He was not what in those days would be termed a ladies' man, and was even somewhat unpopular with the sex.

But in this instance the conversation had drifted in that direction, and when Adele's name was mentioned, every one became silent, save the little Vicomte, who waxed enthusiastic.
A shrug of the shoulders on Deroulede's part had aroused the boy's ire, then a few casual words, and, without further warning, the insult had been hurled and the cards thrown in the older man's face.
Deroulede did not move from his seat.

He sat erect and placid, one knee crossed over the other, his serious, rather swarthy face perhaps a shade paler than usual: otherwise it seemed as if the insult had never reached his ears, or the cards struck his cheek.
He had perceived his blunder, just twenty seconds too late.

Now he was sorry for the boy and angered with himself, but it was too late to draw back.

To avoid a conflict he would at this moment have sacrificed half his fortune, but not one particle of his dignity.
He knew and respected the old Duc de Marny, a feeble old man now, almost a dotard whose hitherto spotless _blason_, the young Vicomte, his son, was doing his best to besmirch.
When the boy fell forward, blind and drunk with rage, Deroulede leant towards him automatically, quite kindly, and helped him to his feet.