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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.


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