Never was wight
more confounded to find himself on the floor.
I was starting up again unhurt when I saw something that made me to
forget my purpose. I sat still where I was, with dropped jaw and bulging
eyes. For his hair, that had been black, was golden.
"Ventre bleu!" I said.
"And so you know not you little villain, whether you have a good master
or not?"
"But how was I to dream it was monsieur?" I cried, confounded. "I knew
there was something queer about him--about you, I mean--about the person
I took you for, that is. I knew there was something wrong about
you--that is to say, I mean, I thought there was; I mean I knew he
wasn't what he seemed--you were not. And Peyrot fooled us, and I didn't
want to be fooled again."
"Then I am a good master?" he demanded truculently, advancing upon me.
I put up my hands to my ears.
"The best, monsieur. And monsieur wrestled well, too."
"I can't prove that by you, Felix," he retorted, and laughed in my
nettled face. "Well, if you've not trampled on my jewels, I forgive your
contumacy."
If I had, my bare toes had done them no harm. I crawled about the floor,
gathering them all up and putting them on the bed, where I presently sat
down myself to stare at him, trying to realize him for M. le Comte. He
had seated himself, too, and was dusting his trampled wig and clapping
it on again.
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