“In private,” said Andre-Louis.
M. Binet left the sarcasm unheeded.
“What you have done for us here with ‘Figaro-Scaramouche,’ you can do elsewhere with other things. Naturally, I shall not want to lose you. That is your guarantee.”
“Yet to-night you would sell me for twenty louis.”
“Because—name of God!—you enrage me by refusing me a service well within your powers. Don’t you think, had I been entirely the rogue you think me, I could have sold you on Saturday last? I want you to understand me, my dear Parvissimus.”
“I beg that you’ll not apologize. You would be more tiresome than ever.”
“Of course you will be gibing. You never miss a chance to gibe. It’ll bring you trouble before you’re done with life. Come; here we are back at the inn, and you have not yet given me your decision.”
Andre-Louis looked at him. “I must yield, of course. I can’t help myself.”
M. Binet released his arm at last, and slapped him heartily upon the back. “Well declared, my lad. You’ll never regret it. If I know anything of the theatre, I know that you have made the great decision of your life. To-morrow night you’ll thank me.”
Andre-Louis shrugged, and stepped out ahead towards the inn. But M. Binet called him back.