Questions, and demands for explanation, pressed on every hand, their countrymen gathering round the antagonists on either side, both of whom maintained for some minutes a perfect silence. The Duke was the first to speak. “Gentlemen,” said he, “you have heard an expression addressed to me which no Frenchman listens to without inflicting chastisement on the speaker—I do not ask—I do not care in the least—who this person may be—what his rank and position in life; I am ready to admit him to the fullest equality with myself. It only remains that I should satisfy myself of certain doubts, which his own manner has originated. It may be that he cannot call me, or any other gentleman, to account for his words.”
Linton's face twitched with short convulsive jerks as he listened, and then, crossing the room to where the Duke stood, he struck him with his glove across the face, while, with a very shout of passion, he uttered the one word, “Coward!” The scene became now one of the wildest confusion. The partisanship of country surrounded either with a group, who in loud tones expressed their opinions, and asked for explanations of what had occurred. That some gross insult had been put upon Linton was the prevailing impression; but how originating, or of what nature, none knew, nor did the principals seem disposed to afford the information.
“I tell you, Frobisher,” said Linton, angrily, “it is a matter does not admit of explanation.”
“Parbleu, sir! you have placed it out of the reach of such,” said an old French officer, “and I trust you will feel the consequences.”
The chaos of tongues, loud in altercation and dispute, now burst forth again, some asserting that the cause of quarrel should be openly declared at once, others averring that the opprobrious epithet applied by Linton to the Duke effectually debarred negotiation, and left no other arbitrament than the pistol. In the midst of this tumult, where angry passions were already enlisted, and insolent rejoinders passed from mouth to mouth, a still louder uproar was now heard in the direction of the salon, and the crash of a breaking door, and the splintering noise of the shattered wood, overtopped the other sounds.
“The commissaire de police!” cried some one, and the words were electric. The hours of play were illegal,—the habits of the house such as to implicate all in charges more or less disgraceful; and immediately a general rush was made for escape,—some seeking the well-known private issues from the apartment, others preparing for a bold attempt to force their passage through the armed followers of the commissary.
Every avenue of escape had been already occupied by the gendarmes; and the discomfited gamblers were seen returning into the room crestfallen and ashamed, when the commissary, followed by a knot of others in plain clothes, advancing into the middle of the chamber, pronounced the legal form of arrest on all present.
“I am a peer of France,” said the Duc de Marsac, haughtily. “I yield to no authority that does not carry the signature of my sovereign.”
“You are free, Monsieur le Duc,” said the commissary, bowing respectfully.
“I am an English gentleman,” said Linton, stepping forward. “I demand by what right you presume to detain me in custody?”