His dress was much
like de Mezy's, but finer perhaps.
Such was the singular man who had so much to do with the wrecking of New
France, a strange compound of energy and the love of luxury, lavish with
hospitality, an untiring worker, a gambler, a profligate, a thief of
public funds, he was also kindly, gracious and devoted to his friends. A
strange bundle of contradictions and disjointed morals, he represented
in the New World the glittering decadence that marked the French
monarchy at home. Now he was smiling as de Mezy introduced Robert with
smooth words.
"Mr. Robert Lennox of Albany and New York," he said, "the brilliant
young swordsman of whom I spoke to you, the one who disarmed me this
morning, but who was too generous to take my life."
Bigot's smiling gaze rested upon Robert, who was conscious, however,
that there was much penetration behind the smile. The Intendant would
seek to read his mind, and perhaps to learn the nature of the letters he
brought, before they were delivered to their rightful owner, the Marquis
Duquesne.
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