He could hear nothing of what was said; but he saw her brother come up with General Ratoneau, he watched the dance--and if those slits in the solid wall had been wider, there might have been danger of a young man's daring to drop down by his hands, trusting to fate to land him safely on the floor below. For he saw his love walk away with her partner down the ball-room, out of his sight, and then he waited in unbearable impatience, but saw her no more for what seemed a long time. He began to think that he must go, carrying with him the agony of leaving her in familiar talk with Ratoneau, when suddenly he saw her again, and forgot his mother, his uncle, César d'Ombré, and all the obligations of life. She came back alone; her brother was speaking to her; she looked troubled, there was something strange about it all, but Ratoneau was not there. That, at least, was well; and how divinely beautiful she looked! Angelot gazed for a minute or two, holding his breath; then a sudden step and a voice in the corridor close by startled him violently. He had left the door half open, standing where he could not be seen through it. He now turned his head to see who was passing. It was the step of one person only, a quick and agitated step. Was this person then speaking to him? No, it was his cousin Hervé de Sainfoy, and he was talking to himself. He was repeating the same words over and over again: "But who can save us? What shall I do? What shall I do? Who can save us? A way out, he says? My God, there is none." When his cousin had passed the door, Angelot stepped forward and looked after him. It was impossible not to do so. The Comte was like a man who had received some terrible blow. His face was white and drawn, and his whole frame trembled as he walked. He carried an open letter shaking and rustling in his hand, glanced at it now and then, flung his clenched fists out on each side of him. Then he said aloud, "My God, it is her doing!" Angelot forgot all caution and stepped out into the corridor. His cousin seemed to be walking on to his own room at the end; but before he reached it he turned suddenly round and came hurrying back. Angelot stood and faced him. He, too, was pale from his imprisonment and the excitement of the night, but as he met Hervé de Sainfoy's astonished gaze the colour flooded his young face and his brave bright eyes fell. "_You_ here, Angelot?" said the Comte. He spoke absently, gently, with no great surprise and no anger at all. Angelot knew that he loved him, and felt the strangest desire to kneel and kiss his hand. "Pardon, monsieur"--he began quickly--"I was looking at the ball--I leave France to-morrow, and--Can I help you, Uncle Hervé?" For he saw that the Comte was listening to no explanations of his. He stared straight before him, frowning, biting his lips, shaking the letter in his hand.