“Huh!” said he. “Dieu de Dieu! But you are frank.”
“An unpopular form of service among fools, I know.”
“Well, I am not a fool,” said Binet.
“That is why I am frank. I pay you the compliment of assuming intelligence in you, M. Binet.”
“Oh, you do?” quoth M. Binet. “And who the devil are you to assume anything? Your assumptions are presumptuous, sir.” And with that he lapsed into silence and the gloomy business of mentally casting up his accounts.
But at table over supper a half-hour later he revived the topic.
“Our latest recruit, this excellent M. Parvissimus,” he announced, “has the impudence to tell me that possibly our comedy could have been worse, but that probably it could not.” And he blew out his great round cheeks to invite a laugh at the expense of that foolish critic.
“That’s bad,” said the swarthy and sardonic Polichinelle. He was grave as Rhadamanthus pronouncing judgment. “That’s bad. But what is infinitely worse is that the audience had the impudence to be of the same mind.”
“An ignorant pack of clods,” sneered Leandre, with a toss of his handsome head.
“You are wrong,” quoth Harlequin. “You were born for love, my dear, not criticism.”