"Best assured, Monsieur, that you shall have no hand in mine." "Be not too certain of that," replied the marquis, his lips parting in that chilling smile with which he had formerly greeted opponents on the field of honor.

"And, after all, you might have the politeness to remember that I am, whatever else, still your father." The Chevalier bowed ironically.

Had he been less drunk he would have read the warning which lay in his father's eyes, now brilliant with the spirit of conflict.

But he rushed on to his doom, as it was written he should.

Paris was in his mind, Paris and mademoiselle, whose letter lay warm against his heart.