice.
“Surely, mademoiselle, you cannot mean that willingly, with open eyes and a full understanding of what you do, you would exchange an honourable wifehood for … for the thing that such men as M. de La Tour d’Azyr may have in store for you?”
M. Binet made a wide gesture, and swung to his daughter.
