of men.

A species of madness seized the Chevalier. With a fierce gesture he drew
his sword. For a moment the marquis thought that he was about to be
impaled upon it; but he gave no sign of fear. Presently the sword
deviated from its horizontal line, declined gradually till the point
touched the floor. The Chevalier leaned upon it, swaying slightly. His
eyes burned like opals.

"No, Monsieur, no! I will let you live, to die of old age, alone, in
silence, surrounded by those hideous phantoms which the approach of death
creates from ill-spent lives. Since you have taught me that there is no
God, I shall not waste a curse upon you for this wrong. Think not that
the lust to kill is gone; no, no; but I had rather let you live to die in
bed. So! I have been your pastime? I have now ceased to amuse
you? . . . . as my mother, whoever she may be, ceased to amuse?" His
sardonian laugh chilled the marquis in the marrow. "And I have spent
your gold, thinking it lawfully mine? . . . lorded over your broad lands,
believing myself to be heir to them? . . . been Monsieur le Comte this
and Monsieur le Comte that? How the gods must have laughed as I walked
forth among the great, arrogant in my pride of birth and riches! Poor
fool! Surely, Monsieur, it must be as you say: Heaven and hell are of
our own contriving. Poor fool! And I have held my head so high, faced
the world so fearlessly and contemptuously! . . . to find that I am this,
this! My God, Monsieur, but you have stirred within me all the hate, the
lust to kill, the gall of envy and despair! But live," his madness
increasing; "live to die in bed, no kin beside you, not even the
administering hand of a friendly priest to alleviate the horror of your
death-bed! God! do men go mad this way?"

The marquis was trembling violently. Words thronged to his lips, only to
be crushed back by the irony of fate. For a little he would have flung
himself at his son's feet. He had lied, lied, lied! What could he say?
His tongue lay hot against the palate, paralyzed. His brain was
confused, dazzled, incoherent.

"And now for these sponging fools who call themselves my friends!" The
Chevalier staggered off toward the dining-hall, from whence still came
the rollicking song. . . . It was all so incongruous; it was all so like
a mad dream.

"What are you going to do?" cried the marquis, a vague terror lending him
speech. "I have lied . . ."

"What! have you turned