Bab Bab 15 · CLIMENE

, acidly.

“That is a truth that does not at present apply to me,” said

Andre-Louis. “For it is the first time in my life that I look what I

am.”

Mademoiselle curled her lip a little further, and turned her shoulder

to him. But the others thought him very witty--probably because he was

obscure. Columbine encouraged him with a friendly smile that displayed

her large white teeth, and M. Binet swore yet once again that he would

be a great success, since he threw himself with such spirit into the

undertaking. Then in a voice that for the moment he appeared to have

borrowed from the roaring captain, M. Binet marshalled them for the

short parade across to the market-hall.

The new Scaramouche fell into place beside Rhodomont. The old one,

hobbling on a crutch, had departed an hour ago to take the place of

doorkeeper, vacated of necessity by Andre-Louis. So that the exchange

between those two was a complete one.

Headed by Polichinelle banging his great drum and Pierrot blowing his

trumpet, they set out, and were duly passed in review by the ragamuffins

drawn up in files to enjoy so much of the spectacle as was to be

obtained for nothing.

Ten minutes later the three knocks sounded, and the curtains were drawn

aside to reveal a battered set that was partly garden, partly forest, in

which Climene feverishly looked for the coming of Leandre. In the wings

stood the beautiful, melancholy lover, awaiting his cue, and immediately

behind him the unfledged Scaramouche, who was anon to follow him.

Andre-Louis was assailed with nausea in that dread moment. He attempted

to take a lightning mental review of the first act of this scenario of

which he was himself the author-in-chief; but found his mind a complete

blank. With the perspiration starting from his skin, he stepped back to

the wall, where above a dim lantern was pasted a sheet bearing the

brief outline of the piece. He was still studying it, when his arm

was clutched, and he was pulled violently towards the wings. He had a

glimpse of Pantaloon’s grotesque face, its eyes blazing, and he caught a

raucous growl:

“Climene has spoken your cue three times already.”

Before he realized it, he had been bundled on to the stage, and stood

there foolishly, blinking in the glare of the footlights, with their tin

reflectors. So utterly foolish and bewildered did he look that volley

upon volley of laughter welcomed him from the audience, which this

evening packed the hall from end to end. Trembling a little, his

bewilderment at first increasing, he stood there to receive that rolling

tribute to his absurdity. Climene was eyeing him with expectant

mockery, savouring in advance his humiliation; Leandre regarded him in

consternation, whilst behind the scenes, M. Binet was dancing in fury.

“Name of a name,” he groaned to the rather scared members of the company

assembled there, “what will happen when they discover that he isn’t

acting?”

But they never did discover it. Scaramouche’s bewildered paralysis

lasted but a few seconds. He realized that he was being laughed at, and

remembered that his Scaramouche was a creature to be laughed with, and

not at. He must save the situation; twist it to his own advantage as

best he could. And now his real bewilderment and terror was succeeded by

acted bewilderment and terror far more marked, but not quite so funny.

He contrived to make it clearly appear that his terror was of some one

off the stage. He took cover behind a painted shrub, and thence, the

laughter at last beginning to subside, he addressed himself to Climene

and Leandre.

“Forgive me, beautiful lady, if the abrupt manner of my entrance

startled you. The truth is that I have never been the same since that

last affair of mine with Almaviva. My heart is not what it used to be.

Down there at the end of the lane I came face to face with an elderly

gentleman carrying a heavy cudgel, and the horrible thought entered my

mind that it might be your father, and that our little stratagem to get

you safely married might already have been betrayed to him. I think it

was the cudgel put such notion in my head. Not that I am afraid. I am

not really afraid of anything. But I could not help reflecting that, if

it should really have been your father, and he had broken my head with

his cudgel, your hopes would have perished with me. For without me, what

should you have done, my poor children?”

A ripple of laughter from the audience had been steadily enheartening

him, and helping him to recover his natural impudence. It was clear they

found him comical. They were to find him far more comical than ever he

had intended, and this was largely due to a fortuitous circumstance upon

which he had insufficiently reckoned. The fear of recognition by some

one from Gavrillac or Rennes had been strong upon him. His face was

sufficiently made up to baffle recognition; but there remained his

voice. To dissemble this he had availed himself of the fact that Figaro

was a Spaniard. He had known a Spaniard at Louis le Grand who spoke

a fluent but most extraordinary French, with a grotesque excess of

sibilant sounds. It was an accent that he had often imitated, as youths

will imitate characteristics that excite their mirth. Opportunely he had

bethought him of that Spanish student, and it was upon his speech

that to-night he modelled his own. The audience of Guichen found it as

laughable on his lips as he and his fellows had found it formerly on the

lips of that derided Spaniard.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Binet--listening to that glib impromptu of

which the scenario gave no indication--had recovered from his fears.

“Dieu de Dieu!” he whispered, grinning. “Did he do it, then, on

purpose?”

It seemed to him impossible that a man who had been so terror-stricken

as he had fancied Andre-Louis, could have recovered his wits so quickly

and completely. Yet the doubt remained.

To resolve it after the curtain had fallen upon a first act that had

gone with a verve unrivalled until this hour in the annals of the

company, borne almost entirely upon the slim shoulders of the new

Scaramouche, M. Binet bluntly questioned him.

They were standing in the space that did duty as green-room, the company

all assembled there, showering congratulations upon their new recruit.

Scaramouche, a little exalted at the moment by his success, however

trivial he might consider it to-morrow, took then a full revenge upon

Climene for the malicious satisfaction with which she had regarded his

momentary blank terror.

“I do not wonder that you ask,” said he. “Faith, I should have warned

you that I intended to do my best from the start to put the audience

in a good humour with me. Mademoiselle very nearly ruined everything by

refusing to reflect any of my terror. She was not even startled.

Another time, mademoiselle, I shall give you full warning of my every

intention.”

She crimsoned under her grease-paint. But before she could find an

answer of sufficient venom, her father was rating her soundly for her

stupidity--the more soundly because himself he had been deceived by

Scaramouche’s supreme acting.

Scaramouche’s success in the first act was more than confirmed as

the performance proceeded. Completely master of himself by now, and

stimulated as only success can stimulate, he warmed to his work.

Impudent, alert, sly, graceful, he incarnated the very ideal of

Scaramouche, and he helped out his own native wit by many a remembered

line from Beaumarchais, thereby persuading the better informed among the

audience that here indeed was something of the real Figaro, and bringing

them, as it were, into touch with the great world of the capital.

When at last the curtain fell for the last time, it was Scaramouche

who shared with Climene the honours of the evening, his name that was

coupled with hers in the calls that summoned them before the curtains.

As they stepped back, and the curtains screened them again from the

departing audience, M. Binet approached them, rubbing his fat hands

softly together. This runagate young lawyer, whom chance had blown into

his company, had evidently been sent by Fate to make his fortune for

him. The sudden success at Guichen, hitherto unrivalled, should be

repeated and augmented elsewhere. There would be no more sleeping under

hedges and tightening of belts. Adversity was behind him. He placed a

hand upon Scaramouche’s shoulder, and surveyed him with a smile whose

oiliness not even his red paint and colossal false nose could dissemble.

“And what have you to say to me now?” he asked him. “Was I wrong when

I assured you that you would succeed? Do you think I have followed my

fortunes in the theatre for a lifetime without knowing a born actor when

I see one? You are my discovery, Scaramouche. I have discovered you

to yourself. I have set your feet upon the road to fame and fortune. I

await your thanks.”

Scaramouche laughed at him, and his laugh was not altogether pleasant.

“Always Pantaloon!” said he.

The great countenance became overcast. “I see that you do not yet

forgive me the little stratagem by which I forced you to do justice to

yourself. Ungrateful dog! As if I could have had any purpose but to make

you; and I have done so. Continue as you have begun, and you will end in

Paris. You may yet tread the stage of the Comedie Francaise, the rival

of Talma, Fleury, and Dugazon. When that happens to you perhaps you will

feel the gratitude that is due to old Binet, for you will owe it all to

this soft-hearted old fool.”

“If you were as good an actor on the stage as you are in private,” said

Scaramouche, “you would yourself have won to the Comedie Francaise long

since. But I bear no rancour, M. Binet.” He laughed, and put out his

hand.

Binet fell upon it and wrung it heartily.

“That, at least, is something,” he declared. “My boy, I have great plans

for you--for us. To-morrow we go to Maure; there is a fair there to the

end of this week. Then on Monday we take our chances at Pipriac, and

after that we must consider. It may be that I am about to realize the

dream of my life. There must have been upwards of fifteen louis taken

to-night. Where the devil is that rascal Cordemais?”

Cordemais was the name of the original Scaramouche, who had so

unfortunately twisted his ankle. That Binet should refer to him by his

secular designation was a sign that in the Binet company at least he had

fallen for ever from the lofty eminence of Scaramouche.

“Let us go and find him, and then we’ll away to the inn and crack a

bottle of the best Burgundy, perhaps two bottles.”

But Cordemais was not readily to be found. None of the company had

seen him since the close of the performance. M. Binet went round to the

entrance. Cordemais was not there. At first he was annoyed; then as he

continued in vain to bawl the fellow’s name, he began to grow uneasy;

lastly, when Polichinelle, who was with them, discovered Cordemais’

crutch standing discarded behind the door, M. Binet became alarmed.

A dreadful suspicion entered his mind. He grew visibly pale under his

paint.

“But this evening he couldn’t walk without the crutch!” he exclaimed.

“How then does he come to leave it there and take himself off?”

“Perhaps he has gone on to the inn,” suggested some one.

“But he couldn’t walk without his crutch,” M. Binet insisted.

Nevertheless, since clearly he was not anywhere about the market-hall,

to the inn they all trooped, and deafened the landlady with their

inquiries.

“Oh, yes, M. Cordemais came in some time ago.”

“Where is he now?”

“He went away again at once. He just came for his bag.”

“For his bag!” Binet was on the point of an apoplexy. “How long ago was

that?”

She glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. “It would be about half

an hour ago. It was a few minutes before the Rennes diligence passed

through.”

“The Rennes diligence!” M. Binet was almost inarticulate. “Could he...

could he walk?” he asked, on a note of terrible anxiety.

“Walk? He ran like a hare when he left the inn. I thought, myself, that

his agility was suspicious, seeing how lame he had been since he fell

downstairs yesterday. Is anything wrong?”

M. Binet had collapsed into a chair. He took his head in his hands, and

groaned.

“The scoundrel was shamming all the time!” exclaimed Climene. “His fall

downstairs was a trick. He was playing for this. He has swindled us.”

“Fifteen louis at least--perhaps sixteen!” said M. Binet. “Oh, the

heartless blackguard! To swindle me who have been as a father to him--and

to swindle me in such a moment.”

From the ranks of the silent, awe-stricken company, each member of

which was wondering by how much of the loss his own meagre pay would be

mulcted, there came a splutter of laughter.

M. Binet glared with blood-injected eyes.

“Who laughs?” he roared. “What heartless wretch has the audacity to

laugh at my misfortune?”

Andre-Louis, still in the sable glories of Scaramouche, stood forward.

He was laughing still.

“It is you, is it? You may laugh on another note, my friend, if I choose

a way to recoup myself that I know of.”

“Dullard!” Scaramouche scorned him. “Rabbit-brained elephant! What if

Cordemais has gone with fifteen louis? Hasn’t he left you something

worth twenty times as much?”

M. Binet gaped uncomprehending.

“You are between two wines, I think. You’ve been drinking,” he

concluded.

“So I have--at the fountain of Thalia. Oh, don’t you see? Don’t you see

the treasure that Cordemais has left behind him?”

“What has he left?”

“A unique idea for the groundwork of a scenario. It unfolds itself all

before me. I’ll borrow part of the title from Moliere. We’ll call it

‘Les Fourberies de Scaramouche,’ and if we don’t leave the audiences of

Maure and Pipriac with sides aching from laughter I’ll play the dullard

Pantaloon in future.”

Polichinelle smacked fist into palm. “Superb!” he said, fiercely. “To

cull fortune from misfortune, to turn loss into profit, that is to have

genius.”

Scaramouche made a leg. “Polichinelle, you are a fellow after my own

heart. I love a man who can discern my merit. If Pantaloon had half

your wit, we should have Burgundy to-night in spite of the flight of

Cordemais.”

“Burgundy?” roared M. Binet, and before he could get farther Harlequin

had clapped his hands together.

“That is the spirit, M. Binet. You heard him, landlady. He called for

Burgundy.”

“I called for nothing of the kind.”

“But you heard him, dear madame. We all heard him.”

The others made chorus, whilst Scaramouche smiled at him, and patted his

shoulder.

“Up, man, a little courage. Did you not say that fortune awaits us? And

have we not now the wherewithal to constrain fortune? Burgundy, then,

to... to toast ‘Les Fourberies de Scaramouche.’”

And M. Binet, who was not blind to the force of the idea, yielded, took

courage, and got drunk with the rest.

Chapter 15. CLIMENE

Diligent search among the many scenarios of the improvisers which have

survived their day, has failed to bring to light the scenario of “Les

Fourberies de Scaramouche,” upon which we are told the fortunes of the

Binet troupe came to be soundly established. They played it for the

first time at Maure in the following week, with Andre-Louis--who was

known by now as Scaramouche to all the company, and to the public

alike--in the title-role. If he had acquitted himself well as

Figaro-Scaramouche, he excelled himself in the new piece, the scenario

of which would appear to be very much the better of the two.

After Maure came Pipriac, where four performances were given, two

of each of the scenarios that now formed the backbone of the Binet

repertoire. In both Scaramouche, who was beginning to find himself,

materially improved his performances. So smoothly now did the two pieces

run that Scaramouche actually suggested to Binet that after Fougeray,

which they were to visit in the following week, they should tempt

fortune in a real theatre in the important town of Redon. The notion

terrified Binet at first, but coming to think of it, and his ambition

being fanned by Andre-Louis, he ended by allowing himself to succumb to

the temptation.

It seemed to Andre-Louis in those days that he had found his real

metier, and not only was he beginning to like it, but actually to look

forward to a career as actor-author that might indeed lead him in the

end to that Mecca of all comedians, the Comedie Francaise. And there

were other possibilities. From the writing of skeleton scenarios for

improvisers, he might presently pass to writing plays of dialogue, plays

in the proper sense of the word, after the manner of Chenier, Eglantine,

and Beaumarchais.

The fact that he dreamed such dreams shows us how very kindly he had

taken to the profession into which Chance and M. Binet between them had

conspired to thrust him. That he had real talent both as author and

as actor I do not doubt, and I am persuaded that had things fallen out

differently he would have won for himself a lasting place among French

dramatists, and thus fully have realized that dream of his.

Now, dream though it was, he did not neglect the practical side of it.

“You realize,” he told M. Binet, “that I have it in my power to make

your fortune for you.”

He and Binet were sitting alone together in the parlour of the inn at

Pipriac, drinking a very excellent bottle of Volnay. It was on the night

after the fourth and last performance there of “Les Feurberies.” The

business in Pipriac had been as excellent as in Maure and Guichen. You

will have gathered this from the fact that they drank Volnay.

“I will concede it, my dear Scaramouche, so that I may hear the sequel.”

“I am disposed to exercise this power if the inducement is sufficient.

You will realize that for fifteen livres a month a man does not sell

such exceptional gifts as mine.

“There is an alternative,” said M. Binet, darkly.

“There is no alternative. Don’t be a fool, Binet.”

Binet sat up as if he had been prodded. Members of his company did not

take this tone of direct rebuke with him.

“Anyway, I make you a present of it,” Scaramouche pursued, airily.

“Exercise it if you please. Step outside and inform the police that they

can lay hands upon one Andre-Louis Moreau. But that will be the end of

your fine dreams of going to Redon, and for the first time in your life

playing in a real theatre. Without me, you can’t do it, and you know

it; and I am not going to Redon or anywhere else, in fact I am not even

going to Fougeray, until we have an equitable arrangement.”

“But what heat!” complained Binet, “and all for what? Why must you

assume that I have the soul of a usurer? When our little arrangement was

made, I had no idea--how could I?--that you would prove as valuable to me

as you are? You had but to remind me, my dear Scaramouche. I am a just

man. As from to-day you shall have thirty livres a month. See, I double

it at once. I am a generous man.”

“But you are not ambitious. Now listen to me, a moment.”

And he proceeded to unfold a scheme that filled Binet with a paralyzing

terror.

“After Redon, Nantes,” he said. “Nantes and the Theatre Feydau.”

M. Binet choked in the act of drinking. The Theatre Feydau was a sort

of provincial Comedie Francaise. The great Fleury had played there to

an audience as critical as any in France. The very thought of Redon,

cherished as it had come to be by M. Binet, gave him at moments a cramp

in the stomach, so dangerously ambitious did it seem to him. And Redon

was a puppet-show by comparison with Nantes. Yet this raw lad whom

he had picked up by chance three weeks ago, and who in that time had

blossomed from a country attorney into author and actor, could talk of

Nantes and the Theatre Feydau without changing colour.

“But why not Paris and the Comedie Francaise?” wondered M. Binet, with

sarcasm, when at last he had got his breath.

“That may come later,” says impudence.

“Eh? You’ve been drinking, my friend.”

But Andre-Louis detailed the plan that had been forming in his mind.

Fougeray should be a training-ground for Redon, and Redon should be a

training-ground for Nantes. They would stay in Redon as long as Redon

would pay adequately to come and see them, working hard to perfect

themselves the while. They would add three or four new players of talent

to the company; he would write three or four fresh scenarios, and these

should be tested and perfected until the troupe was in possession of at

least half a dozen plays upon which they could depend; they would lay

out a portion of their profits on better dresses and better scenery, and

finally in a couple of months’ time, if all went well, they should be

ready to make their real bid for fortune at Nantes. It was quite true

that distinction was usually demanded of the companies appearing at

the Feydau, but on the other hand Nantes had not seen a troupe of

improvisers for a generation and longer. They would be supplying a

novelty to which all Nantes should flock provided that the work were

really well done, and Scaramouche undertook--pledged himself--that

if matters were left in his own hands, his projected revival of

the Commedia dell’ Arte in all its glories would exceed whatever

expectations the public of Nantes might bring to the theatre.

“We’ll talk of Paris after Nantes,” he finished, supremely

matter-of-fact, “just as we will definitely decide on Nantes after

Redon.”

The persuasiveness that could sway a mob ended by sweeping M. Binet off

his feet. The prospect which Scaramouche unfolded, if terrifying, was

also intoxicating, and as Scaramouche delivered a crushing answer to

each weakening objection in a measure as it was advanced, Binet ended by

promising to think the matter over.

“Redon will point the way,” said Andre-Louis, “and I don’t doubt which

way Redon will point.”

Thus the great adventure of Redon dwindled to insignificance. Instead

of a terrifying undertaking in itself, it became merely a rehearsal for

something greater. In his momentary exaltation Binet proposed another

bottle of Volnay. Scaramouche waited until the cork was drawn before he

continued.

“The thing remains possible,” said he then, holding his glass to the

light, and speaking casually, “as long as I am with you.”

“Agreed, my dear Scaramouche, agreed. Our chance meeting was a fortunate

thing for both of us.”

“For both of us,” said Scaramouche, with stress. “That is as I would

have it. So that I do not think you will surrender me just yet to the

police.”

“As if I could think of such a thing! My dear Scaramouche, you amuse

yourself. I beg that you will never, never allude to that little joke of

mine again.”

“It is forgotten,” said Andre-Louis. “And now for the remainder of my

proposal. If I am to become the architect of your fortunes, if I am to

build them as I have planned them, I must also and in the same degree

become the architect of my own.”

“In the same degree?” M. Binet frowned.

“In the same degree. From to-day, if you please, we will conduct

the affairs of this company in a proper manner, and we will keep

account-books.”

“I am an artist,” said M. Binet, with pride. “I am not a merchant.”

“There is a business side to your art, and that shall be conducted in

the business manner. I have thought it all out for you. You shall not

be troubled with details that might hinder the due exercise of your art.

All that you have to do is to say yes or no to my proposal.”

“Ah? And the proposal?”

“Is that you constitute me your partner, with an equal share in the

profits of your company.”

Pantaloon’s great countenance grew pale, his little eyes widened to

their fullest extent as he conned the face of his companion. Then he

exploded.

“You are mad, of course, to make me a proposal so monstrous.”

“It has its injustices, I admit. But I have provided for them. It would

not, for instance, be fair that in addition to all that I am proposing

to do for you, I should also play Scaramouche and write your scenarios

without any reward outside of the half-profit which would come to me as

a partner. Thus before the profits come to be divided, there is a salary

to be paid me as actor, and a small sum for each scenario with which I

provide the company; that is a matter for mutual agreement. Similarly,

you shall be paid a salary as Pantaloon. After those expenses are

cleared up, as well as all the other salaries and disbursements, the

residue is the profit to be divided equally between us.”

It was not, as you can imagine, a proposal that M. Binet would swallow

at a draught. He began with a point-blank refusal to consider it.

“In that case, my friend,” said Scaramouche, “we part company at once.

To-morrow I shall bid you a reluctant farewell.”

Binet fell to raging. He spoke of ingratitude in feeling terms; he

even permitted himself another sly allusion to that little jest of his

concerning the police, which he had promised never again to mention.

“As to that, you may do as you please. Play the informer, by all

means. But consider that you will just as definitely be deprived of

my services, and that without me you are nothing--as you were before I

joined your company.”

M. Binet did not care what the consequences might be. A fig for the

consequences! He would teach this impudent young country attorney that

M. Binet was not the man to be imposed upon.

Scaramouche rose. “Very well,” said he, between indifference and

resignation. “As you wish. But before you act, sleep on the matter. In

the cold light of morning you may see our two proposals in their proper

proportions. Mine spells fortune for both of us. Yours spells ruin for

both of us. Good-night, M. Binet. Heaven help you to a wise decision.”

The decision to which M. Binet finally came was, naturally, the only one

possible in the face of so firm a resolve as that of Andre-Louis, who

held the trumps. Of course there were further discussions, before all

was settled, and M. Binet was brought to an agreement only after an

infinity of haggling surprising in one who was an artist and not a

man of business. One or two concessions were made by Andre-Louis; he

consented, for instance, to waive his claim to be paid for scenarios,

and he also consented that M. Binet should appoint himself a salary that

was out of all proportion to his deserts.

Thus in the end the matter was settled, and the announcement duly

made to the assembled company. There were, of course, jealousies and

resentments. But these were not deep-seated, and they were readily

swallowed when it was discovered that under the new arrangement the lot

of the entire company was to be materially improved from the point

of view of salaries. This was a matter that had met with considerable

opposition from M. Binet. But the irresistible Scaramouche swept away

all objections.

“If we are to play at the Feydau, you want a company of self-respecting

comedians, and not a pack of cringing starvelings. The better we pay

them in reason, the more they will earn for us.”

Thus was conquered the company’s resentment of this too swift promotion

of its latest recruit. Cheerfully now--with one exception--they accepted

the dominance of Scaramouche, a dominance soon to be so firmly

established that M. Binet himself came under it.

The one exception was Climene. Her failure to bring to heel this

interesting young stranger, who had almost literally dropped into their

midst that morning outside Guichen, had begotten in her a malice which

his persistent ignoring of her had been steadily inflaming. She had

remonstrated with her father when the new partnership was first formed.

She had lost her temper with him, and called him a fool, whereupon M.

Binet--in Pantaloon’s best manner--had lost his temper in his turn and

boxed her ears. She piled it up to the account of Scaramouche, and

spied her opportunity to pay off some of that ever-increasing score. But

opportunities were few. Scaramouche was too occupied just then. During

the week of preparation at Fougeray, he was hardly seen save at the

performances, whilst when once they were at Redon, he came and went like

the wind between the theatre and the inn.

The Redon experiment had justified itself from the first. Stimulated and

encouraged by this, Andre-Louis worked day and night during the month

that they spent in that busy little town. The moment had been well

chosen, for the trade in chestnuts of which Redon is the centre was just

then at its height. And every afternoon the little theatre was packed

with spectators. The fame of the troupe had gone forth, borne by the

chestnut-growers of the district, who were bringing their wares to Redon

market, and the audiences were made up of people from the surrounding

country, and from neighbouring villages as far out as Allaire,

Saint-Perrieux and Saint-Nicholas. To keep the business from slackening,

Andre-Louis prepared a new scenario every week. He wrote three in

addition to those two with which he had already supplied the company;

these were “The Marriage of Pantaloon,” “The Shy Lover,” and “The

Terrible Captain.” Of these the last was the greatest success. It was

based upon the “Miles Gloriosus” of Plautus, with great opportunities

for Rhodomont, and a good part for Scaramouche as the roaring captain’s

sly lieutenant. Its success was largely due to the fact that Andre-Louis

amplified the scenario to the extent of indicating very fully in places

the lines which the dialogue should follow, whilst here and there he

had gone so far as to supply some of the actual dialogue to be spoken,

without, however, making it obligatory upon the actors to keep to the

letter of it.

And meanwhile as the business prospered, he became busy with tailors,

improving the wardrobe of the company, which was sorely in need of

improvement. He ran to earth a couple of needy artists, lured them into

the company to play small parts--apothecaries and notaries--and set them

to beguile their leisure in painting new scenery, so as to be ready

for what he called