“You are a liar and a blackguard!” said Fontenelle fiercely, “And unless you apologise for your insult to the lady whose name you have presumed to utter with your mountebank tongue—­”

“Apologise!  I!  Moi!—­genie de France!  Never!” retorted Miraudin with an air of swaggering audacity, “All women are alike!  I speak from experience!”

White to the lips, the Marquis Fontenelle looked around.

“Are there any men here?” he asked, eying the crowd about him with ineffable hauteur.

A young fellow stepped forward.  “At your command, Marquis!  You served me once—­I shall be happy to serve you now!”

Quickly Fontenelle shook hands with this timely friend.  He recognised in him a young Italian officer, named Ruspardi, an acquaintance of some years back, to whom he had chanced to be useful in a pressing moment of need.

“Thanks!  Arrange everything for me, will you, Ruspardi?  And as quickly as possible!”

“It is nearly midnight now,” said Ruspardi in a low tone, “Shall we say five or six in the morning?”

“Yes—­anything you like—­but quickly!”

Then raising his head haughtily, he addressed Miraudin in distinct tones.

“Monsieur Miraudin, you have greatly insulted and falsely slandered a lady whom I have the honour to know.  I have struck you for your lie; and consider you worthy of no further treatment save a horsewhipping in public.  Gentlemen do not as a rule condescend to meet their paid servants—­actors and the like,—­in single combat—­ but I will do you that honour!”

And with these words he bowed haughtily to all present, and left the scene of noisy disorder.

Out in the streets the moonlight lay in broad silver bands, like white glistening ribbon spread in shining strips across the blackness, and there was a moisture in the air which,—­dropped as it were fresh, from the surrounding hills,—­cooled Fontenelle’s flushed face and burning brows.  He walked rapidly,—­he had a vague, unformed desire in his mind to see Sylvie again if possible.  He knew where she lived, and he soon turned down the street where the quaint old central balcony of the Casa D’Angeli thrust itself forward into the moon-rays among the sculptured angels’ wings,—­and he saw that the windows were open.  Pausing underneath he waited, hesitating—­full of strange thoughts and stranger regrets.  How poor and valueless seemed his life as he regarded it now!—­now when he had voluntarily placed it in jeopardy!  What had he done with his days of youth and prime?  Frittered away every valuable moment,—­thrown to the winds every costly opportunity,—­spent his substance on light women who had kissed and clung to him one day, and repulsed him the next.  Well—­ and after?  His heart beat thickly,—­if he could only see Sylvie for a moment!  Hush!  There was a murmur—­a voice—­a ripple of sweet laughter; and moving cautiously back into the shadows, he looked up--yes!—­there she