“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.” “Not in the least. I am quite serious.” “But I am not an actor.” “You told me that you could be.” “Oh, upon occasion... a small part, perhaps...” “Well, here is a big part--the chance to arrive at a single stride. How many men have had such a chance?” “It is a chance I do not covet, M. Binet. Shall we change the subject?” He was very frosty, as much perhaps because he scented in M. Binet’s manner something that was vaguely menacing as for any other reason. “We’ll change the subject when I please,” said M. Binet, allowing a glimpse of steel to glimmer through the silk of him. “To-morrow night you play Scaramouche. You are ready enough in your wits, your figure is ideal, and you have just the kind of mordant humour for the part. You should be a great success.” “It is much more likely that I should be an egregious failure.” “That won’t matter,” said Binet, cynically, and explained himself. “The failure will be personal to yourself. The receipts will be safe by then.” “Much obliged,” said Andre-Louis. “We should take fifteen louis to-morrow night.” “It is unfortunate that you are without a Scaramouche,” said Andre-Louis. “It is fortunate that I have one, M. Parvissimus.” Andre-Louis disengaged his arm. “I begin to find you tiresome,” said he. “I think I will return.” “A moment, M. Parvissimus. If I am to lose that fifteen louis... you’ll not take it amiss that I compensate myself in other ways?” “That is your own concern, M. Binet.”