He spoke of it gently to her as they walked home together, counselling more prudence in the future.

“We are not married yet,” she told him, tartly.  “Wait until then before you criticize my conduct.”

“I trust that there will be no occasion then,” said he.

“You trust?  Ah, yes.  You are very trusting.”

“Climene, I have offended you.  I am sorry.”

“It is nothing,” said she.  “You are what you are.”  Still was he not concerned.  He perceived the source of her ill-humour; understood, whilst deploring it; and, because he understood, forgave.  He perceived also that her ill-humour was shared by her father, and by this he was frankly amused.  Towards M. Binet a tolerant contempt was the only feeling that complete acquaintance could beget.  As for the rest of the company, they were disposed to be very kindly towards Scaramouche.  It was almost as if in reality he had fallen from the high estate to which their own imaginations had raised him; or possibly it was because they saw the effect which that fall from his temporary and fictitious elevation had produced upon Climene.

Leandre alone made himself an exception.  His habitual melancholy seemed to be dispelled at last, and his eyes gleamed now with malicious satisfaction when they rested upon Scaramouche, whom occasionally he continued to address with sly mockery as “mon prince.”

On the morrow Andre-Louis saw but little of Climene.  This was not in itself extraordinary, for he was very hard at work again, with preparations now for “Figaro-Scaramouche” which was to be played on Saturday.  Also, in addition to his manifold theatrical occupations, he now devoted an hour every morning to the study of fencing in an academy of arms.  This was done not only to repair an omission in his education, but also, and chiefly, to give him added grace and poise upon the stage.  He found his mind that morning distracted by thoughts of both Climene and Aline.  And oddly enough it was Aline who provided the deeper perturbation.  Climene’s attitude he regarded as a passing phase which need not seriously engage him.  But the thought of Aline’s conduct towards him kept rankling, and still more deeply rankled the thought of her possible betrothal to M. de La Tour d’Azyr.

This it was that brought forcibly to his mind the self-imposed but by now half-forgotten mission that he had made his own.  He had boasted that he would make the voice which M. de La Tour d’Azyr had sought to silence ring through the length and breadth of the land.  And what had he done of all this that he had boasted?  He had incited the mob of Rennes and the mob of Nantes in such terms as poor Philippe might have employed, and then because of a hue and cry he had fled like a cur and taken shelter in the first kennel that offered, there to lie quiet and devote himself to other things — self-seeking things.  What a fine contrast between the promise and the fulfilment!