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For what had he been at Rennes but a
sort of Scaramouche - the little skirmisher, the astute intriguer,
spattering the seed of trouble with a sly hand? The only difference
lay in the fact that to-day he went forth under the name that
properly described his type, whereas last week he had been disguised
as a respectable young provincial attorney.
He bowed to his reflection in the mirror.
"Buffoon!" he apostrophized it. "At last you have found yourself.
At last you have come into your heritage. You should be a great
success."
Hearing his new name called out by M. Binet, he went below to find
the company assembled, and waiting in the entrance corridor of the
inn.
He was, of course, an object of great interest to all the company.
Most critically was he conned by M. Binet and mademoiselle; by the
former with gravely searching eyes, by the latter with a curl of
scornful lip.
"You'll do," M. Binet commended his make-up. "At least you look
the part."
"Unfortunately men are not always what they look," said Climene,
acidly.


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