“Monsieur,” he cried hoarsely, “take care!  Are you not telling me some dreadful lie?”

“It would be . . . . scarcely worth while.”  The marquis controlled his agitation by gently patting the gold knob on his stick.  His gaze wandered, seeking to rest upon some object other than his son.  The first blinding heat of passion had subsided, and in the following haze he saw that he had committed a wrong which a thousand truths might not wholly efface.  And yet he remained silent, obdurate:  so little a thing as a word or the lack of it has changed the destinies of empires and of men.

A species of madness seized the Chevalier.  With a fierce gesture he drew his sword.  For a moment the marquis thought that he was about to be impaled upon it; but he gave no sign of fear.  Presently the sword deviated from its horizontal line, declined gradually till the point touched the floor.  The Chevalier leaned upon it, swaying slightly.  His eyes burned like opals.

“No, Monsieur, no!  I will let you live, to die of old age, alone, in silence, surrounded by those hideous phantoms which the approach of death creates from ill-spent lives.  Since you have taught me that there is no God, I shall not waste a curse upon you for this wrong.  Think not that the lust to kill is gone; no, no; but I had rather let you live to die in bed.  So!  I have been your pastime?  I have now ceased to amuse you? . . . . as my mother, whoever she may be, ceased to amuse?” His sardonian laugh chilled the marquis in the marrow.  “And I have spent your gold, thinking it lawfully mine? . . . lorded over your broad lands, believing myself to be heir to them? . . . been Monsieur le Comte this and Monsieur le Comte that?  How the gods must have laughed as I walked forth among the great, arrogant in my pride of birth and riches!  Poor fool!  Surely, Monsieur, it must be as you say:  Heaven and hell are of our own contriving.  Poor fool!  And I have held my head so high, faced the world so fearlessly and contemptuously! . . . to find that I am this, this!  My God, Monsieur, but you have stirred within me all the hate, the lust to kill, the gall of envy and despair!  But live,” his madness increasing; “live to die in bed, no kin beside you, not even the administering hand of a friendly priest to alleviate the horror of your death-bed!  God! do men go mad this way?”

The marquis was trembling violently.  Words thronged to his lips, only to be crushed back by the irony of fate.  For a little he would have flung himself at his son’s feet.  He had lied, lied, lied!  What could he say?  His tongue lay hot against the palate, paralyzed.  His brain was confused, dazzled, incoherent.

“And now for these sponging fools who call themselves my friends!” The Chevalier staggered off toward the dining-hall, from whence still came the rollicking song. . . .  It was all so incongruous; it was all so like a mad dream.