The company excelled itself.  The audience followed with relish the sly intriguings of Scaramouche, delighted in the beauty and freshness of Climene, was moved almost to tears by the hard fate which through four long acts kept her from the hungering arms of the so beautiful Leandre, howled its delight over the ignominy of Pantaloon, the buffooneries of his sprightly lackey Harlequin, and the thrasonical strut and bellowing fierceness of the cowardly Rhodomont.

The success of the Binet troupe in Guichen was assured.  That night the company drank Burgundy at M. Binet’s expense.  The takings reached the sum of eight louis, which was as good business as M. Binet had ever done in all his career.  He was very pleased.  Gratification rose like steam from his fat body.  He even condescended so far as to attribute a share of the credit for the success to M. Parvissimus.

“His suggestion,” he was careful to say, by way of properly delimiting that share, “was most valuable, as I perceived at the time.”

“And his cutting of quills,” growled Polichinelle.  “Don’t forget that.  It is most important to have by you a man who understands how to cut a quill, as I shall remember when I turn author.”

But not even that gibe could stir M. Binet out of his lethargy of content.

On Tuesday the success was repeated artistically and augmented financially.  Ten louis and seven livres was the enormous sum that Andre-Louis, the doorkeeper, counted over to M. Binet after the performance.  Never yet had M. Binet made so much money in one evening — and a miserable little village like Guichen was certainly the last place in which he would have expected this windfall.

“Ah, but Guichen in time of fair,” Andre-Louis reminded him.  “There are people here from as far as Nantes and Rennes to buy and sell.  To-morrow, being the last day of the fair, the crowds will be greater than ever.  We should better this evening’s receipts.”

“Better them?  I shall be quite satisfied if we do as well, my friend.”

“You can depend upon that,” Andre-Louis assured him.  “Are we to have Burgundy?”

And then the tragedy occurred.  It announced itself in a succession of bumps and thuds, culminating in a crash outside the door that brought them all to their feet in alarm.

Pierrot sprang to open, and beheld the tumbled body of a man lying at the foot of the stairs.  It emitted groans, therefore it was alive.  Pierrot went forward to turn it over, and disclosed the fact that the body wore the wizened face of Scaramouche, a grimacing, groaning, twitching Scaramouche.

The whole company, pressing after Pierrot, abandoned itself to laughter.

“I always said you should change parts with me,” cried Harlequin.  “You’re such an excellent tumbler.  Have you been practising?”

“Fool!” Scaramouche snapped.  “Must you be laughing when I’ve all but broken my neck?”