Scaramouche - Rafael Sabatini (comprehension books TXT) 📗
- Author: Rafael Sabatini
- Performer: 0451527976
Book online «Scaramouche - Rafael Sabatini (comprehension books TXT) 📗». Author Rafael Sabatini
All turned to stare with Binet at Andre-Louis.
“Are we to play ‘Figaro-Scaramouche’ without Scaramouche?” asked Binet, sneering.
“Of course not.” Andre-Louis came forward. “But surely some rearrangement of the parts is possible. For instance, there is a fine actor in Polichinelle.”
Polichinelle swept him a bow. “Overwhelmed,” said he, ever sardonic.
“But he has a part of his own,” objected Binet.
“A small part, which Pasquariel could play.”
“And who will play Pasquariel?”
“Nobody. We delete it. The play need not suffer.”
“He thinks of everything,” sneered Polichinelle. “What a man!”
But Binet was far from agreement. “Are you suggesting that Polichinelle should play Scaramouche?” he asked, incredulously.
“Why not? He is able enough!”
“Overwhelmed again,” interjected Polichinelle.
“Play Scaramouche with that figure?” Binet heaved himself up to point a denunciatory finger at Polichinelle’s sturdy, thick-set shortness.
“For lack of a better,” said Andre-Louis.
“Overwhelmed more than ever.” Polichinelle’s bow was superb this time. “Faith, I think I’ll take the air to cool me after so much blushing.”
“Go to the devil,” Binet flung at him.
“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.”
“Pardon, M. Parvissimus. It may possibly be also yours.” Binet took his arm again. “Do me the kindness to step across the street with me. Just as far as the post-office there. I have something to show you.”
Andre-Louis went. Before they reached that sheet of paper nailed upon the door, he knew exactly what it would say. And in effect it was, as he had supposed, that twenty louis would be paid for information leading to the apprehension of one Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of Gavrillac, who was wanted by the King’s Lieutenant in Rennes upon a charge of sedition.
M. Binet watched him whilst he read. Their arms were linked, and Binet’s grip was firm and powerful.
“Now, my friend,” said he, “will you be M. Parvissimus and play Scaramouche to-morrow, or will you be Andre-Louis Moreau of Gavrillac and go to Rennes to satisfy the King’s Lieutenant?”
“And if it should happen that you are mistaken?” quoth Andre-Louis, his face a mask.
“I’ll take the risk of that,” leered M. Binet. “You mentioned, I think, that you were a lawyer. An indiscretion, my dear. It is unlikely that two lawyers will be in hiding at the same time in the same district. You see it is not really clever of me. Well, M. Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of Gavrillac, what is it to be?”
“We will talk it over as we walk back,” said Andre-Louis.
“What is there to talk over?”
“One or two things, I think. I must know where I stand. Come, sir, if you please.”
“Very well,” said M. Binet, and they turned up the street again, but M. Binet maintained a firm hold of his young friend’s arm, and kept himself on the alert for any tricks that the young gentleman might be disposed to play. It was an unnecessary precaution. Andre-Louis was not the man to waste his energy futilely. He knew that in bodily strength he was no match at all for the heavy and powerful Pantaloon.
“If I yield to your most eloquent and seductive persuasions, M. Binet,” said he, sweetly, “what guarantee do you give me that you will not sell me for twenty louis after I shall have served your turn?”
“You have my word of honour for that.” M. Binet was emphatic.
Andre-Louis laughed. “Oh, we are to talk of honour, are we? Really, M. Binet? It is clear you think me a fool.”
In the dark he did not see the flush that leapt to M. Binet’s round face. It was some moments before he replied.
“Perhaps you are right,” he growled. “What guarantee do you want?”
“I do not know what guarantee you can possibly give.”
“I have said that I will keep faith with you.”
“Until you find it more profitable to sell me.”
“You have it in your power to make it more profitable always for me to keep faith with you. It is due to you that we have done so well in Guichen. Oh, I admit it frankly.”
“In private,” said Andre-Louis.
M. Binet left the sarcasm unheeded.
“What you have done for us here with ‘Figaro-Scaramouche,’ you can do elsewhere with other things. Naturally, I shall not want to lose you. That is your guarantee.”
“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.
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.
He bowed to his reflection in the mirror.
“Buffoon!” he apostrophized it. “At last you have found yourself. At last you have come into your heritage. You should be a great success.”
Hearing his new name called out by M. Binet, he went below to find the company assembled, and waiting in the entrance corridor of the inn.
He was, of course, an object of great interest to all the company. Most critically was he conned by M. Binet and mademoiselle; by the former with gravely searching eyes, by the latter with a curl of scornful lip.
“You’ll do,” M. Binet commended his make-up. “At least you look the part.”
“Unfortunately men are not always what they look,” said Climene, acidly.
“That is a truth that does not at present apply to me,” said Andre-Louis. “For it is the first time in my life that I look what I am.”
Mademoiselle curled her lip a little further, and turned her shoulder to him. But the others thought him very witty - probably because he was obscure. Columbine encouraged him with a friendly smile that displayed her large white teeth, and M. Binet swore yet once again that he would be a great success, since he threw himself with such spirit into the undertaking. Then in a voice that for the moment he appeared to have borrowed from the roaring
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