Castelcicala. The costume of a statesman was designated as follows
in the Changer's catalogue; we copy:

"A coat of black cloth, trowsers of black wool, a silk waistcoat, boots
and linen." On the margin there stood: ex-ambassador, and a note
which we also copy: "In a separate box, a neatly frizzed peruke, green
glasses, seals, and two small quills an inch long, wrapped in cotton."
All this belonged to the statesman, the ex-ambassador. This whole
costume was, if we may so express ourselves, debilitated; the seams were
white, a vague button-hole yawned at one of the elbows; moreover, one of
the coat buttons was missing on the breast; but this was only detail; as
the hand of the statesman should always be thrust into his coat and laid
upon his heart, its function was to conceal the absent button.

If Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of Paris, he
would instantly have recognized upon the back of the visitor whom
Basque had just shown in, the statesman's suit borrowed from the
pick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.

Marius' disappointment on beholding another man than the one whom he
expected to see turned to the newcomer's disadvantage.

He surveyed him from head to foot, while that personage made exaggerated
bows, and demanded in a curt tone:

"What do you want?"

The man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing smile of a
crocodile will furnish some idea:

"It seems to me impossible that I should not have already had the honor
of seeing Monsieur le Baron in society. I think I actually did meet
monsieur personally, several years ago, at the house of Madame la
Princesse Bagration and in the drawing-rooms of his Lordship the Vicomte
Dambray, peer of France."

It is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to recognize
some one whom one does not know.

Marius paid attention to the manner of this man's speech. He spied
on his accent and gesture, but his disappointment increased; the
pronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the dry, shrill tone which
he had expected.

He was utterly routed.

"I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray," said he. "I have never
set foot in the house of either of them in my life."

The reply was ungracious. The personage, determined to be gracious at
any cost, insisted.

"Then it must have been at Chateaubriand's that I have seen Monsieur! I
know Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes says to
me: 'Thenard, my fri