Nobody laughed now at his flippancy.  He did not intend that anybody should.  He intended to be terrible; and he knew that the more flippant and casual his tone, the more terrible would be its effect.  He produced exactly the effect he desired.

What followed in a place where feelings and practices had become what they had become is not difficult to surmise.  When the session rose, there were a dozen spadassins awaiting him in the vestibule, and this time the men of his own party were less concerned to guard him.  He seemed so entirely capable of guarding himself; he appeared, for all his circumspection, to have so completely carried the war into the enemy’s camp, so completely to have adopted their own methods, that his fellows scarcely felt the need to protect him as yesterday.

As he emerged, he scanned that hostile file, whose air and garments marked them so clearly for what they were.  He paused, seeking the man he expected, the man he was most anxious to oblige.  But M. de La Tour d’Azyr was absent from those eager ranks.  This seemed to him odd.  La Tour d’Azyr was Chabrillane’s cousin and closest friend.  Surely he should have been among the first to-day.  The fact was that La Tour d’Azyr was too deeply overcome by amazement and grief at the utterly unexpected event.  Also his vindictiveness was held curiously in leash.  Perhaps he, too, remembered the part played by Chabrillane in the affair at Gavrillac, and saw in this obscure Andre-Louis Moreau, who had so persistently persecuted him ever since, an ordained avenger.  The repugnance he felt to come to the point, with him, particularly after this culminating provocation, was puzzling even to himself.  But it existed, and it curbed him now.

To Andre-Louis, since La Tour was not one of that waiting pack, it mattered little on that Tuesday morning who should be the next.  The next, as it happened, was the young Vicomte de La Motte-Royau, one of the deadliest blades in the group.

On the Wednesday morning, coming again an hour or so late to the Assembly, Andre-Louis announced — in much the same terms as he had announced the death of Chabrillane — that M. de La Motte-Royau would probably not disturb the harmony of the Assembly for some weeks to come, assuming that he were so fortunate as to recover ultimately from the effects of an unpleasant accident with which he had quite unexpectedly had the misfortune to meet that morning.

On Thursday he made an identical announcement with regard to the Vidame de Blavon.  On Friday he told them that he had been delayed by M. de Troiscantins, and then turning to the members of the Cote Droit, and lengthening his face to a sympathetic gravity: 

“I am glad to inform you, messieurs, that M. des Troiscantins is in the hands of a very competent surgeon who hopes with care to restore him to your councils in a few weeks’ time.”

It was paralyzing, fantastic, unreal; and friend and foe in that assembly sat alike stupefied under those bland daily announcements.  Four of the most redoubtable spadassinicides put away for a time, one of them dead — and all this performed with such an air of indifference and announced in such casual terms by a wretched little provincial lawyer!