But where the Vicomte was at home by right, Deroulede had only been admitted by reason of his wealth.  His acquaintances and sycophants were many, but his friends very few.

For the first time this fact was brought home to him.  Every one in the room must have known and realised that he had not wilfully sought this quarrel, that throughout he had borne himself as any gentleman would, yet now, when the issue was so close at hand, no one came forward to stand by him.

“For form’s sake, monsieur, will you choose your seconds?”

It was the young Marquis de Villefranche who spoke, a little haughtily, with a certain ironical condescension towards the rich parvenu, who was about to have the honour of crossing swords with one of the noblest gentlemen in France.

“I pray you, Monsieur le Marquis,” rejoined Deroulede coldly, “to make the choice for me.  You see, I have few friends in Paris.”

The Marquis bowed, and gracefully flourished his lace handkerchief.  He was accustomed to being appealed to in all matters pertaining to etiquette, to the toilet, to the latest cut in coats, and the procedure in duels.  Good-natured, foppish, and idle, he felt quite happy and in his element thus to be made chief organiser of the tragic farce, about to be enacted on the parquet floor of the gaming saloon.

He looked about the room for a while, scrutinising the faces of those around him.  The gilded youth was crowding round De Marny; a few older men stood in a group at the farther end of the room:  to these the Marquis turned, and addressing one of them, an elderly man with a military bearing and a shabby brown coat: 

“Mon Colonel,” he said, with another flourishing bow; “I am deputed by M. Deroulede to provide him with seconds for this affair of honour, may I call upon you to...”

“Certainly, certainly,” replied the Colonel.  “I am not intimately acquainted with M. Deroulede, but since you stand sponsor, M. le Marquis...”

“Oh!” rejoined the Marquis, lightly, “a mere matter of form, you know.  M. Deroulede belongs to the entourage of Her Majesty.  He is a man of honour.  But I am not his sponsor.  Marny is my friend, and if you prefer not to...”

“Indeed I am entirely at M. Deroulede’s service,” said the Colonel, who had thrown a quick, scrutinising glance at the isolated figure near the card table, “if he will accept my services...”

“He will be very glad to accept, my dear Colonel,” whispered the Marquis with an ironical twist of his aristocratic lips.  “He has no friends in our set, and if you and De Quettare will honour him, I think he should be grateful.”

M. de Quettare, adjutant to M. le Colonel, was ready to follow in the footsteps of his chief, and the two men, after the prescribed salutations to M. le Marquis de Villefranche, went across to speak to Deroulede.

“If you will accept our services, monsieur,” began the Colonel abruptly, “mine, and my adjutant’s, M. de Quettare, we place ourselves entirely at your disposal.”