In the salon the marquis listened with eyes distended, with jaw fallen, lips sunken inward and of a color as sickly as blue chalk.

.

.

.

A maudlin sob caught one roisterer by the throat, and the tableau was broken by the falling of his glass to the table, where it lay shattered in foaming wine.
"Paul," cried Victor; "my God, Paul, are you mad ?" "I know you not." Then with a sudden wave of disgust, the Chevalier cried: "Now, one and all of you, out of my sight! Away with you! You look too hardily at the brand of pleasure on my brow.