The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
he is Scapin and sometimes Coviello, but in the main Scaramouche, to which let me tell you he is best suited—sometimes too well suited, I think. For he is Scaramouche not only on the stage, but also in the world. He has a gift of sly intrigue, an art of setting folk by the ears, combined with an impudent aggressiveness upon occasion when he considers himself safe from reprisals. He is Scaramouche, the little skirmisher, to the very life. I could say more. But I am by disposition charitable and loving to all mankind.”
“As the priest said when he kissed the serving-wench,” snarled Scaramouche, and went on eating.
“His humour, like your own, you will observe, is acrid,” said Pantaloon. He passed on. “Then that rascal with the lumpy nose and the grinning bucolic countenance is, of course, Pierrot. Could he be aught else?”
“I could play lovers a deal better,” said the rustic cherub.
“That is the delusion proper to Pierrot,” said Pantaloon, contemptuously. “This heavy, beetle-browed ruffian, who has grown old in sin, and whose appetite increases with his years, is Polichinelle. Each one, as you perceive, is designed by Nature for the part he plays. This nimble, freckled jackanapes is Harlequin; not your spangled Harlequin into which modern degeneracy has debased that first-born of Momus, but the genuine original zany of the Commedia, ragged and patched, an impudent, cowardly, blackguardly clown.”
“Each one of us, as you perceive,” said Harlequin, mimicking the leader of the troupe, “is designed by Nature for the part he plays.”
“Physically, my friend, physically only, else we should not have so much trouble in teaching this beautiful Leandre to become a lover. Then we have Pasquariel here, who is sometimes an apothecary, sometimes a notary, sometimes a lackey—an amiable, accommodating fellow. He is also an excellent cook, being a child of Italy, that land of gluttons. And finally, you have myself, who as the father of the company very properly play as Pantaloon the roles of father. Sometimes, it is true, I am a deluded husband, and sometimes an ignorant, self-sufficient doctor. But it is rarely that I find it necessary to call myself other than Pantaloon. For the rest, I am the only one who has a name—a real name. It is Binet, monsieur.
“And now for the ladies… First in order of seniority we have Madame there.” He waved one of his great hands towards a buxom, smiling blonde of five-and-forty, who was seated on the lowest of the steps of the travelling house. “She is our Duegne, or Mother, or Nurse, as the case requires. She is known quite simply and royally as Madame. If she ever had a name in the world, she has long since forgotten it, which is perhaps as well. Then we have this pert jade with the tip-tilted nose and the wide mouth, who is of course our soubrette Columbine, and lastly, my daughter Climene, an amoureuse of talents not to be matched outside the Comedie Francaise, of which she has the bad taste to aspire to become a member.”
The lovely Climene—and lovely indeed she was—tossed her nut-brown curls and laughed as she looked across at Andre-Louis. Her eyes, he had perceived by now, were not blue, but hazel.
“Do not believe him, monsieur. Here I am queen, and I prefer to be queen here rather than a slave in Paris.”
“Mademoiselle,” said Andre-Louis, quite solemnly, “will be queen wherever she condescends to reign.”
Her only answer was a timid—timid and yet alluring—glance from under fluttering lids. Meanwhile her father was bawling at the comely young man who played lovers—“You hear, Leandre! That is the sort of speech you should practise.”
Leandre raised languid eyebrows. “That?” quoth he, and shrugged. “The merest commonplace.”
Andre-Louis laughed approval. “M. Leandre is of a readier wit than you concede. There is subtlety in pronouncing it a commonplace to call Mlle. Climene a queen.”
Some laughed, M. Binet amongst them, with good-humoured mockery.
“You think he has the wit to mean it thus? Bah! His subtleties are all unconscious.”
The conversation becoming general, Andre-Louis soon learnt what yet there was to learn of this strolling band. They were on their way to Guichen, where they hoped to prosper at the fair that was to open on Monday next. They would make their triumphal entry into the town at noon, and setting up their stage in the old market, they would give their first performance that same Saturday night, in a new canevas—or scenario—of M. Binet’s own, which should set the rustics gaping. And then M. Binet fetched a sigh, and addressed himself to the elderly, swarthy, beetle-browed Polichinelle, who sat on his left.
“But we shall miss Felicien,” said he. “Indeed, I do not know what we shall do without him.”
“Oh, we shall contrive,” said Polichinelle, with his mouth full.
“So you always say, whatever happens, knowing that in any case the contriving will not fall upon yourself.”
“He should not be difficult to replace,” said Harlequin.
“True, if we were in a civilized land. But where among the rustics of Brittany are we to find a fellow of even his poor parts?” M. Binet turned to Andre-Louis. “He was our property-man, our machinist, our stage-carpenter, our man of affairs, and occasionally he acted.”
“The part of Figaro, I presume,” said Andre-Louis, which elicited a laugh.
“So you are acquainted with Beaumarchais!” Binet eyed the young man with fresh interest.
“He is tolerably well known, I think.”
“In Paris, to be sure. But I had not dreamt his fame had reached the wilds of Brittany.”
“But then I was some years in Paris—at the Lycee of Louis le Grand. It was there I made acquaintance with his work.”
“A dangerous man,” said Polichinelle, sententiously.
“Indeed, and you are right,” Pantaloon agreed. “Clever—I do not deny him that, although myself I find little use for authors. But of a sinister cleverness responsible for the dissemination of many of these subversive new ideas. I think such writers should be suppressed.”
“M. de La Tour d’Azyr would probably agree with you—the gentleman who by the simple exertion of his will turns this communal land into his own property.” And Andre-Louis drained his cup, which had been filled with the poor vin gris that was the players’ drink.
It was a remark that might have precipitated an argument had it not also reminded M. Binet of the terms on which they were encamped there, and of the fact that the half-hour was more than past. In a moment he was on his feet, leaping up with an agility surprising in so corpulent a man, issuing his commands like a marshal on a field of battle.
“Come, come, my lads! Are we to sit guzzling here all day? Time flees, and there’s a deal to be done if we are to make our entry into Guichen at noon. Go, get you dressed. We strike camp in twenty minutes. Bestir, ladies! To your chaise, and see that you contrive to look your best. Soon the eyes of Guichen will be upon you, and the condition of your interior tomorrow will depend upon the impression made by your exterior today. Away! Away!”
The implicit obedience this autocrat commanded set them in a whirl. Baskets and boxes were dragged forth to receive the platters and remains of their meagre feast. In an instant the ground was cleared, and the three ladies had taken their departure to the chaise, which was set apart for their use. The men were already climbing into the house on wheels, when Binet turned to Andre-Louis.
“We part here, sir,” said he, dramatically, “the richer by your acquaintance; your debtors and your friends.” He put forth his podgy hand.
Slowly Andre-Louis took it in his own. He had been thinking swiftly in the last few moments. And remembering the safety he had found from his pursuers in the bosom of this company, it occurred to him that nowhere could he be better hidden for the present, until the quest for him should have died down.
“Sir,” he said, “the indebtedness is on my side. It is not every day one has the felicity to sit down with so illustrious and engaging