They numbered exactly eleven, three women and eight men; and they addressed each other by their stage names:  names which denoted their several types, and never — or only very slightly — varied, no matter what might be the play that they performed.

“We are,” Pantaloon informed him, “one of those few remaining staunch bands of real players, who uphold the traditions of the old Italian Commedia dell’ Arte.  Not for us to vex our memories and stultify our wit with the stilted phrases that are the fruit of a wretched author’s lucubrations.  Each of us is in detail his own author in a measure as he develops the part assigned to him.  We are improvisers — improvisers of the old and noble Italian school.”

“I had guessed as much,” said Andre-Louis, “when I discovered you rehearsing your improvisations.”

Pantaloon frowned.

“I have observed, young sir, that your humour inclines to the pungent, not to say the acrid.  It is very well.  It is I suppose, the humour that should go with such a countenance.  But it may lead you astray, as in this instance.  That rehearsal — a most unusual thing with us — was necessitated by the histrionic rawness of our Leandre.  We are seeking to inculcate into him by training an art with which Nature neglected to endow him against his present needs.  Should he continue to fail in doing justice to our schooling...  But we will not disturb our present harmony with the unpleasant anticipation of misfortunes which we still hope to avert.  We love our Leandre, for all his faults.  Let me make you acquainted with our company.”

And he proceeded to introduction in detail.  He pointed out the long and amiable Rhodomont, whom Andre-Louis already knew.

“His length of limb and hooked nose were his superficial qualifications to play roaring captains,” Pantaloon explained.  “His lungs have justified our choice.  You should hear him roar.  At first we called him Spavento or Epouvapte.  But that was unworthy of so great an artist.  Not since the superb Mondor amazed the world has so thrasonical a bully been seen upon the stage.  So we conferred upon him the name of Rhodomont that Mondor made famous; and I give you my word, as an actor and a gentleman — for I am a gentleman, monsieur, or was — that he has justified us.”

His little eyes beamed in his great swollen face as he turned their gaze upon the object of his encomium.  The terrible Rhodomont, confused by so much praise, blushed like a schoolgirl as he met the solemn scrutiny of Andre-Louis.

“Then here we have Scaramouche, whom also you already know.  Sometimes he is Scapin and sometimes Coviello, but in the main Scaramouche, to which let me tell you he is best suited — sometimes too well suited, I think.  For he is Scaramouche not only on the stage, but also in the world.  He has a gift of sly intrigue, an art of setting folk by the ears, combined with an impudent aggressiveness upon occasion when he considers himself safe from reprisals.  He is Scaramouche, the little skirmisher, to the very life.  I could say more.  But I am by disposition charitable and loving to all mankind.”