“Yet to-night you would sell me for twenty louis.” “Because--name of God!--you enrage me by refusing me a service well within your powers. Don’t you think, had I been entirely the rogue you think me, I could have sold you on Saturday last? I want you to understand me, my dear Parvissimus.” “I beg that you’ll not apologize. You would be more tiresome than ever.” “Of course you will be gibing. You never miss a chance to gibe. It’ll bring you trouble before you’re done with life. Come; here we are back at the inn, and you have not yet given me your decision.” Andre-Louis looked at him. “I must yield, of course. I can’t help myself.” M. Binet released his arm at last, and slapped him heartily upon the back. “Well declared, my lad. You’ll never regret it. If I know anything of the theatre, I know that you have made the great decision of your life. To-morrow night you’ll thank me.” Andre-Louis shrugged, and stepped out ahead towards the inn. But M. Binet called him back. “M. Parvissimus!” He turned. There stood the man’s great bulk, the moonlight beating down upon that round fat face of his, and he was holding out his hand. “M. Parvissimus, no rancour. It is a thing I do not admit into my life. You will shake hands with me, and we will forget all this.” Andre-Louis considered him a moment with disgust. He was growing angry. Then, realizing this, he conceived himself ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as that sly, scoundrelly Pantaloon. He laughed and took the outstretched hand. “No rancour?” M. Binet insisted. “Oh, no rancour,” said Andre-Louis. CHAPTER V. ENTER SCARAMOUCHE Dressed in the close-fitting suit of a bygone age, all black, from flat velvet cap to rosetted shoes, his face whitened and a slight up-curled moustache glued to his upper lip, a small-sword at his side and a guitar slung behind him, Scaramouche surveyed himself in a mirror, and was disposed to be sardonic--which was the proper mood for the part. He reflected that his life, which until lately had been of a stagnant, contemplative quality, had suddenly become excessively active. In the course of one week he had been lawyer, mob-orator, outlaw, property-man, and finally buffoon. Last Wednesday he had been engaged in moving an audience of Rennes to anger; on this Wednesday he was to move an audience of Guichen to mirth. Then he had been concerned to draw tears; to-day it was his business to provoke laughter. There was a difference, and yet there was a parallel. Then as now he had been a comedian; and the part that he had played then was, when you came to think of it, akin to the part he was to play this evening. For what had he been at Rennes but a sort of Scaramouche--the little skirmisher, the astute intriguer, spattering the seed of trouble with a sly hand? The only difference lay in the fact that to-day he went forth under the name that properly described his type, whereas last week he had been disguised as a respectable young provincial attorney.