On both sides the coming of night was awaited with impatience.
It came at last, and about eight o'clock the Marquis de Santoval went to his wife's apartment; she had feigned indisposition since the day before, and had remained in her room.
The marquis glanced about him for some time with an expression that was far from benevolent. He had never said a word to Valentine on the subject of the young clerk whom he had had cudgelled. Monsieur de Santoval was one of those men who do not speak for a mere suspicion, but who collect facts, and are terrible when they allow the storm to burst which they have long repressed in the depths of their hearts.
"Well, madame, how are you this evening?" he asked, as he seated himself beside his wife.
"Still about the same, monsieur; my head aches, and I feel languid; I must have a touch of fever.—See, feel my pulse."
"I know nothing of such matters, madame," replied the marquis; and he did not touch the arm that his wife held out to him.
"Oh! that is a pity!"
"So you cannot come with me to the Duchesse de Brillac's?"
"You must realize that it is impossible, monsieur. In my opinion, one should not go into society looking as if one were bored and ill! You must make my excuses to the duchess."
"Yes, madame, yes. I am sorry to leave you not feeling well; and if I had not promised the duke——"