But where the Vicomte was at home by right, Deroulede had only been
admitted by reason of his wealth. His acquaintances and sycophants
were many, but his friends very few.

For the first time this fact was brought home to him. Every one in
the room must have known and realised that he had not wilfully sought
this quarrel, that throughout he had borne himself as any gentleman
would, yet now, when the issue was so close at hand, no one came
forward to stand by him.

"For form's sake, monsieur, will you choose your seconds?"

It was the young Marquis de Villefranche who spoke, a little
haughtily, with a certain ironical condescension towards the rich
parvenu, who was about to have the honour of crossing swords with one
of the noblest gentlemen in France.

"I pray you, Monsieur le Marquis," rejoined Deroulede coldly, "to make
the choice for me. You see, I have few friends in Paris."

The Marquis bowed, and gracefully flourished his lace handkerchief.
He was accustomed to being appealed to in all matters pertaining to
etiquette, to the toilet, to the latest cut in coats, and the
procedure in duels. Good-natured, foppish, and idle, he felt quite
happy and in his element thus to be made chief organiser of the tragic
farce, about to be enacted on the parquet floor of the gaming saloon.

He looked about the room for a while, scrutinising the faces of those
around him. The gilded youth was crowding round De Marny; a few older
men stood in a group at the farther end of the room: to these the