“Is that your last word?” asked La Boulaye, still calmly weathering that storm of insults. “My very last, sir.” “There are more ways than one of taking satisfaction for that affront, Citizen Bellecour,” rejoined La Boulaye, “and if the course which I now pursue should prove more distasteful to you than that which I last suggested, the blame of it must rest with you.” He turned to the bluecoat at the door. “Citizen-soldier, my whip.” There was a sudden movement among the aristocrats--a horrified recoiling--and even Bellecour was shaken out of his splendid arrogance. “Insolent cur!” exclaimed Ombreval with withering scorn; “to what lengths is presumption driving you?” “To the length of a horsewhip,” answered La Boulaye pleasantly. He received the whip from the hands of the soldier and he now advanced towards Bellecour, unwinding the lash as he came. Ombreval barred his way with an oath. “By Heaven: you shall not!” he cried. “Shall not?” echoed La Boulaye, his lips curling. “You had best stand aside--you that are steeped in musk and fierceness.” And before the stern and threatening contempt of La Boulaye's glance the young nobleman fell back. But his place was taken by the Vicomte de Bellecour, who advanced to confront Caron. “Monsieur la Boulaye,” he announced, “I am ready and willing to meet you.” And considering the grim alternative with which the Republicans had threatened him, the old Marquis had not the courage to interfere again. “Ah!” It was an exclamation of satisfaction from the Commissioner. “I imagined that you would change your minds. I shall await you, Citizen, in the garden in five minutes' time.” “I shall not keep you waiting, Monsieur,” was the Vicomte's answer. Very formally La Boulaye bowed and left the room accompanied by the officer and followed by the soldier. “Mon Dieu!” gasped the Marquise, fanning herself as the door closed after the Republicans. “Open me a window or I shall stifle! How the place reeks with them. I am a calm woman, Messieurs, but, on my honour, had he addressed any of you by his odious title of 'citizen' again, I swear that I had struck him with my own hands.” There were some that laughed. But Mademoiselle was not of those. Her eyes travelled to her brother's pale face and weakly frame, and her glance was such a glance as we bend upon the beloved dead, for in him she saw one who was going inevitably to his death. CHAPTER VII. LA BOULAYE DISCHARGES A DEBT Along the northern side of the Chateau ran a terrace bordered by a red sandstone balustrade, and below this the Italian garden, so called perhaps in consequence of the oddly clipped box-trees, its only feature that suggested Italy. At the far end of this garden there was a strip of even turf that might have been designed for a fencing ground, and which Caron knew of old. Thither he led Captain Juste, and there in the pale sunshine of that February morning they awaited the arrival of the Vicomte and his sponsor.