the latest fashion, the finest Mechlin lace around his wrists, playing
a final game of piquet with his younger brother, as the tumbril bore
them along through the hooting, yelling crowd of the half-naked
starvelings of Paris.

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.