I Will Repay | Page 2

boy's ire,
then a few casual words, and, without further warning, the insult had
been hurled and the cards thrown in the older man's face.
Déroulède did not move from his seat. He sat erect and placid, one knee
crossed over the other, his serious, rather swarthy face perhaps a shade
paler than usual: otherwise it seemed as if the insult had never reached
his ears, or the cards struck his cheeck.
He had perceived his blunder, just twenty seconds too late. Now he was
sorry for the boy and angered with himself, but it was too late to draw
back. To avoid a conflict he would at this moment have sacrificed half
his fortune, but not one particle of his dignity.
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. Every one 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 aristocrate lips. "He has no friends
in our set, and