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.