It was early moonlight, and the parade ground was empty and ghostly.  The marquis glanced about.  He discovered D’Herouville leaning against a cannon, contemplating the escarps and bastions of the citadel.  The marquis went forward, striking his heels soundly.  D’Herouville roused himself and turned round.

“You are Monsieur le Comte d’Herouville,” began the marquis, abruptly.

“I am,” peering into the marquis’s face, and stepping back in surprise.

“You come, I believe, from an ancient and notable house.”

“Almost as notable as yours, Monsieur le Marquis,” bowing in his wonder, though this wonder was not wholly free from suspicion.

“Almost, but not quite,” added the marquis.  “The House of Perigny was established some hundred and fifty years before royalty gave you a patent.  Your grandsire and your father were brave men.”

“So history writes it,” his puzzlement still growing.

“I wish a few words with you in private.”

“With me?”

“With you.”

“I suppose his Excellency has summoned me here for this purpose.  But I am in a hurry.  The night air is not good for me, it being heavy with dews, and I am out of the hospital only this day.”

The marquis’s grim laugh was jarring.

“You laugh, Monsieur?” patiently.

“Yes.  I am never in a hurry.”

“What is it you wish to say?”

“It is a question.  Why do you hate Monsieur le Comte, my son?”

“Monsieur le Comte?” with frank irony.

“In all that the name implies.  Some man has, over De Leviston’s shoulder, called my son a son of . . . the left hand.”  The words seemed to skin the marquis’s lips.

“And you, Monsieur,” banteringly, “did you not make him so?” D’Herouville began to understand.

“He is my lawful son.”

“Ah! then you have gone to Parliament and had him legitimatized?  That is royal on your part, believe me.”

“The son of my wife, Monsieur.”

“Then, what the devil . . . !”

“And when Monsieur de Leviston accused my son of not knowing who his mother was,” continued the old man, coldly and evenly, which signified a deadly wrath, “you laughed.”

“Certainly I did not weep.”  D’Herouville did not know the caliber of the man he was speaking to.  He merely expected that the marquis would request him to apologize.

“My son has challenged you?” with the same unchanging quiet.

“He has; but I have this day advised him not to wear out his voice in that direction, for certainly I shall not cross swords with him.”

“You are very discreet,” dryly.

“And I shall make no apologies.”

“Apologies, Monsieur!  Can one offer an apology for what you have done?  Besides, it is said that my son is magnificent with the rapier and would accept the apology of no man.”

“Bah!  That is a roundabout way of calling me a coward.”