His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave another turn to his hair; took, instead of his black cravat, a colored neckerchief which lay at the top of an open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of his blue and high-buttoned frock-coat, a coat of Villefort’s of dark brown, and cut away in front; tried on before the glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his son’s, which appeared to fit him perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the corner where he had deposited it, he took up a small bamboo switch, cut the air with it once or twice, and walked about with that easy swagger which was one of his principal characteristics.
“Well,” he said, turning towards his wondering son, when this disguise was completed, “well, do you think your police will recognize me now.”
“No, father,” stammered Villefort; “at least, I hope not.”
“And now, my dear boy,” continued Noirtier, “I rely on your prudence to remove all the things which I leave in your care.”
“Oh, rely on me,” said Villefort.
“Yes, yes; and now I believe you are right, and that you have really saved my life; be assured I will return the favor hereafter.”
Villefort shook his head.
“You are not convinced yet?”
“I hope at least, that you may be mistaken.”
“Shall you see the king again?”
“Perhaps.”
“Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet?”
“Prophets of evil are not in favor at the court, father.”