“That, at least, is something,” he declared. “My boy, I have great plans for you--for us. To-morrow we go to Maure; there is a fair there to the end of this week. Then on Monday we take our chances at Pipriac, and after that we must consider. It may be that I am about to realize the dream of my life. There must have been upwards of fifteen louis taken to-night. Where the devil is that rascal Cordemais?” Cordemais was the name of the original Scaramouche, who had so unfortunately twisted his ankle. That Binet should refer to him by his secular designation was a sign that in the Binet company at least he had fallen for ever from the lofty eminence of Scaramouche. “Let us go and find him, and then we’ll away to the inn and crack a bottle of the best Burgundy, perhaps two bottles.” But Cordemais was not readily to be found. None of the company had seen him since the close of the performance. M. Binet went round to the entrance. Cordemais was not there. At first he was annoyed; then as he continued in vain to bawl the fellow’s name, he began to grow uneasy; lastly, when Polichinelle, who was with them, discovered Cordemais’ crutch standing discarded behind the door, M. Binet became alarmed. A dreadful suspicion entered his mind. He grew visibly pale under his paint. “But this evening he couldn’t walk without the crutch!” he exclaimed. “How then does he come to leave it there and take himself off?” “Perhaps he has gone on to the inn,” suggested some one. “But he couldn’t walk without his crutch,” M. Binet insisted. Nevertheless, since clearly he was not anywhere about the market-hall, to the inn they all trooped, and deafened the landlady with their inquiries. “Oh, yes, M. Cordemais came in some time ago.” “Where is he now?” “He went away again at once. He just came for his bag.” “For his bag!” Binet was on the point of an apoplexy. “How long ago was that?” She glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. “It would be about half an hour ago. It was a few minutes before the Rennes diligence passed through.” “The Rennes diligence!” M. Binet was almost inarticulate. “Could he... could he walk?” he asked, on a note of terrible anxiety. “Walk? He ran like a hare when he left the inn. I thought, myself, that his agility was suspicious, seeing how lame he had been since he fell downstairs yesterday. Is anything wrong?” M. Binet had collapsed into a chair. He took his head in his hands, and groaned. “The scoundrel was shamming all the time!” exclaimed Climene. “His fall downstairs was a trick. He was playing for this. He has swindled us.” “Fifteen louis at least--perhaps sixteen!” said M. Binet. “Oh, the heartless blackguard! To swindle me who have been as a father to him--and to swindle me in such a moment.” From the ranks of the silent, awe-stricken company, each member of which was wondering by how much of the loss his own meagre pay would be mulcted, there came a splutter of laughter. M. Binet glared with blood-injected eyes.