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Never in his life had he worked
so hard; never in his life had he worked at all by comparison with
his activities now. His fund of energy and enthusiasm was
inexhaustible, like that of his good humour. He came and went,
acted, wrote, conceived, directed, planned, and executed, what time
M. Binet took his ease at last in comparative affluence, drank
Burgundy 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.


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