“Have you a name?” Binet asked him once in the course of that repast and during a pause in the conversation.

“It happens that I have,” said he.  “I think it is Parvissimus.”

“Parvissimus?” quoth Binet.  “Is that a family name?”

“In such a company, where only the leader enjoys the privilege of a family name, the like would be unbecoming its least member.  So I take the name that best becomes in me.  And I think it is Parvissimus — the very least.”

Binet was amused.  It was droll; it showed a ready fancy.  Oh, to be sure, they must get to work together on those scenarios.

“I shall prefer it to carpentering,” said Andre-Louis.  Nevertheless he had to go back to it that afternoon, and to labour strenuously until four o’clock, when at last the autocratic Binet announced himself satisfied with the preparations, and proceeded, again with the help of Andre-Louis, to prepare the lights, which were supplied partly by tallow candles and partly by lamps burning fish-oil.

At five o’clock that evening the three knocks were sounded, and the curtain rose on “The Heartless Father.”

Among the duties inherited by Andre-Louis from the departed Felicien whom he replaced, was that of doorkeeper.  This duty he discharged dressed in a Polichinelle costume, and wearing a pasteboard nose.  It was an arrangement mutually agreeable to M. Binet and himself.  M. Binet — who had taken the further precaution of retaining Andre-Louis’ own garments — was thereby protected against the risk of his latest recruit absconding with the takings.  Andre-Louis, without illusions on the score of Pantaloon’s real object, agreed to it willingly enough, since it protected him from the chance of recognition by any acquaintance who might possibly be in Guichen.

The performance was in every sense unexciting; the audience meagre and unenthusiastic.  The benches provided in the front half of the market contained some twenty-seven persons:  eleven at twenty sous a head and sixteen at twelve.  Behind these stood a rabble of some thirty others at six sous apiece.  Thus the gross takings were two louis, ten livres, and two sous.  By the time M. Binet had paid for the use of the market, his lights, and the expenses of his company at the inn over Sunday, there was not likely to be very much left towards the wages of his players.  It is not surprising, therefore, that M. Binet’s bonhomie should have been a trifle overcast that evening.

“And what do you think of it?” he asked Andre-Louis, as they were walking back to the inn after the performance.

“Possibly it could have been worse; probably it could not,” said he.

In sheer amazement M. Binet checked in his stride, and turned to look at his companion.

“Huh!” said he.  “Dieu de Dien!  But you are frank.”

“An unpopular form of service among fools, I know.”

“Well, I am not a fool,” said Binet.