"It is the man," I replied. "I recognised him ten minutes ago, when he first came in."
"You are certain?"
"Quite certain."
"And yet--there is something different!"
There was something different; but, at the same time, much that was identical. There was the same strange, inscrutable look, the same bronzed complexion, the same military bearing. M. Lenoir, it was true, was well, and even elegantly dressed; whereas, the stranger of the Café Procope bore all the outward stigmata of penury; but that was not all. There was yet "something different." The one looked like a man who had done, or suffered, a wrong in his time; who had an old quarrel with the world; and who only sought to hide himself, his poverty, and his bitter pride from the observation of his fellow men. The other stood before us dignified, décoré, self-possessed, a man not only of the world, but apparently no stranger to that small section of it called "the great world." In a word, the man of the Café, sunken, sullen, threadbare as he was, would have been almost less out of his proper place in Madame Marotte's society of small trades-people and minor professionals, than was M. Lenoir with his grand air and his orange-colored ribbon.
"It's the same man," said Müller; "the same, beyond a doubt. The more I look at him, the more confident I am."
"And the more I look at him," said I, "the more doubtful I get."
Madame Marotte, meanwhile, had introduced M. Lenoir to the two Conservatoire pupils and their mammas; Monsieur Dorinet had proposed some "petits jeux;" and Monsieur Philomène was helping him to re-arrange the chairs--this time in a circle.
"Take your places, Messieurs et Mesdames--take your places!" cried Monsieur Dorinet, who had by this time resumed his wig, singed as it was, and shorn of its fair proportions. "What game shall we play at?"
"Pied de Boeuf" "Colin Maillard" and other games were successively proposed and rejected.