Some of those who were present at the time declared that his mind had completely given way, and that he neither felt nor understood the death of his son.
The Marquis de Villefranche, who had followed his friend to the last, took a final leave of the sorrowing house.
Juliette scarcely noticed him.

Her eyes were fixed on her father.

She would not look at her brother.

A childlike fear had seized her, there, suddenly, between these two silent figures: the living and the dead.
But just as the Marquis was leaving the room, the old man spoke for the first time.
"Marquis," he said very quietly, "you forget--you have not yet told me who killed my son." "It was in a fair fight, M.de Duc," replied the young Marquis, awed in spite of all his frivolity, his light-heartedness, by this strange, almost mysterious tragedy.
"Who killed my son, M.le Marquis ?" repeated the old man mechanically.
"I have the right to know," he added with sudden, weird energy.
"It was M.Paul Deroulede, M.le Duc," replied the Marquis.

"I repeat, it was in fair fight." The old Duc sighed as if in satisfaction.