But little was known of his family or the origin of its wealth; it was
only known that his father had suddenly become the late King's dearest
friend, and commonly surmised that Deroulede gold had on more than one
occasion filled the emptied coffers of the First Gentleman of France.

Deroulede had not sought the present quarrel. He had merely blundered
in that clumsy way of his, which was no doubt a part of the
inheritance bequeathed to him by his bourgeois ancestry.

He knew nothing of the little Vicomte's private affairs, still less of
his relationship with Adele, but he knew enough of the world and
enough of Paris to be acquainted with the lady's reputation. He hated
at all times to speak of women. He was not what in those days would be
termed a ladies' man, and was even somewhat unpopular with the sex.
But in this instance the conversation had drifted in that direction,
and when Adele's name was mentioned, every one became silent, save the
little Vicomte, who waxed enthusiastic.

A shrug of the shoulders on Deroulede's part had aroused the boy's
ire, then a few casual words, and, without further warning, the insult
had been hurled and the cards thrown in the older man's face.

Deroulede did not move from his seat. He sat erect and placid, one
knee crossed over the other, his serious, rather swarthy face perhaps
a shade paler than usual: otherwise it seemed as if the insult had
never reached his ears, or the cards struck his cheek.

He had perceived his blunder, just twenty seconds too late. Now he
was sorry for the boy and angered with himself, but it was too late to