"I know you not." Then with a sudden wave of disgust, the Chevalier
cried: "Now, one and all of you, out of my sight! Away with you! You
look too hardily at the brand of pleasure on my brow. Out, you beggars,
sponges and cheats! Out, I say! Back to the devil who spawned you!" He
drove them forth with the flat of his sword. He saw nothing, heard
nothing, knew nothing save that he was mad, possessed of a capital
frenzy, the victim of some frightful dream; save that he saw through
blood, that the lust to kill, to rend, and to destroy was on him. The
flat of his sword fell rudely but impartially.
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?"