found M. Étienne sitting on the steps before the house. He had doffed his rusty black for a suit of azure and silver; his sword and poniard were heavy with silver chasings. His blue hat, its white plume pinned in a silver buckle, lay on the stone beside him. He had discarded his sling and was engaged in tuning a lute.
Evidently he was struck by some change in my appearance; for he asked at once:
"What has happened, Félix?"
"Such a lark!" I cried.
"What! did old Menard share the crowns with you for your trouble?"
"No; he pocketed them all. That was not it."
I was so choked with laughter as to make it hard work to explain what was it, while his first bewilderment changed to an amazed interest, which in its turn gave way, not to delight, but to distress.
"Mordieu!" he cried, starting up, his face ablaze, "if I resemble that dirt—"
"As chalk and cheese," I said. "No one seeing you both could possibly mistake you for two of the same race. But there was nothing in his catalogue that did not fit him. It mentioned, to be sure, the right arm in a sling; his was not, but he had his wrist bandaged. I think he cut himself last night when he was after me and I flung the door in his face, for afterward he held his hand behind his back. At any rate, there was the bandage; that was enough to satisfy the captain."
"And they took him off?"