“He should not be difficult to replace,” said Harlequin.
“True, if we were in a civilized land. But where among the rustics of Brittany are we to find a fellow of even his poor parts?” M. Binet turned to Andre-Louis. “He was our property-man, our machinist, our stage-carpenter, our man of affairs, and occasionally he acted.”
“The part of Figaro, I presume,” said Andre-Louis, which elicited a laugh.
“So you are acquainted with Beaumarchais!” Binet eyed the young man with fresh interest.
“He is tolerably well known, I think.”
“In Paris, to be sure. But I had not dreamt his fame had reached the wilds of Brittany.”
“But then I was some years in Paris—at the Lycee of Louis le Grand. It was there I made acquaintance with his work.”
“A dangerous man,” said Polichinelle, sententiously.
“Indeed, and you are right,” Pantaloon agreed. “Clever—I do not deny him that, although myself I find little use for authors. But of a sinister cleverness responsible for the dissemination of many of these subversive new ideas. I think such writers should be suppressed.”
“M. de La Tour d’Azyr would probably agree with you—the gentleman who by the simple exertion of his will turns this communal land into his own property.” And Andre-Louis drained his cup, which had been filled with the poor vin gris that was the players’ drink.