Louis-Marie was grown thoughtful as he walked on. Nature somehow seemed a little further from his knowledge than before; the talk between the flowers and the rain was like a whispered conspiracy; the dank air chilled him. As he turned out of the village into the wet meadows, which sloped gently upwards towards Le Marais, he started to see a figure standing by a little freshet as if awaiting him.
“Gaston!” he cried, with an irresistible thrill of guiltiness in his note.
Mr Trix wore, making a grace of necessity, a thick dove-grey redingote. His buckish little “tops,” which came but half-way up his calves, appeared scarcely soiled by the rain and mud. The smallest of black cocked hats was placed jauntily on his black curls, of which one, and one only, was privileged to accent the whiteness of his fine forehead. Over his head he carried a small Spanish silk umbrella, an innovation of such effeminacy that his daring it at all in the teeth of fashion testified to something in his character which was at least as noteworthy as his foppishness. Like the dandy wasp, with his waist and elegance and sting, there was that suggestion in Mr Trix of an ever-ready retort upon the rashness of his critics. Some men there are who carry swords in their eyes, and no one laughed at Cartouche the macaroni unless behind his back.
He came up to Louis-Marie, and took his arm with an assured frankness. His smile showed an enviable regularity of teeth.
“Yes, I purposed to meet you,” he said. “Are you in a hurry?”
His self-sufficiency somehow mended Louis-Marie’s.
“My business can wait,” he answered, “for a friend.”
Nevertheless he paused meaningly, as if that business were exclusive.
Cartouche laughed.
“Louis-Marie,” said he, “you have never yet asked me for my credentials.”