Andre-Louis was conscious of a pang of disappointment.  She failed to soar to the heights he had expected of her.  She was evidently infected by the stilted manner of her ridiculous lover.  There was an atrocious lack of sincerity about her words.  They touched his mind, but left his heart unmoved.  Perhaps this was because of his antipathy to M. Leandre and to the issue involved.

So her father was marrying her to a marquis!  That implied birth on her side.  And yet she was content to pair off with this dull young adventurer in the tarnished lace!  It was, he supposed, the sort of thing to be expected of a sex that all philosophy had taught him to regard as the maddest part of a mad species.

“It shall never be!” M. Leandre was storming passionately.  “Never!  I swear it!” And he shook his puny fist at the blue vault of heaven — Ajax defying Jupiter.  “Ah, but here comes our subtle friend... " (Andre-Louis did not catch the name, M. Leandre having at that moment turned to face the gap in the hedge.) “He will bring us news, I know.”

Andre-Louis looked also in the direction of the gap.  Through it emerged a lean, slight man in a rusty cloak and a three-cornered hat worn well down over his nose so as to shade his face.  And when presently he doffed this hat and made a sweeping bow to the young lovers, Andre-Louis confessed to himself that had he been cursed with such a hangdog countenance he would have worn his hat in precisely such a manner, so as to conceal as much of it as possible.  If M. Leandre appeared to be wearing, in part at least, the cast-offs of nobleman, the newcomer appeared to be wearing the cast-offs of M. Leandre.  Yet despite his vile clothes and viler face, with its three days’ growth of beard, the fellow carried himself with a certain air; he positively strutted as he advanced, and he made a leg in a manner that was courtly and practised.

“Monsieur,” said he, with the air of a conspirator, “the time for action has arrived, and so has the Marquis...  That is why.”

The young lovers sprang apart in consternation; Climene with clasped hands, parted lips, and a bosom that raced distractingly under its white fichu-menteur; M. Leandre agape, the very picture of foolishness and dismay.

Meanwhile the newcomer rattled on.  “I was at the inn an hour ago when he descended there, and I studied him attentively whilst he was at breakfast.  Having done so, not a single doubt remains me of our success.  As for what he looks like, I could entertain you at length upon the fashion in which nature has designed his gross fatuity.  But that is no matter.  We are concerned with what he is, with the wit of him.  And I tell you confidently that I find him so dull and stupid that you may be confident he will tumble headlong into each and all of the traps I have so cunningly prepared for him.”

“Tell me, tell me!  Speak!” Climene implored him, holding out her hands in a supplication no man of sensibility could have resisted.  And then on the instant she caught her breath on a faint scream.  “My father!” she exclaimed, turning distractedly from one to the other of those two.  “He is coming!  We are lost!”