“What should you say to ten livres a month?”
“I should say that it isn’t exactly the riches of Peru.”
“I might go as far as fifteen,” said Binet, reluctantly. “But times are bad.”
“I’ll make them better for you.”
“I’ve no doubt you believe it. Then we understand each other?”
“Perfectly,” said Andre-Louis, dryly, and was thus committed to the service of Thespis.
CHAPTER III. THE COMIC MUSE
The company’s entrance into the township of Guichen, if not exactly triumphal, as Binet had expressed the desire that it should be, was at least sufficiently startling and cacophonous to set the rustics gaping. To them these fantastic creatures appeared—as indeed they were—beings from another world.
First went the great travelling chaise, creaking and groaning on its way, drawn by two of the Flemish horses. It was Pantaloon who drove it, an obese and massive Pantaloon in a tight-fitting suit of scarlet under a long brown bed-gown, his countenance adorned by a colossal cardboard nose. Beside him on the box sat Pierrot in a white smock, with sleeves that completely covered his hands, loose white trousers, and a black skull-cap. He had whitened his face with flour, and he made hideous noises with a trumpet.