The marquis raised his cane to strike, so great was his passion and

chagrin; but palsy seized his arm.

"Drunken fool!" he roared; "be bastard, then; play drunken fool to the

end!"

"Who was my mother?"

"Find that out yourself, drunkard! Never from me shall you know!"

"It is just as well." The Chevalier took from his pocket his purse. He

cast it contemptuously at his father's feet.

"The last of the gold you gave me. Now, Monsieur, listen. I shall never

again cross the threshold of any house of yours; never again shall I look

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upon your face, nor hear with patience your name spoken. In spite of all

you have done, I shall yet become a man. Somewhere I shall begin anew.

I shall find a level, and from that I shall rise. And I shall become

what you will never become, respected." He picked up his cloak and hat.

He looked steadily into his father's eyes, then swung on his heels,

passed through the salon, thence to the street.

"Paul?" said Victor.

"Is that you, Victor?" quietly.

"Yes, Paul." Victor gently replaced the Chevalier's sword into its

scabbard, and locking his arm in his friend's, the two walked in silence

toward the Corne d'Abondance.

And the marquis? Ah, God--the God he did not believe in!--only God could

analyse his thoughts.

"Fool!" he cried, seeing himself alone and the gift of prescience

foretelling that he was to be henceforth and forever alone,--"senile

fool! Dotard!" He beat about with his cane even as the Chevalier had

beaten about with his sword. "Double fool! to lose him for the sake of a

lie, a damnable lie, and the lack of courage to own to it!" A Venetian

mirror caught his attention. He stood before it, and seeing his

reflection he beat the glass into a thousand fragments.

Jehan appeared, white and trembling, carrying his master's candlestick.

"Ah!" cried the marquis. "'Tis you. Jehan, call your master a fool."

"I, Monsieur?" Jehan retreated.

"Aye; or I promise to beat your worthless body within an inch of death.

Call me a fool, whose wrath, over-leaped his prudence and sense of truth

and honor. Call me a fool."

"Oh!"

"Quickly!" The cane rose.

"God forgive me this disrespect! . . . Monsieur, you are a fool!"

"A senile, doting fool."

"A senile, doting fool!" repeated Jehan, weeping.

"That is well. My candle. Listen to me." The marquis moved toward the

staircase. "Monsieur le Comte has left this house for good and all, so

he says. Should he return to-morrow . . ."

Jehan listened attentively, as attentively as his dazed mind would permit.

"Should he come back within a month . . ." The marquis had by this time

reached the first landing.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"If he ever comes back . . ."




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