There was the Vicomte de Mirepoix, who, a few years later, standing on the platform of the guillotine, laid a bet with M. de Miranges that his own blood would flow bluer than that of any other head cut off that day in France.  Citizen Samson heard the bet made, and when De Mirepoix’s head fell into the basket, the headsman lifted it up for M. de Miranges to see.  The latter laughed.

“Mirepoix was always a braggart,” he said lightly, as he laid his head upon the block.

“Who’ll take my bet that my blood turns out to be bluer than his?”

But of all these comedies, these tragico-farces of later years, none who were present on that night, when the Vicomte de Marny fought Paul Deroulede, had as yet any presentiment.

They watched the two men fighting, with the same casual interest, at first, which they would have bestowed on the dancing of a new movement in the minuet.

De Marny came of a race that had wielded the sword of many centuries, but he was hot, excited, not a little addled with wine and rage.  Deroulede was lucky; he would come out of the affair with a slight scratch.

A good swordsman too, that wealthy parvenu.  It was interesting to watch his sword-play:  very quiet at first, no feint or parry, scarcely a riposte, only en garde, always en garde very carefully, steadily, ready for his antagonist at every turn and in every circumstance.

Gradually the circle round the combatants narrowed.  A few discreet exclamations of admiration greeted Deroulede’s most successful parry.  De Marny was getting more and more excited, the older man more and more sober and reserved.

A thoughtless lunge placed the little Vicomte at his opponent’s mercy.  The next instant he was disarmed, and the seconds were pressing forward to end the conflict.

Honour was satisfied:  the parvenu and the scion of the ancient race had crossed swords over the reputation of one of the most dissolute women in France.  Deroulede’s moderation was a lesson to all the hot-headed young bloods who toyed with their lives, their honour, their reputation as lightly as they did with their lace-edged handkerchiefs and gold snuff-boxes.

Already Deroulede had drawn back.  With the gentle tact peculiar to kindly people, he avoided looking at his disarmed antagonist.  But something in the older man’s attitude seemed to further nettle the over-stimulated sensibility of the young Vicomte.

“This is no child’s play, monsieur,” he said excitedly.  “I demand full satisfaction.”

“And are you not satisfied?” queried Deroulede.  “You have borne yourself bravely, you have fought in honour of your liege lady.  I, on the other hand...”

“You,” shouted the boy hoarsely, “you shall publicly apologise to a noble and virtuous woman whom you have outraged—­now—­at—­once—­on your knees...”

“You are mad, Vicomte,” rejoined Deroulede coldly.  “I am willing to ask your forgiveness for my blunder...”