André-Louis' eyes swept round the company assembled at the supper-table. "Where is Climène?" he asked, sharply.
Léandre leapt up to answer him, white in the face, tense and quivering with excitement.
"She left the theatre in the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr's carriage immediately after the performance. We heard him offer to drive her to this inn."
André-Louis glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. He seemed unnaturally calm.
"That would be an hour ago—rather more. And she has not yet arrived?"
His eyes sought M. Binet's. M. Binet's eyes eluded his glance. Again it was Léandre who answered him.
"Not yet."
"Ah!" André-Louis sat down, and poured himself wine. There was an oppressive silence in the room. Léandre watched him expectantly, Columbine commiseratingly. Even M. Binet appeared to be waiting for a cue from Scaramouche. But Scaramouche disappointed him. "Have you left me anything to eat?" he asked.
Platters were pushed towards him. He helped himself calmly to food, and ate in silence, apparently with a good appetite. M. Binet sat down, poured himself wine, and drank. Presently he attempted to make conversation with one and another. He was answered curtly, in monosyllables. M. Binet did not appear to be in favour with his troupe that night.
At long length came a rumble of wheels below and a rattle of halting hooves. Then voices, the high, trilling laugh of Climène floating upwards. André-Louis went on eating unconcernedly.
"What an actor!" said Harlequin under his breath to Polichinelle, and Polichinelle nodded gloomily.
She came in, a leading lady taking the stage, head high, chin thrust forward, eyes dancing with laughter; she expressed triumph and arrogance. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was some disorder in the mass of nut-brown hair
