" 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
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.
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