Scaramouche Read online

  "And what do you think of it?" he asked Andre-Louis, as they were walking back to the inn after the performance.

  "Possibly it could have been worse; probably it could not," said he.

  In sheer amazement M. Binet checked in his stride, and turned to look at his companion.

  "Huh!" said he. "Dieu de Dien! But you are frank."

  "An unpopular form of service among fools, I know."

  "Well, I am not a fool," said Binet.

  "That is why I am frank. I pay you the compliment of assuming intelligence in you, M. Binet."

  "Oh, you do?" quoth M. Binet. "And who the devil are you to assume anything? Your assumptions are presumptuous, sir." And with that he lapsed into silence and the gloomy business of mentally casting up his accounts.

  But at table over supper a half-hour later he revived the topic.

  "Our latest recruit, this excellent M. Parvissimus," he announced, "has the impudence to tell me that possibly our comedy could have been worse, but that probably it could not." And he blew out his great round cheeks to invite a laugh at the expense of that foolish critic.

  "That's bad," said the swarthy and sardonic Polichinelle. He was grave as Rhadamanthus pronouncing judgment. "That's bad. But what is infinitely worse is that the audience had the impudence to be of the same mind."

  "An ignorant pack of clods," sneered Leandre, with a toss of his handsome head.

  "You are wrong," quoth Harlequin. "You were born for love, my dear, not criticism."

  Leandre—a dull dog, as you will have conceived—looked contemptuously down upon the little man. "And you, what were you born for?" he wondered.

  "Nobody knows," was the candid admission. "Nor yet why. It is the case of many of us, my dear, believe me."

  "But why"—M. Binet took him up, and thus spoilt the beginnings of a very pretty quarrel—"why do you say that Leandre is wrong?"

  "To be general, because he is always wrong. To be particular, because I judge the audience of Guichen to be too sophisticated for 'The Heartless Father.'"

  "You would put it more happily," interposed Andre-Louis—who was the cause of this discussion—"if you said that 'The Heartless Father' is too unsophisticated for the audience of Guichen."

  "Why, what's the difference?" asked Leandre.

  "I didn't imply a difference. I merely suggested that it is a happier way to express the fact."

  "The gentleman is being subtle," sneered Binet.

  "Why happier?" Harlequin demanded.

  "Because it is easier to bring 'The Heartless Father' to the sophistication of the Guichen audience, than the Guichen audience to the unsophistication of 'The Heartless Father.'"

  "Let me think it out," groaned Polichinelle, and he took his head in his hands.

  But from the tail of the table Andre-Louis was challenged by Climene who sat there between Columbine and Madame.

  "You would alter the comedy, would you, M. Parvissimus?" she cried.

  He turned to parry her malice.

  "I would suggest that it be altered," he corrected, inclining his head.

  "And how would you alter it, monsieur?"

  "I? Oh, for the better."

  "But of course!" She was sleekest sarcasm. "And how would you do it?"

  "Aye, tell us that," roared M. Binet, and added: "Silence, I pray you, gentlemen and ladies. Silence for M. Parvissimus."

  Andre-Louis looked from father to daughter, and smiled. "Pardi!" said he. "I am between bludgeon and dagger. If I escape with my life, I shall be fortunate. Why, then, since you pin me to the very wall, I'll tell you what I should do. I should go back to the original and help myself more freely from it."

  "The original?" questioned M. Binet—the author.

  "It is called, I believe, 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac,' and was written by Moliere."

  Somebody tittered, but that somebody was not M. Binet. He had been touched on the raw, and the look in his little eyes betrayed the fact that his bonhomme exterior covered anything but a bonhomme.

  "You charge me with plagiarism," he said at last; "with filching the ideas of Moliere."

  "There is always, of course," said Andre-Louis, unruffled, "the alternative possibility of two great minds working upon parallel lines."

  M. Binet studied the young man attentively a moment. He found him bland and inscrutable, and decided to pin him down.

  "Then you do not imply that I have been stealing from Moliere?"

  "I advise you to do so, monsieur," was the disconcerting reply.

  M. Binet was shocked.

  "You advise me to do so! You advise me, me, Antoine Binet, to turn thief at my age!"

  "He is outrageous," said mademoiselle, indignantly.

  "Outrageous is the word. I thank you for it, my dear. I take you on trust, sir. You sit at my table, you have the honour to be included in my company, and to my face you have the audacity to advise me to become a thief—the worst kind of thief that is conceivable, a thief of spiritual things, a thief of ideas! It is insufferable, intolerable! I have been, I fear, deeply mistaken in you, monsieur; just as you appear to have been mistaken in me. I am not the scoundrel you suppose me, sir, and I will not number in my company a man who dares to suggest that I should become one. Outrageous!"

  He was very angry. His voice boomed through the little room, and the company sat hushed and something scared, their eyes upon Andre-Louis, who was the only one entirely unmoved by this outburst of virtuous indignation.

  "You realize, monsieur," he said, very quietly, "that you are insulting the memory of the illustrious dead?"

  "Eh?" said Binet.

  Andre-Louis developed his sophistries.

  "You insult the memory of Moliere, the greatest ornament of our stage, one of the greatest ornaments of our nation, when you suggest that there is vileness in doing that which he never hesitated to do, which no great author yet has hesitated to do. You cannot suppose that Moliere ever troubled himself to be original in the matter of ideas. You cannot suppose that the stories he tells in his plays have never been told before. They were culled, as you very well know—though you seem momentarily to have forgotten it, and it is therefore necessary that I should remind you—they were culled, many of them, from the Italian authors, who themselves had culled them Heaven alone knows where. Moliere took those old stories and retold them in his own language. That is precisely what I am suggesting that you should do. Your company is a company of improvisers. You supply the dialogue as you proceed, which is rather more than Moliere ever attempted. You may, if you prefer it—though it would seem to me to be yielding to an excess of scruple—go straight to Boccaccio or Sacchetti. But even then you cannot be sure that you have reached the sources."

  Andre-Louis came off with flying colours after that. You see what a debater was lost in him; how nimble he was in the art of making white look black. The company was impressed, and no one more that M. Binet, who found himself supplied with a crushing argument against those who in future might tax him with the impudent plagiarisms which he undoubtedly perpetrated. He retired in the best order he could from the position he had taken up at the outset.

  "So that you think," he said, at the end of a long outburst of agreement, "you think that our story of 'The Heartless Father' could be enriched by dipping into 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac,' to which I confess upon reflection that it may present certain superficial resemblances?"

  "I do; most certainly I do—always provided that you do so judiciously. Times have changed since Moliere." It was as a consequence of this that Binet retired soon after, taking Andre-Louis with him. The pair sat together late that night, and were again in close communion throughout the whole of Sunday morning.

  After dinner M. Binet read to the assembled company the amended and amplified canevas of "The Heartless Father," which, acting upon the advice of M. Parvissimus, he had been at great pains to prepare. The company had few doubts as to the real authorship before he began to read; none at all when he had read. There was a verve, a gr
ip about this story; and, what was more, those of them who knew their Moliere realized that far from approaching the original more closely, this canevas had drawn farther away from it. Moliere's original part—the title role—had dwindled into insignificance, to the great disgust of Polichinelle, to whom it fell. But the other parts had all been built up into importance, with the exception of Leandre, who remained as before. The two great roles were now Scaramouche, in the character of the intriguing Sbrigandini, and Pantaloon the father. There was, too, a comical part for Rhodomont, as the roaring bully hired by Polichinelle to cut Leandre into ribbons. And in view of the importance now of Scaramouche, the play had been rechristened "Figaro-Scaramouche."

  This last had not been without a deal of opposition from M. Binet. But his relentless collaborator, who was in reality the real author—drawing shamelessly, but practically at last upon his great store of reading—had overborne him.

  "You must move with the times, monsieur. In Paris Beaumarchais is the rage. 'Figaro' is known to-day throughout the world. Let us borrow a little of his glory. It will draw the people in. They will come to see half a 'Figaro' when they will not come to see a dozen 'Heartless Fathers.' Therefore let us cast the mantle of Figaro upon some one, and proclaim it in our title."

  "But as I am the head of the company..." began M. Binet, weakly.

  "If you will be blind to your interests, you will presently be a head without a body. And what use is that? Can the shoulders of Pantaloon carry the mantle of Figaro? You laugh. Of course you laugh. The notion is absurd. The proper person for the mantle of Figaro is Scaramouche, who is naturally Figaro's twin-brother."

  Thus tyrannized, the tyrant Binet gave way, comforted by the reflection that if he understood anything at all about the theatre, he had for fifteen livres a month acquired something that would presently be earning him as many louis.

  The company's reception of the canevas now confirmed him, if we except Polichinelle, who, annoyed at having lost half his part in the alterations, declared the new scenario fatuous.

  "Ah! You call my work fatuous, do you?" M. Binet hectored him.

  "Your work?" said Polichinelle, to add with his tongue in his cheek: "Ah, pardon. I had not realized that you were the author."

  "Then realize it now."

  "You were very close with M. Parvissimus over this authorship," said Polichinelle, with impudent suggestiveness.

  "And what if I was? What do you imply?"

  "That you took him to cut quills for you, of course."

  "I'll cut your ears for you if you're not civil," stormed the infuriated Binet.

  Polichinelle got up slowly, and stretched himself.

  "Dieu de Dieu!" said he. "If Pantaloon is to play Rhodomont, I think I'll leave you. He is not amusing in the part." And he swaggered out before M. Binet had recovered from his speechlessness.

  CHAPTER IV. EXIT MONSIEUR PARVISSIMUS

  Ar four o'clock on Monday afternoon the curtain rose on "Figaro-Scaramouche" to an audience that filled three quarters of the market-hall. M. Binet attributed this good attendance to the influx of people to Guichen for the fair, and to the magnificent parade of his company through the streets of the township at the busiest time of the day. Andre-Louis attributed it entirely to the title. It was the "Figaro" touch that had fetched in the better-class bourgeoisie, which filled more than half of the twenty-sous places and three quarters of the twelve-sous seats. The lure had drawn them. Whether it was to continue to do so would depend upon the manner in which the canevas over which he had laboured to the glory of Binet was interpreted by the company. Of the merits of the canevas itself he had no doubt. The authors upon whom he had drawn for the elements of it were sound, and he had taken of their best, which he claimed to be no more than the justice due to them.

  The company excelled itself. The audience followed with relish the sly intriguings of Scaramouche, delighted in the beauty and freshness of Climene, was moved almost to tears by the hard fate which through four long acts kept her from the hungering arms of the so beautiful Leandre, howled its delight over the ignominy of Pantaloon, the buffooneries of his sprightly lackey Harlequin, and the thrasonical strut and bellowing fierceness of the cowardly Rhodomont.

  The success of the Binet troupe in Guichen was assured. That night the company drank Burgundy at M. Binet's expense. The takings reached the sum of eight louis, which was as good business as M. Binet had ever done in all his career. He was very pleased. Gratification rose like steam from his fat body. He even condescended so far as to attribute a share of the credit for the success to M. Parvissimus.

  "His suggestion," he was careful to say, by way of properly delimiting that share, "was most valuable, as I perceived at the time."

  "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 Andre-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," Andre-Louis reminded him. "There are people here from as far as Nantes and Rennes to buy and sell. To-morrow, 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," Andre-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, some one."

  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.

  "My God, have you no feelings?" she reproved her father. "The lad has hurt his foot. Mu
st 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 Climene'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. To-morrow 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 to-morrow's performance?"

  All turned to stare with Binet at Andre-Louis.

  "Are we to play 'Figaro-Scaramouche' without Scaramouche?" asked Binet, sneering.

  "Of course not." Andre-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."