t
repertoire. In both Scaramouche, who was beginning to find himself,
materially improved his performances. So smoothly now did the two pieces
run that Scaramouche actually suggested to Binet that after Fougeray,
which they were to visit in the following week, they should tempt
fortune in a real theatre in the important town of Redon. The notion
terrified Binet at first, but coming to think of it, and his ambition
being fanned by Andre-Louis, he ended by allowing himself to succumb to
the temptation.

It seemed to Andre-Louis in those days that he had found his real
metier, and not only was he beginning to like it, but actually to look
forward to a career as actor-author that might indeed lead him in the
end to that Mecca of all comedians, the Comedie Francaise. And there
were other possibilities. From the writing of skeleton scenarios for
improvisers, he might presently pass to writing plays of dialogue, plays
in the proper sense of the word, after the manner of Chenier, Eglantine,
and Beaumarchais.

The fact that he dreamed such dreams shows us how very kindly he had
taken to the profession into which Chance and M. Binet between them had
conspired to thrust him. That he had real talent both as author and
as actor I do not doubt, and I am persuaded that had things fallen out
differently he would have won for himself a lasting place among French
dramatists, and thus fully have realized that dream of his.

Now, dream though it was, he did not neglect the practical side of it.

"You realize," he told M. Binet, "that I have it in my power to make
your fortune for you."

He and Binet were sitting alone together in the parlour of the inn at
Pipriac, drinking a very excellent bottle of Volnay. It was on the night
after the fourth and last performance there of "Les Feurberies." The
business in Pipriac had been as excellent as in Maure and Guichen. You
will have gathered this from the fact that they drank Volnay.

"I will concede it, my dear Scaramouche, so that I may hear the sequel."

"I am disposed to exercise this power if the inducement is sufficient.
You will realize that for fifteen livres a month a man does not sell
such exceptional gifts as mine.

"There is an alternative," said M. Binet, darkly.

"There is no alternative. Don't be a fool, Binet."

Binet sat up as if he had been prodded. Members of his company did not
take this tone of direct rebuke with him.

"Anyway, I make you a present of it," Scaramou