He knew and respected the old Duc de Marny, a feeble old man now, almost a dotard whose hitherto spotless blason, the young Vicomte, his son, was doing his best to besmirch.
When the boy fell forward, blind and drunk with rage, Déroulède leant towards him automatically, quite kindly, and helped him to his feet. He would have asked the lad’s pardon for his own thoughtlessness, had that been possible: but the stilted code of so-called honour forbade so logical a proceeding. It would have done no good, and could but imperil his own reputation without averting the traditional sequel.
The panelled walls of the celebrated gaming saloon had often witnessed scenes such as this. All those present acted by routine. The etiquette of duelling prescribed certain formalities, and these were strictly but rapidly adhered to.
The young Vicomte was quickly surrounded by a close circle of friends. His great name, his wealth, his father’s influence, had opened for him every door in Versailles and Paris. At this moment he might have had an army of seconds to support him in the coming conflict.
Déroulède for a while was left alone near the card table, where the unsnuffed candles began smouldering in their sockets. He had risen to his feet, somewhat bewildered at the rapid turn of events. His dark, restless eyes wandered for a moment round the room, as if in quick search for a friend.
But where the Vicomte was at home by right, Déroulède had only been admitted by reason of his wealth. His acquaintances and sycophants were many, but his friends very few.
For the first time this fact was brought home to him. Everyone in the room must have known and realised that he had not wilfully sought this quarrel, that throughout he had borne himself as any gentleman would, yet now, when the issue was so close at hand, no one came forward to stand by him.
“For form’s sake, monsieur, will you choose your seconds?”
It was the young Marquis de Villefranche who spoke, a little haughtily, with a certain ironical condescension towards the rich parvenu, who was about to have the honour of crossing swords with one of the noblest gentlemen in France.
“I pray you, Monsieur le Marquis,” rejoined Déroulède coldly, “to make the choice for me. You see, I have few friends in Paris.”
The Marquis bowed, and gracefully flourished his lace handkerchief. He was accustomed to being appealed to in all matters pertaining to etiquette, to the toilet, to the latest cut in coats, and the procedure in duels. Good-natured, foppish, and idle, he felt quite happy and in his element thus to be made chief organiser of the tragic farce, about to be enacted on the parquet floor of the gaming saloon.
He looked about the room for a while, scrutinising the faces of those around him. The gilded youth was crowding round De Marny; a few older men stood in a group at the farther end of the room: to these the Marquis turned, and addressing one of them, an elderly man with a military bearing and a shabby brown coat:
“Mon Colonel,” he said, with another flourishing bow; “I am deputed by M. Déroulède to provide him with seconds for this affair of honour, may I call upon you to—”
“Certainly, certainly,” replied the Colonel. “I am not intimately acquainted with M. Déroulède, but since you stand sponsor, M. le Marquis—”
“Oh!” rejoined the Marquis, lightly, “a mere matter of form, you know. M. Déroulède belongs to the entourage of Her Majesty. He is a man of honour. But I am not his sponsor. Marny is my friend, and if you prefer not to—”
“Indeed I am entirely at M. Déroulède’s service,” said the Colonel, who had thrown a quick, scrutinising glance at the isolated figure near the card table, “if he will accept my services—”
“He will be very glad to accept, my dear Colonel,” whispered the Marquis with an ironical twist of his aristocratic lips. “He has no friends in our set, and if you and De Quettare will honour him, I think he should be grateful.”
M. de Quettare, adjutant to M. le Colonel, was ready to follow in the footsteps of his chief, and the two men, after the prescribed salutations to M. le Marquis de Villefranche, went across to speak to Déroulède.
“If you will accept our services, monsieur,” began the Colonel abruptly, “mine, and my adjutant’s, M. de Quettare, we place ourselves entirely at your disposal.”
“I thank you, messieurs,” rejoined Déroulède. “The whole thing is a farce, and that young man is a fool; but I have been in the wrong and—”
“You would wish to apologise?” queried the Colonel icily.
The worthy soldier had heard something of Déroulède’s reputed bourgeois ancestry. This suggestion of an apology was no doubt in accordance with the customs of the middle-classes, but the Colonel literally gasped at the unworthiness of the proceeding. An apology? Bah! Disgusting! cowardly! beneath the dignity of any gentleman, however wrong he might be. How could two soldiers of His Majesty’s army identify themselves with such doings?
But Déroulède seemed unconscious of the enormity of his suggestion.
“If I could avoid a conflict,” he said, “I would tell the Vicomte that I had no knowledge of his admiration for the lady we were discussing and—”
“Are you so very much afraid of getting a sword scratch, monsieur?” interrupted the Colonel impatiently, whilst M. de Quettare elevated a pair of aristocratic eyebrows in bewilderment at such an extraordinary display of bourgeois cowardice.
“You mean, Monsieur le Colonel?”—queried Déroulède.
“That you must either fight the Vicomte de Marny tonight, or clear out of Paris tomorrow. Your position in our set would become untenable,” retorted the Colonel, not unkindly, for in spite of Déroulède’s extraordinary attitude, there was nothing in his bearing or his appearance that suggested cowardice or fear.
“I bow to your superior knowledge of your friends, M. le Colonel,” responded Déroulède, as he silently drew his sword from its sheath.
The centre of the saloon was quickly cleared. The seconds measured the length
