The old Duc's chair was placed close to the bed, where lay the dead
body of the young Vicomte. He made no movement, nor did he utter a
word or sigh. Some of those who were present at the time declared that
his mind had completely given way, and that he neither felt nor
understood the death of his son.

The Marquis de Villefranche, who had followed his friend to the last,
took a final leave of the sorrowing house.

Juliette scarcely noticed him. Her eyes were fixed on her father.
She would not look at her brother. A childlike fear had seized her,
there, suddenly, between these two silent figures: the living and the
dead.

But just as the Marquis was leaving the room, the old man spoke for
the first time.

"Marquis," he said very quietly, "you forget--you have not yet told
me who killed my son."

"It was in a fair fight, M. de Duc," replied the young Marquis, awed
in spite of all his frivolity, his light-heartedness, by this strange,
almost mysterious tragedy.

"Who killed my son, M. le Marquis?" repeated the old man mechanically.
"I have the right to know," he added with sudden, weird energy.

"It was M. Paul Deroulede, M. le Duc," replied the Marquis. "I
repeat, it was in fair fight."