After dinner M. Binet read to the assembled company the amended and amplified canevas of “The Heartless Father,” which, acting upon the advice of M. Parvissimus, he had been at great pains to prepare. The company had few doubts as to the real authorship before he began to read; none at all when he had read. There was a verve, a grip about this story; and, what was more, those of them who knew their Moliere realized that far from approaching the original more closely, this canevas had drawn farther away from it. Moliere’s original part--the title role--had dwindled into insignificance, to the great disgust of Polichinelle, to whom it fell. But the other parts had all been built up into importance, with the exception of Leandre, who remained as before. The two great roles were now Scaramouche, in the character of the intriguing Sbrigandini, and Pantaloon the father. There was, too, a comical part for Rhodomont, as the roaring bully hired by Polichinelle to cut Leandre into ribbons. And in view of the importance now of Scaramouche, the play had been rechristened “Figaro-Scaramouche.” This last had not been without a deal of opposition from M. Binet. But his relentless collaborator, who was in reality the real author--drawing shamelessly, but practically at last upon his great store of reading--had overborne him. “You must move with the times, monsieur. In Paris Beaumarchais is the rage. ‘Figaro’ is known to-day throughout the world. Let us borrow a little of his glory. It will draw the people in. They will come to see half a ‘Figaro’ when they will not come to see a dozen ‘Heartless Fathers.’ Therefore let us cast the mantle of Figaro upon some one, and proclaim it in our title.” “But as I am the head of the company...” began M. Binet, weakly. “If you will be blind to your interests, you will presently be a head without a body. And what use is that? Can the shoulders of Pantaloon carry the mantle of Figaro? You laugh. Of course you laugh. The notion is absurd. The proper person for the mantle of Figaro is Scaramouche, who is naturally Figaro’s twin-brother.” Thus tyrannized, the tyrant Binet gave way, comforted by the reflection that if he understood anything at all about the theatre, he had for fifteen livres a month acquired something that would presently be earning him as many louis. The company’s reception of the canevas now confirmed him, if we except Polichinelle, who, annoyed at having lost half his part in the alterations, declared the new scenario fatuous. “Ah! You call my work fatuous, do you?” M. Binet hectored him. “Your work?” said Polichinelle, to add with his tongue in his cheek: “Ah, pardon. I had not realized that you were the author.” “Then realize it now.” “You were very close with M. Parvissimus over this authorship,” said Polichinelle, with impudent suggestiveness. “And what if I was? What do you imply?” “That you took him to cut quills for you, of course.”