Victor watched them till they dwindled into the semblance of so many ravens. He rubbed his fevered face with snow, and waited.
Meantime the Chevalier returned to the table. "Drink, you beggars; drink, I say!" The sword swept the table, crashing among the bottles and glasses and candlesticks, "Take the news to Paris, fools! Spell it largely! It will amuse the court. Drink, drink, drink!" Wine bubbled and ran about the table; candles sputtered and died; still the sword rose and fell. Then came silence, broken only by heavy breathing and the ticking of the clock in the salon. The Chevalier sat crouched in his chair, his arm and sword resting on the table where they had at length fallen.
The marquis recovered from his stupor. He hurried toward the dining-hall, fumbling his lips, mumbling incoherent sentences. He came to a stand on the threshold.
"Blundering fool," he cried passionately, "what have you said and done?"
At the sound of his father's voice, the Chevalier's rage returned; but it was a cold rage, actionless.
"What have I done? I have written it large, Monsieur, that I am only your poor bastard. How Paris will laugh!" He gazed around, dimly noting the havoc. He rose, the sword still in his grasp. "What! the marquis so many times a father, to die without legal issue?"
The marquis raised his cane to strike, so great was his passion and chagrin; but palsy seized his arm.
"Drunken fool!" he roared; "be bastard, then; play drunken fool to the end!"
"Who was my mother?"
"Find that out yourself, drunkard! Never from me shall you know!"