He thrust his arm through André-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 André-Louis' taste.
"I am thinking of you in the part of Scaramouche."
"Day-dreams," said André-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."
