She was trembling with passion.  She tugged the cord.

“You will descend this instant!” she told him fiercely.  “That you should dare to make a comparison between me and that... "

“And my wife-to-be,” he interrupted, before she could speak the infamous word.  He opened the door for himself without waiting for the footman, and leapt down.  “My compliments,” said he, furiously, “to the assassin you are to marry.”  He slammed the door.  “Drive on,” he bade the coachman.

The carriage rolled away up the Faubourg Gigan, leaving him standing where he had alighted, quivering with rage.  Gradually, as he walked back to the inn, his anger cooled.  Gradually, as he cooled, he perceived her point of view, and in the end forgave her.  It was not her fault that she thought as she thought.  Her rearing had been such as to make her look upon every actress as a trull, just as it had qualified her calmly to consider the monstrous marriage of convenience into which she was invited.

He got back to the inn to find the company at table.  Silence fell when he entered, so suddenly that of necessity it must be supposed he was himself the subject of the conversation.  Harlequin and Columbine had spread the tale of this prince in disguise caught up into the chariot of a princess and carried off by her; and it was a tale that had lost nothing in the telling.

Climene had been silent and thoughtful, pondering what Columbine had called this romance of hers.  Clearly her Scaramouche must be vastly other than he had hitherto appeared, or else that great lady and he would never have used such familiarity with each other.  Imagining him no better than he was, Climene had made him her own.  And now she was to receive the reward of disinterested affection.

Even old Binet’s secret hostility towards Andre-Louis melted before this astounding revelation.  He had pinched his daughter’s ear quite playfully.  “Ah, ah, trust you to have penetrated his disguise, my child!”

She shrank resentfully from that implication.

“But I did not.  I took him for what he seemed.”

Her father winked at her very solemnly and laughed.  “To be sure, you did.  But like your father, who was once a gentleman, and knows the ways of gentlemen, you detected in him a subtle something different from those with whom misfortune has compelled you hitherto to herd.  You knew as well as I did that he never caught that trick of haughtiness, that grand air of command, in a lawyer’s musty office, and that his speech had hardly the ring or his thoughts the complexion of the bourgeois that he pretended to be.  And it was shrewd of you to have made him yours.  Do you know that I shall be very proud of you yet, Climene?”

She moved away without answering.  Her father’s oiliness offended her.  Scaramouche was clearly a great gentleman, an eccentric if you please, but a man born.  And she was to be his lady.  Her father must learn to treat her differently.