He sprang forward to deal me a stinging box on the ear.
I was out of bed at one bound, scattering the trinkets in a golden rain and rushing for him. He retreated before me. It was to save his jewels, but I, fool that I was, thought it pure fear of me. I dashed at him, all headlong confidence; the next I knew he had somehow twisted his foot between mine, and tripped me before I could grapple. 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, Félix," he retorted, and laughed in my nettled face. "Well, if you've not trampled on my jewels, I forgive your contumacy."