How it all happened, nobody afterwards could say. There is no doubt
that the little Vicomte's sword-play had become more and more wild:
that he uncovered himself in the most reckless way, whilst lunging
wildly at his opponent's breast, until at last, in one of these mad,
unguarded moments, he seemed literally to throw himself upon
Deroulede's weapon.

The latter tried with lightning-swift motion of the wrist to avoid the
fatal issue, but it was too late, and without a sigh or groan, scarce
a tremor, the Vicomte de Marny fell.

The sword dropped out of his hand, and it was Deroulede himself who
caught the boy in his arms.

It had all occurred so quickly and suddenly that no one had realised
it all, until it was over, and the lad was lying prone on the ground,
his elegant blue satin coat stained with red, and his antagonist
bending over him.

There was nothing more to be done. Etiquette demanded that Deroulede
should withdraw. He was not allowed to do anything for the boy whom he
had so unwillingly sent to his death.

As before, no one took much notice of him. Silence, the awesome
silence caused by the presence of the great Master, fell upon all
those around. Only in the far corner a shrill voice was heard to say:

"I hold you at five hundred louis, Marquis. The parvenu is a good
swordsman."