Andre-Louis stared a moment, stricken.  Then recovering from his surprise he became critical in his study of the Marquis.  He considered the beauty and grace and splendour of him, his courtly air, his complete and unshakable self-possession.  But more than all he considered the expression of the dark eyes that were devouring Climene’s lovely face, and his own lips tightened.

M. de La Tour d’Azyr never heeded him or his stare; nor, had he done so, would he have known who it was that looked at him from behind the make-up of Scaramouche; nor, again, had he known, would he have been in the least troubled or concerned.

Andre-Louis sat down apart, his mind in turmoil.  Presently he found a mincing young gentleman addressing him, and made shift to answer as was expected.  Climene having been thus sequestered, and Columbine being already thickly besieged by gallants, the lesser visitors had to content themselves with Madame and the male members of the troupe.  M. Binet, indeed, was the centre of a gay cluster that shook with laughter at his sallies.  He seemed of a sudden to have emerged from the gloom of the last two days into high good-humour, and Scaramouche observed how persistently his eyes kept flickering upon his daughter and her splendid courtier.

That night there, were high words between Andre-Louis and Climene, the high words proceeding from Climene.  When Andre-Louis again, and more insistently, enjoined prudence upon his betrothed, and begged her to beware how far she encouraged the advances of such a man as M. de La Tour d’Azyr, she became roundly abusive.  She shocked and stunned him by her virulently shrewish tone, and her still more unexpected force of invective.

He sought to reason with her, and finally she came to certain terms with him.

“If you have become betrothed to me simply to stand as an obstacle in my path, the sooner we make an end the better.”

“You do not love me then, Climene?”

“Love has nothing to do with it.  I’ll not tolerate your insensate jealousy.  A girl in the theatre must make it her business to accept homage from all.”

“Agreed; and there is no harm, provided she gives nothing in exchange.”

White-faced, with flaming eyes she turned on him at that.

“Now, what exactly do you mean?”

“My meaning is clear.  A girl in your position may receive all the homage that is offered, provided she receives it with a dignified aloofness implying clearly that she has no favours to bestow in return beyond the favour of her smile.  If she is wise she will see to it that the homage is always offered collectively by her admirers, and that no single one amongst them shall ever have the privilege of approaching her alone.  If she is wise she will give no encouragement, nourish no hopes that it may afterwards be beyond her power to deny realization.”

“How?  You dare?”

“I know my world.  And I know M. de La Tour d’Azyr,” he answered her.  “He is a man without charity, without humanity almost; a man who takes what he wants wherever he finds it and whether it is given willingly or not; a man who reckons nothing of the misery he scatters on his self-indulgent way; a man whose only law is force.  Ponder it, Climene, and ask yourself if I do you less than honour in warning you.”