The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini

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СКАЧАТЬ Binet was shocked.

      “You advise me to do so! You advise me, me, Antoine Binet, to turn thief at my age!”

      “He is outrageous,” said mademoiselle, indignantly.

      “Outrageous is the word. I thank you for it, my dear. I take you on trust, sir. You sit at my table, you have the honour to be included in my company, and to my face you have the audacity to advise me to become a thief — the worst kind of thief that is conceivable, a thief of spiritual things, a thief of ideas! It is insufferable, intolerable! I have been, I fear, deeply mistaken in you, monsieur; just as you appear to have been mistaken in me. I am not the scoundrel you suppose me, sir, and I will not number in my company a man who dares to suggest that I should become one. Outrageous!”

      He was very angry. His voice boomed through the little room, and the company sat hushed and something scared, their eyes upon Andre–Louis, who was the only one entirely unmoved by this outburst of virtuous indignation.

      “You realize, monsieur,” he said, very quietly, “that you are insulting the memory of the illustrious dead?”

      “Eh?” said Binet.

      Andre–Louis developed his sophistries.

      “You insult the memory of Moliere, the greatest ornament of our stage, one of the greatest ornaments of our nation, when you suggest that there is vileness in doing that which he never hesitated to do, which no great author yet has hesitated to do. You cannot suppose that Moliere ever troubled himself to be original in the matter of ideas. You cannot suppose that the stories he tells in his plays have never been told before. They were culled, as you very well know — though you seem momentarily to have forgotten it, and it is therefore necessary that I should remind you — they were culled, many of them, from the Italian authors, who themselves had culled them Heaven alone knows where. Moliere took those old stories and retold them in his own language. That is precisely what I am suggesting that you should do. Your company is a company of improvisers. You supply the dialogue as you proceed, which is rather more than Moliere ever attempted. You may, if you prefer it — though it would seem to me to be yielding to an excess of scruple — go straight to Boccaccio or Sacchetti. But even then you cannot be sure that you have reached the sources.”

      Andre–Louis came off with flying colours after that. You see what a debater was lost in him; how nimble he was in the art of making white look black. The company was impressed, and no one more that M. Binet, who found himself supplied with a crushing argument against those who in future might tax him with the impudent plagiarisms which he undoubtedly perpetrated. He retired in the best order he could from the position he had taken up at the outset.

      “So that you think,” he said, at the end of a long outburst of agreement, “you think that our story of ‘The Heartless Father’ could be enriched by dipping into ‘Monsieur de Pourceaugnac,’ to which I confess upon reflection that it may present certain superficial resemblances?”

      “I do; most certainly I do — always provided that you do so judiciously. Times have changed since Moliere.” It was as a consequence of this that Binet retired soon after, taking Andre–Louis with him. The pair sat together late that night, and were again in close communion throughout the whole of Sunday morning.

      After dinner M. Binet read to the assembled company the amended and amplified canevas of “The Heartless Father,” which, acting upon the advice of M. Parvissimus, he had been at great pains to prepare. The company had few doubts as to the real authorship before he began to read; none at all when he had read. There was a verve, a grip about this story; and, what was more, those of them who knew their Moliere realized that far from approaching the original more closely, this canevas had drawn farther away from it. Moliere’s original part — the title role — had dwindled into insignificance, to the great disgust of Polichinelle, to whom it fell. But the other parts had all been built up into importance, with the exception of Leandre, who remained as before. The two great roles were now Scaramouche, in the character of the intriguing Sbrigandini, and Pantaloon the father. There was, too, a comical part for Rhodomont, as the roaring bully hired by Polichinelle to cut Leandre into ribbons. And in view of the importance now of Scaramouche, the play had been rechristened “Figaro–Scaramouche.”

      This last had not been without a deal of opposition from M. Binet. But his relentless collaborator, who was in reality the real author — drawing shamelessly, but practically at last upon his great store of reading — had overborne him.

      “You must move with the times, monsieur. In Paris Beaumarchais is the rage. ‘Figaro’ is known to-day throughout the world. Let us borrow a little of his glory. It will draw the people in. They will come to see half a ‘Figaro’ when they will not come to see a dozen ‘Heartless Fathers.’ Therefore let us cast the mantle of Figaro upon some one, and proclaim it in our title.”

      “But as I am the head of the company . . . ” began M. Binet, weakly.

      “If you will be blind to your interests, you will presently be a head without a body. And what use is that? Can the shoulders of Pantaloon carry the mantle of Figaro? You laugh. Of course you laugh. The notion is absurd. The proper person for the mantle of Figaro is Scaramouche, who is naturally Figaro’s twin-brother.”

      Thus tyrannized, the tyrant Binet gave way, comforted by the reflection that if he understood anything at all about the theatre, he had for fifteen livres a month acquired something that would presently be earning him as many louis.

      The company’s reception of the canevas now confirmed him, if we except Polichinelle, who, annoyed at having lost half his part in the alterations, declared the new scenario fatuous.

      “Ah! You call my work fatuous, do you?” M. Binet hectored him.

      “Your work?” said Polichinelle, to add with his tongue in his cheek: “Ah, pardon. I had not realized that you were the author.”

      “Then realize it now.”

      “You were very close with M. Parvissimus over this authorship,” said Polichinelle, with impudent suggestiveness.

      “And what if I was? What do you imply?”

      “That you took him to cut quills for you, of course.”

      “I’ll cut your ears for you if you’re not civil,” stormed the infuriated Binet.

      Polichinelle got up slowly, and stretched himself.

      “Dieu de Dieu!” said he. “If Pantaloon is to play Rhodomont, I think I’ll leave you. He is not amusing in the part.” And he swaggered out before M. Binet had recovered from his speechlessness.

      CHAPTER 4

       EXIT MONSIEUR PARVISSIMUS

       Table of Contents

      Ar four o’clock on Monday afternoon the curtain rose on “Figaro–Scaramouche” to an audience that filled three quarters of the market-hall. M. Binet attributed this good attendance to the influx of people to Guichen for the fair, and to the magnificent parade of his company through the streets of the township at the busiest time of the day. Andre–Louis attributed it entirely to the title. It was the “Figaro” touch that had fetched in the better-class bourgeoisie, which filled more than half of the twenty-sous places and three quarters of the twelve-sous СКАЧАТЬ