"Ah, you are certainly our guardian angel, my dear marquis," whispered Madame de la Rochaiguë. "I was wise to confide in you!"
"Yes, yes, but for pity's sake, get Mlle. de Beaumesnil away."
The orphan cast a quick glance of gratitude at the hunchback, then, agitated and almost terrified by the exciting events of the evening, she left the ballroom in company with Madame de la Rochaiguë; but M. de Maillefort remained, unwilling to appear to leave under cover of the sort of stupor his daring act had caused.
De Ravil, like a true cynic, had no sooner witnessed the ruin of his friend Mornand's hopes than he abandoned him then and there. The future minister had thrown himself into a cab, but Ravil wended his way homeward on foot, reviewing the events that had just occurred, and comparing the overthrow of M. de Mornand with that of M. de Macreuse.
As he turned the corner of the street on which Madame de Mirecourt's house stood, De Ravil saw in the bright moonlight a man a short distance ahead of him, walking now slowly, now with feverish haste.
The agitated bearing of this man excited the cynic's curiosity. He quickened his pace, and soon recognised M. de Macreuse, who could not tear himself away from the house where the marquis lingered,—the marquis whose heart Macreuse would have torn from his breast, had he been able to do it.
Yielding to a truly diabolical impulse, Ravil approached Macreuse, and said:
"Good evening, M. de Macreuse."
The abbé's protégé raised his head, and the evil passions that filled his heart could be read so plainly in his face that De Ravil congratulated himself upon his idea.
"What do you want?" Macreuse demanded, brusquely, not recognising De Ravil at the first glance. Then looking at him more attentively, he said: