"You have borne yourself bravely, you have fought in honour of your liege lady.

I, on the other hand ..." "You," shouted the boy hoarsely, "you shall publicly apologise to a noble and virtuous woman whom you have outraged--now--at--once--on your knees ..." "You are mad, Vicomte," rejoined Deroulede coldly.

"I am willing to ask your forgiveness for my blunder ..." "An apology--in public--on your knees ..." The boy had become more and more excited.

He had suffered humiliation after humiliation.

He was a mere lad, spoilt, adulated, pampered from his boyhood: the wine had got into his head, the intoxication of rage and hatred blinded his saner judgment.
"Coward!" he shouted again and again.
His seconds tried to interpose, but he waved them feverishly aside.