“Behold us, fellows in viciousness. I have betrayed myself, it seems. Well, and what now? Do you want to see this pretty Marquis torn limb from limb? I might afford you the spectacle.”
“What?” Leandre stared, wondering was this another of Scaramouche’s cynicisms.
“It isn’t really difficult provided I have aid. I require only a little. Will you lend it me?”
“Anything you ask,” Leandre exploded. “My life if you require it.”
Andre-Louis took his arm again. “Let us walk,” he said. “I will instruct you.”
When they came back the company was already at dinner. Mademoiselle had not yet returned. Sullenness presided at the table. Columbine and Madame wore anxious expressions. The fact was that relations between Binet and his troupe were daily growing more strained.
Andre-Louis and Leandre went each to his accustomed place. Binet’s little eyes followed them with a malicious gleam, his thick lips pouted into a crooked smile.
“You two are grown very friendly of a sudden,” he mocked.
“You are a man of discernment, Binet,” said Scaramouche, the cold loathing of his voice itself an insult. “Perhaps you discern the reason?”
“It is readily discerned.”