Drink, drink, drink!" Wine bubbled
and ran about the table; candles sputtered and died; still the sword rose
and fell. Then came silence, broken only by heavy breathing and the
ticking of the clock in the salon. The Chevalier sat crouched in his
chair, his arm and sword resting on the table where they had at length
fallen.
The marquis recovered from his stupor. He hurried toward the
dining-hall, fumbling his lips, mumbling incoherent sentences. He came
to a stand on the threshold.
"Blundering fool," he cried passionately, "what have you said and done?"
At the sound of his father's voice, the Chevalier's rage returned; but it
was a cold rage, actionless.
"What have I done? I have written it large, Monsieur, that I am only
your poor bastard. How Paris will laugh!" He gazed around, dimly noting
the havoc. He rose, the sword still in his grasp. "What! the marquis so
many times a father, to die without legal issue?"
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.
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