"Scoundrel!" exclaimed a voice which seemed to respond indignantly to M. de Mornand's last words from behind the clump of lilacs.
There was a moment of amazed silence; then M. de Mornand, purple with anger, made a hasty circuit of the clump of shrubbery. He found no one there, however. The path at this place making an abrupt turn, the person who uttered the opprobrious epithet could make his escape with comparative ease.
"There are no more infamous scoundrels than the persons who insult others without daring to show themselves," cried M. de Mornand, in a loud voice.
This strange incident had scarcely taken place before the sound of the orchestra drew the promenaders back to the salon.
M. de Mornand being left alone with Ravil, the latter said to him:
"Somebody who dared not show himself called you a scoundrel. We had better say no more about it. But did you understand me?"
"Perfectly. The same idea suddenly, I might almost say simultaneously, occurred to me, and for an instant I was dazzled—even dazed by it."
"An income of over three millions! What an incorruptible minister you will be, eh?"
"Hush! It is enough to turn one's brain."
The conversation was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a third party, who, addressing M. de Mornand, said, with the most scrupulous politeness: