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Binet, who had flung himself into an armchair at the head
of the short table, faced him with the avowed purpose of asking for
Climene's hand in proper form. And this was how he did it:
"Father-in-law," said he, "I congratulate you. This will certainly
mean the Comedie Francaise for Climene, and that before long, and
you shall shine in the glory she will reflect. As the father of
Madame Scaramouche you may yet be famous."
Binet, his face slowly empurpling, glared at him in speechless
stupefaction. His rage was the more utter from his humiliating
conviction that whatever he might say or do, this irresistible
fellow would bend him to his will. At last speech came to him.
"You're a damned corsair," he cried, thickly, banging his ham-like
fist upon the table. "A corsair! First you sail in and plunder me
of half my legitimate gains; and now you want to carry off my
daughter. But I'll be damned if I'll give her to a graceless,
nameless scoundrel like you, for whom the gallows are waiting
already."
Scaramouche pulled the bell-rope, not at all discomposed.


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