He had risen to his feet, somewhat bewildered at the rapid turn of events.

His dark, restless eyes wandered for a moment round the room, as if in quick search for a friend.
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.