Scaramouche laughed at him, and his laugh was not altogether pleasant.

“Always Pantaloon!” said he.

The great countenance became overcast.  “I see that you do not yet forgive me the little stratagem by which I forced you to do justice to yourself.  Ungrateful dog!  As if I could have had any purpose but to make you; and I have done so.  Continue as you have begun, and you will end in Paris.  You may yet tread the stage of the Comedie Francaise, the rival of Talma, Fleury, and Dugazon.  When that happens to you perhaps you will feel the gratitude that is due to old Binet, for you will owe it all to this soft-hearted old fool.”

“If you were as good an actor on the stage as you are in private,” said Scaramouche, “you would yourself have won to the Comedie Francaise long since.  But I bear no rancour, M. Binet.”  He laughed, and put out his hand.

Binet fell upon it and wrung it heartily.

“That, at least, is something,” he declared.  “My boy, I have great plans for you — for us.  To-morrow we go to Maure; there is a fair there to the end of this week.  Then on Monday we take our chances at Pipriac, and after that we must consider.  It may be that I am about to realize the dream of my life.  There must have been upwards of fifteen louis taken to-night.  Where the devil is that rascal Cordemais?”

Cordemais was the name of the original Scaramouche, who had so unfortunately twisted his ankle.  That Binet should refer to him by his secular designation was a sign that in the Binet company at least he had fallen for ever from the lofty eminence of Scaramouche.

“Let us go and find him, and then we’ll away to the inn and crack a bottle of the best Burgundy, perhaps two bottles.”

But Cordemais was not readily to be found.  None of the company had seen him since the close of the performance.  M. Binet went round to the entrance.  Cordemais was not there.  At first he was annoyed; then as he continued in vain to bawl the fellow’s name, he began to grow uneasy; lastly, when Polichinelle, who was with them, discovered Cordemais’ crutch standing discarded behind the door, M. Binet became alarmed.  A dreadful suspicion entered his mind.  He grew visibly pale under his paint.

“But this evening he couldn’t walk without the crutch!” he exclaimed.  “How then does he come to leave it there and take himself off?”

“Perhaps he has gone on to the inn,” suggested some one.

“But he couldn’t walk without his crutch,” M. Binet insisted.

Nevertheless, since clearly he was not anywhere about the market-hall, to the inn they all trooped, and deafened the landlady with their inquiries.

“Oh, yes, M. Cordemais came in some time ago.”

“Where is he now?”

“He went away again at once.  He just came for his bag.”

“For his bag!” Binet was on the point of an apoplexy.  “How long ago was that?”