The Fates' avenging sword still rested in its sheath; the relentless, ceaseless wheel still bore them up in their whirl of pleasure; the downward movement had only just begun: the cry of the oppressed children of France had not yet been heard above the din of dance music and lovers' serenades.
The young Duc de Chateaudun was there, he who, nine years later, went to the guillotine on that cold September morning, his hair dressed in 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.
A good swordsman too, that wealthy parvenu.

It was interesting to watch his sword-play: very quiet at first, no feint or parry, scarcely a riposte, only _en garde,_ always _en garde_ very carefully, steadily, ready for his antagonist at every turn and in every circumstance.
Gradually the circle round the combatants narrowed.

A few discreet exclamations of admiration greeted Deroulede's most successful parry.