Well ahead rolled Binet, moving faster than any had
ever seen him move, and swinging the long cane from
which Pantaloon is inseparable.
“Infamous scoundrel!” he roared.
“You have ruined me! But, name of a name,
you shall pay!”
Andre-Louis turned to face him. “You confuse
cause with effect,” said he. But he got
no farther... Binet’s cane, viciously driven,
descended and broke upon his shoulder. Had he
not moved swiftly aside as the blow fell it must have
taken him across the head, and possibly stunned him.
As he moved, he dropped his hand to his pocket, and
swift upon the cracking of Binet’s breaking cane
came the crack of the pistol with which Andre-Louis
replied.
“You had your warning, you filthy pander!”
he cried. And on the word he shot him through
the body.
Binet went down screaming, whilst the fierce Polichinelle,
fiercer than ever in that moment of fierce reality,
spoke quickly into Andre-Louis’ ear:
“Fool! So much was not necessary!
Away with you now, or you’ll leave your skin
here! Away with you!”
Andre-Louis thought it good advice, and took it.
The gentlemen who had followed Binet in that punitive
rush upon the stage, partly held in check by the improvised
weapons of the players, partly intimidated by the
second pistol that Scaramouche presented, let him
go. He gained the wings, and here found himself
faced by a couple of sergeants of the watch, part
of the police that was already invading the theatre
with a view to restoring order. The sight of
them reminded him unpleasantly of how he must stand
towards the law for this night’s work, and more
particularly for that bullet lodged somewhere in Binet’s
obese body. He flourished his pistol.
“Make way, or I’ll burn your brains!”
he threatened them, and intimidated, themselves without
firearms, they fell back and let him pass. He
slipped by the door of the green-room, where the ladies
of the company had shut themselves in until the storm
should be over, and so gained the street behind the
theatre. It was deserted. Down this he
went at a run, intent on reaching the inn for clothes
and money, since it was impossible that he should take
the road in the garb of Scaramouche.
TRANSITION
“You may agree,” wrote Andre-Louis from
Paris to Le Chapelier, in a letter which survives,
“that it is to be regretted I should definitely
have discarded the livery of Scaramouche, since clearly
there could be no livery fitter for my wear.
It seems to be my part always to stir up strife and
then to slip away before I am caught in the crash
of the warring elements I have aroused. It is
a humiliating reflection. I seek consolation
in the reminder of Epictetus (do you ever read Epictetus?)
that we are but actors in a play of such a part as
