ways for me
to keep faith with you. It is due to you that we have done so well in
Guichen. Oh, I admit it frankly."

"In private," said Andre-Louis.

M. Binet left the sarcasm unheeded.

"What you have done for us here with 'Figaro-Scaramouche,' you can do
elsewhere with other things. Naturally, I shall not want to lose you.
That is your guarantee."

"Yet to-night you would sell me for twenty louis."

"Because--name of God!--you enrage me by refusing me a service well within
your powers. Don't you think, had I been entirely the rogue you think
me, I could have sold you on Saturday last? I want you to understand me,
my dear Parvissimus."

"I beg that you'll not apologize. You would be more tiresome than ever."

"Of course you will be gibing. You never miss a chance to gibe. It'll
bring you trouble before you're done with life. Come; here we are back
at the inn, and you have not yet given me your decision."

Andre-Louis looked at him. "I must yield, of course. I can't help
myself."

M. Binet released his arm at last, and slapped him heartily upon the
back. "Well declared, my lad. You'll never regret it. If I know anything
of the theatre, I know that you have made the great decision of your
life. To-morrow night you'll thank me."

Andre-Louis shrugged, and stepped out ahead towards the inn. But M.
Binet called him back.

"M. Parvissimus!"

He turned. There stood the man's great bulk, the moonlight beating down
upon that round fat face of his, and he was holding out his hand.

"M. Parvissimus, no rancour. It is a thing I do not admit into my life.
You will shake hands with me, and we will forget all this."

Andre-Louis considered him a moment with disgust. He was growing
angry. Then, realizing this, he conceived himself ridiculous, almost as
ridiculous as that sly, scoundrelly Pantaloon. He laughed and took the
outstretched hand. "No rancour?" M. Binet insisted.

"Oh, no rancour," said Andre-Louis.

CHAPTER V. ENTER SCARAMOUCHE

Dressed in the close-fitting suit of a bygone age, all black, from flat
velvet cap to rosetted shoes, his face whitened and a slight up-curled
moustache glued to his upper lip, a small-sword at his side and a guitar
slung behind him, Scaramouche surveyed himself in a mirror, and was
disposed to be sardonic--which was the proper mood for the part.

He reflected that his life, which until lately had been of a stagnant,
contemplative quality, had suddenly become excessive