All the house was astir by now.  Torches burned in great sockets in the vast hall and along the massive oak stairway, and hundreds of candles flickered ghostlike in the vast apartments of the princely mansion.

The numerous servants were arrayed on the landing, all dressed in the rich livery of the ducal house.

The death of an heir of the Marnys is an event that history makes a note of.

The old Duc’s chair was placed close to the bed, where lay the dead body of the young Vicomte.  He made no movement, nor did he utter a word or sigh.  Some of those who were present at the time declared that his mind had completely given way, and that he neither felt nor understood the death of his son.

The Marquis de Villefranche, who had followed his friend to the last, took a final leave of the sorrowing house.

Juliette scarcely noticed him.  Her eyes were fixed on her father.  She would not look at her brother.  A childlike fear had seized her, there, suddenly, between these two silent figures:  the living and the dead.

But just as the Marquis was leaving the room, the old man spoke for the first time.

“Marquis,” he said very quietly, “you forget—­you have not yet told me who killed my son.”

“It was in a fair fight, M. de Duc,” replied the young Marquis, awed in spite of all his frivolity, his light-heartedness, by this strange, almost mysterious tragedy.

“Who killed my son, M. le Marquis?” repeated the old man mechanically.  “I have the right to know,” he added with sudden, weird energy.

“It was M. Paul Deroulede, M. le Duc,” replied the Marquis.  “I repeat, it was in fair fight.”

The old Duc sighed as if in satisfaction.  Then with a courteous gesture of farewell reminiscent of the grand siecle he added: 

“All thanks from me and mine to you, Marquis, would seem but a mockery.  Your devotion to my son is beyond human thanks.  I’ll not detain you now.  Farewell.”

Escorted by two lacqueys, the Marquis passed out of the room.

“Dismiss all the servants, Juliette; I have something to say,” said the old Duc, and the young girl, silent, obedient, did as her father bade her.

Father and sister were alone with their dead.  As soon as the last hushed footsteps of the retreating servants died away in the distance.  The Duc de Marny seemed to throw away the lethargy which had enveloped him until now.  With a quick, feverish gesture he seized his daughter’s wrist, and murmured excitedly: 

“His name.  You heard his name, Juliette?”

“Yes, father,” replied the child.

“Paul Deroulede!  Paul Deroulede!  You’ll not forget it?”

“Never, father!”

“He killed your brother!  You understand that?  Killed my only son, the hope of my house, the last descendant of the most glorious race that has ever added lustre to the history of France.”