Rafael Sabatini - The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

“Fool!” Scaramouche snapped. “Must you be laughing when I’ve all but broken my neck?”

“You are right. We ought to be weeping because you didn’t break it. Come, man, get up,” and he held out a hand to the prostrate rogue.

Scaramouche took the hand, clutched it, heaved himself from the ground, then with a scream dropped back again.

“My foot!” he complained.

Binet rolled through the group of players, scattering them to right and left. Apprehension had been quick to seize him. Fate had played him such tricks before.

“What ails your foot?” quoth he, sourly.

“It’s broken, I think,” Scaramouche complained.

“Broken? Bah! Get up, man.” He caught him under the armpits and hauled him up.

Scaramouche came howling to one foot; the other doubled under him when he attempted to set it down, and he must have collapsed again but that Binet supported him. He filled the place with his plaint, whilst Binet swore amazingly and variedly.

“Must you bellow like a calf, you fool? Be quiet. A chair here, some one.”

A chair was thrust forward. He crushed Scaramouche down into it.

“Let us look at this foot of yours.”

Heedless of Scaramouche’s howls of pain, he swept away shoe and stocking.

“What ails it?” he asked, staring. “Nothing that I can see.” He seized it, heel in one hand, instep in the other, and gyrated it. Scaramouche screamed in agony, until Climene caught Binet’s arm and made him stop.

“My God, have you no feelings?” she reproved her father. “The lad has hurt his foot. Must you torture him? Will that cure it?”

“Hurt his foot!” said Binet. “I can see nothing the matter with his foot — nothing to justify all this uproar. He has bruised it, maybe . . . ”

“A man with a bruised foot doesn’t scream like that,” said Madame over Climene’s shoulder. “Perhaps he has dislocated it.”

“That is what I fear,” whimpered Scaramouche.

Binet heaved himself up in disgust.

“Take him to bed,” he bade them, “and fetch a doctor to see him.”

It was done, and the doctor came. Having seen the patient, he reported that nothing very serious had happened, but that in falling he had evidently sprained his foot a little. A few days’ rest and all would be well.

“A few days!” cried Binet. “God of God! Do you mean that he can’t walk?”

“It would be unwise, indeed impossible for more than a few steps.”

M. Binet paid the doctor’s fee, and sat down to think. He filled himself a glass of Burgundy, tossed it off without a word, and sat thereafter staring into the empty glass.

“It is of course the sort of thing that must always be happening to me,” he grumbled to no one in particular. The members of the company were all standing in silence before him, sharing his dismay. “I might have known that this — or something like it — would occur to spoil the first vein of luck that I have found in years. Ah, well, it is finished. To-morrow we pack and depart. The best day of the fair, on the crest of the wave of our success — a good fifteen louis to be taken, and this happens! God of God!”

“Do you mean to abandon to-morrow’s performance?”

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.”