She had this much justification that possibly, without the warning from M. de Sautron, the Marquis would have found in the events of that evening at the Theatre Feydau a sufficient reason for ending an entanglement that was fraught with too much unpleasant excitement, whilst the breaking-up of the Binet Troupe was most certainly the result of Andre-Louis’ work.  But it was not a result that he intended or even foresaw.

So much was this the case that in the interval after the second act, he sought the dressing-room shared by Polichinelle and Rhodomont.  Polichinelle was in the act of changing.

“I shouldn’t trouble to change,” he said.  “The piece isn’t likely to go beyond my opening scene of the next act with Leandre.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”  He put a paper on Polichinelle’s table amid the grease-paints.  “Cast your eye over that.  It’s a sort of last will and testament in favour of the troupe.  I was a lawyer once; the document is in order.  I relinquish to all of you the share produced by my partnership in the company.”

“But you don’t mean that you are leaving us?” cried Polichinelle in alarm, whilst Rhodomont’s sudden stare asked the same question.

Scaramouche’s shrug was eloquent.  Polichinelle ran on gloomily:  “Of course it was to have been foreseen.  But why should you be the one to go?  It is you who have made us; and it is you who are the real head and brains of the troupe; it is you who have raised it into a real theatrical company.  If any one must go, let it be Binet — Binet and his infernal daughter.  Or if you go, name of a name! we all go with you!”

“Aye,” added Rhodomont, “we’ve had enough of that fat scoundrel.”

“I had thought of it, of course,” said Andre-Louis.  “It was not vanity, for once; it was trust in your friendship.  After to-night we may consider it again, if I survive.”

“If you survive?” both cried.

Polichinelle got up.  “Now, what madness have you in mind?” he asked.

“For one thing I think I am indulging Leandre; for another I am pursuing an old quarrel.”

The three knocks sounded as he spoke.

“There, I must go.  Keep that paper, Polichinelle.  After all, it may not be necessary.”

He was gone.  Rhodomont stared at Polichinelle.  Polichinelle stared at Rhodomont.

“What the devil is he thinking of?” quoth the latter.

“That is most readily ascertained by going to see,” replied Polichinelle.  He completed changing in haste, and despite what Scaramouche had said; and then followed with Rhodomont.

As they approached the wings a roar of applause met them coming from the audience.  It was applause and something else; applause on an unusual note.  As it faded away they heard the voice of Scaramouche ringing clear as a bell: 

“And so you see, my dear M. Leandre, that when you speak of the Third Estate, it is necessary to be more explicit.  What precisely is the Third Estate?”