His eyes sought M. Binet’s.  M. Binet’s eyes eluded his glance.  Again it was Leandre who answered him.

“Not yet.”

“Ah!” Andre-Louis sat down, and poured himself wine.  There was an oppressive silence in the room.  Leandre watched him expectantly, Columbine commiseratingly.  Even M. Binet appeared to be waiting for a cue from Scaramouche.  But Scaramouche disappointed him.  “Have you left me anything to eat?” he asked.

Platters were pushed towards him.  He helped himself calmly to food, and ate in silence, apparently with a good appetite.  M. Binet sat down, poured himself wine, and drank.  Presently he attempted to make conversation with one and another.  He was answered curtly, in monosyllables.  M. Binet did not appear to be in favour with his troupe that night.

At long length came a rumble of wheels below and a rattle of halting hooves.  Then voices, the high, trilling laugh of Climene floating upwards.  Andre-Louis went on eating unconcernedly.

“What an actor!” said Harlequin under his breath to Polichinelle, and Polichinelle nodded gloomily.

She came in, a leading lady taking the stage, head high, chin thrust forward, eyes dancing with laughter; she expressed triumph and arrogance.  Her cheeks were flushed, and there was some disorder in the mass of nut-brown hair that crowned her head.  In her left hand she carried an enormous bouquet of white camellias.  On its middle finger a diamond of great price drew almost at once by its effulgence the eyes of all.

Her father sprang to meet her with an unusual display of paternal tenderness.  “At last, my child!”

He conducted her to the table.  She sank into a chair, a little wearily, a little nervelessly, but the smile did not leave her face, not even when she glanced across at Scaramouche.  It was only Leandre, observing her closely, with hungry, scowling stare, who detected something as of fear in the hazel eyes momentarily seen between the fluttering of her lids.

Andre-Louis, however, still went on eating stolidly, without so much as a look in her direction.  Gradually the company came to realize that just as surely as a scene was brooding, just so surely would there be no scene as long as they remained.  It was Polichinelle, at last, who gave the signal by rising and withdrawing, and within two minutes none remained in the room but M. Binet, his daughter, and Andre-Louis.  And then, at last, Andre-Louis set down knife and fork, washed his throat with a draught of Burgundy, and sat back in his chair to consider Climene.

“I trust,” said he, “that you had a pleasant ride, mademoiselle.”

“Most pleasant, monsieur.”  Impudently she strove to emulate his coolness, but did not completely succeed.

“And not unprofitable, if I may judge that jewel at this distance.  It should be worth at least a couple of hundred louis, and that is a formidable sum even to so wealthy a nobleman as M. de La Tour d’Azyr.  Would it be impertinent in one who has had some notion of becoming your husband, to ask you, mademoiselle, what you have given him in return?”