“The more fool you,” said Andre-Louis. “A man who respected himself would have shown that gentleman the door.” M. Binet’s face began to empurple. “You call yourself the head of the Binet Troupe, you boast that you will be master in your own theatre, and you stand like a lackey to take the orders of the first insolent fellow who comes to your green-room to tell you that he does not like a line spoken by one of your company! I say again that had you really respected yourself you would have turned him out.” There was a murmur of approval from several members of the company, who, having heard the arrogant tone assumed by the Marquis, were filled with resentment against the slur cast upon them all. “And I say further,” Andre-Louis went on, “that a man who respects himself, on quite other grounds, would have been only too glad to have seized this pretext to show M. de La Tour d’Azyr the door.” “What do you mean by that?” There was a rumble of thunder in the question. Andre-Louis’ eyes swept round the company assembled at the supper-table. “Where is Climene?” he asked, sharply. Leandre leapt up to answer him, white in the face, tense and quivering with excitement. “She left the theatre in the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr’s carriage immediately after the performance. We heard him offer to drive her to this inn.” Andre-Louis glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. He seemed unnaturally calm. “That would be an hour ago--rather more. And she has not yet arrived?” His eyes sought M. Binet’s. M. Binet’s eyes eluded his glance. Again it was Leandre who answered him. “Not yet.” “Ah!” Andre-Louis sat down, and poured himself wine. There was an oppressive silence in the room. Leandre watched him expectantly, Columbine commiseratingly. Even M. Binet appeared to be waiting for a cue from Scaramouche. But Scaramouche disappointed him. “Have you left me anything to eat?” he asked. Platters were pushed towards him. He helped himself calmly to food, and ate in silence, apparently with a good appetite. M. Binet sat down, poured himself wine, and drank. Presently he attempted to make conversation with one and another. He was answered curtly, in monosyllables. M. Binet did not appear to be in favour with his troupe that night. At long length came a rumble of wheels below and a rattle of halting hooves. Then voices, the high, trilling laugh of Climene floating upwards. Andre-Louis went on eating unconcernedly. “What an actor!” said Harlequin under his breath to Polichinelle, and Polichinelle nodded gloomily. She came in, a leading lady taking the stage, head high, chin thrust forward, eyes dancing with laughter; she expressed triumph and arrogance. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was some disorder in the mass of nut-brown hair that crowned her head. In her left hand she carried an enormous bouquet of white camellias. On its middle finger a diamond of great price drew almost at once by its effulgence the eyes of all.