every night, ate white bread and other delicacies, and began
to congratulate himself upon his astuteness in having made this
industrious, tireless fellow his partner. Having discovered how idle
had been his fears of performing at Redon, he now began to dismiss the
terrors with which the notion of Nantes had haunted him.

And his happiness was reflected throughout the ranks of his company,
with the single exception always of Climene. She had ceased to sneer at
Scaramouche, having realized at last that her sneers left him untouched
and recoiled upon herself. Thus her almost indefinable resentment of him
was increased by being stifled, until, at all costs, an outlet for it
must be found.

One day she threw herself in his way as he was leaving the theatre after
the performance. The others had already gone, and she had returned upon
pretence of having forgotten something.

"Will you tell me what I have done to you?" she asked him, point-blank.

"Done to me, mademoiselle?" He did not understand.

She made a gesture of impatience. "Why do you hate me?"

"Hate you, mademoiselle? I do not hate anybody. It is the most stupid of
all the emotions. I have never hated--not even my enemies."

"What Christian resignation!"

"As for hating you, of all people! Why... I consider you adorable. I
envy Leandre every day of my life. I have seriously thought of setting
him to play Scaramouche, and playing lovers myself."

"I don't think you would be a success," said she.

"That is the only consideration that restrains me. And yet, given
the inspiration that is given Leandre, it is possible that I might be
convincing."

"Why, what inspiration do you mean?"

"The inspiration of playing to so adorable a Climene."

Her lazy eyes were now alert to search that lean face of his.

"You are laughing at me," said she, and swept past him into the theatre
on her pretended quest. There was nothing to be done with such a fellow.
He was utterly without feeling. He was not a man at all.

Yet when she came forth again at the end of some five minutes, she found
him still lingering at the door.

"Not gone yet?" she asked him, superciliously.

"I was waiting for you, mademoiselle. You will be walking to the inn. If
I might escort you..."

"But what gallantry! What condescension!"

"Perhaps you would prefer that I did not?"

"How could I prefer that, M. Scaramouche? Besides, we are both going the
same way, and the streets are common to all