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.

Quebec was the home of intrigue, and the Intendant's palace was the heart of it, but if Robert's pulse beat fast it was with anticipation and not with fear.
"It was fortune more than skill," he said.