recall his name. The Chevalier's mother had died at his birth; thus,
he knew neither maternal nor paternal love; and a man must love
something which is common with his blood. Even now he would have gone
half-way, had his father's love come to meet him. But no; Monsieur le
Marquis loved only his famous wines, his stories, and his souvenirs.
Bah! this daughter had been easily consoled. The Comte de Brissac was
fully sixty. The Chevalier squared his shoulders and shifted his
baldric.

With forced gaiety he turned to his lackey. "Lad, let us love only
ourselves. Self-love is always true to us. We will spend our gold and
play the butterfly while the summer lasts. It will be cold soon, and
then . . . pouf! To-morrow you will take the gold and balance my
accounts."

"Yes, Monsieur. Will Monsieur permit a familiarity by recalling a
forbidden subject?"

"Well?"

"Monsieur le Comte de Brissac died last night," solemnly.

"What! of old age?" ironically.

"Of steel. A gallant was entering by a window, presumably to entertain
madame, who is said to be young and as beautiful as her mother was.
Monsieur le Comte appeared upon the scene; but his guard was weak. He
was run through the neck. The gallant wore a mask. That is all I know
of the scandal."