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?” “You are right. We ought to be weeping because you didn’t break it. Come, man, get up,” and he held out a hand to the prostrate rogue. Scaramouche took the hand, clutched it, heaved himself from the ground, then with a scream dropped back again. “My foot!” he complained. Binet rolled through the group of players, scattering them to right and left. Apprehension had been quick to seize him. Fate had played him such tricks before. “What ails your foot?” quoth he, sourly. “It’s broken, I think,” Scaramouche complained. “Broken? Bah! Get up, man.” He caught him under the armpits and hauled him up. Scaramouche came howling to one foot; the other doubled under him when he attempted to set it down, and he must have collapsed again but that Binet supported him. He filled the place with his plaint, whilst Binet swore amazingly and variedly. “Must you bellow like a calf, you fool? Be quiet. A chair here, some one.” A chair was thrust forward. He crushed Scaramouche down into it. “Let us look at this foot of yours.” Heedless of Scaramouche’s howls of pain, he swept away shoe and stocking. “What ails it?” he asked, staring. “Nothing that I can see.” He seized it, heel in one hand, instep in the other, and gyrated it. Scaramouche screamed in agony, until Climene caught Binet’s arm and made him stop.