“Do you mean to abandon to-morrow’s performance?”

All turned to stare with Binet at Andre-Louis.

“Are we to play ‘Figaro-Scaramouche’ without Scaramouche?” asked Binet, sneering.

“Of course not.”  Andre-Louis came forward.  “But surely some rearrangement of the parts is possible.  For instance, there is a fine actor in Polichinelle.”

Polichinelle swept him a bow.  “Overwhelmed,” said he, ever sardonic.

“But he has a part of his own,” objected Binet.

“A small part, which Pasquariel could play.”

“And who will play Pasquariel?”

“Nobody.  We delete it.  The play need not suffer.”

“He thinks of everything,” sneered Polichinelle.  “What a man!”

But Binet was far from agreement.  “Are you suggesting that Polichinelle should play Scaramouche?” he asked, incredulously.

“Why not?  He is able enough!”

“Overwhelmed again,” interjected Polichinelle.

“Play Scaramouche with that figure?” Binet heaved himself up to point a denunciatory finger at Polichinelle’s sturdy, thick-set shortness.

“For lack of a better,” said Andre-Louis.

“Overwhelmed more than ever.”  Polichinelle’s bow was superb this time.  “Faith, I think I’ll take the air to cool me after so much blushing.”

“Go to the devil,” Binet flung at him.

“Better and better.”  Polichinelle made for the door.  On the threshold he halted and struck an attitude.  “Understand me, Binet.  I do not now play Scaramouche in any circumstances whatever.”  And he went out.  On the whole, it was a very dignified exit.

Andre-Louis shrugged, threw out his arms, and let them fall to his sides again.  “You have ruined everything,” he told M. Binet.  “The matter could easily have been arranged.  Well, well, it is you are master here; and since you want us to pack and be off, that is what we will do, I suppose.”

He went out, too.  M. Binet stood in thought a moment, then followed him, his little eyes very cunning.  He caught him up in the doorway.  “Let us take a walk together, M. Parvissimus,” said he, very affably.

He thrust his arm through Andre-Louis’, and led him out into the street, where there was still considerable movement.  Past the booths that ranged about the market they went, and down the hill towards the bridge.  “I don’t think we shall pack to-morrow,” said M. Binet, presently.  “In fact, we shall play to-morrow night.”

“Not if I know Polichinelle.  You have... "

“I am not thinking of Polichinelle.”

“Of whom, then?”

“Of yourself.”

“I am flattered, sir.  And in what capacity are you thinking of me?”
There was something too sleek and oily in Binet’s voice for
Andre-Louis’ taste.

“I am thinking of you in the part of Scaramouche.”

“Day-dreams,” said Andre-Louis.  “You are amusing yourself, of course.”