I am likely to be so for some little time," said he, "until it becomes a commonplace that I am not, after all, a prince.
"Not a prince? Oh, but a duke, then—at least a marquis."
"Not even a chevalier, unless it be of the order of fortune. I am just Scaramouche. My castles are all in Spain."
Disappointment clouded the lively, good-natured face.
"And I had imagined you..."
"I know," he interrupted. "That is the mischief." He might have gauged the extent of that mischief by Climène's conduct that evening towards the gentlemen of fashion who clustered now in the green-room between the acts to pay their homage to the incomparable amoureuse. Hitherto she had received them with a circumspection compelling respect. To-night she was recklessly gay, impudent, almost wanton.
He spoke of it gently to her as they walked home together, counselling more prudence in the future.
"We are not married yet," she told him, tartly. "Wait until then before you criticize my conduct."
"I trust that there will be no occasion then," said he.
"You trust? Ah, yes. You are very trusting."
"Climène, I have offended you. I am sorry."
"It is nothing," said she. "You are what you are." Still was he not concerned. He perceived the source of her ill-humour; understood, whilst deploring it; and, because he understood, forgave. He perceived also that her ill-humour was shared by her father, and by this he was frankly amused. Towards M. Binet a tolerant contempt was the only feeling that complete acquaintance could beget. As for the rest of the company, they were disposed to be very kindly towards Scaramouche. It was almost as if in reality he had fallen from the high estate to which their own imaginations had raised him; or possibly it was because they saw the effect which that fall from his temporary and fictitious elevation had produced upon Climène.
Léandre alone made himself an exception. His habitual
