ing hand. 'Twas a lesson I
learned some years ago from Monsieur le Marquis, your husband, my father.
You, Madame, died at my birth, therefore I have known no mother. Am I a
drunkard, a wine-bibber, a roisterer by night? Say then, who taught me?
Before I became of age my foolish heart was filled with love which must
spend itself upon something. I offered this love, filial and respectful,
to Monsieur le Marquis. Madame, the bottle was more responsive to this
outburst of generous youth than Monsieur le Marquis, to whom I was a
living plaything, a clay which he molded as a pastime--too readily, alas!
And now, behold! he speaks of respect. It would be droll if it were not
sad. True, he gave me gold; but he also taught me how to use this
devil-key which unlocks the pathways of the world, wine-cellars and
women's hearts. Respect? Has he ever taken me by the hand as natural
fathers take their sons, and asked me to be his comrade? Has he ever
taught me to rise to heights, to scorn the petty forms and molds of life?
Have I not been as the captive eagle, drawn down at every flight? And
for this . . . respect? Oh, Madame, scarcely! And often I thought of
the happiness of beholding my father depending on me in his old age!"

"You thought that, Monsieur?" interrupted the marquis, his eyes losing
some of their metallic hardness. "You thought that?" What irony lay in
the taste of this knowledge!

"Monsieur," said the Chevalier with drunken asperity, "permit me to say
that you are interrupting a fine apostrophe! . . . And as a culmination,
he would have me wed the daughter of your mortal enemy, his mistress! It
is some mad dream, Madame; we shall soon awake."

"Even immediately," replied the marquis calmly. The Chevalier had
snuffed more than candles this night. He had snuffed also the belated
paternal spark of affection which had suddenly kindled in his father's
breast. "Your apostrophe, as you are pleased to term the maudlin talk of
a drunken fool, is being addressed to my wife."

"Well?" insolently.

"Your mother, while worthy and beautiful, was not sufficiently noble to
merit Rubens's brush. It is to be regretted, but I never had a portrait
of your mother."

The roisterers burst into song again . . . .

"_When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe
With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!_"

How this rollicking song penetrated the ominous silence which had
suddenly filled the salon! The Chevalier