Binet fell upon it and wrung it heartily.
“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.
“Who laughs?” he roared. “What heartless wretch has the audacity to laugh at my misfortune?”
Andre-Louis, still in the sable glories of Scaramouche, stood forward. He was laughing still.
“It is you, is it? You may laugh on another note, my friend, if I choose a way to recoup myself that I know of.”
“Dullard!” Scaramouche scorned him. “Rabbit-brained elephant! What if Cordemais has gone with fifteen louis? Hasn’t he left you something worth twenty times as much?”
M. Binet gaped uncomprehending.
“You are between two wines, I think. You’ve been drinking,” he concluded.
“So I have — at the fountain of Thalia. Oh, don’t you see? Don’t you see the treasure that Cordemais has left behind him?”
“What has he left?”
“A unique idea for the groundwork of a scenario. It unfolds itself all before me. I’ll borrow part of the title from Moliere. We’ll call it ‘Les Fourberies de Scaramouche,’ and if we don’t leave the audiences of Maure and Pipriac with sides aching from laughter I’ll play the dullard Pantaloon in future.”
Polichinelle smacked fist into palm. “Superb!” he said, fiercely. “To cull fortune from misfortune, to turn loss into profit, that is to have genius.”
Scaramouche made a leg. “Polichinelle, you are a fellow after my own heart. I love a man who can discern my merit. If Pantaloon had half your wit, we should have Burgundy to-night in spite of the flight of Cordemais.”
“Burgundy?” roared M. Binet, and before he could get farther Harlequin had clapped his hands together.
“That is the spirit, M. Binet. You heard him, landlady. He called for Burgundy.”
“I called for nothing of the kind.”
“But you heard him, dear madame. We all heard him.”
The others made chorus, whilst Scaramouche smiled at him, and patted his shoulder.
“Up, man, a little courage. Did you not say that fortune awaits us? And have we not now the wherewithal to constrain fortune? Burgundy, then, to... to toast ‘Les Fourberies de Scaramouche.’”
And M. Binet, who was not blind to the force of the idea, yielded, took courage, and got drunk with the rest.
CHAPTER VI. CLIMENE
Diligent search among the many scenarios of the improvisers which have survived their day, has failed to bring to light the scenario of “Les Fourberies de Scaramouche,” upon which we are told the fortunes of the Binet troupe came to be soundly established. They played it for the first time at Maure in the following week, with Andre-Louis — who was known by now as Scaramouche to all the company, and to the public alike — in the title-role. If he had acquitted himself well as Figaro-Scaramouche, he excelled himself in the new piece, the scenario of which would appear to be very much the better of the two.
After Maure came Pipriac, where four performances were given, two of each of the scenarios that now formed the backbone of the Binet repertoire. In both Scaramouche, who was beginning to find himself, materially improved his performances. So smoothly now did the two pieces run that Scaramouche actually suggested to Binet that after Fougeray, which they were to visit in the following week, they should tempt fortune in a real theatre in the important town of Redon. The notion terrified Binet at first, but coming to think of it, and his ambition being fanned by Andre-Louis, he ended by allowing himself to succumb to the temptation.
It seemed to Andre-Louis in those days that he had found his real metier, and not only was he beginning to like it, but actually to look forward to a career as actor-author that might indeed lead him in the end to that Mecca of all comedians, the Comedie Francaise. And there were other possibilities. From the writing of skeleton scenarios for improvisers, he might presently pass to writing plays of dialogue, plays in the proper sense of the word, after the manner of Chenier, Eglantine, and Beaumarchais.
The fact that he dreamed such dreams shows us how very kindly he had taken to the profession into which Chance and M. Binet between them had conspired to thrust him. That he had real talent both as author and as actor I do not doubt, and I am persuaded that had things fallen out differently he would have won for himself a lasting place among French dramatists, and thus fully have realized that dream of his.
Now, dream though it was, he did not neglect the practical side of it.
“You realize,” he told M. Binet, “that I have it in my power to make your fortune for you.”
He and Binet were sitting alone together in the parlour of the inn at Pipriac, drinking a very excellent bottle of Volnay. It was on the night after the fourth and last performance there of “Les Feurberies.” The business in Pipriac had been as excellent as in Maure and Guichen. You will have gathered this from the fact that they drank Volnay.
“I will concede it, my dear Scaramouche, so that I may hear the sequel.”
“I am disposed to exer
cise this power if the inducement is sufficient. You will realize that for fifteen livres a month a man does not sell such exceptional gifts as mine.
“There is an alternative,” said M. Binet, darkly.
“There is no alternative. Don’t be a fool, Binet.”
Binet sat up as if he had been prodded. Members of his company did not take this tone of direct rebuke with him.
“Anyway, I make you a present of it,” Scaramouche pursued, airily. “Exercise it if you please. Step outside and inform the police that they can lay hands upon one Andre-Louis Moreau. But that will be the end of your fine dreams of going to Redon, and for the first time in your life playing in a real theatre. Without me, you can’t do it, and you know it; and I am not going to Redon or anywhere else, in fact I am not even going to Fougeray, until we have an equitable arrangement.”
“But what heat!” complained Binet, “and all for what? Why must you assume that I have the soul of a usurer? When our little arrangement was made, I had no idea how could I? — that you would prove as valuable to me as you are? You had but to remind me, my dear Scaramouche. I am a just man. As from to-day you shall have thirty livres a month. See, I double it at once. I am a generous man.”
“But you are not ambitious. Now listen to me, a moment.”
And he proceeded to unfold a scheme that filled Binet with a paralyzing terror.
“After Redon, Nantes,” he said. “Nantes and the Theatre Feydau.”
M. Binet choked in the act of drinking. The Theatre Feydau was a sort of provincial Comedie Francaise. The great Fleury had played there to an audience as critical as any in France. The very thought of Redon, cherished as it had come to be by M. Binet, gave him at moments a cramp in the stomach, so dangerously ambitious did it seem to him. And Redon was a puppet-show by comparison with Nantes. Yet this raw lad whom he had picked up by chance three weeks ago, and who in that time had blossomed from a country attorney into author and actor, could talk of Nantes and the Theatre Feydau without changing colour.
“But why not Paris and the Comedie Francaise?” wondered M. Binet, with sarcasm, when at last he had got his breath.
“That may come later,” says impudence.
“Eh? You’ve been drinking, my friend.”
But Andre-Louis detailed the plan that had been forming in his mind. Fougeray should be a training-ground for Redon, and Redon should be a training-ground for Nantes. They would stay in Redon as long as Redon would pay adequately to come and see them, working hard to perfect themselves the while. They would add three or four new players of talent to the company; he would write three or four fresh scenarios, and these should be tested and perfected until the troupe was in possession of at least half a dozen plays upon which they could depend; they would lay out a portion of their profits on better dresses and better scenery, and finally in a couple of months’ time, if all went well, they should be ready to make their real bid for fortune at Nantes. It was quite true that distinction was usually demanded of the companies appearing at the Feydau, but on the other hand Nantes had not seen a troupe of improvisers for a generation and longer. They would be supplying a novelty to which all Nantes should flock provided that the work were really well done, and Scaramouche undertook — pledged himself — that if matters were left in his own hands, his projected revival of the Commedia dell’ Arte in all its glories would exceed whatever expectations the public of Nantes might bring to the theatre.
“We’ll talk of Paris after Nantes,” he finished, supremely matter-of-fact, “just as we will definitely decide on Nantes after Redon.”
The persuasiveness that could sway a mob ended by sweeping M. Binet off his feet. The prospect which Scaramouche unfolded, if terrifying, was also intoxicating, and as Scaramouche delivered a crushing answer to each weakening objection in a measure as it was advanced, Binet ended by promising to think the matter over.
“Redon will point the way,” said Andre-Louis, “and I don’t doubt which way Redon will point.”
Thus the great adventure of Redon dwindled to insignificance. Instead of a terrifying undertaking in itself, it became merely a rehearsal for something greater. In his momentary exaltation Binet proposed another bottle of Volnay. Scaramouche waited until the cork was drawn before he continued.
“The thing remains possible,” said he then, holding his glass to the light, and speaking casually, “as long as I am with you.”
“Agreed, my dear Scaramouche, agreed. Our chance meeting was a fortunate thing for both of us.”
“For both of us,” said Scaramouche, with stress. “That is as I would have it. So that I do not think you will surrender me just yet to the police.”
“As if I could think of such a thing! My dear Scaramouche, you amuse yourself. I beg that you will never, never allude to that little joke of mine again.”
“It is forgotten,” said Andre-Louis. “And now for the remainder of my proposal. If I am to become the architect of your fortunes, if I am to build them as I have planned them, I must also and in the same degree become the architect of my own.”
“In the same degree?” M. Binet frowned.
“In the same degree. From to-day, if you please, we will conduct the affairs of this company in a proper manner, and we will keep account-books.”
“I am an artist,” said M. Binet, with pride. “I am not a merchant.”
“There is a business side to your art, and that shall be conducted in the business manner. I have thought it all out for you. You shall not be troubled with details that might hinder the due exercise of your art. All that you have to do is to say yes or no to my proposal.”
“Ah? And the proposal?”
“Is that you constitute me your partner, with an equal share in the profits of your company.”
Pantaloon’s great countenance grew pale, his little eyes widened to their fullest extent as he conned the face of his companion. Then he exploded.
“You are mad, of course, to make me a proposal so monstrous.”
“It has its injustices, I admit. But I have provided for them. It would not, for instance, be fair that in addition to all that I am proposing to do for you, I should also play Scaramouche and write your scenarios without any reward outside of the half-profit which would come to me as a partner. Thus before the profits come to be divided, there is a salary to be paid me as actor, and a small sum for each scenario with which I provide the company; that is a matter for mutual agreement. Similarly, you shall be paid a salary as Pantaloon. After those expenses are cleared up, as well as all the other salaries and disbursements, the residue is the profit to be divided equally between us.”
It was not, as you can imagine, a proposal that M. Binet would swallow at a draught. He began with a point-blank refusal to consider it.
“In that case, my friend,” said Scaramouche, “we part company at once. To-morrow I shall bid you a reluctant farewell.”
Binet fell to raging. He spoke of ingratitude in feeling terms; he even permitted himself another sly allusion to that little jest of his concerning the police, which he had promised never again to mention.
“As to that, you may do as you please. Play the informer, by all means. But consider that you will just as definitely be deprived of my services, and that without me you are nothing — as you were before I joined your company.”
M. Binet did not care what the consequences might be. A fig for the consequences! He would teach this impudent young country attorney that M. Binet was not the man to be imposed upon.
Scaramouche rose. “Very well,” said he, between indifference and resignation. “As you wish. But before you act, sleep on the matter. In the cold light of morning you may see our two proposals in their proper proportions. Mine spells fortune for both of us. Yours spells ruin for both of us. Good-night, M. Binet. Heaven help you to a wise decision.”
The decision to which M. Binet finally came was, naturally, the only one possible in the face of so firm a resolve as that of Andre-Louis, who held the trumps. O
f course there were further discussions, before all was settled, and M. Binet was brought to an agreement only after an infinity of haggling surprising in one who was an artist and not a man of business. One or two concessions were made by Andre-Louis; he consented, for instance, to waive his claim to be paid for scenarios, and he also consented that M. Binet should appoint himself a salary that was out of all proportion to his deserts.
Thus in the end the matter was settled, and the announcement duly made to the assembled company. There were, of course, jealousies and resentments. But these were not deep-seated, and they were readily swallowed when it was discovered that under the new arrangement the lot of the entire company was to be materially improved from the point of view of salaries. This was a matter that had met with considerable opposition from M. Binet. But the irresistible Scaramouche swept away all objections.
“If we are to play at the Feydau, you want a company of self-respecting comedians, and not a pack of cringing starvelings. The better we pay them in reason, the more they will earn for us.”
Thus was conquered the company’s resentment of this too swift promotion of its latest recruit. Cheerfully now — with one exception — they accepted the dominance of Scaramouche, a dominance soon to be so firmly established that M. Binet himself came under it.
The one exception was Climene. Her failure to bring to heel this interesting young stranger, who had almost literally dropped into their midst that morning outside Guichen, had begotten in her a malice which his persistent ignoring of her had been steadily inflaming. She had remonstrated with her father when the new partnership was first formed. She had lost her temper with him, and called him a fool, whereupon M. Binet — in Pantaloon’s best manner — had lost his temper in his turn and boxed her ears. She piled it up to the account of Scaramouche, and spied her opportunity to pay off some of that ever-increasing score. But opportunities were few. Scaramouche was too occupied just then. During the week of preparation at Fougeray, he was hardly seen save at the performances, whilst when once they were at Redon, he came and went like the wind between the theatre and the inn.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 350
