Like a pack of demoralized sheep the roisterers crowded and pressed into the hall.  The vicomte turned angrily and attempted to draw his sword.

“Fool!” cried Victor, seizing the vicomte’s hand; “can you not see that he is mad?  He would kill you!”

“Curse it, he is striking me with his sword!”

“He is mad!”

“Well, well, Master Poet; I can wait.  What a night!”

It had ceased snowing; the world lay dimly white.  The roisterers flocked down the steps to the street.  One fell into a drift and lay there sobbing.

“What now?” asked the vicomte.

“I am sorry,” said the inebriate.

“The devil!  The Chevalier has a friend here,” laughed the vicomte, assisting the roisterer to his feet.  “Come along, Saumaise.”

“I shall wait.”

“As you please;” and the vicomte continued on.

Victor watched them till they dwindled into the semblance of so many ravens.  He rubbed his fevered face with snow, and waited.

Meantime the Chevalier returned to the table.  “Drink, you beggars; drink, I say!” The sword swept the table, crashing among the bottles and glasses and candlesticks, “Take the news to Paris, fools!  Spell it largely!  It will amuse the court.  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.”  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.