The servants were waiting at the door with the horse put at the Frenchman's disposal by Paul.
De Chauxville mounted slowly, heavily, with twitching lips.

His face was set and cold now.

The pain was getting bearable, the wounded vanity was bleeding inwardly.

In his dull eyes there was a gleam of hatred and malice.

It was the face of a man rejoicing inwardly over a deep and certain vengeance.
"It is well!" he was muttering between his clenched teeth as he rode away, while Steinmetz watched him from the doorstep.