"What, Uncle."
"He is an impostor. No Canadian named Lecour can be what he pretends—nay, not even a petty gentleman, for I know the whole list by heart to its obscurest members. No Lecour whatever is on it. Who of that name is at Répentigny? Only the merchant of St. Elphège, my old protégé. Can it be any of his people! What is the appearance of this fellow?"
"He is about middle height, cheerful, graceful, hair and eyes black."
"It is that well-looking boy of Lecour's—no other. His father would kill himself if he heard of his son duping the highest circles of Versailles. Poor man, he was the least of the very least when I knew him first—a private in my corps. I made him keeper of the canteen. How can the son of such a one be more than a 'pea-soup.' What insolence and folly! He shall learn that this kind of rascality is not permitted by the nobles of France. Beast! animal!"
"See that you make no mistake, Michel. If he is only some foolish young Canadian, would not a private monition be well?" said Répentigny.
"There is no mistake," answered Lotbinière, decidedly. "As for lenient dealings, do you think that is the way to keep down the lower classes? The strong hand and the severe example are the only guarantees of social order."
The irate Marquis rose from his chair and paced the room.
"Villain! The thought of him drives me beyond myself."
De Léry said little, but noted every word of his uncle's statement, and it slowly took shape in his mind in a steel-cold deadly contempt for Lecour.
The true Répentigny alone, his nature long purified of pride, felt no malice nor indignation against this usurper of his name.