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<TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><teiHeader><fileDesc><titleStmt><title>Untitled Document</title><author/></titleStmt><editionStmt><edition><date/></edition></editionStmt><publicationStmt><p>no publication statement available</p></publicationStmt><sourceDesc><p>Written by OpenOffice</p></sourceDesc></fileDesc><revisionDesc><listChange><change><name/><date/></change></listChange></revisionDesc></teiHeader><text><body><p>The Project Gutenberg EBook of The American, by Henry James </p><p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with </p><p>almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or</p><p>re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included </p><p>with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org </p><p>Title: The American </p><p>Author: Henry James </p><p>Release Date: March 12, 2006 [EBook #177] </p><p>Language: English </p><p>Character set encoding: ASCII </p><p>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMERICAN *** </p><p>Produced by Pauline J. Iacono, John Hamm and David Widger </p><p>THE AMERICAN </p><p>by Henry James </p><p>1877 </p><p>CHAPTER I </p><p>On a brilliant day in May, in the year 1868, a gentleman was reclining </p><p>at his ease on the great circular divan which at that period occupied </p><p>the centre of the Salon Carre, in the Museum of the Louvre. This </p><p>commodious ottoman has since been removed, to the extreme regret of all </p><p>weak-kneed lovers of the fine arts, but the gentleman in question had </p><p>taken serene possession of its softest spot, and, with his head thrown </p><p>back and his legs outstretched, was staring at Murillo's beautiful </p><p>moon-borne Madonna in profound enjoyment of his posture. He had removed </p><p>his hat, and flung down beside him a little red guide-book and an </p><p>opera-glass. The day was warm; he was heated with walking, and he </p><p>repeatedly passed his handkerchief over his forehead, with a somewhat </p><p>wearied gesture. And yet he was evidently not a man to whom fatigue was </p><p>familiar; long, lean, and muscular, he suggested the sort of vigor that </p><p>is commonly known as "toughness." But his exertions on this particular </p><p>day had been of an unwonted sort, and he had performed great physical </p><p>feats which left him less jaded than his tranquil stroll through the </p><p>Louvre. He had looked out all the pictures to which an asterisk was </p><p>affixed in those formidable pages of fine print in his Badeker; his</p><p>attention had been strained and his eyes dazzled, and he had sat down </p><p>with an aesthetic headache. He had looked, moreover, not only at all the </p><p>pictures, but at all the copies that were going forward around them, in </p><p>the hands of those innumerable young women in irreproachable toilets who </p><p>devote themselves, in France, to the propagation of masterpieces, and if </p><p>the truth must be told, he had often admired the copy much more than the </p><p>original. His physiognomy would have sufficiently indicated that he was </p><p>a shrewd and capable fellow, and in truth he had often sat up all night </p><p>over a bristling bundle of accounts, and heard the cock crow without a </p><p>yawn. But Raphael and Titian and Rubens were a new kind of arithmetic, </p><p>and they inspired our friend, for the first time in his life, with a </p><p>vague self-mistrust. </p><p>An observer with anything of an eye for national types would have had </p><p>no difficulty in determining the local origin of this undeveloped </p><p>connoisseur, and indeed such an observer might have felt a certain </p><p>humorous relish of the almost ideal completeness with which he filled </p><p>out the national mould. The gentleman on the divan was a powerful </p><p>specimen of an American. But he was not only a fine American; he was </p><p>in the first place, physically, a fine man. He appeared to possess that </p><p>kind of health and strength which, when found in perfection, are the </p><p>most impressive--the physical capital which the owner does nothing to </p><p>"keep up." If he was a muscular Christian, it was quite without knowing </p><p>it. If it was necessary to walk to a remote spot, he walked, but he had </p><p>never known himself to "exercise." He had no theory with regard to </p><p>cold bathing or the use of Indian clubs; he was neither an oarsman, a </p><p>rifleman, nor a fencer--he had never had time for these amusements--and </p><p>he was quite unaware that the saddle is recommended for certain forms </p><p>of indigestion. He was by inclination a temperate man; but he had supped </p><p>the night before his visit to the Louvre at the Cafe Anglais--some one </p><p>had told him it was an experience not to be omitted--and he had slept </p><p>none the less the sleep of the just. His usual attitude and carriage </p><p>were of a rather relaxed and lounging kind, but when under a special </p><p>inspiration, he straightened himself, he looked like a grenadier on </p><p>parade. He never smoked. He had been assured--such things are said--that </p><p>cigars were excellent for the health, and he was quite capable of </p><p>believing it; but he knew as little about tobacco as about homeopathy. </p><p>He had a very well-formed head, with a shapely, symmetrical balance of </p><p>the frontal and the occipital development, and a good deal of straight, </p><p>rather dry brown hair. His complexion was brown, and his nose had a </p><p>bold well-marked arch. His eye was of a clear, cold gray, and save for </p><p>a rather abundant mustache he was clean-shaved. He had the flat jaw and </p><p>sinewy neck which are frequent in the American type; but the traces of </p><p>national origin are a matter of expression even more than of feature, </p><p>and it was in this respect that our friend's countenance was supremely </p><p>eloquent. The discriminating observer we have been supposing might, </p><p>however, perfectly have measured its expressiveness, and yet have been </p><p>at a loss to describe it. It had that typical vagueness which is not </p><p>vacuity, that blankness which is not simplicity, that look of being </p><p>committed to nothing in particular, of standing in an attitude of </p><p>general hospitality to the chances of life, of being very much at </p><p>one's own disposal so characteristic of many American faces. It was our </p><p>friend's eye that chiefly told his story; an eye in which innocence </p><p>and experience were singularly blended. It was full of contradictory </p><p>suggestions, and though it was by no means the glowing orb of a hero of </p><p>romance, you could find in it almost anything you looked for. Frigid </p><p>and yet friendly, frank yet cautious, shrewd yet credulous, positive </p><p>yet skeptical, confident yet shy, extremely intelligent and extremely </p><p>good-humored, there was something vaguely defiant in its concessions,</p><p>and something profoundly reassuring in its reserve. The cut of this </p><p>gentleman's mustache, with the two premature wrinkles in the cheek above </p><p>it, and the fashion of his garments, in which an exposed shirt-front </p><p>and a cerulean cravat played perhaps an obtrusive part, completed the </p><p>conditions of his identity. We have approached him, perhaps, at a not </p><p>especially favorable moment; he is by no means sitting for his portrait. </p><p>But listless as he lounges there, rather baffled on the aesthetic </p><p>question, and guilty of the damning fault (as we have lately discovered </p><p>it to be) of confounding the merit of the artist with that of his work </p><p>(for he admires the squinting Madonna of the young lady with the boyish </p><p>coiffure, because he thinks the young lady herself uncommonly taking), </p><p>he is a sufficiently promising acquaintance. Decision, salubrity, </p><p>jocosity, prosperity, seem to hover within his call; he is evidently a </p><p>practical man, but the idea in his case, has undefined and mysterious </p><p>boundaries, which invite the imagination to bestir itself on his behalf. </p><p>As the little copyist proceeded with her work, she sent every now and </p><p>then a responsive glance toward her admirer. The cultivation of the fine </p><p>arts appeared to necessitate, to her mind, a great deal of byplay, a </p><p>great standing off with folded arms and head drooping from side to side, </p><p>stroking of a dimpled chin with a dimpled hand, sighing and frowning </p><p>and patting of the foot, fumbling in disordered tresses for wandering </p><p>hair-pins. These performances were accompanied by a restless glance, </p><p>which lingered longer than elsewhere upon the gentleman we have </p><p>described. At last he rose abruptly, put on his hat, and approached the </p><p>young lady. He placed himself before her picture and looked at it for </p><p>some moments, during which she pretended to be quite unconscious of his </p><p>inspection. Then, addressing her with the single word which constituted </p><p>the strength of his French vocabulary, and holding up one finger in a </p><p>manner which appeared to him to illuminate his meaning, "Combien?" he </p><p>abruptly demanded. </p><p>The artist stared a moment, gave a little pout, shrugged her shoulders, </p><p>put down her palette and brushes, and stood rubbing her hands. </p><p>"How much?" said our friend, in English. "Combien?" </p><p>"Monsieur wishes to buy it?" asked the young lady in French. </p><p>"Very pretty, splendide. Combien?" repeated the American. </p><p>"It pleases monsieur, my little picture? It's a very beautiful subject," </p><p>said the young lady. </p><p>"The Madonna, yes; I am not a Catholic, but I want to buy it. Combien? </p><p>Write it here." And he took a pencil from his pocket and showed her the </p><p>fly-leaf of his guide-book. She stood looking at him and scratching her </p><p>chin with the pencil. "Is it not for sale?" he asked. And as she still </p><p>stood reflecting, and looking at him with an eye which, in spite of her </p><p>desire to treat this avidity of patronage as a very old story, betrayed </p><p>an almost touching incredulity, he was afraid he had offended her. She </p><p>simply trying to look indifferent, and wondering how far she might go. </p><p>"I haven't made a mistake--pas insulte, no?" her interlocutor continued. </p><p>"Don't you understand a little English?" </p><p>The young lady's aptitude for playing a part at short notice was </p><p>remarkable. She fixed him with her conscious, perceptive eye and asked </p><p>him if he spoke no French. Then, "Donnez!" she said briefly, and took </p><p>the open guide-book. In the upper corner of the fly-leaf she traced a</p><p>number, in a minute and extremely neat hand. Then she handed back the </p><p>book and took up her palette again. </p><p>Our friend read the number: "2,000 francs." He said nothing for a time, </p><p>but stood looking at the picture, while the copyist began actively to </p><p>dabble with her paint. "For a copy, isn't that a good deal?" he asked at </p><p>last. "Pas beaucoup?" </p><p>The young lady raised her eyes from her palette, scanned him from head </p><p>to foot, and alighted with admirable sagacity upon exactly the right </p><p>answer. "Yes, it's a good deal. But my copy has remarkable qualities, it </p><p>is worth nothing less." </p><p>The gentleman in whom we are interested understood no French, but I </p><p>have said he was intelligent, and here is a good chance to prove it. </p><p>He apprehended, by a natural instinct, the meaning of the young woman's </p><p>phrase, and it gratified him to think that she was so honest. Beauty, </p><p>talent, virtue; she combined everything! "But you must finish it," he </p><p>said. "FINISH, you know;" and he pointed to the unpainted hand of the </p><p>figure. </p><p>"Oh, it shall be finished in perfection; in the perfection of </p><p>perfections!" cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise, she </p><p>deposited a rosy blotch in the middle of the Madonna's cheek. </p><p>But the American frowned. "Ah, too red, too red!" he rejoined. "Her </p><p>complexion," pointing to the Murillo, "is--more delicate." </p><p>"Delicate? Oh, it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sevres </p><p>biscuit. I am going to tone that down; I know all the secrets of my art. </p><p>And where will you allow us to send it to you? Your address?" </p><p>"My address? Oh yes!" And the gentleman drew a card from his pocket-book </p><p>and wrote something upon it. Then hesitating a moment he said, "If I </p><p>don't like it when it it's finished, you know, I shall not be obliged to </p><p>take it." </p><p>The young lady seemed as good a guesser as himself. "Oh, I am very sure </p><p>that monsieur is not capricious," she said with a roguish smile. </p><p>"Capricious?" And at this monsieur began to laugh. "Oh no, I'm not </p><p>capricious. I am very faithful. I am very constant. Comprenez?" </p><p>"Monsieur is constant; I understand perfectly. It's a rare virtue. To </p><p>recompense you, you shall have your picture on the first possible day; </p><p>next week--as soon as it is dry. I will take the card of monsieur." And </p><p>she took it and read his name: "Christopher Newman." Then she tried to </p><p>repeat it aloud, and laughed at her bad accent. "Your English names are </p><p>so droll!" </p><p>"Droll?" said Mr. Newman, laughing too. "Did you ever hear of </p><p>Christopher Columbus?" </p><p>"Bien sur! He invented America; a very great man. And is he your </p><p>patron?" </p><p>"My patron?" </p><p>"Your patron-saint, in the calendar."</p><p>"Oh, exactly; my parents named me for him." </p><p>"Monsieur is American?" </p><p>"Don't you see it?" monsieur inquired. </p><p>"And you mean to carry my little picture away over there?" and she </p><p>explained her phrase with a gesture. </p><p>"Oh, I mean to buy a great many pictures--beaucoup, beaucoup," said </p><p>Christopher Newman. </p><p>"The honor is not less for me," the young lady answered, "for I am sure </p><p>monsieur has a great deal of taste." </p><p>"But you must give me your card," Newman said; "your card, you know." </p><p>The young lady looked severe for an instant, and then said, "My father </p><p>will wait upon you." </p><p>But this time Mr. Newman's powers of divination were at fault. "Your </p><p>card, your address," he simply repeated. </p><p>"My address?" said mademoiselle. Then with a little shrug, "Happily for </p><p>you, you are an American! It is the first time I ever gave my card to a </p><p>gentleman." And, taking from her pocket a rather greasy porte-monnaie, </p><p>she extracted from it a small glazed visiting card, and presented the </p><p>latter to her patron. It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a great </p><p>many flourishes, "Mlle. Noemie Nioche." But Mr. Newman, unlike his </p><p>companion, read the name with perfect gravity; all French names to him </p><p>were equally droll. </p><p>"And precisely, here is my father, who has come to escort me home," said </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie. "He speaks English. He will arrange with you." </p><p>And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up, </p><p>peering over his spectacles at Newman. </p><p>M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural color which overhung his </p><p>little meek, white, vacant face, and left it hardly more expressive </p><p>than the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed in </p><p>the barber's window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. His </p><p>scant ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highly </p><p>polished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the story of a person who </p><p>had "had losses" and who clung to the spirit of nice habits even though </p><p>the letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among other things M. Nioche had </p><p>lost courage. Adversity had not only ruined him, it had frightened him, </p><p>and he was evidently going through his remnant of life on tiptoe, for </p><p>fear of waking up the hostile fates. If this strange gentleman was </p><p>saying anything improper to his daughter, M. Nioche would entreat him </p><p>huskily, as a particular favor, to forbear; but he would admit at the </p><p>same time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favors. </p><p>"Monsieur has bought my picture," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "When it's </p><p>finished you'll carry it to him in a cab." </p><p>"In a cab!" cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way, as if </p><p>he had seen the sun rising at midnight. </p><p>"Are you the young lady's father?" said Newman. "I think she said you </p><p>speak English." </p><p>"Speak English--yes," said the old man slowly rubbing his hands. "I will </p><p>bring it in a cab." </p><p>"Say something, then," cried his daughter. "Thank him a little--not too </p><p>much." </p><p>"A little, my daughter, a little?" said M. Nioche perplexed. "How much?" </p><p>"Two thousand!" said Mademoiselle Noemie. "Don't make a fuss or he'll </p><p>take back his word." </p><p>"Two thousand!" cried the old man, and he began to fumble for his </p><p>snuff-box. He looked at Newman from head to foot; he looked at his </p><p>daughter and then at the picture. "Take care you don't spoil it!" he </p><p>cried almost sublimely. </p><p>"We must go home," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "This is a good day's work. </p><p>Take care how you carry it!" And she began to put up her utensils. </p><p>"How can I thank you?" said M. Nioche. "My English does not suffice." </p><p>"I wish I spoke French as well," said Newman, good-naturedly. "Your </p><p>daughter is very clever." </p><p>"Oh, sir!" and M. Nioche looked over his spectacles with tearful eyes </p><p>and nodded several times with a world of sadness. "She has had an </p><p>education--tres-superieure! Nothing was spared. Lessons in pastel at ten </p><p>francs the lesson, lessons in oil at twelve francs. I didn't look at the </p><p>francs then. She's an artiste, ah!" </p><p>"Do I understand you to say that you have had reverses?" asked Newman. </p><p>"Reverses? Oh, sir, misfortunes--terrible." </p><p>"Unsuccessful in business, eh?" </p><p>"Very unsuccessful, sir." </p><p>"Oh, never fear, you'll get on your legs again," said Newman cheerily. </p><p>The old man drooped his head on one side and looked at him with an </p><p>expression of pain, as if this were an unfeeling jest. </p><p>"What does he say?" demanded Mademoiselle Noemie. </p><p>M. Nioche took a pinch of snuff. "He says I will make my fortune again." </p><p>"Perhaps he will help you. And what else?" </p><p>"He says thou art very clever." </p><p>"It is very possible. You believe it yourself, my father?" </p><p>"Believe it, my daughter? With this evidence!" And the old man turned </p><p>afresh, with a staring, wondering homage, to the audacious daub on the </p><p>easel.</p><p>"Ask him, then, if he would not like to learn French." </p><p>"To learn French?" </p><p>"To take lessons." </p><p>"To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?" </p><p>"From you!" </p><p>"From me, my child? How should I give lessons?" </p><p>"Pas de raisons! Ask him immediately!" said Mademoiselle Noemie, with </p><p>soft brevity. </p><p>M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter's eye he collected his </p><p>wits, and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, he executed her </p><p>commands. "Would it please you to receive instruction in our beautiful </p><p>language?" he inquired, with an appealing quaver. </p><p>"To study French?" asked Newman, staring. </p><p>M. Nioche pressed his finger-tips together and slowly raised his </p><p>shoulders. "A little conversation!" </p><p>"Conversation--that's it!" murmured Mademoiselle Noemie, who had caught </p><p>the word. "The conversation of the best society." </p><p>"Our French conversation is famous, you know," M. Nioche ventured to </p><p>continue. "It's a great talent." </p><p>"But isn't it awfully difficult?" asked Newman, very simply. </p><p>"Not to a man of esprit, like monsieur, an admirer of beauty in every </p><p>form!" and M. Nioche cast a significant glance at his daughter's </p><p>Madonna. </p><p>"I can't fancy myself chattering French!" said Newman with a laugh. "And </p><p>yet, I suppose that the more a man knows the better." </p><p>"Monsieur expresses that very happily. Helas, oui!" </p><p>"I suppose it would help me a great deal, knocking about Paris, to know </p><p>the language." </p><p>"Ah, there are so many things monsieur must want to say: difficult </p><p>things!" </p><p>"Everything I want to say is difficult. But you give lessons?" </p><p>Poor M. Nioche was embarrassed; he smiled more appealingly. "I am not a </p><p>regular professor," he admitted. "I can't nevertheless tell him that I'm </p><p>a professor," he said to his daughter. </p><p>"Tell him it's a very exceptional chance," answered Mademoiselle Noemie; </p><p>"an homme du monde--one gentleman conversing with another! Remember what </p><p>you are--what you have been!" </p><p>"A teacher of languages in neither case! Much more formerly and much </p><p>less to-day! And if he asks the price of the lessons?" </p><p>"He won't ask it," said Mademoiselle Noemie. </p><p>"What he pleases, I may say?" </p><p>"Never! That's bad style." </p><p>"If he asks, then?" </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie had put on her bonnet and was tying the ribbons. </p><p>She smoothed them out, with her soft little chin thrust forward. "Ten </p><p>francs," she said quickly. </p><p>"Oh, my daughter! I shall never dare." </p><p>"Don't dare, then! He won't ask till the end of the lessons, and then I </p><p>will make out the bill." </p><p>M. Nioche turned to the confiding foreigner again, and stood rubbing </p><p>his hands, with an air of seeming to plead guilty which was not intenser </p><p>only because it was habitually so striking. It never occurred to Newman </p><p>to ask him for a guarantee of his skill in imparting instruction; he </p><p>supposed of course M. Nioche knew his own language, and his appealing </p><p>forlornness was quite the perfection of what the American, for vague </p><p>reasons, had always associated with all elderly foreigners of the </p><p>lesson-giving class. Newman had never reflected upon philological </p><p>processes. His chief impression with regard to ascertaining those </p><p>mysterious correlatives of his familiar English vocables which were </p><p>current in this extraordinary city of Paris was, that it was simply a </p><p>matter of a good deal of unwonted and rather ridiculous muscular effort </p><p>on his own part. "How did you learn English?" he asked of the old man. </p><p>"When I was young, before my miseries. Oh, I was wide awake, then. </p><p>My father was a great commercant; he placed me for a year in a </p><p>counting-house in England. Some of it stuck to me; but I have </p><p>forgotten!" </p><p>"How much French can I learn in a month?" </p><p>"What does he say?" asked Mademoiselle Noemie. </p><p>M. Nioche explained. </p><p>"He will speak like an angel!" said his daughter. </p><p>But the native integrity which had been vainly exerted to secure M. </p><p>Nioche's commercial prosperity flickered up again. "Dame, monsieur!" he </p><p>answered. "All I can teach you!" And then, recovering himself at a sign </p><p>from his daughter, "I will wait upon you at your hotel." </p><p>"Oh yes, I should like to learn French," Newman went on, with democratic </p><p>confidingness. "Hang me if I should ever have thought of it! I took for </p><p>granted it was impossible. But if you learned my language, why shouldn't </p><p>I learn yours?" and his frank, friendly laugh drew the sting from the </p><p>jest. "Only, if we are going to converse, you know, you must think of </p><p>something cheerful to converse about." </p><p>"You are very good, sir; I am overcome!" said M. Nioche, throwing out </p><p>his hands. "But you have cheerfulness and happiness for two!" </p><p>"Oh no," said Newman more seriously. "You must be bright and lively; </p><p>that's part of the bargain." </p><p>M. Nioche bowed, with his hand on his heart. "Very well, sir; you have </p><p>already made me lively." </p><p>"Come and bring me my picture then; I will pay you for it, and we will </p><p>talk about that. That will be a cheerful subject!" </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie had collected her accessories, and she gave the </p><p>precious Madonna in charge to her father, who retreated backwards out </p><p>of sight, holding it at arm's-length and reiterating his obeisance. The </p><p>young lady gathered her shawl about her like a perfect Parisienne, and </p><p>it was with the smile of a Parisienne that she took leave of her patron. </p><p>CHAPTER II </p><p>He wandered back to the divan and seated himself on the other side, </p><p>in view of the great canvas on which Paul Veronese had depicted </p><p>the marriage-feast of Cana. Wearied as he was he found the picture </p><p>entertaining; it had an illusion for him; it satisfied his conception, </p><p>which was ambitious, of what a splendid banquet should be. In the </p><p>left-hand corner of the picture is a young woman with yellow tresses </p><p>confined in a golden head-dress; she is bending forward and listening, </p><p>with the smile of a charming woman at a dinner-party, to her neighbor. </p><p>Newman detected her in the crowd, admired her, and perceived that she </p><p>too had her votive copyist--a young man with his hair standing on </p><p>end. Suddenly he became conscious of the germ of the mania of the </p><p>"collector;" he had taken the first step; why should he not go on? It </p><p>was only twenty minutes before that he had bought the first picture </p><p>of his life, and now he was already thinking of art-patronage as a </p><p>fascinating pursuit. His reflections quickened his good-humor, and he </p><p>was on the point of approaching the young man with another "Combien?" </p><p>Two or three facts in this relation are noticeable, although the logical </p><p>chain which connects them may seem imperfect. He knew Mademoiselle </p><p>Nioche had asked too much; he bore her no grudge for doing so, and he </p><p>was determined to pay the young man exactly the proper sum. At this </p><p>moment, however, his attention was attracted by a gentleman who had come </p><p>from another part of the room and whose manner was that of a stranger </p><p>to the gallery, although he was equipped with neither guide-book nor </p><p>opera-glass. He carried a white sun-umbrella, lined with blue silk, and </p><p>he strolled in front of the Paul Veronese, vaguely looking at it, but </p><p>much too near to see anything but the grain of the canvas. Opposite to </p><p>Christopher Newman he paused and turned, and then our friend, who had </p><p>been observing him, had a chance to verify a suspicion aroused by an </p><p>imperfect view of his face. The result of this larger scrutiny was that </p><p>he presently sprang to his feet, strode across the room, and, with an </p><p>outstretched hand, arrested the gentleman with the blue-lined umbrella. </p><p>The latter stared, but put out his hand at a venture. He was corpulent </p><p>and rosy, and though his countenance, which was ornamented with a </p><p>beautiful flaxen beard, carefully divided in the middle and brushed </p><p>outward at the sides, was not remarkable for intensity of expression, </p><p>he looked like a person who would willingly shake hands with any one.</p><p>I know not what Newman thought of his face, but he found a want of </p><p>response in his grasp. </p><p>"Oh, come, come," he said, laughing; "don't say, now, you don't know </p><p>me--if I have NOT got a white parasol!" </p><p>The sound of his voice quickened the other's memory, his face expanded </p><p>to its fullest capacity, and he also broke into a laugh. "Why, </p><p>Newman--I'll be blowed! Where in the world--I declare--who would have </p><p>thought? You know you have changed." </p><p>"You haven't!" said Newman. </p><p>"Not for the better, no doubt. When did you get here?" </p><p>"Three days ago." </p><p>"Why didn't you let me know?" </p><p>"I had no idea YOU were here." </p><p>"I have been here these six years." </p><p>"It must be eight or nine since we met." </p><p>"Something of that sort. We were very young." </p><p>"It was in St. Louis, during the war. You were in the army." </p><p>"Oh no, not I! But you were." </p><p>"I believe I was." </p><p>"You came out all right?" </p><p>"I came out with my legs and arms--and with satisfaction. All that seems </p><p>very far away." </p><p>"And how long have you been in Europe?" </p><p>"Seventeen days." </p><p>"First time?" </p><p>"Yes, very much so." </p><p>"Made your everlasting fortune?" </p><p>Christopher Newman was silent a moment, and then with a tranquil smile </p><p>he answered, "Yes." </p><p>"And come to Paris to spend it, eh?" </p><p>"Well, we shall see. So they carry those parasols here--the menfolk?" </p><p>"Of course they do. They're great things. They understand comfort out </p><p>here." </p><p>"Where do you buy them?"</p><p>"Anywhere, everywhere." </p><p>"Well, Tristram, I'm glad to get hold of you. You can show me the ropes. </p><p>I suppose you know Paris inside out." </p><p>Mr. Tristram gave a mellow smile of self-gratulation. "Well, I guess </p><p>there are not many men that can show me much. I'll take care of you." </p><p>"It's a pity you were not here a few minutes ago. I have just bought a </p><p>picture. You might have put the thing through for me." </p><p>"Bought a picture?" said Mr. Tristram, looking vaguely round at the </p><p>walls. "Why, do they sell them?" </p><p>"I mean a copy." </p><p>"Oh, I see. These," said Mr. Tristram, nodding at the Titians and </p><p>Vandykes, "these, I suppose, are originals." </p><p>"I hope so," cried Newman. "I don't want a copy of a copy." </p><p>"Ah," said Mr. Tristram, mysteriously, "you can never tell. They </p><p>imitate, you know, so deucedly well. It's like the jewelers, with their </p><p>false stones. Go into the Palais Royal, there; you see 'Imitation' on </p><p>half the windows. The law obliges them to stick it on, you know; but you </p><p>can't tell the things apart. To tell the truth," Mr. Tristram continued, </p><p>with a wry face, "I don't do much in pictures. I leave that to my wife." </p><p>"Ah, you have got a wife?" </p><p>"Didn't I mention it? She's a very nice woman; you must know her. She's </p><p>up there in the Avenue d'Iena." </p><p>"So you are regularly fixed--house and children and all." </p><p>"Yes, a tip-top house and a couple of youngsters." </p><p>"Well," said Christopher Newman, stretching his arms a little, with a </p><p>sigh, "I envy you." </p><p>"Oh no! you don't!" answered Mr. Tristram, giving him a little poke with </p><p>his parasol. </p><p>"I beg your pardon; I do!" </p><p>"Well, you won't, then, when--when--" </p><p>"You don't certainly mean when I have seen your establishment?" </p><p>"When you have seen Paris, my boy. You want to be your own master here." </p><p>"Oh, I have been my own master all my life, and I'm tired of it." </p><p>"Well, try Paris. How old are you?" </p><p>"Thirty-six." </p><p>"C'est le bel age, as they say here."</p><p>"What does that mean?" </p><p>"It means that a man shouldn't send away his plate till he has eaten his </p><p>fill." </p><p>"All that? I have just made arrangements to take French lessons." </p><p>"Oh, you don't want any lessons. You'll pick it up. I never took any." </p><p>"I suppose you speak French as well as English?" </p><p>"Better!" said Mr. Tristram, roundly. "It's a splendid language. You can </p><p>say all sorts of bright things in it." </p><p>"But I suppose," said Christopher Newman, with an earnest desire for </p><p>information, "that you must be bright to begin with." </p><p>"Not a bit; that's just the beauty of it." </p><p>The two friends, as they exchanged these remarks, had remained standing </p><p>where they met, and leaning against the rail which protected the </p><p>pictures. Mr. Tristram at last declared that he was overcome with </p><p>fatigue and should be happy to sit down. Newman recommended in the </p><p>highest terms the great divan on which he had been lounging, and they </p><p>prepared to seat themselves. "This is a great place; isn't it?" said </p><p>Newman, with ardor. </p><p>"Great place, great place. Finest thing in the world." And then, </p><p>suddenly, Mr. Tristram hesitated and looked about him. "I suppose they </p><p>won't let you smoke here." </p><p>Newman stared. "Smoke? I'm sure I don't know. You know the regulations </p><p>better than I." </p><p>"I? I never was here before!" </p><p>"Never! in six years?" </p><p>"I believe my wife dragged me here once when we first came to Paris, but </p><p>I never found my way back." </p><p>"But you say you know Paris so well!" </p><p>"I don't call this Paris!" cried Mr. Tristram, with assurance. "Come; </p><p>let's go over to the Palais Royal and have a smoke." </p><p>"I don't smoke," said Newman. </p><p>"A drink, then." </p><p>And Mr. Tristram led his companion away. They passed through the </p><p>glorious halls of the Louvre, down the staircases, along the cool, dim </p><p>galleries of sculpture, and out into the enormous court. Newman looked </p><p>about him as he went, but he made no comments, and it was only when they </p><p>at last emerged into the open air that he said to his friend, "It seems </p><p>to me that in your place I should have come here once a week." </p><p>"Oh, no you wouldn't!" said Mr. Tristram. "You think so, but you</p><p>wouldn't. You wouldn't have had time. You would always mean to go, but </p><p>you never would go. There's better fun than that, here in Paris. Italy's </p><p>the place to see pictures; wait till you get there. There you have to </p><p>go; you can't do anything else. It's an awful country; you can't get a </p><p>decent cigar. I don't know why I went in there, to-day; I was strolling </p><p>along, rather hard up for amusement. I sort of noticed the Louvre as I </p><p>passed, and I thought I would go in and see what was going on. But if I </p><p>hadn't found you there I should have felt rather sold. Hang it, I don't </p><p>care for pictures; I prefer the reality!" And Mr. Tristram tossed off </p><p>this happy formula with an assurance which the numerous class of persons </p><p>suffering from an overdose of "culture" might have envied him. </p><p>The two gentlemen proceeded along the Rue de Rivoli and into the </p><p>Palais Royal, where they seated themselves at one of the little tables </p><p>stationed at the door of the cafe which projects into the great open </p><p>quadrangle. The place was filled with people, the fountains were </p><p>spouting, a band was playing, clusters of chairs were gathered beneath </p><p>all the lime-trees, and buxom, white-capped nurses, seated along the </p><p>benches, were offering to their infant charges the amplest facilities </p><p>for nutrition. There was an easy, homely gayety in the whole scene, and </p><p>Christopher Newman felt that it was most characteristically Parisian. </p><p>"And now," began Mr. Tristram, when they had tested the decoction </p><p>which he had caused to be served to them, "now just give an account of </p><p>yourself. What are your ideas, what are your plans, where have you </p><p>come from and where are you going? In the first place, where are you </p><p>staying?" </p><p>"At the Grand Hotel," said Newman. </p><p>Mr. Tristram puckered his plump visage. "That won't do! You must </p><p>change." </p><p>"Change?" demanded Newman. "Why, it's the finest hotel I ever was in." </p><p>"You don't want a 'fine' hotel; you want something small and quiet </p><p>and elegant, where your bell is answered and you--your person is </p><p>recognized." </p><p>"They keep running to see if I have rung before I have touched the </p><p>bell," said Newman "and as for my person they are always bowing and </p><p>scraping to it." </p><p>"I suppose you are always tipping them. That's very bad style." </p><p>"Always? By no means. A man brought me something yesterday, and then </p><p>stood loafing in a beggarly manner. I offered him a chair and asked him </p><p>if he wouldn't sit down. Was that bad style?" </p><p>"Very!" </p><p>"But he bolted, instantly. At any rate, the place amuses me. Hang your </p><p>elegance, if it bores me. I sat in the court of the Grand Hotel last </p><p>night until two o'clock in the morning, watching the coming and going, </p><p>and the people knocking about." </p><p>"You're easily pleased. But you can do as you choose--a man in your </p><p>shoes. You have made a pile of money, eh?" </p><p>"I have made enough" </p><p>"Happy the man who can say that? Enough for what?" </p><p>"Enough to rest awhile, to forget the confounded thing, to look about </p><p>me, to see the world, to have a good time, to improve my mind, and, </p><p>if the fancy takes me, to marry a wife." Newman spoke slowly, with </p><p>a certain dryness of accent and with frequent pauses. This was his </p><p>habitual mode of utterance, but it was especially marked in the words I </p><p>have just quoted. </p><p>"Jupiter! There's a programme!" cried Mr. Tristram. "Certainly, all that </p><p>takes money, especially the wife; unless indeed she gives it, as mine </p><p>did. And what's the story? How have you done it?" </p><p>Newman had pushed his hat back from his forehead, folded his arms, and </p><p>stretched his legs. He listened to the music, he looked about him at the </p><p>bustling crowd, at the plashing fountains, at the nurses and the babies. </p><p>"I have worked!" he answered at last. </p><p>Tristram looked at him for some moments, and allowed his placid eyes to </p><p>measure his friend's generous longitude and rest upon his comfortably </p><p>contemplative face. "What have you worked at?" he asked. </p><p>"Oh, at several things." </p><p>"I suppose you're a smart fellow, eh?" </p><p>Newman continued to look at the nurses and babies; they imparted to the </p><p>scene a kind of primordial, pastoral simplicity. "Yes," he said at last, </p><p>"I suppose I am." And then, in answer to his companion's inquiries, </p><p>he related briefly his history since their last meeting. It was an </p><p>intensely Western story, and it dealt with enterprises which it will be </p><p>needless to introduce to the reader in detail. Newman had come out </p><p>of the war with a brevet of brigadier-general, an honor which in this </p><p>case--without invidious comparisons--had lighted upon shoulders amply </p><p>competent to bear it. But though he could manage a fight, when need was, </p><p>Newman heartily disliked the business; his four years in the army </p><p>had left him with an angry, bitter sense of the waste of precious </p><p>things--life and time and money and "smartness" and the early freshness </p><p>of purpose; and he had addressed himself to the pursuits of peace </p><p>with passionate zest and energy. He was of course as penniless when he </p><p>plucked off his shoulder-straps as when he put them on, and the only </p><p>capital at his disposal was his dogged resolution and his lively </p><p>perception of ends and means. Exertion and action were as natural to </p><p>him as respiration; a more completely healthy mortal had never trod the </p><p>elastic soil of the West. His experience, moreover, was as wide as his </p><p>capacity; when he was fourteen years old, necessity had taken him by </p><p>his slim young shoulders and pushed him into the street, to earn that </p><p>night's supper. He had not earned it but he had earned the next night's, </p><p>and afterwards, whenever he had had none, it was because he had gone </p><p>without it to use the money for something else, a keener pleasure or </p><p>a finer profit. He had turned his hand, with his brain in it, to many </p><p>things; he had been enterprising, in an eminent sense of the term; he </p><p>had been adventurous and even reckless, and he had known bitter failure </p><p>as well as brilliant success; but he was a born experimentalist, and he </p><p>had always found something to enjoy in the pressure of necessity, even </p><p>when it was as irritating as the haircloth shirt of the mediaeval monk. </p><p>At one time failure seemed inexorably his portion; ill-luck became</p><p>his bed-fellow, and whatever he touched he turned, not to gold, but </p><p>to ashes. His most vivid conception of a supernatural element in the </p><p>world's affairs had come to him once when this pertinacity of misfortune </p><p>was at its climax; there seemed to him something stronger in life than </p><p>his own will. But the mysterious something could only be the devil, </p><p>and he was accordingly seized with an intense personal enmity to this </p><p>impertinent force. He had known what it was to have utterly exhausted </p><p>his credit, to be unable to raise a dollar, and to find himself </p><p>at nightfall in a strange city, without a penny to mitigate its </p><p>strangeness. It was under these circumstances that he made his entrance </p><p>into San Francisco, the scene, subsequently, of his happiest strokes of </p><p>fortune. If he did not, like Dr. Franklin in Philadelphia, march along </p><p>the street munching a penny-loaf, it was only because he had not the </p><p>penny-loaf necessary to the performance. In his darkest days he had had </p><p>but one simple, practical impulse--the desire, as he would have phrased </p><p>it, to see the thing through. He did so at last, buffeted his way into </p><p>smooth waters, and made money largely. It must be admitted, rather </p><p>nakedly, that Christopher Newman's sole aim in life had been to </p><p>make money; what he had been placed in the world for was, to his own </p><p>perception, simply to wrest a fortune, the bigger the better, from </p><p>defiant opportunity. This idea completely filled his horizon and </p><p>satisfied his imagination. Upon the uses of money, upon what one might </p><p>do with a life into which one had succeeded in injecting the golden </p><p>stream, he had up to his thirty-fifth year very scantily reflected. Life </p><p>had been for him an open game, and he had played for high stakes. He had </p><p>won at last and carried off his winnings; and now what was he to do with </p><p>them? He was a man to whom, sooner or later, the question was sure to </p><p>present itself, and the answer to it belongs to our story. A vague sense </p><p>that more answers were possible than his philosophy had hitherto </p><p>dreamt of had already taken possession of him, and it seemed softly and </p><p>agreeably to deepen as he lounged in this brilliant corner of Paris with </p><p>his friend. </p><p>"I must confess," he presently went on, "that here I don't feel at </p><p>all smart. My remarkable talents seem of no use. I feel as simple as a </p><p>little child, and a little child might take me by the hand and lead me </p><p>about." </p><p>"Oh, I'll be your little child," said Tristram, jovially; "I'll take you </p><p>by the hand. Trust yourself to me." </p><p>"I am a good worker," Newman continued, "but I rather think I am a poor </p><p>loafer. I have come abroad to amuse myself, but I doubt whether I know </p><p>how." </p><p>"Oh, that's easily learned." </p><p>"Well, I may perhaps learn it, but I am afraid I shall never do it by </p><p>rote. I have the best will in the world about it, but my genius doesn't </p><p>lie in that direction. As a loafer I shall never be original, as I take </p><p>it that you are." </p><p>"Yes," said Tristram, "I suppose I am original; like all those immoral </p><p>pictures in the Louvre." </p><p>"Besides," Newman continued, "I don't want to work at pleasure, any </p><p>more than I played at work. I want to take it easily. I feel deliciously </p><p>lazy, and I should like to spend six months as I am now, sitting under </p><p>a tree and listening to a band. There's only one thing; I want to hear</p><p>some good music." </p><p>"Music and pictures! Lord, what refined tastes! You are what my wife </p><p>calls intellectual. I ain't, a bit. But we can find something better for </p><p>you to do than to sit under a tree. To begin with, you must come to the </p><p>club." </p><p>"What club?" </p><p>"The Occidental. You will see all the Americans there; all the best of </p><p>them, at least. Of course you play poker?" </p><p>"Oh, I say," cried Newman, with energy, "you are not going to lock me up </p><p>in a club and stick me down at a card-table! I haven't come all this way </p><p>for that." </p><p>"What the deuce HAVE you come for! You were glad enough to play poker in </p><p>St. Louis, I recollect, when you cleaned me out." </p><p>"I have come to see Europe, to get the best out of it I can. I want to </p><p>see all the great things, and do what the clever people do." </p><p>"The clever people? Much obliged. You set me down as a blockhead, then?" </p><p>Newman was sitting sidewise in his chair, with his elbow on the back and </p><p>his head leaning on his hand. Without moving he looked a while at his </p><p>companion with his dry, guarded, half-inscrutable, and yet altogether </p><p>good-natured smile. "Introduce me to your wife!" he said at last. </p><p>Tristram bounced about in his chair. "Upon my word, I won't. She doesn't </p><p>want any help to turn up her nose at me, nor do you, either!" </p><p>"I don't turn up my nose at you, my dear fellow; nor at any one, or </p><p>anything. I'm not proud, I assure you I'm not proud. That's why I am </p><p>willing to take example by the clever people." </p><p>"Well, if I'm not the rose, as they say here, I have lived near it. I </p><p>can show you some clever people, too. Do you know General Packard? Do </p><p>you know C. P. Hatch? Do you know Miss Kitty Upjohn?" </p><p>"I shall be happy to make their acquaintance; I want to cultivate </p><p>society." </p><p>Tristram seemed restless and suspicious; he eyed his friend askance, </p><p>and then, "What are you up to, any way?" he demanded. "Are you going to </p><p>write a book?" </p><p>Christopher Newman twisted one end of his mustache a while, in silence, </p><p>and at last he made answer. "One day, a couple of months ago, something </p><p>very curious happened to me. I had come on to New York on some important </p><p>business; it was rather a long story--a question of getting ahead of </p><p>another party, in a certain particular way, in the stock-market. This </p><p>other party had once played me a very mean trick. I owed him a grudge, I </p><p>felt awfully savage at the time, and I vowed that, when I got a chance, </p><p>I would, figuratively speaking, put his nose out of joint. There was a </p><p>matter of some sixty thousand dollars at stake. If I put it out of his </p><p>way, it was a blow the fellow would feel, and he really deserved no </p><p>quarter. I jumped into a hack and went about my business, and it was </p><p>in this hack--this immortal, historical hack--that the curious thing I</p><p>speak of occurred. It was a hack like any other, only a trifle dirtier, </p><p>with a greasy line along the top of the drab cushions, as if it had been </p><p>used for a great many Irish funerals. It is possible I took a nap; I </p><p>had been traveling all night, and though I was excited with my errand, </p><p>I felt the want of sleep. At all events I woke up suddenly, from a sleep </p><p>or from a kind of a reverie, with the most extraordinary feeling in the </p><p>world--a mortal disgust for the thing I was going to do. It came upon </p><p>me like THAT!" and he snapped his fingers--"as abruptly as an old wound </p><p>that begins to ache. I couldn't tell the meaning of it; I only felt that </p><p>I loathed the whole business and wanted to wash my hands of it. The idea </p><p>of losing that sixty thousand dollars, of letting it utterly slide and </p><p>scuttle and never hearing of it again, seemed the sweetest thing in the </p><p>world. And all this took place quite independently of my will, and I sat </p><p>watching it as if it were a play at the theatre. I could feel it going </p><p>on inside of me. You may depend upon it that there are things going on </p><p>inside of us that we understand mighty little about." </p><p>"Jupiter! you make my flesh creep!" cried Tristram. "And while you sat </p><p>in your hack, watching the play, as you call it, the other man marched </p><p>in and bagged your sixty thousand dollars?" </p><p>"I have not the least idea. I hope so, poor devil! but I never found </p><p>out. We pulled up in front of the place I was going to in Wall Street, </p><p>but I sat still in the carriage, and at last the driver scrambled down </p><p>off his seat to see whether his carriage had not turned into a hearse. </p><p>I couldn't have got out, any more than if I had been a corpse. What was </p><p>the matter with me? Momentary idiocy, you'll say. What I wanted to get </p><p>out of was Wall Street. I told the man to drive down to the Brooklyn </p><p>ferry and to cross over. When we were over, I told him to drive me out </p><p>into the country. As I had told him originally to drive for dear life </p><p>down town, I suppose he thought me insane. Perhaps I was, but in that </p><p>case I am insane still. I spent the morning looking at the first green </p><p>leaves on Long Island. I was sick of business; I wanted to throw it all </p><p>up and break off short; I had money enough, or if I hadn't I ought to </p><p>have. I seemed to feel a new man inside my old skin, and I longed for </p><p>a new world. When you want a thing so very badly you had better treat </p><p>yourself to it. I didn't understand the matter, not in the least; but </p><p>I gave the old horse the bridle and let him find his way. As soon as I </p><p>could get out of the game I sailed for Europe. That is how I come to be </p><p>sitting here." </p><p>"You ought to have bought up that hack," said Tristram; "it isn't a </p><p>safe vehicle to have about. And you have really sold out, then; you have </p><p>retired from business?" </p><p>"I have made over my hand to a friend; when I feel disposed, I can take </p><p>up the cards again. I dare say that a twelvemonth hence the operation </p><p>will be reversed. The pendulum will swing back again. I shall be sitting </p><p>in a gondola or on a dromedary, and all of a sudden I shall want </p><p>to clear out. But for the present I am perfectly free. I have even </p><p>bargained that I am to receive no business letters." </p><p>"Oh, it's a real caprice de prince," said Tristram. "I back out; a poor </p><p>devil like me can't help you to spend such very magnificent leisure as </p><p>that. You should get introduced to the crowned heads." </p><p>Newman looked at him a moment, and then, with his easy smile, "How does </p><p>one do it?" he asked. </p><p>"Come, I like that!" cried Tristram. "It shows you are in earnest." </p><p>"Of course I am in earnest. Didn't I say I wanted the best? I know the </p><p>best can't be had for mere money, but I rather think money will do a </p><p>good deal. In addition, I am willing to take a good deal of trouble." </p><p>"You are not bashful, eh?" </p><p>"I haven't the least idea. I want the biggest kind of entertainment a </p><p>man can get. People, places, art, nature, everything! I want to see the </p><p>tallest mountains, and the bluest lakes, and the finest pictures and the </p><p>handsomest churches, and the most celebrated men, and the most beautiful </p><p>women." </p><p>"Settle down in Paris, then. There are no mountains that I know of, and </p><p>the only lake is in the Bois du Boulogne, and not particularly blue. </p><p>But there is everything else: plenty of pictures and churches, no end of </p><p>celebrated men, and several beautiful women." </p><p>"But I can't settle down in Paris at this season, just as summer is </p><p>coming on." </p><p>"Oh, for the summer go up to Trouville." </p><p>"What is Trouville?" </p><p>"The French Newport. Half the Americans go." </p><p>"Is it anywhere near the Alps?" </p><p>"About as near as Newport is to the Rocky Mountains." </p><p>"Oh, I want to see Mont Blanc," said Newman, "and Amsterdam, and the </p><p>Rhine, and a lot of places. Venice in particular. I have great ideas </p><p>about Venice." </p><p>"Ah," said Mr. Tristram, rising, "I see I shall have to introduce you to </p><p>my wife!" </p><p>CHAPTER III </p><p>He performed this ceremony on the following day, when, by appointment, </p><p>Christopher Newman went to dine with him. Mr. and Mrs. Tristram lived </p><p>behind one of those chalk-colored facades which decorate with their </p><p>pompous sameness the broad avenues manufactured by Baron Haussmann in </p><p>the neighborhood of the Arc de Triomphe. Their apartment was rich in the </p><p>modern conveniences, and Tristram lost no time in calling his visitor's </p><p>attention to their principal household treasures, the gas-lamps and the </p><p>furnace-holes. "Whenever you feel homesick," he said, "you must come up </p><p>here. We'll stick you down before a register, under a good big burner, </p><p>and--" </p><p>"And you will soon get over your homesickness," said Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>Her husband stared; his wife often had a tone which he found inscrutable </p><p>he could not tell for his life whether she was in jest or in earnest.</p><p>The truth is that circumstances had done much to cultivate in Mrs. </p><p>Tristram a marked tendency to irony. Her taste on many points differed </p><p>from that of her husband, and though she made frequent concessions it </p><p>must be confessed that her concessions were not always graceful. They </p><p>were founded upon a vague project she had of some day doing something </p><p>very positive, something a trifle passionate. What she meant to do she </p><p>could by no means have told you; but meanwhile, nevertheless, she was </p><p>buying a good conscience, by installments. </p><p>It should be added, without delay, to anticipate misconception, that her </p><p>little scheme of independence did not definitely involve the assistance </p><p>of another person, of the opposite sex; she was not saving up virtue to </p><p>cover the expenses of a flirtation. For this there were various reasons. </p><p>To begin with, she had a very plain face and she was entirely without </p><p>illusions as to her appearance. She had taken its measure to a hair's </p><p>breadth, she knew the worst and the best, she had accepted herself. It </p><p>had not been, indeed, without a struggle. As a young girl she had spent </p><p>hours with her back to her mirror, crying her eyes out; and later </p><p>she had from desperation and bravado adopted the habit of proclaiming </p><p>herself the most ill-favored of women, in order that she might--as in </p><p>common politeness was inevitable--be contradicted and reassured. It </p><p>was since she had come to live in Europe that she had begun to take the </p><p>matter philosophically. Her observation, acutely exercised here, had </p><p>suggested to her that a woman's first duty is not to be beautiful, but </p><p>to be pleasing, and she encountered so many women who pleased without </p><p>beauty that she began to feel that she had discovered her mission. She </p><p>had once heard an enthusiastic musician, out of patience with a gifted </p><p>bungler, declare that a fine voice is really an obstacle to singing </p><p>properly; and it occurred to her that it might perhaps be equally true </p><p>that a beautiful face is an obstacle to the acquisition of charming </p><p>manners. Mrs. Tristram, then, undertook to be exquisitely agreeable, and </p><p>she brought to the task a really touching devotion. How well she would </p><p>have succeeded I am unable to say; unfortunately she broke off in the </p><p>middle. Her own excuse was the want of encouragement in her immediate </p><p>circle. But I am inclined to think that she had not a real genius for </p><p>the matter, or she would have pursued the charming art for itself. The </p><p>poor lady was very incomplete. She fell back upon the harmonies of the </p><p>toilet, which she thoroughly understood, and contented herself with </p><p>dressing in perfection. She lived in Paris, which she pretended to </p><p>detest, because it was only in Paris that one could find things to </p><p>exactly suit one's complexion. Besides out of Paris it was always more </p><p>or less of a trouble to get ten-button gloves. When she railed at this </p><p>serviceable city and you asked her where she would prefer to reside, she </p><p>returned some very unexpected answer. She would say in Copenhagen, or </p><p>in Barcelona; having, while making the tour of Europe, spent a couple </p><p>of days at each of these places. On the whole, with her poetic furbelows </p><p>and her misshapen, intelligent little face, she was, when you knew her, </p><p>a decidedly interesting woman. She was naturally shy, and if she had </p><p>been born a beauty, she would (having no vanity) probably have remained </p><p>shy. Now, she was both diffident and importunate; extremely reserved </p><p>sometimes with her friends, and strangely expansive with strangers. She </p><p>despised her husband; despised him too much, for she had been perfectly </p><p>at liberty not to marry him. She had been in love with a clever man </p><p>who had slighted her, and she had married a fool in the hope that </p><p>this thankless wit, reflecting on it, would conclude that she had no </p><p>appreciation of merit, and that he had flattered himself in supposing </p><p>that she cared for his own. Restless, discontented, visionary, without </p><p>personal ambitions, but with a certain avidity of imagination, she was, </p><p>as I have said before, eminently incomplete. She was full--both for</p><p>good and for ill--of beginnings that came to nothing; but she had </p><p>nevertheless, morally, a spark of the sacred fire. </p><p>Newman was fond, under all circumstances, of the society of women, and </p><p>now that he was out of his native element and deprived of his habitual </p><p>interests, he turned to it for compensation. He took a great fancy to </p><p>Mrs. Tristram; she frankly repaid it, and after their first meeting he </p><p>passed a great many hours in her drawing-room. After two or three talks </p><p>they were fast friends. Newman's manner with women was peculiar, and </p><p>it required some ingenuity on a lady's part to discover that he </p><p>admired her. He had no gallantry, in the usual sense of the term; </p><p>no compliments, no graces, no speeches. Very fond of what is called </p><p>chaffing, in his dealings with men, he never found himself on a sofa </p><p>beside a member of the softer sex without feeling extremely serious. </p><p>He was not shy, and so far as awkwardness proceeds from a struggle with </p><p>shyness, he was not awkward; grave, attentive, submissive, often silent, </p><p>he was simply swimming in a sort of rapture of respect. This emotion was </p><p>not at all theoretic, it was not even in a high degree sentimental; he </p><p>had thought very little about the "position" of women, and he was </p><p>not familiar either sympathetically or otherwise, with the image of </p><p>a President in petticoats. His attitude was simply the flower of </p><p>his general good-nature, and a part of his instinctive and genuinely </p><p>democratic assumption of every one's right to lead an easy life. If a </p><p>shaggy pauper had a right to bed and board and wages and a vote, women, </p><p>of course, who were weaker than paupers, and whose physical tissue was </p><p>in itself an appeal, should be maintained, sentimentally, at the public </p><p>expense. Newman was willing to be taxed for this purpose, largely, in </p><p>proportion to his means. Moreover, many of the common traditions with </p><p>regard to women were with him fresh personal impressions; he had never </p><p>read a novel! He had been struck with their acuteness, their subtlety, </p><p>their tact, their felicity of judgment. They seemed to him exquisitely </p><p>organized. If it is true that one must always have in one's work here </p><p>below a religion, or at least an ideal, of some sort, Newman found his </p><p>metaphysical inspiration in a vague acceptance of final responsibility </p><p>to some illumined feminine brow. </p><p>He spent a great deal of time in listening to advice from Mrs. Tristram; </p><p>advice, it must be added, for which he had never asked. He would </p><p>have been incapable of asking for it, for he had no perception of </p><p>difficulties, and consequently no curiosity about remedies. The complex </p><p>Parisian world about him seemed a very simple affair; it was an immense, </p><p>amazing spectacle, but it neither inflamed his imagination nor </p><p>irritated his curiosity. He kept his hands in his pockets, looked on </p><p>good-humoredly, desired to miss nothing important, observed a great many </p><p>things narrowly, and never reverted to himself. Mrs. Tristram's "advice" </p><p>was a part of the show, and a more entertaining element, in her abundant </p><p>gossip, than the others. He enjoyed her talking about himself; it seemed </p><p>a part of her beautiful ingenuity; but he never made an application </p><p>of anything she said, or remembered it when he was away from her. For </p><p>herself, she appropriated him; he was the most interesting thing she </p><p>had had to think about in many a month. She wished to do something with </p><p>him--she hardly knew what. There was so much of him; he was so rich </p><p>and robust, so easy, friendly, well-disposed, that he kept her fancy </p><p>constantly on the alert. For the present, the only thing she could do </p><p>was to like him. She told him that he was "horribly Western," but in </p><p>this compliment the adverb was tinged with insincerity. She led him </p><p>about with her, introduced him to fifty people, and took extreme </p><p>satisfaction in her conquest. Newman accepted every proposal, shook </p><p>hands universally and promiscuously, and seemed equally unfamiliar</p><p>with trepidation or with elation. Tom Tristram complained of his wife's </p><p>avidity, and declared that he could never have a clear five minutes with </p><p>his friend. If he had known how things were going to turn out, he never </p><p>would have brought him to the Avenue d'Iena. The two men, formerly, had </p><p>not been intimate, but Newman remembered his earlier impression of his </p><p>host, and did Mrs. Tristram, who had by no means taken him into her </p><p>confidence, but whose secret he presently discovered, the justice to </p><p>admit that her husband was a rather degenerate mortal. At twenty-five he </p><p>had been a good fellow, and in this respect he was unchanged; but of a </p><p>man of his age one expected something more. People said he was sociable, </p><p>but this was as much a matter of course as for a dipped sponge to </p><p>expand; and it was not a high order of sociability. He was a great </p><p>gossip and tattler, and to produce a laugh would hardly have spared the </p><p>reputation of his aged mother. Newman had a kindness for old memories, </p><p>but he found it impossible not to perceive that Tristram was nowadays </p><p>a very light weight. His only aspirations were to hold out at poker, </p><p>at his club, to know the names of all the cocottes, to shake hands all </p><p>round, to ply his rosy gullet with truffles and champagne, and to create </p><p>uncomfortable eddies and obstructions among the constituent atoms of the </p><p>American colony. He was shamefully idle, spiritless, sensual, snobbish. </p><p>He irritated our friend by the tone of his allusions to their native </p><p>country, and Newman was at a loss to understand why the United States </p><p>were not good enough for Mr. Tristram. He had never been a very </p><p>conscious patriot, but it vexed him to see them treated as little better </p><p>than a vulgar smell in his friend's nostrils, and he finally broke out </p><p>and swore that they were the greatest country in the world, that they </p><p>could put all Europe into their breeches' pockets, and that an American </p><p>who spoke ill of them ought to be carried home in irons and compelled </p><p>to live in Boston. (This, for Newman was putting it very vindictively.) </p><p>Tristram was a comfortable man to snub, he bore no malice, and he </p><p>continued to insist on Newman's finishing his evening at the Occidental </p><p>Club. </p><p>Christopher Newman dined several times in the Avenue d'Iena, and his </p><p>host always proposed an early adjournment to this institution. Mrs. </p><p>Tristram protested, and declared that her husband exhausted his </p><p>ingenuity in trying to displease her. </p><p>"Oh no, I never try, my love," he answered. "I know you loathe me quite </p><p>enough when I take my chance." </p><p>Newman hated to see a husband and wife on these terms, and he was sure </p><p>one or other of them must be very unhappy. He knew it was not Tristram. </p><p>Mrs. Tristram had a balcony before her windows, upon which, during the </p><p>June evenings, she was fond of sitting, and Newman used frankly to say </p><p>that he preferred the balcony to the club. It had a fringe of perfumed </p><p>plants in tubs, and enabled you to look up the broad street and see </p><p>the Arch of Triumph vaguely massing its heroic sculptures in the summer </p><p>starlight. Sometimes Newman kept his promise of following Mr. Tristram, </p><p>in half an hour, to the Occidental, and sometimes he forgot it. His </p><p>hostess asked him a great many questions about himself, but on this </p><p>subject he was an indifferent talker. He was not what is called </p><p>subjective, though when he felt that her interest was sincere, he made </p><p>an almost heroic attempt to be. He told her a great many things he </p><p>had done, and regaled her with anecdotes of Western life; she was from </p><p>Philadelphia, and with her eight years in Paris, talked of herself as a </p><p>languid Oriental. But some other person was always the hero of the tale, </p><p>by no means always to his advantage; and Newman's own emotions were but </p><p>scantily chronicled. She had an especial wish to know whether he had</p><p>ever been in love--seriously, passionately--and, failing to gather </p><p>any satisfaction from his allusions, she at last directly inquired. He </p><p>hesitated a while, and at last he said, "No!" She declared that she was </p><p>delighted to hear it, as it confirmed her private conviction that he was </p><p>a man of no feeling. </p><p>"Really?" he asked, very gravely. "Do you think so? How do you recognize </p><p>a man of feeling?" </p><p>"I can't make out," said Mrs. Tristram, "whether you are very simple or </p><p>very deep." </p><p>"I'm very deep. That's a fact." </p><p>"I believe that if I were to tell you with a certain air that you have </p><p>no feeling, you would implicitly believe me." </p><p>"A certain air?" said Newman. "Try it and see." </p><p>"You would believe me, but you would not care," said Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"You have got it all wrong. I should care immensely, but I shouldn't </p><p>believe you. The fact is I have never had time to feel things. I have </p><p>had to DO them, to make myself felt." </p><p>"I can imagine that you may have done that tremendously, sometimes." </p><p>"Yes, there's no mistake about that." </p><p>"When you are in a fury it can't be pleasant." </p><p>"I am never in a fury." </p><p>"Angry, then, or displeased." </p><p>"I am never angry, and it is so long since I have been displeased that I </p><p>have quite forgotten it." </p><p>"I don't believe," said Mrs. Tristram, "that you are never angry. A man </p><p>ought to be angry sometimes, and you are neither good enough nor bad </p><p>enough always to keep your temper." </p><p>"I lose it perhaps once in five years." </p><p>"The time is coming round, then," said his hostess. "Before I have known </p><p>you six months I shall see you in a fine fury." </p><p>"Do you mean to put me into one?" </p><p>"I should not be sorry. You take things too coolly. It exasperates me. </p><p>And then you are too happy. You have what must be the most agreeable </p><p>thing in the world, the consciousness of having bought your pleasure </p><p>beforehand and paid for it. You have not a day of reckoning staring you </p><p>in the face. Your reckonings are over." </p><p>"Well, I suppose I am happy," said Newman, meditatively. </p><p>"You have been odiously successful." </p><p>"Successful in copper," said Newman, "only so-so in railroads, and a </p><p>hopeless fizzle in oil." </p><p>"It is very disagreeable to know how Americans have made their money. </p><p>Now you have the world before you. You have only to enjoy." </p><p>"Oh, I suppose I am very well off," said Newman. "Only I am tired of </p><p>having it thrown up at me. Besides, there are several drawbacks. I am </p><p>not intellectual." </p><p>"One doesn't expect it of you," Mrs. Tristram answered. Then in a </p><p>moment, "Besides, you are!" </p><p>"Well, I mean to have a good time, whether or no," said Newman. "I am </p><p>not cultivated, I am not even educated; I know nothing about history, </p><p>or art, or foreign tongues, or any other learned matters. But I am not </p><p>a fool, either, and I shall undertake to know something about Europe by </p><p>the time I have done with it. I feel something under my ribs here," he </p><p>added in a moment, "that I can't explain--a sort of a mighty hankering, </p><p>a desire to stretch out and haul in." </p><p>"Bravo!" said Mrs. Tristram, "that is very fine. You are the great </p><p>Western Barbarian, stepping forth in his innocence and might, gazing a </p><p>while at this poor effete Old World and then swooping down on it." </p><p>"Oh, come," said Newman. "I am not a barbarian, by a good deal. I am </p><p>very much the reverse. I have seen barbarians; I know what they are." </p><p>"I don't mean that you are a Comanche chief, or that you wear a blanket </p><p>and feathers. There are different shades." </p><p>"I am a highly civilized man," said Newman. "I stick to that. If you </p><p>don't believe it, I should like to prove it to you." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram was silent a while. "I should like to make you prove it," </p><p>she said, at last. "I should like to put you in a difficult place." </p><p>"Pray do," said Newman. </p><p>"That has a little conceited sound!" his companion rejoined. </p><p>"Oh," said Newman, "I have a very good opinion of myself." </p><p>"I wish I could put it to the test. Give me time and I will." And Mrs. </p><p>Tristram remained silent for some time afterwards, as if she was trying </p><p>to keep her pledge. It did not appear that evening that she succeeded; </p><p>but as he was rising to take his leave she passed suddenly, as she was </p><p>very apt to do, from the tone of unsparing persiflage to that of almost </p><p>tremulous sympathy. "Speaking seriously," she said, "I believe in you, </p><p>Mr. Newman. You flatter my patriotism." </p><p>"Your patriotism?" Christopher demanded. </p><p>"Even so. It would take too long to explain, and you probably would not </p><p>understand. Besides, you might take it--really, you might take it for a </p><p>declaration. But it has nothing to do with you personally; it's what you </p><p>represent. Fortunately you don't know all that, or your conceit would </p><p>increase insufferably." </p><p>Newman stood staring and wondering what under the sun he "represented." </p><p>"Forgive all my meddlesome chatter and forget my advice. It is </p><p>very silly in me to undertake to tell you what to do. When you are </p><p>embarrassed, do as you think best, and you will do very well. When you </p><p>are in a difficulty, judge for yourself." </p><p>"I shall remember everything you have told me," said Newman. "There are </p><p>so many forms and ceremonies over here--" </p><p>"Forms and ceremonies are what I mean, of course." </p><p>"Ah, but I want to observe them," said Newman. "Haven't I as good a </p><p>right as another? They don't scare me, and you needn't give me leave to </p><p>violate them. I won't take it." </p><p>"That is not what I mean. I mean, observe them in your own way. Settle </p><p>nice questions for yourself. Cut the knot or untie it, as you choose." </p><p>"Oh, I am sure I shall never fumble over it!" said Newman. </p><p>The next time that he dined in the Avenue d'Iena was a Sunday, a day on </p><p>which Mr. Tristram left the cards unshuffled, so that there was a trio </p><p>in the evening on the balcony. The talk was of many things, and at last </p><p>Mrs. Tristram suddenly observed to Christopher Newman that it was high </p><p>time he should take a wife. </p><p>"Listen to her; she has the audacity!" said Tristram, who on Sunday </p><p>evenings was always rather acrimonious. </p><p>"I don't suppose you have made up your mind not to marry?" Mrs. Tristram </p><p>continued. </p><p>"Heaven forbid!" cried Newman. "I am sternly resolved on it." </p><p>"It's very easy," said Tristram; "fatally easy!" </p><p>"Well, then, I suppose you do not mean to wait till you are fifty." </p><p>"On the contrary, I am in a great hurry." </p><p>"One would never suppose it. Do you expect a lady to come and propose to </p><p>you?" </p><p>"No; I am willing to propose. I think a great deal about it." </p><p>"Tell me some of your thoughts." </p><p>"Well," said Newman, slowly, "I want to marry very well." </p><p>"Marry a woman of sixty, then," said Tristram. </p><p>"'Well' in what sense?" </p><p>"In every sense. I shall be hard to please." </p><p>"You must remember that, as the French proverb says, the most beautiful </p><p>girl in the world can give but what she has." </p><p>"Since you ask me," said Newman, "I will say frankly that I want </p><p>extremely to marry. It is time, to begin with: before I know it I shall </p><p>be forty. And then I'm lonely and helpless and dull. But if I marry now, </p><p>so long as I didn't do it in hot haste when I was twenty, I must do it </p><p>with my eyes open. I want to do the thing in handsome style. I do not </p><p>only want to make no mistakes, but I want to make a great hit. I want to </p><p>take my pick. My wife must be a magnificent woman." </p><p>"Voila ce qui s'appelle parler!" cried Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"Oh, I have thought an immense deal about it." </p><p>"Perhaps you think too much. The best thing is simply to fall in love." </p><p>"When I find the woman who pleases me, I shall love her enough. My wife </p><p>shall be very comfortable." </p><p>"You are superb! There's a chance for the magnificent women." </p><p>"You are not fair." Newman rejoined. "You draw a fellow out and put him </p><p>off guard, and then you laugh at him." </p><p>"I assure you," said Mrs. Tristram, "that I am very serious. To prove </p><p>it, I will make you a proposal. Should you like me, as they say here, to </p><p>marry you?" </p><p>"To hunt up a wife for me?" </p><p>"She is already found. I will bring you together." </p><p>"Oh, come," said Tristram, "we don't keep a matrimonial bureau. He will </p><p>think you want your commission." </p><p>"Present me to a woman who comes up to my notions," said Newman, "and I </p><p>will marry her tomorrow." </p><p>"You have a strange tone about it, and I don't quite understand you. I </p><p>didn't suppose you would be so coldblooded and calculating." </p><p>Newman was silent a while. "Well," he said, at last, "I want a great </p><p>woman. I stick to that. That's one thing I CAN treat myself to, and if </p><p>it is to be had I mean to have it. What else have I toiled and struggled </p><p>for, all these years? I have succeeded, and now what am I to do with </p><p>my success? To make it perfect, as I see it, there must be a beautiful </p><p>woman perched on the pile, like a statue on a monument. She must be as </p><p>good as she is beautiful, and as clever as she is good. I can give my </p><p>wife a good deal, so I am not afraid to ask a good deal myself. She </p><p>shall have everything a woman can desire; I shall not even object to </p><p>her being too good for me; she may be cleverer and wiser than I can </p><p>understand, and I shall only be the better pleased. I want to possess, </p><p>in a word, the best article in the market." </p><p>"Why didn't you tell a fellow all this at the outset?" Tristram </p><p>demanded. "I have been trying so to make you fond of ME!" </p><p>"This is very interesting," said Mrs. Tristram. "I like to see a man </p><p>know his own mind." </p><p>"I have known mine for a long time," Newman went on. "I made up my mind</p><p>tolerably early in life that a beautiful wife was the thing best worth </p><p>having, here below. It is the greatest victory over circumstances. When </p><p>I say beautiful, I mean beautiful in mind and in manners, as well as in </p><p>person. It is a thing every man has an equal right to; he may get it if </p><p>he can. He doesn't have to be born with certain faculties, on purpose; </p><p>he needs only to be a man. Then he needs only to use his will, and such </p><p>wits as he has, and to try." </p><p>"It strikes me that your marriage is to be rather a matter of vanity." </p><p>"Well, it is certain," said Newman, "that if people notice my wife and </p><p>admire her, I shall be mightily tickled." </p><p>"After this," cried Mrs. Tristram, "call any man modest!" </p><p>"But none of them will admire her so much as I." </p><p>"I see you have a taste for splendor." </p><p>Newman hesitated a little; and then, "I honestly believe I have!" he </p><p>said. </p><p>"And I suppose you have already looked about you a good deal." </p><p>"A good deal, according to opportunity." </p><p>"And you have seen nothing that satisfied you?" </p><p>"No," said Newman, half reluctantly, "I am bound to say in honesty that </p><p>I have seen nothing that really satisfied me." </p><p>"You remind me of the heroes of the French romantic poets, Rolla and </p><p>Fortunio and all those other insatiable gentlemen for whom nothing in </p><p>this world was handsome enough. But I see you are in earnest, and I </p><p>should like to help you." </p><p>"Who the deuce is it, darling, that you are going to put upon him?" </p><p>Tristram cried. "We know a good many pretty girls, thank Heaven, but </p><p>magnificent women are not so common." </p><p>"Have you any objections to a foreigner?" his wife continued, addressing </p><p>Newman, who had tilted back his chair and, with his feet on a bar of the </p><p>balcony railing and his hands in his pockets, was looking at the stars. </p><p>"No Irish need apply," said Tristram. </p><p>Newman meditated a while. "As a foreigner, no," he said at last; "I have </p><p>no prejudices." </p><p>"My dear fellow, you have no suspicions!" cried Tristram. "You don't </p><p>know what terrible customers these foreign women are; especially the </p><p>'magnificent' ones. How should you like a fair Circassian, with a dagger </p><p>in her belt?" </p><p>Newman administered a vigorous slap to his knee. "I would marry a </p><p>Japanese, if she pleased me," he affirmed. </p><p>"We had better confine ourselves to Europe," said Mrs. Tristram. "The </p><p>only thing is, then, that the person be in herself to your taste?"</p><p>"She is going to offer you an unappreciated governess!" Tristram </p><p>groaned. </p><p>"Assuredly. I won't deny that, other things being equal, I should prefer </p><p>one of my own countrywomen. We should speak the same language, and </p><p>that would be a comfort. But I am not afraid of a foreigner. Besides, I </p><p>rather like the idea of taking in Europe, too. It enlarges the field </p><p>of selection. When you choose from a greater number, you can bring your </p><p>choice to a finer point!" </p><p>"You talk like Sardanapalus!" exclaimed Tristram. </p><p>"You say all this to the right person," said Newman's hostess. "I happen </p><p>to number among my friends the loveliest woman in the world. Neither </p><p>more nor less. I don't say a very charming person or a very estimable </p><p>woman or a very great beauty; I say simply the loveliest woman in the </p><p>world." </p><p>"The deuce!" cried Tristram, "you have kept very quiet about her. Were </p><p>you afraid of me?" </p><p>"You have seen her," said his wife, "but you have no perception of such </p><p>merit as Claire's." </p><p>"Ah, her name is Claire? I give it up." </p><p>"Does your friend wish to marry?" asked Newman. </p><p>"Not in the least. It is for you to make her change her mind. It will </p><p>not be easy; she has had one husband, and he gave her a low opinion of </p><p>the species." </p><p>"Oh, she is a widow, then?" said Newman. </p><p>"Are you already afraid? She was married at eighteen, by her parents, in </p><p>the French fashion, to a disagreeable old man. But he had the good taste </p><p>to die a couple of years afterward, and she is now twenty-five." </p><p>"So she is French?" </p><p>"French by her father, English by her mother. She is really more English </p><p>than French, and she speaks English as well as you or I--or rather much </p><p>better. She belongs to the very top of the basket, as they say here. </p><p>Her family, on each side, is of fabulous antiquity; her mother is the </p><p>daughter of an English Catholic earl. Her father is dead, and since her </p><p>widowhood she has lived with her mother and a married brother. There is </p><p>another brother, younger, who I believe is wild. They have an old hotel </p><p>in the Rue de l'Universite, but their fortune is small, and they make a </p><p>common household, for economy's sake. When I was a girl I was put into a </p><p>convent here for my education, while my father made the tour of Europe. </p><p>It was a silly thing to do with me, but it had the advantage that it </p><p>made me acquainted with Claire de Bellegarde. She was younger than I </p><p>but we became fast friends. I took a tremendous fancy to her, and she </p><p>returned my passion as far as she could. They kept such a tight rein on </p><p>her that she could do very little, and when I left the convent she had </p><p>to give me up. I was not of her monde; I am not now, either, but we </p><p>sometimes meet. They are terrible people--her monde; all mounted upon </p><p>stilts a mile high, and with pedigrees long in proportion. It is the</p><p>skim of the milk of the old noblesse. Do you know what a Legitimist </p><p>is, or an Ultramontane? Go into Madame de Cintre's drawing-room </p><p>some afternoon, at five o'clock, and you will see the best preserved </p><p>specimens. I say go, but no one is admitted who can't show his fifty </p><p>quarterings." </p><p>"And this is the lady you propose to me to marry?" asked Newman. "A lady </p><p>I can't even approach?" </p><p>"But you said just now that you recognized no obstacles." </p><p>Newman looked at Mrs. Tristram a while, stroking his mustache. "Is she a </p><p>beauty?" he demanded. </p><p>"No." </p><p>"Oh, then it's no use--" </p><p>"She is not a beauty, but she is beautiful, two very different things. A </p><p>beauty has no faults in her face, the face of a beautiful woman may have </p><p>faults that only deepen its charm." </p><p>"I remember Madame de Cintre, now," said Tristram. "She is as plain as a </p><p>pike-staff. A man wouldn't look at her twice." </p><p>"In saying that HE would not look at her twice, my husband sufficiently </p><p>describes her," Mrs. Tristram rejoined. </p><p>"Is she good; is she clever?" Newman asked. </p><p>"She is perfect! I won't say more than that. When you are praising </p><p>a person to another who is to know her, it is bad policy to go into </p><p>details. I won't exaggerate. I simply recommend her. Among all women I </p><p>have known she stands alone; she is of a different clay." </p><p>"I should like to see her," said Newman, simply. </p><p>"I will try to manage it. The only way will be to invite her to dinner. </p><p>I have never invited her before, and I don't know that she will come. </p><p>Her old feudal countess of a mother rules the family with an iron hand, </p><p>and allows her to have no friends but of her own choosing, and to visit </p><p>only in a certain sacred circle. But I can at least ask her." </p><p>At this moment Mrs. Tristram was interrupted; a servant stepped out upon </p><p>the balcony and announced that there were visitors in the drawing-room. </p><p>When Newman's hostess had gone in to receive her friends, Tom Tristram </p><p>approached his guest. </p><p>"Don't put your foot into THIS, my boy," he said, puffing the last </p><p>whiffs of his cigar. "There's nothing in it!" </p><p>Newman looked askance at him, inquisitive. "You tell another story, eh?" </p><p>"I say simply that Madame de Cintre is a great white doll of a woman, </p><p>who cultivates quiet haughtiness." </p><p>"Ah, she's haughty, eh?" </p><p>"She looks at you as if you were so much thin air, and cares for you</p><p>about as much." </p><p>"She is very proud, eh?" </p><p>"Proud? As proud as I'm humble." </p><p>"And not good-looking?" </p><p>Tristram shrugged his shoulders: "It's a kind of beauty you must be </p><p>INTELLECTUAL to understand. But I must go in and amuse the company." </p><p>Some time elapsed before Newman followed his friends into the </p><p>drawing-room. When he at last made his appearance there he remained but </p><p>a short time, and during this period sat perfectly silent, listening </p><p>to a lady to whom Mrs. Tristram had straightway introduced him and who </p><p>chattered, without a pause, with the full force of an extraordinarily </p><p>high-pitched voice. Newman gazed and attended. Presently he came to bid </p><p>good-night to Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"Who is that lady?" he asked. </p><p>"Miss Dora Finch. How do you like her?" </p><p>"She's too noisy." </p><p>"She is thought so bright! Certainly, you are fastidious," said Mrs. </p><p>Tristram. </p><p>Newman stood a moment, hesitating. Then at last "Don't forget about your </p><p>friend," he said, "Madame What's-her-name? the proud beauty. Ask her to </p><p>dinner, and give me a good notice." And with this he departed. </p><p>Some days later he came back; it was in the afternoon. He found Mrs. </p><p>Tristram in her drawing-room; with her was a visitor, a woman young and </p><p>pretty, dressed in white. The two ladies had risen and the visitor was </p><p>apparently taking her leave. As Newman approached, he received from </p><p>Mrs. Tristram a glance of the most vivid significance, which he was not </p><p>immediately able to interpret. </p><p>"This is a good friend of ours," she said, turning to her companion, </p><p>"Mr. Christopher Newman. I have spoken of you to him and he has an </p><p>extreme desire to make your acquaintance. If you had consented to come </p><p>and dine, I should have offered him an opportunity." </p><p>The stranger turned her face toward Newman, with a smile. He was not </p><p>embarrassed, for his unconscious sang-froid was boundless; but as he </p><p>became aware that this was the proud and beautiful Madame de Cintre, </p><p>the loveliest woman in the world, the promised perfection, the proposed </p><p>ideal, he made an instinctive movement to gather his wits together. </p><p>Through the slight preoccupation that it produced he had a sense of a </p><p>long, fair face, and of two eyes that were both brilliant and mild. </p><p>"I should have been most happy," said Madame de Cintre. "Unfortunately, </p><p>as I have been telling Mrs. Tristram, I go on Monday to the country." </p><p>Newman had made a solemn bow. "I am very sorry," he said. </p><p>"Paris is getting too warm," Madame de Cintre added, taking her friend's </p><p>hand again in farewell.</p><p>Mrs. Tristram seemed to have formed a sudden and somewhat venturesome </p><p>resolution, and she smiled more intensely, as women do when they take </p><p>such resolution. "I want Mr. Newman to know you," she said, dropping her </p><p>head on one side and looking at Madame de Cintre's bonnet ribbons. </p><p>Christopher Newman stood gravely silent, while his native penetration </p><p>admonished him. Mrs. Tristram was determined to force her friend to </p><p>address him a word of encouragement which should be more than one of the </p><p>common formulas of politeness; and if she was prompted by charity, it </p><p>was by the charity that begins at home. Madame de Cintre was her dearest </p><p>Claire, and her especial admiration but Madame de Cintre had found it </p><p>impossible to dine with her and Madame de Cintre should for once be </p><p>forced gently to render tribute to Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"It would give me great pleasure," she said, looking at Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"That's a great deal," cried the latter, "for Madame de Cintre to say!" </p><p>"I am very much obliged to you," said Newman. "Mrs. Tristram can speak </p><p>better for me than I can speak for myself." </p><p>Madame de Cintre looked at him again, with the same soft brightness. </p><p>"Are you to be long in Paris?" she asked. </p><p>"We shall keep him," said Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"But you are keeping ME!" and Madame de Cintre shook her friend's hand. </p><p>"A moment longer," said Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>Madame de Cintre looked at Newman again; this time without her smile. </p><p>Her eyes lingered a moment. "Will you come and see me?" she asked. </p><p>Mrs. Tristram kissed her. Newman expressed his thanks, and she took her </p><p>leave. Her hostess went with her to the door, and left Newman alone a </p><p>moment. Presently she returned, rubbing her hands. "It was a fortunate </p><p>chance," she said. "She had come to decline my invitation. You triumphed </p><p>on the spot, making her ask you, at the end of three minutes, to her </p><p>house." </p><p>"It was you who triumphed," said Newman. "You must not be too hard upon </p><p>her." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram stared. "What do you mean?" </p><p>"She did not strike me as so proud. I should say she was shy." </p><p>"You are very discriminating. And what do you think of her face?" </p><p>"It's handsome!" said Newman. </p><p>"I should think it was! Of course you will go and see her." </p><p>"To-morrow!" cried Newman. </p><p>"No, not to-morrow; the next day. That will be Sunday; she leaves Paris </p><p>on Monday. If you don't see her; it will at least be a beginning." And </p><p>she gave him Madame de Cintre's address.</p><p>He walked across the Seine, late in the summer afternoon, and made his </p><p>way through those gray and silent streets of the Faubourg St. Germain </p><p>whose houses present to the outer world a face as impassive and as </p><p>suggestive of the concentration of privacy within as the blank walls </p><p>of Eastern seraglios. Newman thought it a queer way for rich people </p><p>to live; his ideal of grandeur was a splendid facade diffusing its </p><p>brilliancy outward too, irradiating hospitality. The house to which he </p><p>had been directed had a dark, dusty, painted portal, which swung open </p><p>in answer to his ring. It admitted him into a wide, graveled court, </p><p>surrounded on three sides with closed windows, and with a doorway facing </p><p>the street, approached by three steps and surmounted by a tin canopy. </p><p>The place was all in the shade; it answered to Newman's conception of </p><p>a convent. The portress could not tell him whether Madame de Cintre was </p><p>visible; he would please to apply at the farther door. He crossed the </p><p>court; a gentleman was sitting, bareheaded, on the steps of the portico, </p><p>playing with a beautiful pointer. He rose as Newman approached, and, as </p><p>he laid his hand upon the bell, said with a smile, in English, that he </p><p>was afraid Newman would be kept waiting; the servants were scattered, he </p><p>himself had been ringing, he didn't know what the deuce was in them. He </p><p>was a young man, his English was excellent, and his smile very frank. </p><p>Newman pronounced the name of Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"I think," said the young man, "that my sister is visible. Come in, and </p><p>if you will give me your card I will carry it to her myself." </p><p>Newman had been accompanied on his present errand by a slight sentiment, </p><p>I will not say of defiance--a readiness for aggression or defense, as </p><p>they might prove needful--but of reflection, good-humored suspicion. He </p><p>took from his pocket, while he stood on the portico, a card upon which, </p><p>under his name, he had written the words "San Francisco," and while </p><p>he presented it he looked warily at his interlocutor. His glance was </p><p>singularly reassuring; he liked the young man's face; it strongly </p><p>resembled that of Madame de Cintre. He was evidently her brother. The </p><p>young man, on his side, had made a rapid inspection of Newman's person. </p><p>He had taken the card and was about to enter the house with it when </p><p>another figure appeared on the threshold--an older man, of a fine </p><p>presence, wearing evening dress. He looked hard at Newman, and Newman </p><p>looked at him. "Madame de Cintre," the younger man repeated, as an </p><p>introduction of the visitor. The other took the card from his hand, </p><p>read it in a rapid glance, looked again at Newman from head to foot, </p><p>hesitated a moment, and then said, gravely but urbanely, "Madame de </p><p>Cintre is not at home." </p><p>The younger man made a gesture, and then, turning to Newman, "I am very </p><p>sorry, sir," he said. </p><p>Newman gave him a friendly nod, to show that he bore him no malice, and </p><p>retraced his steps. At the porter's lodge he stopped; the two men were </p><p>still standing on the portico. </p><p>"Who is the gentleman with the dog?" he asked of the old woman who </p><p>reappeared. He had begun to learn French. </p><p>"That is Monsieur le Comte." </p><p>"And the other?" </p><p>"That is Monsieur le Marquis."</p><p>"A marquis?" said Christopher in English, which the old woman </p><p>fortunately did not understand. "Oh, then he's not the butler!" </p><p>CHAPTER IV </p><p>Early one morning, before Christopher Newman was dressed, a little old </p><p>man was ushered into his apartment, followed by a youth in a blouse, </p><p>bearing a picture in a brilliant frame. Newman, among the distractions </p><p>of Paris, had forgotten M. Nioche and his accomplished daughter; but </p><p>this was an effective reminder. </p><p>"I am afraid you had given me up, sir," said the old man, after many </p><p>apologies and salutations. "We have made you wait so many days. You </p><p>accused us, perhaps, of inconstancy of bad faith. But behold me at last! </p><p>And behold also the pretty Madonna. Place it on a chair, my friend, in </p><p>a good light, so that monsieur may admire it." And M. Nioche, addressing </p><p>his companion, helped him to dispose the work of art. </p><p>It had been endued with a layer of varnish an inch thick and its frame, </p><p>of an elaborate pattern, was at least a foot wide. It glittered and </p><p>twinkled in the morning light, and looked, to Newman's eyes, wonderfully </p><p>splendid and precious. It seemed to him a very happy purchase, and he </p><p>felt rich in the possession of it. He stood looking at it complacently, </p><p>while he proceeded with his toilet, and M. Nioche, who had dismissed his </p><p>own attendant, hovered near, smiling and rubbing his hands. </p><p>"It has wonderful finesse," he murmured, caressingly. "And here and </p><p>there are marvelous touches, you probably perceive them, sir. It </p><p>attracted great attention on the Boulevard, as we came along. And then a </p><p>gradation of tones! That's what it is to know how to paint. I don't </p><p>say it because I am her father, sir; but as one man of taste addressing </p><p>another I cannot help observing that you have there an exquisite work. </p><p>It is hard to produce such things and to have to part with them. If our </p><p>means only allowed us the luxury of keeping it! I really may say, sir--" </p><p>and M. Nioche gave a little feebly insinuating laugh--"I really may </p><p>say that I envy you! You see," he added in a moment, "we have taken the </p><p>liberty of offering you a frame. It increases by a trifle the value of </p><p>the work, and it will save you the annoyance--so great for a person of </p><p>your delicacy--of going about to bargain at the shops." </p><p>The language spoken by M. Nioche was a singular compound, which I shrink </p><p>from the attempt to reproduce in its integrity. He had apparently once </p><p>possessed a certain knowledge of English, and his accent was oddly </p><p>tinged with the cockneyism of the British metropolis. But his learning </p><p>had grown rusty with disuse, and his vocabulary was defective and </p><p>capricious. He had repaired it with large patches of French, with words </p><p>anglicized by a process of his own, and with native idioms literally </p><p>translated. The result, in the form in which he in all humility </p><p>presented it, would be scarcely comprehensible to the reader, so that I </p><p>have ventured to trim and sift it. Newman only half understood it, but </p><p>it amused him, and the old man's decent forlornness appealed to his </p><p>democratic instincts. The assumption of a fatality in misery always </p><p>irritated his strong good nature--it was almost the only thing that did </p><p>so; and he felt the impulse to wipe it out, as it were, with the sponge </p><p>of his own prosperity. The papa of Mademoiselle Noemie, however, had</p><p>apparently on this occasion been vigorously indoctrinated, and he showed </p><p>a certain tremulous eagerness to cultivate unexpected opportunities. </p><p>"How much do I owe you, then, with the frame?" asked Newman. </p><p>"It will make in all three thousand francs," said the old man, smiling </p><p>agreeably, but folding his hands in instinctive suppliance. </p><p>"Can you give me a receipt?" </p><p>"I have brought one," said M. Nioche. "I took the liberty of drawing it </p><p>up, in case monsieur should happen to desire to discharge his debt." And </p><p>he drew a paper from his pocket-book and presented it to his patron. </p><p>The document was written in a minute, fantastic hand, and couched in the </p><p>choicest language. </p><p>Newman laid down the money, and M. Nioche dropped the napoleons one by </p><p>one, solemnly and lovingly, into an old leathern purse. </p><p>"And how is your young lady?" asked Newman. "She made a great impression </p><p>on me." </p><p>"An impression? Monsieur is very good. Monsieur admires her appearance?" </p><p>"She is very pretty, certainly." </p><p>"Alas, yes, she is very pretty!" </p><p>"And what is the harm in her being pretty?" </p><p>M. Nioche fixed his eyes upon a spot on the carpet and shook his head. </p><p>Then looking up at Newman with a gaze that seemed to brighten and </p><p>expand, "Monsieur knows what Paris is. She is dangerous to beauty, when </p><p>beauty hasn't the sou." </p><p>"Ah, but that is not the case with your daughter. She is rich, now." </p><p>"Very true; we are rich for six months. But if my daughter were a plain </p><p>girl I should sleep better all the same." </p><p>"You are afraid of the young men?" </p><p>"The young and the old!" </p><p>"She ought to get a husband." </p><p>"Ah, monsieur, one doesn't get a husband for nothing. Her husband must </p><p>take her as she is: I can't give her a sou. But the young men don't see </p><p>with that eye." </p><p>"Oh," said Newman, "her talent is in itself a dowry." </p><p>"Ah, sir, it needs first to be converted into specie!" and M. Nioche </p><p>slapped his purse tenderly before he stowed it away. "The operation </p><p>doesn't take place every day." </p><p>"Well, your young men are very shabby," said Newman; "that's all I can </p><p>say. They ought to pay for your daughter, and not ask money themselves." </p><p>"Those are very noble ideas, monsieur; but what will you have? They are </p><p>not the ideas of this country. We want to know what we are about when we </p><p>marry." </p><p>"How big a portion does your daughter want?" </p><p>M. Nioche stared, as if he wondered what was coming next; but he </p><p>promptly recovered himself, at a venture, and replied that he knew a </p><p>very nice young man, employed by an insurance company, who would content </p><p>himself with fifteen thousand francs. </p><p>"Let your daughter paint half a dozen pictures for me, and she shall </p><p>have her dowry." </p><p>"Half a dozen pictures--her dowry! Monsieur is not speaking </p><p>inconsiderately?" </p><p>"If she will make me six or eight copies in the Louvre as pretty as that </p><p>Madonna, I will pay her the same price," said Newman. </p><p>Poor M. Nioche was speechless a moment, with amazement and gratitude, </p><p>and then he seized Newman's hand, pressed it between his own ten </p><p>fingers, and gazed at him with watery eyes. "As pretty as that? They </p><p>shall be a thousand times prettier--they shall be magnificent, sublime. </p><p>Ah, if I only knew how to paint, myself, sir, so that I might lend a </p><p>hand! What can I do to thank you? Voyons!" And he pressed his forehead </p><p>while he tried to think of something. </p><p>"Oh, you have thanked me enough," said Newman. </p><p>"Ah, here it is, sir!" cried M. Nioche. "To express my gratitude, I will </p><p>charge you nothing for the lessons in French conversation." </p><p>"The lessons? I had quite forgotten them. Listening to your English," </p><p>added Newman, laughing, "is almost a lesson in French." </p><p>"Ah, I don't profess to teach English, certainly," said M. Nioche. "But </p><p>for my own admirable tongue I am still at your service." </p><p>"Since you are here, then," said Newman, "we will begin. This is a very </p><p>good hour. I am going to have my coffee; come every morning at half-past </p><p>nine and have yours with me." </p><p>"Monsieur offers me my coffee, also?" cried M. Nioche. "Truly, my beaux </p><p>jours are coming back." </p><p>"Come," said Newman, "let us begin. The coffee is almighty hot. How do </p><p>you say that in French?" </p><p>Every day, then, for the following three weeks, the minutely respectable </p><p>figure of M. Nioche made its appearance, with a series of little </p><p>inquiring and apologetic obeisances, among the aromatic fumes of </p><p>Newman's morning beverage. I don't know how much French our friend </p><p>learned, but, as he himself said, if the attempt did him no good, it </p><p>could at any rate do him no harm. And it amused him; it gratified that </p><p>irregularly sociable side of his nature which had always expressed </p><p>itself in a relish for ungrammatical conversation, and which often, even </p><p>in his busy and preoccupied days, had made him sit on rail fences </p><p>in young Western towns, in the twilight, in gossip hardly less than</p><p>fraternal with humorous loafers and obscure fortune-seekers. He had </p><p>notions, wherever he went, about talking with the natives; he had been </p><p>assured, and his judgment approved the advice, that in traveling abroad </p><p>it was an excellent thing to look into the life of the country. M. </p><p>Nioche was very much of a native and, though his life might not be </p><p>particularly worth looking into, he was a palpable and smoothly-rounded </p><p>unit in that picturesque Parisian civilization which offered our hero so </p><p>much easy entertainment and propounded so many curious problems to his </p><p>inquiring and practical mind. Newman was fond of statistics; he liked </p><p>to know how things were done; it gratified him to learn what taxes were </p><p>paid, what profits were gathered, what commercial habits prevailed, how </p><p>the battle of life was fought. M. Nioche, as a reduced capitalist, was </p><p>familiar with these considerations, and he formulated his information, </p><p>which he was proud to be able to impart, in the neatest possible </p><p>terms and with a pinch of snuff between finger and thumb. As a </p><p>Frenchman--quite apart from Newman's napoleons--M. Nioche loved </p><p>conversation, and even in his decay his urbanity had not grown rusty. As </p><p>a Frenchman, too, he could give a clear account of things, and--still as </p><p>a Frenchman--when his knowledge was at fault he could supply its lapses </p><p>with the most convenient and ingenious hypotheses. The little shrunken </p><p>financier was intensely delighted to have questions asked him, and he </p><p>scraped together information, by frugal processes, and took notes, in </p><p>his little greasy pocket-book, of incidents which might interest his </p><p>munificent friend. He read old almanacs at the book-stalls on the quays, </p><p>and he began to frequent another cafe, where more newspapers were taken </p><p>and his postprandial demitasse cost him a penny extra, and where he used </p><p>to con the tattered sheets for curious anecdotes, freaks of nature, and </p><p>strange coincidences. He would relate with solemnity the next morning </p><p>that a child of five years of age had lately died at Bordeaux, whose </p><p>brain had been found to weigh sixty ounces--the brain of a Napoleon or </p><p>a Washington! or that Madame P--, charcutiere in the Rue de Clichy, had </p><p>found in the wadding of an old petticoat the sum of three hundred and </p><p>sixty francs, which she had lost five years before. He pronounced his </p><p>words with great distinctness and sonority, and Newman assured him </p><p>that his way of dealing with the French tongue was very superior to the </p><p>bewildering chatter that he heard in other mouths. Upon this M. Nioche's </p><p>accent became more finely trenchant than ever, he offered to read </p><p>extracts from Lamartine, and he protested that, although he did endeavor </p><p>according to his feeble lights to cultivate refinement of diction, </p><p>monsieur, if he wanted the real thing, should go to the Theatre </p><p>Francais. </p><p>Newman took an interest in French thriftiness and conceived a lively </p><p>admiration for Parisian economies. His own economic genius was so </p><p>entirely for operations on a larger scale, and, to move at his ease, he </p><p>needed so imperatively the sense of great risks and great prizes, that </p><p>he found an ungrudging entertainment in the spectacle of fortunes made </p><p>by the aggregation of copper coins, and in the minute subdivision of </p><p>labor and profit. He questioned M. Nioche about his own manner of life, </p><p>and felt a friendly mixture of compassion and respect over the recital </p><p>of his delicate frugalities. The worthy man told him how, at one period, </p><p>he and his daughter had supported existence comfortably upon the sum of </p><p>fifteen sous per diem; recently, having succeeded in hauling ashore the </p><p>last floating fragments of the wreck of his fortune, his budget had </p><p>been a trifle more ample. But they still had to count their sous very </p><p>narrowly, and M. Nioche intimated with a sigh that Mademoiselle Noemie </p><p>did not bring to this task that zealous cooperation which might have </p><p>been desired. </p><p>"But what will you have?"' he asked, philosophically. "One is young, one </p><p>is pretty, one needs new dresses and fresh gloves; one can't wear shabby </p><p>gowns among the splendors of the Louvre." </p><p>"But your daughter earns enough to pay for her own clothes," said </p><p>Newman. </p><p>M. Nioche looked at him with weak, uncertain eyes. He would have liked </p><p>to be able to say that his daughter's talents were appreciated, and that </p><p>her crooked little daubs commanded a market; but it seemed a scandal </p><p>to abuse the credulity of this free-handed stranger, who, without a </p><p>suspicion or a question, had admitted him to equal social rights. He </p><p>compromised, and declared that while it was obvious that Mademoiselle </p><p>Noemie's reproductions of the old masters had only to be seen to be </p><p>coveted, the prices which, in consideration of their altogether peculiar </p><p>degree of finish, she felt obliged to ask for them had kept purchasers </p><p>at a respectful distance. "Poor little one!" said M. Nioche, with a </p><p>sigh; "it is almost a pity that her work is so perfect! It would be in </p><p>her interest to paint less well." </p><p>"But if Mademoiselle Noemie has this devotion to her art," Newman once </p><p>observed, "why should you have those fears for her that you spoke of the </p><p>other day?" </p><p>M. Nioche meditated: there was an inconsistency in his position; it made </p><p>him chronically uncomfortable. Though he had no desire to destroy the </p><p>goose with the golden eggs--Newman's benevolent confidence--he felt a </p><p>tremulous impulse to speak out all his trouble. "Ah, she is an artist, </p><p>my dear sir, most assuredly," he declared. "But, to tell you the truth, </p><p>she is also a franche coquette. I am sorry to say," he added in a </p><p>moment, shaking his head with a world of harmless bitterness, "that she </p><p>comes honestly by it. Her mother was one before her!" </p><p>"You were not happy with your wife?" Newman asked. </p><p>M. Nioche gave half a dozen little backward jerks of his head. "She was </p><p>my purgatory, monsieur!" </p><p>"She deceived you?" </p><p>"Under my nose, year after year. I was too stupid, and the temptation </p><p>was too great. But I found her out at last. I have only been once in my </p><p>life a man to be afraid of; I know it very well; it was in that hour! </p><p>Nevertheless I don't like to think of it. I loved her--I can't tell you </p><p>how much. She was a bad woman." </p><p>"She is not living?" </p><p>"She has gone to her account." </p><p>"Her influence on your daughter, then," said Newman encouragingly, "is </p><p>not to be feared." </p><p>"She cared no more for her daughter than for the sole of her shoe! But </p><p>Noemie has no need of influence. She is sufficient to herself. She is </p><p>stronger than I." </p><p>"She doesn't obey you, eh?" </p><p>"She can't obey, monsieur, since I don't command. What would be the use? </p><p>It would only irritate her and drive her to some coup de tete. She is </p><p>very clever, like her mother; she would waste no time about it. As a </p><p>child--when I was happy, or supposed I was--she studied drawing and </p><p>painting with first-class professors, and they assured me she had a </p><p>talent. I was delighted to believe it, and when I went into society I </p><p>used to carry her pictures with me in a portfolio and hand them round </p><p>to the company. I remember, once, a lady thought I was offering them for </p><p>sale, and I took it very ill. We don't know what we may come to! Then </p><p>came my dark days, and my explosion with Madame Nioche. Noemie had no </p><p>more twenty-franc lessons; but in the course of time, when she grew </p><p>older, and it became highly expedient that she should do something that </p><p>would help to keep us alive, she bethought herself of her palette </p><p>and brushes. Some of our friends in the quartier pronounced the idea </p><p>fantastic: they recommended her to try bonnet making, to get a situation </p><p>in a shop, or--if she was more ambitious--to advertise for a place of </p><p>dame de compagnie. She did advertise, and an old lady wrote her a letter </p><p>and bade her come and see her. The old lady liked her, and offered her </p><p>her living and six hundred francs a year; but Noemie discovered that </p><p>she passed her life in her arm-chair and had only two visitors, her </p><p>confessor and her nephew: the confessor very strict, and the nephew </p><p>a man of fifty, with a broken nose and a government clerkship of two </p><p>thousand francs. She threw her old lady over, bought a paint-box, a </p><p>canvas, and a new dress, and went and set up her easel in the Louvre. </p><p>There in one place and another, she has passed the last two years; I </p><p>can't say it has made us millionaires. But Noemie tells me that Rome was </p><p>not built in a day, that she is making great progress, that I must leave </p><p>her to her own devices. The fact is, without prejudice to her genius, </p><p>that she has no idea of burying herself alive. She likes to see the </p><p>world, and to be seen. She says, herself, that she can't work in </p><p>the dark. With her appearance it is very natural. Only, I can't help </p><p>worrying and trembling and wondering what may happen to her there all </p><p>alone, day after day, amid all that coming and going of strangers. I </p><p>can't be always at her side. I go with her in the morning, and I come to </p><p>fetch her away, but she won't have me near her in the interval; she says </p><p>I make her nervous. As if it didn't make me nervous to wander about </p><p>all day without her! Ah, if anything were to happen to her!" cried </p><p>M. Nioche, clenching his two fists and jerking back his head again, </p><p>portentously. </p><p>"Oh, I guess nothing will happen," said Newman. </p><p>"I believe I should shoot her!" said the old man, solemnly. </p><p>"Oh, we'll marry her," said Newman, "since that's how you manage it; and </p><p>I will go and see her tomorrow at the Louvre and pick out the pictures </p><p>she is to copy for me." </p><p>M. Nioche had brought Newman a message from his daughter, in acceptance </p><p>of his magnificent commission, the young lady declaring herself his most </p><p>devoted servant, promising her most zealous endeavor, and regretting </p><p>that the proprieties forbade her coming to thank him in person. The </p><p>morning after the conversation just narrated, Newman reverted to his </p><p>intention of meeting Mademoiselle Noemie at the Louvre. M. Nioche </p><p>appeared preoccupied, and left his budget of anecdotes unopened; he </p><p>took a great deal of snuff, and sent certain oblique, appealing glances </p><p>toward his stalwart pupil. At last, when he was taking his leave, </p><p>he stood a moment, after he had polished his hat with his calico </p><p>pocket-handkerchief, with his small, pale eyes fixed strangely upon</p><p>Newman. </p><p>"What's the matter?" our hero demanded. </p><p>"Excuse the solicitude of a father's heart!" said M. Nioche. "You </p><p>inspire me with boundless confidence, but I can't help giving you a </p><p>warning. After all, you are a man, you are young and at liberty. Let me </p><p>beseech you, then, to respect the innocence of Mademoiselle Nioche!" </p><p>Newman had wondered what was coming, and at this he broke into a laugh. </p><p>He was on the point of declaring that his own innocence struck him as </p><p>the more exposed, but he contented himself with promising to treat the </p><p>young girl with nothing less than veneration. He found her waiting for </p><p>him, seated upon the great divan in the Salon Carre. She was not in </p><p>her working-day costume, but wore her bonnet and gloves and carried her </p><p>parasol, in honor of the occasion. These articles had been selected with </p><p>unerring taste, and a fresher, prettier image of youthful alertness </p><p>and blooming discretion was not to be conceived. She made Newman a most </p><p>respectful curtsey and expressed her gratitude for his liberality in a </p><p>wonderfully graceful little speech. It annoyed him to have a charming </p><p>young girl stand there thanking him, and it made him feel uncomfortable </p><p>to think that this perfect young lady, with her excellent manners and </p><p>her finished intonation, was literally in his pay. He assured her, in </p><p>such French as he could muster, that the thing was not worth mentioning, </p><p>and that he considered her services a great favor. </p><p>"Whenever you please, then," said Mademoiselle Noemie, "we will pass the </p><p>review." </p><p>They walked slowly round the room, then passed into the others and </p><p>strolled about for half an hour. Mademoiselle Noemie evidently relished </p><p>her situation, and had no desire to bring her public interview with her </p><p>striking-looking patron to a close. Newman perceived that prosperity </p><p>agreed with her. The little thin-lipped, peremptory air with which she </p><p>had addressed her father on the occasion of their former meeting had </p><p>given place to the most lingering and caressing tones. </p><p>"What sort of pictures do you desire?" she asked. "Sacred, or profane?" </p><p>"Oh, a few of each," said Newman. "But I want something bright and gay." </p><p>"Something gay? There is nothing very gay in this solemn old Louvre. But </p><p>we will see what we can find. You speak French to-day like a charm. My </p><p>father has done wonders." </p><p>"Oh, I am a bad subject," said Newman. "I am too old to learn a </p><p>language." </p><p>"Too old? Quelle folie!" cried Mademoiselle Noemie, with a clear, shrill </p><p>laugh. "You are a very young man. And how do you like my father?" </p><p>"He is a very nice old gentleman. He never laughs at my blunders." </p><p>"He is very comme il faut, my papa," said Mademoiselle Noemie, "and as </p><p>honest as the day. Oh, an exceptional probity! You could trust him with </p><p>millions." </p><p>"Do you always obey him?" asked Newman. </p><p>"Obey him?" </p><p>"Do you do what he bids you?" </p><p>The young girl stopped and looked at him; she had a spot of color in </p><p>either cheek, and in her expressive French eye, which projected too much </p><p>for perfect beauty, there was a slight gleam of audacity. "Why do you </p><p>ask me that?" she demanded. </p><p>"Because I want to know." </p><p>"You think me a bad girl?" And she gave a strange smile. </p><p>Newman looked at her a moment; he saw that she was pretty, but he was </p><p>not in the least dazzled. He remembered poor M. Nioche's solicitude for </p><p>her "innocence," and he laughed as his eyes met hers. Her face was the </p><p>oddest mixture of youth and maturity, and beneath her candid brow </p><p>her searching little smile seemed to contain a world of ambiguous </p><p>intentions. She was pretty enough, certainly to make her father nervous; </p><p>but, as regards her innocence, Newman felt ready on the spot to affirm </p><p>that she had never parted with it. She had simply never had any; she had </p><p>been looking at the world since she was ten years old, and he would have </p><p>been a wise man who could tell her any secrets. In her long mornings at </p><p>the Louvre she had not only studied Madonnas and St. Johns; she had kept </p><p>an eye upon all the variously embodied human nature around her, and she </p><p>had formed her conclusions. In a certain sense, it seemed to Newman, M. </p><p>Nioche might be at rest; his daughter might do something very audacious, </p><p>but she would never do anything foolish. Newman, with his long-drawn, </p><p>leisurely smile, and his even, unhurried utterance, was always, </p><p>mentally, taking his time; and he asked himself, now, what she was </p><p>looking at him in that way for. He had an idea that she would like him </p><p>to confess that he did think her a bad girl. </p><p>"Oh, no," he said at last; "it would be very bad manners in me to judge </p><p>you that way. I don't know you." </p><p>"But my father has complained to you," said Mademoiselle Noemie. </p><p>"He says you are a coquette." </p><p>"He shouldn't go about saying such things to gentlemen! But you don't </p><p>believe it." </p><p>"No," said Newman gravely, "I don't believe it." </p><p>She looked at him again, gave a shrug and a smile, and then pointed to a </p><p>small Italian picture, a Marriage of St. Catherine. "How should you like </p><p>that?" she asked. </p><p>"It doesn't please me," said Newman. "The young lady in the yellow dress </p><p>is not pretty." </p><p>"Ah, you are a great connoisseur," murmured Mademoiselle Noemie. </p><p>"In pictures? Oh, no; I know very little about them." </p><p>"In pretty women, then." </p><p>"In that I am hardly better."</p><p>"What do you say to that, then?" the young girl asked, indicating a </p><p>superb Italian portrait of a lady. "I will do it for you on a smaller </p><p>scale." </p><p>"On a smaller scale? Why not as large as the original?" </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie glanced at the glowing splendor of the Venetian </p><p>masterpiece and gave a little toss of her head. "I don't like that </p><p>woman. She looks stupid." </p><p>"I do like her," said Newman. "Decidedly, I must have her, as large as </p><p>life. And just as stupid as she is there." </p><p>The young girl fixed her eyes on him again, and with her mocking smile, </p><p>"It certainly ought to be easy for me to make her look stupid!" she </p><p>said. </p><p>"What do you mean?" asked Newman, puzzled. </p><p>She gave another little shrug. "Seriously, then, you want that </p><p>portrait--the golden hair, the purple satin, the pearl necklace, the two </p><p>magnificent arms?" </p><p>"Everything--just as it is." </p><p>"Would nothing else do, instead?" </p><p>"Oh, I want some other things, but I want that too." </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie turned away a moment, walked to the other side of </p><p>the hall, and stood there, looking vaguely about her. At last she came </p><p>back. "It must be charming to be able to order pictures at such a rate. </p><p>Venetian portraits, as large as life! You go at it en prince. And you </p><p>are going to travel about Europe that way?" </p><p>"Yes, I intend to travel," said Newman. </p><p>"Ordering, buying, spending money?" </p><p>"Of course I shall spend some money." </p><p>"You are very happy to have it. And you are perfectly free?" </p><p>"How do you mean, free?" </p><p>"You have nothing to bother you--no family, no wife, no fiancee?" </p><p>"Yes, I am tolerably free." </p><p>"You are very happy," said Mademoiselle Noemie, gravely. </p><p>"Je le veux bien!" said Newman, proving that he had learned more French </p><p>than he admitted. </p><p>"And how long shall you stay in Paris?" the young girl went on. </p><p>"Only a few days more." </p><p>"Why do you go away?" </p><p>"It is getting hot, and I must go to Switzerland." </p><p>"To Switzerland? That's a fine country. I would give my new parasol </p><p>to see it! Lakes and mountains, romantic valleys and icy peaks! Oh, </p><p>I congratulate you. Meanwhile, I shall sit here through all the hot </p><p>summer, daubing at your pictures." </p><p>"Oh, take your time about it," said Newman. "Do them at your </p><p>convenience." </p><p>They walked farther and looked at a dozen other things. Newman pointed </p><p>out what pleased him, and Mademoiselle Noemie generally criticised it, </p><p>and proposed something else. Then suddenly she diverged and began to </p><p>talk about some personal matter. </p><p>"What made you speak to me the other day in the Salon Carre?" she </p><p>abruptly asked. </p><p>"I admired your picture." </p><p>"But you hesitated a long time." </p><p>"Oh, I do nothing rashly," said Newman. </p><p>"Yes, I saw you watching me. But I never supposed you were going to </p><p>speak to me. I never dreamed I should be walking about here with you </p><p>to-day. It's very curious." </p><p>"It is very natural," observed Newman. </p><p>"Oh, I beg your pardon; not to me. Coquette as you think me, I have </p><p>never walked about in public with a gentleman before. What was my father </p><p>thinking of, when he consented to our interview?" </p><p>"He was repenting of his unjust accusations," replied Newman. </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie remained silent; at last she dropped into a seat. </p><p>"Well then, for those five it is fixed," she said. "Five copies as </p><p>brilliant and beautiful as I can make them. We have one more to choose. </p><p>Shouldn't you like one of those great Rubenses--the marriage of Marie de </p><p>Medicis? Just look at it and see how handsome it is." </p><p>"Oh, yes; I should like that," said Newman. "Finish off with that." </p><p>"Finish off with that--good!" And she laughed. She sat a moment, looking </p><p>at him, and then she suddenly rose and stood before him, with her hands </p><p>hanging and clasped in front of her. "I don't understand you," she said </p><p>with a smile. "I don't understand how a man can be so ignorant." </p><p>"Oh, I am ignorant, certainly," said Newman, putting his hands into his </p><p>pockets. </p><p>"It's ridiculous! I don't know how to paint." </p><p>"You don't know how?" </p><p>"I paint like a cat; I can't draw a straight line. I never sold a</p><p>picture until you bought that thing the other day." And as she offered </p><p>this surprising information she continued to smile. </p><p>Newman burst into a laugh. "Why do you tell me this?" he asked. </p><p>"Because it irritates me to see a clever man blunder so. My pictures are </p><p>grotesque." </p><p>"And the one I possess--" </p><p>"That one is rather worse than usual." </p><p>"Well," said Newman, "I like it all the same!" </p><p>She looked at him askance. "That is a very pretty thing to say," she </p><p>answered; "but it is my duty to warn you before you go farther. This </p><p>order of yours is impossible, you know. What do you take me for? It is </p><p>work for ten men. You pick out the six most difficult pictures in the </p><p>Louvre, and you expect me to go to work as if I were sitting down to hem </p><p>a dozen pocket handkerchiefs. I wanted to see how far you would go." </p><p>Newman looked at the young girl in some perplexity. In spite of the </p><p>ridiculous blunder of which he stood convicted, he was very far from </p><p>being a simpleton, and he had a lively suspicion that Mademoiselle </p><p>Noemie's sudden frankness was not essentially more honest than her </p><p>leaving him in error would have been. She was playing a game; she </p><p>was not simply taking pity on his aesthetic verdancy. What was it she </p><p>expected to win? The stakes were high and the risk was great; the prize </p><p>therefore must have been commensurate. But even granting that the prize </p><p>might be great, Newman could not resist a movement of admiration for his </p><p>companion's intrepidity. She was throwing away with one hand, whatever </p><p>she might intend to do with the other, a very handsome sum of money. </p><p>"Are you joking," he said, "or are you serious?" </p><p>"Oh, serious!" cried Mademoiselle Noemie, but with her extraordinary </p><p>smile. </p><p>"I know very little about pictures or now they are painted. If you can't </p><p>do all that, of course you can't. Do what you can, then." </p><p>"It will be very bad," said Mademoiselle Noemie. </p><p>"Oh," said Newman, laughing, "if you are determined it shall be bad, of </p><p>course it will. But why do you go on painting badly?" </p><p>"I can do nothing else; I have no real talent." </p><p>"You are deceiving your father, then." </p><p>The young girl hesitated a moment. "He knows very well!" </p><p>"No," Newman declared; "I am sure he believes in you." </p><p>"He is afraid of me. I go on painting badly, as you say, because I want </p><p>to learn. I like it, at any rate. And I like being here; it is a place </p><p>to come to, every day; it is better than sitting in a little dark, damp </p><p>room, on a court, or selling buttons and whalebones over a counter." </p><p>"Of course it is much more amusing," said Newman. "But for a poor girl </p><p>isn't it rather an expensive amusement?" </p><p>"Oh, I am very wrong, there is no doubt about that," said Mademoiselle </p><p>Noemie. "But rather than earn my living as same girls do--toiling with </p><p>a needle, in little black holes, out of the world--I would throw myself </p><p>into the Seine." </p><p>"There is no need of that," Newman answered; "your father told you my </p><p>offer?" </p><p>"Your offer?" </p><p>"He wants you to marry, and I told him I would give you a chance to earn </p><p>your dot." </p><p>"He told me all about it, and you see the account I make of it! Why </p><p>should you take such an interest in my marriage?" </p><p>"My interest was in your father. I hold to my offer; do what you can, </p><p>and I will buy what you paint." </p><p>She stood for some time, meditating, with her eyes on the ground. </p><p>At last, looking up, "What sort of a husband can you get for twelve </p><p>thousand francs?" she asked. </p><p>"Your father tells me he knows some very good young men." </p><p>"Grocers and butchers and little maitres de cafes! I will not marry at </p><p>all if I can't marry well." </p><p>"I would advise you not to be too fastidious," said Newman. "That's all </p><p>the advice I can give you." </p><p>"I am very much vexed at what I have said!" cried the young girl. "It </p><p>has done me no good. But I couldn't help it." </p><p>"What good did you expect it to do you?" </p><p>"I couldn't help it, simply." </p><p>Newman looked at her a moment. "Well, your pictures may be bad," he </p><p>said, "but you are too clever for me, nevertheless. I don't understand </p><p>you. Good-by!" And he put out his hand. </p><p>She made no response, and offered him no farewell. She turned away and </p><p>seated herself sidewise on a bench, leaning her head on the back of her </p><p>hand, which clasped the rail in front of the pictures. Newman stood a </p><p>moment and then turned on his heel and retreated. He had understood her </p><p>better than he confessed; this singular scene was a practical commentary </p><p>upon her father's statement that she was a frank coquette. </p><p>CHAPTER V </p><p>When Newman related to Mrs. Tristram his fruitless visit to Madame de </p><p>Cintre, she urged him not to be discouraged, but to carry out his plan</p><p>of "seeing Europe" during the summer, and return to Paris in the autumn </p><p>and settle down comfortably for the winter. "Madame de Cintre will </p><p>keep," she said; "she is not a woman who will marry from one day to </p><p>another." Newman made no distinct affirmation that he would come back </p><p>to Paris; he even talked about Rome and the Nile, and abstained from </p><p>professing any especial interest in Madame de Cintre's continued </p><p>widowhood. This circumstance was at variance with his habitual </p><p>frankness, and may perhaps be regarded as characteristic of the </p><p>incipient stage of that passion which is more particularly known as the </p><p>mysterious one. The truth is that the expression of a pair of eyes that </p><p>were at once brilliant and mild had become very familiar to his memory, </p><p>and he would not easily have resigned himself to the prospect of never </p><p>looking into them again. He communicated to Mrs. Tristram a number of </p><p>other facts, of greater or less importance, as you choose; but on this </p><p>particular point he kept his own counsel. He took a kindly leave of </p><p>M. Nioche, having assured him that, so far as he was concerned, the </p><p>blue-cloaked Madonna herself might have been present at his </p><p>interview with Mademoiselle Noemie; and left the old man nursing his </p><p>breast-pocket, in an ecstasy which the acutest misfortune might have </p><p>been defied to dissipate. Newman then started on his travels, with all </p><p>his usual appearance of slow-strolling leisure, and all his essential </p><p>directness and intensity of aim. No man seemed less in a hurry, and </p><p>yet no man achieved more in brief periods. He had certain practical </p><p>instincts which served him excellently in his trade of tourist. He found </p><p>his way in foreign cities by divination, his memory was excellent when </p><p>once his attention had been at all cordially given, and he emerged from </p><p>dialogues in foreign tongues, of which he had, formally, not understood </p><p>a word, in full possession of the particular fact he had desired to </p><p>ascertain. His appetite for facts was capacious, and although many of </p><p>those which he noted would have seemed woefully dry and colorless to the </p><p>ordinary sentimental traveler, a careful inspection of the list would </p><p>have shown that he had a soft spot in his imagination. In the charming </p><p>city of Brussels--his first stopping-place after leaving Paris--he </p><p>asked a great many questions about the street-cars, and took extreme </p><p>satisfaction in the reappearance of this familiar symbol of American </p><p>civilization; but he was also greatly struck with the beautiful Gothic </p><p>tower of the Hotel de Ville, and wondered whether it would not be </p><p>possible to "get up" something like it in San Francisco. He stood for </p><p>half an hour in the crowded square before this edifice, in imminent </p><p>danger from carriage-wheels, listening to a toothless old cicerone </p><p>mumble in broken English the touching history of Counts Egmont and Horn; </p><p>and he wrote the names of these gentlemen--for reasons best known to </p><p>himself--on the back of an old letter. </p><p>At the outset, on his leaving Paris, his curiosity had not been intense; </p><p>passive entertainment, in the Champs Elysees and at the theatres, seemed </p><p>about as much as he need expect of himself, and although, as he had said </p><p>to Tristram, he wanted to see the mysterious, satisfying BEST, he had </p><p>not the Grand Tour in the least on his conscience, and was not given to </p><p>cross-questioning the amusement of the hour. He believed that Europe </p><p>was made for him, and not he for Europe. He had said that he wanted </p><p>to improve his mind, but he would have felt a certain embarrassment, a </p><p>certain shame, even--a false shame, possibly--if he had caught himself </p><p>looking intellectually into the mirror. Neither in this nor in any other </p><p>respect had Newman a high sense of responsibility; it was his prime </p><p>conviction that a man's life should be easy, and that he should be able </p><p>to resolve privilege into a matter of course. The world, to his sense, </p><p>was a great bazaar, where one might stroll about and purchase handsome </p><p>things; but he was no more conscious, individually, of social pressure</p><p>than he admitted the existence of such a thing as an obligatory </p><p>purchase. He had not only a dislike, but a sort of moral mistrust, </p><p>of uncomfortable thoughts, and it was both uncomfortable and slightly </p><p>contemptible to feel obliged to square one's self with a standard. </p><p>One's standard was the ideal of one's own good-humored prosperity, the </p><p>prosperity which enabled one to give as well as take. To expand, </p><p>without bothering about it--without shiftless timidity on one side, or </p><p>loquacious eagerness on the other--to the full compass of what he </p><p>would have called a "pleasant" experience, was Newman's most definite </p><p>programme of life. He had always hated to hurry to catch railroad </p><p>trains, and yet he had always caught them; and just so an undue </p><p>solicitude for "culture" seemed a sort of silly dawdling at the </p><p>station, a proceeding properly confined to women, foreigners, and other </p><p>unpractical persons. All this admitted, Newman enjoyed his journey, </p><p>when once he had fairly entered the current, as profoundly as the most </p><p>zealous dilettante. One's theories, after all, matter little; it is </p><p>one's humor that is the great thing. Our friend was intelligent, and </p><p>he could not help that. He lounged through Belgium and Holland and </p><p>the Rhineland, through Switzerland and Northern Italy, planning about </p><p>nothing, but seeing everything. The guides and valets de place found </p><p>him an excellent subject. He was always approachable, for he was much </p><p>addicted to standing about in the vestibules and porticos of inns, and </p><p>he availed himself little of the opportunities for impressive seclusion </p><p>which are so liberally offered in Europe to gentlemen who travel </p><p>with long purses. When an excursion, a church, a gallery, a ruin, was </p><p>proposed to him, the first thing Newman usually did, after surveying </p><p>his postulant in silence, from head to foot, was to sit down at a little </p><p>table and order something to drink. The cicerone, during this process, </p><p>usually retreated to a respectful distance; otherwise I am not sure that </p><p>Newman would not have bidden him sit down and have a glass also, and </p><p>tell him as an honest fellow whether his church or his gallery was </p><p>really worth a man's trouble. At last he rose and stretched his long </p><p>legs, beckoned to the man of monuments, looked at his watch, and </p><p>fixed his eye on his adversary. "What is it?" he asked. "How far?" And </p><p>whatever the answer was, although he sometimes seemed to hesitate, he </p><p>never declined. He stepped into an open cab, made his conductor sit </p><p>beside him to answer questions, bade the driver go fast (he had a </p><p>particular aversion to slow driving) and rolled, in all probability </p><p>through a dusty suburb, to the goal of his pilgrimage. If the goal was a </p><p>disappointment, if the church was meagre, or the ruin a heap of rubbish, </p><p>Newman never protested or berated his cicerone; he looked with an </p><p>impartial eye upon great monuments and small, made the guide recite his </p><p>lesson, listened to it religiously, asked if there was nothing else to </p><p>be seen in the neighborhood, and drove back again at a rattling pace. </p><p>It is to be feared that his perception of the difference between good </p><p>architecture and bad was not acute, and that he might sometimes have </p><p>been seen gazing with culpable serenity at inferior productions. Ugly </p><p>churches were a part of his pastime in Europe, as well as beautiful </p><p>ones, and his tour was altogether a pastime. But there is sometimes </p><p>nothing like the imagination of these people who have none, and Newman, </p><p>now and then, in an unguided stroll in a foreign city, before some </p><p>lonely, sad-towered church, or some angular image of one who had </p><p>rendered civic service in an unknown past, had felt a singular inward </p><p>tremor. It was not an excitement or a perplexity; it was a placid, </p><p>fathomless sense of diversion. </p><p>He encountered by chance in Holland a young American, with whom, for </p><p>a time, he formed a sort of traveler's partnership. They were men of a </p><p>very different cast, but each, in his way, was so good a fellow that,</p><p>for a few weeks at least, it seemed something of a pleasure to share </p><p>the chances of the road. Newman's comrade, whose name was Babcock, was </p><p>a young Unitarian minister, a small, spare neatly-attired man, with </p><p>a strikingly candid physiognomy. He was a native of Dorchester, </p><p>Massachusetts, and had spiritual charge of a small congregation in </p><p>another suburb of the New England metropolis. His digestion was weak and </p><p>he lived chiefly on Graham bread and hominy--a regimen to which he was </p><p>so much attached that his tour seemed to him destined to be blighted </p><p>when, on landing on the Continent, he found that these delicacies did </p><p>not flourish under the table d'hote system. In Paris he had purchased </p><p>a bag of hominy at an establishment which called itself an American </p><p>Agency, and at which the New York illustrated papers were also to </p><p>be procured, and he had carried it about with him, and shown extreme </p><p>serenity and fortitude in the somewhat delicate position of having his </p><p>hominy prepared for him and served at anomalous hours, at the hotels he </p><p>successively visited. Newman had once spent a morning, in the course of </p><p>business, at Mr. Babcock's birthplace, and, for reasons too recondite </p><p>to unfold, his visit there always assumed in his mind a jocular cast. </p><p>To carry out his joke, which certainly seems poor so long as it is </p><p>not explained, he used often to address his companion as "Dorchester." </p><p>Fellow-travelers very soon grow intimate but it is highly improbable </p><p>that at home these extremely dissimilar characters would have found any </p><p>very convenient points of contact. They were, indeed, as different as </p><p>possible. Newman, who never reflected on such matters, accepted the </p><p>situation with great equanimity, but Babcock used to meditate over </p><p>it privately; used often, indeed, to retire to his room early in the </p><p>evening for the express purpose of considering it conscientiously </p><p>and impartially. He was not sure that it was a good thing for him to </p><p>associate with our hero, whose way of taking life was so little his own. </p><p>Newman was an excellent, generous fellow; Mr. Babcock sometimes said to </p><p>himself that he was a NOBLE fellow, and, certainly, it was impossible </p><p>not to like him. But would it not be desirable to try to exert an </p><p>influence upon him, to try to quicken his moral life and sharpen his </p><p>sense of duty? He liked everything, he accepted everything, he found </p><p>amusement in everything; he was not discriminating, he had not a high </p><p>tone. The young man from Dorchester accused Newman of a fault which he </p><p>considered very grave, and which he did his best to avoid: what he would </p><p>have called a want of "moral reaction." Poor Mr. Babcock was extremely </p><p>fond of pictures and churches, and carried Mrs. Jameson's works about </p><p>in his trunk; he delighted in aesthetic analysis, and received peculiar </p><p>impressions from everything he saw. But nevertheless in his secret soul </p><p>he detested Europe, and he felt an irritating need to protest against </p><p>Newman's gross intellectual hospitality. Mr. Babcock's moral malaise, I </p><p>am afraid, lay deeper than where any definition of mine can reach it. </p><p>He mistrusted the European temperament, he suffered from the European </p><p>climate, he hated the European dinner-hour; European life seemed to him </p><p>unscrupulous and impure. And yet he had an exquisite sense of beauty; </p><p>and as beauty was often inextricably associated with the above </p><p>displeasing conditions, as he wished, above all, to be just and </p><p>dispassionate, and as he was, furthermore, extremely devoted to </p><p>"culture," he could not bring himself to decide that Europe was utterly </p><p>bad. But he thought it was very bad indeed, and his quarrel with Newman </p><p>was that this unregulated epicure had a sadly insufficient perception </p><p>of the bad. Babcock himself really knew as little about the bad, in any </p><p>quarter of the world, as a nursing infant, his most vivid realization of </p><p>evil had been the discovery that one of his college classmates, who was </p><p>studying architecture in Paris had a love affair with a young woman who </p><p>did not expect him to marry her. Babcock had related this incident to </p><p>Newman, and our hero had applied an epithet of an unflattering sort to</p><p>the young girl. The next day his companion asked him whether he was </p><p>very sure he had used exactly the right word to characterize the young </p><p>architect's mistress. Newman stared and laughed. "There are a great many </p><p>words to express that idea," he said; "you can take your choice!" </p><p>"Oh, I mean," said Babcock, "was she possibly not to be considered in a </p><p>different light? Don't you think she really expected him to marry her?" </p><p>"I am sure I don't know," said Newman. "Very likely she did; I have no </p><p>doubt she is a grand woman." And he began to laugh again. </p><p>"I didn't mean that either," said Babcock, "I was only afraid that I </p><p>might have seemed yesterday not to remember--not to consider; well, I </p><p>think I will write to Percival about it." </p><p>And he had written to Percival (who answered him in a really impudent </p><p>fashion), and he had reflected that it was somehow, raw and reckless in </p><p>Newman to assume in that off-hand manner that the young woman in Paris </p><p>might be "grand." The brevity of Newman's judgments very often shocked </p><p>and discomposed him. He had a way of damning people without farther </p><p>appeal, or of pronouncing them capital company in the face of </p><p>uncomfortable symptoms, which seemed unworthy of a man whose conscience </p><p>had been properly cultivated. And yet poor Babcock liked him, and </p><p>remembered that even if he was sometimes perplexing and painful, this </p><p>was not a reason for giving him up. Goethe recommended seeing human </p><p>nature in the most various forms, and Mr. Babcock thought Goethe </p><p>perfectly splendid. He often tried, in odd half-hours of conversation </p><p>to infuse into Newman a little of his own spiritual starch, but Newman's </p><p>personal texture was too loose to admit of stiffening. His mind could no </p><p>more hold principles than a sieve can hold water. He admired principles </p><p>extremely, and thought Babcock a mighty fine little fellow for having </p><p>so many. He accepted all that his high-strung companion offered him, </p><p>and put them away in what he supposed to be a very safe place; but poor </p><p>Babcock never afterwards recognized his gifts among the articles that </p><p>Newman had in daily use. </p><p>They traveled together through Germany and into Switzerland, where </p><p>for three or four weeks they trudged over passes and lounged upon blue </p><p>lakes. At last they crossed the Simplon and made their way to Venice. </p><p>Mr. Babcock had become gloomy and even a trifle irritable; he seemed </p><p>moody, absent, preoccupied; he got his plans into a tangle, and talked </p><p>one moment of doing one thing and the next of doing another. Newman led </p><p>his usual life, made acquaintances, took his ease in the galleries and </p><p>churches, spent an unconscionable amount of time in strolling in the </p><p>Piazza San Marco, bought a great many bad pictures, and for a fortnight </p><p>enjoyed Venice grossly. One evening, coming back to his inn, he found </p><p>Babcock waiting for him in the little garden beside it. The young man </p><p>walked up to him, looking very dismal, thrust out his hand, and said </p><p>with solemnity that he was afraid they must part. Newman expressed </p><p>his surprise and regret, and asked why a parting had became necessary. </p><p>"Don't be afraid I'm tired of you," he said. </p><p>"You are not tired of me?" demanded Babcock, fixing him with his clear </p><p>gray eye. </p><p>"Why the deuce should I be? You are a very plucky fellow. Besides, I </p><p>don't grow tired of things." </p><p>"We don't understand each other," said the young minister.</p><p>"Don't I understand you?" cried Newman. "Why, I hoped I did. But what if </p><p>I don't; where's the harm?" </p><p>"I don't understand YOU," said Babcock. And he sat down and rested his </p><p>head on his hand, and looked up mournfully at his immeasurable friend. </p><p>"Oh Lord, I don't mind that!" cried Newman, with a laugh. </p><p>"But it's very distressing to me. It keeps me in a state of unrest. It </p><p>irritates me; I can't settle anything. I don't think it's good for me." </p><p>"You worry too much; that's what's the matter with you," said Newman. </p><p>"Of course it must seem so to you. You think I take things too hard, and </p><p>I think you take things too easily. We can never agree." </p><p>"But we have agreed very well all along." </p><p>"No, I haven't agreed," said Babcock, shaking his head. "I am very </p><p>uncomfortable. I ought to have separated from you a month ago." </p><p>"Oh, horrors! I'll agree to anything!" cried Newman. </p><p>Mr. Babcock buried his head in both hands. At last looking up, "I don't </p><p>think you appreciate my position," he said. "I try to arrive at the </p><p>truth about everything. And then you go too fast. For me, you are too </p><p>passionate, too extravagant. I feel as if I ought to go over all this </p><p>ground we have traversed again, by myself, alone. I am afraid I have </p><p>made a great many mistakes." </p><p>"Oh, you needn't give so many reasons," said Newman. "You are simply </p><p>tired of my company. You have a good right to be." </p><p>"No, no, I am not tired!" cried the pestered young divine. "It is very </p><p>wrong to be tired." </p><p>"I give it up!" laughed Newman. "But of course it will never do to go </p><p>on making mistakes. Go your way, by all means. I shall miss you; but you </p><p>have seen I make friends very easily. You will be lonely, yourself; </p><p>but drop me a line, when you feel like it, and I will wait for you </p><p>anywhere." </p><p>"I think I will go back to Milan. I am afraid I didn't do justice to </p><p>Luini." </p><p>"Poor Luini!" said Newman. </p><p>"I mean that I am afraid I overestimated him. I don't think that he is a </p><p>painter of the first rank." </p><p>"Luini?" Newman exclaimed; "why, he's enchanting--he's magnificent! </p><p>There is something in his genius that is like a beautiful woman. It </p><p>gives one the same feeling." </p><p>Mr. Babcock frowned and winced. And it must be added that this was, for </p><p>Newman, an unusually metaphysical flight; but in passing through Milan </p><p>he had taken a great fancy to the painter. "There you are again!" </p><p>said Mr. Babcock. "Yes, we had better separate." And on the morrow he</p><p>retraced his steps and proceeded to tone down his impressions of the </p><p>great Lombard artist. </p><p>A few days afterwards Newman received a note from his late companion </p><p>which ran as follows:-- </p><p>My Dear Mr. Newman,--I am afraid that my conduct at Venice, a week ago, </p><p>seemed to you strange and ungrateful, and I wish to explain my position, </p><p>which, as I said at the time, I do not think you appreciate. I had long </p><p>had it on my mind to propose that we should part company, and this step </p><p>was not really so abrupt as it seemed. In the first place, you know, I </p><p>am traveling in Europe on funds supplied by my congregation, who kindly </p><p>offered me a vacation and an opportunity to enrich my mind with the </p><p>treasures of nature and art in the Old World. I feel, therefore, as if I </p><p>ought to use my time to the very best advantage. I have a high sense of </p><p>responsibility. You appear to care only for the pleasure of the hour, </p><p>and you give yourself up to it with a violence which I confess I am not </p><p>able to emulate. I feel as if I must arrive at some conclusion and fix </p><p>my belief on certain points. Art and life seem to me intensely serious </p><p>things, and in our travels in Europe we should especially remember the </p><p>immense seriousness of Art. You seem to hold that if a thing amuses you </p><p>for the moment, that is all you need ask for it, and your relish for </p><p>mere amusement is also much higher than mine. You put, however, a kind </p><p>of reckless confidence into your pleasure which at times, I confess, has </p><p>seemed to me--shall I say it?--almost cynical. Your way at any rate is </p><p>not my way, and it is unwise that we should attempt any longer to pull </p><p>together. And yet, let me add that I know there is a great deal to be </p><p>said for your way; I have felt its attraction, in your society, very </p><p>strongly. But for this I should have left you long ago. But I was so </p><p>perplexed. I hope I have not done wrong. I feel as if I had a great deal </p><p>of lost time to make up. I beg you take all this as I mean it, which, </p><p>Heaven knows, is not invidiously. I have a great personal esteem for you </p><p>and hope that some day, when I have recovered my balance, we shall meet </p><p>again. I hope you will continue to enjoy your travels, only DO remember </p><p>that Life and Art ARE extremely serious. Believe me your sincere friend </p><p>and well-wisher, </p><p>BENJAMIN BABCOCK </p><p>P. S. I am greatly perplexed by Luini. </p><p>This letter produced in Newman's mind a singular mixture of exhilaration </p><p>and awe. At first, Mr. Babcock's tender conscience seemed to him a </p><p>capital farce, and his traveling back to Milan only to get into a </p><p>deeper muddle appeared, as the reward of his pedantry, exquisitely and </p><p>ludicrously just. Then Newman reflected that these are mighty mysteries, </p><p>that possibly he himself was indeed that baleful and barely mentionable </p><p>thing, a cynic, and that his manner of considering the treasures of art </p><p>and the privileges of life was probably very base and immoral. Newman </p><p>had a great contempt for immorality, and that evening, for a good half </p><p>hour, as he sat watching the star-sheen on the warm Adriatic, he felt </p><p>rebuked and depressed. He was at a loss how to answer Babcock's letter. </p><p>His good nature checked his resenting the young minister's lofty </p><p>admonitions, and his tough, inelastic sense of humor forbade his taking </p><p>them seriously. He wrote no answer at all but a day or two afterward he </p><p>found in a curiosity shop a grotesque little statuette in ivory, of the </p><p>sixteenth century, which he sent off to Babcock without a commentary. It </p><p>represented a gaunt, ascetic-looking monk, in a tattered gown and cowl,</p><p>kneeling with clasped hands and pulling a portentously long face. It was </p><p>a wonderfully delicate piece of carving, and in a moment, through one </p><p>of the rents of his gown, you espied a fat capon hung round the monk's </p><p>waist. In Newman's intention what did the figure symbolize? Did it mean </p><p>that he was going to try to be as "high-toned" as the monk looked at </p><p>first, but that he feared he should succeed no better than the friar, on </p><p>a closer inspection, proved to have done? It is not supposable that he </p><p>intended a satire upon Babcock's own asceticism, for this would have </p><p>been a truly cynical stroke. He made his late companion, at any rate, a </p><p>very valuable little present. </p><p>Newman, on leaving Venice, went through the Tyrol to Vienna, and then </p><p>returned westward, through Southern Germany. The autumn found him at </p><p>Baden-Baden, where he spent several weeks. The place was charming, and </p><p>he was in no hurry to depart; besides, he was looking about him and </p><p>deciding what to do for the winter. His summer had been very full, and </p><p>he sat under the great trees beside the miniature river that trickles </p><p>past the Baden flower-beds, he slowly rummaged it over. He had seen and </p><p>done a great deal, enjoyed and observed a great deal; he felt older, </p><p>and yet he felt younger too. He remembered Mr. Babcock and his desire </p><p>to form conclusions, and he remembered also that he had profited very </p><p>little by his friend's exhortation to cultivate the same respectable </p><p>habit. Could he not scrape together a few conclusions? Baden-Baden </p><p>was the prettiest place he had seen yet, and orchestral music in the </p><p>evening, under the stars, was decidedly a great institution. This was </p><p>one of his conclusions! But he went on to reflect that he had done very </p><p>wisely to pull up stakes and come abroad; this seeing of the world was </p><p>a very interesting thing. He had learned a great deal; he couldn't say </p><p>just what, but he had it there under his hat-band. He had done what he </p><p>wanted; he had seen the great things, and he had given his mind a chance </p><p>to "improve," if it would. He cheerfully believed that it had improved. </p><p>Yes, this seeing of the world was very pleasant, and he would willingly </p><p>do a little more of it. Thirty-six years old as he was, he had a </p><p>handsome stretch of life before him yet, and he need not begin to </p><p>count his weeks. Where should he take the world next? I have said he </p><p>remembered the eyes of the lady whom he had found standing in Mrs. </p><p>Tristram's drawing-room; four months had elapsed, and he had not </p><p>forgotten them yet. He had looked--he had made a point of looking--into </p><p>a great many other eyes in the interval, but the only ones he thought </p><p>of now were Madame de Cintre's. If he wanted to see more of the world, </p><p>should he find it in Madame de Cintre's eyes? He would certainly find </p><p>something there, call it this world or the next. Throughout these rather </p><p>formless meditations he sometimes thought of his past life and the long </p><p>array of years (they had begun so early) during which he had had nothing </p><p>in his head but "enterprise." They seemed far away now, for his present </p><p>attitude was more than a holiday, it was almost a rupture. He had told </p><p>Tristram that the pendulum was swinging back and it appeared that the </p><p>backward swing had not yet ended. Still "enterprise," which was over </p><p>in the other quarter wore to his mind a different aspect at different </p><p>hours. In its train a thousand forgotten episodes came trooping back </p><p>into his memory. Some of them he looked complacently enough in the face; </p><p>from some he averted his head. They were old efforts, old exploits, </p><p>antiquated examples of "smartness" and sharpness. Some of them, as he </p><p>looked at them, he felt decidedly proud of; he admired himself as if </p><p>he had been looking at another man. And, in fact, many of the qualities </p><p>that make a great deed were there: the decision, the resolution, the </p><p>courage, the celerity, the clear eye, and the strong hand. Of certain </p><p>other achievements it would be going too far to say that he was ashamed </p><p>of them for Newman had never had a stomach for dirty work. He was</p><p>blessed with a natural impulse to disfigure with a direct, unreasoning </p><p>blow the comely visage of temptation. And certainly, in no man could a </p><p>want of integrity have been less excusable. Newman knew the crooked from </p><p>the straight at a glance, and the former had cost him, first and last, </p><p>a great many moments of lively disgust. But none the less some of his </p><p>memories seemed to wear at present a rather graceless and sordid mien, </p><p>and it struck him that if he had never done anything very ugly, he had </p><p>never, on the other hand, done anything particularly beautiful. He had </p><p>spent his years in the unremitting effort to add thousands to thousands, </p><p>and, now that he stood well outside of it, the business of money-getting </p><p>appeared tolerably dry and sterile. It is very well to sneer at </p><p>money-getting after you have filled your pockets, and Newman, it may be </p><p>said, should have begun somewhat earlier to moralize thus delicately. To </p><p>this it may be answered that he might have made another fortune, if he </p><p>chose; and we ought to add that he was not exactly moralizing. It had </p><p>come back to him simply that what he had been looking at all summer was </p><p>a very rich and beautiful world, and that it had not all been made by </p><p>sharp railroad men and stock-brokers. </p><p>During his stay at Baden-Baden he received a letter from Mrs. Tristram, </p><p>scolding him for the scanty tidings he had sent to his friends of the </p><p>Avenue d'Iena, and begging to be definitely informed that he had not </p><p>concocted any horrid scheme for wintering in outlying regions, but was </p><p>coming back sanely and promptly to the most comfortable city in the </p><p>world. Newman's answer ran as follows:-- </p><p>"I supposed you knew I was a miserable letter-writer, and didn't expect </p><p>anything of me. I don't think I have written twenty letters of pure </p><p>friendship in my whole life; in America I conducted my correspondence </p><p>altogether by telegrams. This is a letter of pure friendship; you have </p><p>got hold of a curiosity, and I hope you will value it. You want to know </p><p>everything that has happened to me these three months. The best way to </p><p>tell you, I think, would be to send you my half dozen guide-books, with </p><p>my pencil-marks in the margin. Wherever you find a scratch or a cross, </p><p>or a 'Beautiful!' or a 'So true!' or a 'Too thin!' you may know that </p><p>I have had a sensation of some sort or other. That has been about my </p><p>history, ever since I left you. Belgium, Holland, Switzerland, Germany, </p><p>Italy, I have been through the whole list, and I don't think I am any </p><p>the worse for it. I know more about Madonnas and church-steeples than I </p><p>supposed any man could. I have seen some very pretty things, and shall </p><p>perhaps talk them over this winter, by your fireside. You see, my face </p><p>is not altogether set against Paris. I have had all kinds of plans and </p><p>visions, but your letter has blown most of them away. 'L'appetit vient </p><p>en mangeant,' says the French proverb, and I find that the more I see </p><p>of the world the more I want to see. Now that I am in the shafts, why </p><p>shouldn't I trot to the end of the course? Sometimes I think of the </p><p>far East, and keep rolling the names of Eastern cities under my tongue: </p><p>Damascus and Bagdad, Medina and Mecca. I spent a week last month in the </p><p>company of a returned missionary, who told me I ought to be ashamed to </p><p>be loafing about Europe when there are such big things to be seen out </p><p>there. I do want to explore, but I think I would rather explore over in </p><p>the Rue de l'Universite. Do you ever hear from that pretty lady? If you </p><p>can get her to promise she will be at home the next time I call, I will </p><p>go back to Paris straight. I am more than ever in the state of mind I </p><p>told you about that evening; I want a first-class wife. I have kept an </p><p>eye on all the pretty girls I have come across this summer, but none of </p><p>them came up to my notion, or anywhere near it. I should have enjoyed </p><p>all this a thousand times more if I had had the lady just mentioned </p><p>by my side. The nearest approach to her was a Unitarian minister from</p><p>Boston, who very soon demanded a separation, for incompatibility of </p><p>temper. He told me I was low-minded, immoral, a devotee of 'art for </p><p>art'--whatever that is: all of which greatly afflicted me, for he </p><p>was really a sweet little fellow. But shortly afterwards I met an </p><p>Englishman, with whom I struck up an acquaintance which at first seemed </p><p>to promise well--a very bright man, who writes in the London papers </p><p>and knows Paris nearly as well as Tristram. We knocked about for a week </p><p>together, but he very soon gave me up in disgust. I was too virtuous by </p><p>half; I was too stern a moralist. He told me, in a friendly way, that I </p><p>was cursed with a conscience; that I judged things like a Methodist and </p><p>talked about them like an old lady. This was rather bewildering. Which </p><p>of my two critics was I to believe? I didn't worry about it and very </p><p>soon made up my mind they were both idiots. But there is one thing in </p><p>which no one will ever have the impudence to pretend I am wrong, that </p><p>is, in being your faithful friend, </p><p>"C. N." </p><p>CHAPTER VI </p><p>Newman gave up Damascus and Bagdad and returned to Paris before the </p><p>autumn was over. He established himself in some rooms selected for him </p><p>by Tom Tristram, in accordance with the latter's estimate of what he </p><p>called his social position. When Newman learned that his social position </p><p>was to be taken into account, he professed himself utterly incompetent, </p><p>and begged Tristram to relieve him of the care. "I didn't know I had a </p><p>social position," he said, "and if I have, I haven't the smallest idea </p><p>what it is. Isn't a social position knowing some two or three thousand </p><p>people and inviting them to dinner? I know you and your wife and little </p><p>old Mr. Nioche, who gave me French lessons last spring. Can I invite you </p><p>to dinner to meet each other? If I can, you must come to-morrow." </p><p>"That is not very grateful to me," said Mrs. Tristram, "who introduced </p><p>you last year to every creature I know." </p><p>"So you did; I had quite forgotten. But I thought you wanted me to </p><p>forget," said Newman, with that tone of simple deliberateness which </p><p>frequently marked his utterance, and which an observer would not have </p><p>known whether to pronounce a somewhat mysteriously humorous affection of </p><p>ignorance or a modest aspiration to knowledge; "you told me you disliked </p><p>them all." </p><p>"Ah, the way you remember what I say is at least very flattering. But </p><p>in future," added Mrs. Tristram, "pray forget all the wicked things and </p><p>remember only the good ones. It will be easily done, and it will not </p><p>fatigue your memory. But I forewarn you that if you trust my husband to </p><p>pick out your rooms, you are in for something hideous." </p><p>"Hideous, darling?" cried Tristram. </p><p>"To-day I must say nothing wicked; otherwise I should use stronger </p><p>language." </p><p>"What do you think she would say, Newman?" asked Tristram. "If she </p><p>really tried, now? She can express displeasure, volubly, in two or three </p><p>languages; that's what it is to be intellectual. It gives her the start</p><p>of me completely, for I can't swear, for the life of me, except in </p><p>English. When I get mad I have to fall back on our dear old mother </p><p>tongue. There's nothing like it, after all." </p><p>Newman declared that he knew nothing about tables and chairs, and that </p><p>he would accept, in the way of a lodging, with his eyes shut, anything </p><p>that Tristram should offer him. This was partly veracity on our hero's </p><p>part, but it was also partly charity. He knew that to pry about and look </p><p>at rooms, and make people open windows, and poke into sofas with his </p><p>cane, and gossip with landladies, and ask who lived above and who </p><p>below--he knew that this was of all pastimes the dearest to Tristram's </p><p>heart, and he felt the more disposed to put it in his way as he was </p><p>conscious that, as regards his obliging friend, he had suffered the </p><p>warmth of ancient good-fellowship somewhat to abate. Besides, he had no </p><p>taste for upholstery; he had even no very exquisite sense of comfort </p><p>or convenience. He had a relish for luxury and splendor, but it was </p><p>satisfied by rather gross contrivances. He scarcely knew a hard chair </p><p>from a soft one, and he possessed a talent for stretching his legs which </p><p>quite dispensed with adventitious facilities. His idea of comfort was to </p><p>inhabit very large rooms, have a great many of them, and be conscious of </p><p>their possessing a number of patented mechanical devices--half of which </p><p>he should never have occasion to use. The apartments should be light and </p><p>brilliant and lofty; he had once said that he liked rooms in which you </p><p>wanted to keep your hat on. For the rest, he was satisfied with the </p><p>assurance of any respectable person that everything was "handsome." </p><p>Tristram accordingly secured for him an apartment to which this epithet </p><p>might be lavishly applied. It was situated on the Boulevard Haussmann, </p><p>on the first floor, and consisted of a series of rooms, gilded from </p><p>floor to ceiling a foot thick, draped in various light shades of satin, </p><p>and chiefly furnished with mirrors and clocks. Newman thought them </p><p>magnificent, thanked Tristram heartily, immediately took possession, and </p><p>had one of his trunks standing for three months in his drawing-room. </p><p>One day Mrs. Tristram told him that her beautiful friend, Madame de </p><p>Cintre, had returned from the country; that she had met her three days </p><p>before, coming out of the Church of St. Sulpice; she herself having </p><p>journeyed to that distant quarter in quest of an obscure lace-mender, of </p><p>whose skill she had heard high praise. </p><p>"And how were those eyes?" Newman asked. </p><p>"Those eyes were red with weeping, if you please!" said Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"She had been to confession." </p><p>"It doesn't tally with your account of her," said Newman, "that she </p><p>should have sins to confess." </p><p>"They were not sins; they were sufferings." </p><p>"How do you know that?" </p><p>"She asked me to come and see her; I went this morning." </p><p>"And what does she suffer from?" </p><p>"I didn't ask her. With her, somehow, one is very discreet. But I </p><p>guessed, easily enough. She suffers from her wicked old mother and her </p><p>Grand Turk of a brother. They persecute her. But I can almost forgive </p><p>them, because, as I told you, she is a saint, and a persecution is all</p><p>that she needs to bring out her saintliness and make her perfect." </p><p>"That's a comfortable theory for her. I hope you will never impart it </p><p>to the old folks. Why does she let them bully her? Is she not her own </p><p>mistress?" </p><p>"Legally, yes, I suppose; but morally, no. In France you must never say </p><p>nay to your mother, whatever she requires of you. She may be the most </p><p>abominable old woman in the world, and make your life a purgatory; but, </p><p>after all, she is ma mere, and you have no right to judge her. You have </p><p>simply to obey. The thing has a fine side to it. Madame de Cintre bows </p><p>her head and folds her wings." </p><p>"Can't she at least make her brother leave off?" </p><p>"Her brother is the chef de la famille, as they say; he is the head of </p><p>the clan. With those people the family is everything; you must act, not </p><p>for your own pleasure, but for the advantage of the family." </p><p>"I wonder what my family would like me to do!" exclaimed Tristram. </p><p>"I wish you had one!" said his wife. </p><p>"But what do they want to get out of that poor lady?" Newman asked. </p><p>"Another marriage. They are not rich, and they want to bring more money </p><p>into the family." </p><p>"There's your chance, my boy!" said Tristram. </p><p>"And Madame de Cintre objects," Newman continued. </p><p>"She has been sold once; she naturally objects to being sold again. </p><p>It appears that the first time they made rather a poor bargain; M. de </p><p>Cintre left a scanty property." </p><p>"And to whom do they want to marry her now?" </p><p>"I thought it best not to ask; but you may be sure it is to some horrid </p><p>old nabob, or to some dissipated little duke." </p><p>"There's Mrs. Tristram, as large as life!" cried her husband. "Observe </p><p>the richness of her imagination. She has not a single question--it's </p><p>vulgar to ask questions--and yet she knows everything. She has the </p><p>history of Madame de Cintre's marriage at her fingers' ends. She has </p><p>seen the lovely Claire on her knees, with loosened tresses and streaming </p><p>eyes, and the rest of them standing over her with spikes and goads and </p><p>red-hot irons, ready to come down on her if she refuses the tipsy duke. </p><p>The simple truth is that they made a fuss about her milliner's bill or </p><p>refused her an opera-box." </p><p>Newman looked from Tristram to his wife with a certain mistrust in each </p><p>direction. "Do you really mean," he asked of Mrs. Tristram, "that your </p><p>friend is being forced into an unhappy marriage?" </p><p>"I think it extremely probable. Those people are very capable of that </p><p>sort of thing." </p><p>"It is like something in a play," said Newman; "that dark old house over</p><p>there looks as if wicked things had been done in it, and might be done </p><p>again." </p><p>"They have a still darker old house in the country Madame de Cintre </p><p>tells me, and there, during the summer this scheme must have been </p><p>hatched." </p><p>"MUST have been; mind that!" said Tristram. </p><p>"After all," suggested Newman, after a silence, "she may be in trouble </p><p>about something else." </p><p>"If it is something else, then it is something worse," said Mrs. </p><p>Tristram, with rich decision. </p><p>Newman was silent a while, and seemed lost in meditation. "Is it </p><p>possible," he asked at last, "that they do that sort of thing over here? </p><p>that helpless women are bullied into marrying men they hate?" </p><p>"Helpless women, all over the world, have a hard time of it," said Mrs. </p><p>Tristram. "There is plenty of bullying everywhere." </p><p>"A great deal of that kind of thing goes on in New York," said Tristram. </p><p>"Girls are bullied or coaxed or bribed, or all three together, into </p><p>marrying nasty fellows. There is no end of that always going on in the </p><p>Fifth Avenue, and other bad things besides. The Mysteries of the Fifth </p><p>Avenue! Some one ought to show them up." </p><p>"I don't believe it!" said Newman, very gravely. "I don't believe that, </p><p>in America, girls are ever subjected to compulsion. I don't believe </p><p>there have been a dozen cases of it since the country began." </p><p>"Listen to the voice of the spread eagle!" cried Tristram. </p><p>"The spread eagle ought to use his wings," said Mrs. Tristram. "Fly to </p><p>the rescue of Madame de Cintre!" </p><p>"To her rescue?" </p><p>"Pounce down, seize her in your talons, and carry her off. Marry her </p><p>yourself." </p><p>Newman, for some moments, answered nothing; but presently, "I should </p><p>suppose she had heard enough of marrying," he said. "The kindest way to </p><p>treat her would be to admire her, and yet never to speak of it. But that </p><p>sort of thing is infamous," he added; "it makes me feel savage to hear </p><p>of it." </p><p>He heard of it, however, more than once afterward. Mrs. Tristram again </p><p>saw Madame de Cintre, and again found her looking very sad. But on these </p><p>occasions there had been no tears; her beautiful eyes were clear and </p><p>still. "She is cold, calm, and hopeless," Mrs. Tristram declared, and </p><p>she added that on her mentioning that her friend Mr. Newman was again </p><p>in Paris and was faithful in his desire to make Madame de Cintre's </p><p>acquaintance, this lovely woman had found a smile in her despair, and </p><p>declared that she was sorry to have missed his visit in the spring and </p><p>that she hoped he had not lost courage. "I told her something about </p><p>you," said Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"That's a comfort," said Newman, placidly. "I like people to know about </p><p>me." </p><p>A few days after this, one dusky autumn afternoon, he went again to the </p><p>Rue de l'Universite. The early evening had closed in as he applied for </p><p>admittance at the stoutly guarded Hotel de Bellegarde. He was told that </p><p>Madame de Cintre was at home; he crossed the court, entered the farther </p><p>door, and was conducted through a vestibule, vast, dim, and cold, up a </p><p>broad stone staircase with an ancient iron balustrade, to an apartment </p><p>on the second floor. Announced and ushered in, he found himself in a </p><p>sort of paneled boudoir, at one end of which a lady and gentleman were </p><p>seated before the fire. The gentleman was smoking a cigarette; there was </p><p>no light in the room save that of a couple of candles and the glow from </p><p>the hearth. Both persons rose to welcome Newman, who, in the firelight, </p><p>recognized Madame de Cintre. She gave him her hand with a smile which </p><p>seemed in itself an illumination, and, pointing to her companion, said </p><p>softly, "My brother." The gentleman offered Newman a frank, friendly </p><p>greeting, and our hero then perceived him to be the young man who had </p><p>spoken to him in the court of the hotel on his former visit and who had </p><p>struck him as a good fellow. </p><p>"Mrs. Tristram has spoken to me a great deal of you," said Madame de </p><p>Cintre gently, as she resumed her former place. </p><p>Newman, after he had seated himself, began to consider what, in truth, </p><p>was his errand. He had an unusual, unexpected sense of having wandered </p><p>into a strange corner of the world. He was not given, as a general </p><p>thing, to anticipating danger, or forecasting disaster, and he had had </p><p>no social tremors on this particular occasion. He was not timid and he </p><p>was not impudent. He felt too kindly toward himself to be the one, and </p><p>too good-naturedly toward the rest of the world to be the other. But his </p><p>native shrewdness sometimes placed his ease of temper at its mercy; with </p><p>every disposition to take things simply, it was obliged to perceive that </p><p>some things were not so simple as others. He felt as one does in missing </p><p>a step, in an ascent, where one expected to find it. This strange, </p><p>pretty woman, sitting in fire-side talk with her brother, in the gray </p><p>depths of her inhospitable-looking house--what had he to say to her? She </p><p>seemed enveloped in a sort of fantastic privacy; on what grounds had he </p><p>pulled away the curtain? For a moment he felt as if he had plunged into </p><p>some medium as deep as the ocean, and as if he must exert himself to </p><p>keep from sinking. Meanwhile he was looking at Madame de Cintre, and </p><p>she was settling herself in her chair and drawing in her long dress and </p><p>turning her face towards him. Their eyes met; a moment afterwards she </p><p>looked away and motioned to her brother to put a log on the fire. But </p><p>the moment, and the glance which traversed it, had been sufficient to </p><p>relieve Newman of the first and the last fit of personal embarrassment </p><p>he was ever to know. He performed the movement which was so frequent </p><p>with him, and which was always a sort of symbol of his taking mental </p><p>possession of a scene--he extended his legs. The impression Madame de </p><p>Cintre had made upon him on their first meeting came back in an instant; </p><p>it had been deeper than he knew. She was pleasing, she was interesting; </p><p>he had opened a book and the first lines held his attention. </p><p>She asked him several questions: how lately he had seen Mrs. Tristram, </p><p>how long he had been in Paris, how long he expected to remain there, how </p><p>he liked it. She spoke English without an accent, or rather with that </p><p>distinctively British accent which, on his arrival in Europe, had struck </p><p>Newman as an altogether foreign tongue, but which, in women, he had come </p><p>to like extremely. Here and there Madame de Cintre's utterance had a</p><p>faint shade of strangeness but at the end of ten minutes Newman found </p><p>himself waiting for these soft roughnesses. He enjoyed them, and he </p><p>marveled to see that gross thing, error, brought down to so fine a </p><p>point. </p><p>"You have a beautiful country," said Madame de Cintre, presently. </p><p>"Oh, magnificent!" said Newman. "You ought to see it." </p><p>"I shall never see it," said Madame de Cintre with a smile. </p><p>"Why not?" asked Newman. </p><p>"I don't travel; especially so far." </p><p>"But you go away sometimes; you are not always here?" </p><p>"I go away in summer, a little way, to the country." </p><p>Newman wanted to ask her something more, something personal, he hardly </p><p>knew what. "Don't you find it rather--rather quiet here?" he said; </p><p>"so far from the street?" Rather "gloomy," he was going to say, but he </p><p>reflected that that would be impolite. </p><p>"Yes, it is very quiet," said Madame de Cintre; "but we like that." </p><p>"Ah, you like that," repeated Newman, slowly. </p><p>"Besides, I have lived here all my life." </p><p>"Lived here all your life," said Newman, in the same way. </p><p>"I was born here, and my father was born here before me, and my </p><p>grandfather, and my great-grandfathers. Were they not, Valentin?" and </p><p>she appealed to her brother. </p><p>"Yes, it's a family habit to be born here!" the young man said with a </p><p>laugh, and rose and threw the remnant of his cigarette into the fire, </p><p>and then remained leaning against the chimney-piece. An observer would </p><p>have perceived that he wished to take a better look at Newman, whom he </p><p>covertly examined, while he stood stroking his mustache. </p><p>"Your house is tremendously old, then," said Newman. </p><p>"How old is it, brother?" asked Madame de Cintre. </p><p>The young man took the two candles from the mantel-shelf, lifted one </p><p>high in each hand, and looked up toward the cornice of the room, above </p><p>the chimney-piece. This latter feature of the apartment was of white </p><p>marble, and in the familiar rococo style of the last century; but above </p><p>it was a paneling of an earlier date, quaintly carved, painted white, </p><p>and gilded here and there. The white had turned to yellow, and the </p><p>gilding was tarnished. On the top, the figures ranged themselves into </p><p>a sort of shield, on which an armorial device was cut. Above it, in </p><p>relief, was a date--1627. "There you have it," said the young man. "That </p><p>is old or new, according to your point of view." </p><p>"Well, over here," said Newman, "one's point of view gets shifted round </p><p>considerably." And he threw back his head and looked about the room.</p><p>"Your house is of a very curious style of architecture," he said. </p><p>"Are you interested in architecture?" asked the young man at the </p><p>chimney-piece. </p><p>"Well, I took the trouble, this summer," said Newman, "to examine--as </p><p>well as I can calculate--some four hundred and seventy churches. Do you </p><p>call that interested?" </p><p>"Perhaps you are interested in theology," said the young man. </p><p>"Not particularly. Are you a Roman Catholic, madam?" And he turned to </p><p>Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"Yes, sir," she answered, gravely. </p><p>Newman was struck with the gravity of her tone; he threw back his head </p><p>and began to look round the room again. "Had you never noticed that </p><p>number up there?" he presently asked. </p><p>She hesitated a moment, and then, "In former years," she said. </p><p>Her brother had been watching Newman's movement. "Perhaps you would like </p><p>to examine the house," he said. </p><p>Newman slowly brought down his eyes and looked at him; he had a vague </p><p>impression that the young man at the chimney-piece was inclined to </p><p>irony. He was a handsome fellow, his face wore a smile, his mustaches </p><p>were curled up at the ends, and there was a little dancing gleam in his </p><p>eye. "Damn his French impudence!" Newman was on the point of saying to </p><p>himself. "What the deuce is he grinning at?" He glanced at Madame de </p><p>Cintre; she was sitting with her eyes fixed on the floor. She raised </p><p>them, they met his, and she looked at her brother. Newman turned again </p><p>to this young man and observed that he strikingly resembled his sister. </p><p>This was in his favor, and our hero's first impression of the Count </p><p>Valentin, moreover, had been agreeable. His mistrust expired, and he </p><p>said he would be very glad to see the house. </p><p>The young man gave a frank laugh, and laid his hand on one of the </p><p>candlesticks. "Good, good!" he exclaimed. "Come, then." </p><p>But Madame de Cintre rose quickly and grasped his arm, "Ah, Valentin!" </p><p>she said. "What do you mean to do?" </p><p>"To show Mr. Newman the house. It will be very amusing." </p><p>She kept her hand on his arm, and turned to Newman with a smile. "Don't </p><p>let him take you," she said; "you will not find it amusing. It is a </p><p>musty old house, like any other." </p><p>"It is full of curious things," said the count, resisting. "Besides, I </p><p>want to do it; it is a rare chance." </p><p>"You are very wicked, brother," Madame de Cintre answered. </p><p>"Nothing venture, nothing have!" cried the young man. "Will you come?" </p><p>Madame de Cintre stepped toward Newman, gently clasping her hands and </p><p>smiling softly. "Would you not prefer my society, here, by my fire, to</p><p>stumbling about dark passages after my brother?" </p><p>"A hundred times!" said Newman. "We will see the house some other day." </p><p>The young man put down his candlestick with mock solemnity, and, shaking </p><p>his head, "Ah, you have defeated a great scheme, sir!" he said. </p><p>"A scheme? I don't understand," said Newman. </p><p>"You would have played your part in it all the better. Perhaps some day </p><p>I shall have a chance to explain it." </p><p>"Be quiet, and ring for the tea," said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>The young man obeyed, and presently a servant brought in the tea, placed </p><p>the tray on a small table, and departed. Madame de Cintre, from her </p><p>place, busied herself with making it. She had but just begun when the </p><p>door was thrown open and a lady rushed in, making a loud rustling sound. </p><p>She stared at Newman, gave a little nod and a "Monsieur!" and then </p><p>quickly approached Madame de Cintre and presented her forehead to be </p><p>kissed. Madame de Cintre saluted her, and continued to make tea. The </p><p>new-comer was young and pretty, it seemed to Newman; she wore her bonnet </p><p>and cloak, and a train of royal proportions. She began to talk rapidly </p><p>in French. "Oh, give me some tea, my beautiful one, for the love of God! </p><p>I'm exhausted, mangled, massacred." Newman found himself quite unable to </p><p>follow her; she spoke much less distinctly than M. Nioche. </p><p>"That is my sister-in-law," said the Count Valentin, leaning towards </p><p>him. </p><p>"She is very pretty," said Newman. </p><p>"Exquisite," answered the young man, and this time, again, Newman </p><p>suspected him of irony. </p><p>His sister-in-law came round to the other side of the fire with her cup </p><p>of tea in her hand, holding it out at arm's-length, so that she might </p><p>not spill it on her dress, and uttering little cries of alarm. She </p><p>placed the cup on the mantel-shelf and begun to unpin her veil and pull </p><p>off her gloves, looking meanwhile at Newman. </p><p>"Is there any thing I can do for you, my dear lady?" the Count Valentin </p><p>asked, in a sort of mock-caressing tone. </p><p>"Present monsieur," said his sister-in-law. </p><p>The young man answered, "Mr. Newman!" </p><p>"I can't courtesy to you, monsieur, or I shall spill my tea," said the </p><p>lady. "So Claire receives strangers, like that?" she added, in a low </p><p>voice, in French, to her brother-in-law. </p><p>"Apparently!" he answered with a smile. Newman stood a moment, and then </p><p>he approached Madame de Cintre. She looked up at him as if she were </p><p>thinking of something to say. But she seemed to think of nothing; so she </p><p>simply smiled. He sat down near her and she handed him a cup of tea. For </p><p>a few moments they talked about that, and meanwhile he looked at her. </p><p>He remembered what Mrs. Tristram had told him of her "perfection" and of </p><p>her having, in combination, all the brilliant things that he dreamed</p><p>of finding. This made him observe her not only without mistrust, but </p><p>without uneasy conjectures; the presumption, from the first moment he </p><p>looked at her, had been in her favor. And yet, if she was beautiful, it </p><p>was not a dazzling beauty. She was tall and moulded in long lines; </p><p>she had thick fair hair, a wide forehead, and features with a sort of </p><p>harmonious irregularity. Her clear gray eyes were strikingly expressive; </p><p>they were both gentle and intelligent, and Newman liked them immensely; </p><p>but they had not those depths of splendor--those many-colored </p><p>rays--which illumine the brows of famous beauties. Madame de Cintre was </p><p>rather thin, and she looked younger than probably she was. In her whole </p><p>person there was something both youthful and subdued, slender and </p><p>yet ample, tranquil yet shy; a mixture of immaturity and repose, of </p><p>innocence and dignity. What had Tristram meant, Newman wondered, by </p><p>calling her proud? She was certainly not proud now, to him; or if she </p><p>was, it was of no use, it was lost upon him; she must pile it up higher </p><p>if she expected him to mind it. She was a beautiful woman, and it was </p><p>very easy to get on with her. Was she a countess, a marquise, a kind of </p><p>historical formation? Newman, who had rarely heard these words used, </p><p>had never been at pains to attach any particular image to them; but they </p><p>occurred to him now and seemed charged with a sort of melodious meaning. </p><p>They signified something fair and softly bright, that had easy motions </p><p>and spoke very agreeably. </p><p>"Have you many friends in Paris; do you go out?" asked Madame de Cintre, </p><p>who had at last thought of something to say. </p><p>"Do you mean do I dance, and all that?" </p><p>"Do you go dans le monde, as we say?" </p><p>"I have seen a good many people. Mrs. Tristram has taken me about. I do </p><p>whatever she tells me." </p><p>"By yourself, you are not fond of amusements?" </p><p>"Oh yes, of some sorts. I am not fond of dancing, and that sort of </p><p>thing; I am too old and sober. But I want to be amused; I came to Europe </p><p>for that." </p><p>"But you can be amused in America, too." </p><p>"I couldn't; I was always at work. But after all, that was my </p><p>amusement." </p><p>At this moment Madame de Bellegarde came back for another cup of tea, </p><p>accompanied by the Count Valentin. Madame de Cintre, when she had served </p><p>her, began to talk again with Newman, and recalling what he had last </p><p>said, "In your own country you were very much occupied?" she asked. </p><p>"I was in business. I have been in business since I was fifteen years </p><p>old." </p><p>"And what was your business?" asked Madame de Bellegarde, who was </p><p>decidedly not so pretty as Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"I have been in everything," said Newman. "At one time I sold leather; </p><p>at one time I manufactured wash-tubs." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde made a little grimace. "Leather? I don't like that.</p><p>Wash-tubs are better. I prefer the smell of soap. I hope at least they </p><p>made your fortune." She rattled this off with the air of a woman who had </p><p>the reputation of saying everything that came into her head, and with a </p><p>strong French accent. </p><p>Newman had spoken with cheerful seriousness, but Madame de Bellegarde's </p><p>tone made him go on, after a meditative pause, with a certain light </p><p>grimness of jocularity. "No, I lost money on wash-tubs, but I came out </p><p>pretty square on leather." </p><p>"I have made up my mind, after all," said Madame de Bellegarde, "that </p><p>the great point is--how do you call it?--to come out square. I am on my </p><p>knees to money; I don't deny it. If you have it, I ask no questions. For </p><p>that I am a real democrat--like you, monsieur. Madame de Cintre is very </p><p>proud; but I find that one gets much more pleasure in this sad life if </p><p>one doesn't look too close." </p><p>"Just Heaven, dear madam, how you go at it," said the Count Valentin, </p><p>lowering his voice. </p><p>"He's a man one can speak to, I suppose, since my sister receives him," </p><p>the lady answered. "Besides, it's very true; those are my ideas." </p><p>"Ah, you call them ideas," murmured the young man. </p><p>"But Mrs. Tristram told me you had been in the army--in your war," said </p><p>Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"Yes, but that is not business!" said Newman. </p><p>"Very true!" said M. de Bellegarde. "Otherwise perhaps I should not be </p><p>penniless." </p><p>"Is it true," asked Newman in a moment, "that you are so proud? I had </p><p>already heard it." </p><p>Madame de Cintre smiled. "Do you find me so?" </p><p>"Oh," said Newman, "I am no judge. If you are proud with me, you will </p><p>have to tell me. Otherwise I shall not know it." </p><p>Madame de Cintre began to laugh. "That would be pride in a sad </p><p>position!" she said. </p><p>"It would be partly," Newman went on, "because I shouldn't want to know </p><p>it. I want you to treat me well." </p><p>Madame de Cintre, whose laugh had ceased, looked at him with her head </p><p>half averted, as if she feared what he was going to say. </p><p>"Mrs. Tristram told you the literal truth," he went on; "I want very </p><p>much to know you. I didn't come here simply to call to-day; I came in </p><p>the hope that you might ask me to come again." </p><p>"Oh, pray come often," said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"But will you be at home?" Newman insisted. Even to himself he seemed a </p><p>trifle "pushing," but he was, in truth, a trifle excited. </p><p>"I hope so!" said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>Newman got up. "Well, we shall see," he said smoothing his hat with his </p><p>coat-cuff. </p><p>"Brother," said Madame de Cintre, "invite Mr. Newman to come again." </p><p>The Count Valentin looked at our hero from head to foot with his </p><p>peculiar smile, in which impudence and urbanity seemed perplexingly </p><p>commingled. "Are you a brave man?" he asked, eying him askance. </p><p>"Well, I hope so," said Newman. </p><p>"I rather suspect so. In that case, come again." </p><p>"Ah, what an invitation!" murmured Madame de Cintre, with something </p><p>painful in her smile. </p><p>"Oh, I want Mr. Newman to come--particularly," said the young man. "It </p><p>will give me great pleasure. I shall be desolate if I miss one of his </p><p>visits. But I maintain he must be brave. A stout heart, sir!" And he </p><p>offered Newman his hand. </p><p>"I shall not come to see you; I shall come to see Madame de Cintre," </p><p>said Newman. </p><p>"You will need all the more courage." </p><p>"Ah, Valentin!" said Madame de Cintre, appealingly. </p><p>"Decidedly," cried Madame de Bellegarde, "I am the only person here </p><p>capable of saying something polite! Come to see me; you will need no </p><p>courage," she said. </p><p>Newman gave a laugh which was not altogether an assent, and took his </p><p>leave. Madame de Cintre did not take up her sister's challenge to be </p><p>gracious, but she looked with a certain troubled air at the retreating </p><p>guest. </p><p>CHAPTER VII </p><p>One evening very late, about a week after his visit to Madame de </p><p>Cintre, Newman's servant brought him a card. It was that of young M. de </p><p>Bellegarde. When, a few moments later, he went to receive his visitor, </p><p>he found him standing in the middle of his great gilded parlor and eying </p><p>it from cornice to carpet. M. de Bellegarde's face, it seemed to </p><p>Newman, expressed a sense of lively entertainment. "What the devil is </p><p>he laughing at now?" our hero asked himself. But he put the question </p><p>without acrimony, for he felt that Madame de Cintre's brother was a good </p><p>fellow, and he had a presentiment that on this basis of good fellowship </p><p>they were destined to understand each other. Only, if there was anything </p><p>to laugh at, he wished to have a glimpse of it too. </p><p>"To begin with," said the young man, as he extended his hand, "have I </p><p>come too late?" </p><p>"Too late for what?" asked Newman. </p><p>"To smoke a cigar with you." </p><p>"You would have to come early to do that," said Newman. "I don't smoke." </p><p>"Ah, you are a strong man!" </p><p>"But I keep cigars," Newman added. "Sit down." </p><p>"Surely, I may not smoke here," said M. de Bellegarde. </p><p>"What is the matter? Is the room too small?" </p><p>"It is too large. It is like smoking in a ball-room, or a church." </p><p>"That is what you were laughing at just now?" Newman asked; "the size of </p><p>my room?" </p><p>"It is not size only," replied M. de Bellegarde, "but splendor, and </p><p>harmony, and beauty of detail. It was the smile of admiration." </p><p>Newman looked at him a moment, and then, "So it IS very ugly?" he </p><p>inquired. </p><p>"Ugly, my dear sir? It is magnificent." </p><p>"That is the same thing, I suppose," said Newman. "Make yourself </p><p>comfortable. Your coming to see me, I take it, is an act of friendship. </p><p>You were not obliged to. Therefore, if anything around here amuses you, </p><p>it will be all in a pleasant way. Laugh as loud as you please; I like </p><p>to see my visitors cheerful. Only, I must make this request: that you </p><p>explain the joke to me as soon as you can speak. I don't want to lose </p><p>anything, myself." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde stared, with a look of unresentful perplexity. He laid </p><p>his hand on Newman's sleeve and seemed on the point of saying something, </p><p>but he suddenly checked himself, leaned back in his chair, and puffed </p><p>at his cigar. At last, however, breaking silence,--"Certainly," he said, </p><p>"my coming to see you is an act of friendship. Nevertheless I was in a </p><p>measure obliged to do so. My sister asked me to come, and a request from </p><p>my sister is, for me, a law. I was near you, and I observed lights </p><p>in what I supposed were your rooms. It was not a ceremonious hour for </p><p>making a call, but I was not sorry to do something that would show I was </p><p>not performing a mere ceremony." </p><p>"Well, here I am as large as life," said Newman, extending his legs. </p><p>"I don't know what you mean," the young man went on "by giving me </p><p>unlimited leave to laugh. Certainly I am a great laugher, and it is </p><p>better to laugh too much than too little. But it is not in order that we </p><p>may laugh together--or separately--that I have, I may say, sought your </p><p>acquaintance. To speak with almost impudent frankness, you interest me!" </p><p>All this was uttered by M. de Bellegarde with the modulated smoothness </p><p>of the man of the world, and in spite of his excellent English, of </p><p>the Frenchman; but Newman, at the same time that he sat noting its </p><p>harmonious flow, perceived that it was not mere mechanical urbanity. </p><p>Decidedly, there was something in his visitor that he liked. M. de </p><p>Bellegarde was a foreigner to his finger-tips, and if Newman had met him</p><p>on a Western prairie he would have felt it proper to address him with a </p><p>"How-d'ye-do, Mosseer?" But there was something in his physiognomy which </p><p>seemed to cast a sort of aerial bridge over the impassable gulf produced </p><p>by difference of race. He was below the middle height, and robust and </p><p>agile in figure. Valentin de Bellegarde, Newman afterwards learned, had </p><p>a mortal dread of the robustness overtaking the agility; he was afraid </p><p>of growing stout; he was too short, as he said, to afford a belly. He </p><p>rode and fenced and practiced gymnastics with unremitting zeal, and if </p><p>you greeted him with a "How well you are looking" he started and turned </p><p>pale. In your WELL he read a grosser monosyllable. He had a round head, </p><p>high above the ears, a crop of hair at once dense and silky, a broad, </p><p>low forehead, a short nose, of the ironical and inquiring rather than of </p><p>the dogmatic or sensitive cast, and a mustache as delicate as that of </p><p>a page in a romance. He resembled his sister not in feature, but in the </p><p>expression of his clear, bright eye, completely void of introspection, </p><p>and in the way he smiled. The great point in his face was that it was </p><p>intensely alive--frankly, ardently, gallantly alive. The look of it </p><p>was like a bell, of which the handle might have been in the young man's </p><p>soul: at a touch of the handle it rang with a loud, silver sound. There </p><p>was something in his quick, light brown eye which assured you that he </p><p>was not economizing his consciousness. He was not living in a corner of </p><p>it to spare the furniture of the rest. He was squarely encamped in the </p><p>centre and he was keeping open house. When he smiled, it was like the </p><p>movement of a person who in emptying a cup turns it upside down: he gave </p><p>you the last drop of his jollity. He inspired Newman with something of </p><p>the same kindness that our hero used to feel in his earlier years </p><p>for those of his companions who could perform strange and clever </p><p>tricks--make their joints crack in queer places or whistle at the back </p><p>of their mouths. </p><p>"My sister told me," M. de Bellegarde continued, "that I ought to come </p><p>and remove the impression that I had taken such great pains to produce </p><p>upon you; the impression that I am a lunatic. Did it strike you that I </p><p>behaved very oddly the other day?" </p><p>"Rather so," said Newman. </p><p>"So my sister tells me." And M. de Bellegarde watched his host for a </p><p>moment through his smoke-wreaths. "If that is the case, I think we had </p><p>better let it stand. I didn't try to make you think I was a lunatic, at </p><p>all; on the contrary, I wanted to produce a favorable impression. </p><p>But if, after all, I made a fool of myself, it was the intention of </p><p>Providence. I should injure myself by protesting too much, for I </p><p>should seem to set up a claim for wisdom which, in the sequel of our </p><p>acquaintance, I could by no means justify. Set me down as a lunatic with </p><p>intervals of sanity." </p><p>"Oh, I guess you know what you are about," said Newman. </p><p>"When I am sane, I am very sane; that I admit," M. de Bellegarde </p><p>answered. "But I didn't come here to talk about myself. I should like to </p><p>ask you a few questions. You allow me?" </p><p>"Give me a specimen," said Newman. </p><p>"You live here all alone?" </p><p>"Absolutely. With whom should I live?" </p><p>"For the moment," said M. de Bellegarde with a smile "I am asking </p><p>questions, not answering them. You have come to Paris for your </p><p>pleasure?" </p><p>Newman was silent a while. Then, at last, "Every one asks me that!" he </p><p>said with his mild slowness. "It sounds so awfully foolish." </p><p>"But at any rate you had a reason." </p><p>"Oh, I came for my pleasure!" said Newman. "Though it is foolish, it is </p><p>true." </p><p>"And you are enjoying it?" </p><p>Like any other good American, Newman thought it as well not to truckle </p><p>to the foreigner. "Oh, so-so," he answered. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde puffed his cigar again in silence. "For myself," he </p><p>said at last, "I am entirely at your service. Anything I can do for you </p><p>I shall be very happy to do. Call upon me at your convenience. Is there </p><p>any one you desire to know--anything you wish to see? It is a pity you </p><p>should not enjoy Paris." </p><p>"Oh, I do enjoy it!" said Newman, good-naturedly. "I'm much obligated to </p><p>you." </p><p>"Honestly speaking," M. de Bellegarde went on, "there is something </p><p>absurd to me in hearing myself make you these offers. They represent </p><p>a great deal of goodwill, but they represent little else. You are a </p><p>successful man and I am a failure, and it's a turning of the tables to </p><p>talk as if I could lend you a hand." </p><p>"In what way are you a failure?" asked Newman. </p><p>"Oh, I'm not a tragical failure!" cried the young man with a laugh. </p><p>"I have fallen from a height, and my fiasco has made no noise. You, </p><p>evidently, are a success. You have made a fortune, you have built up an </p><p>edifice, you are a financial, commercial power, you can travel about </p><p>the world until you have found a soft spot, and lie down in it with </p><p>the consciousness of having earned your rest. Is not that true? Well, </p><p>imagine the exact reverse of all that, and you have me. I have done </p><p>nothing--I can do nothing!" </p><p>"Why not?" </p><p>"It's a long story. Some day I will tell you. Meanwhile, I'm right, eh? </p><p>You are a success? You have made a fortune? It's none of my business, </p><p>but, in short, you are rich?" </p><p>"That's another thing that it sounds foolish to say," said Newman. "Hang </p><p>it, no man is rich!" </p><p>"I have heard philosophers affirm," laughed M. de Bellegarde, "that </p><p>no man was poor; but your formula strikes me as an improvement. As a </p><p>general thing, I confess, I don't like successful people, and I find </p><p>clever men who have made great fortunes very offensive. They tread on </p><p>my toes; they make me uncomfortable. But as soon as I saw you, I said </p><p>to myself. 'Ah, there is a man with whom I shall get on. He has </p><p>the good-nature of success and none of the morgue; he has not our</p><p>confoundedly irritable French vanity.' In short, I took a fancy to you. </p><p>We are very different, I'm sure; I don't believe there is a subject on </p><p>which we think or feel alike. But I rather think we shall get on, for </p><p>there is such a thing, you know, as being too different to quarrel." </p><p>"Oh, I never quarrel," said Newman. </p><p>"Never! Sometimes it's a duty--or at least it's a pleasure. Oh, I have </p><p>had two or three delicious quarrels in my day!" and M. de Bellegarde's </p><p>handsome smile assumed, at the memory of these incidents, an almost </p><p>voluptuous intensity. </p><p>With the preamble embodied in his share of the foregoing fragment of </p><p>dialogue, he paid our hero a long visit; as the two men sat with their </p><p>heels on Newman's glowing hearth, they heard the small hours of the </p><p>morning striking larger from a far-off belfry. Valentin de Bellegarde </p><p>was, by his own confession, at all times a great chatterer, and on this </p><p>occasion he was evidently in a particularly loquacious mood. It was a </p><p>tradition of his race that people of its blood always conferred a favor </p><p>by their smiles, and as his enthusiasms were as rare as his civility was </p><p>constant, he had a double reason for not suspecting that his friendship </p><p>could ever be importunate. Moreover, the flower of an ancient stem as </p><p>he was, tradition (since I have used the word) had in his temperament </p><p>nothing of disagreeable rigidity. It was muffled in sociability and </p><p>urbanity, as an old dowager in her laces and strings of pearls. Valentin </p><p>was what is called in France a gentilhomme, of the purest source, and </p><p>his rule of life, so far as it was definite, was to play the part of a </p><p>gentilhomme. This, it seemed to him, was enough to occupy comfortably a </p><p>young man of ordinary good parts. But all that he was he was by instinct </p><p>and not by theory, and the amiability of his character was so great that </p><p>certain of the aristocratic virtues, which in some aspects seem rather </p><p>brittle and trenchant, acquired in his application of them an extreme </p><p>geniality. In his younger years he had been suspected of low tastes, </p><p>and his mother had greatly feared he would make a slip in the mud of the </p><p>highway and bespatter the family shield. He had been treated, therefore, </p><p>to more than his share of schooling and drilling, but his instructors </p><p>had not succeeded in mounting him upon stilts. They could not spoil his </p><p>safe spontaneity, and he remained the least cautious and the most lucky </p><p>of young nobles. He had been tied with so short a rope in his youth that </p><p>he had now a mortal grudge against family discipline. He had been known </p><p>to say, within the limits of the family, that, light-headed as he was, </p><p>the honor of the name was safer in his hands than in those of some of </p><p>it's other members, and that if a day ever came to try it, they should </p><p>see. His talk was an odd mixture of almost boyish garrulity and of the </p><p>reserve and discretion of the man of the world, and he seemed to Newman, </p><p>as afterwards young members of the Latin races often seemed to him, </p><p>now amusingly juvenile and now appallingly mature. In America, Newman </p><p>reflected, lads of twenty-five and thirty have old heads and young </p><p>hearts, or at least young morals; here they have young heads and very </p><p>aged hearts, morals the most grizzled and wrinkled. </p><p>"What I envy you is your liberty," observed M. de Bellegarde, "your wide </p><p>range, your freedom to come and go, your not having a lot of people, who </p><p>take themselves awfully seriously, expecting something of you. I live," </p><p>he added with a sigh, "beneath the eyes of my admirable mother." </p><p>"It is your own fault; what is to hinder your ranging?" said Newman. </p><p>"There is a delightful simplicity in that remark! Everything is to</p><p>hinder me. To begin with, I have not a penny." </p><p>"I had not a penny when I began to range." </p><p>"Ah, but your poverty was your capital. Being an American, it was </p><p>impossible you should remain what you were born, and being born poor--do </p><p>I understand it?--it was therefore inevitable that you should become </p><p>rich. You were in a position that makes one's mouth water; you looked </p><p>round you and saw a world full of things you had only to step up to and </p><p>take hold of. When I was twenty, I looked around me and saw a world with </p><p>everything ticketed 'Hands off!' and the deuce of it was that the ticket </p><p>seemed meant only for me. I couldn't go into business, I couldn't make </p><p>money, because I was a Bellegarde. I couldn't go into politics, because </p><p>I was a Bellegarde--the Bellegardes don't recognize the Bonapartes. I </p><p>couldn't go into literature, because I was a dunce. I couldn't marry a </p><p>rich girl, because no Bellegarde had ever married a roturiere, and it </p><p>was not proper that I should begin. We shall have to come to it, yet. </p><p>Marriageable heiresses, de notre bord, are not to be had for nothing; it </p><p>must be name for name, and fortune for fortune. The only thing I could </p><p>do was to go and fight for the Pope. That I did, punctiliously, and </p><p>received an apostolic flesh-wound at Castlefidardo. It did neither the </p><p>Holy Father nor me any good, that I could see. Rome was doubtless a </p><p>very amusing place in the days of Caligula, but it has sadly fallen off </p><p>since. I passed three years in the Castle of St. Angelo, and then came </p><p>back to secular life." </p><p>"So you have no profession--you do nothing," said Newman. </p><p>"I do nothing! I am supposed to amuse myself, and, to tell the truth, I </p><p>have amused myself. One can, if one knows how. But you can't keep it up </p><p>forever. I am good for another five years, perhaps, but I foresee that </p><p>after that I shall lose my appetite. Then what shall I do? I think I </p><p>shall turn monk. Seriously, I think I shall tie a rope round my waist </p><p>and go into a monastery. It was an old custom, and the old customs were </p><p>very good. People understood life quite as well as we do. They kept </p><p>the pot boiling till it cracked, and then they put it on the shelf </p><p>altogether." </p><p>"Are you very religious?" asked Newman, in a tone which gave the inquiry </p><p>a grotesque effect. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde evidently appreciated the comical element in the </p><p>question, but he looked at Newman a moment with extreme soberness. "I am </p><p>a very good Catholic. I respect the Church. I adore the blessed Virgin. </p><p>I fear the Devil." </p><p>"Well, then," said Newman, "you are very well fixed. You have got </p><p>pleasure in the present and religion in the future; what do you complain </p><p>of?" </p><p>"It's a part of one's pleasure to complain. There is something in your </p><p>own circumstances that irritates me. You are the first man I have ever </p><p>envied. It's singular, but so it is. I have known many men who, besides </p><p>any factitious advantages that I may possess, had money and brains into </p><p>the bargain; but somehow they have never disturbed my good-humor. But </p><p>you have got something that I should have liked to have. It is not </p><p>money, it is not even brains--though no doubt yours are excellent. It is </p><p>not your six feet of height, though I should have rather liked to be a </p><p>couple of inches taller. It's a sort of air you have of being thoroughly</p><p>at home in the world. When I was a boy, my father told me that it was </p><p>by such an air as that that people recognized a Bellegarde. He called my </p><p>attention to it. He didn't advise me to cultivate it; he said that as we </p><p>grew up it always came of itself. I supposed it had come to me, because </p><p>I think I have always had the feeling. My place in life was made for me, </p><p>and it seemed easy to occupy it. But you who, as I understand it, </p><p>have made your own place, you who, as you told us the other day, have </p><p>manufactured wash-tubs--you strike me, somehow, as a man who stands at </p><p>his ease, who looks at things from a height. I fancy you going about the </p><p>world like a man traveling on a railroad in which he owns a large amount </p><p>of stock. You make me feel as if I had missed something. What is it?" </p><p>"It is the proud consciousness of honest toil--of having manufactured a </p><p>few wash-tubs," said Newman, at once jocose and serious. </p><p>"Oh no; I have seen men who had done even more, men who had made not </p><p>only wash-tubs, but soap--strong-smelling yellow soap, in great bars; </p><p>and they never made me the least uncomfortable." </p><p>"Then it's the privilege of being an American citizen," said Newman. </p><p>"That sets a man up." </p><p>"Possibly," rejoined M. de Bellegarde. "But I am forced to say that I </p><p>have seen a great many American citizens who didn't seem at all set up </p><p>or in the least like large stock-holders. I never envied them. I rather </p><p>think the thing is an accomplishment of your own." </p><p>"Oh, come," said Newman, "you will make me proud!" </p><p>"No, I shall not. You have nothing to do with pride, or with </p><p>humility--that is a part of this easy manner of yours. People are </p><p>proud only when they have something to lose, and humble when they have </p><p>something to gain." </p><p>"I don't know what I have to lose," said Newman, "but I certainly have </p><p>something to gain." </p><p>"What is it?" asked his visitor. </p><p>Newman hesitated a while. "I will tell you when I know you better." </p><p>"I hope that will be soon! Then, if I can help you to gain it, I shall </p><p>be happy." </p><p>"Perhaps you may," said Newman. </p><p>"Don't forget, then, that I am your servant," M. de Bellegarde answered; </p><p>and shortly afterwards he took his departure. </p><p>During the next three weeks Newman saw Bellegarde several times, and </p><p>without formally swearing an eternal friendship the two men established </p><p>a sort of comradeship. To Newman, Bellegarde was the ideal Frenchman, </p><p>the Frenchman of tradition and romance, so far as our hero was concerned </p><p>with these mystical influences. Gallant, expansive, amusing, more </p><p>pleased himself with the effect he produced than those (even when </p><p>they were well pleased) for whom he produced it; a master of all the </p><p>distinctively social virtues and a votary of all agreeable sensations; </p><p>a devotee of something mysterious and sacred to which he occasionally </p><p>alluded in terms more ecstatic even than those in which he spoke of the</p><p>last pretty woman, and which was simply the beautiful though somewhat </p><p>superannuated image of HONOR; he was irresistibly entertaining and </p><p>enlivening, and he formed a character to which Newman was as capable of </p><p>doing justice when he had once been placed in contact with it, as he was </p><p>unlikely, in musing upon the possible mixtures of our human ingredients, </p><p>mentally to have foreshadowed it. Bellegarde did not in the least cause </p><p>him to modify his needful premise that all Frenchmen are of a frothy and </p><p>imponderable substance; he simply reminded him that light materials may </p><p>be beaten up into a most agreeable compound. No two companions could </p><p>be more different, but their differences made a capital basis for a </p><p>friendship of which the distinctive characteristic was that it was </p><p>extremely amusing to each. </p><p>Valentin de Bellegarde lived in the basement of an old house in the Rue </p><p>d'Anjou St. Honore, and his small apartments lay between the court of </p><p>the house and an old garden which spread itself behind it--one of those </p><p>large, sunless humid gardens into which you look unexpectingly in Paris </p><p>from back windows, wondering how among the grudging habitations they </p><p>find their space. When Newman returned Bellegarde's visit, he hinted </p><p>that HIS lodging was at least as much a laughing matter as his own. But </p><p>its oddities were of a different cast from those of our hero's </p><p>gilded saloons on the Boulevard Haussmann: the place was low, dusky, </p><p>contracted, and crowded with curious bric-a-brac. Bellegarde, penniless </p><p>patrician as he was, was an insatiable collector, and his walls were </p><p>covered with rusty arms and ancient panels and platters, his doorways </p><p>draped in faded tapestries, his floors muffled in the skins of beasts. </p><p>Here and there was one of those uncomfortable tributes to elegance in </p><p>which the upholsterer's art, in France, is so prolific; a curtain recess </p><p>with a sheet of looking-glass in which, among the shadows, you could see </p><p>nothing; a divan on which, for its festoons and furbelows, you could not </p><p>sit; a fireplace draped, flounced, and frilled to the complete exclusion </p><p>of fire. The young man's possessions were in picturesque disorder, and </p><p>his apartment was pervaded by the odor of cigars, mingled with perfumes </p><p>more inscrutable. Newman thought it a damp, gloomy place to live in, </p><p>and was puzzled by the obstructive and fragmentary character of the </p><p>furniture. </p><p>Bellegarde, according to the custom of his country talked very </p><p>generously about himself, and unveiled the mysteries of his private </p><p>history with an unsparing hand. Inevitably, he had a vast deal to </p><p>say about women, and he used frequently to indulge in sentimental and </p><p>ironical apostrophes to these authors of his joys and woes. "Oh, the </p><p>women, the women, and the things they have made me do!" he would exclaim </p><p>with a lustrous eye. "C'est egal, of all the follies and stupidities I </p><p>have committed for them I would not have missed one!" On this subject </p><p>Newman maintained an habitual reserve; to expatiate largely upon it had </p><p>always seemed to him a proceeding vaguely analogous to the cooing of </p><p>pigeons and the chattering of monkeys, and even inconsistent with a </p><p>fully developed human character. But Bellegarde's confidences greatly </p><p>amused him, and rarely displeased him, for the generous young Frenchman </p><p>was not a cynic. "I really think," he had once said, "that I am not more </p><p>depraved than most of my contemporaries. They are tolerably depraved, </p><p>my contemporaries!" He said wonderfully pretty things about his female </p><p>friends, and, numerous and various as they had been, declared that on </p><p>the whole there was more good in them than harm. "But you are not </p><p>to take that as advice," he added. "As an authority I am very </p><p>untrustworthy. I'm prejudiced in their favor; I'm an IDEALIST!" Newman </p><p>listened to him with his impartial smile, and was glad, for his own </p><p>sake, that he had fine feelings; but he mentally repudiated the idea</p><p>of a Frenchman having discovered any merit in the amiable sex which he </p><p>himself did not suspect. M. de Bellegarde, however, did not confine his </p><p>conversation to the autobiographical channel; he questioned our hero </p><p>largely as to the events of his own life, and Newman told him some </p><p>better stories than any that Bellegarde carried in his budget. He </p><p>narrated his career, in fact, from the beginning, through all its </p><p>variations, and whenever his companion's credulity, or his habits of </p><p>gentility, appeared to protest, it amused him to heighten the color </p><p>of the episode. Newman had sat with Western humorists in knots, round </p><p>cast-iron stoves, and seen "tall" stories grow taller without toppling </p><p>over, and his own imagination had learned the trick of piling up </p><p>consistent wonders. Bellegarde's regular attitude at last became that </p><p>of laughing self-defense; to maintain his reputation as an all-knowing </p><p>Frenchman, he doubted of everything, wholesale. The result of this was </p><p>that Newman found it impossible to convince him of certain time-honored </p><p>verities. </p><p>"But the details don't matter," said M. de Bellegarde. "You have </p><p>evidently had some surprising adventures; you have seen some strange </p><p>sides of life, you have revolved to and fro over a whole continent as </p><p>I walked up and down the Boulevard. You are a man of the world with a </p><p>vengeance! You have spent some deadly dull hours, and you have done some </p><p>extremely disagreeable things: you have shoveled sand, as a boy, for </p><p>supper, and you have eaten roast dog in a gold-diggers' camp. You have </p><p>stood casting up figures for ten hours at a time, and you have sat </p><p>through Methodist sermons for the sake of looking at a pretty girl in </p><p>another pew. All that is rather stiff, as we say. But at any rate you </p><p>have done something and you are something; you have used your will </p><p>and you have made your fortune. You have not stupified yourself </p><p>with debauchery and you have not mortgaged your fortune to social </p><p>conveniences. You take things easily, and you have fewer prejudices even </p><p>than I, who pretend to have none, but who in reality have three or </p><p>four. Happy man, you are strong and you are free. But what the deuce," </p><p>demanded the young man in conclusion, "do you propose to do with such </p><p>advantages? Really to use them you need a better world than this. There </p><p>is nothing worth your while here." </p><p>"Oh, I think there is something," said Newman. </p><p>"What is it?" </p><p>"Well," murmured Newman, "I will tell you some other time!" </p><p>In this way our hero delayed from day to day broaching a subject </p><p>which he had very much at heart. Meanwhile, however, he was growing </p><p>practically familiar with it; in other words, he had called again, three </p><p>times, on Madame de Cintre. On only two of these occasions had he found </p><p>her at home, and on each of them she had other visitors. Her visitors </p><p>were numerous and extremely loquacious, and they exacted much of their </p><p>hostess's attention. She found time, however, to bestow a little of it </p><p>on Newman, in an occasional vague smile, the very vagueness of which </p><p>pleased him, allowing him as it did to fill it out mentally, both at the </p><p>time and afterwards, with such meanings as most pleased him. He sat by </p><p>without speaking, looking at the entrances and exits, the greetings and </p><p>chatterings, of Madame de Cintre's visitors. He felt as if he were at </p><p>the play, and as if his own speaking would be an interruption; sometimes </p><p>he wished he had a book, to follow the dialogue; he half expected to see </p><p>a woman in a white cap and pink ribbons come and offer him one for two </p><p>francs. Some of the ladies looked at him very hard--or very soft, as you</p><p>please; others seemed profoundly unconscious of his presence. The men </p><p>looked only at Madame de Cintre. This was inevitable; for whether one </p><p>called her beautiful or not she entirely occupied and filled one's </p><p>vision, just as an agreeable sound fills one's ear. Newman had but </p><p>twenty distinct words with her, but he carried away an impression to </p><p>which solemn promises could not have given a higher value. She was part </p><p>of the play that he was seeing acted, quite as much as her companions; </p><p>but how she filled the stage and how much better she did it! Whether she </p><p>rose or seated herself; whether she went with her departing friends to </p><p>the door and lifted up the heavy curtain as they passed out, and stood </p><p>an instant looking after them and giving them the last nod; or whether </p><p>she leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed and her eyes resting, </p><p>listening and smiling; she gave Newman the feeling that he should like </p><p>to have her always before him, moving slowly to and fro along the whole </p><p>scale of expressive hospitality. If it might be TO him, it would be </p><p>well; if it might be FOR him, it would be still better! She was so tall </p><p>and yet so light, so active and yet so still, so elegant and yet so </p><p>simple, so frank and yet so mysterious! It was the mystery--it was what </p><p>she was off the stage, as it were--that interested Newman most of </p><p>all. He could not have told you what warrant he had for talking about </p><p>mysteries; if it had been his habit to express himself in poetic figures </p><p>he might have said that in observing Madame de Cintre he seemed to see </p><p>the vague circle which sometimes accompanies the partly-filled disk of </p><p>the moon. It was not that she was reserved; on the contrary, she was </p><p>as frank as flowing water. But he was sure she had qualities which she </p><p>herself did not suspect. </p><p>He had abstained for several reasons from saying some of these things </p><p>to Bellegarde. One reason was that before proceeding to any act he was </p><p>always circumspect, conjectural, contemplative; he had little eagerness, </p><p>as became a man who felt that whenever he really began to move he </p><p>walked with long steps. And then, it simply pleased him not to speak--it </p><p>occupied him, it excited him. But one day Bellegarde had been dining </p><p>with him, at a restaurant, and they had sat long over their dinner. On </p><p>rising from it, Bellegarde proposed that, to help them through the </p><p>rest of the evening, they should go and see Madame Dandelard. Madame </p><p>Dandelard was a little Italian lady who had married a Frenchman who </p><p>proved to be a rake and a brute and the torment of her life. Her husband </p><p>had spent all her money, and then, lacking the means of obtaining more </p><p>expensive pleasures, had taken, in his duller hours, to beating her. </p><p>She had a blue spot somewhere, which she showed to several persons, </p><p>including Bellegarde. She had obtained a separation from her husband, </p><p>collected the scraps of her fortune (they were very meagre) and come to </p><p>live in Paris, where she was staying at a hotel garni. She was always </p><p>looking for an apartment, and visiting, inquiringly, those of other </p><p>people. She was very pretty, very childlike, and she made very </p><p>extraordinary remarks. Bellegarde had made her acquaintance, and the </p><p>source of his interest in her was, according to his own declaration, a </p><p>curiosity as to what would become of her. "She is poor, she is pretty, </p><p>and she is silly," he said, "it seems to me she can go only one way. </p><p>It's a pity, but it can't be helped. I will give her six months. She has </p><p>nothing to fear from me, but I am watching the process. I am curious to </p><p>see just how things will go. Yes, I know what you are going to say: this </p><p>horrible Paris hardens one's heart. But it quickens one's wits, and it </p><p>ends by teaching one a refinement of observation! To see this little </p><p>woman's little drama play itself out, now, is, for me, an intellectual </p><p>pleasure." </p><p>"If she is going to throw herself away," Newman had said, "you ought to</p><p>stop her." </p><p>"Stop her? How stop her?" </p><p>"Talk to her; give her some good advice." </p><p>Bellegarde laughed. "Heaven deliver us both! Imagine the situation! Go </p><p>and advise her yourself." </p><p>It was after this that Newman had gone with Bellegarde to see Madame </p><p>Dandelard. When they came away, Bellegarde reproached his companion. </p><p>"Where was your famous advice?" he asked. "I didn't hear a word of it." </p><p>"Oh, I give it up," said Newman, simply. </p><p>"Then you are as bad as I!" said Bellegarde. </p><p>"No, because I don't take an 'intellectual pleasure' in her prospective </p><p>adventures. I don't in the least want to see her going down hill. I had </p><p>rather look the other way. But why," he asked, in a moment, "don't you </p><p>get your sister to go and see her?" </p><p>Bellegarde stared. "Go and see Madame Dandelard--my sister?" </p><p>"She might talk to her to very good purpose." </p><p>Bellegarde shook his head with sudden gravity. "My sister can't see that </p><p>sort of person. Madame Dandelard is nothing at all; they would never </p><p>meet." </p><p>"I should think," said Newman, "that your sister might see whom she </p><p>pleased." And he privately resolved that after he knew her a little </p><p>better he would ask Madame de Cintre to go and talk to the foolish </p><p>little Italian lady. </p><p>After his dinner with Bellegarde, on the occasion I have mentioned, </p><p>he demurred to his companion's proposal that they should go again and </p><p>listen to Madame Dandelard describe her sorrows and her bruises. </p><p>"I have something better in mind," he said; "come home with me and </p><p>finish the evening before my fire." </p><p>Bellegarde always welcomed the prospect of a long stretch of </p><p>conversation, and before long the two men sat watching the great blaze </p><p>which scattered its scintillations over the high adornments of Newman's </p><p>ball-room. </p><p>CHAPTER VIII </p><p>"Tell me something about your sister," Newman began abruptly. </p><p>Bellegarde turned and gave him a quick look. "Now that I think of it, </p><p>you have never yet asked me a question about her." </p><p>"I know that very well." </p><p>"If it is because you don't trust me, you are very right," said </p><p>Bellegarde. "I can't talk of her rationally. I admire her too much." </p><p>"Talk of her as you can," rejoined Newman. "Let yourself go." </p><p>"Well, we are very good friends; we are such a brother and sister as </p><p>have not been seen since Orestes and Electra. You have seen her; you </p><p>know what she is: tall, thin, light, imposing, and gentle, half a grande </p><p>dame and half an angel; a mixture of pride and humility, of the eagle </p><p>and the dove. She looks like a statue which had failed as stone, </p><p>resigned itself to its grave defects, and come to life as flesh and </p><p>blood, to wear white capes and long trains. All I can say is that she </p><p>really possesses every merit that her face, her glance, her smile, the </p><p>tone of her voice, lead you to expect; it is saying a great deal. As a </p><p>general thing, when a woman seems very charming, I should say 'Beware!' </p><p>But in proportion as Claire seems charming you may fold your arms and </p><p>let yourself float with the current; you are safe. She is so good! </p><p>I have never seen a woman half so perfect or so complete. She has </p><p>everything; that is all I can say about her. There!" Bellegarde </p><p>concluded; "I told you I should rhapsodize." </p><p>Newman was silent a while, as if he were turning over his companion's </p><p>words. "She is very good, eh?" he repeated at last. </p><p>"Divinely good!" </p><p>"Kind, charitable, gentle, generous?" </p><p>"Generosity itself; kindness double-distilled!" </p><p>"Is she clever?" </p><p>"She is the most intelligent woman I know. Try her, some day, with </p><p>something difficult, and you will see." </p><p>"Is she fond of admiration?" </p><p>"Parbleu!" cried Bellegarde; "what woman is not?" </p><p>"Ah, when they are too fond of admiration they commit all kinds of </p><p>follies to get it." </p><p>"I did not say she was too fond!" Bellegarde exclaimed. "Heaven forbid </p><p>I should say anything so idiotic. She is not too anything! If I were </p><p>to say she was ugly, I should not mean she was too ugly. She is fond </p><p>of pleasing, and if you are pleased she is grateful. If you are not </p><p>pleased, she lets it pass and thinks the worst neither of you nor of </p><p>herself. I imagine, though, she hopes the saints in heaven are, for I </p><p>am sure she is incapable of trying to please by any means of which they </p><p>would disapprove." </p><p>"Is she grave or gay?" asked Newman. </p><p>"She is both; not alternately, for she is always the same. There is </p><p>gravity in her gayety, and gayety in her gravity. But there is no reason </p><p>why she should be particularly gay." </p><p>"Is she unhappy?" </p><p>"I won't say that, for unhappiness is according as one takes things, and </p><p>Claire takes them according to some receipt communicated to her by the </p><p>Blessed Virgin in a vision. To be unhappy is to be disagreeable, which, </p><p>for her, is out of the question. So she has arranged her circumstances </p><p>so as to be happy in them." </p><p>"She is a philosopher," said Newman. </p><p>"No, she is simply a very nice woman." </p><p>"Her circumstances, at any rate, have been disagreeable?" </p><p>Bellegarde hesitated a moment--a thing he very rarely did. "Oh, my dear </p><p>fellow, if I go into the history of my family I shall give you more than </p><p>you bargain for." </p><p>"No, on the contrary, I bargain for that," said Newman. </p><p>"We shall have to appoint a special seance, then, beginning early. </p><p>Suffice it for the present that Claire has not slept on roses. She </p><p>made at eighteen a marriage that was expected to be brilliant, but that </p><p>turned out like a lamp that goes out; all smoke and bad smell. M. de </p><p>Cintre was sixty years old, and an odious old gentleman. He lived, </p><p>however, but a short time, and after his death his family pounced upon </p><p>his money, brought a lawsuit against his widow, and pushed things very </p><p>hard. Their case was a good one, for M. de Cintre, who had been trustee </p><p>for some of his relatives, appeared to have been guilty of some very </p><p>irregular practices. In the course of the suit some revelations were </p><p>made as to his private history which my sister found so displeasing that </p><p>she ceased to defend herself and washed her hands of the property. This </p><p>required some pluck, for she was between two fires, her husband's family </p><p>opposing her and her own family forcing her. My mother and my brother </p><p>wished her to cleave to what they regarded as her rights. But she </p><p>resisted firmly, and at last bought her freedom--obtained my mother's </p><p>assent to dropping the suit at the price of a promise." </p><p>"What was the promise?" </p><p>"To do anything else, for the next ten years, that was asked of </p><p>her--anything, that is, but marry." </p><p>"She had disliked her husband very much?" </p><p>"No one knows how much!" </p><p>"The marriage had been made in your horrible French way," Newman </p><p>continued, "made by the two families, without her having any voice?" </p><p>"It was a chapter for a novel. She saw M. de Cintre for the first time a </p><p>month before the wedding, after everything, to the minutest detail, </p><p>had been arranged. She turned white when she looked at him, and white </p><p>remained till her wedding-day. The evening before the ceremony she </p><p>swooned away, and she spent the whole night in sobs. My mother sat </p><p>holding her two hands, and my brother walked up and down the room. I </p><p>declared it was revolting and told my sister publicly that if she would </p><p>refuse, downright, I would stand by her. I was told to go about my </p><p>business, and she became Comtesse de Cintre." </p><p>"Your brother," said Newman, reflectively, "must be a very nice young</p><p>man." </p><p>"He is very nice, though he is not young. He is upward of fifty, fifteen </p><p>years my senior. He has been a father to my sister and me. He is a </p><p>very remarkable man; he has the best manners in France. He is extremely </p><p>clever; indeed he is very learned. He is writing a history of The </p><p>Princesses of France Who Never Married." This was said by Bellegarde </p><p>with extreme gravity, looking straight at Newman, and with an eye that </p><p>betokened no mental reservation; or that, at least, almost betokened </p><p>none. </p><p>Newman perhaps discovered there what little there was, for he presently </p><p>said, "You don't love your brother." </p><p>"I beg your pardon," said Bellegarde, ceremoniously; "well-bred people </p><p>always love their brothers." </p><p>"Well, I don't love him, then!" Newman answered. </p><p>"Wait till you know him!" rejoined Bellegarde, and this time he smiled. </p><p>"Is your mother also very remarkable?" Newman asked, after a pause. </p><p>"For my mother," said Bellegarde, now with intense gravity, "I have </p><p>the highest admiration. She is a very extraordinary woman. You cannot </p><p>approach her without perceiving it." </p><p>"She is the daughter, I believe, of an English nobleman." </p><p>"Of the Earl of St. Dunstan's." </p><p>"Is the Earl of St. Dunstan's a very old family?" </p><p>"So-so; the sixteenth century. It is on my father's side that we go </p><p>back--back, back, back. The family antiquaries themselves lose breath. </p><p>At last they stop, panting and fanning themselves, somewhere in the </p><p>ninth century, under Charlemagne. That is where we begin." </p><p>"There is no mistake about it?" said Newman. </p><p>"I'm sure I hope not. We have been mistaken at least for several </p><p>centuries." </p><p>"And you have always married into old families?" </p><p>"As a rule; though in so long a stretch of time there have been some </p><p>exceptions. Three or four Bellegardes, in the seventeenth and </p><p>eighteenth centuries, took wives out of the bourgoisie--married lawyers' </p><p>daughters." </p><p>"A lawyer's daughter; that's very bad, is it?" asked Newman. </p><p>"Horrible! one of us, in the middle ages, did better: he married a </p><p>beggar-maid, like King Cophetua. That was really better; it was like </p><p>marrying a bird or a monkey; one didn't have to think about her family </p><p>at all. Our women have always done well; they have never even gone into </p><p>the petite noblesse. There is, I believe, not a case on record of a </p><p>misalliance among the women." </p><p>Newman turned this over for a while, and, then at last he said, "You </p><p>offered, the first time you came to see me to render me any service you </p><p>could. I told you that some time I would mention something you might do. </p><p>Do you remember?" </p><p>"Remember? I have been counting the hours." </p><p>"Very well; here's your chance. Do what you can to make your sister </p><p>think well of me." </p><p>Bellegarde stared, with a smile. "Why, I'm sure she thinks as well of </p><p>you as possible, already." </p><p>"An opinion founded on seeing me three or four times? That is putting me </p><p>off with very little. I want something more. I have been thinking of it </p><p>a good deal, and at last I have decided to tell you. I should like very </p><p>much to marry Madame de Cintre." </p><p>Bellegarde had been looking at him with quickened expectancy, and with </p><p>the smile with which he had greeted Newman's allusion to his promised </p><p>request. At this last announcement he continued to gaze; but his </p><p>smile went through two or three curious phases. It felt, apparently, a </p><p>momentary impulse to broaden; but this it immediately checked. Then it </p><p>remained for some instants taking counsel with itself, at the end of </p><p>which it decreed a retreat. It slowly effaced itself and left a look of </p><p>seriousness modified by the desire not to be rude. Extreme surprise had </p><p>come into the Count Valentin's face; but he had reflected that it would </p><p>be uncivil to leave it there. And yet, what the deuce was he to do with </p><p>it? He got up, in his agitation, and stood before the chimney-piece, </p><p>still looking at Newman. He was a longer time thinking what to say than </p><p>one would have expected. </p><p>"If you can't render me the service I ask," said Newman, "say it out!" </p><p>"Let me hear it again, distinctly," said Bellegarde. "It's very </p><p>important, you know. I shall plead your cause with my sister, because </p><p>you want--you want to marry her? That's it, eh?" </p><p>"Oh, I don't say plead my cause, exactly; I shall try and do that </p><p>myself. But say a good word for me, now and then--let her know that you </p><p>think well of me." </p><p>At this, Bellegarde gave a little light laugh. </p><p>"What I want chiefly, after all," Newman went on, "is just to let you </p><p>know what I have in mind. I suppose that is what you expect, isn't it? I </p><p>want to do what is customary over here. If there is any thing particular </p><p>to be done, let me know and I will do it. I wouldn't for the world </p><p>approach Madame de Cintre without all the proper forms. If I ought to </p><p>go and tell your mother, why I will go and tell her. I will go and tell </p><p>your brother, even. I will go and tell any one you please. As I don't </p><p>know any one else, I begin by telling you. But that, if it is a social </p><p>obligation, is a pleasure as well." </p><p>"Yes, I see--I see," said Bellegarde, lightly stroking his chin. "You </p><p>have a very right feeling about it, but I'm glad you have begun with </p><p>me." He paused, hesitated, and then turned away and walked slowly </p><p>the length of the room. Newman got up and stood leaning against the </p><p>mantel-shelf, with his hands in his pockets, watching Bellegarde's</p><p>promenade. The young Frenchman came back and stopped in front of him. </p><p>"I give it up," he said; "I will not pretend I am not surprised. I </p><p>am--hugely! Ouf! It's a relief." </p><p>"That sort of news is always a surprise," said Newman. "No matter what </p><p>you have done, people are never prepared. But if you are so surprised, I </p><p>hope at least you are pleased." </p><p>"Come!" said Bellegarde. "I am going to be tremendously frank. I don't </p><p>know whether I am pleased or horrified." </p><p>"If you are pleased, I shall be glad," said Newman, "and I shall </p><p>be--encouraged. If you are horrified, I shall be sorry, but I shall not </p><p>be discouraged. You must make the best of it." </p><p>"That is quite right--that is your only possible attitude. You are </p><p>perfectly serious?" </p><p>"Am I a Frenchman, that I should not be?" asked Newman. "But why is it, </p><p>by the bye, that you should be horrified?" </p><p>Bellegarde raised his hand to the back of his head and rubbed his hair </p><p>quickly up and down, thrusting out the tip of his tongue as he did so. </p><p>"Why, you are not noble, for instance," he said. </p><p>"The devil I am not!" exclaimed Newman. </p><p>"Oh," said Bellegarde a little more seriously, "I did not know you had a </p><p>title." </p><p>"A title? What do you mean by a title?" asked Newman. "A count, a duke, </p><p>a marquis? I don't know anything about that, I don't know who is and who </p><p>is not. But I say I am noble. I don't exactly know what you mean by it, </p><p>but it's a fine word and a fine idea; I put in a claim to it." </p><p>"But what have you to show, my dear fellow, what proofs?" </p><p>"Anything you please! But you don't suppose I am going to undertake to </p><p>prove that I am noble. It is for you to prove the contrary." </p><p>"That's easily done. You have manufactured wash-tubs." </p><p>Newman stared a moment. "Therefore I am not noble? I don't see it. Tell </p><p>me something I have NOT done--something I cannot do." </p><p>"You cannot marry a woman like Madame de Cintre for the asking." </p><p>"I believe you mean," said Newman slowly, "that I am not good enough." </p><p>"Brutally speaking--yes!" </p><p>Bellegarde had hesitated a moment, and while he hesitated Newman's </p><p>attentive glance had grown somewhat eager. In answer to these last words </p><p>he for a moment said nothing. He simply blushed a little. Then he raised </p><p>his eyes to the ceiling and stood looking at one of the rosy cherubs </p><p>that was painted upon it. "Of course I don't expect to marry any </p><p>woman for the asking," he said at last; "I expect first to make myself </p><p>acceptable to her. She must like me, to begin with. But that I am not </p><p>good enough to make a trial is rather a surprise."</p><p>Bellegarde wore a look of mingled perplexity, sympathy, and amusement. </p><p>"You should not hesitate, then, to go up to-morrow and ask a duchess to </p><p>marry you?" </p><p>"Not if I thought she would suit me. But I am very fastidious; she might </p><p>not at all." </p><p>Bellegarde's amusement began to prevail. "And you should be surprised if </p><p>she refused you?" </p><p>Newman hesitated a moment. "It sounds conceited to say yes, but </p><p>nevertheless I think I should. For I should make a very handsome offer." </p><p>"What would it be?" </p><p>"Everything she wishes. If I get hold of a woman that comes up to my </p><p>standard, I shall think nothing too good for her. I have been a long </p><p>time looking, and I find such women are rare. To combine the qualities I </p><p>require seems to be difficult, but when the difficulty is vanquished </p><p>it deserves a reward. My wife shall have a good position, and I'm not </p><p>afraid to say that I shall be a good husband." </p><p>"And these qualities that you require--what are they?" </p><p>"Goodness, beauty, intelligence, a fine education, personal </p><p>elegance--everything, in a word, that makes a splendid woman." </p><p>"And noble birth, evidently," said Bellegarde. </p><p>"Oh, throw that in, by all means, if it's there. The more the better!" </p><p>"And my sister seems to you to have all these things?" </p><p>"She is exactly what I have been looking for. She is my dream realized." </p><p>"And you would make her a very good husband?" </p><p>"That is what I wanted you to tell her." </p><p>Bellegarde laid his hand on his companion's arm a moment, looked at </p><p>him with his head on one side, from head to foot, and then, with a loud </p><p>laugh, and shaking the other hand in the air, turned away. He walked </p><p>again the length of the room, and again he came back and stationed </p><p>himself in front of Newman. "All this is very interesting--it is very </p><p>curious. In what I said just now I was speaking, not for myself, but </p><p>for my tradition, my superstitions. For myself, really, your proposal </p><p>tickles me. It startled me at first, but the more I think of it the </p><p>more I see in it. It's no use attempting to explain anything; you won't </p><p>understand me. After all, I don't see why you need; it's no great loss." </p><p>"Oh, if there is anything more to explain, try it! I want to proceed </p><p>with my eyes open. I will do my best to understand." </p><p>"No," said Bellegarde, "it's disagreeable to me; I give it up. I liked </p><p>you the first time I saw you, and I will abide by that. It would be </p><p>quite odious for me to come talking to you as if I could patronize you. </p><p>I have told you before that I envy you; vous m'imposez, as we say. I </p><p>didn't know you much until within five minutes. So we will let things</p><p>go, and I will say nothing to you that, if our positions were reversed, </p><p>you would not say to me." </p><p>I do not know whether in renouncing the mysterious opportunity to which </p><p>he alluded, Bellegarde felt that he was doing something very generous. </p><p>If so, he was not rewarded; his generosity was not appreciated. Newman </p><p>quite failed to recognize the young Frenchman's power to wound his </p><p>feelings, and he had now no sense of escaping or coming off easily. </p><p>He did not thank his companion even with a glance. "My eyes are open, </p><p>though," he said, "so far as that you have practically told me that your </p><p>family and your friends will turn up their noses at me. I have never </p><p>thought much about the reasons that make it proper for people to turn up </p><p>their noses, and so I can only decide the question off-hand. Looking at </p><p>it in that way I can't see anything in it. I simply think, if you want </p><p>to know, that I'm as good as the best. Who the best are, I don't pretend </p><p>to say. I have never thought much about that either. To tell the </p><p>truth, I have always had rather a good opinion of myself; a man who is </p><p>successful can't help it. But I will admit that I was conceited. What </p><p>I don't say yes to is that I don't stand high--as high as any one else. </p><p>This is a line of speculation I should not have chosen, but you must </p><p>remember you began it yourself. I should never have dreamed that I was </p><p>on the defensive, or that I had to justify myself; but if your people </p><p>will have it so, I will do my best." </p><p>"But you offered, a while ago, to make your court as we say, to my </p><p>mother and my brother." </p><p>"Damn it!" cried Newman, "I want to be polite." </p><p>"Good!" rejoined Bellegarde; "this will go far, it will be very </p><p>entertaining. Excuse my speaking of it in that cold-blooded fashion, but </p><p>the matter must, of necessity, be for me something of a spectacle. It's </p><p>positively exciting. But apart from that I sympathize with you, and I </p><p>shall be actor, so far as I can, as well as spectator. You are a capital </p><p>fellow; I believe in you and I back you. The simple fact that you </p><p>appreciate my sister will serve as the proof I was asking for. All men </p><p>are equal--especially men of taste!" </p><p>"Do you think," asked Newman presently, "that Madame de Cintre is </p><p>determined not to marry?" </p><p>"That is my impression. But that is not against you; it's for you to </p><p>make her change her mind." </p><p>"I am afraid it will be hard," said Newman, gravely. </p><p>"I don't think it will be easy. In a general way I don't see why a </p><p>widow should ever marry again. She has gained the benefits of </p><p>matrimony--freedom and consideration--and she has got rid of the </p><p>drawbacks. Why should she put her head into the noose again? Her usual </p><p>motive is ambition: if a man can offer her a great position, make her a </p><p>princess or an ambassadress she may think the compensation sufficient." </p><p>"And--in that way--is Madame de Cintre ambitious?" </p><p>"Who knows?" said Bellegarde, with a profound shrug. "I don't pretend to </p><p>say all that she is or all that she is not. I think she might be touched </p><p>by the prospect of becoming the wife of a great man. But in a certain </p><p>way, I believe, whatever she does will be the IMPROBABLE. Don't be too</p><p>confident, but don't absolutely doubt. Your best chance for success will </p><p>be precisely in being, to her mind, unusual, unexpected, original. Don't </p><p>try to be any one else; be simply yourself, out and out. Something or </p><p>other can't fail to come of it; I am very curious to see what." </p><p>"I am much obliged to you for your advice," said Newman. "And," he added </p><p>with a smile, "I am glad, for your sake, I am going to be so amusing." </p><p>"It will be more than amusing," said Bellegarde; "it will be inspiring. </p><p>I look at it from my point of view, and you from yours. After all, </p><p>anything for a change! And only yesterday I was yawning so as to </p><p>dislocate my jaw, and declaring that there was nothing new under the </p><p>sun! If it isn't new to see you come into the family as a suitor, I am </p><p>very much mistaken. Let me say that, my dear fellow; I won't call it </p><p>anything else, bad or good; I will simply call it NEW" And overcome with </p><p>a sense of the novelty thus foreshadowed, Valentin de Bellegarde threw </p><p>himself into a deep arm-chair before the fire, and, with a fixed, </p><p>intense smile, seemed to read a vision of it in the flame of the logs. </p><p>After a while he looked up. "Go ahead, my boy; you have my good wishes," </p><p>he said. "But it is really a pity you don't understand me, that you </p><p>don't know just what I am doing." </p><p>"Oh," said Newman, laughing, "don't do anything wrong. Leave me to </p><p>myself, rather, or defy me, out and out. I wouldn't lay any load on your </p><p>conscience." </p><p>Bellegarde sprang up again; he was evidently excited; there was a warmer </p><p>spark even than usual in his eye. "You never will understand--you never </p><p>will know," he said; "and if you succeed, and I turn out to have helped </p><p>you, you will never be grateful, not as I shall deserve you should be. </p><p>You will be an excellent fellow always, but you will not be grateful. </p><p>But it doesn't matter, for I shall get my own fun out of it." And he </p><p>broke into an extravagant laugh. "You look puzzled," he added; "you look </p><p>almost frightened." </p><p>"It IS a pity," said Newman, "that I don't understand you. I shall lose </p><p>some very good jokes." </p><p>"I told you, you remember, that we were very strange people," Bellegarde </p><p>went on. "I give you warning again. We are! My mother is strange, my </p><p>brother is strange, and I verily believe that I am stranger than either. </p><p>You will even find my sister a little strange. Old trees have crooked </p><p>branches, old houses have queer cracks, old races have odd secrets. </p><p>Remember that we are eight hundred years old!" </p><p>"Very good," said Newman; "that's the sort of thing I came to Europe </p><p>for. You come into my programme." </p><p>"Touchez-la, then," said Bellegarde, putting out his hand. "It's a </p><p>bargain: I accept you; I espouse your cause. It's because I like you, in </p><p>a great measure; but that is not the only reason!" And he stood holding </p><p>Newman's hand and looking at him askance. </p><p>"What is the other one?" </p><p>"I am in the Opposition. I dislike some one else." </p><p>"Your brother?" asked Newman, in his unmodulated voice. </p><p>Bellegarde laid his fingers upon his lips with a whispered HUSH! "Old </p><p>races have strange secrets!" he said. "Put yourself into motion, come </p><p>and see my sister, and be assured of my sympathy!" And on this he took </p><p>his leave. </p><p>Newman dropped into a chair before his fire, and sat a long time staring </p><p>into the blaze. </p><p>CHAPTER IX </p><p>He went to see Madame de Cintre the next day, and was informed by the </p><p>servant that she was at home. He passed as usual up the large, cold </p><p>staircase and through a spacious vestibule above, where the walls seemed </p><p>all composed of small door panels, touched with long-faded gilding; </p><p>whence he was ushered into the sitting-room in which he had already been </p><p>received. It was empty, and the servant told him that Madame la Comtesse </p><p>would presently appear. He had time, while he waited, to wonder whether </p><p>Bellegarde had seen his sister since the evening before, and whether </p><p>in this case he had spoken to her of their talk. In this case Madame </p><p>de Cintre's receiving him was an encouragement. He felt a certain </p><p>trepidation as he reflected that she might come in with the knowledge </p><p>of his supreme admiration and of the project he had built upon it in her </p><p>eyes; but the feeling was not disagreeable. Her face could wear no </p><p>look that would make it less beautiful, and he was sure beforehand that </p><p>however she might take the proposal he had in reserve, she would not </p><p>take it in scorn or in irony. He had a feeling that if she could only </p><p>read the bottom of his heart and measure the extent of his good will </p><p>toward her, she would be entirely kind. </p><p>She came in at last, after so long an interval that he wondered whether </p><p>she had been hesitating. She smiled with her usual frankness, and held </p><p>out her hand; she looked at him straight with her soft and luminous </p><p>eyes, and said, without a tremor in her voice, that she was glad to see </p><p>him and that she hoped he was well. He found in her what he had found </p><p>before--that faint perfume of a personal shyness worn away by contact </p><p>with the world, but the more perceptible the more closely you approached </p><p>her. This lingering diffidence seemed to give a peculiar value to </p><p>what was definite and assured in her manner; it made it seem like an </p><p>accomplishment, a beautiful talent, something that one might compare </p><p>to an exquisite touch in a pianist. It was, in fact, Madame de Cintre's </p><p>"authority," as they say of artists, that especially impressed and </p><p>fascinated Newman; he always came back to the feeling that when he </p><p>should complete himself by taking a wife, that was the way he should </p><p>like his wife to interpret him to the world. The only trouble, indeed, </p><p>was that when the instrument was so perfect it seemed to interpose too </p><p>much between you and the genius that used it. Madame de Cintre gave </p><p>Newman the sense of an elaborate education, of her having passed through </p><p>mysterious ceremonies and processes of culture in her youth, of her </p><p>having been fashioned and made flexible to certain exalted social needs. </p><p>All this, as I have affirmed, made her seem rare and precious--a very </p><p>expensive article, as he would have said, and one which a man with an </p><p>ambition to have everything about him of the best would find it highly </p><p>agreeable to possess. But looking at the matter with an eye to private </p><p>felicity, Newman wondered where, in so exquisite a compound, nature and </p><p>art showed their dividing line. Where did the special intention separate </p><p>from the habit of good manners? Where did urbanity end and sincerity</p><p>begin? Newman asked himself these questions even while he stood ready to </p><p>accept the admired object in all its complexity; he felt that he could </p><p>do so in profound security, and examine its mechanism afterwards, at </p><p>leisure. </p><p>"I am very glad to find you alone," he said. "You know I have never had </p><p>such good luck before." </p><p>"But you have seemed before very well contented with your luck," said </p><p>Madame de Cintre. "You have sat and watched my visitors with an air of </p><p>quiet amusement. What have you thought of them?" </p><p>"Oh, I have thought the ladies were very elegant and very graceful, and </p><p>wonderfully quick at repartee. But what I have chiefly thought has </p><p>been that they only helped me to admire you." This was not gallantry on </p><p>Newman's part--an art in which he was quite unversed. It was simply the </p><p>instinct of the practical man, who had made up his mind what he wanted, </p><p>and was now beginning to take active steps to obtain it. </p><p>Madame de Cintre started slightly, and raised her eyebrows; she had </p><p>evidently not expected so fervid a compliment. "Oh, in that case," she </p><p>said with a laugh, "your finding me alone is not good luck for me. I </p><p>hope some one will come in quickly." </p><p>"I hope not," said Newman. "I have something particular to say to you. </p><p>Have you seen your brother?" </p><p>"Yes, I saw him an hour ago." </p><p>"Did he tell you that he had seen me last night?" </p><p>"He said so." </p><p>"And did he tell you what we had talked about?" </p><p>Madame de Cintre hesitated a moment. As Newman asked these questions </p><p>she had grown a little pale, as if she regarded what was coming as </p><p>necessary, but not as agreeable. "Did you give him a message to me?" she </p><p>asked. </p><p>"It was not exactly a message--I asked him to render me a service." </p><p>"The service was to sing your praises, was it not?" And she accompanied </p><p>this question with a little smile, as if to make it easier to herself. </p><p>"Yes, that is what it really amounts to," said Newman. "Did he sing my </p><p>praises?" </p><p>"He spoke very well of you. But when I know that it was by your special </p><p>request, of course I must take his eulogy with a grain of salt." </p><p>"Oh, that makes no difference," said Newman. "Your brother would not </p><p>have spoken well of me unless he believed what he was saying. He is too </p><p>honest for that." </p><p>"Are you very deep?" said Madame de Cintre. "Are you trying to please me </p><p>by praising my brother? I confess it is a good way." </p><p>"For me, any way that succeeds will be good. I will praise your brother</p><p>all day, if that will help me. He is a noble little fellow. He has made </p><p>me feel, in promising to do what he can to help me, that I can depend </p><p>upon him." </p><p>"Don't make too much of that," said Madame de Cintre. "He can help you </p><p>very little." </p><p>"Of course I must work my way myself. I know that very well; I only want </p><p>a chance to. In consenting to see me, after what he told you, you almost </p><p>seem to be giving me a chance." </p><p>"I am seeing you," said Madame de Cintre, slowly and gravely, "because I </p><p>promised my brother I would." </p><p>"Blessings on your brother's head!" cried Newman. "What I told him last </p><p>evening was this: that I admired you more than any woman I had ever </p><p>seen, and that I should like immensely to make you my wife." He uttered </p><p>these words with great directness and firmness, and without any sense of </p><p>confusion. He was full of his idea, he had completely mastered it, </p><p>and he seemed to look down on Madame de Cintre, with all her gathered </p><p>elegance, from the height of his bracing good conscience. It is probable </p><p>that this particular tone and manner were the very best he could have </p><p>hit upon. Yet the light, just visibly forced smile with which his </p><p>companion had listened to him died away, and she sat looking at him </p><p>with her lips parted and her face as solemn as a tragic mask. There was </p><p>evidently something very painful to her in the scene to which he was </p><p>subjecting her, and yet her impatience of it found no angry voice. </p><p>Newman wondered whether he was hurting her; he could not imagine why the </p><p>liberal devotion he meant to express should be disagreeable. He got up </p><p>and stood before her, leaning one hand on the chimney-piece. "I know I </p><p>have seen you very little to say this," he said, "so little that it may </p><p>make what I say seem disrespectful. That is my misfortune! I could have </p><p>said it the first time I saw you. Really, I had seen you before; I had </p><p>seen you in imagination; you seemed almost an old friend. So what I say </p><p>is not mere gallantry and compliments and nonsense--I can't talk that </p><p>way, I don't know how, and I wouldn't, to you, if I could. It's as </p><p>serious as such words can be. I feel as if I knew you and knew what a </p><p>beautiful, admirable woman you are. I shall know better, perhaps, some </p><p>day, but I have a general notion now. You are just the woman I have </p><p>been looking for, except that you are far more perfect. I won't make any </p><p>protestations and vows, but you can trust me. It is very soon, I know, </p><p>to say all this; it is almost offensive. But why not gain time if one </p><p>can? And if you want time to reflect--of course you do--the sooner you </p><p>begin, the better for me. I don't know what you think of me; but there </p><p>is no great mystery about me; you see what I am. Your brother told me </p><p>that my antecedents and occupations were against me; that your family </p><p>stands, somehow, on a higher level than I do. That is an idea which of </p><p>course I don't understand and don't accept. But you don't care anything </p><p>about that. I can assure you that I am a very solid fellow, and that if </p><p>I give my mind to it I can arrange things so that in a very few years I </p><p>shall not need to waste time in explaining who I am and what I am. You </p><p>will decide for yourself whether you like me or not. What there is </p><p>you see before you. I honestly believe I have no hidden vices or nasty </p><p>tricks. I am kind, kind, kind! Everything that a man can give a woman I </p><p>will give you. I have a large fortune, a very large fortune; some day, </p><p>if you will allow me, I will go into details. If you want brilliancy, </p><p>everything in the way of brilliancy that money can give you, you shall </p><p>have. And as regards anything you may give up, don't take for granted </p><p>too much that its place cannot be filled. Leave that to me; I'll take</p><p>care of you; I shall know what you need. Energy and ingenuity can </p><p>arrange everything. I'm a strong man! There, I have said what I had </p><p>on my heart! It was better to get it off. I am very sorry if it's </p><p>disagreeable to you; but think how much better it is that things should </p><p>be clear. Don't answer me now, if you don't wish it. Think about it, </p><p>think about it as slowly as you please. Of course I haven't said, I </p><p>can't say, half I mean, especially about my admiration for you. But take </p><p>a favorable view of me; it will only be just." </p><p>During this speech, the longest that Newman had ever made, Madame de </p><p>Cintre kept her gaze fixed upon him, and it expanded at the last into a </p><p>sort of fascinated stare. When he ceased speaking she lowered her eyes </p><p>and sat for some moments looking down and straight before her. Then she </p><p>slowly rose to her feet, and a pair of exceptionally keen eyes would </p><p>have perceived that she was trembling a little in the movement. She </p><p>still looked extremely serious. "I am very much obliged to you for </p><p>your offer," she said. "It seems very strange, but I am glad you </p><p>spoke without waiting any longer. It is better the subject should be </p><p>dismissed. I appreciate all you say; you do me great honor. But I have </p><p>decided not to marry." </p><p>"Oh, don't say that!" cried Newman, in a tone absolutely naif from its </p><p>pleading and caressing cadence. She had turned away, and it made her </p><p>stop a moment with her back to him. "Think better of that. You are </p><p>too young, too beautiful, too much made to be happy and to make others </p><p>happy. If you are afraid of losing your freedom, I can assure you that </p><p>this freedom here, this life you now lead, is a dreary bondage to what </p><p>I will offer you. You shall do things that I don't think you have ever </p><p>thought of. I will take you anywhere in the wide world that you propose. </p><p>Are you unhappy? You give me a feeling that you are unhappy. You have no </p><p>right to be, or to be made so. Let me come in and put an end to it." </p><p>Madame de Cintre stood there a moment longer, looking away from him. </p><p>If she was touched by the way he spoke, the thing was conceivable. His </p><p>voice, always very mild and interrogative, gradually became as soft </p><p>and as tenderly argumentative as if he had been talking to a much-loved </p><p>child. He stood watching her, and she presently turned round again, but </p><p>this time she did not look at him, and she spoke in a quietness in which </p><p>there was a visible trace of effort. </p><p>"There are a great many reasons why I should not marry," she said, "more </p><p>than I can explain to you. As for my happiness, I am very happy. Your </p><p>offer seems strange to me, for more reasons also than I can say. Of </p><p>course you have a perfect right to make it. But I cannot accept it--it </p><p>is impossible. Please never speak of this matter again. If you cannot </p><p>promise me this, I must ask you not to come back." </p><p>"Why is it impossible?" Newman demanded. "You may think it is, at first, </p><p>without its really being so. I didn't expect you to be pleased at first, </p><p>but I do believe that if you will think of it a good while, you may be </p><p>satisfied." </p><p>"I don't know you," said Madame de Cintre. "Think how little I know </p><p>you." </p><p>"Very little, of course, and therefore I don't ask for your ultimatum on </p><p>the spot. I only ask you not to say no, and to let me hope. I will wait </p><p>as long as you desire. Meanwhile you can see more of me and know me </p><p>better, look at me as a possible husband--as a candidate--and make up</p><p>your mind." </p><p>Something was going on, rapidly, in Madame de Cintre's thoughts; she </p><p>was weighing a question there, beneath Newman's eyes, weighing it and </p><p>deciding it. "From the moment I don't very respectfully beg you to leave </p><p>the house and never return," she said, "I listen to you, I seem to give </p><p>you hope. I HAVE listened to you--against my judgment. It is because you </p><p>are eloquent. If I had been told this morning that I should consent to </p><p>consider you as a possible husband, I should have thought my informant </p><p>a little crazy. I AM listening to you, you see!" And she threw her hands </p><p>out for a moment and let them drop with a gesture in which there was </p><p>just the slightest expression of appealing weakness. </p><p>"Well, as far as saying goes, I have said everything," said Newman. "I </p><p>believe in you, without restriction, and I think all the good of you </p><p>that it is possible to think of a human creature. I firmly believe that </p><p>in marrying me you will be SAFE. As I said just now," he went on with </p><p>a smile, "I have no bad ways. I can DO so much for you. And if you are </p><p>afraid that I am not what you have been accustomed to, not refined </p><p>and delicate and punctilious, you may easily carry that too far. I AM </p><p>delicate! You shall see!" </p><p>Madame de Cintre walked some distance away, and paused before a great </p><p>plant, an azalea, which was flourishing in a porcelain tub before her </p><p>window. She plucked off one of the flowers and, twisting it in her </p><p>fingers, retraced her steps. Then she sat down in silence, and her </p><p>attitude seemed to be a consent that Newman should say more. </p><p>"Why should you say it is impossible you should marry?" he continued. </p><p>"The only thing that could make it really impossible would be your being </p><p>already married. Is it because you have been unhappy in marriage? That </p><p>is all the more reason! Is it because your family exert a pressure upon </p><p>you, interfere with you, annoy you? That is still another reason; you </p><p>ought to be perfectly free, and marriage will make you so. I don't say </p><p>anything against your family--understand that!" added Newman, with </p><p>an eagerness which might have made a perspicacious observer smile. </p><p>"Whatever way you feel toward them is the right way, and anything that </p><p>you should wish me to do to make myself agreeable to them I will do as </p><p>well as I know how. Depend upon that!" </p><p>Madame de Cintre rose again and came toward the fireplace, near which </p><p>Newman was standing. The expression of pain and embarrassment had passed </p><p>out of her face, and it was illuminated with something which, this time </p><p>at least, Newman need not have been perplexed whether to attribute to </p><p>habit or to intention, to art or to nature. She had the air of a woman </p><p>who has stepped across the frontier of friendship and, looking around </p><p>her, finds the region vast. A certain checked and controlled exaltation </p><p>seemed mingled with the usual level radiance of her glance. "I will not </p><p>refuse to see you again," she said, "because much of what you have said </p><p>has given me pleasure. But I will see you only on this condition: that </p><p>you say nothing more in the same way for a long time." </p><p>"For how long?" </p><p>"For six months. It must be a solemn promise." </p><p>"Very well, I promise." </p><p>"Good-by, then," she said, and extended her hand.</p><p>He held it a moment, as if he were going to say something more. But he </p><p>only looked at her; then he took his departure. </p><p>That evening, on the Boulevard, he met Valentin de Bellegarde. After </p><p>they had exchanged greetings, Newman told him that he had seen Madame de </p><p>Cintre a few hours before. </p><p>"I know it," said Bellegarde. "I dined in the Rue de l'Universite." </p><p>And then, for some moments, both men were silent. Newman wished to ask </p><p>Bellegarde what visible impression his visit had made and the Count </p><p>Valentin had a question of his own. Bellegarde spoke first. </p><p>"It's none of my business, but what the deuce did you say to my sister?" </p><p>"I am willing to tell you," said Newman, "that I made her an offer of </p><p>marriage." </p><p>"Already!" And the young man gave a whistle. "'Time is money!' Is </p><p>that what you say in America? And Madame de Cintre?" he added, with an </p><p>interrogative inflection. </p><p>"She did not accept my offer." </p><p>"She couldn't, you know, in that way." </p><p>"But I'm to see her again," said Newman. </p><p>"Oh, the strangeness of woman!" exclaimed Bellegarde. Then he stopped, </p><p>and held Newman off at arms'-length. "I look at you with respect!" </p><p>he exclaimed. "You have achieved what we call a personal success! </p><p>Immediately, now, I must present you to my brother." </p><p>"Whenever you please!" said Newman. </p><p>CHAPTER X </p><p>Newman continued to see his friends the Tristrams with a good deal of </p><p>frequency, though if you had listened to Mrs. Tristram's account of the </p><p>matter you would have supposed that they had been cynically repudiated </p><p>for the sake of grander acquaintance. "We were all very well so long </p><p>as we had no rivals--we were better than nothing. But now that you have </p><p>become the fashion, and have your pick every day of three invitations to </p><p>dinner, we are tossed into the corner. I am sure it is very good of you </p><p>to come and see us once a month; I wonder you don't send us your cards </p><p>in an envelope. When you do, pray have them with black edges; it will be </p><p>for the death of my last illusion." It was in this incisive strain that </p><p>Mrs. Tristram moralized over Newman's so-called neglect, which was in </p><p>reality a most exemplary constancy. Of course she was joking, but </p><p>there was always something ironical in her jokes, as there was always </p><p>something jocular in her gravity. </p><p>"I know no better proof that I have treated you very well," Newman </p><p>had said, "than the fact that you make so free with my character. </p><p>Familiarity breeds contempt; I have made myself too cheap. If I had a </p><p>little proper pride I would stay away a while, and when you asked me to</p><p>dinner say I was going to the Princess Borealska's. But I have not any </p><p>pride where my pleasure is concerned, and to keep you in the humor to </p><p>see me--if you must see me only to call me bad names--I will agree to </p><p>anything you choose; I will admit that I am the biggest snob in Paris." </p><p>Newman, in fact, had declined an invitation personally given by the </p><p>Princess Borealska, an inquiring Polish lady to whom he had been </p><p>presented, on the ground that on that particular day he always dined </p><p>at Mrs. Tristram's; and it was only a tenderly perverse theory of </p><p>his hostess of the Avenue d'Iena that he was faithless to his early </p><p>friendships. She needed the theory to explain a certain moral irritation </p><p>by which she was often visited; though, if this explanation was unsound, </p><p>a deeper analyst than I must give the right one. Having launched our </p><p>hero upon the current which was bearing him so rapidly along, she </p><p>appeared but half-pleased at its swiftness. She had succeeded too well; </p><p>she had played her game too cleverly and she wished to mix up the cards. </p><p>Newman had told her, in due season, that her friend was "satisfactory." </p><p>The epithet was not romantic, but Mrs. Tristram had no difficulty in </p><p>perceiving that, in essentials, the feeling which lay beneath it was. </p><p>Indeed, the mild, expansive brevity with which it was uttered, and </p><p>a certain look, at once appealing and inscrutable, that issued from </p><p>Newman's half-closed eyes as he leaned his head against the back of his </p><p>chair, seemed to her the most eloquent attestation of a mature sentiment </p><p>that she had ever encountered. Newman was, according to the French </p><p>phrase, only abounding in her own sense, but his temperate raptures </p><p>exerted a singular effect upon the ardor which she herself had so freely </p><p>manifested a few months before. She now seemed inclined to take a purely </p><p>critical view of Madame de Cintre, and wished to have it understood that </p><p>she did not in the least answer for her being a compendium of all the </p><p>virtues. "No woman was ever so good as that woman seems," she said. </p><p>"Remember what Shakespeare calls Desdemona; 'a supersubtle Venetian.' </p><p>Madame de Cintre is a supersubtle Parisian. She is a charming woman, and </p><p>she has five hundred merits; but you had better keep that in mind." Was </p><p>Mrs. Tristram simply finding out that she was jealous of her dear friend </p><p>on the other side of the Seine, and that in undertaking to provide </p><p>Newman with an ideal wife she had counted too much on her own </p><p>disinterestedness? We may be permitted to doubt it. The inconsistent </p><p>little lady of the Avenue d'Iena had an insuperable need of changing </p><p>her place, intellectually. She had a lively imagination, and she was </p><p>capable, at certain times, of imagining the direct reverse of her </p><p>most cherished beliefs, with a vividness more intense than that of </p><p>conviction. She got tired of thinking aright; but there was no serious </p><p>harm in it, as she got equally tired of thinking wrong. In the midst of </p><p>her mysterious perversities she had admirable flashes of justice. One </p><p>of these occurred when Newman related to her that he had made a formal </p><p>proposal to Madame de Cintre. He repeated in a few words what he had </p><p>said, and in a great many what she had answered. Mrs. Tristram listened </p><p>with extreme interest. </p><p>"But after all," said Newman, "there is nothing to congratulate me upon. </p><p>It is not a triumph." </p><p>"I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Tristram; "it is a great triumph. It is </p><p>a great triumph that she did not silence you at the first word, and </p><p>request you never to speak to her again." </p><p>"I don't see that," observed Newman. </p><p>"Of course you don't; Heaven forbid you should! When I told you to go on </p><p>your own way and do what came into your head, I had no idea you would go</p><p>over the ground so fast. I never dreamed you would offer yourself after </p><p>five or six morning-calls. As yet, what had you done to make her like </p><p>you? You had simply sat--not very straight--and stared at her. But she </p><p>does like you." </p><p>"That remains to be seen." </p><p>"No, that is proved. What will come of it remains to be seen. That you </p><p>should propose to marry her, without more ado, could never have come </p><p>into her head. You can form very little idea of what passed through her </p><p>mind as you spoke; if she ever really marries you, the affair will be </p><p>characterized by the usual justice of all human beings towards women. </p><p>You will think you take generous views of her; but you will never begin </p><p>to know through what a strange sea of feeling she passed before she </p><p>accepted you. As she stood there in front of you the other day, she </p><p>plunged into it. She said 'Why not?' to something which, a few hours </p><p>earlier, had been inconceivable. She turned about on a thousand gathered </p><p>prejudices and traditions as on a pivot, and looked where she had never </p><p>looked hitherto. When I think of it--when I think of Claire de Cintre </p><p>and all that she represents, there seems to me something very fine in </p><p>it. When I recommended you to try your fortune with her I of course </p><p>thought well of you, and in spite of your sins I think so still. But I </p><p>confess I don't see quite what you are and what you have done, to make </p><p>such a woman do this sort of thing for you." </p><p>"Oh, there is something very fine in it!" said Newman with a laugh, </p><p>repeating her words. He took an extreme satisfaction in hearing that </p><p>there was something fine in it. He had not the least doubt of it </p><p>himself, but he had already begun to value the world's admiration of </p><p>Madame de Cintre, as adding to the prospective glory of possession. </p><p>It was immediately after this conversation that Valentin de Bellegarde </p><p>came to conduct his friend to the Rue de l'Universite to present him to </p><p>the other members of his family. "You are already introduced," he said, </p><p>"and you have begun to be talked about. My sister has mentioned your </p><p>successive visits to my mother, and it was an accident that my mother </p><p>was present at none of them. I have spoken of you as an American of </p><p>immense wealth, and the best fellow in the world, who is looking for </p><p>something very superior in the way of a wife." </p><p>"Do you suppose," asked Newman, "that Madame de Cintre has related to </p><p>your mother the last conversation I had with her?" </p><p>"I am very certain that she has not; she will keep her own counsel. </p><p>Meanwhile you must make your way with the rest of the family. Thus much </p><p>is known about you: you have made a great fortune in trade, you are </p><p>a little eccentric, and you frankly admire our dear Claire. My </p><p>sister-in-law, whom you remember seeing in Madame de Cintre's </p><p>sitting-room, took, it appears, a fancy to you; she has described you as </p><p>having beaucoup de cachet. My mother, therefore, is curious to see you." </p><p>"She expects to laugh at me, eh?" said Newman. </p><p>"She never laughs. If she does not like you, don't hope to purchase </p><p>favor by being amusing. Take warning by me!" </p><p>This conversation took place in the evening, and half an hour later </p><p>Valentin ushered his companion into an apartment of the house of the Rue </p><p>de l'Universite into which he had not yet penetrated, the salon of the</p><p>dowager Marquise de Bellegarde. It was a vast, high room, with elaborate </p><p>and ponderous mouldings, painted a whitish gray, along the upper portion </p><p>of the walls and the ceiling; with a great deal of faded and carefully </p><p>repaired tapestry in the doorways and chair-backs; a Turkey carpet in </p><p>light colors, still soft and deep, in spite of great antiquity, on the </p><p>floor, and portraits of each of Madame de Bellegarde's children, at the </p><p>age of ten, suspended against an old screen of red silk. The room was </p><p>illumined, exactly enough for conversation, by half a dozen candles, </p><p>placed in odd corners, at a great distance apart. In a deep armchair, </p><p>near the fire, sat an old lady in black; at the other end of the room </p><p>another person was seated at the piano, playing a very expressive </p><p>waltz. In this latter person Newman recognized the young Marquise de </p><p>Bellegarde. </p><p>Valentin presented his friend, and Newman walked up to the old lady by </p><p>the fire and shook hands with her. He received a rapid impression of a </p><p>white, delicate, aged face, with a high forehead, a small mouth, and a </p><p>pair of cold blue eyes which had kept much of the freshness of youth. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde looked hard at him, and returned his hand-shake </p><p>with a sort of British positiveness which reminded him that she was </p><p>the daughter of the Earl of St. Dunstan's. Her daughter-in-law stopped </p><p>playing and gave him an agreeable smile. Newman sat down and looked </p><p>about him, while Valentin went and kissed the hand of the young </p><p>marquise. </p><p>"I ought to have seen you before," said Madame de Bellegarde. "You have </p><p>paid several visits to my daughter." </p><p>"Oh, yes," said Newman, smiling; "Madame de Cintre and I are old friends </p><p>by this time." </p><p>"You have gone fast," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"Not so fast as I should like," said Newman, bravely. </p><p>"Oh, you are very ambitious," answered the old lady. </p><p>"Yes, I confess I am," said Newman, smiling. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde looked at him with her cold fine eyes, and he </p><p>returned her gaze, reflecting that she was a possible adversary and </p><p>trying to take her measure. Their eyes remained in contact for some </p><p>moments. Then Madame de Bellegarde looked away, and without smiling, "I </p><p>am very ambitious, too," she said. </p><p>Newman felt that taking her measure was not easy; she was a formidable, </p><p>inscrutable little woman. She resembled her daughter, and yet she was </p><p>utterly unlike her. The coloring in Madame de Cintre was the same, and </p><p>the high delicacy of her brow and nose was hereditary. But her face was </p><p>a larger and freer copy, and her mouth in especial a happy divergence </p><p>from that conservative orifice, a little pair of lips at once plump and </p><p>pinched, that looked, when closed, as if they could not open wider than </p><p>to swallow a gooseberry or to emit an "Oh, dear, no!" which probably had </p><p>been thought to give the finishing touch to the aristocratic prettiness </p><p>of the Lady Emmeline Atheling as represented, forty years before, in </p><p>several Books of Beauty. Madame de Cintre's face had, to Newman's eye, </p><p>a range of expression as delightfully vast as the wind-streaked, </p><p>cloud-flecked distance on a Western prairie. But her mother's white, </p><p>intense, respectable countenance, with its formal gaze, and its</p><p>circumscribed smile, suggested a document signed and sealed; a thing </p><p>of parchment, ink, and ruled lines. "She is a woman of conventions and </p><p>proprieties," he said to himself as he looked at her; "her world is the </p><p>world of things immutably decreed. But how she is at home in it, and </p><p>what a paradise she finds it. She walks about in it as if it were a </p><p>blooming park, a Garden of Eden; and when she sees 'This is genteel,' or </p><p>'This is improper,' written on a mile-stone she stops ecstatically, as </p><p>if she were listening to a nightingale or smelling a rose." Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde wore a little black velvet hood tied under her chin, and she </p><p>was wrapped in an old black cashmere shawl. </p><p>"You are an American?" she said presently. "I have seen several </p><p>Americans." </p><p>"There are several in Paris," said Newman jocosely. </p><p>"Oh, really?" said Madame de Bellegarde. "It was in England I saw </p><p>these, or somewhere else; not in Paris. I think it must have been in the </p><p>Pyrenees, many years ago. I am told your ladies are very pretty. One of </p><p>these ladies was very pretty! such a wonderful complexion! She presented </p><p>me a note of introduction from some one--I forgot whom--and she sent </p><p>with it a note of her own. I kept her letter a long time afterwards, it </p><p>was so strangely expressed. I used to know some of the phrases by heart. </p><p>But I have forgotten them now, it is so many years ago. Since then I </p><p>have seen no more Americans. I think my daughter-in-law has; she is a </p><p>great gad-about, she sees every one." </p><p>At this the younger lady came rustling forward, pinching in a very </p><p>slender waist, and casting idly preoccupied glances over the front </p><p>of her dress, which was apparently designed for a ball. She was, in a </p><p>singular way, at once ugly and pretty; she had protuberant eyes, and </p><p>lips strangely red. She reminded Newman of his friend, Mademoiselle </p><p>Nioche; this was what that much-obstructed young lady would have liked </p><p>to be. Valentin de Bellegarde walked behind her at a distance, hopping </p><p>about to keep off the far-spreading train of her dress. </p><p>"You ought to show more of your shoulders behind," he said very gravely. </p><p>"You might as well wear a standing ruff as such a dress as that." </p><p>The young woman turned her back to the mirror over the chimney-piece, </p><p>and glanced behind her, to verify Valentin's assertion. The mirror </p><p>descended low, and yet it reflected nothing but a large unclad flesh </p><p>surface. The young marquise put her hands behind her and gave a downward </p><p>pull to the waist of her dress. "Like that, you mean?" she asked. </p><p>"That is a little better," said Bellegarde in the same tone, "but it </p><p>leaves a good deal to be desired." </p><p>"Oh, I never go to extremes," said his sister-in-law. And then, turning </p><p>to Madame de Bellegarde, "What were you calling me just now, madame?" </p><p>"I called you a gad-about," said the old lady. "But I might call you </p><p>something else, too." </p><p>"A gad-about? What an ugly word! What does it mean?" </p><p>"A very beautiful person," Newman ventured to say, seeing that it was in </p><p>French. </p><p>"That is a pretty compliment but a bad translation," said the young </p><p>marquise. And then, looking at him a moment, "Do you dance?" </p><p>"Not a step." </p><p>"You are very wrong," she said, simply. And with another look at her </p><p>back in the mirror she turned away. </p><p>"Do you like Paris?" asked the old lady, who was apparently wondering </p><p>what was the proper way to talk to an American. </p><p>"Yes, rather," said Newman. And then he added with a friendly </p><p>intonation, "Don't you?" </p><p>"I can't say I know it. I know my house--I know my friends--I don't know </p><p>Paris." </p><p>"Oh, you lose a great deal," said Newman, sympathetically. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde stared; it was presumably the first time she had </p><p>been condoled with on her losses. </p><p>"I am content with what I have," she said with dignity. </p><p>Newman's eyes, at this moment, were wandering round the room, which </p><p>struck him as rather sad and shabby; passing from the high casements, </p><p>with their small, thickly-framed panes, to the sallow tints of two or </p><p>three portraits in pastel, of the last century, which hung between </p><p>them. He ought, obviously, to have answered that the contentment of his </p><p>hostess was quite natural--she had a great deal; but the idea did not </p><p>occur to him during the pause of some moments which followed. </p><p>"Well, my dear mother," said Valentin, coming and leaning against the </p><p>chimney-piece, "what do you think of my dear friend Newman? Is he not </p><p>the excellent fellow I told you?" </p><p>"My acquaintance with Mr. Newman has not gone very far," said Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde. "I can as yet only appreciate his great politeness." </p><p>"My mother is a great judge of these matters," said Valentin to Newman. </p><p>"If you have satisfied her, it is a triumph." </p><p>"I hope I shall satisfy you, some day," said Newman, looking at the old </p><p>lady. "I have done nothing yet." </p><p>"You must not listen to my son; he will bring you into trouble. He is a </p><p>sad scatterbrain." </p><p>"Oh, I like him--I like him," said Newman, genially. </p><p>"He amuses you, eh?" </p><p>"Yes, perfectly." </p><p>"Do you hear that, Valentin?" said Madame de Bellegarde. "You amuse Mr. </p><p>Newman." </p><p>"Perhaps we shall all come to that!" Valentin exclaimed. </p><p>"You must see my other son," said Madame de Bellegarde. "He is much </p><p>better than this one. But he will not amuse you." </p><p>"I don't know--I don't know!" murmured Valentin, reflectively. "But we </p><p>shall very soon see. Here comes Monsieur mon frere." </p><p>The door had just opened to give ingress to a gentleman who stepped </p><p>forward and whose face Newman remembered. He had been the author of our </p><p>hero's discomfiture the first time he tried to present himself to Madame </p><p>de Cintre. Valentin de Bellegarde went to meet his brother, looked at </p><p>him a moment, and then, taking him by the arm, led him up to Newman. </p><p>"This is my excellent friend Mr. Newman," he said very blandly. "You </p><p>must know him." </p><p>"I am delighted to know Mr. Newman," said the marquis with a low bow, </p><p>but without offering his hand. </p><p>"He is the old woman at second-hand," Newman said to himself, as he </p><p>returned M. de Bellegarde's greeting. And this was the starting-point of </p><p>a speculative theory, in his mind, that the late marquis had been a very </p><p>amiable foreigner, with an inclination to take life easily and a sense </p><p>that it was difficult for the husband of the stilted little lady by the </p><p>fire to do so. But if he had taken little comfort in his wife he had </p><p>taken much in his two younger children, who were after his own heart, </p><p>while Madame de Bellegarde had paired with her eldest-born. </p><p>"My brother has spoken to me of you," said M. de Bellegarde; "and as </p><p>you are also acquainted with my sister, it was time we should meet." He </p><p>turned to his mother and gallantly bent over her hand, touching it with </p><p>his lips, and then he assumed an attitude before the chimney-piece. With </p><p>his long, lean face, his high-bridged nose and his small, opaque eye he </p><p>looked much like an Englishman. His whiskers were fair and glossy, and </p><p>he had a large dimple, of unmistakably British origin, in the middle of </p><p>his handsome chin. He was "distinguished" to the tips of his polished </p><p>nails, and there was not a movement of his fine, perpendicular person </p><p>that was not noble and majestic. Newman had never yet been confronted </p><p>with such an incarnation of the art of taking one's self seriously; he </p><p>felt a sort of impulse to step backward, as you do to get a view of a </p><p>great facade. </p><p>"Urbain," said young Madame de Bellegarde, who had apparently been </p><p>waiting for her husband to take her to her ball, "I call your attention </p><p>to the fact that I am dressed." </p><p>"That is a good idea," murmured Valentin. </p><p>"I am at your orders, my dear friend," said M. de Bellegarde. "Only, </p><p>you must allow me first the pleasure of a little conversation with Mr. </p><p>Newman." </p><p>"Oh, if you are going to a party, don't let me keep you," objected </p><p>Newman. "I am very sure we shall meet again. Indeed, if you would like </p><p>to converse with me I will gladly name an hour." He was eager to make </p><p>it known that he would readily answer all questions and satisfy all </p><p>exactions. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde stood in a well-balanced position before the fire, </p><p>caressing one of his fair whiskers with one of his white hands, and</p><p>looking at Newman, half askance, with eyes from which a particular ray </p><p>of observation made its way through a general meaningless smile. "It is </p><p>very kind of you to make such an offer," he said. "If I am not mistaken, </p><p>your occupations are such as to make your time precious. You are </p><p>in--a--as we say, dans les affaires." </p><p>"In business, you mean? Oh no, I have thrown business overboard for the </p><p>present. I am 'loafing,' as WE say. My time is quite my own." </p><p>"Ah, you are taking a holiday," rejoined M. de Bellegarde. "'Loafing.' </p><p>Yes, I have heard that expression." </p><p>"Mr. Newman is American," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"My brother is a great ethnologist," said Valentin. </p><p>"An ethnologist?" said Newman. "Ah, you collect negroes' skulls, and </p><p>that sort of thing." </p><p>The marquis looked hard at his brother, and began to caress his other </p><p>whisker. Then, turning to Newman, with sustained urbanity, "You are </p><p>traveling for your pleasure?" he asked.' </p><p>"Oh, I am knocking about to pick up one thing and another. Of course I </p><p>get a good deal of pleasure out of it." </p><p>"What especially interests you?" inquired the marquis. </p><p>"Well, everything interests me," said Newman. "I am not particular. </p><p>Manufactures are what I care most about." </p><p>"That has been your specialty?" </p><p>"I can't say I have any specialty. My specialty has been to make the </p><p>largest possible fortune in the shortest possible time." Newman made </p><p>this last remark very deliberately; he wished to open the way, if it </p><p>were necessary, to an authoritative statement of his means. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde laughed agreeably. "I hope you have succeeded," he </p><p>said. </p><p>"Yes, I have made a fortune in a reasonable time. I am not so old, you </p><p>see." </p><p>"Paris is a very good place to spend a fortune. I wish you great </p><p>enjoyment of yours." And M. de Bellegarde drew forth his gloves and </p><p>began to put them on. </p><p>Newman for a few moments watched him sliding his white hands into the </p><p>white kid, and as he did so his feelings took a singular turn. M. de </p><p>Bellegarde's good wishes seemed to descend out of the white expanse of </p><p>his sublime serenity with the soft, scattered movement of a shower of </p><p>snow-flakes. Yet Newman was not irritated; he did not feel that he was </p><p>being patronized; he was conscious of no especial impulse to introduce </p><p>a discord into so noble a harmony. Only he felt himself suddenly in </p><p>personal contact with the forces with which his friend Valentin had </p><p>told him that he would have to contend, and he became sensible of their </p><p>intensity. He wished to make some answering manifestation, to stretch </p><p>himself out at his own length, to sound a note at the uttermost end</p><p>of HIS scale. It must be added that if this impulse was not vicious or </p><p>malicious, it was by no means void of humorous expectancy. Newman was </p><p>quite as ready to give play to that loosely-adjusted smile of his, if </p><p>his hosts should happen to be shocked, as he was far from deliberately </p><p>planning to shock them. </p><p>"Paris is a very good place for idle people," he said, "or it is a very </p><p>good place if your family has been settled here for a long time, and you </p><p>have made acquaintances and got your relations round you; or if you have </p><p>got a good big house like this, and a wife and children and mother and </p><p>sister, and everything comfortable. I don't like that way of living all </p><p>in rooms next door to each other. But I am not an idler. I try to be, </p><p>but I can't manage it; it goes against the grain. My business habits are </p><p>too deep-seated. Then, I haven't any house to call my own, or anything </p><p>in the way of a family. My sisters are five thousand miles away, my </p><p>mother died when I was a youngster, and I haven't any wife; I wish I </p><p>had! So, you see, I don't exactly know what to do with myself. I am not </p><p>fond of books, as you are, sir, and I get tired of dining out and going </p><p>to the opera. I miss my business activity. You see, I began to earn my </p><p>living when I was almost a baby, and until a few months ago I have never </p><p>had my hand off the plow. Elegant leisure comes hard." </p><p>This speech was followed by a profound silence of some moments, on the </p><p>part of Newman's entertainers. Valentin stood looking at him fixedly, </p><p>with his hands in his pockets, and then he slowly, with a half-sidling </p><p>motion, went out of the door. The marquis continued to draw on his </p><p>gloves and to smile benignantly. </p><p>"You began to earn your living when you were a mere baby?" said the </p><p>marquise. </p><p>"Hardly more--a small boy." </p><p>"You say you are not fond of books," said M. de Bellegarde; "but </p><p>you must do yourself the justice to remember that your studies were </p><p>interrupted early." </p><p>"That is very true; on my tenth birthday I stopped going to school. I </p><p>thought it was a grand way to keep it. But I picked up some information </p><p>afterwards," said Newman, reassuringly. </p><p>"You have some sisters?" asked old Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"Yes, two sisters. Splendid women!" </p><p>"I hope that for them the hardships of life commenced less early." </p><p>"They married very early, if you call that a hardship, as girls do in </p><p>our Western country. One of them is married to the owner of the largest </p><p>india-rubber house in the West." </p><p>"Ah, you make houses also of india-rubber?" inquired the marquise. </p><p>"You can stretch them as your family increases," said young Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde, who was muffling herself in a long white shawl. </p><p>Newman indulged in a burst of hilarity, and explained that the house in </p><p>which his brother-in-law lived was a large wooden structure, but that he </p><p>manufactured and sold india-rubber on a colossal scale.</p><p>"My children have some little india-rubber shoes which they put on </p><p>when they go to play in the Tuileries in damp weather," said the young </p><p>marquise. "I wonder whether your brother-in-law made them." </p><p>"Very likely," said Newman; "if he did, you may be very sure they are </p><p>well made." </p><p>"Well, you must not be discouraged," said M. de Bellegarde, with vague </p><p>urbanity. </p><p>"Oh, I don't mean to be. I have a project which gives me plenty to think </p><p>about, and that is an occupation." And then Newman was silent a moment, </p><p>hesitating, yet thinking rapidly; he wished to make his point, and yet </p><p>to do so forced him to speak out in a way that was disagreeable to </p><p>him. Nevertheless he continued, addressing himself to old Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde, "I will tell you my project; perhaps you can help me. I want </p><p>to take a wife." </p><p>"It is a very good project, but I am no matchmaker," said the old lady. </p><p>Newman looked at her an instant, and then, with perfect sincerity, "I </p><p>should have thought you were," he declared. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde appeared to think him too sincere. She murmured </p><p>something sharply in French, and fixed her eyes on her son. At this </p><p>moment the door of the room was thrown open, and with a rapid step </p><p>Valentin reappeared. </p><p>"I have a message for you," he said to his sister-in-law. "Claire bids </p><p>me to request you not to start for your ball. She will go with you." </p><p>"Claire will go with us!" cried the young marquise. "En voila, du </p><p>nouveau!" </p><p>"She has changed her mind; she decided half an hour ago, and she is </p><p>sticking the last diamond into her hair," said Valentin. </p><p>"What has taken possession of my daughter?" demanded Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde, sternly. "She has not been into the world these three </p><p>years. Does she take such a step at half an hour's notice, and without </p><p>consulting me?" </p><p>"She consulted me, dear mother, five minutes since," said Valentin, </p><p>"and I told her that such a beautiful woman--she is beautiful, you will </p><p>see--had no right to bury herself alive." </p><p>"You should have referred Claire to her mother, my brother," said M. de </p><p>Bellegarde, in French. "This is very strange." </p><p>"I refer her to the whole company!" said Valentin. "Here she comes!" And </p><p>he went to the open door, met Madame de Cintre on the threshold, took </p><p>her by the hand, and led her into the room. She was dressed in white; </p><p>but a long blue cloak, which hung almost to her feet, was fastened </p><p>across her shoulders by a silver clasp. She had tossed it back, however, </p><p>and her long white arms were uncovered. In her dense, fair hair there </p><p>glittered a dozen diamonds. She looked serious and, Newman thought, </p><p>rather pale; but she glanced round her, and, when she saw him, smiled </p><p>and put out her hand. He thought her tremendously handsome. He had a</p><p>chance to look at her full in the face, for she stood a moment in the </p><p>centre of the room, hesitating, apparently, what she should do, without </p><p>meeting his eyes. Then she went up to her mother, who sat in her deep </p><p>chair by the fire, looking at Madame de Cintre almost fiercely. With her </p><p>back turned to the others, Madame de Cintre held her cloak apart to show </p><p>her dress. </p><p>"What do you think of me?" she asked. </p><p>"I think you are audacious," said the marquise. "It was but three days </p><p>ago, when I asked you, as a particular favor to myself, to go to the </p><p>Duchess de Lusignan's, that you told me you were going nowhere and </p><p>that one must be consistent. Is this your consistency? Why should you </p><p>distinguish Madame Robineau? Who is it you wish to please to-night?" </p><p>"I wish to please myself, dear mother," said Madame de Cintre. And she </p><p>bent over and kissed the old lady. </p><p>"I don't like surprises, my sister," said Urbain de Bellegarde; </p><p>"especially when one is on the point of entering a drawing-room." </p><p>Newman at this juncture felt inspired to speak. "Oh, if you are going </p><p>into a room with Madame de Cintre, you needn't be afraid of being </p><p>noticed yourself!" </p><p>M. de Bellegarde turned to his sister with a smile too intense to be </p><p>easy. "I hope you appreciate a compliment that is paid you at your </p><p>brother's expense," he said. "Come, come, madame." And offering Madame </p><p>de Cintre his arm he led her rapidly out of the room. Valentin rendered </p><p>the same service to young Madame de Bellegarde, who had apparently been </p><p>reflecting on the fact that the ball dress of her sister-in-law was </p><p>much less brilliant than her own, and yet had failed to derive absolute </p><p>comfort from the reflection. With a farewell smile she sought the </p><p>complement of her consolation in the eyes of the American visitor, and </p><p>perceiving in them a certain mysterious brilliancy, it is not improbable </p><p>that she may have flattered herself she had found it. </p><p>Newman, left alone with old Madame de Bellegarde, stood before her a few </p><p>moments in silence. "Your daughter is very beautiful," he said at last. </p><p>"She is very strange," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"I am glad to hear it," Newman rejoined, smiling. "It makes me hope." </p><p>"Hope what?" </p><p>"That she will consent, some day, to marry me." </p><p>The old lady slowly rose to her feet. "That really is your project, </p><p>then?" </p><p>"Yes; will you favor it?" </p><p>"Favor it?" Madame de Bellegarde looked at him a moment and then shook </p><p>her head. "No!" she said, softly. </p><p>"Will you suffer it, then? Will you let it pass?" </p><p>"You don't know what you ask. I am a very proud and meddlesome old</p><p>woman." </p><p>"Well, I am very rich," said Newman. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde fixed her eyes on the floor, and Newman thought </p><p>it probable she was weighing the reasons in favor of resenting the </p><p>brutality of this remark. But at last, looking up, she said simply, "How </p><p>rich?" </p><p>Newman expressed his income in a round number which had the magnificent </p><p>sound that large aggregations of dollars put on when they are translated </p><p>into francs. He added a few remarks of a financial character, which </p><p>completed a sufficiently striking presentment of his resources. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde listened in silence. "You are very frank," she said </p><p>finally. "I will be the same. I would rather favor you, on the whole, </p><p>than suffer you. It will be easier." </p><p>"I am thankful for any terms," said Newman. "But, for the present, you </p><p>have suffered me long enough. Good night!" And he took his leave. </p><p>CHAPTER XI </p><p>Newman, on his return to Paris, had not resumed the study of French </p><p>conversation with M. Nioche; he found that he had too many other uses </p><p>for his time. M. Nioche, however, came to see him very promptly, having </p><p>learned his whereabouts by a mysterious process to which his patron </p><p>never obtained the key. The shrunken little capitalist repeated his </p><p>visit more than once. He seemed oppressed by a humiliating sense of </p><p>having been overpaid, and wished apparently to redeem his debt by the </p><p>offer of grammatical and statistical information in small installments. </p><p>He wore the same decently melancholy aspect as a few months before; a </p><p>few months more or less of brushing could make little difference in the </p><p>antique lustre of his coat and hat. But the poor old man's spirit was a </p><p>trifle more threadbare; it seemed to have received some hard rubs during </p><p>the summer Newman inquired with interest about Mademoiselle Noemie; </p><p>and M. Nioche, at first, for answer, simply looked at him in lachrymose </p><p>silence. </p><p>"Don't ask me, sir," he said at last. "I sit and watch her, but I can do </p><p>nothing." </p><p>"Do you mean that she misconducts herself?" </p><p>"I don't know, I am sure. I can't follow her. I don't understand her. </p><p>She has something in her head; I don't know what she is trying to do. </p><p>She is too deep for me." </p><p>"Does she continue to go to the Louvre? Has she made any of those copies </p><p>for me?" </p><p>"She goes to the Louvre, but I see nothing of the copies. She has </p><p>something on her easel; I suppose it is one of the pictures you ordered. </p><p>Such a magnificent order ought to give her fairy-fingers. But she is </p><p>not in earnest. I can't say anything to her; I am afraid of her. One </p><p>evening, last summer, when I took her to walk in the Champs Elysees, she</p><p>said some things to me that frightened me." </p><p>"What were they?" </p><p>"Excuse an unhappy father from telling you," said M. Nioche, unfolding </p><p>his calico pocket-handkerchief. </p><p>Newman promised himself to pay Mademoiselle Noemie another visit at the </p><p>Louvre. He was curious about the progress of his copies, but it must </p><p>be added that he was still more curious about the progress of the young </p><p>lady herself. He went one afternoon to the great museum, and wandered </p><p>through several of the rooms in fruitless quest of her. He was bending </p><p>his steps to the long hall of the Italian masters, when suddenly he </p><p>found himself face to face with Valentin de Bellegarde. The young </p><p>Frenchman greeted him with ardor, and assured him that he was a </p><p>godsend. He himself was in the worst of humors and he wanted some one to </p><p>contradict. </p><p>"In a bad humor among all these beautiful things?" said Newman. "I </p><p>thought you were so fond of pictures, especially the old black ones. </p><p>There are two or three here that ought to keep you in spirits." </p><p>"Oh, to-day," answered Valentin, "I am not in a mood for pictures, and </p><p>the more beautiful they are the less I like them. Their great staring </p><p>eyes and fixed positions irritate me. I feel as if I were at some big, </p><p>dull party, in a room full of people I shouldn't wish to speak to. What </p><p>should I care for their beauty? It's a bore, and, worse still, it's a </p><p>reproach. I have a great many ennuis; I feel vicious." </p><p>"If the Louvre has so little comfort for you, why in the world did you </p><p>come here?" Newman asked. </p><p>"That is one of my ennuis. I came to meet my cousin--a dreadful English </p><p>cousin, a member of my mother's family--who is in Paris for a week for </p><p>her husband, and who wishes me to point out the 'principal beauties.' </p><p>Imagine a woman who wears a green crape bonnet in December and has </p><p>straps sticking out of the ankles of her interminable boots! My mother </p><p>begged I would do something to oblige them. I have undertaken to play </p><p>valet de place this afternoon. They were to have met me here at two </p><p>o'clock, and I have been waiting for them twenty minutes. Why doesn't </p><p>she arrive? She has at least a pair of feet to carry her. I don't know </p><p>whether to be furious at their playing me false, or delighted to have </p><p>escaped them." </p><p>"I think in your place I would be furious," said Newman, "because they </p><p>may arrive yet, and then your fury will still be of use to you. Whereas </p><p>if you were delighted and they were afterwards to turn up, you might not </p><p>know what to do with your delight." </p><p>"You give me excellent advice, and I already feel better. I will be </p><p>furious; I will let them go to the deuce and I myself will go with </p><p>you--unless by chance you too have a rendezvous." </p><p>"It is not exactly a rendezvous," said Newman. "But I have in fact come </p><p>to see a person, not a picture." </p><p>"A woman, presumably?" </p><p>"A young lady."</p><p>"Well," said Valentin, "I hope for you with all my heart that she is not </p><p>clothed in green tulle and that her feet are not too much out of focus." </p><p>"I don't know much about her feet, but she has very pretty hands." </p><p>Valentin gave a sigh. "And on that assurance I must part with you?" </p><p>"I am not certain of finding my young lady," said Newman, "and I am not </p><p>quite prepared to lose your company on the chance. It does not strike </p><p>me as particularly desirable to introduce you to her, and yet I should </p><p>rather like to have your opinion of her." </p><p>"Is she pretty?" </p><p>"I guess you will think so." </p><p>Bellegarde passed his arm into that of his companion. "Conduct me to her </p><p>on the instant! I should be ashamed to make a pretty woman wait for my </p><p>verdict." </p><p>Newman suffered himself to be gently propelled in the direction in </p><p>which he had been walking, but his step was not rapid. He was turning </p><p>something over in his mind. The two men passed into the long gallery of </p><p>the Italian masters, and Newman, after having scanned for a moment its </p><p>brilliant vista, turned aside into the smaller apartment devoted to </p><p>the same school, on the left. It contained very few persons, but at the </p><p>farther end of it sat Mademoiselle Nioche, before her easel. She was </p><p>not at work; her palette and brushes had been laid down beside her, her </p><p>hands were folded in her lap, and she was leaning back in her chair and </p><p>looking intently at two ladies on the other side of the hall, who, with </p><p>their backs turned to her, had stopped before one of the pictures. These </p><p>ladies were apparently persons of high fashion; they were dressed with </p><p>great splendor, and their long silken trains and furbelows were spread </p><p>over the polished floor. It was at their dresses Mademoiselle Noemie was </p><p>looking, though what she was thinking of I am unable to say. I hazard </p><p>the supposition that she was saying to herself that to be able to drag </p><p>such a train over a polished floor was a felicity worth any price. Her </p><p>reflections, at any rate, were disturbed by the advent of Newman and </p><p>his companion. She glanced at them quickly, and then, coloring a little, </p><p>rose and stood before her easel. </p><p>"I came here on purpose to see you," said Newman in his bad French, </p><p>offering to shake hands. And then, like a good American, he introduced </p><p>Valentin formally: "Allow me to make you acquainted with the Comte </p><p>Valentin de Bellegarde." </p><p>Valentin made a bow which must have seemed to Mademoiselle Noemie </p><p>quite in harmony with the impressiveness of his title, but the graceful </p><p>brevity of her own response made no concession to underbred surprise. </p><p>She turned to Newman, putting up her hands to her hair and smoothing its </p><p>delicately-felt roughness. Then, rapidly, she turned the canvas that was </p><p>on her easel over upon its face. "You have not forgotten me?" she asked. </p><p>"I shall never forget you," said Newman. "You may be sure of that." </p><p>"Oh," said the young girl, "there are a great many different ways </p><p>of remembering a person." And she looked straight at Valentin de </p><p>Bellegarde, who was looking at her as a gentleman may when a "verdict"</p><p>is expected of him. </p><p>"Have you painted anything for me?" said Newman. "Have you been </p><p>industrious?" </p><p>"No, I have done nothing." And taking up her palette, she began to mix </p><p>her colors at hazard. </p><p>"But your father tells me you have come here constantly." </p><p>"I have nowhere else to go! Here, all summer, it was cool, at least." </p><p>"Being here, then," said Newman, "you might have tried something." </p><p>"I told you before," she answered, softly, "that I don't know how to </p><p>paint." </p><p>"But you have something charming on your easel, now," said Valentin, "if </p><p>you would only let me see it." </p><p>She spread out her two hands, with the fingers expanded, over the back </p><p>of the canvas--those hands which Newman had called pretty, and which, in </p><p>spite of several paint-stains, Valentin could now admire. "My painting </p><p>is not charming," she said. </p><p>"It is the only thing about you that is not, then, mademoiselle," quoth </p><p>Valentin, gallantly. </p><p>She took up her little canvas and silently passed it to him. He looked </p><p>at it, and in a moment she said, "I am sure you are a judge." </p><p>"Yes," he answered, "I am." </p><p>"You know, then, that that is very bad." </p><p>"Mon Dieu," said Valentin, shrugging his shoulders "let us distinguish." </p><p>"You know that I ought not to attempt to paint," the young girl </p><p>continued. </p><p>"Frankly, then, mademoiselle, I think you ought not." </p><p>She began to look at the dresses of the two splendid ladies again--a </p><p>point on which, having risked one conjecture, I think I may risk </p><p>another. While she was looking at the ladies she was seeing Valentin </p><p>de Bellegarde. He, at all events, was seeing her. He put down the </p><p>roughly-besmeared canvas and addressed a little click with his tongue, </p><p>accompanied by an elevation of the eyebrows, to Newman. </p><p>"Where have you been all these months?" asked Mademoiselle Noemie of our </p><p>hero. "You took those great journeys, you amused yourself well?" </p><p>"Oh, yes," said Newman. "I amused myself well enough." </p><p>"I am very glad," said Mademoiselle Noemie with extreme gentleness, and </p><p>she began to dabble in her colors again. She was singularly pretty, with </p><p>the look of serious sympathy that she threw into her face. </p><p>Valentin took advantage of her downcast eyes to telegraph again to his</p><p>companion. He renewed his mysterious physiognomical play, making at the </p><p>same time a rapid tremulous movement in the air with his fingers. He was </p><p>evidently finding Mademoiselle Noemie extremely interesting; the blue </p><p>devils had departed, leaving the field clear. </p><p>"Tell me something about your travels," murmured the young girl. </p><p>"Oh, I went to Switzerland,--to Geneva and Zermatt and Zurich and all </p><p>those places you know; and down to Venice, and all through Germany, and </p><p>down the Rhine, and into Holland and Belgium--the regular round. How do </p><p>you say that, in French--the regular round?" Newman asked of Valentin. </p><p>Mademoiselle Nioche fixed her eyes an instant on Bellegarde, and then </p><p>with a little smile, "I don't understand monsieur," she said, "when he </p><p>says so much at once. Would you be so good as to translate?" </p><p>"I would rather talk to you out of my own head," Valentin declared. </p><p>"No," said Newman, gravely, still in his bad French, "you must not talk </p><p>to Mademoiselle Nioche, because you say discouraging things. You ought </p><p>to tell her to work, to persevere." </p><p>"And we French, mademoiselle," said Valentin, "are accused of being </p><p>false flatterers!" </p><p>"I don't want any flattery, I want only the truth. But I know the </p><p>truth." </p><p>"All I say is that I suspect there are some things that you can do </p><p>better than paint," said Valentin. </p><p>"I know the truth--I know the truth," Mademoiselle Noemie repeated. And, </p><p>dipping a brush into a clot of red paint, she drew a great horizontal </p><p>daub across her unfinished picture. </p><p>"What is that?" asked Newman. </p><p>Without answering, she drew another long crimson daub, in a vertical </p><p>direction, down the middle of her canvas, and so, in a moment, completed </p><p>the rough indication of a cross. "It is the sign of the truth," she said </p><p>at last. </p><p>The two men looked at each other, and Valentin indulged in another </p><p>flash of physiognomical eloquence. "You have spoiled your picture," said </p><p>Newman. </p><p>"I know that very well. It was the only thing to do with it. I had sat </p><p>looking at it all day without touching it. I had begun to hate it. It </p><p>seemed to me something was going to happen." </p><p>"I like it better that way than as it was before," said Valentin. "Now </p><p>it is more interesting. It tells a story. Is it for sale?" </p><p>"Everything I have is for sale," said Mademoiselle Noemie. </p><p>"How much is this thing?" </p><p>"Ten thousand francs," said the young girl, without a smile. </p><p>"Everything that Mademoiselle Nioche may do at present is mine in </p><p>advance," said Newman. "It makes part of an order I gave her some months </p><p>ago. So you can't have this." </p><p>"Monsieur will lose nothing by it," said the young girl, looking at </p><p>Valentin. And she began to put up her utensils. </p><p>"I shall have gained a charming memory," said Valentin. "You are going </p><p>away? your day is over?" </p><p>"My father is coming to fetch me," said Mademoiselle Noemie. </p><p>She had hardly spoken when, through the door behind her, which opens on </p><p>one of the great white stone staircases of the Louvre, M. Nioche made </p><p>his appearance. He came in with his usual even, patient shuffle, and </p><p>he made a low salute to the two gentlemen who were standing before his </p><p>daughter's easel. Newman shook his hands with muscular friendliness, and </p><p>Valentin returned his greeting with extreme deference. While the old man </p><p>stood waiting for Noemie to make a parcel of her implements, he let </p><p>his mild, oblique gaze hover toward Bellegarde, who was watching </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie put on her bonnet and mantle. Valentin was at no </p><p>pains to disguise his scrutiny. He looked at a pretty girl as he would </p><p>have listened to a piece of music. Attention, in each case, was simple </p><p>good manners. M. Nioche at last took his daughter's paint-box in one </p><p>hand and the bedaubed canvas, after giving it a solemn, puzzled stare, </p><p>in the other, and led the way to the door. Mademoiselle Noemie made the </p><p>young men the salute of a duchess, and followed her father. </p><p>"Well," said Newman, "what do you think of her?" </p><p>"She is very remarkable. Diable, diable, diable!" repeated M. de </p><p>Bellegarde, reflectively; "she is very remarkable." </p><p>"I am afraid she is a sad little adventuress," said Newman. </p><p>"Not a little one--a great one. She has the material." And Valentin </p><p>began to walk away slowly, looking vaguely at the pictures on the walls, </p><p>with a thoughtful illumination in his eye. Nothing could have appealed </p><p>to his imagination more than the possible adventures of a young lady </p><p>endowed with the "material" of Mademoiselle Nioche. "She is very </p><p>interesting," he went on. "She is a beautiful type." </p><p>"A beautiful type? What the deuce do you mean?" asked Newman. </p><p>"I mean from the artistic point of view. She is an artist,--outside of </p><p>her painting, which obviously is execrable." </p><p>"But she is not beautiful. I don't even think her very pretty." </p><p>"She is quite pretty enough for her purposes, and it is a face and </p><p>figure on which everything tells. If she were prettier she would be less </p><p>intelligent, and her intelligence is half of her charm." </p><p>"In what way," asked Newman, who was much amused at his companion's </p><p>immediate philosophization of Mademoiselle Nioche, "does her </p><p>intelligence strike you as so remarkable?" </p><p>"She has taken the measure of life, and she has determined to BE </p><p>something--to succeed at any cost. Her painting, of course, is a mere</p><p>trick to gain time. She is waiting for her chance; she wishes to launch </p><p>herself, and to do it well. She knows her Paris. She is one of fifty </p><p>thousand, so far as the mere ambition goes; but I am very sure that </p><p>in the way of resolution and capacity she is a rarity. And in one </p><p>gift--perfect heartlessness--I will warrant she is unsurpassed. She </p><p>has not as much heart as will go on the point of a needle. That is an </p><p>immense virtue. Yes, she is one of the celebrities of the future." </p><p>"Heaven help us!" said Newman, "how far the artistic point of view may </p><p>take a man! But in this case I must request that you don't let it take </p><p>you too far. You have learned a wonderful deal about Mademoiselle </p><p>Noemie in a quarter of an hour. Let that suffice; don't follow up your </p><p>researches." </p><p>"My dear fellow," cried Bellegarde with warmth, "I hope I have too good </p><p>manners to intrude." </p><p>"You are not intruding. The girl is nothing to me. In fact, I rather </p><p>dislike her. But I like her poor old father, and for his sake I beg you </p><p>to abstain from any attempt to verify your theories." </p><p>"For the sake of that seedy old gentleman who came to fetch her?" </p><p>demanded Valentin, stopping short. And on Newman's assenting, "Ah no, ah </p><p>no," he went on with a smile. "You are quite wrong, my dear fellow; you </p><p>needn't mind him." </p><p>"I verily believe that you are accusing the poor gentleman of being </p><p>capable of rejoicing in his daughter's dishonor." </p><p>"Voyons," said Valentin; "who is he? what is he?" </p><p>"He is what he looks like: as poor as a rat, but very high-toned." </p><p>"Exactly. I noticed him perfectly; be sure I do him justice. He has </p><p>had losses, des malheurs, as we say. He is very low-spirited, and his </p><p>daughter is too much for him. He is the pink of respectability, and he </p><p>has sixty years of honesty on his back. All this I perfectly appreciate. </p><p>But I know my fellow-men and my fellow-Parisians, and I will make a </p><p>bargain with you." Newman gave ear to his bargain and he went on. "He </p><p>would rather his daughter were a good girl than a bad one, but if the </p><p>worst comes to the worst, the old man will not do what Virginius did. </p><p>Success justifies everything. If Mademoiselle Noemie makes a figure, </p><p>her papa will feel--well, we will call it relieved. And she will make a </p><p>figure. The old gentleman's future is assured." </p><p>"I don't know what Virginius did, but M. Nioche will shoot Miss Noemie," </p><p>said Newman. "After that, I suppose his future will be assured in some </p><p>snug prison." </p><p>"I am not a cynic; I am simply an observer," Valentin rejoined. </p><p>"Mademoiselle Noemie interests me; she is extremely remarkable. If </p><p>there is a good reason, in honor or decency, for dismissing her from my </p><p>thoughts forever, I am perfectly willing to do it. Your estimate of the </p><p>papa's sensibilities is a good reason until it is invalidated. I promise </p><p>you not to look at the young girl again until you tell me that you have </p><p>changed your mind about the papa. When he has given distinct proof of </p><p>being a philosopher, you will raise your interdict. Do you agree to </p><p>that?" </p><p>"Do you mean to bribe him?" </p><p>"Oh, you admit, then, that he is bribable? No, he would ask too much, </p><p>and it would not be exactly fair. I mean simply to wait. You will </p><p>continue, I suppose, to see this interesting couple, and you will give </p><p>me the news yourself." </p><p>"Well," said Newman, "if the old man turns out a humbug, you may do what </p><p>you please. I wash my hands of the matter. For the girl herself, you </p><p>may be at rest. I don't know what harm she may do to me, but I certainly </p><p>can't hurt her. It seems to me," said Newman, "that you are very well </p><p>matched. You are both hard cases, and M. Nioche and I, I believe, are </p><p>the only virtuous men to be found in Paris." </p><p>Soon after this M. de Bellegarde, in punishment for his levity, received </p><p>a stern poke in the back from a pointed instrument. Turning quickly </p><p>round he found the weapon to be a parasol wielded by a lady in green </p><p>gauze bonnet. Valentin's English cousins had been drifting about </p><p>unpiloted, and evidently deemed that they had a grievance. Newman left </p><p>him to their mercies, but with a boundless faith in his power to plead </p><p>his cause. </p><p>CHAPTER XII </p><p>Three days after his introduction to the family of Madame de Cintre, </p><p>Newman, coming in toward evening, found upon his table the card of the </p><p>Marquis de Bellegarde. On the following day he received a note informing </p><p>him that the Marquise de Bellegarde would be grateful for the honor of </p><p>his company at dinner. </p><p>He went, of course, though he had to break another engagement to do it. </p><p>He was ushered into the room in which Madame de Bellegarde had received </p><p>him before, and here he found his venerable hostess, surrounded by her </p><p>entire family. The room was lighted only by the crackling fire, which </p><p>illuminated the very small pink slippers of a lady who, seated in a low </p><p>chair, was stretching out her toes before it. This lady was the younger </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde. Madame de Cintre was seated at the other end </p><p>of the room, holding a little girl against her knee, the child of her </p><p>brother Urbain, to whom she was apparently relating a wonderful story. </p><p>Valentin was sitting on a puff, close to his sister-in-law, into whose </p><p>ear he was certainly distilling the finest nonsense. The marquis was </p><p>stationed before the fire, with his head erect and his hands behind him, </p><p>in an attitude of formal expectancy. </p><p>Old Madame de Bellegarde stood up to give Newman her greeting, and there </p><p>was that in the way she did so which seemed to measure narrowly the </p><p>extent of her condescension. "We are all alone, you see, we have asked </p><p>no one else," she said, austerely. </p><p>"I am very glad you didn't; this is much more sociable," said Newman. </p><p>"Good evening, sir," and he offered his hand to the marquis. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde was affable, but in spite of his dignity he was </p><p>restless. He began to pace up and down the room, he looked out of the </p><p>long windows, he took up books and laid them down again. Young Madame </p><p>de Bellegarde gave Newman her hand without moving and without looking at</p><p>him. </p><p>"You may think that is coldness," exclaimed Valentin; "but it is not, it </p><p>is warmth. It shows she is treating you as an intimate. Now she detests </p><p>me, and yet she is always looking at me." </p><p>"No wonder I detest you if I am always looking at you!" cried the lady. </p><p>"If Mr. Newman does not like my way of shaking hands, I will do it </p><p>again." </p><p>But this charming privilege was lost upon our hero, who was already </p><p>making his way across the room to Madame de Cintre. She looked at him </p><p>as she shook hands, but she went on with the story she was telling her </p><p>little niece. She had only two or three phrases to add, but they were </p><p>apparently of great moment. She deepened her voice, smiling as she did </p><p>so, and the little girl gazed at her with round eyes. </p><p>"But in the end the young prince married the beautiful Florabella," said </p><p>Madame de Cintre, "and carried her off to live with him in the Land of </p><p>the Pink Sky. There she was so happy that she forgot all her troubles, </p><p>and went out to drive every day of her life in an ivory coach drawn by </p><p>five hundred white mice. Poor Florabella," she exclaimed to Newman, "had </p><p>suffered terribly." </p><p>"She had had nothing to eat for six months," said little Blanche. </p><p>"Yes, but when the six months were over, she had a plum-cake as big as </p><p>that ottoman," said Madame de Cintre. "That quite set her up again." </p><p>"What a checkered career!" said Newman. "Are you very fond of children?" </p><p>He was certain that she was, but he wished to make her say it. </p><p>"I like to talk with them," she answered; "we can talk with them so much </p><p>more seriously than with grown persons. That is great nonsense that I </p><p>have been telling Blanche, but it is a great deal more serious than most </p><p>of what we say in society." </p><p>"I wish you would talk to me, then, as if I were Blanche's age," said </p><p>Newman, laughing. "Were you happy at your ball, the other night?" </p><p>"Ecstatically!" </p><p>"Now you are talking the nonsense that we talk in society," said Newman. </p><p>"I don't believe that." </p><p>"It was my own fault if I was not happy. The ball was very pretty, and </p><p>every one very amiable." </p><p>"It was on your conscience," said Newman, "that you had annoyed your </p><p>mother and your brother." </p><p>Madame de Cintre looked at him a moment without answering. "That is </p><p>true," she replied at last. "I had undertaken more than I could carry </p><p>out. I have very little courage; I am not a heroine." She said this with </p><p>a certain soft emphasis; but then, changing her tone, "I could never </p><p>have gone through the sufferings of the beautiful Florabella," she </p><p>added, not even for her prospective rewards. </p><p>Dinner was announced, and Newman betook himself to the side of the old</p><p>Madame de Bellegarde. The dining-room, at the end of a cold corridor, </p><p>was vast and sombre; the dinner was simple and delicately excellent. </p><p>Newman wondered whether Madame de Cintre had had something to do with </p><p>ordering the repast and greatly hoped she had. Once seated at table, </p><p>with the various members of the ancient house of Bellegarde around </p><p>him, he asked himself the meaning of his position. Was the old lady </p><p>responding to his advances? Did the fact that he was a solitary guest </p><p>augment his credit or diminish it? Were they ashamed to show him to </p><p>other people, or did they wish to give him a sign of sudden adoption </p><p>into their last reserve of favor? Newman was on his guard; he was </p><p>watchful and conjectural; and yet at the same time he was vaguely </p><p>indifferent. Whether they gave him a long rope or a short one he was </p><p>there now, and Madame de Cintre was opposite to him. She had a tall </p><p>candlestick on each side of her; she would sit there for the next hour, </p><p>and that was enough. The dinner was extremely solemn and measured; he </p><p>wondered whether this was always the state of things in "old families." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde held her head very high, and fixed her eyes, which </p><p>looked peculiarly sharp in her little, finely-wrinkled white face, very </p><p>intently upon the table-service. The marquis appeared to have decided </p><p>that the fine arts offered a safe subject of conversation, as not </p><p>leading to startling personal revelations. Every now and then, having </p><p>learned from Newman that he had been through the museums of Europe, he </p><p>uttered some polished aphorism upon the flesh-tints of Rubens and the </p><p>good taste of Sansovino. His manners seemed to indicate a fine, nervous </p><p>dread that something disagreeable might happen if the atmosphere were </p><p>not purified by allusions of a thoroughly superior cast. "What under </p><p>the sun is the man afraid of?" Newman asked himself. "Does he think I am </p><p>going to offer to swap jack-knives with him?" It was useless to shut his </p><p>eyes to the fact that the marquis was profoundly disagreeable to him. </p><p>He had never been a man of strong personal aversions; his nerves had not </p><p>been at the mercy of the mystical qualities of his neighbors. But here </p><p>was a man towards whom he was irresistibly in opposition; a man of </p><p>forms and phrases and postures; a man full of possible impertinences </p><p>and treacheries. M. de Bellegarde made him feel as if he were standing </p><p>bare-footed on a marble floor; and yet, to gain his desire, Newman felt </p><p>perfectly able to stand. He wondered what Madame de Cintre thought of </p><p>his being accepted, if accepted it was. There was no judging from her </p><p>face, which expressed simply the desire to be gracious in a manner which </p><p>should require as little explicit recognition as possible. Young Madame </p><p>de Bellegarde had always the same manners; she was always preoccupied, </p><p>distracted, listening to everything and hearing nothing, looking at </p><p>her dress, her rings, her finger-nails, seeming rather bored, and yet </p><p>puzzling you to decide what was her ideal of social diversion. Newman </p><p>was enlightened on this point later. Even Valentin did not quite seem </p><p>master of his wits; his vivacity was fitful and forced, yet Newman </p><p>observed that in the lapses of his talk he appeared excited. His eyes </p><p>had an intenser spark than usual. The effect of all this was that </p><p>Newman, for the first time in his life, was not himself; that he </p><p>measured his movements, and counted his words, and resolved that if the </p><p>occasion demanded that he should appear to have swallowed a ramrod, he </p><p>would meet the emergency. </p><p>After dinner M. de Bellegarde proposed to his guest that they should go </p><p>into the smoking-room, and he led the way toward a small, somewhat </p><p>musty apartment, the walls of which were ornamented with old hangings of </p><p>stamped leather and trophies of rusty arms. Newman refused a cigar, but </p><p>he established himself upon one of the divans, while the marquis puffed </p><p>his own weed before the fire-place, and Valentin sat looking through the </p><p>light fumes of a cigarette from one to the other.</p><p>"I can't keep quiet any longer," said Valentin, at last. "I must tell </p><p>you the news and congratulate you. My brother seems unable to come to </p><p>the point; he revolves around his announcement like the priest around </p><p>the altar. You are accepted as a candidate for the hand of our sister." </p><p>"Valentin, be a little proper!" murmured the marquis, with a look of the </p><p>most delicate irritation contracting the bridge of his high nose. </p><p>"There has been a family council," the young man continued; "my mother </p><p>and Urbain have put their heads together, and even my testimony has </p><p>not been altogether excluded. My mother and the marquis sat at a table </p><p>covered with green cloth; my sister-in-law and I were on a bench against </p><p>the wall. It was like a committee at the Corps Legislatif. We were </p><p>called up, one after the other, to testify. We spoke of you very </p><p>handsomely. Madame de Bellegarde said that if she had not been told who </p><p>you were, she would have taken you for a duke--an American duke, the </p><p>Duke of California. I said that I could warrant you grateful for the </p><p>smallest favors--modest, humble, unassuming. I was sure that you would </p><p>know your own place, always, and never give us occasion to remind you of </p><p>certain differences. After all, you couldn't help it if you were not </p><p>a duke. There were none in your country; but if there had been, it was </p><p>certain that, smart and active as you are, you would have got the pick </p><p>of the titles. At this point I was ordered to sit down, but I think I </p><p>made an impression in your favor." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde looked at his brother with dangerous coldness, and </p><p>gave a smile as thin as the edge of a knife. Then he removed a spark of </p><p>cigar-ash from the sleeve of his coat; he fixed his eyes for a while on </p><p>the cornice of the room, and at last he inserted one of his white hands </p><p>into the breast of his waistcoat. "I must apologize to you for the </p><p>deplorable levity of my brother," he said, "and I must notify you that </p><p>this is probably not the last time that his want of tact will cause you </p><p>serious embarrassment." </p><p>"No, I confess I have no tact," said Valentin. "Is your embarrassment </p><p>really painful, Newman? The marquis will put you right again; his own </p><p>touch is deliciously delicate." </p><p>"Valentin, I am sorry to say," the marquis continued, "has never </p><p>possessed the tone, the manner, that belongs to a young man in his </p><p>position. It has been a great affliction to his mother, who is very fond </p><p>of the old traditions. But you must remember that he speaks for no one </p><p>but himself." </p><p>"Oh, I don't mind him, sir," said Newman, good-humoredly. "I know what </p><p>he amounts to." </p><p>"In the good old times," said Valentin, "marquises and counts used </p><p>to have their appointed fools and jesters, to crack jokes for them. </p><p>Nowadays we see a great strapping democrat keeping a count about him </p><p>to play the fool. It's a good situation, but I certainly am very </p><p>degenerate." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde fixed his eyes for some time on the floor. "My mother </p><p>informed me," he said presently, "of the announcement that you made to </p><p>her the other evening." </p><p>"That I desired to marry your sister?" said Newman.</p><p>"That you wished to arrange a marriage," said the marquis, slowly, </p><p>"with my sister, the Comtesse de Cintre. The proposal was serious, and </p><p>required, on my mother's part, a great deal of reflection. She naturally </p><p>took me into her counsels, and I gave my most zealous attention to the </p><p>subject. There was a great deal to be considered; more than you appear </p><p>to imagine. We have viewed the question on all its faces, we have </p><p>weighed one thing against another. Our conclusion has been that we favor </p><p>your suit. My mother has desired me to inform you of our decision. </p><p>She will have the honor of saying a few words to you on the subject, </p><p>herself. Meanwhile, by us, the heads of the family, you are accepted." </p><p>Newman got up and came nearer to the marquis. "You will do nothing to </p><p>hinder me, and all you can to help me, eh?" </p><p>"I will recommend my sister to accept you." </p><p>Newman passed his hand over his face, and pressed it for a moment upon </p><p>his eyes. This promise had a great sound, and yet the pleasure he took </p><p>in it was embittered by his having to stand there so and receive his </p><p>passport from M. de Bellegarde. The idea of having this gentleman mixed </p><p>up with his wooing and wedding was more and more disagreeable to him. </p><p>But Newman had resolved to go through the mill, as he imagined it, and </p><p>he would not cry out at the first turn of the wheel. He was silent a </p><p>while, and then he said, with a certain dryness which Valentin told him </p><p>afterwards had a very grand air, "I am much obliged to you." </p><p>"I take note of the promise," said Valentin, "I register the vow." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde began to gaze at the cornice again; he apparently had </p><p>something more to say. "I must do my mother the justice," he resumed, "I </p><p>must do myself the justice, to say that our decision was not easy. Such </p><p>an arrangement was not what we had expected. The idea that my sister </p><p>should marry a gentleman--ah--in business was something of a novelty." </p><p>"So I told you, you know," said Valentin raising his finger at Newman. </p><p>"The novelty has not quite worn away, I confess," the marquis went on; </p><p>"perhaps it never will, entirely. But possibly that is not altogether </p><p>to be regretted," and he gave his thin smile again. "It may be that the </p><p>time has come when we should make some concession to novelty. There </p><p>had been no novelties in our house for a great many years. I made the </p><p>observation to my mother, and she did me the honor to admit that it was </p><p>worthy of attention." </p><p>"My dear brother," interrupted Valentin, "is not your memory just </p><p>here leading you the least bit astray? Our mother is, I may say, </p><p>distinguished for her small respect of abstract reasoning. Are you </p><p>very sure that she replied to your striking proposition in the gracious </p><p>manner you describe? You know how terribly incisive she is sometimes. </p><p>Didn't she, rather, do you the honor to say, 'A fiddlestick for your </p><p>phrases! There are better reasons than that'?" </p><p>"Other reasons were discussed," said the marquis, without looking </p><p>at Valentin, but with an audible tremor in his voice; "some of them </p><p>possibly were better. We are conservative, Mr. Newman, but we are not </p><p>also bigots. We judged the matter liberally. We have no doubt that </p><p>everything will be comfortable." </p><p>Newman had stood listening to these remarks with his arms folded and his </p><p>eyes fastened upon M. de Bellegarde, "Comfortable?" he said, with a sort </p><p>of grim flatness of intonation. "Why shouldn't we be comfortable? If you </p><p>are not, it will be your own fault; I have everything to make ME so." </p><p>"My brother means that with the lapse of time you may get used to the </p><p>change"--and Valentin paused, to light another cigarette. </p><p>"What change?" asked Newman in the same tone. </p><p>"Urbain," said Valentin, very gravely, "I am afraid that Mr. Newman does </p><p>not quite realize the change. We ought to insist upon that." </p><p>"My brother goes too far," said M. de Bellegarde. "It is his fatal want </p><p>of tact again. It is my mother's wish, and mine, that no such allusions </p><p>should be made. Pray never make them yourself. We prefer to assume </p><p>that the person accepted as the possible husband of my sister is one </p><p>of ourselves, and that he should have no explanations to make. With a </p><p>little discretion on both sides, everything, I think, will be easy. That </p><p>is exactly what I wished to say--that we quite understand what we </p><p>have undertaken, and that you may depend upon our adhering to our </p><p>resolution." </p><p>Valentin shook his hands in the air and then buried his face in them. "I </p><p>have less tact than I might have, no doubt; but oh, my brother, if you </p><p>knew what you yourself were saying!" And he went off into a long laugh. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde's face flushed a little, but he held his head higher, </p><p>as if to repudiate this concession to vulgar perturbability. "I am sure </p><p>you understand me," he said to Newman. </p><p>"Oh no, I don't understand you at all," said Newman. "But you needn't </p><p>mind that. I don't care. In fact, I think I had better not understand </p><p>you. I might not like it. That wouldn't suit me at all, you know. I want </p><p>to marry your sister, that's all; to do it as quickly as possible, and </p><p>to find fault with nothing. I don't care how I do it. I am not marrying </p><p>you, you know, sir. I have got my leave, and that is all I want." </p><p>"You had better receive the last word from my mother," said the marquis. </p><p>"Very good; I will go and get it," said Newman; and he prepared to </p><p>return to the drawing-room. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde made a motion for him to pass first, and when Newman </p><p>had gone out he shut himself into the room with Valentin. Newman had </p><p>been a trifle bewildered by the audacious irony of the younger brother, </p><p>and he had not needed its aid to point the moral of M. de Bellegarde's </p><p>transcendent patronage. He had wit enough to appreciate the force </p><p>of that civility which consists in calling your attention to the </p><p>impertinences it spares you. But he had felt warmly the delicate </p><p>sympathy with himself that underlay Valentin's fraternal irreverence, </p><p>and he was most unwilling that his friend should pay a tax upon it. </p><p>He paused a moment in the corridor, after he had gone a few steps, </p><p>expecting to hear the resonance of M. de Bellegarde's displeasure; but </p><p>he detected only a perfect stillness. The stillness itself seemed a </p><p>trifle portentous; he reflected however that he had no right to stand </p><p>listening, and he made his way back to the salon. In his absence several </p><p>persons had come in. They were scattered about the room in groups, </p><p>two or three of them having passed into a small boudoir, next to the</p><p>drawing-room, which had now been lighted and opened. Old Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde was in her place by the fire, talking to a very old gentleman </p><p>in a wig and a profuse white neck cloth of the fashion of 1820. Madame </p><p>de Cintre was bending a listening head to the historic confidences of </p><p>an old lady who was presumably the wife of the old gentleman in the </p><p>neckcloth, an old lady in a red satin dress and an ermine cape, who </p><p>wore across her forehead a band with a topaz set in it. Young Madame </p><p>de Bellegarde, when Newman came in, left some people among whom she was </p><p>sitting, and took the place that she had occupied before dinner. Then </p><p>she gave a little push to the puff that stood near her, and by a glance </p><p>at Newman seemed to indicate that she had placed it in position for him. </p><p>He went and took possession of it; the marquis's wife amused and puzzled </p><p>him. </p><p>"I know your secret," she said, in her bad but charming English; "you </p><p>need make no mystery of it. You wish to marry my sister-in-law. C'est un </p><p>beau choix. A man like you ought to marry a tall, thin woman. You must </p><p>know that I have spoken in your favor; you owe me a famous taper!" </p><p>"You have spoken to Madame de Cintre?" said Newman. </p><p>"Oh no, not that. You may think it strange, but my sister-in-law and </p><p>I are not so intimate as that. No; I spoke to my husband and my </p><p>mother-in-law; I said I was sure we could do what we chose with you." </p><p>"I am much, obliged to you," said Newman, laughing; "but you can't." </p><p>"I know that very well; I didn't believe a word of it. But I wanted you </p><p>to come into the house; I thought we should be friends." </p><p>"I am very sure of it," said Newman. </p><p>"Don't be too sure. If you like Madame de Cintre so much, perhaps you </p><p>will not like me. We are as different as blue and pink. But you and I </p><p>have something in common. I have come into this family by marriage; you </p><p>want to come into it in the same way." </p><p>"Oh no, I don't!" interrupted Newman. "I only want to take Madame de </p><p>Cintre out of it." </p><p>"Well, to cast your nets you have to go into the water. Our positions </p><p>are alike; we shall be able to compare notes. What do you think of my </p><p>husband? It's a strange question, isn't it? But I shall ask you some </p><p>stranger ones yet." </p><p>"Perhaps a stranger one will be easier to answer," said Newman. "You </p><p>might try me." </p><p>"Oh, you get off very well; the old Comte de la Rochefidele, yonder, </p><p>couldn't do it better. I told them that if we only gave you a chance you </p><p>would be a perfect talon rouge. I know something about men. Besides, you </p><p>and I belong to the same camp. I am a ferocious democrat. By birth I am </p><p>vieille roche; a good little bit of the history of France is the history </p><p>of my family. Oh, you never heard of us, of course! Ce que c'est que </p><p>la gloire! We are much better than the Bellegardes, at any rate. But </p><p>I don't care a pin for my pedigree; I want to belong to my time. I'm a </p><p>revolutionist, a radical, a child of the age! I am sure I go beyond you. </p><p>I like clever people, wherever they come from, and I take my amusement </p><p>wherever I find it. I don't pout at the Empire; here all the world pouts</p><p>at the Empire. Of course I have to mind what I say; but I expect to </p><p>take my revenge with you." Madame de Bellegarde discoursed for some time </p><p>longer in this sympathetic strain, with an eager abundance which seemed </p><p>to indicate that her opportunities for revealing her esoteric philosophy </p><p>were indeed rare. She hoped that Newman would never be afraid of her, </p><p>however he might be with the others, for, really, she went very far </p><p>indeed. "Strong people"--le gens forts--were in her opinion equal, </p><p>all the world over. Newman listened to her with an attention at once </p><p>beguiled and irritated. He wondered what the deuce she, too, was </p><p>driving at, with her hope that he would not be afraid of her and her </p><p>protestations of equality. In so far as he could understand her, she was </p><p>wrong; a silly, rattling woman was certainly not the equal of a sensible </p><p>man, preoccupied with an ambitious passion. Madame de Bellegarde stopped </p><p>suddenly, and looked at him sharply, shaking her fan. "I see you don't </p><p>believe me," she said, "you are too much on your guard. You will not </p><p>form an alliance, offensive or defensive? You are very wrong; I could </p><p>help you." </p><p>Newman answered that he was very grateful and that he would certainly </p><p>ask for help; she should see. "But first of all," he said, "I must help </p><p>myself." And he went to join Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"I have been telling Madame de la Rochefidele that you are an American," </p><p>she said, as he came up. "It interests her greatly. Her father went over </p><p>with the French troops to help you in your battles in the last century, </p><p>and she has always, in consequence, wanted greatly to see an American. </p><p>But she has never succeeded till to-night. You are the first--to her </p><p>knowledge--that she has ever looked at." </p><p>Madame de la Rochefidele had an aged, cadaverous face, with a falling of </p><p>the lower jaw which prevented her from bringing her lips together, and </p><p>reduced her conversations to a series of impressive but inarticulate </p><p>gutturals. She raised an antique eyeglass, elaborately mounted in chased </p><p>silver, and looked at Newman from head to foot. Then she said something </p><p>to which he listened deferentially, but which he completely failed to </p><p>understand. </p><p>"Madame de la Rochefidele says that she is convinced that she must have </p><p>seen Americans without knowing it," Madame de Cintre explained. Newman </p><p>thought it probable she had seen a great many things without knowing it; </p><p>and the old lady, again addressing herself to utterance, declared--as </p><p>interpreted by Madame de Cintre--that she wished she had known it. </p><p>At this moment the old gentleman who had been talking to the elder </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde drew near, leading the marquise on his arm. His </p><p>wife pointed out Newman to him, apparently explaining his remarkable </p><p>origin. M. de la Rochefidele, whose old age was rosy and rotund, spoke </p><p>very neatly and clearly, almost as prettily, Newman thought, as M. </p><p>Nioche. When he had been enlightened, he turned to Newman with an </p><p>inimitable elderly grace. </p><p>"Monsieur is by no means the first American that I have seen," he said. </p><p>"Almost the first person I ever saw--to notice him--was an American." </p><p>"Ah?" said Newman, sympathetically. </p><p>"The great Dr. Franklin," said M. de la Rochefidele. "Of course I was </p><p>very young. He was received very well in our monde." </p><p>"Not better than Mr. Newman," said Madame de Bellegarde. "I beg he </p><p>will offer his arm into the other room. I could have offered no higher </p><p>privilege to Dr. Franklin." </p><p>Newman, complying with Madame de Bellegarde's request, perceived that </p><p>her two sons had returned to the drawing-room. He scanned their faces </p><p>an instant for traces of the scene that had followed his separation from </p><p>them, but the marquise seemed neither more nor less frigidly grand than </p><p>usual, and Valentin was kissing ladies' hands with at least his habitual </p><p>air of self-abandonment to the act. Madame de Bellegarde gave a glance </p><p>at her eldest son, and by the time she had crossed the threshold of </p><p>her boudoir he was at her side. The room was now empty and offered </p><p>a sufficient degree of privacy. The old lady disengaged herself from </p><p>Newman's arm and rested her hand on the arm of the marquis; and in this </p><p>position she stood a moment, holding her head high and biting her small </p><p>under-lip. I am afraid the picture was lost upon Newman, but Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde was, in fact, at this moment a striking image of the dignity </p><p>which--even in the case of a little time-shrunken old lady--may reside </p><p>in the habit of unquestioned authority and the absoluteness of a social </p><p>theory favorable to yourself. </p><p>"My son has spoken to you as I desired," she said, "and you understand </p><p>that we shall not interfere. The rest will lie with yourself." </p><p>"M. de Bellegarde told me several things I didn't understand," said </p><p>Newman, "but I made out that. You will leave me open field. I am much </p><p>obliged." </p><p>"I wish to add a word that my son probably did not feel at liberty to </p><p>say," the marquise rejoined. "I must say it for my own peace of mind. We </p><p>are stretching a point; we are doing you a great favor." </p><p>"Oh, your son said it very well; didn't you?" said Newman. </p><p>"Not so well as my mother," declared the marquis. </p><p>"I can only repeat--I am much obliged." </p><p>"It is proper I should tell you," Madame de Bellegarde went on, "that I </p><p>am very proud, and that I hold my head very high. I may be wrong, but </p><p>I am too old to change. At least I know it, and I don't pretend to </p><p>anything else. Don't flatter yourself that my daughter is not proud. She </p><p>is proud in her own way--a somewhat different way from mine. You will </p><p>have to make your terms with that. Even Valentin is proud, if you touch </p><p>the right spot--or the wrong one. Urbain is proud; that you see for </p><p>yourself. Sometimes I think he is a little too proud; but I wouldn't </p><p>change him. He is the best of my children; he cleaves to his old mother. </p><p>But I have said enough to show you that we are all proud together. It is </p><p>well that you should know the sort of people you have come among." </p><p>"Well," said Newman, "I can only say, in return, that I am NOT proud; </p><p>I shan't mind you! But you speak as if you intended to be very </p><p>disagreeable." </p><p>"I shall not enjoy having my daughter marry you, and I shall not pretend </p><p>to enjoy it. If you don't mind that, so much the better." </p><p>"If you stick to your own side of the contract we shall not quarrel; </p><p>that is all I ask of you," said Newman. "Keep your hands off, and</p><p>give me an open field. I am very much in earnest, and there is not the </p><p>slightest danger of my getting discouraged or backing out. You will have </p><p>me constantly before your eyes; if you don't like it, I am sorry for </p><p>you. I will do for your daughter, if she will accept me everything that </p><p>a man can do for a woman. I am happy to tell you that, as a promise--a </p><p>pledge. I consider that on your side you make me an equal pledge. You </p><p>will not back out, eh?" </p><p>"I don't know what you mean by 'backing out,'" said the marquise. </p><p>"It suggests a movement of which I think no Bellegarde has ever been </p><p>guilty." </p><p>"Our word is our word," said Urbain. "We have given it." </p><p>"Well, now," said Newman, "I am very glad you are so proud. It makes me </p><p>believe that you will keep it." </p><p>The marquise was silent a moment, and then, suddenly, "I shall always be </p><p>polite to you, Mr. Newman," she declared, "but, decidedly, I shall never </p><p>like you." </p><p>"Don't be too sure," said Newman, laughing. </p><p>"I am so sure that I will ask you to take me back to my arm-chair </p><p>without the least fear of having my sentiments modified by the service </p><p>you render me." And Madame de Bellegarde took his arm, and returned to </p><p>the salon and to her customary place. </p><p>M. de la Rochefidele and his wife were preparing to take their leave, </p><p>and Madame de Cintre's interview with the mumbling old lady was at an </p><p>end. She stood looking about her, asking herself, apparently to whom she </p><p>should next speak, when Newman came up to her. </p><p>"Your mother has given me leave--very solemnly--to come here often," he </p><p>said. "I mean to come often." </p><p>"I shall be glad to see you," she answered, simply. And then, in a </p><p>moment. "You probably think it very strange that there should be such a </p><p>solemnity--as you say--about your coming." </p><p>"Well, yes; I do, rather." </p><p>"Do you remember what my brother Valentin said, the first time you came </p><p>to see me--that we were a strange, strange family?" </p><p>"It was not the first time I came, but the second," said Newman. </p><p>"Very true. Valentin annoyed me at the time, but now I know you better, </p><p>I may tell you he was right. If you come often, you will see!" and </p><p>Madame de Cintre turned away. </p><p>Newman watched her a while, talking with other people, and then he took </p><p>his leave. He shook hands last with Valentin de Bellegarde, who came out </p><p>with him to the top of the staircase. "Well, you have got your permit," </p><p>said Valentin. "I hope you liked the process." </p><p>"I like your sister, more than ever. But don't worry your brother any </p><p>more for my sake," Newman added. "I don't mind him. I am afraid he came </p><p>down on you in the smoking-room, after I went out."</p><p>"When my brother comes down on me," said Valentin, "he falls hard. I </p><p>have a peculiar way of receiving him. I must say," he continued, "that </p><p>they came up to the mark much sooner than I expected. I don't understand </p><p>it, they must have had to turn the screw pretty tight. It's a tribute to </p><p>your millions." </p><p>"Well, it's the most precious one they have ever received," said Newman. </p><p>He was turning away when Valentin stopped him, looking at him with a </p><p>brilliant, softly-cynical glance. "I should like to know whether, within </p><p>a few days, you have seen your venerable friend M. Nioche." </p><p>"He was yesterday at my rooms," Newman answered. </p><p>"What did he tell you?" </p><p>"Nothing particular." </p><p>"You didn't see the muzzle of a pistol sticking out of his pocket?" </p><p>"What are you driving at?" Newman demanded. "I thought he seemed rather </p><p>cheerful for him." </p><p>Valentin broke into a laugh. "I am delighted to hear it! I win my bet. </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie has thrown her cap over the mill, as we say. She </p><p>has left the paternal domicile. She is launched! And M. Nioche is rather </p><p>cheerful--FOR HIM! Don't brandish your tomahawk at that rate; I have </p><p>not seen her nor communicated with her since that day at the Louvre. </p><p>Andromeda has found another Perseus than I. My information is exact; </p><p>on such matters it always is. I suppose that now you will raise your </p><p>protest." </p><p>"My protest be hanged!" murmured Newman, disgustedly. </p><p>But his tone found no echo in that in which Valentin, with his hand on </p><p>the door, to return to his mother's apartment, exclaimed, "But I shall </p><p>see her now! She is very remarkable--she is very remarkable!" </p><p>CHAPTER XIII </p><p>Newman kept his promise, or his menace, of going often to the Rue de </p><p>l'Universite, and during the next six weeks he saw Madame de Cintre more </p><p>times than he could have numbered. He flattered himself that he was not </p><p>in love, but his biographer may be supposed to know better. He claimed, </p><p>at least, none of the exemptions and emoluments of the romantic passion. </p><p>Love, he believed, made a fool of a man, and his present emotion was not </p><p>folly but wisdom; wisdom sound, serene, well-directed. What he felt </p><p>was an intense, all-consuming tenderness, which had for its object an </p><p>extraordinarily graceful and delicate, and at the same time impressive, </p><p>woman who lived in a large gray house on the left bank of the Seine. </p><p>This tenderness turned very often into a positive heart-ache; a sign </p><p>in which, certainly, Newman ought to have read the appellation which </p><p>science has conferred upon his sentiment. When the heart has a heavy </p><p>weight upon it, it hardly matters whether the weight be of gold or of </p><p>lead; when, at any rate, happiness passes into that place in which it</p><p>becomes identical with pain, a man may admit that the reign of wisdom </p><p>is temporarily suspended. Newman wished Madame de Cintre so well that </p><p>nothing he could think of doing for her in the future rose to the high </p><p>standard which his present mood had set itself. She seemed to him so </p><p>felicitous a product of nature and circumstance that his invention, </p><p>musing on future combinations, was constantly catching its breath with </p><p>the fear of stumbling into some brutal compression or mutilation of her </p><p>beautiful personal harmony. This is what I mean by Newman's tenderness: </p><p>Madame de Cintre pleased him so, exactly as she was, that his desire </p><p>to interpose between her and the troubles of life had the quality of a </p><p>young mother's eagerness to protect the sleep of her first-born child. </p><p>Newman was simply charmed, and he handled his charm as if it were a </p><p>music-box which would stop if one shook it. There can be no better proof </p><p>of the hankering epicure that is hidden in every man's temperament, </p><p>waiting for a signal from some divine confederate that he may safely </p><p>peep out. Newman at last was enjoying, purely, freely, deeply. Certain </p><p>of Madame de Cintre's personal qualities--the luminous sweetness of </p><p>her eyes, the delicate mobility of her face, the deep liquidity of her </p><p>voice--filled all his consciousness. A rose-crowned Greek of old, gazing </p><p>at a marble goddess with his whole bright intellect resting satisfied </p><p>in the act, could not have been a more complete embodiment of the wisdom </p><p>that loses itself in the enjoyment of quiet harmonies. </p><p>He made no violent love to her--no sentimental speeches. He never </p><p>trespassed on what she had made him understand was for the present </p><p>forbidden ground. But he had, nevertheless, a comfortable sense that she </p><p>knew better from day to day how much he admired her. Though in general </p><p>he was no great talker, he talked much, and he succeeded perfectly in </p><p>making her say many things. He was not afraid of boring her, either by </p><p>his discourse or by his silence; and whether or no he did occasionally </p><p>bore her, it is probable that on the whole she liked him only the better </p><p>for his absense of embarrassed scruples. Her visitors, coming in </p><p>often while Newman sat there, found a tall, lean, silent man in a </p><p>half-lounging attitude, who laughed out sometimes when no one had </p><p>meant to be droll, and remained grave in the presence of calculated </p><p>witticisms, for appreciation of which he had apparently not the proper </p><p>culture. </p><p>It must be confessed that the number of subjects upon which Newman had </p><p>no ideas was extremely large, and it must be added that as regards those </p><p>subjects upon which he was without ideas he was also perfectly without </p><p>words. He had little of the small change of conversation, and his stock </p><p>of ready-made formulas and phrases was the scantiest. On the other hand </p><p>he had plenty of attention to bestow, and his estimate of the importance </p><p>of a topic did not depend upon the number of clever things he could say </p><p>about it. He himself was almost never bored, and there was no man with </p><p>whom it would have been a greater mistake to suppose that silence </p><p>meant displeasure. What it was that entertained him during some of his </p><p>speechless sessions I must, however, confess myself unable to determine. </p><p>We know in a general way that a great many things which were old stories </p><p>to a great many people had the charm of novelty to him, but a complete </p><p>list of his new impressions would probably contain a number of surprises </p><p>for us. He told Madame de Cintre a hundred long stories; he explained </p><p>to her, in talking of the United States, the working of various local </p><p>institutions and mercantile customs. Judging by the sequel she was </p><p>interested, but one would not have been sure of it beforehand. As </p><p>regards her own talk, Newman was very sure himself that she herself </p><p>enjoyed it: this was as a sort of amendment to the portrait that Mrs. </p><p>Tristram had drawn of her. He discovered that she had naturally an</p><p>abundance of gayety. He had been right at first in saying she was shy; </p><p>her shyness, in a woman whose circumstances and tranquil beauty afforded </p><p>every facility for well-mannered hardihood, was only a charm the more. </p><p>For Newman it had lasted some time, and even when it went it left </p><p>something behind it which for a while performed the same office. Was </p><p>this the tearful secret of which Mrs. Tristram had had a glimpse, and </p><p>of which, as of her friend's reserve, her high-breeding, and her </p><p>profundity, she had given a sketch of which the outlines were, perhaps, </p><p>rather too heavy? Newman supposed so, but he found himself wondering </p><p>less every day what Madame de Cintre's secrets might be, and more </p><p>convinced that secrets were, in themselves, hateful things to her. She </p><p>was a woman for the light, not for the shade; and her natural line was </p><p>not picturesque reserve and mysterious melancholy, but frank, joyous, </p><p>brilliant action, with just so much meditation as was necessary, and </p><p>not a grain more. To this, apparently, he had succeeded in bringing her </p><p>back. He felt, himself, that he was an antidote to oppressive secrets; </p><p>what he offered her was, in fact, above all things a vast, sunny </p><p>immunity from the need of having any. </p><p>He often passed his evenings, when Madame de Cintre had so appointed it, </p><p>at the chilly fireside of Madame de Bellegarde, contenting himself with </p><p>looking across the room, through narrowed eyelids, at his mistress, who </p><p>always made a point, before her family, of talking to some one else. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde sat by the fire conversing neatly and coldly </p><p>with whomsoever approached her, and glancing round the room with her </p><p>slowly-restless eye, the effect of which, when it lighted upon him, was </p><p>to Newman's sense identical with that of a sudden spurt of damp air. </p><p>When he shook hands with her he always asked her with a laugh whether </p><p>she could "stand him" another evening, and she replied, without a laugh, </p><p>that thank God she had always been able to do her duty. Newman, talking </p><p>once of the marquise to Mrs. Tristram, said that after all it was very </p><p>easy to get on with her; it always was easy to get on with out-and-out </p><p>rascals. </p><p>"And is it by that elegant term," said Mrs. Tristram, "that you </p><p>designate the Marquise de Bellegarde?" </p><p>"Well," said Newman, "she is wicked, she is an old sinner." </p><p>"What is her crime?" asked Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"I shouldn't wonder if she had murdered some one--all from a sense of </p><p>duty, of course." </p><p>"How can you be so dreadful?" sighed Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"I am not dreadful. I am speaking of her favorably." </p><p>"Pray what will you say when you want to be severe?" </p><p>"I shall keep my severity for some one else--for the marquis. There's a </p><p>man I can't swallow, mix the drink as I will." </p><p>"And what has HE done?" </p><p>"I can't quite make out; it is something dreadfully bad, something </p><p>mean and underhand, and not redeemed by audacity, as his mother's </p><p>misdemeanors may have been. If he has never committed murder, he has at </p><p>least turned his back and looked the other way while some one else was</p><p>committing it." </p><p>In spite of this invidious hypothesis, which must be taken for nothing </p><p>more than an example of the capricious play of "American humor," Newman </p><p>did his best to maintain an easy and friendly style of communication </p><p>with M. de Bellegarde. So long as he was in personal contact with people </p><p>he disliked extremely to have anything to forgive them, and he was </p><p>capable of a good deal of unsuspected imaginative effort (for the sake </p><p>of his own personal comfort) to assume for the time that they were </p><p>good fellows. He did his best to treat the marquis as one; he believed </p><p>honestly, moreover, that he could not, in reason, be such a confounded </p><p>fool as he seemed. Newman's familiarity was never importunate; his sense </p><p>of human equality was not an aggressive taste or an aesthetic theory, </p><p>but something as natural and organic as a physical appetite which had </p><p>never been put on a scanty allowance and consequently was innocent of </p><p>ungraceful eagerness. His tranquil unsuspectingness of the relativity </p><p>of his own place in the social scale was probably irritating to M. </p><p>de Bellegarde, who saw himself reflected in the mind of his potential </p><p>brother-in-law in a crude and colorless form, unpleasantly dissimilar </p><p>to the impressive image projected upon his own intellectual mirror. He </p><p>never forgot himself for an instant, and replied to what he must have </p><p>considered Newman's "advances" with mechanical politeness. Newman, who </p><p>was constantly forgetting himself, and indulging in an unlimited amount </p><p>of irresponsible inquiry and conjecture, now and then found himself </p><p>confronted by the conscious, ironical smile of his host. What the </p><p>deuce M. de Bellegarde was smiling at he was at a loss to divine. M. </p><p>de Bellegarde's smile may be supposed to have been, for himself, a </p><p>compromise between a great many emotions. So long as he smiled he </p><p>was polite, and it was proper he should be polite. A smile, moreover, </p><p>committed him to nothing more than politeness, and left the degree of </p><p>politeness agreeably vague. A smile, too, was neither dissent--which </p><p>was too serious--nor agreement, which might have brought on terrible </p><p>complications. And then a smile covered his own personal dignity, which </p><p>in this critical situation he was resolved to keep immaculate; it was </p><p>quite enough that the glory of his house should pass into eclipse. </p><p>Between him and Newman, his whole manner seemed to declare there could </p><p>be no interchange of opinion; he was holding his breath so as not </p><p>to inhale the odor of democracy. Newman was far from being versed in </p><p>European politics, but he liked to have a general idea of what was going </p><p>on about him, and he accordingly asked M. de Bellegarde several times </p><p>what he thought of public affairs. M. de Bellegarde answered with suave </p><p>concision that he thought as ill of them as possible, that they were </p><p>going from bad to worse, and that the age was rotten to its core. This </p><p>gave Newman, for the moment, an almost kindly feeling for the marquis; </p><p>he pitied a man for whom the world was so cheerless a place, and the </p><p>next time he saw M. de Bellegarde he attempted to call his attention </p><p>to some of the brilliant features of the time. The marquis presently </p><p>replied that he had but a single political conviction, which was enough </p><p>for him: he believed in the divine right of Henry of Bourbon, Fifth </p><p>of his name, to the throne of France. Newman stared, and after this he </p><p>ceased to talk politics with M. de Bellegarde. He was not horrified nor </p><p>scandalized, he was not even amused; he felt as he should have felt if </p><p>he had discovered in M. de Bellegarde a taste for certain oddities of </p><p>diet; an appetite, for instance, for fishbones or nutshells. Under these </p><p>circumstances, of course, he would never have broached dietary questions </p><p>with him. </p><p>One afternoon, on his calling on Madame de Cintre, Newman was requested </p><p>by the servant to wait a few moments, as his hostess was not at liberty.</p><p>He walked about the room a while, taking up her books, smelling her </p><p>flowers, and looking at her prints and photographs (which he thought </p><p>prodigiously pretty), and at last he heard the opening of a door to </p><p>which his back was turned. On the threshold stood an old woman whom he </p><p>remembered to have met several times in entering and leaving the house. </p><p>She was tall and straight and dressed in black, and she wore a cap </p><p>which, if Newman had been initiated into such mysteries, would have been </p><p>a sufficient assurance that she was not a Frenchwoman; a cap of pure </p><p>British composition. She had a pale, decent, depressed-looking face, and </p><p>a clear, dull, English eye. She looked at Newman a moment, both intently </p><p>and timidly, and then she dropped a short, straight English curtsey. </p><p>"Madame de Cintre begs you will kindly wait," she said. "She has just </p><p>come in; she will soon have finished dressing." </p><p>"Oh, I will wait as long as she wants," said Newman. "Pray tell her not </p><p>to hurry." </p><p>"Thank you, sir," said the woman, softly; and then, instead of retiring </p><p>with her message, she advanced into the room. She looked about her for a </p><p>moment, and presently went to a table and began to arrange certain books </p><p>and knick-knacks. Newman was struck with the high respectability of </p><p>her appearance; he was afraid to address her as a servant. She busied </p><p>herself for some moments with putting the table in order and pulling the </p><p>curtains straight, while Newman walked slowly to and fro. He perceived </p><p>at last from her reflection in the mirror, as he was passing that her </p><p>hands were idle and that she was looking at him intently. She evidently </p><p>wished to say something, and Newman, perceiving it, helped her to begin. </p><p>"You are English?" he asked. </p><p>"Yes, sir, please," she answered, quickly and softly; "I was born in </p><p>Wiltshire." </p><p>"And what do you think of Paris?" </p><p>"Oh, I don't think of Paris, sir," she said in the same tone. "It is so </p><p>long since I have been here." </p><p>"Ah, you have been here very long?" </p><p>"It is more than forty years, sir. I came over with Lady Emmeline." </p><p>"You mean with old Madame de Bellegarde?" </p><p>"Yes, sir. I came with her when she was married. I was my lady's own </p><p>woman." </p><p>"And you have been with her ever since?" </p><p>"I have been in the house ever since. My lady has taken a younger </p><p>person. You see I am very old. I do nothing regular now. But I keep </p><p>about." </p><p>"You look very strong and well," said Newman, observing the erectness of </p><p>her figure, and a certain venerable rosiness in her cheek. </p><p>"Thank God I am not ill, sir; I hope I know my duty too well to go </p><p>panting and coughing about the house. But I am an old woman, sir, and it</p><p>is as an old woman that I venture to speak to you." </p><p>"Oh, speak out," said Newman, curiously. "You needn't be afraid of me." </p><p>"Yes, sir. I think you are kind. I have seen you before." </p><p>"On the stairs, you mean?" </p><p>"Yes, sir. When you have been coming to see the countess. I have taken </p><p>the liberty of noticing that you come often." </p><p>"Oh yes; I come very often," said Newman, laughing. "You need not have </p><p>been wide-awake to notice that." </p><p>"I have noticed it with pleasure, sir," said the ancient tire-woman, </p><p>gravely. And she stood looking at Newman with a strange expression of </p><p>face. The old instinct of deference and humility was there; the habit </p><p>of decent self-effacement and knowledge of her "own place." But there </p><p>mingled with it a certain mild audacity, born of the occasion and of a </p><p>sense, probably, of Newman's unprecedented approachableness, and, beyond </p><p>this, a vague indifference to the old proprieties; as if my lady's own </p><p>woman had at last begun to reflect that, since my lady had taken another </p><p>person, she had a slight reversionary property in herself. </p><p>"You take a great interest in the family?" said Newman. </p><p>"A deep interest, sir. Especially in the countess." </p><p>"I am glad of that," said Newman. And in a moment he added, smiling, "So </p><p>do I!" </p><p>"So I suppose, sir. We can't help noticing these things and having our </p><p>ideas; can we, sir?" </p><p>"You mean as a servant?" said Newman. </p><p>"Ah, there it is, sir. I am afraid that when I let my thoughts meddle </p><p>with such matters I am no longer a servant. But I am so devoted to the </p><p>countess; if she were my own child I couldn't love her more. That is how </p><p>I come to be so bold, sir. They say you want to marry her." </p><p>Newman eyed his interlocutress and satisfied himself that she was not </p><p>a gossip, but a zealot; she looked anxious, appealing, discreet. "It is </p><p>quite true," he said. "I want to marry Madame de Cintre." </p><p>"And to take her away to America?" </p><p>"I will take her wherever she wants to go." </p><p>"The farther away the better, sir!" exclaimed the old woman, with sudden </p><p>intensity. But she checked herself, and, taking up a paper-weight in </p><p>mosaic, began to polish it with her black apron. "I don't mean anything </p><p>against the house or the family, sir. But I think a great change would </p><p>do the poor countess good. It is very sad here." </p><p>"Yes, it's not very lively," said Newman. "But Madame de Cintre is gay </p><p>herself." </p><p>"She is everything that is good. You will not be vexed to hear that she</p><p>has been gayer for a couple of months past than she had been in many a </p><p>day before." </p><p>Newman was delighted to gather this testimony to the prosperity of his </p><p>suit, but he repressed all violent marks of elation. "Has Madame de </p><p>Cintre been in bad spirits before this?" he asked. </p><p>"Poor lady, she had good reason. M. de Cintre was no husband for a sweet </p><p>young lady like that. And then, as I say, it has been a sad house. It is </p><p>better, in my humble opinion, that she were out of it. So, if you will </p><p>excuse me for saying so, I hope she will marry you." </p><p>"I hope she will!" said Newman. </p><p>"But you must not lose courage, sir, if she doesn't make up her mind at </p><p>once. That is what I wanted to beg of you, sir. Don't give it up, sir. </p><p>You will not take it ill if I say it's a great risk for any lady at any </p><p>time; all the more when she has got rid of one bad bargain. But if she </p><p>can marry a good, kind, respectable gentleman, I think she had better </p><p>make up her mind to it. They speak very well of you, sir, in the house, </p><p>and, if you will allow me to say so, I like your face. You have a very </p><p>different appearance from the late count, he wasn't five feet high. And </p><p>they say your fortune is beyond everything. There's no harm in that. So </p><p>I beseech you to be patient, sir, and bide your time. If I don't say </p><p>this to you, sir, perhaps no one will. Of course it is not for me to </p><p>make any promises. I can answer for nothing. But I think your chance is </p><p>not so bad, sir. I am nothing but a weary old woman in my quiet corner, </p><p>but one woman understands another, and I think I make out the countess. </p><p>I received her in my arms when she came into the world and her first </p><p>wedding day was the saddest of my life. She owes it to me to show me </p><p>another and a brighter one. If you will hold firm, sir--and you look as </p><p>if you would--I think we may see it." </p><p>"I am much obliged to you for your encouragement," said Newman, </p><p>heartily. "One can't have too much. I mean to hold firm. And if Madame </p><p>de Cintre marries me you must come and live with her." </p><p>The old woman looked at him strangely, with her soft, lifeless eyes. "It </p><p>may seem a heartless thing to say, sir, when one has been forty years in </p><p>a house, but I may tell you that I should like to leave this place." </p><p>"Why, it's just the time to say it," said Newman, fervently. "After </p><p>forty years one wants a change." </p><p>"You are very kind, sir;" and this faithful servant dropped another </p><p>curtsey and seemed disposed to retire. But she lingered a moment and </p><p>gave a timid, joyless smile. Newman was disappointed, and his fingers </p><p>stole half shyly half irritably into his waistcoat-pocket. His informant </p><p>noticed the movement. "Thank God I am not a Frenchwoman," she said. "If </p><p>I were, I would tell you with a brazen simper, old as I am, that if you </p><p>please, monsieur, my information is worth something. Let me tell you so </p><p>in my own decent English way. It IS worth something." </p><p>"How much, please?" said Newman. </p><p>"Simply this: a promise not to hint to the countess that I have said </p><p>these things." </p><p>"If that is all, you have it," said Newman.</p><p>"That is all, sir. Thank you, sir. Good day, sir." And having once </p><p>more slid down telescope-wise into her scanty petticoats, the old woman </p><p>departed. At the same moment Madame de Cintre came in by an opposite </p><p>door. She noticed the movement of the other portiere and asked Newman </p><p>who had been entertaining him. </p><p>"The British female!" said Newman. "An old lady in a black dress and a </p><p>cap, who curtsies up and down, and expresses herself ever so well." </p><p>"An old lady who curtsies and expresses herself?... Ah, you mean poor </p><p>Mrs. Bread. I happen to know that you have made a conquest of her." </p><p>"Mrs. Cake, she ought to be called," said Newman. "She is very sweet. </p><p>She is a delicious old woman." </p><p>Madame de Cintre looked at him a moment. "What can she have said to you? </p><p>She is an excellent creature, but we think her rather dismal." </p><p>"I suppose," Newman answered presently, "that I like her because she has </p><p>lived near you so long. Since your birth, she told me." </p><p>"Yes," said Madame de Cintre, simply; "she is very faithful; I can trust </p><p>her." </p><p>Newman had never made any reflections to this lady upon her mother and </p><p>her brother Urbain; had given no hint of the impression they made upon </p><p>him. But, as if she had guessed his thoughts, she seemed careful to </p><p>avoid all occasion for making him speak of them. She never alluded to </p><p>her mother's domestic decrees; she never quoted the opinions of the </p><p>marquis. They had talked, however, of Valentin, and she had made no </p><p>secret of her extreme affection for her younger brother. Newman listened </p><p>sometimes with a certain harmless jealousy; he would have liked to </p><p>divert some of her tender allusions to his own credit. Once Madame </p><p>de Cintre told him with a little air of triumph about something that </p><p>Valentin had done which she thought very much to his honor. It was a </p><p>service he had rendered to an old friend of the family; something more </p><p>"serious" than Valentin was usually supposed capable of being. Newman </p><p>said he was glad to hear of it, and then began to talk about something </p><p>which lay upon his own heart. Madame de Cintre listened, but after a </p><p>while she said, "I don't like the way you speak of my brother Valentin." </p><p>Hereupon Newman, surprised, said that he had never spoken of him but </p><p>kindly. </p><p>"It is too kindly," said Madame de Cintre. "It is a kindness that costs </p><p>nothing; it is the kindness you show to a child. It is as if you didn't </p><p>respect him." </p><p>"Respect him? Why I think I do." </p><p>"You think? If you are not sure, it is no respect." </p><p>"Do you respect him?" said Newman. "If you do, I do." </p><p>"If one loves a person, that is a question one is not bound to answer," </p><p>said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"You should not have asked it of me, then. I am very fond of your </p><p>brother."</p><p>"He amuses you. But you would not like to resemble him." </p><p>"I shouldn't like to resemble any one. It is hard enough work resembling </p><p>one's self." </p><p>"What do you mean," asked Madame de Cintre, "by resembling one's self?" </p><p>"Why, doing what is expected of one. Doing one's duty." </p><p>"But that is only when one is very good." </p><p>"Well, a great many people are good," said Newman. "Valentin is quite </p><p>good enough for me." </p><p>Madame de Cintre was silent for a short time. "He is not good enough for </p><p>me," she said at last. "I wish he would do something." </p><p>"What can he do?" asked Newman. </p><p>"Nothing. Yet he is very clever." </p><p>"It is a proof of cleverness," said Newman, "to be happy without doing </p><p>anything." </p><p>"I don't think Valentin is happy, in reality. He is clever, generous, </p><p>brave; but what is there to show for it? To me there is something sad in </p><p>his life, and sometimes I have a sort of foreboding about him. I don't </p><p>know why, but I fancy he will have some great trouble--perhaps an </p><p>unhappy end." </p><p>"Oh, leave him to me," said Newman, jovially. "I will watch over him and </p><p>keep harm away." </p><p>One evening, in Madame de Bellegarde's salon, the conversation had </p><p>flagged most sensibly. The marquis walked up and down in silence, like a </p><p>sentinel at the door of some smooth-fronted citadel of the proprieties; </p><p>his mother sat staring at the fire; young Madame de Bellegarde worked at </p><p>an enormous band of tapestry. Usually there were three or four visitors, </p><p>but on this occasion a violent storm sufficiently accounted for the </p><p>absence of even the most devoted habitues. In the long silences the </p><p>howling of the wind and the beating of the rain were distinctly audible. </p><p>Newman sat perfectly still, watching the clock, determined to stay till </p><p>the stroke of eleven, but not a moment longer. Madame de Cintre had </p><p>turned her back to the circle, and had been standing for some time </p><p>within the uplifted curtain of a window, with her forehead against the </p><p>pane, gazing out into the deluged darkness. Suddenly she turned round </p><p>toward her sister-in-law. </p><p>"For Heaven's sake," she said, with peculiar eagerness, "go to the piano </p><p>and play something." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde held up her tapestry and pointed to a little white </p><p>flower. "Don't ask me to leave this. I am in the midst of a masterpiece. </p><p>My flower is going to smell very sweet; I am putting in the smell with </p><p>this gold-colored silk. I am holding my breath; I can't leave off. Play </p><p>something yourself." </p><p>"It is absurd for me to play when you are present," said Madame de</p><p>Cintre. But the next moment she went to the piano and began to </p><p>strike the keys with vehemence. She played for some time, rapidly and </p><p>brilliantly; when she stopped, Newman went to the piano and asked her </p><p>to begin again. She shook her head, and, on his insisting, she said, "I </p><p>have not been playing for you; I have been playing for myself." She went </p><p>back to the window again and looked out, and shortly afterwards left the </p><p>room. When Newman took leave, Urbain de Bellegarde accompanied him, as </p><p>he always did, just three steps down the staircase. At the bottom stood </p><p>a servant with his overcoat. He had just put it on when he saw Madame de </p><p>Cintre coming towards him across the vestibule. </p><p>"Shall you be at home on Friday?" Newman asked. </p><p>She looked at him a moment before answering his question. "You don't </p><p>like my mother and my brother," she said. </p><p>He hesitated a moment, and then he said softly, "No." </p><p>She laid her hand on the balustrade and prepared to ascend the stairs, </p><p>fixing her eyes on the first step. </p><p>"Yes, I shall be at home on Friday," and she passed up the wide dusky </p><p>staircase. </p><p>On the Friday, as soon as he came in, she asked him to please to tell </p><p>her why he disliked her family. </p><p>"Dislike your family?" he exclaimed. "That has a horrid sound. I didn't </p><p>say so, did I? I didn't mean it, if I did." </p><p>"I wish you would tell me what you think of them," said Madame de </p><p>Cintre. </p><p>"I don't think of any of them but you." </p><p>"That is because you dislike them. Speak the truth; you can't offend </p><p>me." </p><p>"Well, I don't exactly love your brother," said Newman. "I remember now. </p><p>But what is the use of my saying so? I had forgotten it." </p><p>"You are too good-natured," said Madame de Cintre gravely. Then, as if </p><p>to avoid the appearance of inviting him to speak ill of the marquis, she </p><p>turned away, motioning him to sit down. </p><p>But he remained standing before her and said presently, "What is of much </p><p>more importance is that they don't like me." </p><p>"No--they don't," she said. </p><p>"And don't you think they are wrong?" Newman asked. "I don't believe I </p><p>am a man to dislike." </p><p>"I suppose that a man who may be liked may also be disliked. And my </p><p>brother--my mother," she added, "have not made you angry?" </p><p>"Yes, sometimes." </p><p>"You have never shown it."</p><p>"So much the better." </p><p>"Yes, so much the better. They think they have treated you very well." </p><p>"I have no doubt they might have handled me much more roughly," said </p><p>Newman. "I am much obliged to them. Honestly." </p><p>"You are generous," said Madame de Cintre. "It's a disagreeable </p><p>position." </p><p>"For them, you mean. Not for me." </p><p>"For me," said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"Not when their sins are forgiven!" said Newman. "They don't think I am </p><p>as good as they are. I do. But we shan't quarrel about it." </p><p>"I can't even agree with you without saying something that has a </p><p>disagreeable sound. The presumption was against you. That you probably </p><p>don't understand." </p><p>Newman sat down and looked at her for some time. "I don't think I really </p><p>understand it. But when you say it, I believe it." </p><p>"That's a poor reason," said Madame de Cintre, smiling. </p><p>"No, it's a very good one. You have a high spirit, a high standard; but </p><p>with you it's all natural and unaffected; you don't seem to have stuck </p><p>your head into a vise, as if you were sitting for the photograph of </p><p>propriety. You think of me as a fellow who has had no idea in life but </p><p>to make money and drive sharp bargains. That's a fair description of me, </p><p>but it is not the whole story. A man ought to care for something else, </p><p>though I don't know exactly what. I cared for money-making, but I never </p><p>cared particularly for the money. There was nothing else to do, and </p><p>it was impossible to be idle. I have been very easy to others, and to </p><p>myself. I have done most of the things that people asked me--I don't </p><p>mean rascals. As regards your mother and your brother," Newman added, </p><p>"there is only one point upon which I feel that I might quarrel with </p><p>them. I don't ask them to sing my praises to you, but I ask them to let </p><p>you alone. If I thought they talked ill of me to you, I should come down </p><p>upon them." </p><p>"They have let me alone, as you say. They have not talked ill of you." </p><p>"In that case," cried Newman, "I declare they are only too good for this </p><p>world!" </p><p>Madame de Cintre appeared to find something startling in his </p><p>exclamation. She would, perhaps, have replied, but at this moment </p><p>the door was thrown open and Urbain de Bellegarde stepped across the </p><p>threshold. He appeared surprised at finding Newman, but his surprise </p><p>was but a momentary shadow across the surface of an unwonted joviality. </p><p>Newman had never seen the marquis so exhilarated; his pale, unlighted </p><p>countenance had a sort of thin transfiguration. He held open the </p><p>door for some one else to enter, and presently appeared old Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde, leaning on the arm of a gentleman whom Newman had not seen </p><p>before. He had already risen, and Madame de Cintre rose, as she always </p><p>did before her mother. The marquis, who had greeted Newman almost</p><p>genially, stood apart, slowly rubbing his hands. His mother came forward </p><p>with her companion. She gave a majestic little nod at Newman, and then </p><p>she released the strange gentleman, that he might make his bow to her </p><p>daughter. </p><p>"My daughter," she said, "I have brought you an unknown relative, Lord </p><p>Deepmere. Lord Deepmere is our cousin, but he has done only to-day what </p><p>he ought to have done long ago--come to make our acquaintance." </p><p>Madame de Cintre smiled, and offered Lord Deepmere her hand. "It is very </p><p>extraordinary," said this noble laggard, "but this is the first time </p><p>that I have ever been in Paris for more than three or four weeks." </p><p>"And how long have you been here now?" asked Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"Oh, for the last two months," said Lord Deepmere. </p><p>These two remarks might have constituted an impertinence; but a glance </p><p>at Lord Deepmere's face would have satisfied you, as it apparently </p><p>satisfied Madame de Cintre, that they constituted only a naivete. When </p><p>his companions were seated, Newman, who was out of the conversation, </p><p>occupied himself with observing the newcomer. Observation, however, </p><p>as regards Lord Deepmere's person; had no great range. He was a small, </p><p>meagre man, of some three and thirty years of age, with a bald head, </p><p>a short nose and no front teeth in the upper jaw; he had round, candid </p><p>blue eyes, and several pimples on his chin. He was evidently very shy, </p><p>and he laughed a great deal, catching his breath with an odd, startling </p><p>sound, as the most convenient imitation of repose. His physiognomy </p><p>denoted great simplicity, a certain amount of brutality, and probable </p><p>failure in the past to profit by rare educational advantages. He </p><p>remarked that Paris was awfully jolly, but that for real, thorough-paced </p><p>entertainment it was nothing to Dublin. He even preferred Dublin to </p><p>London. Had Madame de Cintre ever been to Dublin? They must all come </p><p>over there some day, and he would show them some Irish sport. He always </p><p>went to Ireland for the fishing, and he came to Paris for the new </p><p>Offenbach things. They always brought them out in Dublin, but he </p><p>couldn't wait. He had been nine times to hear La Pomme de Paris. Madame </p><p>de Cintre, leaning back, with her arms folded, looked at Lord Deepmere </p><p>with a more visibly puzzled face than she usually showed to society. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde, on the other hand, wore a fixed smile. The marquis </p><p>said that among light operas his favorite was the Gazza Ladra. The </p><p>marquise then began a series of inquiries about the duke and the </p><p>cardinal, the old countess and Lady Barbara, after listening to which, </p><p>and to Lord Deepmere's somewhat irreverent responses, for a quarter of </p><p>an hour, Newman rose to take his leave. The marquis went with him three </p><p>steps into the hall. </p><p>"Is he Irish?" asked Newman, nodding in the direction of the visitor. </p><p>"His mother was the daughter of Lord Finucane," said the marquis; "he </p><p>has great Irish estates. Lady Bridget, in the complete absence of </p><p>male heirs, either direct or collateral--a most extraordinary </p><p>circumstance--came in for everything. But Lord Deepmere's title is </p><p>English and his English property is immense. He is a charming young </p><p>man." </p><p>Newman answered nothing, but he detained the marquis as the latter was </p><p>beginning gracefully to recede. "It is a good time for me to thank you," </p><p>he said, "for sticking so punctiliously to our bargain, for doing so</p><p>much to help me on with your sister." </p><p>The marquis stared. "Really, I have done nothing that I can boast of," </p><p>he said. </p><p>"Oh don't be modest," Newman answered, laughing. "I can't flatter myself </p><p>that I am doing so well simply by my own merit. And thank your mother </p><p>for me, too!" And he turned away, leaving M. de Bellegarde looking after </p><p>him. </p><p>CHAPTER XIV </p><p>The next time Newman came to the Rue de l'Universite he had the good </p><p>fortune to find Madame de Cintre alone. He had come with a definite </p><p>intention, and he lost no time in executing it. She wore, moreover, a </p><p>look which he eagerly interpreted as expectancy. </p><p>"I have been coming to see you for six months, now," he said, "and I </p><p>have never spoken to you a second time of marriage. That was what you </p><p>asked me; I obeyed. Could any man have done better?" </p><p>"You have acted with great delicacy," said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"Well, I'm going to change, now," said Newman. "I don't mean that I am </p><p>going to be indelicate; but I'm going to go back to where I began. I AM </p><p>back there. I have been all round the circle. Or rather, I have never </p><p>been away from here. I have never ceased to want what I wanted then. </p><p>Only now I am more sure of it, if possible; I am more sure of myself, </p><p>and more sure of you. I know you better, though I don't know anything </p><p>I didn't believe three months ago. You are everything--you are beyond </p><p>everything--I can imagine or desire. You know me now; you MUST know me. </p><p>I won't say that you have seen the best--but you have seen the worst. </p><p>I hope you have been thinking all this while. You must have seen that I </p><p>was only waiting; you can't suppose that I was changing. What will you </p><p>say to me, now? Say that everything is clear and reasonable, and that I </p><p>have been very patient and considerate, and deserve my reward. And then </p><p>give me your hand. Madame de Cintre do that. Do it." </p><p>"I knew you were only waiting," she said; "and I was very sure this day </p><p>would come. I have thought about it a great deal. At first I was half </p><p>afraid of it. But I am not afraid of it now." She paused a moment, and </p><p>then she added, "It's a relief." </p><p>She was sitting on a low chair, and Newman was on an ottoman, near her. </p><p>He leaned a little and took her hand, which for an instant she let him </p><p>keep. "That means that I have not waited for nothing," he said. She </p><p>looked at him for a moment, and he saw her eyes fill with tears. "With </p><p>me," he went on, "you will be as safe--as safe"--and even in his ardor </p><p>he hesitated a moment for a comparison--"as safe," he said, with a kind </p><p>of simple solemnity, "as in your father's arms." </p><p>Still she looked at him and her tears increased. Then, abruptly, she </p><p>buried her face on the cushioned arm of the sofa beside her chair, and </p><p>broke into noiseless sobs. "I am weak--I am weak," he heard her say. </p><p>"All the more reason why you should give yourself up to me," he</p><p>answered. "Why are you troubled? There is nothing but happiness. Is that </p><p>so hard to believe?" </p><p>"To you everything seems so simple," she said, raising her head. "But </p><p>things are not so. I like you extremely. I liked you six months ago, and </p><p>now I am sure of it, as you say you are sure. But it is not easy, simply </p><p>for that, to decide to marry you. There are a great many things to think </p><p>about." </p><p>"There ought to be only one thing to think about--that we love each </p><p>other," said Newman. And as she remained silent he quickly added, "Very </p><p>good, if you can't accept that, don't tell me so." </p><p>"I should be very glad to think of nothing," she said at last; "not to </p><p>think at all; only to shut both my eyes and give myself up. But I can't. </p><p>I'm cold, I'm old, I'm a coward; I never supposed I should marry again, </p><p>and it seems to me very strange I should ever have listened to you. </p><p>When I used to think, as a girl, of what I should do if I were to marry </p><p>freely, by my own choice, I thought of a very different man from you." </p><p>"That's nothing against me," said Newman with an immense smile; "your </p><p>taste was not formed." </p><p>His smile made Madame de Cintre smile. "Have you formed it?" she asked. </p><p>And then she said, in a different tone, "Where do you wish to live?" </p><p>"Anywhere in the wide world you like. We can easily settle that." </p><p>"I don't know why I ask you," she presently continued. "I care very </p><p>little. I think if I were to marry you I could live almost anywhere. </p><p>You have some false ideas about me; you think that I need a great many </p><p>things--that I must have a brilliant, worldly life. I am sure you are </p><p>prepared to take a great deal of trouble to give me such things. But </p><p>that is very arbitrary; I have done nothing to prove that." She paused </p><p>again, looking at him, and her mingled sound and silence were so sweet </p><p>to him that he had no wish to hurry her, any more than he would have </p><p>had a wish to hurry a golden sunrise. "Your being so different, which </p><p>at first seemed a difficulty, a trouble, began one day to seem to me a </p><p>pleasure, a great pleasure. I was glad you were different. And yet if I </p><p>had said so, no one would have understood me; I don't mean simply to my </p><p>family." </p><p>"They would have said I was a queer monster, eh?" said Newman. </p><p>"They would have said I could never be happy with you--you were too </p><p>different; and I would have said it was just BECAUSE you were so </p><p>different that I might be happy. But they would have given better </p><p>reasons than I. My only reason"--and she paused again. </p><p>But this time, in the midst of his golden sunrise, Newman felt the </p><p>impulse to grasp at a rosy cloud. "Your only reason is that you love </p><p>me!" he murmured with an eloquent gesture, and for want of a better </p><p>reason Madame de Cintre reconciled herself to this one. </p><p>Newman came back the next day, and in the vestibule, as he entered the </p><p>house, he encountered his friend Mrs. Bread. She was wandering about in </p><p>honorable idleness, and when his eyes fell upon her she delivered him </p><p>one of her curtsies. Then turning to the servant who had admitted him, </p><p>she said, with the combined majesty of her native superiority and of</p><p>a rugged English accent, "You may retire; I will have the honor of </p><p>conducting monsieur. In spite of this combination, however, it appeared </p><p>to Newman that her voice had a slight quaver, as if the tone of command </p><p>were not habitual to it. The man gave her an impertinent stare, but he </p><p>walked slowly away, and she led Newman up-stairs. At half its course the </p><p>staircase gave a bend, forming a little platform. In the angle of </p><p>the wall stood an indifferent statue of an eighteenth-century nymph, </p><p>simpering, sallow, and cracked. Here Mrs. Bread stopped and looked with </p><p>shy kindness at her companion. </p><p>"I know the good news, sir," she murmured. </p><p>"You have a good right to be first to know it," said Newman. "You have </p><p>taken such a friendly interest." </p><p>Mrs. Bread turned away and began to blow the dust off the statue, as if </p><p>this might be mockery. </p><p>"I suppose you want to congratulate me," said Newman. "I am greatly </p><p>obliged." And then he added, "You gave me much pleasure the other day." </p><p>She turned around, apparently reassured. "You are not to think that I </p><p>have been told anything," she said; "I have only guessed. But when I </p><p>looked at you, as you came in, I was sure I had guessed aright." </p><p>"You are very sharp," said Newman. "I am sure that in your quiet way you </p><p>see everything." </p><p>"I am not a fool, sir, thank God. I have guessed something else beside," </p><p>said Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"What's that?" </p><p>"I needn't tell you that, sir; I don't think you would believe it. At </p><p>any rate it wouldn't please you." </p><p>"Oh, tell me nothing but what will please me," laughed Newman. "That is </p><p>the way you began." </p><p>"Well, sir, I suppose you won't be vexed to hear that the sooner </p><p>everything is over the better." </p><p>"The sooner we are married, you mean? The better for me, certainly." </p><p>"The better for every one." </p><p>"The better for you, perhaps. You know you are coming to live with us," </p><p>said Newman. </p><p>"I'm extremely obliged to you, sir, but it is not of myself I was </p><p>thinking. I only wanted, if I might take the liberty, to recommend you </p><p>to lose no time." </p><p>"Whom are you afraid of?" </p><p>Mrs. Bread looked up the staircase and then down and then she looked at </p><p>the undusted nymph, as if she possibly had sentient ears. "I am afraid </p><p>of every one," she said. </p><p>"What an uncomfortable state of mind!" said Newman. "Does 'every one' </p><p>wish to prevent my marriage?" </p><p>"I am afraid of already having said too much," Mrs. Bread replied. "I </p><p>won't take it back, but I won't say any more." And she took her way up </p><p>the staircase again and led him into Madame de Cintre's salon. </p><p>Newman indulged in a brief and silent imprecation when he found that </p><p>Madame de Cintre was not alone. With her sat her mother, and in the </p><p>middle of the room stood young Madame de Bellegarde, in her bonnet and </p><p>mantle. The old marquise, who was leaning back in her chair with a hand </p><p>clasping the knob of each arm, looked at him fixedly without moving. </p><p>She seemed barely conscious of his greeting; she appeared to be musing </p><p>intently. Newman said to himself that her daughter had been announcing </p><p>her engagement and that the old lady found the morsel hard to swallow. </p><p>But Madame de Cintre, as she gave him her hand gave him also a look by </p><p>which she appeared to mean that he should understand something. Was it </p><p>a warning or a request? Did she wish to enjoin speech or silence? He </p><p>was puzzled, and young Madame de Bellegarde's pretty grin gave him no </p><p>information. </p><p>"I have not told my mother," said Madame de Cintre abruptly, looking at </p><p>him. </p><p>"Told me what?" demanded the marquise. "You tell me too little; you </p><p>should tell me everything." </p><p>"That is what I do," said Madame Urbain, with a little laugh. </p><p>"Let ME tell your mother," said Newman. </p><p>The old lady stared at him again, and then turned to her daughter. "You </p><p>are going to marry him?" she cried, softly. </p><p>"Oui ma mere," said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"Your daughter has consented, to my great happiness," said Newman. </p><p>"And when was this arrangement made?" asked Madame de Bellegarde. "I </p><p>seem to be picking up the news by chance!" </p><p>"My suspense came to an end yesterday," said Newman. </p><p>"And how long was mine to have lasted?" said the marquise to her </p><p>daughter. She spoke without irritation; with a sort of cold, noble </p><p>displeasure. </p><p>Madame de Cintre stood silent, with her eyes on the ground. "It is over </p><p>now," she said. </p><p>"Where is my son--where is Urbain?" asked the marquise. "Send for your </p><p>brother and inform him." </p><p>Young Madame de Bellegarde laid her hand on the bell-rope. "He was to </p><p>make some visits with me, and I was to go and knock--very softly, very </p><p>softly--at the door of his study. But he can come to me!" She pulled </p><p>the bell, and in a few moments Mrs. Bread appeared, with a face of calm </p><p>inquiry. </p><p>"Send for your brother," said the old lady. </p><p>But Newman felt an irresistible impulse to speak, and to speak in a </p><p>certain way. "Tell the marquis we want him," he said to Mrs. Bread, who </p><p>quietly retired. </p><p>Young Madame de Bellegarde went to her sister-in-law and embraced her. </p><p>Then she turned to Newman, with an intense smile. "She is charming. I </p><p>congratulate you." </p><p>"I congratulate you, sir," said Madame de Bellegarde, with extreme </p><p>solemnity. "My daughter is an extraordinarily good woman. She may have </p><p>faults, but I don't know them." </p><p>"My mother does not often make jokes," said Madame de Cintre; "but when </p><p>she does they are terrible." </p><p>"She is ravishing," the Marquise Urbain resumed, looking at her </p><p>sister-in-law, with her head on one side. "Yes, I congratulate you." </p><p>Madame de Cintre turned away, and, taking up a piece of tapestry, </p><p>began to ply the needle. Some minutes of silence elapsed, which were </p><p>interrupted by the arrival of M. de Bellegarde. He came in with his </p><p>hat in his hand, gloved, and was followed by his brother Valentin, who </p><p>appeared to have just entered the house. M. de Bellegarde looked around </p><p>the circle and greeted Newman with his usual finely-measured courtesy. </p><p>Valentin saluted his mother and his sisters, and, as he shook hands with </p><p>Newman, gave him a glance of acute interrogation. </p><p>"Arrivez donc, messieurs!" cried young Madame de Bellegarde. "We have </p><p>great news for you." </p><p>"Speak to your brother, my daughter," said the old lady. </p><p>Madame de Cintre had been looking at her tapestry. She raised her eyes </p><p>to her brother. "I have accepted Mr. Newman." </p><p>"Your sister has consented," said Newman. "You see after all, I knew </p><p>what I was about." </p><p>"I am charmed!" said M. de Bellegarde, with superior benignity. </p><p>"So am I," said Valentin to Newman. "The marquis and I are charmed. I </p><p>can't marry, myself, but I can understand it. I can't stand on my head, </p><p>but I can applaud a clever acrobat. My dear sister, I bless your union." </p><p>The marquis stood looking for a while into the crown of his hat. "We </p><p>have been prepared," he said at last "but it is inevitable that in face </p><p>of the event one should experience a certain emotion." And he gave a </p><p>most unhilarious smile. </p><p>"I feel no emotion that I was not perfectly prepared for," said his </p><p>mother. </p><p>"I can't say that for myself," said Newman, smiling but differently from </p><p>the marquis. "I am happier than I expected to be. I suppose it's the </p><p>sight of your happiness!" </p><p>"Don't exaggerate that," said Madame de Bellegarde, getting up and</p><p>laying her hand upon her daughter's arm. "You can't expect an honest old </p><p>woman to thank you for taking away her beautiful, only daughter." </p><p>"You forgot me, dear madame," said the young marquise demurely. </p><p>"Yes, she is very beautiful," said Newman. </p><p>"And when is the wedding, pray?" asked young Madame de Bellegarde; "I </p><p>must have a month to think over a dress." </p><p>"That must be discussed," said the marquise. </p><p>"Oh, we will discuss it, and let you know!" Newman exclaimed. </p><p>"I have no doubt we shall agree," said Urbain. </p><p>"If you don't agree with Madame de Cintre, you will be very </p><p>unreasonable." </p><p>"Come, come, Urbain," said young Madame de Bellegarde, "I must go </p><p>straight to my tailor's." </p><p>The old lady had been standing with her hand on her daughter's arm, </p><p>looking at her fixedly. She gave a little sigh, and murmured, "No, I did </p><p>NOT expect it! You are a fortunate man," she added, turning to Newman, </p><p>with an expressive nod. </p><p>"Oh, I know that!" he answered. "I feel tremendously proud. I feel like </p><p>crying it on the housetops,--like stopping people in the street to tell </p><p>them." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde narrowed her lips. "Pray don't," she said. </p><p>"The more people that know it, the better," Newman declared. "I haven't </p><p>yet announced it here, but I telegraphed it this morning to America." </p><p>"Telegraphed it to America?" the old lady murmured. </p><p>"To New York, to St. Louis, and to San Francisco; those are the </p><p>principal cities, you know. To-morrow I shall tell my friends here." </p><p>"Have you many?" asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone of which I am </p><p>afraid that Newman but partly measured the impertinence. </p><p>"Enough to bring me a great many hand-shakes and congratulations. To </p><p>say nothing," he added, in a moment, "of those I shall receive from your </p><p>friends." </p><p>"They will not use the telegraph," said the marquise, taking her </p><p>departure. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde, whose wife, her imagination having apparently taken </p><p>flight to the tailor's, was fluttering her silken wings in emulation, </p><p>shook hands with Newman, and said with a more persuasive accent than the </p><p>latter had ever heard him use, "You may count upon me." Then his wife </p><p>led him away. </p><p>Valentin stood looking from his sister to our hero. "I hope you both </p><p>reflected seriously," he said.</p><p>Madame de Cintre smiled. "We have neither your powers of reflection nor </p><p>your depth of seriousness; but we have done our best." </p><p>"Well, I have a great regard for each of you," Valentin continued. "You </p><p>are charming young people. But I am not satisfied, on the whole, that </p><p>you belong to that small and superior class--that exquisite group </p><p>composed of persons who are worthy to remain unmarried. These are rare </p><p>souls; they are the salt of the earth. But I don't mean to be invidious; </p><p>the marrying people are often very nice." </p><p>"Valentin holds that women should marry, and that men should not," said </p><p>Madame de Cintre. "I don't know how he arranges it." </p><p>"I arrange it by adoring you, my sister," said Valentin ardently. </p><p>"Good-by." </p><p>"Adore some one whom you can marry," said Newman. "I will arrange that </p><p>for you some day. I foresee that I am going to turn apostle." </p><p>Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment with a face that </p><p>had turned grave. "I adore some one I can't marry!" he said. And he </p><p>dropped the portiere and departed. </p><p>"They don't like it," said Newman, standing alone before Madame de </p><p>Cintre. </p><p>"No," she said, after a moment; "they don't like it." </p><p>"Well, now, do you mind that?" asked Newman. </p><p>"Yes!" she said, after another interval. </p><p>"That's a mistake." </p><p>"I can't help it. I should prefer that my mother were pleased." </p><p>"Why the deuce," demanded Newman, "is she not pleased? She gave you </p><p>leave to marry me." </p><p>"Very true; I don't understand it. And yet I do 'mind it,' as you say. </p><p>You will call it superstitious." </p><p>"That will depend upon how much you let it bother you. Then I shall call </p><p>it an awful bore." </p><p>"I will keep it to myself," said Madame de Cintre, "It shall not bother </p><p>you." And then they talked of their marriage-day, and Madame de Cintre </p><p>assented unreservedly to Newman's desire to have it fixed for an early </p><p>date. </p><p>Newman's telegrams were answered with interest. Having dispatched but </p><p>three electric missives, he received no less than eight gratulatory </p><p>bulletins in return. He put them into his pocket-book, and the next time </p><p>he encountered old Madame de Bellegarde drew them forth and displayed </p><p>them to her. This, it must be confessed, was a slightly malicious </p><p>stroke; the reader must judge in what degree the offense was venial. </p><p>Newman knew that the marquise disliked his telegrams, though he could </p><p>see no sufficient reason for it. Madame de Cintre, on the other hand,</p><p>liked them, and, most of them being of a humorous cast, laughed at them </p><p>immoderately, and inquired into the character of their authors. Newman, </p><p>now that his prize was gained, felt a peculiar desire that his triumph </p><p>should be manifest. He more than suspected that the Bellegardes were </p><p>keeping quiet about it, and allowing it, in their select circle, but a </p><p>limited resonance; and it pleased him to think that if he were to take </p><p>the trouble he might, as he phrased it, break all the windows. No man </p><p>likes being repudiated, and yet Newman, if he was not flattered, was </p><p>not exactly offended. He had not this good excuse for his somewhat </p><p>aggressive impulse to promulgate his felicity; his sentiment was of </p><p>another quality. He wanted for once to make the heads of the house of </p><p>Bellegarde FEEL him; he knew not when he should have another chance. </p><p>He had had for the past six months a sense of the old lady and her son </p><p>looking straight over his head, and he was now resolved that they should </p><p>toe a mark which he would give himself the satisfaction of drawing. </p><p>"It is like seeing a bottle emptied when the wine is poured too slowly," </p><p>he said to Mrs. Tristram. "They make me want to joggle their elbows and </p><p>force them to spill their wine." </p><p>To this Mrs. Tristram answered that he had better leave them alone </p><p>and let them do things in their own way. "You must make allowances for </p><p>them," she said. "It is natural enough that they should hang fire a </p><p>little. They thought they accepted you when you made your application; </p><p>but they are not people of imagination, they could not project </p><p>themselves into the future, and now they will have to begin again. But </p><p>they are people of honor, and they will do whatever is necessary." </p><p>Newman spent a few moments in narrow-eyed meditation. "I am not hard on </p><p>them," he presently said, "and to prove it I will invite them all to a </p><p>festival." </p><p>"To a festival?" </p><p>"You have been laughing at my great gilded rooms all winter; I will show </p><p>you that they are good for something. I will give a party. What is the </p><p>grandest thing one can do here? I will hire all the great singers from </p><p>the opera, and all the first people from the Theatre Francais, and I </p><p>will give an entertainment." </p><p>"And whom will you invite?" </p><p>"You, first of all. And then the old lady and her son. And then every </p><p>one among her friends whom I have met at her house or elsewhere, every </p><p>one who has shown me the minimum of politeness, every duke of them and </p><p>his wife. And then all my friends, without exception: Miss Kitty Upjohn, </p><p>Miss Dora Finch, General Packard, C. P Hatch, and all the rest. </p><p>And every one shall know what it is about, that is, to celebrate my </p><p>engagement to the Countess de Cintre. What do you think of the idea?" </p><p>"I think it is odious!" said Mrs. Tristram. And then in a moment: "I </p><p>think it is delicious!" </p><p>The very next evening Newman repaired to Madame de Bellegarde's salon. </p><p>where he found her surrounded by her children, and invited her to honor </p><p>his poor dwelling by her presence on a certain evening a fortnight </p><p>distant. </p><p>The marquise stared a moment. "My dear sir," she cried, "what do you</p><p>want to do to me?" </p><p>"To make you acquainted with a few people, and then to place you in a </p><p>very easy chair and ask you to listen to Madame Frezzolini's singing." </p><p>"You mean to give a concert?" </p><p>"Something of that sort." </p><p>"And to have a crowd of people?" </p><p>"All my friends, and I hope some of yours and your daughter's. I want to </p><p>celebrate my engagement." </p><p>It seemed to Newman that Madame de Bellegarde turned pale. She opened </p><p>her fan, a fine old painted fan of the last century, and looked at </p><p>the picture, which represented a fete champetre--a lady with a guitar, </p><p>singing, and a group of dancers round a garlanded Hermes. </p><p>"We go out so little," murmured the marquis, "since my poor father's </p><p>death." </p><p>"But MY dear father is still alive, my friend," said his wife. "I am </p><p>only waiting for my invitation to accept it," and she glanced with </p><p>amiable confidence at Newman. "It will be magnificent; I am very sure of </p><p>that." </p><p>I am sorry to say, to the discredit of Newman's gallantry, that this </p><p>lady's invitation was not then and there bestowed; he was giving all his </p><p>attention to the old marquise. She looked up at last, smiling. "I can't </p><p>think of letting you offer me a fete," she said, "until I have offered </p><p>you one. We want to present you to our friends; we will invite them all. </p><p>We have it very much at heart. We must do things in order. Come to me </p><p>about the 25th; I will let you know the exact day immediately. We shall </p><p>not have any one so fine as Madame Frezzolini, but we shall have some </p><p>very good people. After that you may talk of your own fete." The old </p><p>lady spoke with a certain quick eagerness, smiling more agreeably as she </p><p>went on. </p><p>It seemed to Newman a handsome proposal, and such proposals always </p><p>touched the sources of his good-nature. He said to Madame de Bellegarde </p><p>that he should be glad to come on the 25th or any other day, and that it </p><p>mattered very little whether he met his friends at her house or at his </p><p>own. I have said that Newman was observant, but it must be admitted that </p><p>on this occasion he failed to notice a certain delicate glance which </p><p>passed between Madame de Bellegarde and the marquis, and which we may </p><p>presume to have been a commentary upon the innocence displayed in that </p><p>latter clause of his speech. </p><p>Valentin de Bellegarde walked away with Newman that evening, and when </p><p>they had left the Rue de l'Universite some distance behind them he said </p><p>reflectively, "My mother is very strong--very strong." Then in answer to </p><p>an interrogative movement of Newman's he continued, "She was driven to </p><p>the wall, but you would never have thought it. Her fete of the 25th was </p><p>an invention of the moment. She had no idea whatever of giving a fete, </p><p>but finding it the only issue from your proposal, she looked straight </p><p>at the dose--excuse the expression--and bolted it, as you saw, without </p><p>winking. She is very strong." </p><p>"Dear me!" said Newman, divided between relish and compassion. "I don't </p><p>care a straw for her fete, I am willing to take the will for the deed." </p><p>"No, no," said Valentin, with a little inconsequent touch of family </p><p>pride. "The thing will be done now, and done handsomely." </p><p>CHAPTER XV </p><p>Valentin de Bellegarde's announcement of the secession of Mademoiselle </p><p>Nioche from her father's domicile and his irreverent reflections upon </p><p>the attitude of this anxious parent in so grave a catastrophe, received </p><p>a practical commentary in the fact that M. Nioche was slow to seek </p><p>another interview with his late pupil. It had cost Newman some disgust </p><p>to be forced to assent to Valentin's somewhat cynical interpretation of </p><p>the old man's philosophy, and, though circumstances seemed to indicate </p><p>that he had not given himself up to a noble despair, Newman thought it </p><p>very possible he might be suffering more keenly than was apparent. M. </p><p>Nioche had been in the habit of paying him a respectful little visit </p><p>every two or three weeks and his absence might be a proof quite as much </p><p>of extreme depression as of a desire to conceal the success with which </p><p>he had patched up his sorrow. Newman presently learned from Valentin </p><p>several details touching this new phase of Mademoiselle Noemie's career. </p><p>"I told you she was remarkable," this unshrinking observer declared, </p><p>"and the way she has managed this performance proves it. She has had </p><p>other chances, but she was resolved to take none but the best. She did </p><p>you the honor to think for a while that you might be such a chance. You </p><p>were not; so she gathered up her patience and waited a while longer. At </p><p>last her occasion came along, and she made her move with her eyes wide </p><p>open. I am very sure she had no innocence to lose, but she had all her </p><p>respectability. Dubious little damsel as you thought her, she had kept </p><p>a firm hold of that; nothing could be proved against her, and she was </p><p>determined not to let her reputation go till she had got her equivalent. </p><p>About her equivalent she had high ideas. Apparently her ideal has been </p><p>satisfied. It is fifty years old, bald-headed, and deaf, but it is very </p><p>easy about money." </p><p>"And where in the world," asked Newman, "did you pick up this valuable </p><p>information?" </p><p>"In conversation. Remember my frivolous habits. In conversation with a </p><p>young woman engaged in the humble trade of glove-cleaner, who keeps a </p><p>small shop in the Rue St. Roch. M. Nioche lives in the same house, up </p><p>six pair of stairs, across the court, in and out of whose ill-swept </p><p>doorway Miss Noemie has been flitting for the last five years. The </p><p>little glove-cleaner was an old acquaintance; she used to be the friend </p><p>of a friend of mine, who has married and dropped such friends. I often </p><p>saw her in his society. As soon as I espied her behind her clear little </p><p>window-pane, I recollected her. I had on a spotlessly fresh pair of </p><p>gloves, but I went in and held up my hands, and said to her, 'Dear </p><p>mademoiselle, what will you ask me for cleaning these?' 'Dear count,' </p><p>she answered immediately, 'I will clean them for you for nothing.' She </p><p>had instantly recognized me, and I had to hear her history for the last </p><p>six years. But after that, I put her upon that of her neighbors. She </p><p>knows and admires Noemie, and she told me what I have just repeated." </p><p>A month elapsed without M. Nioche reappearing, and Newman, who every </p><p>morning read two or three suicides in the "Figaro," began to suspect </p><p>that, mortification proving stubborn, he had sought a balm for his </p><p>wounded pride in the waters of the Seine. He had a note of M. Nioche's </p><p>address in his pocket-book, and finding himself one day in the quartier, </p><p>he determined in so far as he might to clear up his doubts. He repaired </p><p>to the house in the Rue St. Roch which bore the recorded number, and </p><p>observed in a neighboring basement, behind a dangling row of neatly </p><p>inflated gloves, the attentive physiognomy of Bellegarde's informant--a </p><p>sallow person in a dressing-gown--peering into the street as if she were </p><p>expecting that amiable nobleman to pass again. But it was not to her </p><p>that Newman applied; he simply asked of the portress if M. Nioche were </p><p>at home. The portress replied, as the portress invariably replies, that </p><p>her lodger had gone out barely three minutes before; but then, through </p><p>the little square hole of her lodge-window taking the measure of </p><p>Newman's fortunes, and seeing them, by an unspecified process, refresh </p><p>the dry places of servitude to occupants of fifth floors on courts, she </p><p>added that M. Nioche would have had just time to reach the Cafe de la </p><p>Patrie, round the second corner to the left, at which establishment he </p><p>regularly spent his afternoons. Newman thanked her for the information, </p><p>took the second turning to the left, and arrived at the Cafe de la </p><p>Patrie. He felt a momentary hesitation to go in; was it not rather mean </p><p>to "follow up" poor old Nioche at that rate? But there passed across his </p><p>vision an image of a haggard little septuagenarian taking measured sips </p><p>of a glass of sugar and water and finding them quite impotent to sweeten </p><p>his desolation. He opened the door and entered, perceiving nothing at </p><p>first but a dense cloud of tobacco smoke. Across this, however, in a </p><p>corner, he presently descried the figure of M. Nioche, stirring the </p><p>contents of a deep glass, with a lady seated in front of him. The </p><p>lady's back was turned to Newman, but M. Nioche very soon perceived and </p><p>recognized his visitor. Newman had gone toward him, and the old man rose </p><p>slowly, gazing at him with a more blighted expression even than usual. </p><p>"If you are drinking hot punch," said Newman, "I suppose you are not </p><p>dead. That's all right. Don't move." </p><p>M. Nioche stood staring, with a fallen jaw, not daring to put out </p><p>his hand. The lady, who sat facing him, turned round in her place </p><p>and glanced upward with a spirited toss of her head, displaying the </p><p>agreeable features of his daughter. She looked at Newman sharply, to see </p><p>how he was looking at her, then--I don't know what she discovered--she </p><p>said graciously, "How d' ye do, monsieur? won't you come into our little </p><p>corner?" </p><p>"Did you come--did you come after ME?" asked M. Nioche very softly. </p><p>"I went to your house to see what had become of you. I thought you might </p><p>be sick," said Newman. </p><p>"It is very good of you, as always," said the old man. "No, I am not </p><p>well. Yes, I am SEEK." </p><p>"Ask monsieur to sit down," said Mademoiselle Nioche. "Garcon, bring a </p><p>chair." </p><p>"Will you do us the honor to SEAT?" said M. Nioche, timorously, and with </p><p>a double foreignness of accent. </p><p>Newman said to himself that he had better see the thing out and he took</p><p>a chair at the end of the table, with Mademoiselle Nioche on his left </p><p>and her father on the other side. "You will take something, of course," </p><p>said Miss Noemie, who was sipping a glass of madeira. Newman said that </p><p>he believed not, and then she turned to her papa with a smile. "What an </p><p>honor, eh? he has come only for us." M. Nioche drained his pungent </p><p>glass at a long draught, and looked out from eyes more lachrymose in </p><p>consequence. "But you didn't come for me, eh?" Mademoiselle Noemie went </p><p>on. "You didn't expect to find me here?" </p><p>Newman observed the change in her appearance. She was very elegant </p><p>and prettier than before; she looked a year or two older, and it was </p><p>noticeable that, to the eye, she had only gained in respectability. </p><p>She looked "lady-like." She was dressed in quiet colors, and wore her </p><p>expensively unobtrusive toilet with a grace that might have come from </p><p>years of practice. Her present self-possession and aplomb struck Newman </p><p>as really infernal, and he inclined to agree with Valentin de Bellegarde </p><p>that the young lady was very remarkable. "No, to tell the truth, I </p><p>didn't come for you," he said, "and I didn't expect to find you. I was </p><p>told," he added in a moment "that you had left your father." </p><p>"Quelle horreur!" cried Mademoiselle Nioche with a smile. "Does one </p><p>leave one's father? You have the proof of the contrary." </p><p>"Yes, convincing proof," said Newman glancing at M. Nioche. The old man </p><p>caught his glance obliquely, with his faded, deprecating eye, and then, </p><p>lifting his empty glass, pretended to drink again. </p><p>"Who told you that?" Noemie demanded. "I know very well. It was M. de </p><p>Bellegarde. Why don't you say yes? You are not polite." </p><p>"I am embarrassed," said Newman. </p><p>"I set you a better example. I know M. de Bellegarde told you. He knows </p><p>a great deal about me--or he thinks he does. He has taken a great deal </p><p>of trouble to find out, but half of it isn't true. In the first place, </p><p>I haven't left my father; I am much too fond of him. Isn't it so, little </p><p>father? M. de Bellegarde is a charming young man; it is impossible to be </p><p>cleverer. I know a good deal about him too; you can tell him that when </p><p>you next see him." </p><p>"No," said Newman, with a sturdy grin; "I won't carry any messages for </p><p>you." </p><p>"Just as you please," said Mademoiselle Nioche, "I don't depend upon </p><p>you, nor does M. de Bellegarde either. He is very much interested in me; </p><p>he can be left to his own devices. He is a contrast to you." </p><p>"Oh, he is a great contrast to me, I have no doubt" said Newman. "But I </p><p>don't exactly know how you mean it." </p><p>"I mean it in this way. First of all, he never offered to help me to a </p><p>dot and a husband." And Mademoiselle Nioche paused, smiling. "I won't </p><p>say that is in his favor, for I do you justice. What led you, by the </p><p>way, to make me such a queer offer? You didn't care for me." </p><p>"Oh yes, I did," said Newman. </p><p>"How so?" </p><p>"It would have given me real pleasure to see you married to a </p><p>respectable young fellow." </p><p>"With six thousand francs of income!" cried Mademoiselle Nioche. "Do </p><p>you call that caring for me? I'm afraid you know little about women. You </p><p>were not galant; you were not what you might have been." </p><p>Newman flushed a trifle fiercely. "Come!" he exclaimed "that's rather </p><p>strong. I had no idea I had been so shabby." </p><p>Mademoiselle Nioche smiled as she took up her muff. "It is something, at </p><p>any rate, to have made you angry." </p><p>Her father had leaned both his elbows on the table, and his head, bent </p><p>forward, was supported in his hands, the thin white fingers of which </p><p>were pressed over his ears. In his position he was staring fixedly at </p><p>the bottom of his empty glass, and Newman supposed he was not hearing. </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie buttoned her furred jacket and pushed back her </p><p>chair, casting a glance charged with the consciousness of an expensive </p><p>appearance first down over her flounces and then up at Newman. </p><p>"You had better have remained an honest girl," Newman said, quietly. </p><p>M. Nioche continued to stare at the bottom of his glass, and his </p><p>daughter got up, still bravely smiling. "You mean that I look so much </p><p>like one? That's more than most women do nowadays. Don't judge me yet a </p><p>while," she added. "I mean to succeed; that's what I mean to do. I leave </p><p>you; I don't mean to be seen in cafes, for one thing. I can't think </p><p>what you want of my poor father; he's very comfortable now. It isn't his </p><p>fault, either. Au revoir, little father." And she tapped the old man on </p><p>the head with her muff. Then she stopped a minute, looking at Newman. </p><p>"Tell M. de Bellegarde, when he wants news of me, to come and get it </p><p>from ME!" And she turned and departed, the white-aproned waiter, with a </p><p>bow, holding the door wide open for her. </p><p>M. Nioche sat motionless, and Newman hardly knew what to say to him. The </p><p>old man looked dismally foolish. "So you determined not to shoot her, </p><p>after all," Newman said, presently. </p><p>M. Nioche, without moving, raised his eyes and gave him a long, peculiar </p><p>look. It seemed to confess everything, and yet not to ask for pity, nor </p><p>to pretend, on the other hand, to a rugged ability to do without it. It </p><p>might have expressed the state of mind of an innocuous insect, flat </p><p>in shape and conscious of the impending pressure of a boot-sole, and </p><p>reflecting that he was perhaps too flat to be crushed. M. Nioche's gaze </p><p>was a profession of moral flatness. "You despise me terribly," he said, </p><p>in the weakest possible voice. </p><p>"Oh no," said Newman, "it is none of my business. It's a good plan to </p><p>take things easily." </p><p>"I made you too many fine speeches," M. Nioche added. "I meant them at </p><p>the time." </p><p>"I am sure I am very glad you didn't shoot her," said Newman. "I was </p><p>afraid you might have shot yourself. That is why I came to look you up." </p><p>And he began to button his coat. </p><p>"Neither," said M. Nioche. "You despise me, and I can't explain to you.</p><p>I hoped I shouldn't see you again." </p><p>"Why, that's rather shabby," said Newman. "You shouldn't drop your </p><p>friends that way. Besides, the last time you came to see me I thought </p><p>you particularly jolly." </p><p>"Yes, I remember," said M. Nioche, musingly; "I was in a fever. I didn't </p><p>know what I said, what I did. It was delirium." </p><p>"Ah, well, you are quieter now." </p><p>M. Nioche was silent a moment. "As quiet as the grave," he whispered </p><p>softly. </p><p>"Are you very unhappy?" </p><p>M. Nioche rubbed his forehead slowly, and even pushed back his wig a </p><p>little, looking askance at his empty glass. "Yes--yes. But that's an old </p><p>story. I have always been unhappy. My daughter does what she will with </p><p>me. I take what she gives me, good or bad. I have no spirit, and when </p><p>you have no spirit you must keep quiet. I shan't trouble you any more." </p><p>"Well," said Newman, rather disgusted at the smooth operation of the old </p><p>man's philosophy, "that's as you please." </p><p>M. Nioche seemed to have been prepared to be despised but nevertheless </p><p>he made a feeble movement of appeal from Newman's faint praise. "After </p><p>all," he said, "she is my daughter, and I can still look after her. If </p><p>she will do wrong, why she will. But there are many different </p><p>paths, there are degrees. I can give her the benefit--give her the </p><p>benefit"--and M. Nioche paused, staring vaguely at Newman, who began to </p><p>suspect that his brain had softened--"the benefit of my experience," M. </p><p>Nioche added. </p><p>"Your experience?" inquired Newman, both amused and amazed. </p><p>"My experience of business," said M. Nioche, gravely. </p><p>"Ah, yes," said Newman, laughing, "that will be a great advantage to </p><p>her!" And then he said good-by, and offered the poor, foolish old man </p><p>his hand. </p><p>M. Nioche took it and leaned back against the wall, holding it a moment </p><p>and looking up at him. "I suppose you think my wits are going," he </p><p>said. "Very likely; I have always a pain in my head. That's why I can't </p><p>explain, I can't tell you. And she's so strong, she makes me walk as she </p><p>will, anywhere! But there's this--there's this." And he stopped, still </p><p>staring up at Newman. His little white eyes expanded and glittered for a </p><p>moment like those of a cat in the dark. "It's not as it seems. I haven't </p><p>forgiven her. Oh, no!" </p><p>"That's right; don't," said Newman. "She's a bad case." </p><p>"It's horrible, it's horrible," said M. Nioche; "but do you want to know </p><p>the truth? I hate her! I take what she gives me, and I hate her </p><p>more. To-day she brought me three hundred francs; they are here in my </p><p>waistcoat pocket. Now I hate her almost cruelly. No, I haven't forgiven </p><p>her." </p><p>"Why did you accept the money?" Newman asked. </p><p>"If I hadn't," said M. Nioche, "I should have hated her still more. </p><p>That's what misery is. No, I haven't forgiven her." </p><p>"Take care you don't hurt her!" said Newman, laughing again. And with </p><p>this he took his leave. As he passed along the glazed side of the cafe, </p><p>on reaching the street, he saw the old man motioning the waiter, with a </p><p>melancholy gesture, to replenish his glass. </p><p>One day, a week after his visit to the Cafe de la Patrie, he called upon </p><p>Valentin de Bellegarde, and by good fortune found him at home. Newman </p><p>spoke of his interview with M. Nioche and his daughter, and said he </p><p>was afraid Valentin had judged the old man correctly. He had found the </p><p>couple hobnobbing together in all amity; the old gentleman's rigor was </p><p>purely theoretic. Newman confessed that he was disappointed; he should </p><p>have expected to see M. Nioche take high ground. </p><p>"High ground, my dear fellow," said Valentin, laughing; "there is </p><p>no high ground for him to take. The only perceptible eminence in M. </p><p>Nioche's horizon is Montmartre, which is not an edifying quarter. You </p><p>can't go mountaineering in a flat country." </p><p>"He remarked, indeed," said Newman, "that he has not forgiven her. But </p><p>she'll never find it out." </p><p>"We must do him the justice to suppose he doesn't like the thing," </p><p>Valentin rejoined. "Mademoiselle Nioche is like the great artists whose </p><p>biographies we read, who at the beginning of their career have </p><p>suffered opposition in the domestic circle. Their vocation has not </p><p>been recognized by their families, but the world has done it justice. </p><p>Mademoiselle Nioche has a vocation." </p><p>"Oh, come," said Newman, impatiently, "you take the little baggage too </p><p>seriously." </p><p>"I know I do; but when one has nothing to think about, one must think of </p><p>little baggages. I suppose it is better to be serious about light things </p><p>than not to be serious at all. This little baggage entertains me." </p><p>"Oh, she has discovered that. She knows you have been hunting her up </p><p>and asking questions about her. She is very much tickled by it. That's </p><p>rather annoying." </p><p>"Annoying, my dear fellow," laughed Valentin; "not the least!" </p><p>"Hanged if I should want to have a greedy little adventuress like that </p><p>know I was giving myself such pains about her!" said Newman. </p><p>"A pretty woman is always worth one's pains," objected Valentin. </p><p>"Mademoiselle Nioche is welcome to be tickled by my curiosity, and to </p><p>know that I am tickled that she is tickled. She is not so much tickled, </p><p>by the way." </p><p>"You had better go and tell her," Newman rejoined. "She gave me a </p><p>message for you of some such drift." </p><p>"Bless your quiet imagination," said Valentin, "I have been to see </p><p>her--three times in five days. She is a charming hostess; we talk of</p><p>Shakespeare and the musical glasses. She is extremely clever and a very </p><p>curious type; not at all coarse or wanting to be coarse; determined not </p><p>to be. She means to take very good care of herself. She is extremely </p><p>perfect; she is as hard and clear-cut as some little figure of a </p><p>sea-nymph in an antique intaglio, and I will warrant that she has not </p><p>a grain more of sentiment or heart than if she was scooped out of a </p><p>big amethyst. You can't scratch her even with a diamond. </p><p>Extremely pretty,--really, when you know her, she is wonderfully </p><p>pretty,--intelligent, determined, ambitious, unscrupulous, capable of </p><p>looking at a man strangled without changing color, she is upon my honor, </p><p>extremely entertaining." </p><p>"It's a fine list of attractions," said Newman; "they would serve as a </p><p>police-detective's description of a favorite criminal. I should sum them </p><p>up by another word than 'entertaining.'" </p><p>"Why, that is just the word to use. I don't say she is laudable or </p><p>lovable. I don't want her as my wife or my sister. But she is a </p><p>very curious and ingenious piece of machinery; I like to see it in </p><p>operation." </p><p>"Well, I have seen some very curious machines too," said Newman; "and </p><p>once, in a needle factory, I saw a gentleman from the city, who had </p><p>stopped too near one of them, picked up as neatly as if he had been </p><p>prodded by a fork, swallowed down straight, and ground into small </p><p>pieces." </p><p>Reentering his domicile, late in the evening, three days after Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde had made her bargain with him--the expression is sufficiently </p><p>correct--touching the entertainment at which she was to present him to </p><p>the world, he found on his table a card of goodly dimensions bearing an </p><p>announcement that this lady would be at home on the 27th of the month, </p><p>at ten o'clock in the evening. He stuck it into the frame of his mirror </p><p>and eyed it with some complacency; it seemed an agreeable emblem of </p><p>triumph, documentary evidence that his prize was gained. Stretched out </p><p>in a chair, he was looking at it lovingly, when Valentin de Bellegarde </p><p>was shown into the room. Valentin's glance presently followed the </p><p>direction of Newman's, and he perceived his mother's invitation. </p><p>"And what have they put into the corner?" he asked. "Not the customary </p><p>'music,' 'dancing,' or 'tableaux vivants'? They ought at least to put </p><p>'An American.'" </p><p>"Oh, there are to be several of us," said Newman. "Mrs. Tristram told me </p><p>to-day that she had received a card and sent an acceptance." </p><p>"Ah, then, with Mrs. Tristram and her husband you will have support. My </p><p>mother might have put on her card 'Three Americans.' But I suspect you </p><p>will not lack amusement. You will see a great many of the best people in </p><p>France. I mean the long pedigrees and the high noses, and all that. Some </p><p>of them are awful idiots; I advise you to take them up cautiously." </p><p>"Oh, I guess I shall like them," said Newman. "I am prepared to like </p><p>every one and everything in these days; I am in high good-humor." </p><p>Valentin looked at him a moment in silence and then dropped himself into </p><p>a chair with an unwonted air of weariness. </p><p>"Happy man!" he said with a sigh. "Take care you don't become</p><p>offensive." </p><p>"If any one chooses to take offense, he may. I have a good conscience," </p><p>said Newman. </p><p>"So you are really in love with my sister." </p><p>"Yes, sir!" said Newman, after a pause. </p><p>"And she also?" </p><p>"I guess she likes me," said Newman. </p><p>"What is the witchcraft you have used?" Valentin asked. "How do YOU make </p><p>love?" </p><p>"Oh, I haven't any general rules," said Newman. "In any way that seems </p><p>acceptable." </p><p>"I suspect that, if one knew it," said Valentin, laughing, "you are a </p><p>terrible customer. You walk in seven-league boots." </p><p>"There is something the matter with you to-night," Newman said in </p><p>response to this. "You are vicious. Spare me all discordant sounds until </p><p>after my marriage. Then, when I have settled down for life, I shall be </p><p>better able to take things as they come." </p><p>"And when does your marriage take place?" </p><p>"About six weeks hence." </p><p>Valentin was silent a while, and then he said, "And you feel very </p><p>confident about the future?" </p><p>"Confident. I knew what I wanted, exactly, and I know what I have got." </p><p>"You are sure you are going to be happy?" </p><p>"Sure?" said Newman. "So foolish a question deserves a foolish answer. </p><p>Yes!" </p><p>"You are not afraid of anything?" </p><p>"What should I be afraid of? You can't hurt me unless you kill me by </p><p>some violent means. That I should indeed consider a tremendous sell. </p><p>I want to live and I mean to live. I can't die of illness, I am too </p><p>ridiculously tough; and the time for dying of old age won't come round </p><p>yet a while. I can't lose my wife, I shall take too good care of her. I </p><p>may lose my money, or a large part of it; but that won't matter, for I </p><p>shall make twice as much again. So what have I to be afraid of?" </p><p>"You are not afraid it may be rather a mistake for an American man of </p><p>business to marry a French countess?" </p><p>"For the countess, possibly; but not for the man of business, if you </p><p>mean me! But my countess shall not be disappointed; I answer for </p><p>her happiness!" And as if he felt the impulse to celebrate his happy </p><p>certitude by a bonfire, he got up to throw a couple of logs upon the </p><p>already blazing hearth. Valentin watched for a few moments the quickened</p><p>flame, and then, with his head leaning on his hand, gave a melancholy </p><p>sigh. "Got a headache?" Newman asked. </p><p>"Je suis triste," said Valentin, with Gallic simplicity. </p><p>"You are sad, eh? It is about the lady you said the other night that you </p><p>adored and that you couldn't marry?" </p><p>"Did I really say that? It seemed to me afterwards that the words had </p><p>escaped me. Before Claire it was bad taste. But I felt gloomy as I </p><p>spoke, and I feel gloomy still. Why did you ever introduce me to that </p><p>girl?" </p><p>"Oh, it's Noemie, is it? Lord deliver us! You don't mean to say you are </p><p>lovesick about her?" </p><p>"Lovesick, no; it's not a grand passion. But the cold-blooded little </p><p>demon sticks in my thoughts; she has bitten me with those even little </p><p>teeth of hers; I feel as if I might turn rabid and do something crazy </p><p>in consequence. It's very low, it's disgustingly low. She's the most </p><p>mercenary little jade in Europe. Yet she really affects my peace of </p><p>mind; she is always running in my head. It's a striking contrast to your </p><p>noble and virtuous attachment--a vile contrast! It is rather pitiful </p><p>that it should be the best I am able to do for myself at my present </p><p>respectable age. I am a nice young man, eh, en somme? You can't warrant </p><p>my future, as you do your own." </p><p>"Drop that girl, short," said Newman; "don't go near her again, and your </p><p>future will do. Come over to America and I will get you a place in a </p><p>bank." </p><p>"It is easy to say drop her," said Valentin, with a light laugh. "You </p><p>can't drop a pretty woman like that. One must be polite, even with </p><p>Noemie. Besides, I'll not have her suppose I am afraid of her." </p><p>"So, between politeness and vanity, you will get deeper into the mud? </p><p>Keep them both for something better. Remember, too, that I didn't want </p><p>to introduce you to her: you insisted. I had a sort of uneasy feeling </p><p>about it." </p><p>"Oh, I don't reproach you," said Valentin. "Heaven forbid! I wouldn't </p><p>for the world have missed knowing her. She is really extraordinary. The </p><p>way she has already spread her wings is amazing. I don't know when a </p><p>woman has amused me more. But excuse me," he added in an instant; "she </p><p>doesn't amuse you, at second hand, and the subject is an impure one. </p><p>Let us talk of something else." Valentin introduced another topic, but </p><p>within five minutes Newman observed that, by a bold transition, he had </p><p>reverted to Mademoiselle Nioche, and was giving pictures of her manners </p><p>and quoting specimens of her mots. These were very witty, and, for a </p><p>young woman who six months before had been painting the most artless </p><p>madonnas, startlingly cynical. But at last, abruptly, he stopped, became </p><p>thoughtful, and for some time afterwards said nothing. When he rose to </p><p>go it was evident that his thoughts were still running upon Mademoiselle </p><p>Nioche. "Yes, she's a frightful little monster!" he said. </p><p>CHAPTER XVI </p><p>The next ten days were the happiest that Newman had ever known. He </p><p>saw Madame de Cintre every day, and never saw either old Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde or the elder of his prospective brothers-in-law. Madame de </p><p>Cintre at last seemed to think it becoming to apologize for their never </p><p>being present. "They are much taken up," she said, "with doing the </p><p>honors of Paris to Lord Deepmere." There was a smile in her gravity </p><p>as she made this declaration, and it deepened as she added, "He is our </p><p>seventh cousin, you know, and blood is thicker than water. And then, he </p><p>is so interesting!" And with this she laughed. </p><p>Newman met young Madame de Bellegarde two or three times, always roaming </p><p>about with graceful vagueness, as if in search of an unattainable ideal </p><p>of amusement. She always reminded him of a painted perfume-bottle with a </p><p>crack in it; but he had grown to have a kindly feeling for her, based </p><p>on the fact of her owing conjugal allegiance to Urbain de Bellegarde. </p><p>He pitied M. de Bellegarde's wife, especially since she was a silly, </p><p>thirstily-smiling little brunette, with a suggestion of an unregulated </p><p>heart. The small marquise sometimes looked at him with an intensity </p><p>too marked not to be innocent, for coquetry is more finely shaded. </p><p>She apparently wanted to ask him something or tell him something; he </p><p>wondered what it was. But he was shy of giving her an opportunity, </p><p>because, if her communication bore upon the aridity of her matrimonial </p><p>lot, he was at a loss to see how he could help her. He had a fancy, </p><p>however, of her coming up to him some day and saying (after looking </p><p>around behind her) with a little passionate hiss, "I know you detest my </p><p>husband; let me have the pleasure of assuring you for once that you </p><p>are right. Pity a poor woman who is married to a clock-image in </p><p>papier-mache!" Possessing, however, in default of a competent knowledge </p><p>of the principles of etiquette, a very downright sense of the "meanness" </p><p>of certain actions, it seemed to him to belong to his position to keep </p><p>on his guard; he was not going to put it into the power of these people </p><p>to say that in their house he had done anything unpleasant. As it was, </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde used to give him news of the dress she meant to </p><p>wear at his wedding, and which had not yet, in her creative imagination, </p><p>in spite of many interviews with the tailor, resolved itself into its </p><p>composite totality. "I told you pale blue bows on the sleeves, at the </p><p>elbows," she said. "But to-day I don't see my blue bows at all. I don't </p><p>know what has become of them. To-day I see pink--a tender pink. And then </p><p>I pass through strange, dull phases in which neither blue nor pink says </p><p>anything to me. And yet I must have the bows." </p><p>"Have them green or yellow," said Newman. </p><p>"Malheureux!" the little marquise would cry. "Green bows would break </p><p>your marriage--your children would be illegitimate!" </p><p>Madame de Cintre was calmly happy before the world, and Newman had the </p><p>felicity of fancying that before him, when the world was absent, she </p><p>was almost agitatedly happy. She said very tender things. "I take no </p><p>pleasure in you. You never give me a chance to scold you, to correct </p><p>you. I bargained for that, I expected to enjoy it. But you won't do </p><p>anything dreadful; you are dismally inoffensive. It is very stupid; </p><p>there is no excitement for me; I might as well be marrying some one </p><p>else." </p><p>"I am afraid it's the worst I can do," Newman would say in answer to </p><p>this. "Kindly overlook the deficiency." He assured her that he, at </p><p>least, would never scold her; she was perfectly satisfactory. "If you</p><p>only knew," he said, "how exactly you are what I coveted! And I am </p><p>beginning to understand why I coveted it; the having it makes all the </p><p>difference that I expected. Never was a man so pleased with his good </p><p>fortune. You have been holding your head for a week past just as I </p><p>wanted my wife to hold hers. You say just the things I want her to say. </p><p>You walk about the room just as I want her to walk. You have just the </p><p>taste in dress that I want her to have. In short, you come up to the </p><p>mark, and, I can tell you, my mark was high." </p><p>These observations seemed to make Madame de Cintre rather grave. At last </p><p>she said, "Depend upon it, I don't come up to the mark; your mark is too </p><p>high. I am not all that you suppose; I am a much smaller affair. She </p><p>is a magnificent woman, your ideal. Pray, how did she come to such </p><p>perfection?" </p><p>"She was never anything else," Newman said. </p><p>"I really believe," Madame de Cintre went on, "that she is better than </p><p>my own ideal. Do you know that is a very handsome compliment? Well, sir, </p><p>I will make her my own!" </p><p>Mrs. Tristram came to see her dear Claire after Newman had announced his </p><p>engagement, and she told our hero the next day that his good fortune was </p><p>simply absurd. "For the ridiculous part of it is," she said, "that you </p><p>are evidently going to be as happy as if you were marrying Miss Smith </p><p>or Miss Thompson. I call it a brilliant match for you, but you get </p><p>brilliancy without paying any tax upon it. Those things are usually a </p><p>compromise, but here you have everything, and nothing crowds anything </p><p>else out. You will be brilliantly happy as well." Newman thanked her for </p><p>her pleasant, encouraging way of saying things; no woman could encourage </p><p>or discourage better. Tristram's way of saying things was different; he </p><p>had been taken by his wife to call upon Madame de Cintre, and he gave an </p><p>account of the expedition. </p><p>"You don't catch me giving an opinion on your countess this time," he </p><p>said; "I put my foot in it once. That's a d--d underhand thing to do, by </p><p>the way--coming round to sound a fellow upon the woman you are going to </p><p>marry. You deserve anything you get. Then of course you rush and tell </p><p>her, and she takes care to make it pleasant for the poor spiteful wretch </p><p>the first time he calls. I will do you the justice to say, however, </p><p>that you don't seem to have told Madame de Cintre; or if you have she's </p><p>uncommonly magnanimous. She was very nice; she was tremendously polite. </p><p>She and Lizzie sat on the sofa, pressing each other's hands and calling </p><p>each other chere belle, and Madame de Cintre sent me with every third </p><p>word a magnificent smile, as if to give me to understand that I too was </p><p>a handsome dear. She quite made up for past neglect, I assure you; she </p><p>was very pleasant and sociable. Only in an evil hour it came into her </p><p>head to say that she must present us to her mother--her mother wished </p><p>to know your friends. I didn't want to know her mother, and I was on the </p><p>point of telling Lizzie to go in alone and let me wait for her outside. </p><p>But Lizzie, with her usual infernal ingenuity, guessed my purpose and </p><p>reduced me by a glance of her eye. So they marched off arm in arm, and </p><p>I followed as I could. We found the old lady in her arm-chair, twiddling </p><p>her aristocratic thumbs. She looked at Lizzie from head to foot; but at </p><p>that game Lizzie, to do her justice, was a match for her. My wife told </p><p>her we were great friends of Mr. Newman. The marquise started a moment, </p><p>and then said, 'Oh, Mr. Newman! My daughter has made up her mind to </p><p>marry a Mr. Newman.' Then Madame de Cintre began to fondle Lizzie again, </p><p>and said it was this dear lady that had planned the match and</p><p>brought them together. 'Oh, 'tis you I have to thank for my American </p><p>son-in-law,' the old lady said to Mrs. Tristram. 'It was a very clever </p><p>thought of yours. Be sure of my gratitude.' And then she began to look </p><p>at me and presently said, 'Pray, are you engaged in some species of </p><p>manufacture?' I wanted to say that I manufactured broom-sticks for old </p><p>witches to ride on, but Lizzie got in ahead of me. 'My husband, Madame </p><p>la Marquise,' she said, 'belongs to that unfortunate class of persons </p><p>who have no profession and no business, and do very little good in </p><p>the world.' To get her poke at the old woman she didn't care where she </p><p>shoved me. 'Dear me,' said the marquise, 'we all have our duties.' 'I am </p><p>sorry mine compel me to take leave of you,' said Lizzie. And we bundled </p><p>out again. But you have a mother-in-law, in all the force of the term." </p><p>"Oh," said Newman, "my mother-in-law desires nothing better than to let </p><p>me alone." </p><p>Betimes, on the evening of the 27th, he went to Madame de Bellegarde's </p><p>ball. The old house in the Rue de l'Universite looked strangely </p><p>brilliant. In the circle of light projected from the outer gate a </p><p>detachment of the populace stood watching the carriages roll in; the </p><p>court was illumined with flaring torches and the portico carpeted with </p><p>crimson. When Newman arrived there were but a few people present. The </p><p>marquise and her two daughters were at the top of the staircase, where </p><p>the sallow old nymph in the angle peeped out from a bower of plants. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde, in purple and fine laces, looked like an old lady </p><p>painted by Vandyke; Madame de Cintre was dressed in white. The old lady </p><p>greeted Newman with majestic formality, and looking round her, called </p><p>several of the persons who were standing near. They were elderly </p><p>gentlemen, of what Valentin de Bellegarde had designated as the </p><p>high-nosed category; two or three of them wore cordons and stars. They </p><p>approached with measured alertness, and the marquise said that she </p><p>wished to present them to Mr. Newman, who was going to marry her </p><p>daughter. Then she introduced successively three dukes, three counts, </p><p>and a baron. These gentlemen bowed and smiled most agreeably, and Newman </p><p>indulged in a series of impartial hand-shakes, accompanied by a "Happy </p><p>to make your acquaintance, sir." He looked at Madame de Cintre, but she </p><p>was not looking at him. If his personal self-consciousness had been of </p><p>a nature to make him constantly refer to her, as the critic before whom, </p><p>in company, he played his part, he might have found it a flattering </p><p>proof of her confidence that he never caught her eyes resting upon him. </p><p>It is a reflection Newman did not make, but we nevertheless risk it, </p><p>that in spite of this circumstance she probably saw every movement </p><p>of his little finger. Young Madame de Bellegarde was dressed in an </p><p>audacious toilet of crimson crape, bestrewn with huge silver moons--thin </p><p>crescent and full disks. </p><p>"You don't say anything about my dress," she said to Newman. </p><p>"I feel," he answered, "as if I were looking at you through a telescope. </p><p>It is very strange." </p><p>"If it is strange it matches the occasion. But I am not a heavenly </p><p>body." </p><p>"I never saw the sky at midnight that particular shade of crimson," said </p><p>Newman. </p><p>"That is my originality; any one could have chosen blue. My </p><p>sister-in-law would have chosen a lovely shade of blue, with a dozen</p><p>little delicate moons. But I think crimson is much more amusing. And I </p><p>give my idea, which is moonshine." </p><p>"Moonshine and bloodshed," said Newman. </p><p>"A murder by moonlight," laughed Madame de Bellegarde. "What a delicious </p><p>idea for a toilet! To make it complete, there is the silver dagger, you </p><p>see, stuck into my hair. But here comes Lord Deepmere," she added in a </p><p>moment. "I must find out what he thinks of it." Lord Deepmere came up, </p><p>looking very red in the face, and laughing. "Lord Deepmere can't decide </p><p>which he prefers, my sister-in-law or me," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"He likes Claire because she is his cousin, and me because I am not. </p><p>But he has no right to make love to Claire, whereas I am perfectly </p><p>disponible. It is very wrong to make love to a woman who is engaged, but </p><p>it is very wrong not to make love to a woman who is married." </p><p>"Oh, it's very jolly making love to married women," said Lord Deepmere, </p><p>"because they can't ask you to marry them." </p><p>"Is that what the others do, the spinsters?" Newman inquired. </p><p>"Oh dear, yes," said Lord Deepmere; "in England all the girls ask a </p><p>fellow to marry them." </p><p>"And a fellow brutally refuses," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"Why, really, you know, a fellow can't marry any girl that asks him," </p><p>said his lordship. </p><p>"Your cousin won't ask you. She is going to marry Mr. Newman." </p><p>"Oh, that's a very different thing!" laughed Lord Deepmere. </p><p>"You would have accepted HER, I suppose. That makes me hope that after </p><p>all you prefer me." </p><p>"Oh, when things are nice I never prefer one to the other," said the </p><p>young Englishman. "I take them all." </p><p>"Ah, what a horror! I won't be taken in that way; I must be kept apart," </p><p>cried Madame de Bellegarde. "Mr. Newman is much better; he knows how </p><p>to choose. Oh, he chooses as if he were threading a needle. He prefers </p><p>Madame de Cintre to any conceivable creature or thing." </p><p>"Well, you can't help my being her cousin," said Lord Deepmere to </p><p>Newman, with candid hilarity. </p><p>"Oh, no, I can't help that," said Newman, laughing back; "neither can </p><p>she!" </p><p>"And you can't help my dancing with her," said Lord Deepmere, with </p><p>sturdy simplicity. </p><p>"I could prevent that only by dancing with her myself," said Newman. </p><p>"But unfortunately I don't know how to dance." </p><p>"Oh, you may dance without knowing how; may you not, milord?" said </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde. But to this Lord Deepmere replied that a fellow </p><p>ought to know how to dance if he didn't want to make an ass of himself;</p><p>and at this moment Urbain de Bellegarde joined the group, slow-stepping </p><p>and with his hands behind him. </p><p>"This is a very splendid entertainment," said Newman, cheerfully. "The </p><p>old house looks very bright." </p><p>"If YOU are pleased, we are content," said the marquis, lifting his </p><p>shoulders and bending them forward. </p><p>"Oh, I suspect every one is pleased," said Newman. "How can they help </p><p>being pleased when the first thing they see as they come in is your </p><p>sister, standing there as beautiful as an angel?" </p><p>"Yes, she is very beautiful," rejoined the marquis, solemnly. "But that </p><p>is not so great a source of satisfaction to other people, naturally, as </p><p>to you." </p><p>"Yes, I am satisfied, marquis, I am satisfied," said Newman, with his </p><p>protracted enunciation. "And now tell me," he added, looking round, "who </p><p>some of your friends are." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde looked about him in silence, with his head bent and his </p><p>hand raised to his lower lip, which he slowly rubbed. A stream of people </p><p>had been pouring into the salon in which Newman stood with his host, </p><p>the rooms were filling up and the spectacle had become brilliant. It </p><p>borrowed its splendor chiefly from the shining shoulders and profuse </p><p>jewels of the women, and from the voluminous elegance of their dresses. </p><p>There were no uniforms, as Madame de Bellegarde's door was inexorably </p><p>closed against the myrmidons of the upstart power which then ruled the </p><p>fortunes of France, and the great company of smiling and chattering </p><p>faces was not graced by any very frequent suggestions of harmonious </p><p>beauty. It is a pity, nevertheless, that Newman had not been a </p><p>physiognomist, for a great many of the faces were irregularly agreeable, </p><p>expressive, and suggestive. If the occasion had been different they </p><p>would hardly have pleased him; he would have thought the women not </p><p>pretty enough and the men too smirking; but he was now in a humor to </p><p>receive none but agreeable impressions, and he looked no more narrowly </p><p>than to perceive that every one was brilliant, and to feel that the sun </p><p>of their brilliancy was a part of his credit. "I will present you to </p><p>some people," said M. de Bellegarde after a while. "I will make a point </p><p>of it, in fact. You will allow me?" </p><p>"Oh, I will shake hands with any one you want," said Newman. "Your </p><p>mother just introduced me to half a dozen old gentlemen. Take care you </p><p>don't pick up the same parties again." </p><p>"Who are the gentlemen to whom my mother presented you?" </p><p>"Upon my word, I forgot them," said Newman, laughing. "The people here </p><p>look very much alike." </p><p>"I suspect they have not forgotten you," said the marquis. And he began </p><p>to walk through the rooms. Newman, to keep near him in the crowd, took </p><p>his arm; after which for some time, the marquis walked straight </p><p>along, in silence. At last, reaching the farther end of the suite of </p><p>reception-rooms, Newman found himself in the presence of a lady of </p><p>monstrous proportions, seated in a very capacious arm-chair, with </p><p>several persons standing in a semicircle round her. This little group </p><p>had divided as the marquis came up, and M. de Bellegarde stepped forward</p><p>and stood for an instant silent and obsequious, with his hat raised to </p><p>his lips, as Newman had seen some gentlemen stand in churches as soon as </p><p>they entered their pews. The lady, indeed, bore a very fair likeness to </p><p>a reverend effigy in some idolatrous shrine. She was monumentally stout </p><p>and imperturbably serene. Her aspect was to Newman almost formidable; he </p><p>had a troubled consciousness of a triple chin, a small piercing eye, a </p><p>vast expanse of uncovered bosom, a nodding and twinkling tiara of plumes </p><p>and gems, and an immense circumference of satin petticoat. With her </p><p>little circle of beholders this remarkable woman reminded him of the Fat </p><p>Lady at a fair. She fixed her small, unwinking eyes at the new-comers. </p><p>"Dear duchess," said the marquis, "let me present you our good friend </p><p>Mr. Newman, of whom you have heard us speak. Wishing to make Mr. Newman </p><p>known to those who are dear to us, I could not possibly fail to begin </p><p>with you." </p><p>"Charmed, dear friend; charmed, monsieur," said the duchess in a voice </p><p>which, though small and shrill, was not disagreeable, while Newman </p><p>executed his obeisance. "I came on purpose to see monsieur. I hope he </p><p>appreciates the compliment. You have only to look at me to do so, sir," </p><p>she continued, sweeping her person with a much-encompassing glance. </p><p>Newman hardly knew what to say, though it seemed that to a duchess who </p><p>joked about her corpulence one might say almost anything. On hearing </p><p>that the duchess had come on purpose to see Newman, the gentlemen </p><p>who surrounded her turned a little and looked at him with sympathetic </p><p>curiosity. The marquis with supernatural gravity mentioned to him the </p><p>name of each, while the gentleman who bore it bowed; they were all what </p><p>are called in France beaux noms. "I wanted extremely to see you," the </p><p>duchess went on. "C'est positif. In the first place, I am very fond of </p><p>the person you are going to marry; she is the most charming creature in </p><p>France. Mind you treat her well, or you shall hear some news of me. But </p><p>you look as if you were good. I am told you are very remarkable. I have </p><p>heard all sorts of extraordinary things about you. Voyons, are they </p><p>true?" </p><p>"I don't know what you can have heard," said Newman. </p><p>"Oh, you have your legende. We have heard that you have had a career the </p><p>most checkered, the most bizarre. What is that about your having founded </p><p>a city some ten years ago in the great West, a city which contains </p><p>to-day half a million of inhabitants? Isn't it half a million, </p><p>messieurs? You are exclusive proprietor of this flourishing settlement, </p><p>and are consequently fabulously rich, and you would be richer still if </p><p>you didn't grant lands and houses free of rent to all newcomers who will </p><p>pledge themselves never to smoke cigars. At this game, in three years, </p><p>we are told, you are going to be made president of America." </p><p>The duchess recited this amazing "legend" with a smooth self-possession </p><p>which gave the speech to Newman's mind, the air of being a bit of </p><p>amusing dialogue in a play, delivered by a veteran comic actress. Before </p><p>she had ceased speaking he had burst into loud, irrepressible laughter. </p><p>"Dear duchess, dear duchess," the marquis began to murmur, soothingly. </p><p>Two or three persons came to the door of the room to see who was </p><p>laughing at the duchess. But the lady continued with the soft, serene </p><p>assurance of a person who, as a duchess, was certain of being listened </p><p>to, and, as a garrulous woman, was independent of the pulse of her </p><p>auditors. "But I know you are very remarkable. You must be, to have </p><p>endeared yourself to this good marquis and to his admirable world. They </p><p>are very exacting. I myself am not very sure at this hour of really</p><p>possessing it. Eh, Bellegarde? To please you, I see, one must be an </p><p>American millionaire. But your real triumph, my dear sir, is pleasing </p><p>the countess; she is as difficult as a princess in a fairy tale. Your </p><p>success is a miracle. What is your secret? I don't ask you to reveal it </p><p>before all these gentlemen, but come and see me some day and give me a </p><p>specimen of your talents." </p><p>"The secret is with Madame de Cintre," said Newman. "You must ask her </p><p>for it. It consists in her having a great deal of charity." </p><p>"Very pretty!" said the duchess. "That's a very nice specimen, to begin </p><p>with. What, Bellegarde, are you already taking monsieur away?" </p><p>"I have a duty to perform, dear friend," said the marquis, pointing to </p><p>the other groups. </p><p>"Ah, for you I know what that means. Well, I have seen monsieur; that </p><p>is what I wanted. He can't persuade me that he isn't very clever. </p><p>Farewell." </p><p>As Newman passed on with his host, he asked who the duchess was. "The </p><p>greatest lady in France," said the marquis. M. de Bellegarde then </p><p>presented his prospective brother-in-law to some twenty other persons of </p><p>both sexes, selected apparently for their typically august character. </p><p>In some cases this character was written in good round hand upon the </p><p>countenance of the wearer; in others Newman was thankful for such help </p><p>as his companion's impressively brief intimation contributed to the </p><p>discovery of it. There were large, majestic men, and small demonstrative </p><p>men; there were ugly ladies in yellow lace and quaint jewels, and pretty </p><p>ladies with white shoulders from which jewels and every thing else were </p><p>absent. Every one gave Newman extreme attention, every one smiled, every </p><p>one was charmed to make his acquaintance, every one looked at him with </p><p>that soft hardness of good society which puts out its hand but keeps </p><p>its fingers closed over the coin. If the marquis was going about as a </p><p>bear-leader, if the fiction of Beauty and the Beast was supposed to have </p><p>found its companion-piece, the general impression appeared to be </p><p>that the bear was a very fair imitation of humanity. Newman found his </p><p>reception among the marquis's friends very "pleasant;" he could not have </p><p>said more for it. It was pleasant to be treated with so much explicit </p><p>politeness; it was pleasant to hear neatly turned civilities, with a </p><p>flavor of wit, uttered from beneath carefully-shaped mustaches; it was </p><p>pleasant to see clever Frenchwomen--they all seemed clever--turn their </p><p>backs to their partners to get a good look at the strange American whom </p><p>Claire de Cintre was to marry, and reward the object of the exhibition </p><p>with a charming smile. At last, as he turned away from a battery of </p><p>smiles and other amenities, Newman caught the eye of the marquis looking </p><p>at him heavily; and thereupon, for a single instant, he checked himself. </p><p>"Am I behaving like a d--d fool?" he asked himself. "Am I stepping </p><p>about like a terrier on his hind legs?" At this moment he perceived </p><p>Mrs. Tristram at the other side of the room, and he waved his hand in </p><p>farewell to M. de Bellegarde and made his way toward her. </p><p>"Am I holding my head too high?" he asked. "Do I look as if I had the </p><p>lower end of a pulley fastened to my chin?" </p><p>"You look like all happy men, very ridiculous," said Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"It's the usual thing, neither better nor worse. I have been watching </p><p>you for the last ten minutes, and I have been watching M. de Bellegarde. </p><p>He doesn't like it."</p><p>"The more credit to him for putting it through," replied Newman. "But I </p><p>shall be generous. I shan't trouble him any more. But I am very happy. </p><p>I can't stand still here. Please to take my arm and we will go for a </p><p>walk." </p><p>He led Mrs. Tristram through all the rooms. There were a great many of </p><p>them, and, decorated for the occasion and filled with a stately crowd, </p><p>their somewhat tarnished nobleness recovered its lustre. Mrs. Tristram, </p><p>looking about her, dropped a series of softly-incisive comments upon her </p><p>fellow-guests. But Newman made vague answers; he hardly heard her, his </p><p>thoughts were elsewhere. They were lost in a cheerful sense of success, </p><p>of attainment and victory. His momentary care as to whether he looked </p><p>like a fool passed away, leaving him simply with a rich contentment. </p><p>He had got what he wanted. The savor of success had always been highly </p><p>agreeable to him, and it had been his fortune to know it often. But it </p><p>had never before been so sweet, been associated with so much that was </p><p>brilliant and suggestive and entertaining. The lights, the flowers, the </p><p>music, the crowd, the splendid women, the jewels, the strangeness even </p><p>of the universal murmur of a clever foreign tongue were all a vivid </p><p>symbol and assurance of his having grasped his purpose and forced along </p><p>his groove. If Newman's smile was larger than usual, it was not tickled </p><p>vanity that pulled the strings; he had no wish to be shown with the </p><p>finger or to achieve a personal success. If he could have looked down at </p><p>the scene, invisible, from a hole in the roof, he would have enjoyed it </p><p>quite as much. It would have spoken to him about his own prosperity and </p><p>deepened that easy feeling about life to which, sooner or later, he made </p><p>all experience contribute. Just now the cup seemed full. </p><p>"It is a very pretty party," said Mrs. Tristram, after they had walked </p><p>a while. "I have seen nothing objectionable except my husband leaning </p><p>against the wall and talking to an individual whom I suppose he takes </p><p>for a duke, but whom I more than suspect to be the functionary who </p><p>attends to the lamps. Do you think you could separate them? Knock over a </p><p>lamp!" </p><p>I doubt whether Newman, who saw no harm in Tristram's conversing with an </p><p>ingenious mechanic, would have complied with this request; but at this </p><p>moment Valentin de Bellegarde drew near. Newman, some weeks previously, </p><p>had presented Madame de Cintre's youngest brother to Mrs. Tristram, for </p><p>whose merits Valentin professed a discriminating relish and to whom he </p><p>had paid several visits. </p><p>"Did you ever read Keats's Belle Dame sans Merci?" asked Mrs. Tristram. </p><p>"You remind me of the hero of the ballad:-- </p><p> 'Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,</p><p> Alone and palely loitering?'"</p><p>"If I am alone, it is because I have been deprived of your society," </p><p>said Valentin. "Besides it is good manners for no man except Newman to </p><p>look happy. This is all to his address. It is not for you and me to go </p><p>before the curtain." </p><p>"You promised me last spring," said Newman to Mrs. Tristram, "that six </p><p>months from that time I should get into a monstrous rage. It seems to </p><p>me the time's up, and yet the nearest I can come to doing anything rough </p><p>now is to offer you a cafe glace." </p><p>"I told you we should do things grandly," said Valentin. "I don't allude </p><p>to the cafes glaces. But every one is here, and my sister told me just </p><p>now that Urbain had been adorable." </p><p>"He's a good fellow, he's a good fellow," said Newman. "I love him as a </p><p>brother. That reminds me that I ought to go and say something polite to </p><p>your mother." </p><p>"Let it be something very polite indeed," said Valentin. "It may be the </p><p>last time you will feel so much like it!" </p><p>Newman walked away, almost disposed to clasp old Madame de Bellegarde </p><p>round the waist. He passed through several rooms and at last found </p><p>the old marquise in the first saloon, seated on a sofa, with her young </p><p>kinsman, Lord Deepmere, beside her. The young man looked somewhat bored; </p><p>his hands were thrust into his pockets and his eyes were fixed upon the </p><p>toes of his shoes, his feet being thrust out in front of him. Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde appeared to have been talking to him with some intensity and </p><p>to be waiting for an answer to what she had said, or for some sign of </p><p>the effect of her words. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was </p><p>looking at his lordship's simple physiognomy with an air of politely </p><p>suppressed irritation. </p><p>Lord Deepmere looked up as Newman approached, met his eyes, and changed </p><p>color. </p><p>"I am afraid I disturb an interesting interview," said Newman. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde rose, and her companion rising at the same time, </p><p>she put her hand into his arm. She answered nothing for an instant, and </p><p>then, as he remained silent, she said with a smile, "It would be polite </p><p>for Lord Deepmere to say it was very interesting." </p><p>"Oh, I'm not polite!" cried his lordship. "But it was interesting." </p><p>"Madame de Bellegarde was giving you some good advice, eh?" said Newman; </p><p>"toning you down a little?" </p><p>"I was giving him some excellent advice," said the marquise, fixing her </p><p>fresh, cold eyes upon our hero. "It's for him to take it." </p><p>"Take it, sir--take it," Newman exclaimed. "Any advice the marquise </p><p>gives you to-night must be good. For to-night, marquise, you must speak </p><p>from a cheerful, comfortable spirit, and that makes good advice. You see </p><p>everything going on so brightly and successfully round you. Your party </p><p>is magnificent; it was a very happy thought. It is much better than that </p><p>thing of mine would have been." </p><p>"If you are pleased I am satisfied," said Madame de Bellegarde. "My </p><p>desire was to please you." </p><p>"Do you want to please me a little more?" said Newman. "Just drop </p><p>our lordly friend; I am sure he wants to be off and shake his heels a </p><p>little. Then take my arm and walk through the rooms." </p><p>"My desire was to please you," the old lady repeated. And she liberated </p><p>Lord Deepmere, Newman rather wondering at her docility. "If this young </p><p>man is wise," she added, "he will go and find my daughter and ask her to </p><p>dance."</p><p>"I have been indorsing your advice," said Newman, bending over her and </p><p>laughing, "I suppose I must swallow that!" </p><p>Lord Deepmere wiped his forehead and departed, and Madame de Bellegarde </p><p>took Newman's arm. "Yes, it's a very pleasant, sociable entertainment," </p><p>the latter declared, as they proceeded on their circuit. "Every one </p><p>seems to know every one and to be glad to see every one. The marquis has </p><p>made me acquainted with ever so many people, and I feel quite like </p><p>one of the family. It's an occasion," Newman continued, wanting to </p><p>say something thoroughly kind and comfortable, "that I shall always </p><p>remember, and remember very pleasantly." </p><p>"I think it is an occasion that we shall none of us forget," said the </p><p>marquise, with her pure, neat enunciation. </p><p>People made way for her as she passed, others turned round and looked at </p><p>her, and she received a great many greetings and pressings of the hand, </p><p>all of which she accepted with the most delicate dignity. But though she </p><p>smiled upon every one, she said nothing until she reached the last of </p><p>the rooms, where she found her elder son. Then, "This is enough, </p><p>sir," she declared with measured softness to Newman, and turned to the </p><p>marquis. He put out both his hands and took both hers, drawing her to a </p><p>seat with an air of the tenderest veneration. It was a most harmonious </p><p>family group, and Newman discreetly retired. He moved through the rooms </p><p>for some time longer, circulating freely, overtopping most people by </p><p>his great height, renewing acquaintance with some of the groups to which </p><p>Urbain de Bellegarde had presented him, and expending generally the </p><p>surplus of his equanimity. He continued to find it all extremely </p><p>agreeable; but the most agreeable things have an end, and the revelry </p><p>on this occasion began to deepen to a close. The music was sounding its </p><p>ultimate strains and people were looking for the marquise, to make their </p><p>farewells. There seemed to be some difficulty in finding her, and Newman </p><p>heard a report that she had left the ball, feeling faint. "She has </p><p>succumbed to the emotions of the evening," he heard a lady say. "Poor, </p><p>dear marquise; I can imagine all that they may have been for her!" But </p><p>he learned immediately afterwards that she had recovered herself and was </p><p>seated in an armchair near the doorway, receiving parting compliments </p><p>from great ladies who insisted upon her not rising. He himself set out </p><p>in quest of Madame de Cintre. He had seen her move past him many times </p><p>in the rapid circles of a waltz, but in accordance with her explicit </p><p>instructions he had exchanged no words with her since the beginning of </p><p>the evening. The whole house having been thrown open, the apartments </p><p>of the rez-de-chaussee were also accessible, though a smaller number of </p><p>persons had gathered there. Newman wandered through them, observing </p><p>a few scattered couples to whom this comparative seclusion appeared </p><p>grateful and reached a small conservatory which opened into the garden. </p><p>The end of the conservatory was formed by a clear sheet of glass, </p><p>unmasked by plants, and admitting the winter starlight so directly that </p><p>a person standing there would seem to have passed into the open air. Two </p><p>persons stood there now, a lady and a gentleman; the lady Newman, from </p><p>within the room and although she had turned her back to it, immediately </p><p>recognized as Madame de Cintre. He hesitated as to whether he would </p><p>advance, but as he did so she looked round, feeling apparently that he </p><p>was there. She rested her eyes on him a moment and then turned again to </p><p>her companion. </p><p>"It is almost a pity not to tell Mr. Newman," she said softly, but in a </p><p>tone that Newman could hear.</p><p>"Tell him if you like!" the gentleman answered, in the voice of Lord </p><p>Deepmere. </p><p>"Oh, tell me by all means!" said Newman advancing. </p><p>Lord Deepmere, he observed, was very red in the face, and he had twisted </p><p>his gloves into a tight cord as if he had been squeezing them dry. </p><p>These, presumably, were tokens of violent emotion, and it seemed to </p><p>Newman that the traces of corresponding agitation were visible in Madame </p><p>de Cintre's face. The two had been talking with much vivacity. "What </p><p>I should tell you is only to my lord's credit," said Madame de Cintre, </p><p>smiling frankly enough. </p><p>"He wouldn't like it any better for that!" said my lord, with his </p><p>awkward laugh. </p><p>"Come; what's the mystery?" Newman demanded. "Clear it up. I don't like </p><p>mysteries." </p><p>"We must have some things we don't like, and go without some we do," </p><p>said the ruddy young nobleman, laughing still. </p><p>"It's to Lord Deepmere's credit, but it is not to every one's," said </p><p>Madam de Cintre. "So I shall say nothing about it. You may be sure," </p><p>she added; and she put out her hand to the Englishman, who took it half </p><p>shyly, half impetuously. "And now go and dance!" she said. </p><p>"Oh yes, I feel awfully like dancing!" he answered. "I shall go and get </p><p>tipsy." And he walked away with a gloomy guffaw. </p><p>"What has happened between you?" Newman asked. </p><p>"I can't tell you--now," said Madame de Cintre. "Nothing that need make </p><p>you unhappy." </p><p>"Has the little Englishman been trying to make love to you?" </p><p>She hesitated, and then she uttered a grave "No! he's a very honest </p><p>little fellow." </p><p>"But you are agitated. Something is the matter." </p><p>"Nothing, I repeat, that need make you unhappy. My agitation is over. </p><p>Some day I will tell you what it was; not now. I can't now!" </p><p>"Well, I confess," remarked Newman, "I don't want to hear anything </p><p>unpleasant. I am satisfied with everything--most of all with you. I </p><p>have seen all the ladies and talked with a great many of them; but I am </p><p>satisfied with you." Madame de Cintre covered him for a moment with her </p><p>large, soft glance, and then turned her eyes away into the starry night. </p><p>So they stood silent a moment, side by side. "Say you are satisfied with </p><p>me," said Newman. </p><p>He had to wait a moment for the answer; but it came at last, low yet </p><p>distinct: "I am very happy." </p><p>It was presently followed by a few words from another source, which made </p><p>them both turn round. "I am sadly afraid Madame de Cintre will take a</p><p>chill. I have ventured to bring a shawl." Mrs. Bread stood there softly </p><p>solicitous, holding a white drapery in her hand. </p><p>"Thank you," said Madame de Cintre, "the sight of those cold stars gives </p><p>one a sense of frost. I won't take your shawl, but we will go back into </p><p>the house." </p><p>She passed back and Newman followed her, Mrs. Bread standing </p><p>respectfully aside to make way for them. Newman paused an instant before </p><p>the old woman, and she glanced up at him with a silent greeting. "Oh, </p><p>yes," he said, "you must come and live with us." </p><p>"Well then, sir, if you will," she answered, "you have not seen the last </p><p>of me!" </p><p>CHAPTER XVII </p><p>Newman was fond of music and went often to the opera. A couple of </p><p>evenings after Madame de Bellegarde's ball he sat listening to "Don </p><p>Giovanni," having in honor of this work, which he had never yet seen </p><p>represented, come to occupy his orchestra-chair before the rising of </p><p>the curtain. Frequently he took a large box and invited a party of </p><p>his compatriots; this was a mode of recreation to which he was much </p><p>addicted. He liked making up parties of his friends and conducting them </p><p>to the theatre, and taking them to drive on high drags or to dine at </p><p>remote restaurants. He liked doing things which involved his paying for </p><p>people; the vulgar truth is that he enjoyed "treating" them. This was </p><p>not because he was what is called purse-proud; handling money in public </p><p>was on the contrary positively disagreeable to him; he had a sort of </p><p>personal modesty about it, akin to what he would have felt about making </p><p>a toilet before spectators. But just as it was a gratification to him to </p><p>be handsomely dressed, just so it was a private satisfaction to him (he </p><p>enjoyed it very clandestinely) to have interposed, pecuniarily, in </p><p>a scheme of pleasure. To set a large group of people in motion and </p><p>transport them to a distance, to have special conveyances, to charter </p><p>railway-carriages and steamboats, harmonized with his relish for </p><p>bold processes, and made hospitality seem more active and more to the </p><p>purpose. A few evenings before the occasion of which I speak he had </p><p>invited several ladies and gentlemen to the opera to listen to Madame </p><p>Alboni--a party which included Miss Dora Finch. It befell, however, that </p><p>Miss Dora Finch, sitting near Newman in the box, discoursed brilliantly, </p><p>not only during the entr'actes, but during many of the finest portions </p><p>of the performance, so that Newman had really come away with an </p><p>irritated sense that Madame Alboni had a thin, shrill voice, and that </p><p>her musical phrase was much garnished with a laugh of the giggling </p><p>order. After this he promised himself to go for a while to the opera </p><p>alone. </p><p>When the curtain had fallen upon the first act of "Don Giovanni" he </p><p>turned round in his place to observe the house. Presently, in one of </p><p>the boxes, he perceived Urbain de Bellegarde and his wife. The little </p><p>marquise was sweeping the house very busily with a glass, and Newman, </p><p>supposing that she saw him, determined to go and bid her good evening. </p><p>M. de Bellegarde was leaning against a column, motionless, looking </p><p>straight in front of him, with one hand in the breast of his white </p><p>waistcoat and the other resting his hat on his thigh. Newman was about</p><p>to leave his place when he noticed in that obscure region devoted to the </p><p>small boxes which in France are called, not inaptly, "bathing-tubs," </p><p>a face which even the dim light and the distance could not make wholly </p><p>indistinct. It was the face of a young and pretty woman, and it was </p><p>surmounted with a coiffure of pink roses and diamonds. This person was </p><p>looking round the house, and her fan was moving to and fro with the most </p><p>practiced grace; when she lowered it, Newman perceived a pair of plump </p><p>white shoulders and the edge of a rose-colored dress. Beside her, very </p><p>close to the shoulders and talking, apparently with an earnestness which </p><p>it pleased her scantily to heed, sat a young man with a red face and a </p><p>very low shirt-collar. A moment's gazing left Newman with no doubts; the </p><p>pretty young woman was Noemie Nioche. He looked hard into the depths of </p><p>the box, thinking her father might perhaps be in attendance, but from </p><p>what he could see the young man's eloquence had no other auditor. </p><p>Newman at last made his way out, and in doing so he passed beneath the </p><p>baignoire of Mademoiselle Noemie. She saw him as he approached and gave </p><p>him a nod and smile which seemed meant as an assurance that she was </p><p>still a good-natured girl, in spite of her enviable rise in the world. </p><p>Newman passed into the foyer and walked through it. Suddenly he paused </p><p>in front of a gentleman seated on one of the divans. The gentleman's </p><p>elbows were on his knees; he was leaning forward and staring at the </p><p>pavement, lost apparently in meditations of a somewhat gloomy cast. But </p><p>in spite of his bent head Newman recognized him, and in a moment </p><p>sat down beside him. Then the gentleman looked up and displayed the </p><p>expressive countenance of Valentin de Bellegarde. </p><p>"What in the world are you thinking of so hard?" asked Newman. </p><p>"A subject that requires hard thinking to do it justice," said Valentin. </p><p>"My immeasurable idiocy." </p><p>"What is the matter now?" </p><p>"The matter now is that I am a man again, and no more a fool than usual. </p><p>But I came within an inch of taking that girl au serieux." </p><p>"You mean the young lady below stairs, in a baignoire in a pink dress?" </p><p>said Newman. </p><p>"Did you notice what a brilliant kind of pink it was?" Valentin </p><p>inquired, by way of answer. "It makes her look as white as new milk." </p><p>"White or black, as you please. But you have stopped going to see her?" </p><p>"Oh, bless you, no. Why should I stop? I have changed, but she hasn't," </p><p>said Valentin. "I see she is a vulgar little wretch, after all. But she </p><p>is as amusing as ever, and one MUST be amused." </p><p>"Well, I am glad she strikes you so unpleasantly," Newman rejoiced. "I </p><p>suppose you have swallowed all those fine words you used about her </p><p>the other night. You compared her to a sapphire, or a topaz, or an </p><p>amethyst--some precious stone; what was it?" </p><p>"I don't remember," said Valentin, "it may have been to a carbuncle! But </p><p>she won't make a fool of me now. She has no real charm. It's an awfully </p><p>low thing to make a mistake about a person of that sort." </p><p>"I congratulate you," Newman declared, "upon the scales having fallen </p><p>from your eyes. It's a great triumph; it ought to make you feel better."</p><p>"Yes, it makes me feel better!" said Valentin, gayly. Then, checking </p><p>himself, he looked askance at Newman. "I rather think you are laughing </p><p>at me. If you were not one of the family I would take it up." </p><p>"Oh, no, I'm not laughing, any more than I am one of the family. You </p><p>make me feel badly. You are too clever a fellow, you are made of too </p><p>good stuff, to spend your time in ups and downs over that class of </p><p>goods. The idea of splitting hairs about Miss Nioche! It seems to me </p><p>awfully foolish. You say you have given up taking her seriously; but you </p><p>take her seriously so long as you take her at all." </p><p>Valentin turned round in his place and looked a while at Newman, </p><p>wrinkling his forehead and rubbing his knees. "Vous parlez d'or. But </p><p>she has wonderfully pretty arms. Would you believe I didn't know it till </p><p>this evening?" </p><p>"But she is a vulgar little wretch, remember, all the same," said </p><p>Newman. </p><p>"Yes; the other day she had the bad taste to begin to abuse her father, </p><p>to his face, in my presence. I shouldn't have expected it of her; it was </p><p>a disappointment; heigho!" </p><p>"Why, she cares no more for her father than for her door-mat," said </p><p>Newman. "I discovered that the first time I saw her." </p><p>"Oh, that's another affair; she may think of the poor old beggar what </p><p>she pleases. But it was low in her to call him bad names; it quite threw </p><p>me off. It was about a frilled petticoat that he was to have fetched </p><p>from the washer-woman's; he appeared to have neglected this graceful </p><p>duty. She almost boxed his ears. He stood there staring at her with his </p><p>little blank eyes and smoothing his old hat with his coat-tail. At last </p><p>he turned round and went out without a word. Then I told her it was </p><p>in very bad taste to speak so to one's papa. She said she should be so </p><p>thankful to me if I would mention it to her whenever her taste was at </p><p>fault; she had immense confidence in mine. I told her I couldn't have </p><p>the bother of forming her manners; I had had an idea they were already </p><p>formed, after the best models. She had disappointed me. But I shall get </p><p>over it," said Valentin, gayly. </p><p>"Oh, time's a great consoler!" Newman answered with humorous sobriety. </p><p>He was silent a moment, and then he added, in another tone, "I wish you </p><p>would think of what I said to you the other day. Come over to America </p><p>with us, and I will put you in the way of doing some business. You have </p><p>a very good head, if you will only use it." </p><p>Valentin made a genial grimace. "My head is much obliged to you. Do you </p><p>mean the place in a bank?" </p><p>"There are several places, but I suppose you would consider the bank the </p><p>most aristocratic." </p><p>Valentin burst into a laugh. "My dear fellow, at night all cats are </p><p>gray! When one derogates there are no degrees." </p><p>Newman answered nothing for a minute. Then, "I think you will find there </p><p>are degrees in success," he said with a certain dryness. </p><p>Valentin had leaned forward again, with his elbows on his knees, and he </p><p>was scratching the pavement with his stick. At last he said, looking up, </p><p>"Do you really think I ought to do something?" </p><p>Newman laid his hand on his companion's arm and looked at him a moment </p><p>through sagaciously-narrowed eyelids. "Try it and see. You are not good </p><p>enough for it, but we will stretch a point." </p><p>"Do you really think I can make some money? I should like to see how it </p><p>feels to have a little." </p><p>"Do what I tell you, and you shall be rich," said Newman. "Think of it." </p><p>And he looked at his watch and prepared to resume his way to Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde's box. </p><p>"Upon my word I will think of it," said Valentin. "I will go and listen </p><p>to Mozart another half hour--I can always think better to music--and </p><p>profoundly meditate upon it." </p><p>The marquis was with his wife when Newman entered their box; he was </p><p>bland, remote, and correct as usual; or, as it seemed to Newman, even </p><p>more than usual. </p><p>"What do you think of the opera?" asked our hero. "What do you think of </p><p>the Don?" </p><p>"We all know what Mozart is," said the marquis; "our impressions </p><p>don't date from this evening. Mozart is youth, freshness, brilliancy, </p><p>facility--a little too great facility, perhaps. But the execution is </p><p>here and there deplorably rough." </p><p>"I am very curious to see how it ends," said Newman. </p><p>"You speak as if it were a feuilleton in the 'Figaro,'" observed the </p><p>marquis. "You have surely seen the opera before?" </p><p>"Never," said Newman. "I am sure I should have remembered it. </p><p>Donna Elvira reminds me of Madame de Cintre; I don't mean in her </p><p>circumstances, but in the music she sings." </p><p>"It is a very nice distinction," laughed the marquis lightly. "There is </p><p>no great possibility, I imagine, of Madame de Cintre being forsaken." </p><p>"Not much!" said Newman. "But what becomes of the Don?" </p><p>"The devil comes down--or comes up," said Madame de Bellegarde, "and </p><p>carries him off. I suppose Zerlina reminds you of me." </p><p>"I will go to the foyer for a few moments," said the marquis, "and give </p><p>you a chance to say that the commander--the man of stone--resembles me." </p><p>And he passed out of the box. </p><p>The little marquise stared an instant at the velvet ledge of the </p><p>balcony, and then murmured, "Not a man of stone, a man of wood." Newman </p><p>had taken her husband's empty chair. She made no protest, and then she </p><p>turned suddenly and laid her closed fan upon his arm. "I am very glad </p><p>you came in," she said. "I want to ask you a favor. I wanted to do so on </p><p>Thursday, at my mother-in-law's ball, but you would give me no chance. </p><p>You were in such very good spirits that I thought you might grant my</p><p>little favor then; not that you look particularly doleful now. It is </p><p>something you must promise me; now is the time to take you; after you </p><p>are married you will be good for nothing. Come, promise!" </p><p>"I never sign a paper without reading it first," said Newman. "Show me </p><p>your document." </p><p>"No, you must sign with your eyes shut; I will hold your hand. Come, </p><p>before you put your head into the noose. You ought to be thankful to me </p><p>for giving you a chance to do something amusing." </p><p>"If it is so amusing," said Newman, "it will be in even better season </p><p>after I am married." </p><p>"In other words," cried Madame de Bellegarde, "you will not do it at </p><p>all. You will be afraid of your wife." </p><p>"Oh, if the thing is intrinsically improper," said Newman, "I won't go </p><p>into it. If it is not, I will do it after my marriage." </p><p>"You talk like a treatise on logic, and English logic into the bargain!" </p><p>exclaimed Madame de Bellegarde. "Promise, then, after you are married. </p><p>After all, I shall enjoy keeping you to it." </p><p>"Well, then, after I am married," said Newman serenely. </p><p>The little marquise hesitated a moment, looking at him, and he wondered </p><p>what was coming. "I suppose you know what my life is," she presently </p><p>said. "I have no pleasure, I see nothing, I do nothing. I live in Paris </p><p>as I might live at Poitiers. My mother-in-law calls me--what is the </p><p>pretty word?--a gad-about? accuses me of going to unheard-of places, and </p><p>thinks it ought to be joy enough for me to sit at home and count over my </p><p>ancestors on my fingers. But why should I bother about my ancestors? </p><p>I am sure they never bothered about me. I don't propose to live with </p><p>a green shade on my eyes; I hold that things were made to look at. My </p><p>husband, you know, has principles, and the first on the list is that </p><p>the Tuileries are dreadfully vulgar. If the Tuileries are vulgar, his </p><p>principles are tiresome. If I chose I might have principles quite as </p><p>well as he. If they grew on one's family tree I should only have to give </p><p>mine a shake to bring down a shower of the finest. At any rate, I prefer </p><p>clever Bonapartes to stupid Bourbons." </p><p>"Oh, I see; you want to go to court," said Newman, vaguely conjecturing </p><p>that she might wish him to appeal to the United States legation to </p><p>smooth her way to the imperial halls. </p><p>The marquise gave a little sharp laugh. "You are a thousand miles away. </p><p>I will take care of the Tuileries myself; the day I decide to go they </p><p>will be very glad to have me. Sooner or later I shall dance in an </p><p>imperial quadrille. I know what you are going to say: 'How will you </p><p>dare?' But I SHALL dare. I am afraid of my husband; he is soft, </p><p>smooth, irreproachable; everything that you know; but I am afraid of </p><p>him--horribly afraid of him. And yet I shall arrive at the Tuileries. </p><p>But that will not be this winter, nor perhaps next, and meantime I must </p><p>live. For the moment, I want to go somewhere else; it's my dream. I want </p><p>to go to the Bal Bullier." </p><p>"To the Bal Bullier?" repeated Newman, for whom the words at first meant </p><p>nothing.</p><p>"The ball in the Latin Quarter, where the students dance with their </p><p>mistresses. Don't tell me you have not heard of it." </p><p>"Oh yes," said Newman; "I have heard of it; I remember now. I have even </p><p>been there. And you want to go there?" </p><p>"It is silly, it is low, it is anything you please. But I want to go. </p><p>Some of my friends have been, and they say it is awfully drole. My </p><p>friends go everywhere; it is only I who sit moping at home." </p><p>"It seems to me you are not at home now," said Newman, "and I shouldn't </p><p>exactly say you were moping." </p><p>"I am bored to death. I have been to the opera twice a week for the last </p><p>eight years. Whenever I ask for anything my mouth is stopped with that: </p><p>Pray, madam, haven't you an opera box? Could a woman of taste want more? </p><p>In the first place, my opera box was down in my contrat; they have </p><p>to give it to me. To-night, for instance, I should have preferred a </p><p>thousand times to go to the Palais Royal. But my husband won't go to the </p><p>Palais Royal because the ladies of the court go there so much. You may </p><p>imagine, then, whether he would take me to Bullier's; he says it is </p><p>a mere imitation--and a bad one--of what they do at the Princess </p><p>Kleinfuss's. But as I don't go to the Princess Kleinfuss's, the next </p><p>best thing is to go to Bullier's. It is my dream, at any rate, it's </p><p>a fixed idea. All I ask of you is to give me your arm; you are less </p><p>compromising than any one else. I don't know why, but you are. I can </p><p>arrange it. I shall risk something, but that is my own affair. Besides, </p><p>fortune favors the bold. Don't refuse me; it is my dream!" </p><p>Newman gave a loud laugh. It seemed to him hardly worth while to be the </p><p>wife of the Marquis de Bellegarde, a daughter of the crusaders, heiress </p><p>of six centuries of glories and traditions, to have centred one's </p><p>aspirations upon the sight of a couple of hundred young ladies kicking </p><p>off young men's hats. It struck him as a theme for the moralist; but </p><p>he had no time to moralize upon it. The curtain rose again; M. de </p><p>Bellegarde returned, and Newman went back to his seat. </p><p>He observed that Valentin de Bellegarde had taken his place in the </p><p>baignoire of Mademoiselle Nioche, behind this young lady and her </p><p>companion, where he was visible only if one carefully looked for him. </p><p>In the next act Newman met him in the lobby and asked him if he had </p><p>reflected upon possible emigration. "If you really meant to meditate," </p><p>he said, "you might have chosen a better place for it." </p><p>"Oh, the place was not bad," said Valentin. "I was not thinking of that </p><p>girl. I listened to the music, and, without thinking of the play or </p><p>looking at the stage, I turned over your proposal. At first it seemed </p><p>quite fantastic. And then a certain fiddle in the orchestra--I could </p><p>distinguish it--began to say as it scraped away, 'Why not, why not?' </p><p>And then, in that rapid movement, all the fiddles took it up and the </p><p>conductor's stick seemed to beat it in the air: 'Why not, why not?' I'm </p><p>sure I can't say! I don't see why not. I don't see why I shouldn't do </p><p>something. It appears to me really a very bright idea. This sort of </p><p>thing is certainly very stale. And then I could come back with a trunk </p><p>full of dollars. Besides, I might possibly find it amusing. They call me </p><p>a raffine; who knows but that I might discover an unsuspected charm in </p><p>shop-keeping? It would really have a certain romantic, picturesque side; </p><p>it would look well in my biography. It would look as if I were a strong</p><p>man, a first-rate man, a man who dominated circumstances." </p><p>"Never mind how it would look," said Newman. "It always looks well to </p><p>have half a million of dollars. There is no reason why you shouldn't </p><p>have them if you will mind what I tell you--I alone--and not talk to </p><p>other parties." He passed his arm into that of his companion, and </p><p>the two walked for some time up and down one of the less frequented </p><p>corridors. Newman's imagination began to glow with the idea of </p><p>converting his bright, impracticable friend into a first-class man of </p><p>business. He felt for the moment a sort of spiritual zeal, the zeal </p><p>of the propagandist. Its ardor was in part the result of that general </p><p>discomfort which the sight of all uninvested capital produced in him; so </p><p>fine an intelligence as Bellegarde's ought to be dedicated to high uses. </p><p>The highest uses known to Newman's experience were certain transcendent </p><p>sagacities in the handling of railway stock. And then his zeal was </p><p>quickened by his personal kindness for Valentin; he had a sort of pity </p><p>for him which he was well aware he never could have made the Comte de </p><p>Bellegarde understand. He never lost a sense of its being pitiable that </p><p>Valentin should think it a large life to revolve in varnished boots </p><p>between the Rue d'Anjou and the Rue de l'Universite, taking the </p><p>Boulevard des Italiens on the way, when over there in America one's </p><p>promenade was a continent, and one's Boulevard stretched from New York </p><p>to San Francisco. It mortified him, moreover, to think that Valentin </p><p>lacked money; there was a painful grotesqueness in it. It affected him </p><p>as the ignorance of a companion, otherwise without reproach, touching </p><p>some rudimentary branch of learning would have done. There were things </p><p>that one knew about as a matter of course, he would have said in such a </p><p>case. Just so, if one pretended to be easy in the world, one had money </p><p>as a matter of course, one had made it! There was something almost </p><p>ridiculously anomalous to Newman in the sight of lively pretensions </p><p>unaccompanied by large investments in railroads; though I may add that </p><p>he would not have maintained that such investments were in themselves a </p><p>proper ground for pretensions. "I will make you do something," he said </p><p>to Valentin; "I will put you through. I know half a dozen things in </p><p>which we can make a place for you. You will see some lively work. It </p><p>will take you a little while to get used to the life, but you will work </p><p>in before long, and at the end of six months--after you have done a </p><p>thing or two on your own account--you will like it. And then it will </p><p>be very pleasant for you, having your sister over there. It will be </p><p>pleasant for her to have you, too. Yes, Valentin," continued Newman, </p><p>pressing his friend's arm genially, "I think I see just the opening for </p><p>you. Keep quiet and I'll push you right in." </p><p>Newman pursued this favoring strain for some time longer. The two </p><p>men strolled about for a quarter of an hour. Valentin listened and </p><p>questioned, many of his questions making Newman laugh loud at the </p><p>naivete of his ignorance of the vulgar processes of money-getting; </p><p>smiling himself, too, half ironical and half curious. And yet he was </p><p>serious; he was fascinated by Newman's plain prose version of the legend </p><p>of El Dorado. It is true, however, that though to accept an "opening" </p><p>in an American mercantile house might be a bold, original, and in its </p><p>consequences extremely agreeable thing to do, he did not quite see </p><p>himself objectively doing it. So that when the bell rang to indicate the </p><p>close of the entr'acte, there was a certain mock-heroism in his saying, </p><p>with his brilliant smile, "Well, then, put me through; push me in! I </p><p>make myself over to you. Dip me into the pot and turn me into gold." </p><p>They had passed into the corridor which encircled the row of baignoires, </p><p>and Valentin stopped in front of the dusky little box in which</p><p>Mademoiselle Nioche had bestowed herself, laying his hand on the </p><p>doorknob. "Oh, come, are you going back there?" asked Newman. </p><p>"Mon Dieu, oui," said Valentin. </p><p>"Haven't you another place?" </p><p>"Yes, I have my usual place, in the stalls." </p><p>"You had better go and occupy it, then." </p><p>"I see her very well from there, too," added Valentin, serenely, "and </p><p>to-night she is worth seeing. But," he added in a moment, "I have a </p><p>particular reason for going back just now." </p><p>"Oh, I give you up," said Newman. "You are infatuated!" </p><p>"No, it is only this. There is a young man in the box whom I shall annoy </p><p>by going in, and I want to annoy him." </p><p>"I am sorry to hear it," said Newman. "Can't you leave the poor fellow </p><p>alone?" </p><p>"No, he has given me cause. The box is not his. Noemie came in alone </p><p>and installed herself. I went and spoke to her, and in a few moments she </p><p>asked me to go and get her fan from the pocket of her cloak, which the </p><p>ouvreuse had carried off. In my absence this gentleman came in and took </p><p>the chair beside Noemie in which I had been sitting. My reappearance </p><p>disgusted him, and he had the grossness to show it. He came within an </p><p>ace of being impertinent. I don't know who he is; he is some vulgar </p><p>wretch. I can't think where she picks up such acquaintances. He has been </p><p>drinking, too, but he knows what he is about. Just now, in the second </p><p>act, he was unmannerly again. I shall put in another appearance for ten </p><p>minutes--time enough to give him an opportunity to commit himself, if he </p><p>feels inclined. I really can't let the brute suppose that he is keeping </p><p>me out of the box." </p><p>"My dear fellow," said Newman, remonstrantly, "what child's play! You </p><p>are not going to pick a quarrel about that girl, I hope." </p><p>"That girl has nothing to do with it, and I have no intention of picking </p><p>a quarrel. I am not a bully nor a fire-eater. I simply wish to make a </p><p>point that a gentleman must." </p><p>"Oh, damn your point!" said Newman. "That is the trouble with you </p><p>Frenchmen; you must be always making points. Well," he added, "be short. </p><p>But if you are going in for this kind of thing, we must ship you off to </p><p>America in advance." </p><p>"Very good," Valentin answered, "whenever you please. But if I go to </p><p>America, I must not let this gentleman suppose that it is to run away </p><p>from him." </p><p>And they separated. At the end of the act Newman observed that Valentin </p><p>was still in the baignoire. He strolled into the corridor again, </p><p>expecting to meet him, and when he was within a few yards of </p><p>Mademoiselle Nioche's box saw his friend pass out, accompanied by </p><p>the young man who had been seated beside its fair occupant. The two </p><p>gentlemen walked with some quickness of step to a distant part of the</p><p>lobby, where Newman perceived them stop and stand talking. The manner </p><p>of each was perfectly quiet, but the stranger, who looked flushed, had </p><p>begun to wipe his face very emphatically with his pocket-handkerchief. </p><p>By this time Newman was abreast of the baignoire; the door had been </p><p>left ajar, and he could see a pink dress inside. He immediately went in. </p><p>Mademoiselle Nioche turned and greeted him with a brilliant smile. </p><p>"Ah, you have at last decided to come and see me?" she exclaimed. "You </p><p>just save your politeness. You find me in a fine moment. Sit down." </p><p>There was a very becoming little flush in her cheek, and her eye had a </p><p>noticeable spark. You would have said that she had received some very </p><p>good news. </p><p>"Something has happened here!" said Newman, without sitting down. </p><p>"You find me in a very fine moment," she repeated. "Two gentlemen--one </p><p>of them is M. de Bellegarde, the pleasure of whose acquaintance I owe to </p><p>you--have just had words about your humble servant. Very big words too. </p><p>They can't come off without crossing swords. A duel--that will give me </p><p>a push!" cried Mademoiselle Noemie clapping her little hands. "C'est ca </p><p>qui pose une femme!" </p><p>"You don't mean to say that Bellegarde is going to fight about YOU!" </p><p>exclaimed Newman, disgustedly. </p><p>"Nothing else!" and she looked at him with a hard little smile. "No, </p><p>no, you are not galant! And if you prevent this affair I shall owe you a </p><p>grudge--and pay my debt!" </p><p>Newman uttered an imprecation which, though brief--it consisted simply </p><p>of the interjection "Oh!" followed by a geographical, or more </p><p>correctly, perhaps a theological noun in four letters--had better not </p><p>be transferred to these pages. He turned his back without more ceremony </p><p>upon the pink dress and went out of the box. In the corridor he found </p><p>Valentin and his companion walking towards him. The latter was thrusting </p><p>a card into his waistcoat pocket. Mademoiselle Noemie's jealous votary </p><p>was a tall, robust young man with a thick nose, a prominent blue eye, a </p><p>Germanic physiognomy, and a massive watch-chain. When they reached the </p><p>box, Valentin with an emphasized bow made way for him to pass in first. </p><p>Newman touched Valentin's arm as a sign that he wished to speak with </p><p>him, and Bellegarde answered that he would be with him in an instant. </p><p>Valentin entered the box after the robust young man, but a couple of </p><p>minutes afterwards he reappeared, largely smiling. </p><p>"She is immensely tickled," he said. "She says we will make her fortune. </p><p>I don't want to be fatuous, but I think it is very possible." </p><p>"So you are going to fight?" said Newman. </p><p>"My dear fellow, don't look so mortally disgusted. It was not my choice. </p><p>The thing is all arranged." </p><p>"I told you so!" groaned Newman. </p><p>"I told HIM so," said Valentin, smiling. </p><p>"What did he do to you?" </p><p>"My good friend, it doesn't matter what. He used an expression--I took</p><p>it up." </p><p>"But I insist upon knowing; I can't, as your elder brother, have you </p><p>rushing into this sort of nonsense." </p><p>"I am very much obliged to you," said Valentin. "I have nothing to </p><p>conceal, but I can't go into particulars now and here." </p><p>"We will leave this place, then. You can tell me outside." </p><p>"Oh no, I can't leave this place, why should I hurry away? I will go to </p><p>my orchestra-stall and sit out the opera." </p><p>"You will not enjoy it; you will be preoccupied." </p><p>Valentin looked at him a moment, colored a little, smiled, and patted </p><p>him on the arm. "You are delightfully simple! Before an affair a man is </p><p>quiet. The quietest thing I can do is to go straight to my place." </p><p>"Ah," said Newman, "you want her to see you there--you and your </p><p>quietness. I am not so simple! It is a poor business." </p><p>Valentin remained, and the two men, in their respective places, sat </p><p>out the rest of the performance, which was also enjoyed by Mademoiselle </p><p>Nioche and her truculent admirer. At the end Newman joined Valentin </p><p>again, and they went into the street together. Valentin shook his head </p><p>at his friend's proposal that he should get into Newman's own vehicle, </p><p>and stopped on the edge of the pavement. "I must go off alone," he </p><p>said; "I must look up a couple of friends who will take charge of this </p><p>matter." </p><p>"I will take charge of it," Newman declared. "Put it into my hands." </p><p>"You are very kind, but that is hardly possible. In the first place, you </p><p>are, as you said just now, almost my brother; you are about to marry </p><p>my sister. That alone disqualifies you; it casts doubts on your </p><p>impartiality. And if it didn't, it would be enough for me that I </p><p>strongly suspect you of disapproving of the affair. You would try to </p><p>prevent a meeting." </p><p>"Of course I should," said Newman. "Whoever your friends are, I hope </p><p>they will do that." </p><p>"Unquestionably they will. They will urge that excuses be made, proper </p><p>excuses. But you would be too good-natured. You won't do." </p><p>Newman was silent a moment. He was keenly annoyed, but he saw it was </p><p>useless to attempt interference. "When is this precious performance to </p><p>come off?" he asked. </p><p>"The sooner the better," said Valentin. "The day after to-morrow, I </p><p>hope." </p><p>"Well," said Newman, "I have certainly a claim to know the facts. I </p><p>can't consent to shut my eyes to the matter." </p><p>"I shall be most happy to tell you the facts," said Valentin. "They are </p><p>very simple, and it will be quickly done. But now everything depends on </p><p>my putting my hands on my friends without delay. I will jump into a cab;</p><p>you had better drive to my room and wait for me there. I will turn up at </p><p>the end of an hour." </p><p>Newman assented protestingly, let his friend go, and then betook himself </p><p>to the picturesque little apartment in the Rue d'Anjou. It was more </p><p>than an hour before Valentin returned, but when he did so he was able </p><p>to announce that he had found one of his desired friends, and that this </p><p>gentleman had taken upon himself the care of securing an associate. </p><p>Newman had been sitting without lights by Valentin's faded fire, upon </p><p>which he had thrown a log; the blaze played over the richly-encumbered </p><p>little sitting-room and produced fantastic gleams and shadows. He </p><p>listened in silence to Valentin's account of what had passed between him </p><p>and the gentleman whose card he had in his pocket--M. Stanislas Kapp, </p><p>of Strasbourg--after his return to Mademoiselle Nioche's box. This </p><p>hospitable young lady had espied an acquaintance on the other side </p><p>of the house, and had expressed her displeasure at his not having the </p><p>civility to come and pay her a visit. "Oh, let him alone!" M. Stanislas </p><p>Kapp had hereupon exclaimed. "There are too many people in the box </p><p>already." And he had fixed his eyes with a demonstrative stare upon M. </p><p>de Bellegarde. Valentin had promptly retorted that if there were too </p><p>many people in the box it was easy for M. Kapp to diminish the number. </p><p>"I shall be most happy to open the door for YOU!" M. Kapp exclaimed. "I </p><p>shall be delighted to fling you into the pit!" Valentin had answered. </p><p>"Oh, do make a rumpus and get into the papers!" Miss Noemie had </p><p>gleefully ejaculated. "M. Kapp, turn him out; or, M. de Bellegarde, </p><p>pitch him into the pit, into the orchestra--anywhere! I don't care who </p><p>does which, so long as you make a scene." Valentin answered that they </p><p>would make no scene, but that the gentleman would be so good as to </p><p>step into the corridor with him. In the corridor, after a brief further </p><p>exchange of words, there had been an exchange of cards. M. Stanislas </p><p>Kapp was very stiff. He evidently meant to force his offence home. </p><p>"The man, no doubt, was insolent," Newman said; "but if you hadn't gone </p><p>back into the box the thing wouldn't have happened." </p><p>"Why, don't you see," Valentin replied, "that the event proves the </p><p>extreme propriety of my going back into the box? M. Kapp wished to </p><p>provoke me; he was awaiting his chance. In such a case--that is, when </p><p>he has been, so to speak, notified--a man must be on hand to receive the </p><p>provocation. My not returning would simply have been tantamount to </p><p>my saying to M. Stanislas Kapp, 'Oh, if you are going to be </p><p>disagreeable'"-- </p><p>"'You must manage it by yourself; damned if I'll help you!' That would </p><p>have been a thoroughly sensible thing to say. The only attraction for </p><p>you seems to have been the prospect of M. Kapp's impertinence," Newman </p><p>went on. "You told me you were not going back for that girl." </p><p>"Oh, don't mention that girl any more," murmured Valentin. "She's a </p><p>bore." </p><p>"With all my heart. But if that is the way you feel about her, why </p><p>couldn't you let her alone?" </p><p>Valentin shook his head with a fine smile. "I don't think you quite </p><p>understand, and I don't believe I can make you. She understood the </p><p>situation; she knew what was in the air; she was watching us." </p><p>"A cat may look at a king! What difference does that make?"</p><p>"Why, a man can't back down before a woman." </p><p>"I don't call her a woman. You said yourself she was a stone," cried </p><p>Newman. </p><p>"Well," Valentin rejoined, "there is no disputing about tastes. It's a </p><p>matter of feeling; it's measured by one's sense of honor." </p><p>"Oh, confound your sense of honor!" cried Newman. </p><p>"It is vain talking," said Valentin; "words have passed, and the thing </p><p>is settled." </p><p>Newman turned away, taking his hat. Then pausing with his hand on the </p><p>door, "What are you going to use?" he asked. </p><p>"That is for M. Stanislas Kapp, as the challenged party, to decide. </p><p>My own choice would be a short, light sword. I handle it well. I'm an </p><p>indifferent shot." </p><p>Newman had put on his hat; he pushed it back, gently scratching his </p><p>forehead, high up. "I wish it were pistols," he said. "I could show you </p><p>how to lodge a bullet!" </p><p>Valentin broke into a laugh. "What is it some English poet says about </p><p>consistency? It's a flower or a star, or a jewel. Yours has the beauty </p><p>of all three!" But he agreed to see Newman again on the morrow, after </p><p>the details of his meeting with M. Stanislas Kapp should have been </p><p>arranged. </p><p>In the course of the day Newman received three lines from him, saying </p><p>that it had been decided that he should cross the frontier, with his </p><p>adversary, and that he was to take the night express to Geneva. He </p><p>should have time, however, to dine with Newman. In the afternoon Newman </p><p>called upon Madame de Cintre, but his visit was brief. She was as </p><p>gracious and sympathetic as he had ever found her, but she was sad, and </p><p>she confessed, on Newman's charging her with her red eyes, that she had </p><p>been crying. Valentin had been with her a couple of hours before, and </p><p>his visit had left her with a painful impression. He had laughed and </p><p>gossiped, he had brought her no bad news, he had only been, in his </p><p>manner, rather more affectionate than usual. His fraternal tenderness </p><p>had touched her, and on his departure she had burst into tears. She had </p><p>felt as if something strange and sad were going to happen; she had tried </p><p>to reason away the fancy, and the effort had only given her a headache. </p><p>Newman, of course, was perforce tongue-tied about Valentin's projected </p><p>duel, and his dramatic talent was not equal to satirizing Madame de </p><p>Cintre's presentiment as pointedly as perfect security demanded. Before </p><p>he went away he asked Madame de Cintre whether Valentin had seen his </p><p>mother. </p><p>"Yes," she said, "but he didn't make her cry." </p><p>It was in Newman's own apartment that Valentin dined, having brought </p><p>his portmanteau, so that he might adjourn directly to the railway. M. </p><p>Stanislas Kapp had positively declined to make excuses, and he, on his </p><p>side, obviously, had none to offer. Valentin had found out with whom he </p><p>was dealing. M. Stanislas Kapp was the son of and heir of a rich brewer </p><p>of Strasbourg, a youth of a sanguineous--and sanguinary--temperament.</p><p>He was making ducks and drakes of the paternal brewery, and although he </p><p>passed in a general way for a good fellow, he had already been observed </p><p>to be quarrelsome after dinner. "Que voulez-vous?" said Valentin. </p><p>"Brought up on beer, he can't stand champagne." He had chosen pistols. </p><p>Valentin, at dinner, had an excellent appetite; he made a point, in view </p><p>of his long journey, of eating more than usual. He took the liberty </p><p>of suggesting to Newman a slight modification in the composition of a </p><p>certain fish-sauce; he thought it would be worth mentioning to the </p><p>cook. But Newman had no thoughts for fish-sauce; he felt thoroughly </p><p>discontented. As he sat and watched his amiable and clever companion </p><p>going through his excellent repast with the delicate deliberation of </p><p>hereditary epicurism, the folly of so charming a fellow traveling off </p><p>to expose his agreeable young life for the sake of M. Stanislas and </p><p>Mademoiselle Noemie struck him with intolerable force. He had grown fond </p><p>of Valentin, he felt now how fond; and his sense of helplessness only </p><p>increased his irritation. </p><p>"Well, this sort of thing may be all very well," he cried at last, "but </p><p>I declare I don't see it. I can't stop you, perhaps, but at least I can </p><p>protest. I do protest, violently." </p><p>"My dear fellow, don't make a scene," said Valentin. "Scenes in these </p><p>cases are in very bad taste." </p><p>"Your duel itself is a scene," said Newman; "that's all it is! It's a </p><p>wretched theatrical affair. Why don't you take a band of music with you </p><p>outright? It's d--d barbarous and it's d--d corrupt, both." </p><p>"Oh, I can't begin, at this time of day, to defend the theory of </p><p>dueling," said Valentin. "It is our custom, and I think it is a good </p><p>thing. Quite apart from the goodness of the cause in which a duel may </p><p>be fought, it has a kind of picturesque charm which in this age of </p><p>vile prose seems to me greatly to recommend it. It's a remnant of a </p><p>higher-tempered time; one ought to cling to it. Depend upon it, a duel </p><p>is never amiss." </p><p>"I don't know what you mean by a higher-tempered time," said Newman. </p><p>"Because your great-grandfather was an ass, is that any reason why you </p><p>should be? For my part I think we had better let our temper take care of </p><p>itself; it generally seems to me quite high enough; I am not afraid </p><p>of being too meek. If your great-grandfather were to make himself </p><p>unpleasant to me, I think I could manage him yet." </p><p>"My dear friend," said Valentin, smiling, "you can't invent anything </p><p>that will take the place of satisfaction for an insult. To demand it and </p><p>to give it are equally excellent arrangements." </p><p>"Do you call this sort of thing satisfaction?" Newman asked. "Does it </p><p>satisfy you to receive a present of the carcass of that coarse fop? does </p><p>it gratify you to make him a present of yours? If a man hits you, hit </p><p>him back; if a man libels you, haul him up." </p><p>"Haul him up, into court? Oh, that is very nasty!" said Valentin. </p><p>"The nastiness is his--not yours. And for that matter, what you are </p><p>doing is not particularly nice. You are too good for it. I don't say </p><p>you are the most useful man in the world, or the cleverest, or the </p><p>most amiable. But you are too good to go and get your throat cut for a </p><p>prostitute."</p><p>Valentin flushed a little, but he laughed. "I shan't get my throat cut </p><p>if I can help it. Moreover, one's honor hasn't two different measures. </p><p>It only knows that it is hurt; it doesn't ask when, or how, or where." </p><p>"The more fool it is!" said Newman. </p><p>Valentin ceased to laugh; he looked grave. "I beg you not to say </p><p>any more," he said. "If you do I shall almost fancy you don't care </p><p>about--about"--and he paused. </p><p>"About what?" </p><p>"About that matter--about one's honor." </p><p>"Fancy what you please," said Newman. "Fancy while you are at it that </p><p>I care about YOU--though you are not worth it. But come back without </p><p>damage," he added in a moment, "and I will forgive you. And then," </p><p>he continued, as Valentin was going, "I will ship you straight off to </p><p>America." </p><p>"Well," answered Valentin, "if I am to turn over a new page, this may </p><p>figure as a tail-piece to the old." And then he lit another cigar and </p><p>departed. </p><p>"Blast that girl!" said Newman as the door closed upon Valentin. </p><p>CHAPTER XVIII </p><p>Newman went the next morning to see Madame de Cintre, timing his visit </p><p>so as to arrive after the noonday breakfast. In the court of the hotel, </p><p>before the portico, stood Madame de Bellegarde's old square carriage. </p><p>The servant who opened the door answered Newman's inquiry with a </p><p>slightly embarrassed and hesitating murmur, and at the same moment Mrs. </p><p>Bread appeared in the background, dim-visaged as usual, and wearing a </p><p>large black bonnet and shawl. </p><p>"What is the matter?" asked Newman. "Is Madame la Comtesse at home, or </p><p>not?" </p><p>Mrs. Bread advanced, fixing her eyes upon him: he observed that she held </p><p>a sealed letter, very delicately, in her fingers. "The countess has left </p><p>a message for you, sir; she has left this," said Mrs. Bread, holding out </p><p>the letter, which Newman took. </p><p>"Left it? Is she out? Is she gone away?" </p><p>"She is going away, sir; she is leaving town," said Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"Leaving town!" exclaimed Newman. "What has happened?" </p><p>"It is not for me to say, sir," said Mrs. Bread, with her eyes on the </p><p>ground. "But I thought it would come." </p><p>"What would come, pray?" Newman demanded. He had broken the seal of the </p><p>letter, but he still questioned. "She is in the house? She is visible?"</p><p>"I don't think she expected you this morning," the old waiting-woman </p><p>replied. "She was to leave immediately." </p><p>"Where is she going?" </p><p>"To Fleurieres." </p><p>"To Fleurieres? But surely I can see her?" </p><p>Mrs. Bread hesitated a moment, and then clasping together her two hands, </p><p>"I will take you!" she said. And she led the way upstairs. At the top </p><p>of the staircase she paused and fixed her dry, sad eyes upon Newman. "Be </p><p>very easy with her," she said; "she is most unhappy!" Then she went on </p><p>to Madame de Cintre's apartment; Newman, perplexed and alarmed, followed </p><p>her rapidly. Mrs. Bread threw open the door, and Newman pushed back the </p><p>curtain at the farther side of its deep embrasure. In the middle of the </p><p>room stood Madame de Cintre; her face was pale and she was dressed </p><p>for traveling. Behind her, before the fire-place, stood Urbain de </p><p>Bellegarde, looking at his finger-nails; near the marquis sat his </p><p>mother, buried in an arm-chair, and with her eyes immediately fixing </p><p>themselves upon Newman. He felt, as soon as he entered the room, that he </p><p>was in the presence of something evil; he was startled and pained, as he </p><p>would have been by a threatening cry in the stillness of the night. He </p><p>walked straight to Madame de Cintre and seized her by the hand. </p><p>"What is the matter?" he asked, commandingly; "what is happening?" </p><p>Urbain de Bellegarde stared, then left his place and came and leaned </p><p>upon his mother's chair, behind. Newman's sudden irruption had evidently </p><p>discomposed both mother and son. Madame de Cintre stood silent, with </p><p>her eyes resting upon Newman's. She had often looked at him with all her </p><p>soul, as it seemed to him; but in this present gaze there was a sort of </p><p>bottomless depth. She was in distress; it was the most touching thing he </p><p>had ever seen. His heart rose into his throat, and he was on the point </p><p>of turning to her companions, with an angry challenge; but she checked </p><p>him, pressing the hand that held her own. </p><p>"Something very grave has happened," she said. "I cannot marry you." </p><p>Newman dropped her hand and stood staring, first at her and then at the </p><p>others. "Why not?" he asked, as quietly as possible. </p><p>Madame de Cintre almost smiled, but the attempt was strange. "You must </p><p>ask my mother, you must ask my brother." </p><p>"Why can't she marry me?" said Newman, looking at them. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde did not move in her place, but she was as pale as </p><p>her daughter. The marquis looked down at her. She said nothing for some </p><p>moments, but she kept her keen, clear eyes upon Newman, bravely. The </p><p>marquis drew himself up and looked at the ceiling. "It's impossible!" he </p><p>said softly. </p><p>"It's improper," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>Newman began to laugh. "Oh, you are fooling!" he exclaimed. </p><p>"My sister, you have no time; you are losing your train," said the</p><p>marquis. </p><p>"Come, is he mad?" asked Newman. </p><p>"No; don't think that," said Madame de Cintre. "But I am going away." </p><p>"Where are you going?" </p><p>"To the country, to Fleurieres; to be alone." </p><p>"To leave me?" said Newman, slowly. </p><p>"I can't see you, now," said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"NOW--why not?" </p><p>"I am ashamed," said Madame de Cintre, simply. </p><p>Newman turned toward the marquis. "What have you done to her--what does </p><p>it mean?" he asked with the same effort at calmness, the fruit of </p><p>his constant practice in taking things easily. He was excited, but </p><p>excitement with him was only an intenser deliberateness; it was the </p><p>swimmer stripped. </p><p>"It means that I have given you up," said Madame de Cintre. "It means </p><p>that." </p><p>Her face was too charged with tragic expression not fully to confirm her </p><p>words. Newman was profoundly shocked, but he felt as yet no resentment </p><p>against her. He was amazed, bewildered, and the presence of the old </p><p>marquise and her son seemed to smite his eyes like the glare of a </p><p>watchman's lantern. "Can't I see you alone?" he asked. </p><p>"It would be only more painful. I hoped I should not see you--I should </p><p>escape. I wrote to you. Good-by." And she put out her hand again. </p><p>Newman put both his own into his pockets. "I will go with you," he said. </p><p>She laid her two hands on his arm. "Will you grant me a last request?" </p><p>and as she looked at him, urging this, her eyes filled with tears. "Let </p><p>me go alone--let me go in peace. I can't call it peace--it's death. But </p><p>let me bury myself. So--good-by." </p><p>Newman passed his hand into his hair and stood slowly rubbing his head </p><p>and looking through his keenly-narrowed eyes from one to the other of </p><p>the three persons before him. His lips were compressed, and the two </p><p>lines which had formed themselves beside his mouth might have made </p><p>it appear at a first glance that he was smiling. I have said that his </p><p>excitement was an intenser deliberateness, and now he looked grimly </p><p>deliberate. "It seems very much as if you had interfered, marquis," </p><p>he said slowly. "I thought you said you wouldn't interfere. I know </p><p>you don't like me; but that doesn't make any difference. I thought you </p><p>promised me you wouldn't interfere. I thought you swore on your honor </p><p>that you wouldn't interfere. Don't you remember, marquis?" </p><p>The marquis lifted his eyebrows; but he was apparently determined to be </p><p>even more urbane than usual. He rested his two hands upon the back of </p><p>his mother's chair and bent forward, as if he were leaning over the edge </p><p>of a pulpit or a lecture-desk. He did not smile, but he looked softly</p><p>grave. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "I assured you that I would not </p><p>influence my sister's decision. I adhered, to the letter, to my </p><p>engagement. Did I not, sister?" </p><p>"Don't appeal, my son," said the marquise, "your word is sufficient." </p><p>"Yes--she accepted me," said Newman. "That is very true, I can't deny </p><p>that. At least," he added, in a different tone, turning to Madame de </p><p>Cintre, "you DID accept me?" </p><p>Something in the tone seemed to move her strongly. She turned away, </p><p>burying her face in her hands. </p><p>"But you have interfered now, haven't you?" inquired Newman of the </p><p>marquis. </p><p>"Neither then nor now have I attempted to influence my sister. I used no </p><p>persuasion then, I have used no persuasion to-day." </p><p>"And what have you used?" </p><p>"We have used authority," said Madame de Bellegarde in a rich, bell-like </p><p>voice. </p><p>"Ah, you have used authority," Newman exclaimed. "They have used </p><p>authority," he went on, turning to Madame de Cintre. "What is it? how </p><p>did they use it?" </p><p>"My mother commanded," said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"Commanded you to give me up--I see. And you obey--I see. But why do you </p><p>obey?" asked Newman. </p><p>Madame de Cintre looked across at the old marquise; her eyes slowly </p><p>measured her from head to foot. "I am afraid of my mother," she said. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde rose with a certain quickness, crying, "This is a </p><p>most indecent scene!" </p><p>"I have no wish to prolong it," said Madame de Cintre; and turning to </p><p>the door she put out her hand again. "If you can pity me a little, let </p><p>me go alone." </p><p>Newman shook her hand quietly and firmly. "I'll come down there," he </p><p>said. The portiere dropped behind her, and Newman sank with a long </p><p>breath into the nearest chair. He leaned back in it, resting his hands </p><p>on the knobs of the arms and looking at Madame de Bellegarde and Urbain. </p><p>There was a long silence. They stood side by side, with their heads high </p><p>and their handsome eyebrows arched. </p><p>"So you make a distinction?" Newman said at last. "You make a </p><p>distinction between persuading and commanding? It's very neat. But the </p><p>distinction is in favor of commanding. That rather spoils it." </p><p>"We have not the least objection to defining our position," said M. de </p><p>Bellegarde. "We understand that it should not at first appear to you </p><p>quite clear. We rather expected, indeed, that you should not do us </p><p>justice." </p><p>"Oh, I'll do you justice," said Newman. "Don't be afraid. Please </p><p>proceed." </p><p>The marquise laid her hand on her son's arm, as if to deprecate the </p><p>attempt to define their position. "It is quite useless," she said, "to </p><p>try and arrange this matter so as to make it agreeable to you. It can </p><p>never be agreeable to you. It is a disappointment, and disappointments </p><p>are unpleasant. I thought it over carefully and tried to arrange it </p><p>better; but I only gave myself a headache and lost my sleep. Say what </p><p>we will, you will think yourself ill-treated, and you will publish your </p><p>wrongs among your friends. But we are not afraid of that. Besides, your </p><p>friends are not our friends, and it will not matter. Think of us as you </p><p>please. I only beg you not to be violent. I have never in my life </p><p>been present at a violent scene of any kind, and at my age I can't be </p><p>expected to begin." </p><p>"Is THAT all you have got to say?" asked Newman, slowly rising out of </p><p>his chair. "That's a poor show for a clever lady like you, marquise. </p><p>Come, try again." </p><p>"My mother goes to the point, with her usual honesty and intrepidity," </p><p>said the marquis, toying with his watch-guard. "But it is perhaps well </p><p>to say a little more. We of course quite repudiate the charge of having </p><p>broken faith with you. We left you entirely at liberty to make yourself </p><p>agreeable to my sister. We left her quite at liberty to entertain your </p><p>proposal. When she accepted you we said nothing. We therefore quite </p><p>observed our promise. It was only at a later stage of the affair, and </p><p>on quite a different basis, as it were, that we determined to speak. It </p><p>would have been better, perhaps, if we had spoken before. But really, </p><p>you see, nothing has yet been done." </p><p>"Nothing has yet been done?" Newman repeated the words, unconscious </p><p>of their comical effect. He had lost the sense of what the marquis was </p><p>saying; M. de Bellegarde's superior style was a mere humming in his </p><p>ears. All that he understood, in his deep and simple indignation, was </p><p>that the matter was not a violent joke, and that the people before him </p><p>were perfectly serious. "Do you suppose I can take this?" he asked. </p><p>"Do you suppose it can matter to me what you say? Do you suppose I can </p><p>seriously listen to you? You are simply crazy!" </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde gave a rap with her fan in the palm of her hand. </p><p>"If you don't take it you can leave it, sir. It matters very little what </p><p>you do. My daughter has given you up." </p><p>"She doesn't mean it," Newman declared after a moment. </p><p>"I think I can assure you that she does," said the marquis. </p><p>"Poor woman, what damnable thing have you done to her?" cried Newman. </p><p>"Gently, gently!" murmured M. de Bellegarde. </p><p>"She told you," said the old lady. "I commanded her." </p><p>Newman shook his head, heavily. "This sort of thing can't be, you know," </p><p>he said. "A man can't be used in this fashion. You have got no right; </p><p>you have got no power." </p><p>"My power," said Madame de Bellegarde, "is in my children's obedience."</p><p>"In their fear, your daughter said. There is something very strange </p><p>in it. Why should your daughter be afraid of you?" added Newman, after </p><p>looking a moment at the old lady. "There is some foul play." </p><p>The marquise met his gaze without flinching, and as if she did not </p><p>hear or heed what he said. "I did my best," she said, quietly. "I could </p><p>endure it no longer." </p><p>"It was a bold experiment!" said the marquis. </p><p>Newman felt disposed to walk to him, clutch his neck with his fingers </p><p>and press his windpipe with his thumb. "I needn't tell you how you </p><p>strike me," he said; "of course you know that. But I should think you </p><p>would be afraid of your friends--all those people you introduced me to </p><p>the other night. There were some very nice people among them; you may </p><p>depend upon it there were some honest men and women." </p><p>"Our friends approve us," said M. de Bellegarde, "there is not a family </p><p>among them that would have acted otherwise. And however that may be, </p><p>we take the cue from no one. The Bellegardes have been used to set the </p><p>example not to wait for it." </p><p>"You would have waited long before any one would have set you such an </p><p>example as this," exclaimed Newman. "Have I done anything wrong?" he </p><p>demanded. "Have I given you reason to change your opinion? Have you </p><p>found out anything against me? I can't imagine." </p><p>"Our opinion," said Madame de Bellegarde, "is quite the same as at </p><p>first--exactly. We have no ill-will towards yourself; we are very far </p><p>from accusing you of misconduct. Since your relations with us began you </p><p>have been, I frankly confess, less--less peculiar than I expected. It </p><p>is not your disposition that we object to, it is your antecedents. We </p><p>really cannot reconcile ourselves to a commercial person. We fancied in </p><p>an evil hour that we could; it was a great misfortune. We determined to </p><p>persevere to the end, and to give you every advantage. I was resolved </p><p>that you should have no reason to accuse me of want of loyalty. We let </p><p>the thing certainly go very far; we introduced you to our friends. To </p><p>tell the truth, it was that, I think, that broke me down. I succumbed </p><p>to the scene that took place on Thursday night in these rooms. You must </p><p>excuse me if what I say is disagreeable to you, but we cannot release </p><p>ourselves without an explanation." </p><p>"There can be no better proof of our good faith," said the marquis, </p><p>"than our committing ourselves to you in the eyes of the world the other </p><p>evening. We endeavored to bind ourselves--to tie our hands, as it were." </p><p>"But it was that," added his mother, "that opened our eyes and broke our </p><p>bonds. We should have been most uncomfortable! You know," she added in a </p><p>moment, "that you were forewarned. I told you we were very proud." </p><p>Newman took up his hat and began mechanically to smooth it; the very </p><p>fierceness of his scorn kept him from speaking. "You are not proud </p><p>enough," he observed at last. </p><p>"In all this matter," said the marquis, smiling, "I really see nothing </p><p>but our humility." </p><p>"Let us have no more discussion than is necessary," resumed Madame de</p><p>Bellegarde. "My daughter told you everything when she said she gave you </p><p>up." </p><p>"I am not satisfied about your daughter," said Newman; "I want to know </p><p>what you did to her. It is all very easy talking about authority and </p><p>saying you commanded her. She didn't accept me blindly, and she wouldn't </p><p>have given me up blindly. Not that I believe yet she has really given me </p><p>up; she will talk it over with me. But you have frightened her, you have </p><p>bullied her, you have HURT her. What was it you did to her?" </p><p>"I did very little! said Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone which gave </p><p>Newman a chill when he afterwards remembered it. </p><p>"Let me remind you that we offered you these explanations," the marquis </p><p>observed, "with the express understanding that you should abstain from </p><p>violence of language." </p><p>"I am not violent," Newman answered, "it is you who are violent! But I </p><p>don't know that I have much more to say to you. What you expect of </p><p>me, apparently, is to go my way, thanking you for favors received, and </p><p>promising never to trouble you again." </p><p>"We expect of you to act like a clever man," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"You have shown yourself that already, and what we have done is </p><p>altogether based upon your being so. When one must submit, one must. </p><p>Since my daughter absolutely withdraws, what will be the use of your </p><p>making a noise?" </p><p>"It remains to be seen whether your daughter absolutely withdraws. Your </p><p>daughter and I are still very good friends; nothing is changed in that. </p><p>As I say, I will talk it over with her." </p><p>"That will be of no use," said the old lady. "I know my daughter well </p><p>enough to know that words spoken as she just now spoke to you are final. </p><p>Besides, she has promised me." </p><p>"I have no doubt her promise is worth a great deal more than your own," </p><p>said Newman; "nevertheless I don't give her up." </p><p>"Just as you please! But if she won't even see you,--and she </p><p>won't,--your constancy must remain purely Platonic." </p><p>Poor Newman was feigning a greater confidence than he felt. Madame de </p><p>Cintre's strange intensity had in fact struck a chill to his heart; her </p><p>face, still impressed upon his vision, had been a terribly vivid image </p><p>of renunciation. He felt sick, and suddenly helpless. He turned away and </p><p>stood for a moment with his hand on the door; then he faced about and </p><p>after the briefest hesitation broke out with a different accent. "Come, </p><p>think of what this must be to me, and let her alone! Why should you </p><p>object to me so--what's the matter with me? I can't hurt you. I wouldn't </p><p>if I could. I'm the most unobjectionable fellow in the world. What if </p><p>I am a commercial person? What under the sun do you mean? A commercial </p><p>person? I will be any sort of a person you want. I never talked to you </p><p>about business. Let her go, and I will ask no questions. I will take </p><p>her away, and you shall never see me or hear of me again. I will stay in </p><p>America if you like. I'll sign a paper promising never to come back to </p><p>Europe! All I want is not to lose her!" </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde and her son exchanged a glance of lucid irony, and</p><p>Urbain said, "My dear sir, what you propose is hardly an improvement. We </p><p>have not the slightest objection to seeing you, as an amiable foreigner, </p><p>and we have every reason for not wishing to be eternally separated </p><p>from my sister. We object to the marriage; and in that way," and M. de </p><p>Bellegarde gave a small, thin laugh, "she would be more married than </p><p>ever." </p><p>"Well, then," said Newman, "where is this place of yours--Fleurieres? I </p><p>know it is near some old city on a hill." </p><p>"Precisely. Poitiers is on a hill," said Madame de Bellegarde. "I don't </p><p>know how old it is. We are not afraid to tell you." </p><p>"It is Poitiers, is it? Very good," said Newman. "I shall immediately </p><p>follow Madame de Cintre." </p><p>"The trains after this hour won't serve you," said Urbain. </p><p>"I shall hire a special train!" </p><p>"That will be a very silly waste of money," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"It will be time enough to talk about waste three days hence," Newman </p><p>answered; and clapping his hat on his head, he departed. </p><p>He did not immediately start for Fleurieres; he was too stunned and </p><p>wounded for consecutive action. He simply walked; he walked straight </p><p>before him, following the river, till he got out of the enceinte of </p><p>Paris. He had a burning, tingling sense of personal outrage. He had </p><p>never in his life received so absolute a check; he had never been pulled </p><p>up, or, as he would have said, "let down," so short; and he found the </p><p>sensation intolerable; he strode along, tapping the trees and lamp-posts </p><p>fiercely with his stick and inwardly raging. To lose Madame de Cintre </p><p>after he had taken such jubilant and triumphant possession of her was as </p><p>great an affront to his pride as it was an injury to his happiness. </p><p>And to lose her by the interference and the dictation of others, by </p><p>an impudent old woman and a pretentious fop stepping in with their </p><p>"authority"! It was too preposterous, it was too pitiful. Upon what he </p><p>deemed the unblushing treachery of the Bellegardes Newman wasted little </p><p>thought; he consigned it, once for all, to eternal perdition. But the </p><p>treachery of Madame de Cintre herself amazed and confounded him; there </p><p>was a key to the mystery, of course, but he groped for it in vain. Only </p><p>three days had elapsed since she stood beside him in the starlight, </p><p>beautiful and tranquil as the trust with which he had inspired her, and </p><p>told him that she was happy in the prospect of their marriage. What was </p><p>the meaning of the change? of what infernal potion had she tasted? Poor </p><p>Newman had a terrible apprehension that she had really changed. His very </p><p>admiration for her attached the idea of force and weight to her rupture. </p><p>But he did not rail at her as false, for he was sure she was unhappy. </p><p>In his walk he had crossed one of the bridges of the Seine, and he still </p><p>followed, unheedingly, the long, unbroken quay. He had left Paris behind </p><p>him, and he was almost in the country; he was in the pleasant suburb of </p><p>Auteuil. He stopped at last, looked around him without seeing or caring </p><p>for its pleasantness, and then slowly turned and at a slower pace </p><p>retraced his steps. When he came abreast of the fantastic embankment </p><p>known as the Trocadero, he reflected, through his throbbing pain, </p><p>that he was near Mrs. Tristram's dwelling, and that Mrs. Tristram, on </p><p>particular occasions, had much of a woman's kindness in her utterance. </p><p>He felt that he needed to pour out his ire and he took the road to</p><p>her house. Mrs. Tristram was at home and alone, and as soon as she had </p><p>looked at him, on his entering the room, she told him that she knew what </p><p>he had come for. Newman sat down heavily, in silence, looking at her. </p><p>"They have backed out!" she said. "Well, you may think it strange, but </p><p>I felt something the other night in the air." Presently he told her his </p><p>story; she listened, with her eyes fixed on him. When he had finished </p><p>she said quietly, "They want her to marry Lord Deepmere." Newman stared. </p><p>He did not know that she knew anything about Lord Deepmere. "But I don't </p><p>think she will," Mrs. Tristram added. </p><p>"SHE marry that poor little cub!" cried Newman. "Oh, Lord! And yet, why </p><p>did she refuse me?" </p><p>"But that isn't the only thing," said Mrs. Tristram. "They really </p><p>couldn't endure you any longer. They had overrated their courage. I must </p><p>say, to give the devil his due, that there is something rather fine </p><p>in that. It was your commercial quality in the abstract they couldn't </p><p>swallow. That is really aristocratic. They wanted your money, but they </p><p>have given you up for an idea." </p><p>Newman frowned most ruefully, and took up his hat again. "I thought you </p><p>would encourage me!" he said, with almost childlike sadness. </p><p>"Excuse me," she answered very gently. "I feel none the less sorry </p><p>for you, especially as I am at the bottom of your troubles. I have not </p><p>forgotten that I suggested the marriage to you. I don't believe that </p><p>Madame de Cintre has any intention of marrying Lord Deepmere. It is true </p><p>he is not younger than she, as he looks. He is thirty-three years old; I </p><p>looked in the Peerage. But no--I can't believe her so horribly, cruelly </p><p>false." </p><p>"Please say nothing against her," said Newman. </p><p>"Poor woman, she IS cruel. But of course you will go after her and you </p><p>will plead powerfully. Do you know that as you are now," Mrs. Tristram </p><p>pursued, with characteristic audacity of comment, "you are extremely </p><p>eloquent, even without speaking? To resist you a woman must have a very </p><p>fixed idea in her head. I wish I had done you a wrong, that you might </p><p>come to me in that fine fashion! But go to Madame de Cintre at any rate, </p><p>and tell her that she is a puzzle even to me. I am very curious to see </p><p>how far family discipline will go." </p><p>Newman sat a while longer, leaning his elbows on his knees and his </p><p>head in his hands, and Mrs. Tristram continued to temper charity with </p><p>philosophy and compassion with criticism. At last she inquired, "And </p><p>what does the Count Valentin say to it?" Newman started; he had not </p><p>thought of Valentin and his errand on the Swiss frontier since the </p><p>morning. The reflection made him restless again, and he took his </p><p>leave. He went straight to his apartment, where, upon the table of the </p><p>vestibule, he found a telegram. It ran (with the date and place) as </p><p>follows: "I am seriously ill; please to come to me as soon as possible. </p><p>V. B." Newman groaned at this miserable news, and at the necessity of </p><p>deferring his journey to the Chateau de Fleurieres. But he wrote to </p><p>Madame de Cintre these few lines; they were all he had time for:-- </p><p>"I don't give you up, and I don't really believe you give me up. I don't </p><p>understand it, but we shall clear it up together. I can't follow you </p><p>to-day, as I am called to see a friend at a distance who is very ill,</p><p>perhaps dying. But I shall come to you as soon as I can leave my friend. </p><p>Why shouldn't I say that he is your brother? C. N." </p><p>After this he had only time to catch the night express to Geneva. </p><p>CHAPTER XIX </p><p>Newman possessed a remarkable talent for sitting still when it was </p><p>necessary, and he had an opportunity to use it on his journey to </p><p>Switzerland. The successive hours of the night brought him no sleep, but </p><p>he sat motionless in his corner of the railway-carriage, with his eyes </p><p>closed, and the most observant of his fellow-travelers might have envied </p><p>him his apparent slumber. Toward morning slumber really came, as an </p><p>effect of mental rather than of physical fatigue. He slept for a couple </p><p>of hours, and at last, waking, found his eyes resting upon one of the </p><p>snow-powdered peaks of the Jura, behind which the sky was just reddening </p><p>with the dawn. But he saw neither the cold mountain nor the warm sky; </p><p>his consciousness began to throb again, on the very instant, with a </p><p>sense of his wrong. He got out of the train half an hour before it </p><p>reached Geneva, in the cold morning twilight, at the station indicated </p><p>in Valentin's telegram. A drowsy station-master was on the platform </p><p>with a lantern, and the hood of his overcoat over his head, and near him </p><p>stood a gentleman who advanced to meet Newman. This personage was a man </p><p>of forty, with a tall lean figure, a sallow face, a dark eye, a neat </p><p>mustache, and a pair of fresh gloves. He took off his hat, looking very </p><p>grave, and pronounced Newman's name. Our hero assented and said, "You </p><p>are M. de Bellegarde's friend?" </p><p>"I unite with you in claiming that sad honor," said the gentleman. </p><p>"I had placed myself at M. de Bellegarde's service in this melancholy </p><p>affair, together with M. de Grosjoyaux, who is now at his bedside. M. de </p><p>Grosjoyaux, I believe, has had the honor of meeting you in Paris, but as </p><p>he is a better nurse than I he remained with our poor friend. Bellegarde </p><p>has been eagerly expecting you." </p><p>"And how is Bellegarde?" said Newman. "He was badly hit?" </p><p>"The doctor has condemned him; we brought a surgeon with us. But he </p><p>will die in the best sentiments. I sent last evening for the cure of the </p><p>nearest French village, who spent an hour with him. The cure was quite </p><p>satisfied." </p><p>"Heaven forgive us!" groaned Newman. "I would rather the doctor were </p><p>satisfied! And can he see me--shall he know me?" </p><p>"When I left him, half an hour ago, he had fallen asleep after a </p><p>feverish, wakeful night. But we shall see." And Newman's companion </p><p>proceeded to lead the way out of the station to the village, explaining </p><p>as he went that the little party was lodged in the humblest of Swiss </p><p>inns, where, however, they had succeeded in making M. de Bellegarde much </p><p>more comfortable than could at first have been expected. "We are old </p><p>companions in arms," said Valentin's second; "it is not the first time </p><p>that one of us has helped the other to lie easily. It is a very nasty </p><p>wound, and the nastiest thing about it is that Bellegarde's adversary </p><p>was not shot. He put his bullet where he could. It took it into its head </p><p>to walk straight into Bellegarde's left side, just below the heart."</p><p>As they picked their way in the gray, deceptive dawn, between the </p><p>manure-heaps of the village street, Newman's new acquaintance narrated </p><p>the particulars of the duel. The conditions of the meeting had been that </p><p>if the first exchange of shots should fail to satisfy one of the two </p><p>gentlemen, a second should take place. Valentin's first bullet had done </p><p>exactly what Newman's companion was convinced he had intended it to do; </p><p>it had grazed the arm of M. Stanislas Kapp, just scratching the flesh. </p><p>M. Kapp's own projectile, meanwhile, had passed at ten good inches from </p><p>the person of Valentin. The representatives of M. Stanislas had demanded </p><p>another shot, which was granted. Valentin had then fired aside and the </p><p>young Alsatian had done effective execution. "I saw, when we met him </p><p>on the ground," said Newman's informant, "that he was not going to be </p><p>commode. It is a kind of bovine temperament." Valentin had immediately </p><p>been installed at the inn, and M. Stanislas and his friends had </p><p>withdrawn to regions unknown. The police authorities of the canton had </p><p>waited upon the party at the inn, had been extremely majestic, and had </p><p>drawn up a long proces-verbal; but it was probable that they would </p><p>wink at so very gentlemanly a bit of bloodshed. Newman asked whether a </p><p>message had not been sent to Valentin's family, and learned that up to </p><p>a late hour on the preceding evening Valentin had opposed it. He had </p><p>refused to believe his wound was dangerous. But after his interview with </p><p>the cure he had consented, and a telegram had been dispatched to his </p><p>mother. "But the marquise had better hurry!" said Newman's conductor. </p><p>"Well, it's an abominable affair!" said Newman. "That's all I have </p><p>to say!" To say this, at least, in a tone of infinite disgust was an </p><p>irresistible need. </p><p>"Ah, you don't approve?" questioned his conductor, with curious </p><p>urbanity. </p><p>"Approve?" cried Newman. "I wish that when I had him there, night before </p><p>last, I had locked him up in my cabinet de toilette!" </p><p>Valentin's late second opened his eyes, and shook his head up and down </p><p>two or three times, gravely, with a little flute-like whistle. But they </p><p>had reached the inn, and a stout maid-servant in a night-cap was at the </p><p>door with a lantern, to take Newman's traveling-bag from the porter who </p><p>trudged behind him. Valentin was lodged on the ground-floor at the back </p><p>of the house, and Newman's companion went along a stone-faced passage </p><p>and softly opened a door. Then he beckoned to Newman, who advanced </p><p>and looked into the room, which was lighted by a single shaded candle. </p><p>Beside the fire sat M. de Grosjoyaux asleep in his dressing-gown--a </p><p>little plump, fair man whom Newman had seen several times in Valentin's </p><p>company. On the bed lay Valentin, pale and still, with his eyes </p><p>closed--a figure very shocking to Newman, who had seen it hitherto awake </p><p>to its finger tips. M. de Grosjoyaux's colleague pointed to an open door </p><p>beyond, and whispered that the doctor was within, keeping guard. So </p><p>long as Valentin slept, or seemed to sleep, of course Newman could not </p><p>approach him; so our hero withdrew for the present, committing </p><p>himself to the care of the half-waked bonne. She took him to a room </p><p>above-stairs, and introduced him to a bed on which a magnified bolster, </p><p>in yellow calico, figured as a counterpane. Newman lay down, and, in </p><p>spite of his counterpane, slept for three or four hours. When he awoke, </p><p>the morning was advanced and the sun was filling his window, and he </p><p>heard, outside of it, the clucking of hens. While he was dressing there </p><p>came to his door a messenger from M. de Grosjoyaux and his companion </p><p>proposing that he should breakfast with them. Presently he went</p><p>down-stairs to the little stone-paved dining-room, where the </p><p>maid-servant, who had taken off her night-cap, was serving the repast. </p><p>M. de Grosjoyaux was there, surprisingly fresh for a gentleman who had </p><p>been playing sick-nurse half the night, rubbing his hands and watching </p><p>the breakfast table attentively. Newman renewed acquaintance with him, </p><p>and learned that Valentin was still sleeping; the surgeon, who had had </p><p>a fairly tranquil night, was at present sitting with him. Before M. de </p><p>Grosjoyaux's associate reappeared, Newman learned that his name was M. </p><p>Ledoux, and that Bellegarde's acquaintance with him dated from the days </p><p>when they served together in the Pontifical Zouaves. M. Ledoux was the </p><p>nephew of a distinguished Ultramontane bishop. At last the bishop's </p><p>nephew came in with a toilet in which an ingenious attempt at harmony </p><p>with the peculiar situation was visible, and with a gravity tempered by </p><p>a decent deference to the best breakfast that the Croix Helvetique </p><p>had ever set forth. Valentin's servant, who was allowed only in scanty </p><p>measure the honor of watching with his master, had been lending a light </p><p>Parisian hand in the kitchen. The two Frenchmen did their best to prove </p><p>that if circumstances might overshadow, they could not really obscure, </p><p>the national talent for conversation, and M. Ledoux delivered a neat </p><p>little eulogy on poor Bellegarde, whom he pronounced the most charming </p><p>Englishman he had ever known. </p><p>"Do you call him an Englishman?" Newman asked. </p><p>M. Ledoux smiled a moment and then made an epigram. "C'est plus qu'un </p><p>Anglais--c'est un Anglomane!" Newman said soberly that he had never </p><p>noticed it; and M. de Grosjoyaux remarked that it was really too soon </p><p>to deliver a funeral oration upon poor Bellegarde. "Evidently," said M. </p><p>Ledoux. "But I couldn't help observing this morning to Mr. Newman that </p><p>when a man has taken such excellent measures for his salvation as our </p><p>dear friend did last evening, it seems almost a pity he should put it in </p><p>peril again by returning to the world." M. Ledoux was a great Catholic, </p><p>and Newman thought him a queer mixture. His countenance, by daylight, </p><p>had a sort of amiably saturnine cast; he had a very large thin nose, </p><p>and looked like a Spanish picture. He appeared to think dueling a very </p><p>perfect arrangement, provided, if one should get hit, one could promptly </p><p>see the priest. He seemed to take a great satisfaction in Valentin's </p><p>interview with the cure, and yet his conversation did not at all </p><p>indicate a sanctimonious habit of mind. M. Ledoux had evidently a high </p><p>sense of the becoming, and was prepared to be urbane and tasteful on all </p><p>points. He was always furnished with a smile (which pushed his mustache </p><p>up under his nose) and an explanation. Savoir-vivre--knowing how to </p><p>live--was his specialty, in which he included knowing how to die; but, </p><p>as Newman reflected, with a good deal of dumb irritation, he seemed </p><p>disposed to delegate to others the application of his learning on this </p><p>latter point. M. de Grosjoyaux was of quite another complexion, and </p><p>appeared to regard his friend's theological unction as the sign of an </p><p>inaccessibly superior mind. He was evidently doing his utmost, with a </p><p>kind of jovial tenderness, to make life agreeable to Valentin to the </p><p>last, and help him as little as possible to miss the Boulevard des </p><p>Italiens; but what chiefly occupied his mind was the mystery of a </p><p>bungling brewer's son making so neat a shot. He himself could snuff a </p><p>candle, etc., and yet he confessed that he could not have done better </p><p>than this. He hastened to add that on the present occasion he would have </p><p>made a point of not doing so well. It was not an occasion for that </p><p>sort of murderous work, que diable! He would have picked out some quiet </p><p>fleshy spot and just tapped it with a harmless ball. M. Stanislas Kapp </p><p>had been deplorably heavy-handed; but really, when the world had come to </p><p>that pass that one granted a meeting to a brewer's son!... This was M.</p><p>de Grosjoyaux's nearest approach to a generalization. He kept looking </p><p>through the window, over the shoulder of M. Ledoux, at a slender tree </p><p>which stood at the end of a lane, opposite to the inn, and seemed to be </p><p>measuring its distance from his extended arm and secretly wishing that, </p><p>since the subject had been introduced, propriety did not forbid a little </p><p>speculative pistol-practice. </p><p>Newman was in no humor to enjoy good company. He could neither eat nor </p><p>talk; his soul was sore with grief and anger, and the weight of his </p><p>double sorrow was intolerable. He sat with his eyes fixed upon his </p><p>plate, counting the minutes, wishing at one moment that Valentin would </p><p>see him and leave him free to go in quest of Madame de Cintre and his </p><p>lost happiness, and mentally calling himself a vile brute the next, for </p><p>the impatient egotism of the wish. He was very poor company, himself, </p><p>and even his acute preoccupation and his general lack of the habit of </p><p>pondering the impression he produced did not prevent him from reflecting </p><p>that his companions must be puzzled to see how poor Bellegarde came to </p><p>take such a fancy to this taciturn Yankee that he must needs have him at </p><p>his death-bed. After breakfast he strolled forth alone into the village </p><p>and looked at the fountain, the geese, the open barn doors, the brown, </p><p>bent old women, showing their hugely darned stocking-heels at the ends </p><p>of their slowly-clicking sabots, and the beautiful view of snowy </p><p>Alps and purple Jura at either end of the little street. The day was </p><p>brilliant; early spring was in the air and in the sunshine, and the </p><p>winter's damp was trickling out of the cottage eaves. It was birth </p><p>and brightness for all nature, even for chirping chickens and waddling </p><p>goslings, and it was to be death and burial for poor, foolish, generous, </p><p>delightful Bellegarde. Newman walked as far as the village church, and </p><p>went into the small grave-yard beside it, where he sat down and looked </p><p>at the awkward tablets which were planted around. They were all sordid </p><p>and hideous, and Newman could feel nothing but the hardness and coldness </p><p>of death. He got up and came back to the inn, where he found M. Ledoux </p><p>having coffee and a cigarette at a little green table which he had </p><p>caused to be carried into the small garden. Newman, learning that the </p><p>doctor was still sitting with Valentin, asked M. Ledoux if he might not </p><p>be allowed to relieve him; he had a great desire to be useful to his </p><p>poor friend. This was easily arranged; the doctor was very glad to go </p><p>to bed. He was a youthful and rather jaunty practitioner, but he had a </p><p>clever face, and the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in his buttonhole; </p><p>Newman listened attentively to the instructions he gave him before </p><p>retiring, and took mechanically from his hand a small volume which the </p><p>surgeon recommended as a help to wakefulness, and which turned out to be </p><p>an old copy of "Faublas." Valentin was still lying with his eyes closed, </p><p>and there was no visible change in his condition. Newman sat down near </p><p>him, and for a long time narrowly watched him. Then his eyes wandered </p><p>away with his thoughts upon his own situation, and rested upon the chain </p><p>of the Alps, disclosed by the drawing of the scant white cotton curtain </p><p>of the window, through which the sunshine passed and lay in squares upon </p><p>the red-tiled floor. He tried to interweave his reflections with hope, </p><p>but he only half succeeded. What had happened to him seemed to have, in </p><p>its violence and audacity, the force of a real calamity--the strength </p><p>and insolence of Destiny herself. It was unnatural and monstrous, and he </p><p>had no arms against it. At last a sound struck upon the stillness, and </p><p>he heard Valentin's voice. </p><p>"It can't be about me you are pulling that long face!" He found, when he </p><p>turned, that Valentin was lying in the same position; but his eyes </p><p>were open, and he was even trying to smile. It was with a very slender </p><p>strength that he returned the pressure of Newman's hand. "I have been</p><p>watching you for a quarter of an hour," Valentin went on; "you have been </p><p>looking as black as thunder. You are greatly disgusted with me, I see. </p><p>Well, of course! So am I!" </p><p>"Oh, I shall not scold you," said Newman. "I feel too badly. And how are </p><p>you getting on?" </p><p>"Oh, I'm getting off! They have quite settled that; haven't they?" </p><p>"That's for you to settle; you can get well if you try," said Newman, </p><p>with resolute cheerfulness. </p><p>"My dear fellow, how can I try? Trying is violent exercise, and that </p><p>sort of thing isn't in order for a man with a hole in his side as big as </p><p>your hat, that begins to bleed if he moves a hair's-breadth. I knew you </p><p>would come," he continued; "I knew I should wake up and find you here; </p><p>so I'm not surprised. But last night I was very impatient. I didn't see </p><p>how I could keep still until you came. It was a matter of keeping still, </p><p>just like this; as still as a mummy in his case. You talk about trying; </p><p>I tried that! Well, here I am yet--these twenty hours. It seems like </p><p>twenty days." Bellegarde talked slowly and feebly, but distinctly </p><p>enough. It was visible, however, that he was in extreme pain, and at </p><p>last he closed his eyes. Newman begged him to remain silent and spare </p><p>himself; the doctor had left urgent orders. "Oh," said Valentin, "let us </p><p>eat and drink, for to-morrow--to-morrow"--and he paused again. "No, not </p><p>to-morrow, perhaps, but today. I can't eat and drink, but I can talk. </p><p>What's to be gained, at this pass, by renun--renunciation? I mustn't use </p><p>such big words. I was always a chatterer; Lord, how I have talked in my </p><p>day!" </p><p>"That's a reason for keeping quiet now," said Newman. "We know how well </p><p>you talk, you know." </p><p>But Valentin, without heeding him, went on in the same weak, dying </p><p>drawl. "I wanted to see you because you have seen my sister. Does she </p><p>know--will she come?" </p><p>Newman was embarrassed. "Yes, by this time she must know." </p><p>"Didn't you tell her?" Valentin asked. And then, in a moment, "Didn't </p><p>you bring me any message from her?" His eyes rested upon Newman's with a </p><p>certain soft keenness. </p><p>"I didn't see her after I got your telegram," said Newman. "I wrote to </p><p>her." </p><p>"And she sent you no answer?" </p><p>Newman was obliged to reply that Madame de Cintre had left Paris. "She </p><p>went yesterday to Fleurieres." </p><p>"Yesterday--to Fleurieres? Why did she go to Fleurieres? What day is </p><p>this? What day was yesterday? Ah, then I shan't see her," said Valentin, </p><p>sadly. "Fleurieres is too far!" And then he closed his eyes again. </p><p>Newman sat silent, summoning pious invention to his aid, but he was </p><p>relieved at finding that Valentin was apparently too weak to reason </p><p>or to be curious. Bellegarde, however, presently went on. "And my </p><p>mother--and my brother--will they come? Are they at Fleurieres?" </p><p>"They were in Paris, but I didn't see them, either," Newman answered. </p><p>"If they received your telegram in time, they will have started this </p><p>morning. Otherwise they will be obliged to wait for the night-express, </p><p>and they will arrive at the same hour as I did." </p><p>"They won't thank me--they won't thank me," Valentin murmured. "They </p><p>will pass an atrocious night, and Urbain doesn't like the early </p><p>morning air. I don't remember ever in my life to have seen him before </p><p>noon--before breakfast. No one ever saw him. We don't know how he is </p><p>then. Perhaps he's different. Who knows? Posterity, perhaps, will </p><p>know. That's the time he works, in his cabinet, at the history of the </p><p>Princesses. But I had to send for them--hadn't I? And then I want to </p><p>see my mother sit there where you sit, and say good-by to her. Perhaps, </p><p>after all, I don't know her, and she will have some surprise for me. </p><p>Don't think you know her yet, yourself; perhaps she may surprise YOU. </p><p>But if I can't see Claire, I don't care for anything. I have been </p><p>thinking of it--and in my dreams, too. Why did she go to Fleurieres </p><p>to-day? She never told me. What has happened? Ah, she ought to have </p><p>guessed I was here--this way. It is the first time in her life she ever </p><p>disappointed me. Poor Claire!" </p><p>"You know we are not man and wife quite yet,--your sister and I," said </p><p>Newman. "She doesn't yet account to me for all her actions." And, after </p><p>a fashion, he smiled. </p><p>Valentin looked at him a moment. "Have you quarreled?" </p><p>"Never, never, never!" Newman exclaimed. </p><p>"How happily you say that!" said Valentin. "You are going to be </p><p>happy--VA!" In answer to this stroke of irony, none the less powerful </p><p>for being so unconscious, all poor Newman could do was to give a </p><p>helpless and transparent stare. Valentin continued to fix him with his </p><p>own rather over-bright gaze, and presently he said, "But something is </p><p>the matter with you. I watched you just now; you haven't a bridegroom's </p><p>face." </p><p>"My dear fellow," said Newman, "how can I show YOU a bridegroom's face? </p><p>If you think I enjoy seeing you lie there and not being able to help </p><p>you"-- </p><p>"Why, you are just the man to be cheerful; don't forfeit your rights! </p><p>I'm a proof of your wisdom. When was a man ever gloomy when he could </p><p>say, 'I told you so?' You told me so, you know. You did what you could </p><p>about it. You said some very good things; I have thought them over. But, </p><p>my dear friend, I was right, all the same. This is the regular way." </p><p>"I didn't do what I ought," said Newman. "I ought to have done something </p><p>else." </p><p>"For instance?" </p><p>"Oh, something or other. I ought to have treated you as a small boy." </p><p>"Well, I'm a very small boy, now," said Valentin. "I'm rather less than </p><p>an infant. An infant is helpless, but it's generally voted promising. </p><p>I'm not promising, eh? Society can't lose a less valuable member." </p><p>Newman was strongly moved. He got up and turned his back upon his friend</p><p>and walked away to the window, where he stood looking out, but only </p><p>vaguely seeing. "No, I don't like the look of your back," Valentin </p><p>continued. "I have always been an observer of backs; yours is quite out </p><p>of sorts." </p><p>Newman returned to his bedside and begged him to be quiet. "Be quiet and </p><p>get well," he said. "That's what you must do. Get well and help me." </p><p>"I told you you were in trouble! How can I help you?" Valentin asked. </p><p>"I'll let you know when you are better. You were always curious; there </p><p>is something to get well for!" Newman answered, with resolute animation. </p><p>Valentin closed his eyes and lay a long time without speaking. He seemed </p><p>even to have fallen asleep. But at the end of half an hour he began to </p><p>talk again. "I am rather sorry about that place in the bank. Who knows </p><p>but what I might have become another Rothschild? But I wasn't meant for </p><p>a banker; bankers are not so easy to kill. Don't you think I have </p><p>been very easy to kill? It's not like a serious man. It's really very </p><p>mortifying. It's like telling your hostess you must go, when you count </p><p>upon her begging you to stay, and then finding she does no such thing. </p><p>'Really--so soon? You've only just come!' Life doesn't make me any such </p><p>polite little speech." </p><p>Newman for some time said nothing, but at last he broke out. "It's a bad </p><p>case--it's a bad case--it's the worst case I ever met. I don't want </p><p>to say anything unpleasant, but I can't help it. I've seen men dying </p><p>before--and I've seen men shot. But it always seemed more natural; they </p><p>were not so clever as you. Damnation--damnation! You might have done </p><p>something better than this. It's about the meanest winding-up of a man's </p><p>affairs that I can imagine!" </p><p>Valentin feebly waved his hand to and fro. "Don't insist--don't insist! </p><p>It is mean--decidedly mean. For you see at the bottom--down at the </p><p>bottom, in a little place as small as the end of a wine-funnel--I agree </p><p>with you!" </p><p>A few moments after this the doctor put his head through the half-opened </p><p>door and, perceiving that Valentin was awake, came in and felt his </p><p>pulse. He shook his head and declared that he had talked too much--ten </p><p>times too much. "Nonsense!" said Valentin; "a man sentenced to death can </p><p>never talk too much. Have you never read an account of an execution in </p><p>a newspaper? Don't they always set a lot of people at the </p><p>prisoner--lawyers, reporters, priests--to make him talk? But it's not </p><p>Mr. Newman's fault; he sits there as mum as a death's-head." </p><p>The doctor observed that it was time his patient's wound should be </p><p>dressed again; MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux, who had already witnessed </p><p>this delicate operation, taking Newman's place as assistants. Newman </p><p>withdrew and learned from his fellow-watchers that they had received a </p><p>telegram from Urbain de Bellegarde to the effect that their message had </p><p>been delivered in the Rue de l'Universite too late to allow him to </p><p>take the morning train, but that he would start with his mother in the </p><p>evening. Newman wandered away into the village again, and walked about </p><p>restlessly for two or three hours. The day seemed terribly long. At dusk </p><p>he came back and dined with the doctor and M. Ledoux. The dressing of </p><p>Valentin's wound had been a very critical operation; the doctor didn't </p><p>really see how he was to endure a repetition of it. He then declared </p><p>that he must beg of Mr. Newman to deny himself for the present the</p><p>satisfaction of sitting with M. de Bellegarde; more than any one else, </p><p>apparently, he had the flattering but inconvenient privilege of exciting </p><p>him. M. Ledoux, at this, swallowed a glass of wine in silence; he must </p><p>have been wondering what the deuce Bellegarde found so exciting in the </p><p>American. </p><p>Newman, after dinner, went up to his room, where he sat for a long time </p><p>staring at his lighted candle, and thinking that Valentin was dying </p><p>down-stairs. Late, when the candle had burnt low, there came a soft rap </p><p>at his door. The doctor stood there with a candlestick and a shrug. </p><p>"He must amuse himself, still!" said Valentin's medical adviser. "He </p><p>insists upon seeing you, and I am afraid you must come. I think at this </p><p>rate, that he will hardly outlast the night." </p><p>Newman went back to Valentin's room, which he found lighted by a taper </p><p>on the hearth. Valentin begged him to light a candle. "I want to see </p><p>your face," he said. "They say you excite me," he went on, as Newman </p><p>complied with this request, "and I confess I do feel excited. But it </p><p>isn't you--it's my own thoughts. I have been thinking--thinking. Sit </p><p>down there, and let me look at you again." Newman seated himself, folded </p><p>his arms, and bent a heavy gaze upon his friend. He seemed to be playing </p><p>a part, mechanically, in a lugubrious comedy. Valentin looked at him for </p><p>some time. "Yes, this morning I was right; you have something on your </p><p>mind heavier than Valentin de Bellegarde. Come, I'm a dying man and it's </p><p>indecent to deceive me. Something happened after I left Paris. It was </p><p>not for nothing that my sister started off at this season of the year </p><p>for Fleurieres. Why was it? It sticks in my crop. I have been thinking </p><p>it over, and if you don't tell me I shall guess." </p><p>"I had better not tell you," said Newman. "It won't do you any good." </p><p>"If you think it will do me any good not to tell me, you are very much </p><p>mistaken. There is trouble about your marriage." </p><p>"Yes," said Newman. "There is trouble about my marriage." </p><p>"Good!" And Valentin was silent again. "They have stopped it." </p><p>"They have stopped it," said Newman. Now that he had spoken out, he </p><p>found a satisfaction in it which deepened as he went on. "Your mother </p><p>and brother have broken faith. They have decided that it can't take </p><p>place. They have decided that I am not good enough, after all. They have </p><p>taken back their word. Since you insist, there it is!" </p><p>Valentin gave a sort of groan, lifted his hands a moment, and then let </p><p>them drop. </p><p>"I am sorry not to have anything better to tell you about them," Newman </p><p>pursued. "But it's not my fault. I was, indeed, very unhappy when your </p><p>telegram reached me; I was quite upside down. You may imagine whether I </p><p>feel any better now." </p><p>Valentin moaned gaspingly, as if his wound were throbbing. "Broken </p><p>faith, broken faith!" he murmured. "And my sister--my sister?" </p><p>"Your sister is very unhappy; she has consented to give me up. I don't </p><p>know why. I don't know what they have done to her; it must be something </p><p>pretty bad. In justice to her you ought to know it. They have made</p><p>her suffer. I haven't seen her alone, but only before them! We had an </p><p>interview yesterday morning. They came out, flat, in so many words. They </p><p>told me to go about my business. It seems to me a very bad case. I'm </p><p>angry, I'm sore, I'm sick." </p><p>Valentin lay there staring, with his eyes more brilliantly lighted, his </p><p>lips soundlessly parted, and a flush of color in his pale face. Newman </p><p>had never before uttered so many words in the plaintive key, but now, </p><p>in speaking to Valentin in the poor fellow's extremity, he had a feeling </p><p>that he was making his complaint somewhere within the presence of the </p><p>power that men pray to in trouble; he felt his outgush of resentment as </p><p>a sort of spiritual privilege. </p><p>"And Claire,"--said Bellegarde,--"Claire? She has given you up?" </p><p>"I don't really believe it," said Newman. </p><p>"No. Don't believe it, don't believe it. She is gaining time; excuse </p><p>her." </p><p>"I pity her!" said Newman. </p><p>"Poor Claire!" murmured Valentin. "But they--but they"--and he paused </p><p>again. "You saw them; they dismissed you, face to face?" </p><p>"Face to face. They were very explicit." </p><p>"What did they say?" </p><p>"They said they couldn't stand a commercial person." </p><p>Valentin put out his hand and laid it upon Newman's arm. "And about </p><p>their promise--their engagement with you?" </p><p>"They made a distinction. They said it was to hold good only until </p><p>Madame de Cintre accepted me." </p><p>Valentin lay staring a while, and his flush died away. "Don't tell me </p><p>any more," he said at last. "I'm ashamed." </p><p>"You? You are the soul of honor," said Newman simply. </p><p>Valentin groaned and turned away his head. For some time nothing more </p><p>was said. Then Valentin turned back again and found a certain force to </p><p>press Newman's arm. "It's very bad--very bad. When my people--when </p><p>my race--come to that, it is time for me to withdraw. I believe in </p><p>my sister; she will explain. Excuse her. If she can't--if she can't, </p><p>forgive her. She has suffered. But for the others it is very bad--very </p><p>bad. You take it very hard? No, it's a shame to make you say so." He </p><p>closed his eyes and again there was a silence. Newman felt almost awed; </p><p>he had evoked a more solemn spirit than he expected. Presently Valentin </p><p>looked at him again, removing his hand from his arm. "I apologize," </p><p>he said. "Do you understand? Here on my death-bed. I apologize for </p><p>my family. For my mother. For my brother. For the ancient house of </p><p>Bellegarde. Voila!" he added, softly. </p><p>Newman for an answer took his hand and pressed it with a world of </p><p>kindness. Valentin remained quiet, and at the end of half an hour the </p><p>doctor softly came in. Behind him, through the half-open door, Newman</p><p>saw the two questioning faces of MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux. The </p><p>doctor laid his hand on Valentin's wrist and sat looking at him. He gave </p><p>no sign and the two gentlemen came in, M. Ledoux having first beckoned </p><p>to some one outside. This was M. le cure, who carried in his hand an </p><p>object unknown to Newman, and covered with a white napkin. M. le cure </p><p>was short, round, and red: he advanced, pulling off his little black cap </p><p>to Newman, and deposited his burden on the table; and then he sat down </p><p>in the best arm-chair, with his hands folded across his person. The </p><p>other gentlemen had exchanged glances which expressed unanimity as to </p><p>the timeliness of their presence. But for a long time Valentin neither </p><p>spoke nor moved. It was Newman's belief, afterwards, that M. le cure </p><p>went to sleep. At last abruptly, Valentin pronounced Newman's name. His </p><p>friend went to him, and he said in French, "You are not alone. I want to </p><p>speak to you alone." Newman looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked </p><p>at the cure, who looked back at him; and then the doctor and the cure, </p><p>together, gave a shrug. "Alone--for five minutes," Valentin repeated. </p><p>"Please leave us." </p><p>The cure took up his burden again and led the way out, followed by </p><p>his companions. Newman closed the door behind them and came back to </p><p>Valentin's bedside. Bellegarde had watched all this intently. </p><p>"It's very bad, it's very bad," he said, after Newman had seated himself </p><p>close to him. "The more I think of it the worse it is." </p><p>"Oh, don't think of it," said Newman. </p><p>But Valentin went on, without heeding him. "Even if they should come </p><p>round again, the shame--the baseness--is there." </p><p>"Oh, they won't come round!" said Newman. </p><p>"Well, you can make them." </p><p>"Make them?" </p><p>"I can tell you something--a great secret--an immense secret. You can </p><p>use it against them--frighten them, force them." </p><p>"A secret!" Newman repeated. The idea of letting Valentin, on his </p><p>death-bed, confide him an "immense secret" shocked him, for the </p><p>moment, and made him draw back. It seemed an illicit way of arriving at </p><p>information, and even had a vague analogy with listening at a key-hole. </p><p>Then, suddenly, the thought of "forcing" Madame de Bellegarde and her </p><p>son became attractive, and Newman bent his head closer to Valentin's </p><p>lips. For some time, however, the dying man said nothing more. He only </p><p>lay and looked at his friend with his kindled, expanded, troubled eye, </p><p>and Newman began to believe that he had spoken in delirium. But at last </p><p>he said,-- </p><p>"There was something done--something done at Fleurieres. It was foul </p><p>play. My father--something happened to him. I don't know; I have been </p><p>ashamed--afraid to know. But I know there is something. My mother </p><p>knows--Urbain knows." </p><p>"Something happened to your father?" said Newman, urgently. </p><p>Valentin looked at him, still more wide-eyed. "He didn't get well." </p><p>"Get well of what?" </p><p>But the immense effort which Valentin had made, first to decide to utter </p><p>these words and then to bring them out, appeared to have taken his last </p><p>strength. He lapsed again into silence, and Newman sat watching him. "Do </p><p>you understand?" he began again, presently. "At Fleurieres. You can find </p><p>out. Mrs. Bread knows. Tell her I begged you to ask her. Then tell them </p><p>that, and see. It may help you. If not, tell, every one. It will--it </p><p>will"--here Valentin's voice sank to the feeblest murmur--"it will </p><p>avenge you!" </p><p>The words died away in a long, soft groan. Newman stood up, deeply </p><p>impressed, not knowing what to say; his heart was beating violently. </p><p>"Thank you," he said at last. "I am much obliged." But Valentin seemed </p><p>not to hear him, he remained silent, and his silence continued. At </p><p>last Newman went and opened the door. M. le cure reentered, bearing </p><p>his sacred vessel and followed by the three gentlemen and by Valentin's </p><p>servant. It was almost processional. </p><p>CHAPTER XX </p><p>Valentin de Bellegarde died, tranquilly, just as the cold, faint March </p><p>dawn began to illumine the faces of the little knot of friends gathered </p><p>about his bedside. An hour afterwards Newman left the inn and drove </p><p>to Geneva; he was naturally unwilling to be present at the arrival of </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde and her first-born. At Geneva, for the moment, he </p><p>remained. He was like a man who has had a fall and wants to sit still </p><p>and count his bruises. He instantly wrote to Madame de Cintre, </p><p>relating to her the circumstances of her brother's death--with certain </p><p>exceptions--and asking her what was the earliest moment at which he </p><p>might hope that she would consent to see him. M. Ledoux had told him </p><p>that he had reason to know that Valentin's will--Bellegarde had a great </p><p>deal of elegant personal property to dispose of--contained a request </p><p>that he should be buried near his father in the church-yard of </p><p>Fleurieres, and Newman intended that the state of his own relations with </p><p>the family should not deprive him of the satisfaction of helping to pay </p><p>the last earthly honors to the best fellow in the world. He reflected </p><p>that Valentin's friendship was older than Urbain's enmity, and that at </p><p>a funeral it was easy to escape notice. Madame de Cintre's answer to his </p><p>letter enabled him to time his arrival at Fleurieres. This answer was </p><p>very brief; it ran as follows:-- </p><p>"I thank you for your letter, and for your being with Valentin. It is </p><p>a most inexpressible sorrow to me that I was not. To see you will be </p><p>nothing but a distress to me; there is no need, therefore, to wait for </p><p>what you call brighter days. It is all one now, and I shall have no </p><p>brighter days. Come when you please; only notify me first. My brother is </p><p>to be buried here on Friday, and my family is to remain here. C. de C." </p><p>As soon as he received this letter Newman went straight to Paris and to </p><p>Poitiers. The journey took him far southward, through green Touraine </p><p>and across the far-shining Loire, into a country where the early spring </p><p>deepened about him as he went. But he had never made a journey during </p><p>which he heeded less what he would have called the lay of the land. He </p><p>obtained lodging at the inn at Poitiers, and the next morning drove in </p><p>a couple of hours to the village of Fleurieres. But here, preoccupied</p><p>though he was, he could not fail to notice the picturesqueness of the </p><p>place. It was what the French call a petit bourg; it lay at the base of </p><p>a sort of huge mound on the summit of which stood the crumbling ruins of </p><p>a feudal castle, much of whose sturdy material, as well as that of </p><p>the wall which dropped along the hill to inclose the clustered houses </p><p>defensively, had been absorbed into the very substance of the village. </p><p>The church was simply the former chapel of the castle, fronting upon its </p><p>grass-grown court, which, however, was of generous enough width to </p><p>have given up its quaintest corner to a little graveyard. Here the very </p><p>headstones themselves seemed to sleep, as they slanted into the grass; </p><p>the patient elbow of the rampart held them together on one side, and in </p><p>front, far beneath their mossy lids, the green plains and blue distances </p><p>stretched away. The way to church, up the hill, was impracticable to </p><p>vehicles. It was lined with peasants, two or three rows deep, who stood </p><p>watching old Madame de Bellegarde slowly ascend it, on the arm of her </p><p>elder son, behind the pall-bearers of the other. Newman chose to lurk </p><p>among the common mourners who murmured "Madame la Comtesse" as a tall </p><p>figure veiled in black passed before them. He stood in the dusky little </p><p>church while the service was going forward, but at the dismal tomb-side </p><p>he turned away and walked down the hill. He went back to Poitiers, </p><p>and spent two days in which patience and impatience were singularly </p><p>commingled. On the third day he sent Madame de Cintre a note, saying </p><p>that he would call upon her in the afternoon, and in accordance with </p><p>this he again took his way to Fleurieres. He left his vehicle at the </p><p>tavern in the village street, and obeyed the simple instructions which </p><p>were given him for finding the chateau. </p><p>"It is just beyond there," said the landlord, and pointed to the </p><p>tree-tops of the park, above the opposite houses. Newman followed the </p><p>first cross-road to the right--it was bordered with mouldy cottages--and </p><p>in a few moments saw before him the peaked roofs of the towers. </p><p>Advancing farther, he found himself before a vast iron gate, rusty and </p><p>closed; here he paused a moment, looking through the bars. The chateau </p><p>was near the road; this was at once its merit and its defect; but its </p><p>aspect was extremely impressive. Newman learned afterwards, from a </p><p>guide-book of the province, that it dated from the time of Henry IV. It </p><p>presented to the wide, paved area which preceded it and which was edged </p><p>with shabby farm-buildings an immense facade of dark time-stained </p><p>brick, flanked by two low wings, each of which terminated in a little </p><p>Dutch-looking pavilion capped with a fantastic roof. Two towers rose </p><p>behind, and behind the towers was a mass of elms and beeches, now just </p><p>faintly green. But the great feature was a wide, green river which </p><p>washed the foundations of the chateau. The building rose from an island </p><p>in the circling stream, so that this formed a perfect moat spanned by </p><p>a two-arched bridge without a parapet. The dull brick walls, which here </p><p>and there made a grand, straight sweep; the ugly little cupolas of the </p><p>wings, the deep-set windows, the long, steep pinnacles of mossy slate, </p><p>all mirrored themselves in the tranquil river. Newman rang at the gate, </p><p>and was almost frightened at the tone with which a big rusty bell above </p><p>his head replied to him. An old woman came out from the gate-house and </p><p>opened the creaking portal just wide enough for him to pass, and he went </p><p>in, across the dry, bare court and the little cracked white slabs of </p><p>the causeway on the moat. At the door of the chateau he waited for some </p><p>moments, and this gave him a chance to observe that Fleurieres was not </p><p>"kept up," and to reflect that it was a melancholy place of residence. </p><p>"It looks," said Newman to himself--and I give the comparison for what </p><p>it is worth--"like a Chinese penitentiary." At last the door was opened </p><p>by a servant whom he remembered to have seen in the Rue de l'Universite. </p><p>The man's dull face brightened as he perceived our hero, for Newman, for</p><p>indefinable reasons, enjoyed the confidence of the liveried gentry. The </p><p>footman led the way across a great central vestibule, with a pyramid of </p><p>plants in tubs in the middle of glass doors all around, to what appeared </p><p>to be the principal drawing-room of the chateau. Newman crossed the </p><p>threshold of a room of superb proportions, which made him feel at first </p><p>like a tourist with a guide-book and a cicerone awaiting a fee. But when </p><p>his guide had left him alone, with the observation that he would call </p><p>Madame la Comtesse, Newman perceived that the salon contained little </p><p>that was remarkable save a dark ceiling with curiously carved rafters, </p><p>some curtains of elaborate, antiquated tapestry, and a dark oaken floor, </p><p>polished like a mirror. He waited some minutes, walking up and down; but </p><p>at length, as he turned at the end of the room, he saw that Madame de </p><p>Cintre had come in by a distant door. She wore a black dress, and she </p><p>stood looking at him. As the length of the immense room lay between them </p><p>he had time to look at her before they met in the middle of it. </p><p>He was dismayed at the change in her appearance. Pale, heavy-browed, </p><p>almost haggard with a sort of monastic rigidity in her dress, she had </p><p>little but her pure features in common with the woman whose radiant good </p><p>grace he had hitherto admired. She let her eyes rest on his own, and she </p><p>let him take her hand; but her eyes looked like two rainy autumn moons, </p><p>and her touch was portentously lifeless. </p><p>"I was at your brother's funeral," Newman said. "Then I waited three </p><p>days. But I could wait no longer." </p><p>"Nothing can be lost or gained by waiting," said Madame de Cintre. "But </p><p>it was very considerate of you to wait, wronged as you have been." </p><p>"I'm glad you think I have been wronged," said Newman, with that </p><p>oddly humorous accent with which he often uttered words of the gravest </p><p>meaning. </p><p>"Do I need to say so?" she asked. "I don't think I have wronged, </p><p>seriously, many persons; certainly not consciously. To you, to whom I </p><p>have done this hard and cruel thing, the only reparation I can make is </p><p>to say, 'I know it, I feel it!' The reparation is pitifully small!" </p><p>"Oh, it's a great step forward!" said Newman, with a gracious smile of </p><p>encouragement. He pushed a chair towards her and held it, looking at her </p><p>urgently. She sat down, mechanically, and he seated himself near </p><p>her; but in a moment he got up, restlessly, and stood before her. She </p><p>remained seated, like a troubled creature who had passed through the </p><p>stage of restlessness. </p><p>"I say nothing is to be gained by my seeing you," she went on, "and yet </p><p>I am very glad you came. Now I can tell you what I feel. It is a selfish </p><p>pleasure, but it is one of the last I shall have." And she paused, with </p><p>her great misty eyes fixed upon him. "I know how I have deceived and </p><p>injured you; I know how cruel and cowardly I have been. I see it </p><p>as vividly as you do--I feel it to the ends of my fingers." And she </p><p>unclasped her hands, which were locked together in her lap, lifted them, </p><p>and dropped them at her side. "Anything that you may have said of me in </p><p>your angriest passion is nothing to what I have said to myself." </p><p>"In my angriest passion," said Newman, "I have said nothing hard of </p><p>you. The very worst thing I have said of you yet is that you are the </p><p>loveliest of women." And he seated himself before her again, abruptly. </p><p>She flushed a little, but even her flush was pale. "That is because you </p><p>think I will come back. But I will not come back. It is in that hope </p><p>you have come here, I know; I am very sorry for you. I would do almost </p><p>anything for you. To say that, after what I have done, seems simply </p><p>impudent; but what can I say that will not seem impudent? To wrong you </p><p>and apologize--that is easy enough. I should not have wronged you." She </p><p>stopped a moment, looking at him, and motioned him to let her go on. </p><p>"I ought never to have listened to you at first; that was the wrong. </p><p>No good could come of it. I felt it, and yet I listened; that was your </p><p>fault. I liked you too much; I believed in you." </p><p>"And don't you believe in me now?" </p><p>"More than ever. But now it doesn't matter. I have given you up." </p><p>Newman gave a powerful thump with his clenched fist upon his knee. "Why, </p><p>why, why?" he cried. "Give me a reason--a decent reason. You are not a </p><p>child--you are not a minor, nor an idiot. You are not obliged to drop me </p><p>because your mother told you to. Such a reason isn't worthy of you." </p><p>"I know that; it's not worthy of me. But it's the only one I have to </p><p>give. After all," said Madame de Cintre, throwing out her hands, "think </p><p>me an idiot and forget me! That will be the simplest way." </p><p>Newman got up and walked away with a crushing sense that his cause was </p><p>lost, and yet with an equal inability to give up fighting. He went to </p><p>one of the great windows, and looked out at the stiffly embanked river </p><p>and the formal gardens which lay beyond it. When he turned round, Madame </p><p>de Cintre had risen; she stood there silent and passive. "You are not </p><p>frank," said Newman; "you are not honest. Instead of saying that you are </p><p>imbecile, you should say that other people are wicked. Your mother and </p><p>your brother have been false and cruel; they have been so to me, and I </p><p>am sure they have been so to you. Why do you try to shield them? Why do </p><p>you sacrifice me to them? I'm not false; I'm not cruel. You don't know </p><p>what you give up; I can tell you that--you don't. They bully you and </p><p>plot about you; and I--I"--And he paused, holding out his hands. She </p><p>turned away and began to leave him. "You told me the other day that </p><p>you were afraid of your mother," he said, following her. "What did you </p><p>mean?" </p><p>Madame de Cintre shook her head. "I remember; I was sorry afterwards." </p><p>"You were sorry when she came down and put on the thumb-screws. In God's </p><p>name what IS it she does to you?" </p><p>"Nothing. Nothing that you can understand. And now that I have given you </p><p>up, I must not complain of her to you." </p><p>"That's no reasoning!" cried Newman. "Complain of her, on the contrary. </p><p>Tell me all about it, frankly and trustfully, as you ought, and we will </p><p>talk it over so satisfactorily that you won't give me up." </p><p>Madame de Cintre looked down some moments, fixedly; and then, raising </p><p>her eyes, she said, "One good at least has come of this: I have made </p><p>you judge me more fairly. You thought of me in a way that did me great </p><p>honor; I don't know why you had taken it into your head. But it left me </p><p>no loophole for escape--no chance to be the common, weak creature I am. </p><p>It was not my fault; I warned you from the first. But I ought to have </p><p>warned you more. I ought to have convinced you that I was doomed</p><p>to disappoint you. But I WAS, in a way, too proud. You see what my </p><p>superiority amounts to, I hope!" she went on, raising her voice with </p><p>a tremor which even then and there Newman thought beautiful. "I am too </p><p>proud to be honest, I am not too proud to be faithless. I am timid and </p><p>cold and selfish. I am afraid of being uncomfortable." </p><p>"And you call marrying me uncomfortable!" said Newman staring. </p><p>Madame de Cintre blushed a little and seemed to say that if begging his </p><p>pardon in words was impudent, she might at least thus mutely express </p><p>her perfect comprehension of his finding her conduct odious. "It is not </p><p>marrying you; it is doing all that would go with it. It's the rupture, </p><p>the defiance, the insisting upon being happy in my own way. What right </p><p>have I to be happy when--when"--And she paused. </p><p>"When what?" said Newman. </p><p>"When others have been most unhappy!" </p><p>"What others?" Newman asked. "What have you to do with any others but </p><p>me? Besides you said just now that you wanted happiness, and that you </p><p>should find it by obeying your mother. You contradict yourself." </p><p>"Yes, I contradict myself; that shows you that I am not even </p><p>intelligent." </p><p>"You are laughing at me!" cried Newman. "You are mocking me!" </p><p>She looked at him intently, and an observer might have said that she was </p><p>asking herself whether she might not most quickly end their common pain </p><p>by confessing that she was mocking him. "No; I am not," she presently </p><p>said. </p><p>"Granting that you are not intelligent," he went on, "that you are </p><p>weak, that you are common, that you are nothing that I have believed </p><p>you were--what I ask of you is not heroic effort, it is a very common </p><p>effort. There is a great deal on my side to make it easy. The simple </p><p>truth is that you don't care enough about me to make it." </p><p>"I am cold," said Madame de Cintre, "I am as cold as that flowing </p><p>river." </p><p>Newman gave a great rap on the floor with his stick, and a long, grim </p><p>laugh. "Good, good!" he cried. "You go altogether too far--you overshoot </p><p>the mark. There isn't a woman in the world as bad as you would make </p><p>yourself out. I see your game; it's what I said. You are blackening </p><p>yourself to whiten others. You don't want to give me up, at all; you </p><p>like me--you like me. I know you do; you have shown it, and I have felt </p><p>it. After that, you may be as cold as you please! They have bullied you, </p><p>I say; they have tortured you. It's an outrage, and I insist upon saving </p><p>you from the extravagance of your own generosity. Would you chop off </p><p>your hand if your mother requested it?" </p><p>Madame de Cintre looked a little frightened. "I spoke of my mother </p><p>too blindly, the other day. I am my own mistress, by law and by her </p><p>approval. She can do nothing to me; she has done nothing. She has never </p><p>alluded to those hard words I used about her." </p><p>"She has made you feel them, I'll promise you!" said Newman.</p><p>"It's my conscience that makes me feel them." </p><p>"Your conscience seems to me to be rather mixed!" exclaimed Newman, </p><p>passionately. </p><p>"It has been in great trouble, but now it is very clear," said Madame </p><p>de Cintre. "I don't give you up for any worldly advantage or for any </p><p>worldly happiness." </p><p>"Oh, you don't give me up for Lord Deepmere, I know," said Newman. "I </p><p>won't pretend, even to provoke you, that I think that. But that's what </p><p>your mother and your brother wanted, and your mother, at that villainous </p><p>ball of hers--I liked it at the time, but the very thought of it now </p><p>makes me rabid--tried to push him on to make up to you." </p><p>"Who told you this?" said Madame de Cintre softly. </p><p>"Not Valentin. I observed it. I guessed it. I didn't know at the time </p><p>that I was observing it, but it stuck in my memory. And afterwards, you </p><p>recollect, I saw Lord Deepmere with you in the conservatory. You said </p><p>then that you would tell me at another time what he had said to you." </p><p>"That was before--before THIS," said Madame de Cintre. </p><p>"It doesn't matter," said Newman; "and, besides, I think I know. He's an </p><p>honest little Englishman. He came and told you what your mother was up </p><p>to--that she wanted him to supplant me; not being a commercial person. </p><p>If he would make you an offer she would undertake to bring you over and </p><p>give me the slip. Lord Deepmere isn't very intellectual, so she had to </p><p>spell it out to him. He said he admired you 'no end,' and that he wanted </p><p>you to know it; but he didn't like being mixed up with that sort of </p><p>underhand work, and he came to you and told tales. That was about the </p><p>amount of it, wasn't it? And then you said you were perfectly happy." </p><p>"I don't see why we should talk of Lord Deepmere," said Madame de </p><p>Cintre. "It was not for that you came here. And about my mother, it </p><p>doesn't matter what you suspect and what you know. When once my mind </p><p>has been made up, as it is now, I should not discuss these things. </p><p>Discussing anything, now, is very idle. We must try and live each as we </p><p>can. I believe you will be happy again; even, sometimes, when you think </p><p>of me. When you do so, think this--that it was not easy, and that I did </p><p>the best I could. I have things to reckon with that you don't know. I </p><p>mean I have feelings. I must do as they force me--I must, I must. They </p><p>would haunt me otherwise," she cried, with vehemence; "they would kill </p><p>me!" </p><p>"I know what your feelings are: they are superstitions! They are the </p><p>feeling that, after all, though I AM a good fellow, I have been </p><p>in business; the feeling that your mother's looks are law and your </p><p>brother's words are gospel; that you all hang together, and that it's </p><p>a part of the everlasting proprieties that they should have a hand in </p><p>everything you do. It makes my blood boil. That is cold; you are right. </p><p>And what I feel here," and Newman struck his heart and became more </p><p>poetical than he knew, "is a glowing fire!" </p><p>A spectator less preoccupied than Madame de Cintre's distracted wooer </p><p>would have felt sure from the first that her appealing calm of manner </p><p>was the result of violent effort, in spite of which the tide of</p><p>agitation was rapidly rising. On these last words of Newman's it </p><p>overflowed, though at first she spoke low, for fear of her voice </p><p>betraying her. "No. I was not right--I am not cold! I believe that if I </p><p>am doing what seems so bad, it is not mere weakness and falseness. Mr. </p><p>Newman, it's like a religion. I can't tell you--I can't! It's cruel of </p><p>you to insist. I don't see why I shouldn't ask you to believe me--and </p><p>pity me. It's like a religion. There's a curse upon the house; I don't </p><p>know what--I don't know why--don't ask me. We must all bear it. I have </p><p>been too selfish; I wanted to escape from it. You offered me a great </p><p>chance--besides my liking you. It seemed good to change completely, to </p><p>break, to go away. And then I admired you. But I can't--it has overtaken </p><p>and come back to me." Her self-control had now completely abandoned her, </p><p>and her words were broken with long sobs. "Why do such dreadful things </p><p>happen to us--why is my brother Valentin killed, like a beast in the </p><p>midst of his youth and his gayety and his brightness and all that we </p><p>loved him for? Why are there things I can't ask about--that I am afraid </p><p>to know? Why are there places I can't look at, sounds I can't hear? </p><p>Why is it given to me to choose, to decide, in a case so hard and so </p><p>terrible as this? I am not meant for that--I am not made for boldness </p><p>and defiance. I was made to be happy in a quiet, natural way." At this </p><p>Newman gave a most expressive groan, but Madame de Cintre went on. "I </p><p>was made to do gladly and gratefully what is expected of me. My mother </p><p>has always been very good to me; that's all I can say. I must not judge </p><p>her; I must not criticize her. If I did, it would come back to me. I </p><p>can't change!" </p><p>"No," said Newman, bitterly; "I must change--if I break in two in the </p><p>effort!" </p><p>"You are different. You are a man; you will get over it. You have all </p><p>kinds of consolation. You were born--you were trained, to changes. </p><p>Besides--besides, I shall always think of you." </p><p>"I don't care for that!" cried Newman. "You are cruel--you are terribly </p><p>cruel. God forgive you! You may have the best reasons and the finest </p><p>feelings in the world; that makes no difference. You are a mystery to </p><p>me; I don't see how such hardness can go with such loveliness." </p><p>Madame de Cintre fixed him a moment with her swimming eyes. "You believe </p><p>I am hard, then?" </p><p>Newman answered her look, and then broke out, "You are a perfect, </p><p>faultless creature! Stay by me!" </p><p>"Of course I am hard," she went on. "Whenever we give pain we are hard. </p><p>And we MUST give pain; that's the world,--the hateful, miserable world! </p><p>Ah!" and she gave a long, deep sigh, "I can't even say I am glad to have </p><p>known you--though I am. That too is to wrong you. I can say nothing that </p><p>is not cruel. Therefore let us part, without more of this. Good-by!" And </p><p>she put out her hand. </p><p>Newman stood and looked at it without taking it, and raised his eyes to </p><p>her face. He felt, himself, like shedding tears of rage. "What are you </p><p>going to do?" he asked. "Where are you going?" </p><p>"Where I shall give no more pain and suspect no more evil. I am going </p><p>out of the world." </p><p>"Out of the world?"</p><p>"I am going into a convent." </p><p>"Into a convent!" Newman repeated the words with the deepest dismay; </p><p>it was as if she had said she was going into an hospital. "Into a </p><p>convent--YOU!" </p><p>"I told you that it was not for my worldly advantage or pleasure I was </p><p>leaving you." </p><p>But still Newman hardly understood. "You are going to be a nun," he went </p><p>on, "in a cell--for life--with a gown and white veil?" </p><p>"A nun--a Carmelite nun," said Madame de Cintre. "For life, with God's </p><p>leave." </p><p>The idea struck Newman as too dark and horrible for belief, and made </p><p>him feel as he would have done if she had told him that she was going </p><p>to mutilate her beautiful face, or drink some potion that would make her </p><p>mad. He clasped his hands and began to tremble, visibly. </p><p>"Madame de Cintre, don't, don't!" he said. "I beseech you! On my knees, </p><p>if you like, I'll beseech you." </p><p>She laid her hand upon his arm, with a tender, pitying, almost </p><p>reassuring gesture. "You don't understand," she said. "You have wrong </p><p>ideas. It's nothing horrible. It is only peace and safety. It is to be </p><p>out of the world, where such troubles as this come to the innocent, </p><p>to the best. And for life--that's the blessing of it! They can't begin </p><p>again." </p><p>Newman dropped into a chair and sat looking at her with a long, </p><p>inarticulate murmur. That this superb woman, in whom he had seen all </p><p>human grace and household force, should turn from him and all the </p><p>brightness that he offered her--him and his future and his fortune and </p><p>his fidelity--to muffle herself in ascetic rags and entomb herself in a </p><p>cell was a confounding combination of the inexorable and the grotesque. </p><p>As the image deepened before him the grotesque seemed to expand and </p><p>overspread it; it was a reduction to the absurd of the trial to which </p><p>he was subjected. "You--you a nun!" he exclaimed; "you with your beauty </p><p>defaced--you behind locks and bars! Never, never, if I can prevent it!" </p><p>And he sprang to his feet with a violent laugh. </p><p>"You can't prevent it," said Madame de Cintre, "and it ought--a </p><p>little--to satisfy you. Do you suppose I will go on living in the world, </p><p>still beside you, and yet not with you? It is all arranged. Good-by, </p><p>good-by." </p><p>This time he took her hand, took it in both his own. "Forever?" he </p><p>said. Her lips made an inaudible movement and his own uttered a deep </p><p>imprecation. She closed her eyes, as if with the pain of hearing it; </p><p>then he drew her towards him and clasped her to his breast. He kissed </p><p>her white face; for an instant she resisted and for a moment she </p><p>submitted; then, with force, she disengaged herself and hurried away </p><p>over the long shining floor. The next moment the door closed behind her. </p><p>Newman made his way out as he could. </p><p>CHAPTER XXI </p><p>There is a pretty public walk at Poitiers, laid out upon the crest of </p><p>the high hill around which the little city clusters, planted with thick </p><p>trees and looking down upon the fertile fields in which the old English </p><p>princes fought for their right and held it. Newman paced up and down </p><p>this quiet promenade for the greater part of the next day and let his </p><p>eyes wander over the historic prospect; but he would have been sadly </p><p>at a loss to tell you afterwards whether the latter was made up of </p><p>coal-fields or of vineyards. He was wholly given up to his grievance, </p><p>or which reflection by no means diminished the weight. He feared that </p><p>Madame de Cintre was irretrievably lost; and yet, as he would have </p><p>said himself, he didn't see his way clear to giving her up. He found </p><p>it impossible to turn his back upon Fleurieres and its inhabitants; </p><p>it seemed to him that some germ of hope or reparation must lurk there </p><p>somewhere, if he could only stretch his arm out far enough to pluck </p><p>it. It was as if he had his hand on a door-knob and were closing his </p><p>clenched fist upon it: he had thumped, he had called, he had pressed </p><p>the door with his powerful knee and shaken it with all his strength, </p><p>and dead, damning silence had answered him. And yet something held </p><p>him there--something hardened the grasp of his fingers. Newman's </p><p>satisfaction had been too intense, his whole plan too deliberate and </p><p>mature, his prospect of happiness too rich and comprehensive for this </p><p>fine moral fabric to crumble at a stroke. The very foundation seemed </p><p>fatally injured, and yet he felt a stubborn desire still to try to save </p><p>the edifice. He was filled with a sorer sense of wrong than he had ever </p><p>known, or than he had supposed it possible he should know. To accept </p><p>his injury and walk away without looking behind him was a stretch of </p><p>good-nature of which he found himself incapable. He looked behind him </p><p>intently and continually, and what he saw there did not assuage his </p><p>resentment. He saw himself trustful, generous, liberal, patient, easy, </p><p>pocketing frequent irritation and furnishing unlimited modesty. To have </p><p>eaten humble pie, to have been snubbed and patronized and satirized and </p><p>have consented to take it as one of the conditions of the bargain--to </p><p>have done this, and done it all for nothing, surely gave one a right to </p><p>protest. And to be turned off because one was a commercial person! As if </p><p>he had ever talked or dreamt of the commercial since his connection with </p><p>the Bellegardes began--as if he had made the least circumstance of the </p><p>commercial--as if he would not have consented to confound the commercial </p><p>fifty times a day, if it might have increased by a hair's breadth the </p><p>chance of the Bellegardes' not playing him a trick! Granted that being </p><p>commercial was fair ground for having a trick played upon one, how </p><p>little they knew about the class so designed and its enterprising way </p><p>of not standing upon trifles! It was in the light of his injury that the </p><p>weight of Newman's past endurance seemed so heavy; his actual irritation </p><p>had not been so great, merged as it was in his vision of the cloudless </p><p>blue that overarched his immediate wooing. But now his sense of outrage </p><p>was deep, rancorous, and ever present; he felt that he was a good fellow </p><p>wronged. As for Madame de Cintre's conduct, it struck him with a kind </p><p>of awe, and the fact that he was powerless to understand it or feel </p><p>the reality of its motives only deepened the force with which he had </p><p>attached himself to her. He had never let the fact of her Catholicism </p><p>trouble him; Catholicism to him was nothing but a name, and to express </p><p>a mistrust of the form in which her religious feelings had moulded </p><p>themselves would have seemed to him on his own part a rather pretentious </p><p>affectation of Protestant zeal. If such superb white flowers as that </p><p>could bloom in Catholic soil, the soil was not insalubrious. But it was</p><p>one thing to be a Catholic, and another to turn nun--on your hand! </p><p>There was something lugubriously comical in the way Newman's thoroughly </p><p>contemporaneous optimism was confronted with this dusky old-world </p><p>expedient. To see a woman made for him and for motherhood to his </p><p>children juggled away in this tragic travesty--it was a thing to rub </p><p>one's eyes over, a nightmare, an illusion, a hoax. But the hours passed </p><p>away without disproving the thing, and leaving him only the after-sense </p><p>of the vehemence with which he had embraced Madame de Cintre. He </p><p>remembered her words and her looks; he turned them over and tried to </p><p>shake the mystery out of them and to infuse them with an endurable </p><p>meaning. What had she meant by her feeling being a kind of religion? It </p><p>was the religion simply of the family laws, the religion of which her </p><p>implacable little mother was the high priestess. Twist the thing about </p><p>as her generosity would, the one certain fact was that they had used </p><p>force against her. Her generosity had tried to screen them, but Newman's </p><p>heart rose into his throat at the thought that they should go scot-free. </p><p>The twenty-four hours wore themselves away, and the next morning Newman </p><p>sprang to his feet with the resolution to return to Fleurieres and </p><p>demand another interview with Madame de Bellegarde and her son. He </p><p>lost no time in putting it into practice. As he rolled swiftly over </p><p>the excellent road in the little caleche furnished him at the inn at </p><p>Poitiers, he drew forth, as it were, from the very safe place in his </p><p>mind to which he had consigned it, the last information given him by </p><p>poor Valentin. Valentin had told him he could do something with it, and </p><p>Newman thought it would be well to have it at hand. This was of course </p><p>not the first time, lately, that Newman had given it his attention. It </p><p>was information in the rough,--it was dark and puzzling; but Newman was </p><p>neither helpless nor afraid. Valentin had evidently meant to put him in </p><p>possession of a powerful instrument, though he could not be said to </p><p>have placed the handle very securely within his grasp. But if he had not </p><p>really told him the secret, he had at least given him the clew to it--a </p><p>clew of which that queer old Mrs. Bread held the other end. Mrs. Bread </p><p>had always looked to Newman as if she knew secrets; and as he apparently </p><p>enjoyed her esteem, he suspected she might be induced to share her </p><p>knowledge with him. So long as there was only Mrs. Bread to deal </p><p>with, he felt easy. As to what there was to find out, he had only one </p><p>fear--that it might not be bad enough. Then, when the image of the </p><p>marquise and her son rose before him again, standing side by side, </p><p>the old woman's hand in Urbain's arm, and the same cold, unsociable </p><p>fixedness in the eyes of each, he cried out to himself that the fear was </p><p>groundless. There was blood in the secret at the very last! He arrived </p><p>at Fleurieres almost in a state of elation; he had satisfied himself, </p><p>logically, that in the presence of his threat of exposure they would, as </p><p>he mentally phrased it, rattle down like unwound buckets. He remembered </p><p>indeed that he must first catch his hare--first ascertain what there was </p><p>to expose; but after that, why shouldn't his happiness be as good as new </p><p>again? Mother and son would drop their lovely victim in terror and take </p><p>to hiding, and Madame de Cintre, left to herself, would surely come back </p><p>to him. Give her a chance and she would rise to the surface, return to </p><p>the light. How could she fail to perceive that his house would be much </p><p>the most comfortable sort of convent? </p><p>Newman, as he had done before, left his conveyance at the inn and walked </p><p>the short remaining distance to the chateau. When he reached the gate, </p><p>however, a singular feeling took possession of him--a feeling which, </p><p>strange as it may seem, had its source in its unfathomable good </p><p>nature. He stood there a while, looking through the bars at the large, </p><p>time-stained face of the edifice, and wondering to what crime it was</p><p>that the dark old house, with its flowery name, had given convenient </p><p>occasion. It had given occasion, first and last, to tyrannies and </p><p>sufferings enough, Newman said to himself; it was an evil-looking </p><p>place to live in. Then, suddenly, came the reflection--What a horrible </p><p>rubbish-heap of iniquity to fumble in! The attitude of inquisitor turned </p><p>its ignobler face, and with the same movement Newman declared that </p><p>the Bellegardes should have another chance. He would appeal once more </p><p>directly to their sense of fairness, and not to their fear, and if they </p><p>should be accessible to reason, he need know nothing worse about them </p><p>than what he already knew. That was bad enough. </p><p>The gate-keeper let him in through the same stiff crevice as before, </p><p>and he passed through the court and over the little rustic bridge on the </p><p>moat. The door was opened before he had reached it, and, as if to put </p><p>his clemency to rout with the suggestion of a richer opportunity, Mrs. </p><p>Bread stood there awaiting him. Her face, as usual, looked as hopelessly </p><p>blank as the tide-smoothed sea-sand, and her black garments seemed of </p><p>an intenser sable. Newman had already learned that her strange </p><p>inexpressiveness could be a vehicle for emotion, and he was not </p><p>surprised at the muffled vivacity with which she whispered, "I thought </p><p>you would try again, sir. I was looking out for you." </p><p>"I am glad to see you," said Newman; "I think you are my friend." </p><p>Mrs. Bread looked at him opaquely. "I wish you well sir; but it's vain </p><p>wishing now." </p><p>"You know, then, how they have treated me?" </p><p>"Oh, sir," said Mrs. Bread, dryly, "I know everything." </p><p>Newman hesitated a moment. "Everything?" </p><p>Mrs. Bread gave him a glance somewhat more lucent. "I know at least too </p><p>much, sir." </p><p>"One can never know too much. I congratulate you. I have come to see </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde and her son," Newman added. "Are they at home? If </p><p>they are not, I will wait." </p><p>"My lady is always at home," Mrs. Bread replied, "and the marquis is </p><p>mostly with her." </p><p>"Please then tell them--one or the other, or both--that I am here and </p><p>that I desire to see them." </p><p>Mrs. Bread hesitated. "May I take a great liberty, sir?" </p><p>"You have never taken a liberty but you have justified it," said Newman, </p><p>with diplomatic urbanity. </p><p>Mrs. Bread dropped her wrinkled eyelids as if she were curtseying; but </p><p>the curtsey stopped there; the occasion was too grave. "You have come to </p><p>plead with them again, sir? Perhaps you don't know this--that Madame de </p><p>Cintre returned this morning to Paris." </p><p>"Ah, she's gone!" And Newman, groaning, smote the pavement with his </p><p>stick. </p><p>"She has gone straight to the convent--the Carmelites they call it. I </p><p>see you know, sir. My lady and the marquis take it very ill. It was only </p><p>last night she told them." </p><p>"Ah, she had kept it back, then?" cried Newman. "Good, good! And they </p><p>are very fierce?" </p><p>"They are not pleased," said Mrs. Bread. "But they may well dislike it. </p><p>They tell me it's most dreadful, sir; of all the nuns in Christendom the </p><p>Carmelites are the worst. You may say they are really not human, sir; </p><p>they make you give up everything--forever. And to think of HER there! If </p><p>I was one that cried, sir, I could cry." </p><p>Newman looked at her an instant. "We mustn't cry, Mrs. Bread; we must </p><p>act. Go and call them!" And he made a movement to enter farther. </p><p>But Mrs. Bread gently checked him. "May I take another liberty? I am </p><p>told you were with my dearest Mr. Valentin, in his last hours. If you </p><p>would tell me a word about him! The poor count was my own boy, sir; for </p><p>the first year of his life he was hardly out of my arms; I taught him </p><p>to speak. And the count spoke so well, sir! He always spoke well to his </p><p>poor old Bread. When he grew up and took his pleasure he always had a </p><p>kind word for me. And to die in that wild way! They have a story that </p><p>he fought with a wine-merchant. I can't believe that, sir! And was he in </p><p>great pain?" </p><p>"You are a wise, kind old woman, Mrs. Bread," said Newman. "I hoped I </p><p>might see you with my own children in your arms. Perhaps I shall, yet." </p><p>And he put out his hand. Mrs. Bread looked for a moment at his open </p><p>palm, and then, as if fascinated by the novelty of the gesture, extended </p><p>her own ladylike fingers. Newman held her hand firmly and deliberately, </p><p>fixing his eyes upon her. "You want to know all about Mr. Valentin?" he </p><p>said. </p><p>"It would be a sad pleasure, sir." </p><p>"I can tell you everything. Can you sometimes leave this place?" </p><p>"The chateau, sir? I really don't know. I never tried." </p><p>"Try, then; try hard. Try this evening, at dusk. Come to me in the old </p><p>ruin there on the hill, in the court before the church. I will wait for </p><p>you there; I have something very important to tell you. An old woman </p><p>like you can do as she pleases." </p><p>Mrs. Bread stared, wondering, with parted lips. "Is it from the count, </p><p>sir?" she asked. </p><p>"From the count--from his death-bed," said Newman. </p><p>"I will come, then. I will be bold, for once, for HIM." </p><p>She led Newman into the great drawing-room with which he had already </p><p>made acquaintance, and retired to execute his commands. Newman waited </p><p>a long time; at last he was on the point of ringing and repeating his </p><p>request. He was looking round him for a bell when the marquis came in </p><p>with his mother on his arm. It will be seen that Newman had a logical </p><p>mind when I say that he declared to himself, in perfect good faith, as </p><p>a result of Valentin's dark hints, that his adversaries looked grossly</p><p>wicked. "There is no mistake about it now," he said to himself as they </p><p>advanced. "They're a bad lot; they have pulled off the mask." Madame </p><p>de Bellegarde and her son certainly bore in their faces the signs of </p><p>extreme perturbation; they looked like people who had passed a sleepless </p><p>night. Confronted, moreover, with an annoyance which they hoped they had </p><p>disposed of, it was not natural that they should have any very tender </p><p>glances to bestow upon Newman. He stood before them, and such eye-beams </p><p>as they found available they leveled at him; Newman feeling as if the </p><p>door of a sepulchre had suddenly been opened, and the damp darkness were </p><p>being exhaled. </p><p>"You see I have come back," he said. "I have come to try again." </p><p>"It would be ridiculous," said M. de Bellegarde, "to pretend that we are </p><p>glad to see you or that we don't question the taste of your visit." </p><p>"Oh, don't talk about taste," said Newman, with a laugh, "or that will </p><p>bring us round to yours! If I consulted my taste I certainly shouldn't </p><p>come to see you. Besides, I will make as short work as you please. </p><p>Promise me to raise the blockade--to set Madame de Cintre at </p><p>liberty--and I will retire instantly." </p><p>"We hesitated as to whether we would see you," said Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde; "and we were on the point of declining the honor. But it </p><p>seemed to me that we should act with civility, as we have always done, </p><p>and I wished to have the satisfaction of informing you that there are </p><p>certain weaknesses that people of our way of feeling can be guilty of </p><p>but once." </p><p>"You may be weak but once, but you will be audacious many times, </p><p>madam," Newman answered. "I didn't come however, for conversational </p><p>purposes. I came to say this, simply: that if you will write immediately </p><p>to your daughter that you withdraw your opposition to her marriage, I </p><p>will take care of the rest. You don't want her to turn nun--you know </p><p>more about the horrors of it than I do. Marrying a commercial person is </p><p>better than that. Give me a letter to her, signed and sealed, saying you </p><p>retract and that she may marry me with your blessing, and I will take </p><p>it to her at the convent and bring her out. There's your chance--I call </p><p>those easy terms." </p><p>"We look at the matter otherwise, you know. We call them very hard </p><p>terms," said Urbain de Bellegarde. They had all remained standing </p><p>rigidly in the middle of the room. "I think my mother will tell you that </p><p>she would rather her daughter should become Soeur Catherine than Mrs. </p><p>Newman." </p><p>But the old lady, with the serenity of supreme power, let her son make </p><p>her epigrams for her. She only smiled, almost sweetly, shaking her head </p><p>and repeating, "But once, Mr. Newman; but once!" </p><p>Nothing that Newman had ever seen or heard gave him such a sense of </p><p>marble hardness as this movement and the tone that accompanied it. </p><p>"Could anything compel you?" he asked. "Do you know of anything that </p><p>would force you?" </p><p>"This language, sir," said the marquis, "addressed to people in </p><p>bereavement and grief is beyond all qualification." </p><p>"In most cases," Newman answered, "your objection would have some</p><p>weight, even admitting that Madame de Cintre's present intentions make </p><p>time precious. But I have thought of what you speak of, and I have come </p><p>here to-day without scruple simply because I consider your brother and </p><p>you two very different parties. I see no connection between you. Your </p><p>brother was ashamed of you. Lying there wounded and dying, the poor </p><p>fellow apologized to me for your conduct. He apologized to me for that </p><p>of his mother." </p><p>For a moment the effect of these words was as if Newman had struck </p><p>a physical blow. A quick flush leaped into the faces of Madame de </p><p>Bellegarde and her son, and they exchanged a glance like a twinkle of </p><p>steel. Urbain uttered two words which Newman but half heard, but of </p><p>which the sense came to him as it were in the reverberation of the </p><p>sound, "Le miserable!" </p><p>"You show little respect for the living," said Madame de Bellegarde, </p><p>"but at least respect the dead. Don't profane--don't insult--the memory </p><p>of my innocent son." </p><p>"I speak the simple truth," Newman declared, "and I speak it for a </p><p>purpose. I repeat it--distinctly. Your son was utterly disgusted--your </p><p>son apologized." </p><p>Urbain de Bellegarde was frowning portentously, and Newman supposed he </p><p>was frowning at poor Valentin's invidious image. Taken by surprise, </p><p>his scant affection for his brother had made a momentary concession to </p><p>dishonor. But not for an appreciable instant did his mother lower her </p><p>flag. "You are immensely mistaken, sir," she said. "My son was sometimes </p><p>light, but he was never indecent. He died faithful to his name." </p><p>"You simply misunderstood him," said the marquis, beginning to rally. </p><p>"You affirm the impossible!" </p><p>"Oh, I don't care for poor Valentin's apology," said Newman. "It was </p><p>far more painful than pleasant to me. This atrocious thing was not his </p><p>fault; he never hurt me, or any one else; he was the soul of honor. But </p><p>it shows how he took it." </p><p>"If you wish to prove that my poor brother, in his last moments, was </p><p>out of his head, we can only say that under the melancholy circumstances </p><p>nothing was more possible. But confine yourself to that." </p><p>"He was quite in his right mind," said Newman, with gentle but dangerous </p><p>doggedness; "I have never seen him so bright and clever. It was terrible </p><p>to see that witty, capable fellow dying such a death. You know I was </p><p>very fond of your brother. And I have further proof of his sanity," </p><p>Newman concluded. </p><p>The marquise gathered herself together majestically. "This is too </p><p>gross!" she cried. "We decline to accept your story, sir--we repudiate </p><p>it. Urbain, open the door." She turned away, with an imperious motion </p><p>to her son, and passed rapidly down the length of the room. The marquis </p><p>went with her and held the door open. Newman was left standing. </p><p>He lifted his finger, as a sign to M. de Bellegarde, who closed the </p><p>door behind his mother and stood waiting. Newman slowly advanced, more </p><p>silent, for the moment, than life. The two men stood face to face. Then </p><p>Newman had a singular sensation; he felt his sense of injury almost </p><p>brimming over into jocularity. "Come," he said, "you don't treat me</p><p>well; at least admit that." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde looked at him from head to foot, and then, in the most </p><p>delicate, best-bred voice, "I detest you, personally," he said. </p><p>"That's the way I feel to you, but for politeness sake I don't say </p><p>it," said Newman. "It's singular I should want so much to be your </p><p>brother-in-law, but I can't give it up. Let me try once more." And he </p><p>paused a moment. "You have a secret--you have a skeleton in the closet." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde continued to look at him hard, but Newman could not see </p><p>whether his eyes betrayed anything; the look of his eyes was always so </p><p>strange. Newman paused again, and then went on. "You and your mother </p><p>have committed a crime." At this M. de Bellegarde's eyes certainly did </p><p>change; they seemed to flicker, like blown candles. Newman could see </p><p>that he was profoundly startled; but there was something admirable in </p><p>his self-control. </p><p>"Continue," said M. de Bellegarde. </p><p>Newman lifted a finger and made it waver a little in the air. "Need I </p><p>continue? You are trembling." </p><p>"Pray where did you obtain this interesting information?" M. de </p><p>Bellegarde asked, very softly. </p><p>"I shall be strictly accurate," said Newman. "I won't pretend to know </p><p>more than I do. At present that is all I know. You have done something </p><p>that you must hide, something that would damn you if it were known, </p><p>something that would disgrace the name you are so proud of. I don't know </p><p>what it is, but I can find out. Persist in your present course and I </p><p>WILL find out. Change it, let your sister go in peace, and I will leave </p><p>you alone. It's a bargain?" </p><p>The marquis almost succeeded in looking untroubled; the breaking up </p><p>of the ice in his handsome countenance was an operation that was </p><p>necessarily gradual. But Newman's mildly-syllabled argumentation seemed </p><p>to press, and press, and presently he averted his eyes. He stood some </p><p>moments, reflecting. </p><p>"My brother told you this," he said, looking up. </p><p>Newman hesitated a moment. "Yes, your brother told me." </p><p>The marquis smiled, handsomely. "Didn't I say that he was out of his </p><p>mind?" </p><p>"He was out of his mind if I don't find out. He was very much in it if I </p><p>do." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde gave a shrug. "Eh, sir, find out or not, as you </p><p>please." </p><p>"I don't frighten you?" demanded Newman. </p><p>"That's for you to judge." </p><p>"No, it's for you to judge, at your leisure. Think it over, feel </p><p>yourself all round. I will give you an hour or two. I can't give you </p><p>more, for how do we know how fast they may be making Madame de Cintre</p><p>a nun? Talk it over with your mother; let her judge whether she is </p><p>frightened. I don't believe she is as easily frightened, in general, as </p><p>you; but you will see. I will go and wait in the village, at the inn, </p><p>and I beg you to let me know as soon as possible. Say by three o'clock. </p><p>A simple YES or NO on paper will do. Only, you know, in case of a yes </p><p>I shall expect you, this time, to stick to your bargain." And with this </p><p>Newman opened the door and let himself out. The marquis did not move, </p><p>and Newman, retiring, gave him another look. "At the inn, in the </p><p>village," he repeated. Then he turned away altogether and passed out of </p><p>the house. </p><p>He was extremely excited by what he had been doing, for it was </p><p>inevitable that there should be a certain emotion in calling up the </p><p>spectre of dishonor before a family a thousand years old. But he went </p><p>back to the inn and contrived to wait there, deliberately, for the next </p><p>two hours. He thought it more than probable that Urbain de Bellegarde </p><p>would give no sign; for an answer to his challenge, in either sense, </p><p>would be a confession of guilt. What he most expected was silence--in </p><p>other words defiance. But he prayed that, as he imagined it, his shot </p><p>might bring them down. It did bring, by three o'clock, a note, delivered </p><p>by a footman; a note addressed in Urbain de Bellegarde's handsome </p><p>English hand. It ran as follows:-- </p><p>"I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of letting you know that I return </p><p>to Paris, to-morrow, with my mother, in order that we may see my sister </p><p>and confirm her in the resolution which is the most effectual reply to </p><p>your audacious pertinacity. </p><p>"HENRI-URBAIN DE BELLEGARDE." </p><p>Newman put the letter into his pocket, and continued his walk up and </p><p>down the inn-parlor. He had spent most of his time, for the past week, </p><p>in walking up and down. He continued to measure the length of the little </p><p>salle of the Armes de Prance until the day began to wane, when he went </p><p>out to keep his rendezvous with Mrs. Bread. The path which led up </p><p>the hill to the ruin was easy to find, and Newman in a short time had </p><p>followed it to the top. He passed beneath the rugged arch of the castle </p><p>wall, and looked about him in the early dusk for an old woman in black. </p><p>The castle yard was empty, but the door of the church was open. Newman </p><p>went into the little nave and of course found a deeper dusk than </p><p>without. A couple of tapers, however, twinkled on the altar and just </p><p>enabled him to perceive a figure seated by one of the pillars. Closer </p><p>inspection helped him to recognize Mrs. Bread, in spite of the fact </p><p>that she was dressed with unwonted splendor. She wore a large black </p><p>silk bonnet, with imposing bows of crape, and an old black satin dress </p><p>disposed itself in vaguely lustrous folds about her person. She had </p><p>judged it proper to the occasion to appear in her stateliest apparel. </p><p>She had been sitting with her eyes fixed upon the ground, but when </p><p>Newman passed before her she looked up at him, and then she rose. </p><p>"Are you a Catholic, Mrs. Bread?" he asked. </p><p>"No, sir; I'm a good Church-of-England woman, very Low," she answered. </p><p>"But I thought I should be safer in here than outside. I was never out </p><p>in the evening before, sir." </p><p>"We shall be safer," said Newman, "where no one can hear us." And he led </p><p>the way back into the castle court and then followed a path beside the</p><p>church, which he was sure must lead into another part of the ruin. He </p><p>was not deceived. It wandered along the crest of the hill and terminated </p><p>before a fragment of wall pierced by a rough aperture which had once </p><p>been a door. Through this aperture Newman passed and found himself in </p><p>a nook peculiarly favorable to quiet conversation, as probably many </p><p>an earnest couple, otherwise assorted than our friends, had assured </p><p>themselves. The hill sloped abruptly away, and on the remnant of its </p><p>crest were scattered two or three fragments of stone. Beneath, over the </p><p>plain, lay the gathered twilight, through which, in the near distance, </p><p>gleamed two or three lights from the chateau. Mrs. Bread rustled slowly </p><p>after her guide, and Newman, satisfying himself that one of the fallen </p><p>stones was steady, proposed to her to sit upon it. She cautiously </p><p>complied, and he placed himself upon another, near her. </p><p>CHAPTER XXII </p><p>"I am very much obliged to you for coming," Newman said. "I hope it won't </p><p>get you into trouble." </p><p>"I don't think I shall be missed. My lady, in these days, is not fond of </p><p>having me about her." This was said with a certain fluttered eagerness </p><p>which increased Newman's sense of having inspired the old woman with </p><p>confidence. </p><p>"From the first, you know," he answered, "you took an interest in my </p><p>prospects. You were on my side. That gratified me, I assure you. And now </p><p>that you know what they have done to me, I am sure you are with me all </p><p>the more." </p><p>"They have not done well--I must say it," said Mrs. Bread. "But you </p><p>mustn't blame the poor countess; they pressed her hard." </p><p>"I would give a million of dollars to know what they did to her!" cried </p><p>Newman. </p><p>Mrs. Bread sat with a dull, oblique gaze fixed upon the lights of the </p><p>chateau. "They worked on her feelings; they knew that was the way. </p><p>She is a delicate creature. They made her feel wicked. She is only too </p><p>good." </p><p>"Ah, they made her feel wicked," said Newman, slowly; and then he </p><p>repeated it. "They made her feel wicked,--they made her feel wicked." </p><p>The words seemed to him for the moment a vivid description of infernal </p><p>ingenuity. </p><p>"It was because she was so good that she gave up--poor sweet lady!" </p><p>added Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"But she was better to them than to me," said Newman. </p><p>"She was afraid," said Mrs. Bread, very confidently; "she has always </p><p>been afraid, or at least for a long time. That was the real trouble, </p><p>sir. She was like a fair peach, I may say, with just one little speck. </p><p>She had one little sad spot. You pushed her into the sunshine, sir, and </p><p>it almost disappeared. Then they pulled her back into the shade and in </p><p>a moment it began to spread. Before we knew it she was gone. She was a</p><p>delicate creature." </p><p>This singular attestation of Madame de Cintre's delicacy, for all its </p><p>singularity, set Newman's wound aching afresh. "I see," he presently </p><p>said; "she knew something bad about her mother." </p><p>"No, sir, she knew nothing," said Mrs. Bread, holding her head very </p><p>stiff and keeping her eyes fixed upon the glimmering windows of the </p><p>chateau. </p><p>"She guessed something, then, or suspected it." </p><p>"She was afraid to know," said Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"But YOU know, at any rate," said Newman. </p><p>She slowly turned her vague eyes upon Newman, squeezing her hands </p><p>together in her lap. "You are not quite faithful, sir. I thought it was </p><p>to tell me about Mr. Valentin you asked me to come here." </p><p>"Oh, the more we talk of Mr. Valentin the better," said Newman. "That's </p><p>exactly what I want. I was with him, as I told you, in his last hour. </p><p>He was in a great deal of pain, but he was quite himself. You know what </p><p>that means; he was bright and lively and clever." </p><p>"Oh, he would always be clever, sir," said Mrs. Bread. "And did he know </p><p>of your trouble?" </p><p>"Yes, he guessed it of himself." </p><p>"And what did he say to it?" </p><p>"He said it was a disgrace to his name--but it was not the first." </p><p>"Lord, Lord!" murmured Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"He said that his mother and his brother had once put their heads </p><p>together and invented something even worse." </p><p>"You shouldn't have listened to that, sir." </p><p>"Perhaps not. But I DID listen, and I don't forget it. Now I want to </p><p>know what it is they did." </p><p>Mrs. Bread gave a soft moan. "And you have enticed me up into this </p><p>strange place to tell you?" </p><p>"Don't be alarmed," said Newman. "I won't say a word that shall be </p><p>disagreeable to you. Tell me as it suits you, and when it suits you. </p><p>Only remember that it was Mr. Valentin's last wish that you should." </p><p>"Did he say that?" </p><p>"He said it with his last breath--'Tell Mrs. Bread I told you to ask </p><p>her.'" </p><p>"Why didn't he tell you himself?" </p><p>"It was too long a story for a dying man; he had no breath left in his</p><p>body. He could only say that he wanted me to know--that, wronged as I </p><p>was, it was my right to know." </p><p>"But how will it help you, sir?" said Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"That's for me to decide. Mr. Valentin believed it would, and that's why </p><p>he told me. Your name was almost the last word he spoke." </p><p>Mrs. Bread was evidently awe-struck by this statement; she shook her </p><p>clasped hands slowly up and down. "Excuse me, sir," she said, "if I take </p><p>a great liberty. Is it the solemn truth you are speaking? I MUST ask you </p><p>that; must I not, sir?" </p><p>"There's no offense. It is the solemn truth; I solemnly swear it. Mr. </p><p>Valentin himself would certainly have told me more if he had been able." </p><p>"Oh, sir, if he knew more!" </p><p>"Don't you suppose he did?" </p><p>"There's no saying what he knew about anything," said Mrs. Bread, with </p><p>a mild head-shake. "He was so mightily clever. He could make you believe </p><p>he knew things that he didn't, and that he didn't know others that he </p><p>had better not have known." </p><p>"I suspect he knew something about his brother that kept the marquis </p><p>civil to him," Newman propounded; "he made the marquis feel him. What he </p><p>wanted now was to put me in his place; he wanted to give me a chance to </p><p>make the marquis feel ME." </p><p>"Mercy on us!" cried the old waiting-woman, "how wicked we all are!" </p><p>"I don't know," said Newman; "some of us are wicked, certainly. I am </p><p>very angry, I am very sore, and I am very bitter, but I don't know that </p><p>I am wicked. I have been cruelly injured. They have hurt me, and I want </p><p>to hurt them. I don't deny that; on the contrary, I tell you plainly </p><p>that it is the use I want to make of your secret." </p><p>Mrs. Bread seemed to hold her breath. "You want to publish them--you </p><p>want to shame them?" </p><p>"I want to bring them down,--down, down, down! I want to turn the tables </p><p>upon them--I want to mortify them as they mortified me. They took me up </p><p>into a high place and made me stand there for all the world to see me, </p><p>and then they stole behind me and pushed me into this bottomless pit, </p><p>where I lie howling and gnashing my teeth! I made a fool of myself </p><p>before all their friends; but I shall make something worse of them." </p><p>This passionate sally, which Newman uttered with the greater fervor that </p><p>it was the first time he had had a chance to say all this aloud, kindled </p><p>two small sparks in Mrs. Bread's fixed eyes. "I suppose you have a right </p><p>to your anger, sir; but think of the dishonor you will draw down on </p><p>Madame de Cintre." </p><p>"Madame de Cintre is buried alive," cried Newman. "What are honor or </p><p>dishonor to her? The door of the tomb is at this moment closing behind </p><p>her." </p><p>"Yes, it's most awful," moaned Mrs. Bread.</p><p>"She has moved off, like her brother Valentin, to give me room to work. </p><p>It's as if it were done on purpose." </p><p>"Surely," said Mrs. Bread, apparently impressed by the ingenuity of this </p><p>reflection. She was silent for some moments; then she added, "And would </p><p>you bring my lady before the courts?" </p><p>"The courts care nothing for my lady," Newman replied. "If she has </p><p>committed a crime, she will be nothing for the courts but a wicked old </p><p>woman." </p><p>"And will they hang her, Sir?" </p><p>"That depends upon what she has done." And Newman eyed Mrs. Bread </p><p>intently. </p><p>"It would break up the family most terribly, sir!" </p><p>"It's time such a family should be broken up!" said Newman, with a </p><p>laugh. </p><p>"And me at my age out of place, sir!" sighed Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"Oh, I will take care of you! You shall come and live with me. You shall </p><p>be my housekeeper, or anything you like. I will pension you for life." </p><p>"Dear, dear, sir, you think of everything." And she seemed to fall </p><p>a-brooding. </p><p>Newman watched her a while, and then he said suddenly. "Ah, Mrs. Bread, </p><p>you are too fond of my lady!" </p><p>She looked at him as quickly. "I wouldn't have you say that, sir. I </p><p>don't think it any part of my duty to be fond of my lady. I have served </p><p>her faithfully this many a year; but if she were to die to-morrow, I </p><p>believe, before Heaven I shouldn't shed a tear for her." Then, after a </p><p>pause, "I have no reason to love her!" Mrs. Bread added. "The most she </p><p>has done for me has been not to turn me out of the house." Newman felt </p><p>that decidedly his companion was more and more confidential--that if </p><p>luxury is corrupting, Mrs. Bread's conservative habits were already </p><p>relaxed by the spiritual comfort of this preconcerted interview, in </p><p>a remarkable locality, with a free-spoken millionaire. All his native </p><p>shrewdness admonished him that his part was simply to let her take her </p><p>time--let the charm of the occasion work. So he said nothing; he only </p><p>looked at her kindly. Mrs. Bread sat nursing her lean elbows. "My lady </p><p>once did me a great wrong," she went on at last. "She has a terrible </p><p>tongue when she is vexed. It was many a year ago, but I have never </p><p>forgotten it. I have never mentioned it to a human creature; I have kept </p><p>my grudge to myself. I dare say I have been wicked, but my grudge has </p><p>grown old with me. It has grown good for nothing, too, I dare say; </p><p>but it has lived along, as I have lived. It will die when I die,--not </p><p>before!" </p><p>"And what IS your grudge?" Newman asked. </p><p>Mrs. Bread dropped her eyes and hesitated. "If I were a foreigner, </p><p>sir, I should make less of telling you; it comes harder to a decent </p><p>Englishwoman. But I sometimes think I have picked up too many foreign</p><p>ways. What I was telling you belongs to a time when I was much younger </p><p>and very different looking to what I am now. I had a very high color, </p><p>sir, if you can believe it, indeed I was a very smart lass. My lady was </p><p>younger, too, and the late marquis was youngest of all--I mean in the </p><p>way he went on, sir; he had a very high spirit; he was a magnificent </p><p>man. He was fond of his pleasure, like most foreigners, and it must be </p><p>owned that he sometimes went rather below him to take it. My lady was </p><p>often jealous, and, if you'll believe it, sir, she did me the honor to </p><p>be jealous of me. One day I had a red ribbon in my cap, and my lady flew </p><p>out at me and ordered me to take it off. She accused me of putting it on </p><p>to make the marquis look at me. I don't know that I was impertinent, but </p><p>I spoke up like an honest girl and didn't count my words. A red ribbon </p><p>indeed! As if it was my ribbons the marquis looked at! My lady knew </p><p>afterwards that I was perfectly respectable, but she never said a word </p><p>to show that she believed it. But the marquis did!" Mrs. Bread presently </p><p>added, "I took off my red ribbon and put it away in a drawer, where I </p><p>have kept it to this day. It's faded now, it's a very pale pink; but </p><p>there it lies. My grudge has faded, too; the red has all gone out of it; </p><p>but it lies here yet." And Mrs. Bread stroked her black satin bodice. </p><p>Newman listened with interest to this decent narrative, which seemed </p><p>to have opened up the deeps of memory to his companion. Then, as she </p><p>remained silent, and seemed to be losing herself in retrospective </p><p>meditation upon her perfect respectability, he ventured upon a short </p><p>cut to his goal. "So Madame de Bellegarde was jealous; I see. And M. de </p><p>Bellegarde admired pretty women, without distinction of class. I suppose </p><p>one mustn't be hard upon him, for they probably didn't all behave so </p><p>properly as you. But years afterwards it could hardly have been jealousy </p><p>that turned Madame de Bellegarde into a criminal." </p><p>Mrs. Bread gave a weary sigh. "We are using dreadful words, sir, but I </p><p>don't care now. I see you have your idea, and I have no will of my own. </p><p>My will was the will of my children, as I called them; but I have lost </p><p>my children now. They are dead--I may say it of both of them; and </p><p>what should I care for the living? What is any one in the house to me </p><p>now--what am I to them? My lady objects to me--she has objected to me </p><p>these thirty years. I should have been glad to be something to young </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde, though I never was nurse to the present marquis. </p><p>When he was a baby I was too young; they wouldn't trust me with him. But </p><p>his wife told her own maid, Mamselle Clarisse, the opinion she had of </p><p>me. Perhaps you would like to hear it, sir." </p><p>"Oh, immensely," said Newman. </p><p>"She said that if I would sit in her children's schoolroom I should do </p><p>very well for a penwiper! When things have come to that I don't think I </p><p>need stand upon ceremony." </p><p>"Decidedly not," said Newman. "Go on, Mrs. Bread." </p><p>Mrs. Bread, however, relapsed again into troubled dumbness, and all </p><p>Newman could do was to fold his arms and wait. But at last she appeared </p><p>to have set her memories in order. "It was when the late marquis was an </p><p>old man and his eldest son had been two years married. It was when the </p><p>time came on for marrying Mademoiselle Claire; that's the way they talk </p><p>of it here, you know, sir. The marquis's health was bad; he was very </p><p>much broken down. My lady had picked out M. de Cintre, for no good </p><p>reason that I could see. But there are reasons, I very well know, that </p><p>are beyond me, and you must be high in the world to understand them. Old</p><p>M. de Cintre was very high, and my lady thought him almost as good </p><p>as herself; that's saying a good deal. Mr. Urbain took sides with his </p><p>mother, as he always did. The trouble, I believe, was that my lady would </p><p>give very little money, and all the other gentlemen asked more. It was </p><p>only M. de Cintre that was satisfied. The Lord willed it he should have </p><p>that one soft spot; it was the only one he had. He may have been very </p><p>grand in his birth, and he certainly was very grand in his bows and </p><p>speeches; but that was all the grandeur he had. I think he was like what </p><p>I have heard of comedians; not that I have ever seen one. But I know he </p><p>painted his face. He might paint it all he would; he could never make me </p><p>like it! The marquis couldn't abide him, and declared that sooner than </p><p>take such a husband as that Mademoiselle Claire should take none at </p><p>all. He and my lady had a great scene; it came even to our ears in the </p><p>servants' hall. It was not their first quarrel, if the truth must be </p><p>told. They were not a loving couple, but they didn't often come to </p><p>words, because, I think, neither of them thought the other's doings </p><p>worth the trouble. My lady had long ago got over her jealousy, and she </p><p>had taken to indifference. In this, I must say, they were well matched. </p><p>The marquis was very easy-going; he had a most gentlemanly temper. He </p><p>got angry only once a year, but then it was very bad. He always took to </p><p>bed directly afterwards. This time I speak of he took to bed as usual, </p><p>but he never got up again. I'm afraid the poor gentleman was paying for </p><p>his dissipation; isn't it true they mostly do, sir, when they get old? </p><p>My lady and Mr. Urbain kept quiet, but I know my lady wrote letters </p><p>to M. de Cintre. The marquis got worse and the doctors gave him up. My </p><p>lady, she gave him up too, and if the truth must be told, she gave up </p><p>gladly. When once he was out of the way she could do what she pleased </p><p>with her daughter, and it was all arranged that my poor innocent child </p><p>should be handed over to M. de Cintre. You don't know what Mademoiselle </p><p>was in those days, sir; she was the sweetest young creature in France, </p><p>and knew as little of what was going on around her as the lamb does of </p><p>the butcher. I used to nurse the marquis, and I was always in his room. </p><p>It was here at Fleurieres, in the autumn. We had a doctor from Paris, </p><p>who came and stayed two or three weeks in the house. Then there came two </p><p>others, and there was a consultation, and these two others, as I said, </p><p>declared that the marquis couldn't be saved. After this they went off, </p><p>pocketing their fees, but the other one stayed and did what he could. </p><p>The marquis himself kept crying out that he wouldn't die, that he </p><p>didn't want to die, that he would live and look after his daughter. </p><p>Mademoiselle Claire and the viscount--that was Mr. Valentin, you </p><p>know--were both in the house. The doctor was a clever man,--that I could </p><p>see myself,--and I think he believed that the marquis might get well. We </p><p>took good care of him, he and I, between us, and one day, when my lady </p><p>had almost ordered her mourning, my patient suddenly began to mend. He </p><p>got better and better, till the doctor said he was out of danger. What </p><p>was killing him was the dreadful fits of pain in his stomach. But little </p><p>by little they stopped, and the poor marquis began to make his jokes </p><p>again. The doctor found something that gave him great comfort--some </p><p>white stuff that we kept in a great bottle on the chimney-piece. I </p><p>used to give it to the marquis through a glass tube; it always made him </p><p>easier. Then the doctor went away, after telling me to keep on giving </p><p>him the mixture whenever he was bad. After that there was a little </p><p>doctor from Poitiers, who came every day. So we were alone in the </p><p>house--my lady and her poor husband and their three children. Young </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde had gone away, with her little girl, to her </p><p>mothers. You know she is very lively, and her maid told me that she </p><p>didn't like to be where people were dying." Mrs. Bread paused a moment, </p><p>and then she went on with the same quiet consistency. "I think you </p><p>have guessed, sir, that when the marquis began to turn my lady was</p><p>disappointed." And she paused again, bending upon Newman a face which </p><p>seemed to grow whiter as the darkness settled down upon them. </p><p>Newman had listened eagerly--with an eagerness greater even than that </p><p>with which he had bent his ear to Valentin de Bellegarde's last words. </p><p>Every now and then, as his companion looked up at him, she reminded him </p><p>of an ancient tabby cat, protracting the enjoyment of a dish of milk. </p><p>Even her triumph was measured and decorous; the faculty of exultation </p><p>had been chilled by disuse. She presently continued. "Late one night I </p><p>was sitting by the marquis in his room, the great red room in the west </p><p>tower. He had been complaining a little, and I gave him a spoonful </p><p>of the doctor's dose. My lady had been there in the early part of the </p><p>evening; she sat far more than an hour by his bed. Then she went away </p><p>and left me alone. After midnight she came back, and her eldest son was </p><p>with her. They went to the bed and looked at the marquis, and my lady </p><p>took hold of his hand. Then she turned to me and said he was not so </p><p>well; I remember how the marquis, without saying anything, lay staring </p><p>at her. I can see his white face, at this moment, in the great black </p><p>square between the bed-curtains. I said I didn't think he was very bad; </p><p>and she told me to go to bed--she would sit a while with him. When the </p><p>marquis saw me going he gave a sort of groan, and called out to me not </p><p>to leave him; but Mr. Urbain opened the door for me and pointed the </p><p>way out. The present marquis--perhaps you have noticed, sir--has a very </p><p>proud way of giving orders, and I was there to take orders. I went to </p><p>my room, but I wasn't easy; I couldn't tell you why. I didn't undress; </p><p>I sat there waiting and listening. For what, would you have said, sir? I </p><p>couldn't have told you; for surely a poor gentleman might be comfortable </p><p>with his wife and his son. It was as if I expected to hear the marquis </p><p>moaning after me again. I listened, but I heard nothing. It was a very </p><p>still night; I never knew a night so still. At last the very stillness </p><p>itself seemed to frighten me, and I came out of my room and went very </p><p>softly down-stairs. In the anteroom, outside of the marquis's chamber, </p><p>I found Mr. Urbain walking up and down. He asked me what I wanted, and </p><p>I said I came back to relieve my lady. He said HE would relieve my lady, </p><p>and ordered me back to bed; but as I stood there, unwilling to turn </p><p>away, the door of the room opened and my lady came out. I noticed she </p><p>was very pale; she was very strange. She looked a moment at the count </p><p>and at me, and then she held out her arms to the count. He went to her, </p><p>and she fell upon him and hid her face. I went quickly past her into the </p><p>room and to the marquis's bed. He was lying there, very white, with his </p><p>eyes shut, like a corpse. I took hold of his hand and spoke to him, </p><p>and he felt to me like a dead man. Then I turned round; my lady and </p><p>Mr. Urbain were there. 'My poor Bread,' said my lady, 'M. le Marquis is </p><p>gone.' Mr. Urbain knelt down by the bed and said softly, 'Mon pere, mon </p><p>pere.' I thought it wonderful strange, and asked my lady what in the </p><p>world had happened, and why she hadn't called me. She said nothing had </p><p>happened; that she had only been sitting there with the marquis, very </p><p>quiet. She had closed her eyes, thinking she might sleep, and she had </p><p>slept, she didn't know how long. When she woke up he was dead. 'It's </p><p>death, my son, It's death,' she said to the count. Mr. Urbain said they </p><p>must have the doctor, immediately, from Poitiers, and that he would ride </p><p>off and fetch him. He kissed his father's face, and then he kissed his </p><p>mother and went away. My lady and I stood there at the bedside. As I </p><p>looked at the poor marquis it came into my head that he was not dead, </p><p>that he was in a kind of swoon. And then my lady repeated, 'My poor </p><p>Bread, it's death, it's death;' and I said, 'Yes, my lady, it's </p><p>certainly death.' I said just the opposite to what I believed; it was my </p><p>notion. Then my lady said we must wait for the doctor, and we sat there </p><p>and waited. It was a long time; the poor marquis neither stirred nor</p><p>changed. 'I have seen death before,' said my lady, 'and it's terribly </p><p>like this.' 'Yes please, my lady,' said I; and I kept thinking. The </p><p>night wore away without the count's coming back, and my lady began to </p><p>be frightened. She was afraid he had had an accident in the dark, or met </p><p>with some wild people. At last she got so restless that she went below </p><p>to watch in the court for her son's return. I sat there alone and the </p><p>marquis never stirred." </p><p>Here Mrs. Bread paused again, and the most artistic of romancers could </p><p>not have been more effective. Newman made a movement as if he were </p><p>turning over the page of a novel. "So he WAS dead!" he exclaimed. </p><p>"Three days afterwards he was in his grave," said Mrs. Bread, </p><p>sententiously. "In a little while I went away to the front of the house </p><p>and looked out into the court, and there, before long, I saw Mr. Urbain </p><p>ride in alone. I waited a bit, to hear him come upstairs with his </p><p>mother, but they stayed below, and I went back to the marquis's room. </p><p>I went to the bed and held up the light to him, but I don't know why </p><p>I didn't let the candlestick fall. The marquis's eyes were open--open </p><p>wide! they were staring at me. I knelt down beside him and took his </p><p>hands, and begged him to tell me, in the name of wonder, whether he was </p><p>alive or dead. Still he looked at me a long time, and then he made me a </p><p>sign to put my ear close to him: 'I am dead,' he said, 'I am dead. The </p><p>marquise has killed me.' I was all in a tremble; I didn't understand </p><p>him. He seemed both a man and a corpse, if you can fancy, sir. 'But </p><p>you'll get well now, sir,' I said. And then he whispered again, ever </p><p>so weak; 'I wouldn't get well for a kingdom. I wouldn't be that woman's </p><p>husband again.' And then he said more; he said she had murdered him. </p><p>I asked him what she had done to him, but he only replied, 'Murder, </p><p>murder. And she'll kill my daughter,' he said; 'my poor unhappy child.' </p><p>And he begged me to prevent that, and then he said that he was dying, </p><p>that he was dead. I was afraid to move or to leave him; I was almost </p><p>dead myself. All of a sudden he asked me to get a pencil and write for </p><p>him; and then I had to tell him that I couldn't manage a pencil. He </p><p>asked me to hold him up in bed while he wrote himself, and I said he </p><p>could never, never do such a thing. But he seemed to have a kind of </p><p>terror that gave him strength. I found a pencil in the room and a piece </p><p>of paper and a book, and I put the paper on the book and the pencil into </p><p>his hand, and moved the candle near him. You will think all this very </p><p>strange, sir; and very strange it was. The strangest part of it was that </p><p>I believed he was dying, and that I was eager to help him to write. I </p><p>sat on the bed and put my arm round him, and held him up. I felt very </p><p>strong; I believe I could have lifted him and carried him. It was a </p><p>wonder how he wrote, but he did write, in a big scratching hand; he </p><p>almost covered one side of the paper. It seemed a long time; I suppose </p><p>it was three or four minutes. He was groaning, terribly, all the while. </p><p>Then he said it was ended, and I let him down upon his pillows and he </p><p>gave me the paper and told me to fold it, and hide it, and give it to </p><p>those who would act upon it. 'Whom do you mean?' I said. 'Who are those </p><p>who will act upon it?' But he only groaned, for an answer; he couldn't </p><p>speak, for weakness. In a few minutes he told me to go and look at the </p><p>bottle on the chimney-piece. I knew the bottle he meant; the white </p><p>stuff that was good for his stomach. I went and looked at it, but it was </p><p>empty. When I came back his eyes were open and he was staring at me; but </p><p>soon he closed them and he said no more. I hid the paper in my dress; </p><p>I didn't look at what was written upon it, though I can read very well, </p><p>sir, if I haven't any handwriting. I sat down near the bed, but it was </p><p>nearly half an hour before my lady and the count came in. The marquis </p><p>looked as he did when they left him, and I never said a word about his</p><p>having been otherwise. Mr. Urbain said that the doctor had been </p><p>called to a person in child-birth, but that he promised to set out for </p><p>Fleurieres immediately. In another half hour he arrived, and as soon as </p><p>he had examined the marquis he said that we had had a false alarm. The </p><p>poor gentleman was very low, but he was still living. I watched my lady </p><p>and her son when he said this, to see if they looked at each other, and </p><p>I am obliged to admit that they didn't. The doctor said there was no </p><p>reason he should die; he had been going on so well. And then he wanted </p><p>to know how he had suddenly fallen off; he had left him so very hearty. </p><p>My lady told her little story again--what she had told Mr. Urbain and </p><p>me--and the doctor looked at her and said nothing. He stayed all the </p><p>next day at the chateau, and hardly left the marquis. I was always </p><p>there. Mademoiselle and Mr. Valentin came and looked at their father, </p><p>but he never stirred. It was a strange, deathly stupor. My lady was </p><p>always about; her face was as white as her husband's, and she looked </p><p>very proud, as I had seen her look when her orders or her wishes had </p><p>been disobeyed. It was as if the poor marquis had defied her; and the </p><p>way she took it made me afraid of her. The apothecary from Poitiers kept </p><p>the marquis along through the day, and we waited for the other doctor </p><p>from Paris, who, as I told you, had been staying at Fleurieres. They had </p><p>telegraphed for him early in the morning, and in the evening he arrived. </p><p>He talked a bit outside with the doctor from Poitiers, and then they </p><p>came in to see the marquis together. I was with him, and so was Mr. </p><p>Urbain. My lady had been to receive the doctor from Paris, and she </p><p>didn't come back with him into the room. He sat down by the marquis; </p><p>I can see him there now, with his hand on the marquis's wrist, and Mr. </p><p>Urbain watching him with a little looking-glass in his hand. 'I'm sure </p><p>he's better,' said the little doctor from Poitiers; 'I'm sure he'll come </p><p>back.' A few moments after he had said this the marquis opened his eyes, </p><p>as if he were waking up, and looked at us, from one to the other. I saw </p><p>him look at me, very softly, as you'd say. At the same moment my lady </p><p>came in on tiptoe; she came up to the bed and put in her head between me </p><p>and the count. The marquis saw her and gave a long, most wonderful moan. </p><p>He said something we couldn't understand, and he seemed to have a kind </p><p>of spasm. He shook all over and then closed his eyes, and the doctor </p><p>jumped up and took hold of my lady. He held her for a moment a bit </p><p>roughly. The marquis was stone dead! This time there were those there </p><p>that knew." </p><p>Newman felt as if he had been reading by starlight the report of highly </p><p>important evidence in a great murder case. "And the paper--the paper!" </p><p>he said, excitedly. "What was written upon it?" </p><p>"I can't tell you, sir," answered Mrs. Bread. "I couldn't read it; it </p><p>was in French." </p><p>"But could no one else read it?" </p><p>"I never asked a human creature." </p><p>"No one has ever seen it?" </p><p>"If you see it you'll be the first." </p><p>Newman seized the old woman's hand in both his own and pressed it </p><p>vigorously. "I thank you ever so much for that," he cried. "I want to </p><p>be the first, I want it to be my property and no one else's! You're the </p><p>wisest old woman in Europe. And what did you do with the paper?" This </p><p>information had made him feel extraordinarily strong. "Give it to me</p><p>quick!" </p><p>Mrs. Bread got up with a certain majesty. "It is not so easy as that, </p><p>sir. If you want the paper, you must wait." </p><p>"But waiting is horrible, you know," urged Newman. </p><p>"I am sure I have waited; I have waited these many years," said Mrs. </p><p>Bread. </p><p>"That is very true. You have waited for me. I won't forget it. And yet, </p><p>how comes it you didn't do as M. de Bellegarde said, show the paper to </p><p>some one?" </p><p>"To whom should I show it?" answered Mrs. Bread, mournfully. "It was not </p><p>easy to know, and many's the night I have lain awake thinking of it. </p><p>Six months afterwards, when they married Mademoiselle to her vicious old </p><p>husband, I was very near bringing it out. I thought it was my duty to do </p><p>something with it, and yet I was mightily afraid. I didn't know what </p><p>was written on the paper or how bad it might be, and there was no one </p><p>I could trust enough to ask. And it seemed to me a cruel kindness to do </p><p>that sweet young creature, letting her know that her father had written </p><p>her mother down so shamefully; for that's what he did, I suppose. I </p><p>thought she would rather be unhappy with her husband than be unhappy </p><p>that way. It was for her and for my dear Mr. Valentin I kept quiet. </p><p>Quiet I call it, but for me it was a weary quietness. It worried me </p><p>terribly, and it changed me altogether. But for others I held my tongue, </p><p>and no one, to this hour, knows what passed between the poor marquis and </p><p>me." </p><p>"But evidently there were suspicions," said Newman. "Where did Mr. </p><p>Valentin get his ideas?" </p><p>"It was the little doctor from Poitiers. He was very ill-satisfied, and </p><p>he made a great talk. He was a sharp Frenchman, and coming to the house, </p><p>as he did day after day, I suppose he saw more than he seemed to see. </p><p>And indeed the way the poor marquis went off as soon as his eyes fell on </p><p>my lady was a most shocking sight for anyone. The medical gentleman from </p><p>Paris was much more accommodating, and he hushed up the other. But for </p><p>all he could do Mr. Valentin and Mademoiselle heard something; they knew </p><p>their father's death was somehow against nature. Of course they couldn't </p><p>accuse their mother, and, as I tell you, I was as dumb as that stone. </p><p>Mr. Valentin used to look at me sometimes, and his eyes seemed to shine, </p><p>as if he were thinking of asking me something. I was dreadfully afraid </p><p>he would speak, and I always looked away and went about my business. If </p><p>I were to tell him, I was sure he would hate me afterwards, and that I </p><p>could never have borne. Once I went up to him and took a great liberty; </p><p>I kissed him, as I had kissed him when he was a child. 'You oughtn't to </p><p>look so sad, sir,' I said; 'believe your poor old Bread. Such a gallant, </p><p>handsome young man can have nothing to be sad about.' And I think he </p><p>understood me; he understood that I was begging off, and he made up </p><p>his mind in his own way. He went about with his unasked question in </p><p>his mind, as I did with my untold tale; we were both afraid of bringing </p><p>dishonor on a great house. And it was the same with Mademoiselle. She </p><p>didn't know what happened; she wouldn't know. My lady and Mr. Urbain </p><p>asked me no questions because they had no reason. I was as still as </p><p>a mouse. When I was younger my lady thought me a hussy, and now she </p><p>thought me a fool. How should I have any ideas?" </p><p>"But you say the little doctor from Poitiers made a talk," said Newman. </p><p>"Did no one take it up?" </p><p>"I heard nothing of it, sir. They are always talking scandal in these </p><p>foreign countries you may have noticed--and I suppose they shook their </p><p>heads over Madame de Bellegarde. But after all, what could they say? The </p><p>marquis had been ill, and the marquis had died; he had as good a right </p><p>to die as any one. The doctor couldn't say he had not come honestly by </p><p>his cramps. The next year the little doctor left the place and bought a </p><p>practice in Bordeaux, and if there has been any gossip it died out. And </p><p>I don't think there could have been much gossip about my lady that any </p><p>one would listen to. My lady is so very respectable." </p><p>Newman, at this last affirmation, broke into an immense, resounding </p><p>laugh. Mrs. Bread had begun to move away from the spot where they were </p><p>sitting, and he helped her through the aperture in the wall and </p><p>along the homeward path. "Yes," he said, "my lady's respectability is </p><p>delicious; it will be a great crash!" They reached the empty space in </p><p>front of the church, where they stopped a moment, looking at each </p><p>other with something of an air of closer fellowship--like two sociable </p><p>conspirators. "But what was it," said Newman, "what was it she did to </p><p>her husband? She didn't stab him or poison him." </p><p>"I don't know, sir; no one saw it." </p><p>"Unless it was Mr. Urbain. You say he was walking up and down, outside </p><p>the room. Perhaps he looked through the keyhole. But no; I think that </p><p>with his mother he would take it on trust." </p><p>"You may be sure I have often thought of it," said Mrs. Bread. "I </p><p>am sure she didn't touch him with her hands. I saw nothing on him, </p><p>anywhere. I believe it was in this way. He had a fit of his great pain, </p><p>and he asked her for his medicine. Instead of giving it to him she went </p><p>and poured it away, before his eyes. Then he saw what she meant, and, </p><p>weak and helpless as he was, he was frightened, he was terrified. 'You </p><p>want to kill me,' he said. 'Yes, M. le Marquis, I want to kill you,' </p><p>says my lady, and sits down and fixes her eyes upon him. You know my </p><p>lady's eyes, I think, sir; it was with them she killed him; it was </p><p>with the terrible strong will she put into them. It was like a frost on </p><p>flowers." </p><p>"Well, you are a very intelligent woman; you have shown great </p><p>discretion," said Newman. "I shall value your services as housekeeper </p><p>extremely." </p><p>They had begun to descend the hill, and Mrs. Bread said nothing until </p><p>they reached the foot. Newman strolled lightly beside her; his head was </p><p>thrown back and he was gazing at all the stars; he seemed to himself to </p><p>be riding his vengeance along the Milky Way. "So you are serious, sir, </p><p>about that?" said Mrs. Bread, softly. </p><p>"About your living with me? Why of course I will take care of you to the </p><p>end of your days. You can't live with those people any longer. And you </p><p>oughtn't to, you know, after this. You give me the paper, and you move </p><p>away." </p><p>"It seems very flighty in me to be taking a new place at this time of </p><p>life," observed Mrs. Bread, lugubriously. "But if you are going to turn </p><p>the house upside down, I would rather be out of it."</p><p>"Oh," said Newman, in the cheerful tone of a man who feels rich in </p><p>alternatives. "I don't think I shall bring in the constables, if that's </p><p>what you mean. Whatever Madame de Bellegarde did, I am afraid the law </p><p>can't take hold of it. But I am glad of that; it leaves it altogether to </p><p>me!" </p><p>"You are a mighty bold gentleman, sir," murmured Mrs. Bread, looking at </p><p>him round the edge of her great bonnet. </p><p>He walked with her back to the chateau; the curfew had tolled for the </p><p>laborious villagers of Fleurieres, and the street was unlighted and </p><p>empty. She promised him that he should have the marquis's manuscript in </p><p>half an hour. Mrs. Bread choosing not to go in by the great gate, they </p><p>passed round by a winding lane to a door in the wall of the park, of </p><p>which she had the key, and which would enable her to enter the chateau </p><p>from behind. Newman arranged with her that he should await outside the </p><p>wall her return with the coveted document. </p><p>She went in, and his half hour in the dusky lane seemed very long. But </p><p>he had plenty to think about. At last the door in the wall opened and </p><p>Mrs. Bread stood there, with one hand on the latch and the other holding </p><p>out a scrap of white paper, folded small. In a moment he was master of </p><p>it, and it had passed into his waistcoat pocket. "Come and see me in </p><p>Paris," he said; "we are to settle your future, you know; and I will </p><p>translate poor M. de Bellegarde's French to you." Never had he felt so </p><p>grateful as at this moment for M. Nioche's instructions. </p><p>Mrs. Bread's dull eyes had followed the disappearance of the paper, and </p><p>she gave a heavy sigh. "Well, you have done what you would with me, sir, </p><p>and I suppose you will do it again. You MUST take care of me now. You </p><p>are a terribly positive gentleman." </p><p>"Just now," said Newman, "I'm a terribly impatient gentleman!" And he </p><p>bade her good-night and walked rapidly back to the inn. He ordered his </p><p>vehicle to be prepared for his return to Poitiers, and then he shut </p><p>the door of the common salle and strode toward the solitary lamp on the </p><p>chimney-piece. He pulled out the paper and quickly unfolded it. It was </p><p>covered with pencil-marks, which at first, in the feeble light, seemed </p><p>indistinct. But Newman's fierce curiosity forced a meaning from the </p><p>tremulous signs. The English of them was as follows:-- </p><p>"My wife has tried to kill me, and she has done it; I am dying, dying </p><p>horribly. It is to marry my dear daughter to M. de Cintre. With all my </p><p>soul I protest,--I forbid it. I am not insane,--ask the doctors, ask </p><p>Mrs. B----. It was alone with me here, to-night; she attacked me and put </p><p>me to death. It is murder, if murder ever was. Ask the doctors. </p><p>"HENRI-URBAIN DE BELLEGARDE" </p><p>CHAPTER XXIII </p><p>Newman returned to Paris the second day after his interview with Mrs. </p><p>Bread. The morrow he had spent at Poitiers, reading over and over again </p><p>the little document which he had lodged in his pocket-book, and thinking</p><p>what he would do in the circumstances and how he would do it. He would </p><p>not have said that Poitiers was an amusing place; yet the day seemed </p><p>very short. Domiciled once more in the Boulevard Haussmann, he walked </p><p>over to the Rue de l'Universite and inquired of Madame de Bellegarde's </p><p>portress whether the marquise had come back. The portress told him that </p><p>she had arrived, with M. le Marquis, on the preceding day, and further </p><p>informed him that if he desired to enter, Madame de Bellegarde and her </p><p>son were both at home. As she said these words the little white-faced </p><p>old woman who peered out of the dusky gate-house of the Hotel de </p><p>Bellegarde gave a small wicked smile--a smile which seemed to Newman </p><p>to mean, "Go in if you dare!" She was evidently versed in the current </p><p>domestic history; she was placed where she could feel the pulse of the </p><p>house. Newman stood a moment, twisting his mustache and looking at her; </p><p>then he abruptly turned away. But this was not because he was afraid </p><p>to go in--though he doubted whether, if he did so, he should be able </p><p>to make his way, unchallenged, into the presence of Madame de Cintre's </p><p>relatives. Confidence--excessive confidence, perhaps--quite as much as </p><p>timidity prompted his retreat. He was nursing his thunder-bolt; he loved </p><p>it; he was unwilling to part with it. He seemed to be holding it aloft </p><p>in the rumbling, vaguely-flashing air, directly over the heads of his </p><p>victims, and he fancied he could see their pale, upturned faces. Few </p><p>specimens of the human countenance had ever given him such pleasure </p><p>as these, lighted in the lurid fashion I have hinted at, and he was </p><p>disposed to sip the cup of contemplative revenge in a leisurely fashion. </p><p>It must be added, too, that he was at a loss to see exactly how he could </p><p>arrange to witness the operation of his thunder. To send in his card to </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde would be a waste of ceremony; she would certainly </p><p>decline to receive him. On the other hand he could not force his way </p><p>into her presence. It annoyed him keenly to think that he might be </p><p>reduced to the blind satisfaction of writing her a letter; but he </p><p>consoled himself in a measure with the reflection that a letter might </p><p>lead to an interview. He went home, and feeling rather tired--nursing a </p><p>vengeance was, it must be confessed, a rather fatiguing process; it </p><p>took a good deal out of one--flung himself into one of his brocaded </p><p>fauteuils, stretched his legs, thrust his hands into his pockets, and, </p><p>while he watched the reflected sunset fading from the ornate house-tops </p><p>on the opposite side of the Boulevard, began mentally to compose a cool </p><p>epistle to Madame de Bellegarde. While he was so occupied his servant </p><p>threw open the door and announced ceremoniously, "Madame Brett!" </p><p>Newman roused himself, expectantly, and in a few moments perceived upon </p><p>his threshold the worthy woman with whom he had conversed to such good </p><p>purpose on the starlit hill-top of Fleurieres. Mrs. Bread had made for </p><p>this visit the same toilet as for her former expedition. Newman was </p><p>struck with her distinguished appearance. His lamp was not lit, and as </p><p>her large, grave face gazed at him through the light dusk from under </p><p>the shadow of her ample bonnet, he felt the incongruity of such a person </p><p>presenting herself as a servant. He greeted her with high geniality and </p><p>bade her come in and sit down and make herself comfortable. There was </p><p>something which might have touched the springs both of mirth and of </p><p>melancholy in the ancient maidenliness with which Mrs. Bread endeavored </p><p>to comply with these directions. She was not playing at being fluttered, </p><p>which would have been simply ridiculous; she was doing her best to carry </p><p>herself as a person so humble that, for her, even embarrassment would </p><p>have been pretentious; but evidently she had never dreamed of its being </p><p>in her horoscope to pay a visit, at night-fall, to a friendly single </p><p>gentleman who lived in theatrical-looking rooms on one of the new </p><p>Boulevards. </p><p>"I truly hope I am not forgetting my place, sir," she murmured. </p><p>"Forgetting your place?" cried Newman. "Why, you are remembering it. </p><p>This is your place, you know. You are already in my service; your wages, </p><p>as housekeeper, began a fortnight ago. I can tell you my house wants </p><p>keeping! Why don't you take off your bonnet and stay?" </p><p>"Take off my bonnet?" said Mrs. Bread, with timid literalness. "Oh, sir, </p><p>I haven't my cap. And with your leave, sir, I couldn't keep house in my </p><p>best gown." </p><p>"Never mind your gown," said Newman, cheerfully. "You shall have a </p><p>better gown than that." </p><p>Mrs. Bread stared solemnly and then stretched her hands over her </p><p>lustreless satin skirt, as if the perilous side of her situation were </p><p>defining itself. "Oh, sir, I am fond of my own clothes," she murmured. </p><p>"I hope you have left those wicked people, at any rate," said Newman. </p><p>"Well, sir, here I am!" said Mrs. Bread. "That's all I can tell you. </p><p>Here I sit, poor Catherine Bread. It's a strange place for me to be. I </p><p>don't know myself; I never supposed I was so bold. But indeed, sir, I </p><p>have gone as far as my own strength will bear me." </p><p>"Oh, come, Mrs. Bread," said Newman, almost caressingly, "don't make </p><p>yourself uncomfortable. Now's the time to feel lively, you know." </p><p>She began to speak again with a trembling voice. "I think it would be </p><p>more respectable if I could--if I could"--and her voice trembled to a </p><p>pause. </p><p>"If you could give up this sort of thing altogether?" said Newman </p><p>kindly, trying to anticipate her meaning, which he supposed might be a </p><p>wish to retire from service. </p><p>"If I could give up everything, sir! All I should ask is a decent </p><p>Protestant burial." </p><p>"Burial!" cried Newman, with a burst of laughter. "Why, to bury you now </p><p>would be a sad piece of extravagance. It's only rascals who have to be </p><p>buried to get respectable. Honest folks like you and me can live our </p><p>time out--and live together. Come! Did you bring your baggage?" </p><p>"My box is locked and corded; but I haven't yet spoken to my lady." </p><p>"Speak to her, then, and have done with it. I should like to have your </p><p>chance!" cried Newman. </p><p>"I would gladly give it you, sir. I have passed some weary hours in my </p><p>lady's dressing-room; but this will be one of the longest. She will tax </p><p>me with ingratitude." </p><p>"Well," said Newman, "so long as you can tax her with murder--" </p><p>"Oh, sir, I can't; not I," sighed Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"You don't mean to say anything about it? So much the better. Leave that </p><p>to me."</p><p>"If she calls me a thankless old woman," said Mrs. Bread, "I shall have </p><p>nothing to say. But it is better so," she softly added. "She shall be my </p><p>lady to the last. That will be more respectable." </p><p>"And then you will come to me and I shall be your gentleman," said </p><p>Newman; "that will be more respectable still!" </p><p>Mrs. Bread rose, with lowered eyes, and stood a moment; then, looking </p><p>up, she rested her eyes upon Newman's face. The disordered proprieties </p><p>were somehow settling to rest. She looked at Newman so long and so </p><p>fixedly, with such a dull, intense devotedness, that he himself might </p><p>have had a pretext for embarrassment. At last she said gently, "You are </p><p>not looking well, sir." </p><p>"That's natural enough," said Newman. "I have nothing to feel well </p><p>about. To be very indifferent and very fierce, very dull and very </p><p>jovial, very sick and very lively, all at once,--why, it rather mixes </p><p>one up." </p><p>Mrs. Bread gave a noiseless sigh. "I can tell you something that will </p><p>make you feel duller still, if you want to feel all one way. About </p><p>Madame de Cintre." </p><p>"What can you tell me?" Newman demanded. "Not that you have seen her?" </p><p>She shook her head. "No, indeed, sir, nor ever shall. That's the </p><p>dullness of it. Nor my lady. Nor M. de Bellegarde." </p><p>"You mean that she is kept so close." </p><p>"Close, close," said Mrs. Bread, very softly. </p><p>These words, for an instant, seemed to check the beating of Newman's </p><p>heart. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the old woman. "They </p><p>have tried to see her, and she wouldn't--she couldn't?" </p><p>"She refused--forever! I had it from my lady's own maid," said Mrs. </p><p>Bread, "who had it from my lady. To speak of it to such a person my lady </p><p>must have felt the shock. Madame de Cintre won't see them now, and now </p><p>is her only chance. A while hence she will have no chance." </p><p>"You mean the other women--the mothers, the daughters, the sisters; what </p><p>is it they call them?--won't let her?" </p><p>"It is what they call the rule of the house,--or of the order, I </p><p>believe," said Mrs. Bread. "There is no rule so strict as that of the </p><p>Carmelites. The bad women in the reformatories are fine ladies to them. </p><p>They wear old brown cloaks--so the femme de chambre told me--that you </p><p>wouldn't use for a horse blanket. And the poor countess was so fond of </p><p>soft-feeling dresses; she would never have anything stiff! They sleep on </p><p>the ground," Mrs. Bread went on; "they are no better, no better,"--and </p><p>she hesitated for a comparison,--"they are no better than tinkers' </p><p>wives. They give up everything, down to the very name their poor old </p><p>nurses called them by. They give up father and mother, brother and </p><p>sister,--to say nothing of other persons," Mrs. Bread delicately added. </p><p>"They wear a shroud under their brown cloaks and a rope round their </p><p>waists, and they get up on winter nights and go off into cold places to </p><p>pray to the Virgin Mary. The Virgin Mary is a hard mistress!"</p><p>Mrs. Bread, dwelling on these terrible facts, sat dry-eyed and pale, </p><p>with her hands clasped in her satin lap. Newman gave a melancholy </p><p>groan and fell forward, leaning his head on his hands. There was a long </p><p>silence, broken only by the ticking of the great gilded clock on the </p><p>chimney-piece. </p><p>"Where is this place--where is the convent?" Newman asked at last, </p><p>looking up. </p><p>"There are two houses," said Mrs. Bread. "I found out; I thought you </p><p>would like to know--though it's poor comfort, I think. One is in the </p><p>Avenue de Messine; they have learned that Madame de Cintre is there. The </p><p>other is in the Rue d'Enfer. That's a terrible name; I suppose you know </p><p>what it means." </p><p>Newman got up and walked away to the end of his long room. When he came </p><p>back Mrs. Bread had got up, and stood by the fire with folded hands. </p><p>"Tell me this," he said. "Can I get near her--even if I don't see her? </p><p>Can I look through a grating, or some such thing, at the place where she </p><p>is?" </p><p>It is said that all women love a lover, and Mrs. Bread's sense of the </p><p>pre-established harmony which kept servants in their "place," even </p><p>as planets in their orbits (not that Mrs. Bread had ever consciously </p><p>likened herself to a planet), barely availed to temper the maternal </p><p>melancholy with which she leaned her head on one side and gazed at </p><p>her new employer. She probably felt for the moment as if, forty years </p><p>before, she had held him also in her arms. "That wouldn't help you, sir. </p><p>It would only make her seem farther away." </p><p>"I want to go there, at all events," said Newman. "Avenue de Messine, </p><p>you say? And what is it they call themselves?" </p><p>"Carmelites," said Mrs. Bread. </p><p>"I shall remember that." </p><p>Mrs. Bread hesitated a moment, and then, "It's my duty to tell you </p><p>this, sir," she went on. "The convent has a chapel, and some people are </p><p>admitted on Sunday to the Mass. You don't see the poor creatures that </p><p>are shut up there, but I am told you can hear them sing. It's a wonder </p><p>they have any heart for singing! Some Sunday I shall make bold to go. It </p><p>seems to me I should know her voice in fifty." </p><p>Newman looked at his visitor very gratefully; then he held out his hand </p><p>and shook hers. "Thank you," he said. "If any one can get in, I will." </p><p>A moment later Mrs. Bread proposed, deferentially, to retire, but he </p><p>checked her and put a lighted candle into her hand. "There are half a </p><p>dozen rooms there I don't use," he said, pointing through an open door. </p><p>"Go and look at them and take your choice. You can live in the one </p><p>you like best." From this bewildering opportunity Mrs. Bread at first </p><p>recoiled; but finally, yielding to Newman's gentle, reassuring push, she </p><p>wandered off into the dusk with her tremulous taper. She remained absent </p><p>a quarter of an hour, during which Newman paced up and down, stopped </p><p>occasionally to look out of the window at the lights on the Boulevard, </p><p>and then resumed his walk. Mrs. Bread's relish for her investigation </p><p>apparently increased as she proceeded; but at last she reappeared and </p><p>deposited her candlestick on the chimney-piece.</p><p>"Well, have you picked one out?" asked Newman. </p><p>"A room, sir? They are all too fine for a dingy old body like me. There </p><p>isn't one that hasn't a bit of gilding." </p><p>"It's only tinsel, Mrs. Bread," said Newman. "If you stay there a while </p><p>it will all peel off of itself." And he gave a dismal smile. </p><p>"Oh, sir, there are things enough peeling off already!" rejoined Mrs. </p><p>Bread, with a head-shake. "Since I was there I thought I would look </p><p>about me. I don't believe you know, sir. The corners are most dreadful. </p><p>You do want a housekeeper, that you do; you want a tidy Englishwoman </p><p>that isn't above taking hold of a broom." </p><p>Newman assured her that he suspected, if he had not measured, his </p><p>domestic abuses, and that to reform them was a mission worthy of her </p><p>powers. She held her candlestick aloft again and looked around the salon </p><p>with compassionate glances; then she intimated that she accepted the </p><p>mission, and that its sacred character would sustain her in her rupture </p><p>with Madame de Bellegarde. With this she curtsied herself away. </p><p>She came back the next day with her worldly goods, and Newman, going </p><p>into his drawing-room, found her upon her aged knees before a divan, </p><p>sewing up some detached fringe. He questioned her as to her leave-taking </p><p>with her late mistress, and she said it had proved easier than she </p><p>feared. "I was perfectly civil, sir, but the Lord helped me to remember </p><p>that a good woman has no call to tremble before a bad one." </p><p>"I should think so!" cried Newman. "And does she know you have come to </p><p>me?" </p><p>"She asked me where I was going, and I mentioned your name," said Mrs. </p><p>Bread. </p><p>"What did she say to that?" </p><p>"She looked at me very hard, and she turned very red. Then she bade me </p><p>leave her. I was all ready to go, and I had got the coachman, who is an </p><p>Englishman, to bring down my poor box and to fetch me a cab. But when I </p><p>went down myself to the gate I found it closed. My lady had sent orders </p><p>to the porter not to let me pass, and by the same orders the porter's </p><p>wife--she is a dreadful sly old body--had gone out in a cab to fetch </p><p>home M. de Bellegarde from his club." </p><p>Newman slapped his knee. "She IS scared! she IS scared!" he cried, </p><p>exultantly. </p><p>"I was frightened too, sir," said Mrs. Bread, "but I was also mightily </p><p>vexed. I took it very high with the porter and asked him by what right </p><p>he used violence to an honorable Englishwoman who had lived in the house </p><p>for thirty years before he was heard of. Oh, sir, I was very grand, and </p><p>I brought the man down. He drew his bolts and let me out, and I promised </p><p>the cabman something handsome if he would drive fast. But he was </p><p>terribly slow; it seemed as if we should never reach your blessed door. </p><p>I am all of a tremble still; it took me five minutes, just now, to </p><p>thread my needle." </p><p>Newman told her, with a gleeful laugh, that if she chose she might</p><p>have a little maid on purpose to thread her needles; and he went away </p><p>murmuring to himself again that the old woman WAS scared--she WAS </p><p>scared! </p><p>He had not shown Mrs. Tristram the little paper that he carried in </p><p>his pocket-book, but since his return to Paris he had seen her several </p><p>times, and she had told him that he seemed to her to be in a strange </p><p>way--an even stranger way than his sad situation made natural. Had his </p><p>disappointment gone to his head? He looked like a man who was going to </p><p>be ill, and yet she had never seen him more restless and active. One day </p><p>he would sit hanging his head and looking as if he were firmly resolved </p><p>never to smile again; another he would indulge in laughter that was </p><p>almost unseemly and make jokes that were bad even for him. If he was </p><p>trying to carry off his sorrow, he at such times really went too far. </p><p>She begged him of all things not to be "strange." Feeling in a measure </p><p>responsible as she did for the affair which had turned out so ill </p><p>for him, she could endure anything but his strangeness. He might be </p><p>melancholy if he would, or he might be stoical; he might be cross and </p><p>cantankerous with her and ask her why she had ever dared to meddle </p><p>with his destiny: to this she would submit; for this she would make </p><p>allowances. Only, for Heaven's sake, let him not be incoherent. That </p><p>would be extremely unpleasant. It was like people talking in their </p><p>sleep; they always frightened her. And Mrs. Tristram intimated that, </p><p>taking very high ground as regards the moral obligation which events </p><p>had laid upon her, she proposed not to rest quiet until she should have </p><p>confronted him with the least inadequate substitute for Madame de Cintre </p><p>that the two hemispheres contained. </p><p>"Oh," said Newman, "we are even now, and we had better not open a new </p><p>account! You may bury me some day, but you shall never marry me. It's </p><p>too rough. I hope, at any rate," he added, "that there is nothing </p><p>incoherent in this--that I want to go next Sunday to the Carmelite </p><p>chapel in the Avenue de Messine. You know one of the Catholic </p><p>ministers--an abbe, is that it?--I have seen him here, you know; that </p><p>motherly old gentleman with the big waist-band. Please ask him if I need </p><p>a special leave to go in, and if I do, beg him to obtain it for me." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram gave expression to the liveliest joy. "I am so glad you </p><p>have asked me to do something!" she cried. "You shall get into the </p><p>chapel if the abbe is disfrocked for his share in it." And two days </p><p>afterwards she told him that it was all arranged; the abbe was enchanted </p><p>to serve him, and if he would present himself civilly at the convent </p><p>gate there would be no difficulty. </p><p>CHAPTER XXIV </p><p>Sunday was as yet two days off; but meanwhile, to beguile his </p><p>impatience, Newman took his way to the Avenue de Messine and got </p><p>what comfort he could in staring at the blank outer wall of Madame de </p><p>Cintre's present residence. The street in question, as some travelers </p><p>will remember, adjoins the Parc Monceau, which is one of the prettiest </p><p>corners of Paris. The quarter has an air of modern opulence and </p><p>convenience which seems at variance with the ascetic institution, </p><p>and the impression made upon Newman's gloomily-irritated gaze by the </p><p>fresh-looking, windowless expanse behind which the woman he loved was </p><p>perhaps even then pledging herself to pass the rest of her days was less</p><p>exasperating than he had feared. The place suggested a convent with the </p><p>modern improvements--an asylum in which privacy, though unbroken, </p><p>might be not quite identical with privation, and meditation, though </p><p>monotonous, might be of a cheerful cast. And yet he knew the case was </p><p>otherwise; only at present it was not a reality to him. It was too </p><p>strange and too mocking to be real; it was like a page torn out of a </p><p>romance, with no context in his own experience. </p><p>On Sunday morning, at the hour which Mrs. Tristram had indicated, he </p><p>rang at the gate in the blank wall. It instantly opened and admitted </p><p>him into a clean, cold-looking court, from beyond which a dull, plain </p><p>edifice looked down upon him. A robust lay sister with a cheerful </p><p>complexion emerged from a porter's lodge, and, on his stating his </p><p>errand, pointed to the open door of the chapel, an edifice which </p><p>occupied the right side of the court and was preceded by the high flight </p><p>of steps. Newman ascended the steps and immediately entered the open </p><p>door. Service had not yet begun; the place was dimly lighted, and it was </p><p>some moments before he could distinguish its features. Then he saw it </p><p>was divided by a large close iron screen into two unequal portions. </p><p>The altar was on the hither side of the screen, and between it and the </p><p>entrance were disposed several benches and chairs. Three or four of </p><p>these were occupied by vague, motionless figures--figures that he </p><p>presently perceived to be women, deeply absorbed in their devotion. The </p><p>place seemed to Newman very cold; the smell of the incense itself was </p><p>cold. Besides this there was a twinkle of tapers and here and there a </p><p>glow of colored glass. Newman seated himself; the praying women kept </p><p>still, with their backs turned. He saw they were visitors like himself </p><p>and he would have liked to see their faces; for he believed that they </p><p>were the mourning mothers and sisters of other women who had had the </p><p>same pitiless courage as Madame de Cintre. But they were better off </p><p>than he, for they at least shared the faith to which the others had </p><p>sacrificed themselves. Three or four persons came in; two of them were </p><p>elderly gentlemen. Every one was very quiet. Newman fastened his </p><p>eyes upon the screen behind the altar. That was the convent, the real </p><p>convent, the place where she was. But he could see nothing; no light </p><p>came through the crevices. He got up and approached the partition very </p><p>gently, trying to look through. But behind it there was darkness, with </p><p>nothing stirring. He went back to his place, and after that a priest </p><p>and two altar boys came in and began to say mass. Newman watched their </p><p>genuflections and gyrations with a grim, still enmity; they seemed aids </p><p>and abettors of Madame de Cintre's desertion; they were mouthing and </p><p>droning out their triumph. The priest's long, dismal intonings acted </p><p>upon his nerves and deepened his wrath; there was something defiant in </p><p>his unintelligible drawl; it seemed meant for Newman himself. Suddenly </p><p>there arose from the depths of the chapel, from behind the inexorable </p><p>grating, a sound which drew his attention from the altar--the sound of </p><p>a strange, lugubrious chant, uttered by women's voices. It began softly, </p><p>but it presently grew louder, and as it increased it became more of a </p><p>wail and a dirge. It was the chant of the Carmelite nuns, their only </p><p>human utterance. It was their dirge over their buried affections </p><p>and over the vanity of earthly desires. At first Newman was </p><p>bewildered--almost stunned--by the strangeness of the sound; then, as </p><p>he comprehended its meaning, he listened intently and his heart began to </p><p>throb. He listened for Madame de Cintre's voice, and in the very heart </p><p>of the tuneless harmony he imagined he made it out. (We are obliged to </p><p>believe that he was wrong, inasmuch as she had obviously not yet had </p><p>time to become a member of the invisible sisterhood.) The chant kept </p><p>on, mechanical and monotonous, with dismal repetitions and despairing </p><p>cadences. It was hideous, it was horrible; as it continued, Newman felt</p><p>that he needed all his self-control. He was growing more agitated; he </p><p>felt tears in his eyes. At last, as in its full force the thought came </p><p>over him that this confused, impersonal wail was all that either he or </p><p>the world she had deserted should ever hear of the voice he had found </p><p>so sweet, he felt that he could bear it no longer. He rose abruptly </p><p>and made his way out. On the threshold he paused, listened again to the </p><p>dreary strain, and then hastily descended into the court. As he did </p><p>so he saw the good sister with the high-colored cheeks and the fanlike </p><p>frill to her coiffure, who had admitted him, was in conference at the </p><p>gate with two persons who had just come in. A second glance informed him </p><p>that these persons were Madame de Bellegarde and her son, and that they </p><p>were about to avail themselves of that method of approach to Madame </p><p>de Cintre which Newman had found but a mockery of consolation. As he </p><p>crossed the court M. de Bellegarde recognized him; the marquis was </p><p>coming to the steps, leading his mother. The old lady also gave Newman </p><p>a look, and it resembled that of her son. Both faces expressed a franker </p><p>perturbation, something more akin to the humbleness of dismay, than </p><p>Newman had yet seen in them. Evidently he startled the Bellegardes, and </p><p>they had not their grand behavior immediately in hand. Newman hurried </p><p>past them, guided only by the desire to get out of the convent walls and </p><p>into the street. The gate opened itself at his approach; he strode over </p><p>the threshold and it closed behind him. A carriage which appeared to </p><p>have been standing there, was just turning away from the sidewalk. </p><p>Newman looked at it for a moment, blankly; then he became conscious, </p><p>through the dusky mist that swam before his eyes, that a lady seated in </p><p>it was bowing to him. The vehicle had turned away before he recognized </p><p>her; it was an ancient landau with one half the cover lowered. The </p><p>lady's bow was very positive and accompanied with a smile; a little girl </p><p>was seated beside her. He raised his hat, and then the lady bade the </p><p>coachman stop. The carriage halted again beside the pavement, and she </p><p>sat there and beckoned to Newman--beckoned with the demonstrative grace </p><p>of Madame Urbain de Bellegarde. Newman hesitated a moment before </p><p>he obeyed her summons, during this moment he had time to curse his </p><p>stupidity for letting the others escape him. He had been wondering how </p><p>he could get at them; fool that he was for not stopping them then and </p><p>there! What better place than beneath the very prison walls to which </p><p>they had consigned the promise of his joy? He had been too bewildered </p><p>to stop them, but now he felt ready to wait for them at the gate. Madame </p><p>Urbain, with a certain attractive petulance, beckoned to him again, and </p><p>this time he went over to the carriage. She leaned out and gave him her </p><p>hand, looking at him kindly, and smiling. </p><p>"Ah, monsieur," she said, "you don't include me in your wrath? I had </p><p>nothing to do with it." </p><p>"Oh, I don't suppose YOU could have prevented it!" Newman answered in a </p><p>tone which was not that of studied gallantry. </p><p>"What you say is too true for me to resent the small account it makes of </p><p>my influence. I forgive you, at any rate, because you look as if you had </p><p>seen a ghost." </p><p>"I have!" said Newman. </p><p>"I am glad, then, I didn't go in with Madame de Bellegarde and my </p><p>husband. You must have seen them, eh? Was the meeting affectionate? </p><p>Did you hear the chanting? They say it's like the lamentations of the </p><p>damned. I wouldn't go in: one is certain to hear that soon enough. Poor </p><p>Claire--in a white shroud and a big brown cloak! That's the toilette</p><p>of the Carmelites, you know. Well, she was always fond of long, loose </p><p>things. But I must not speak of her to you; only I must say that I am </p><p>very sorry for you, that if I could have helped you I would, and that </p><p>I think every one has been very shabby. I was afraid of it, you know; I </p><p>felt it in the air for a fortnight before it came. When I saw you at </p><p>my mother-in-law's ball, taking it all so easily, I felt as if you were </p><p>dancing on your grave. But what could I do? I wish you all the good I </p><p>can think of. You will say that isn't much! Yes; they have been very </p><p>shabby; I am not a bit afraid to say it; I assure you every one thinks </p><p>so. We are not all like that. I am sorry I am not going to see you </p><p>again; you know I think you very good company. I would prove it by </p><p>asking you to get into the carriage and drive with me for a quarter </p><p>of an hour, while I wait for my mother-in-law. Only if we were </p><p>seen--considering what has passed, and every one knows you have been </p><p>turned away--it might be thought I was going a little too far, even for </p><p>me. But I shall see you sometimes--somewhere, eh? You know"--this was </p><p>said in English--"we have a plan for a little amusement." </p><p>Newman stood there with his hand on the carriage-door listening to this </p><p>consolatory murmur with an unlighted eye. He hardly knew what Madame </p><p>de Bellegarde was saying; he was only conscious that she was chattering </p><p>ineffectively. But suddenly it occurred to him that, with her pretty </p><p>professions, there was a way of making her effective; she might help </p><p>him to get at the old woman and the marquis. "They are coming back </p><p>soon--your companions?" he said. "You are waiting for them?" </p><p>"They will hear the mass out; there is nothing to keep them longer. </p><p>Claire has refused to see them." </p><p>"I want to speak to them," said Newman; "and you can help me, you can do </p><p>me a favor. Delay your return for five minutes and give me a chance at </p><p>them. I will wait for them here." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde clasped her hands with a tender grimace. "My poor </p><p>friend, what do you want to do to them? To beg them to come back to you? </p><p>It will be wasted words. They will never come back!" </p><p>"I want to speak to them, all the same. Pray do what I ask you. Stay </p><p>away and leave them to me for five minutes; you needn't be afraid; I </p><p>shall not be violent; I am very quiet." </p><p>"Yes, you look very quiet! If they had le coeur tendre you would move </p><p>them. But they haven't! However, I will do better for you than what you </p><p>propose. The understanding is not that I shall come back for them. I am </p><p>going into the Parc Monceau with my little girl to give her a walk, and </p><p>my mother-in-law, who comes so rarely into this quarter, is to profit </p><p>by the same opportunity to take the air. We are to wait for her in the </p><p>park, where my husband is to bring her to us. Follow me now; just within </p><p>the gates I shall get out of my carriage. Sit down on a chair in some </p><p>quiet corner and I will bring them near you. There's devotion for you! </p><p>Le reste vous regarde." </p><p>This proposal seemed to Newman extremely felicitous; it revived his </p><p>drooping spirit, and he reflected that Madame Urbain was not such a </p><p>goose as she seemed. He promised immediately to overtake her, and the </p><p>carriage drove away. </p><p>The Parc Monceau is a very pretty piece of landscape-gardening, but </p><p>Newman, passing into it, bestowed little attention upon its elegant</p><p>vegetation, which was full of the freshness of spring. He found Madame </p><p>de Bellegarde promptly, seated in one of the quiet corners of which she </p><p>had spoken, while before her, in the alley, her little girl, attended by </p><p>the footman and the lap-dog, walked up and down as if she were taking a </p><p>lesson in deportment. Newman sat down beside the mamma, and she talked </p><p>a great deal, apparently with the design of convincing him that--if </p><p>he would only see it--poor dear Claire did not belong to the most </p><p>fascinating type of woman. She was too tall and thin, too stiff and </p><p>cold; her mouth was too wide and her nose too narrow. She had no dimples </p><p>anywhere. And then she was eccentric, eccentric in cold blood; she was </p><p>an Anglaise, after all. Newman was very impatient; he was counting the </p><p>minutes until his victims should reappear. He sat silent, leaning upon </p><p>his cane, looking absently and insensibly at the little marquise. At </p><p>length Madame de Bellegarde said she would walk toward the gate of the </p><p>park and meet her companions; but before she went she dropped her eyes, </p><p>and, after playing a moment with the lace of her sleeve, looked up again </p><p>at Newman. </p><p>"Do you remember," she asked, "the promise you made me three weeks </p><p>ago?" And then, as Newman, vainly consulting his memory, was obliged to </p><p>confess that the promise had escaped it, she declared that he had made </p><p>her, at the time, a very queer answer--an answer at which, viewing it </p><p>in the light of the sequel, she had fair ground for taking offense. </p><p>"You promised to take me to Bullier's after your marriage. After your </p><p>marriage--you made a great point of that. Three days after that your </p><p>marriage was broken off. Do you know, when I heard the news, the </p><p>first thing I said to myself? 'Oh heaven, now he won't go with me to </p><p>Bullier's!' And I really began to wonder if you had not been expecting </p><p>the rupture." </p><p>"Oh, my dear lady," murmured Newman, looking down the path to see if the </p><p>others were not coming. </p><p>"I shall be good-natured," said Madame de Bellegarde. "One must not ask </p><p>too much of a gentleman who is in love with a cloistered nun. Besides, </p><p>I can't go to Bullier's while we are in mourning. But I haven't given it </p><p>up for that. The partie is arranged; I have my cavalier. Lord Deepmere, </p><p>if you please! He has gone back to his dear Dublin; but a few months </p><p>hence I am to name any evening and he will come over from Ireland, on </p><p>purpose. That's what I call gallantry!" </p><p>Shortly after this Madame de Bellegarde walked away with her little </p><p>girl. Newman sat in his place; the time seemed terribly long. He felt </p><p>how fiercely his quarter of an hour in the convent chapel had raked </p><p>over the glowing coals of his resentment. Madame de Bellegarde kept him </p><p>waiting, but she proved as good as her word. At last she reappeared at </p><p>the end of the path, with her little girl and her footman; beside her </p><p>slowly walked her husband, with his mother on his arm. They were a long </p><p>time advancing, during which Newman sat unmoved. Tingling as he was </p><p>with passion, it was extremely characteristic of him that he was able </p><p>to moderate his expression of it, as he would have turned down a flaring </p><p>gas-burner. His native coolness, shrewdness, and deliberateness, his </p><p>life-long submissiveness to the sentiment that words were acts and acts </p><p>were steps in life, and that in this matter of taking steps </p><p>curveting and prancing were exclusively reserved for quadrupeds </p><p>and foreigners--all this admonished him that rightful wrath had no </p><p>connection with being a fool and indulging in spectacular violence. So </p><p>as he rose, when old Madame de Bellegarde and her son were close to </p><p>him, he only felt very tall and light. He had been sitting beside some</p><p>shrubbery, in such a way as not to be noticeable at a distance; but M. </p><p>de Bellegarde had evidently already perceived him. His mother and he </p><p>were holding their course, but Newman stepped in front of them, and they </p><p>were obliged to pause. He lifted his hat slightly, and looked at them </p><p>for a moment; they were pale with amazement and disgust. </p><p>"Excuse me for stopping you," he said in a low tone, "but I must profit </p><p>by the occasion. I have ten words to say to you. Will you listen to </p><p>them?" </p><p>The marquis glared at him and then turned to his mother. "Can Mr. Newman </p><p>possibly have anything to say that is worth our listening to?" </p><p>"I assure you I have something," said Newman, "besides, it is my duty to </p><p>say it. It's a notification--a warning." </p><p>"Your duty?" said old Madame de Bellegarde, her thin lips curving like </p><p>scorched paper. "That is your affair, not ours." </p><p>Madame Urbain meanwhile had seized her little girl by the hand, with a </p><p>gesture of surprise and impatience which struck Newman, intent as he was </p><p>upon his own words, with its dramatic effectiveness. "If Mr. Newman is </p><p>going to make a scene in public," she exclaimed, "I will take my poor </p><p>child out of the melee. She is too young to see such naughtiness!" and </p><p>she instantly resumed her walk. </p><p>"You had much better listen to me," Newman went on. "Whether you do or </p><p>not, things will be disagreeable for you; but at any rate you will be </p><p>prepared." </p><p>"We have already heard something of your threats," said the marquis, </p><p>"and you know what we think of them." </p><p>"You think a good deal more than you admit. A moment," Newman added in </p><p>reply to an exclamation of the old lady. "I remember perfectly that we </p><p>are in a public place, and you see I am very quiet. I am not going to </p><p>tell your secret to the passers-by; I shall keep it, to begin with, for </p><p>certain picked listeners. Any one who observes us will think that we are </p><p>having a friendly chat, and that I am complimenting you, madam, on your </p><p>venerable virtues." </p><p>The marquis gave three short sharp raps on the ground with his stick. "I </p><p>demand of you to step out of our path!" he hissed. </p><p>Newman instantly complied, and M. de Bellegarde stepped forward with his </p><p>mother. Then Newman said, "Half an hour hence Madame de Bellegarde will </p><p>regret that she didn't learn exactly what I mean." </p><p>The marquise had taken a few steps, but at these words she paused, </p><p>looking at Newman with eyes like two scintillating globules of ice. "You </p><p>are like a peddler with something to sell," she said, with a little cold </p><p>laugh which only partially concealed the tremor in her voice. </p><p>"Oh, no, not to sell," Newman rejoined; "I give it to you for nothing." </p><p>And he approached nearer to her, looking her straight in the eyes. "You </p><p>killed your husband," he said, almost in a whisper. "That is, you tried </p><p>once and failed, and then, without trying, you succeeded." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde closed her eyes and gave a little cough, which, as</p><p>a piece of dissimulation, struck Newman as really heroic. "Dear mother," </p><p>said the marquis, "does this stuff amuse you so much?" </p><p>"The rest is more amusing," said Newman. "You had better not lose it." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde opened her eyes; the scintillations had gone out of </p><p>them; they were fixed and dead. But she smiled superbly with her narrow </p><p>little lips, and repeated Newman's word. "Amusing? Have I killed some </p><p>one else?" </p><p>"I don't count your daughter," said Newman, "though I might! Your </p><p>husband knew what you were doing. I have a proof of it whose existence </p><p>you have never suspected." And he turned to the marquis, who was </p><p>terribly white--whiter than Newman had ever seen any one out of a </p><p>picture. "A paper written by the hand, and signed with the name, of </p><p>Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde. Written after you, madame, had left him for </p><p>dead, and while you, sir, had gone--not very fast--for the doctor." </p><p>The marquis looked at his mother; she turned away, looking vaguely round </p><p>her. "I must sit down," she said in a low tone, going toward the bench </p><p>on which Newman had been sitting. </p><p>"Couldn't you have spoken to me alone?" said the marquis to Newman, with </p><p>a strange look. </p><p>"Well, yes, if I could have been sure of speaking to your mother alone, </p><p>too," Newman answered. "But I have had to take you as I could get you." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde, with a movement very eloquent of what he would </p><p>have called her "grit," her steel-cold pluck and her instinctive appeal </p><p>to her own personal resources, drew her hand out of her son's arm and </p><p>went and seated herself upon the bench. There she remained, with her </p><p>hands folded in her lap, looking straight at Newman. The expression of </p><p>her face was such that he fancied at first that she was smiling; but he </p><p>went and stood in front of her and saw that her elegant features were </p><p>distorted by agitation. He saw, however, equally, that she was resisting </p><p>her agitation with all the rigor of her inflexible will, and there was </p><p>nothing like either fear or submission in her stony stare. She had been </p><p>startled, but she was not terrified. Newman had an exasperating feeling </p><p>that she would get the better of him still; he would not have believed </p><p>it possible that he could so utterly fail to be touched by the sight of </p><p>a woman (criminal or other) in so tight a place. Madame de Bellegarde </p><p>gave a glance at her son which seemed tantamount to an injunction to be </p><p>silent and leave her to her own devices. The marquis stood beside her, </p><p>with his hands behind him, looking at Newman. </p><p>"What paper is this you speak of?" asked the old lady, with an imitation </p><p>of tranquillity which would have been applauded in a veteran actress. </p><p>"Exactly what I have told you," said Newman. "A paper written by your </p><p>husband after you had left him for dead, and during the couple of hours </p><p>before you returned. You see he had the time; you shouldn't have stayed </p><p>away so long. It declares distinctly his wife's murderous intent." </p><p>"I should like to see it," Madame de Bellegarde observed. </p><p>"I thought you might," said Newman, "and I have taken a copy." And he </p><p>drew from his waistcoat pocket a small, folded sheet. </p><p>"Give it to my son," said Madame de Bellegarde. Newman handed it to the </p><p>marquis, whose mother, glancing at him, said simply, "Look at it." M. de </p><p>Bellegarde's eyes had a pale eagerness which it was useless for him to </p><p>try to dissimulate; he took the paper in his light-gloved fingers and </p><p>opened it. There was a silence, during which he read it. He had more </p><p>than time to read it, but still he said nothing; he stood staring at it. </p><p>"Where is the original?" asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a voice which </p><p>was really a consummate negation of impatience. </p><p>"In a very safe place. Of course I can't show you that," said Newman. </p><p>"You might want to take hold of it," he added with conscious quaintness. </p><p>"But that's a very correct copy--except, of course, the handwriting. I </p><p>am keeping the original to show some one else." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde at last looked up, and his eyes were still very eager. </p><p>"To whom do you mean to show it?" </p><p>"Well, I'm thinking of beginning with the duchess," said Newman; "that </p><p>stout lady I saw at your ball. She asked me to come and see her, you </p><p>know. I thought at the moment I shouldn't have much to say to her; but </p><p>my little document will give us something to talk about." </p><p>"You had better keep it, my son," said Madame de Bellegarde. </p><p>"By all means," said Newman; "keep it and show it to your mother when </p><p>you get home." </p><p>"And after showing it to the duchess?"--asked the marquis, folding the </p><p>paper and putting it away. </p><p>"Well, I'll take up the dukes," said Newman. "Then the counts and the </p><p>barons--all the people you had the cruelty to introduce me to in a </p><p>character of which you meant immediately to deprive me. I have made out </p><p>a list." </p><p>For a moment neither Madame de Bellegarde nor her son said a word; the </p><p>old lady sat with her eyes upon the ground; M. de Bellegarde's blanched </p><p>pupils were fixed upon her face. Then, looking at Newman, "Is that all </p><p>you have to say?" she asked. </p><p>"No, I want to say a few words more. I want to say that I hope you </p><p>quite understand what I'm about. This is my revenge, you know. You have </p><p>treated me before the world--convened for the express purpose--as if I </p><p>were not good enough for you. I mean to show the world that, however bad </p><p>I may be, you are not quite the people to say it." </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde was silent again, and then she broke her silence. </p><p>Her self-possession continued to be extraordinary. "I needn't ask you </p><p>who has been your accomplice. Mrs. Bread told me that you had purchased </p><p>her services." </p><p>"Don't accuse Mrs. Bread of venality," said Newman. "She has kept your </p><p>secret all these years. She has given you a long respite. It was beneath </p><p>her eyes your husband wrote that paper; he put it into her hands with </p><p>a solemn injunction that she was to make it public. She was too </p><p>good-hearted to make use of it." </p><p>The old lady appeared for an instant to hesitate, and then, "She was my </p><p>husband's mistress," she said, softly. This was the only concession to</p><p>self-defense that she condescended to make. </p><p>"I doubt that," said Newman. </p><p>Madame de Bellegarde got up from her bench. "It was not to your opinions </p><p>I undertook to listen, and if you have nothing left but them to tell </p><p>me I think this remarkable interview may terminate." And turning to the </p><p>marquis she took his arm again. "My son," she said, "say something!" </p><p>M. de Bellegarde looked down at his mother, passing his hand over his </p><p>forehead, and then, tenderly, caressingly, "What shall I say?" he asked. </p><p>"There is only one thing to say," said the Marquise. "That it was really </p><p>not worth while to have interrupted our walk." </p><p>But the marquis thought he could improve this. "Your paper's a forgery," </p><p>he said to Newman. </p><p>Newman shook his head a little, with a tranquil smile. "M. de </p><p>Bellegarde," he said, "your mother does better. She has done better all </p><p>along, from the first of my knowing you. You're a mighty plucky woman, </p><p>madam," he continued. "It's a great pity you have made me your enemy. I </p><p>should have been one of your greatest admirers." </p><p>"Mon pauvre ami," said Madame de Bellegarde to her son in French, and </p><p>as if she had not heard these words, "you must take me immediately to my </p><p>carriage." </p><p>Newman stepped back and let them leave him; he watched them a moment and </p><p>saw Madame Urbain, with her little girl, come out of a by-path to meet </p><p>them. The old lady stooped and kissed her grandchild. "Damn it, she is </p><p>plucky!" said Newman, and he walked home with a slight sense of being </p><p>balked. She was so inexpressively defiant! But on reflection he decided </p><p>that what he had witnessed was no real sense of security, still less a </p><p>real innocence. It was only a very superior style of brazen assurance. </p><p>"Wait till she reads the paper!" he said to himself; and he concluded </p><p>that he should hear from her soon. </p><p>He heard sooner than he expected. The next morning, before midday, </p><p>when he was about to give orders for his breakfast to be served, M. de </p><p>Bellegarde's card was brought to him. "She has read the paper and she </p><p>has passed a bad night," said Newman. He instantly admitted his visitor, </p><p>who came in with the air of the ambassador of a great power meeting the </p><p>delegate of a barbarous tribe whom an absurd accident had enabled for </p><p>the moment to be abominably annoying. The ambassador, at all events, had </p><p>passed a bad night, and his faultlessly careful toilet only threw </p><p>into relief the frigid rancor in his eyes and the mottled tones of his </p><p>refined complexion. He stood before Newman a moment, breathing quickly </p><p>and softly, and shaking his forefinger curtly as his host pointed to a </p><p>chair. </p><p>"What I have come to say is soon said," he declared "and can only be </p><p>said without ceremony." </p><p>"I am good for as much or for as little as you desire," said Newman. </p><p>The marquis looked round the room a moment, and then, "On what terms </p><p>will you part with your scrap of paper?" </p><p>"On none!" And while Newman, with his head on one side and his hands </p><p>behind him sounded the marquis's turbid gaze with his own, he added, </p><p>"Certainly, that is not worth sitting down about." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde meditated a moment, as if he had not heard Newman's </p><p>refusal. "My mother and I, last evening," he said, "talked over your </p><p>story. You will be surprised to learn that we think your little document </p><p>is--a"--and he held back his word a moment--"is genuine." </p><p>"You forget that with you I am used to surprises!" exclaimed Newman, </p><p>with a laugh. </p><p>"The very smallest amount of respect that we owe to my father's memory," </p><p>the marquis continued, "makes us desire that he should not be held up to </p><p>the world as the author of so--so infernal an attack upon the reputation </p><p>of a wife whose only fault was that she had been submissive to </p><p>accumulated injury." </p><p>"Oh, I see," said Newman. "It's for your father's sake." And he laughed </p><p>the laugh in which he indulged when he was most amused--a noiseless </p><p>laugh, with his lips closed. </p><p>But M. de Bellegarde's gravity held good. "There are a few of my </p><p>father's particular friends for whom the knowledge of so--so unfortunate </p><p>an--inspiration--would be a real grief. Even say we firmly established </p><p>by medical evidence the presumption of a mind disordered by fever, il </p><p>en resterait quelque chose. At the best it would look ill in him. Very </p><p>ill!" </p><p>"Don't try medical evidence," said Newman. "Don't touch the doctors and </p><p>they won't touch you. I don't mind your knowing that I have not written </p><p>to them." </p><p>Newman fancied that he saw signs in M. de Bellegarde's discolored mask </p><p>that this information was extremely pertinent. But it may have been </p><p>merely fancy; for the marquis remained majestically argumentative. "For </p><p>instance, Madame d'Outreville," he said, "of whom you spoke yesterday. I </p><p>can imagine nothing that would shock her more." </p><p>"Oh, I am quite prepared to shock Madame d'Outreville, you know. That's </p><p>on the cards. I expect to shock a great many people." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde examined for a moment the stitching on the back of one </p><p>of his gloves. Then, without looking up, "We don't offer you money," he </p><p>said. "That we supposed to be useless." </p><p>Newman, turning away, took a few turns about the room and then came </p><p>back. "What DO you offer me? By what I can make out, the generosity is </p><p>all to be on my side." </p><p>The marquis dropped his arms at his side and held his head a little </p><p>higher. "What we offer you is a chance--a chance that a gentleman should </p><p>appreciate. A chance to abstain from inflicting a terrible blot upon the </p><p>memory of a man who certainly had his faults, but who, personally, had </p><p>done you no wrong." </p><p>"There are two things to say to that," said Newman. "The first is, </p><p>as regards appreciating your 'chance,' that you don't consider me a </p><p>gentleman. That's your great point you know. It's a poor rule that won't</p><p>work both ways. The second is that--well, in a word, you are talking </p><p>great nonsense!" </p><p>Newman, who in the midst of his bitterness had, as I have said, kept </p><p>well before his eyes a certain ideal of saying nothing rude, was </p><p>immediately somewhat regretfully conscious of the sharpness of these </p><p>words. But he speedily observed that the marquis took them more quietly </p><p>than might have been expected. M. de Bellegarde, like the stately </p><p>ambassador that he was, continued the policy of ignoring what was </p><p>disagreeable in his adversary's replies. He gazed at the gilded </p><p>arabesques on the opposite wall, and then presently transferred his </p><p>glance to Newman, as if he too were a large grotesque in a rather </p><p>vulgar system of chamber-decoration. "I suppose you know that as regards </p><p>yourself it won't do at all." </p><p>"How do you mean it won't do?" </p><p>"Why, of course you damn yourself. But I suppose that's in your </p><p>programme. You propose to throw mud at us; you believe, you hope, that </p><p>some of it may stick. We know, of course, it can't," explained the </p><p>marquis in a tone of conscious lucidity; "but you take the chance, and </p><p>are willing at any rate to show that you yourself have dirty hands." </p><p>"That's a good comparison; at least half of it is," said Newman. "I </p><p>take the chance of something sticking. But as regards my hands, they are </p><p>clean. I have taken the matter up with my finger-tips." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde looked a moment into his hat. "All our friends are </p><p>quite with us," he said. "They would have done exactly as we have done." </p><p>"I shall believe that when I hear them say it. Meanwhile I shall think </p><p>better of human nature." </p><p>The marquis looked into his hat again. "Madame de Cintre was extremely </p><p>fond of her father. If she knew of the existence of the few written </p><p>words of which you propose to make this scandalous use, she would demand </p><p>of you proudly for his sake to give it up to her, and she would destroy </p><p>it without reading it." </p><p>"Very possibly," Newman rejoined. "But she will not know. I was in that </p><p>convent yesterday and I know what SHE is doing. Lord deliver us! You can </p><p>guess whether it made me feel forgiving!" </p><p>M. de Bellegarde appeared to have nothing more to suggest; but he </p><p>continued to stand there, rigid and elegant, as a man who believed that </p><p>his mere personal presence had an argumentative value. Newman </p><p>watched him, and, without yielding an inch on the main issue, felt an </p><p>incongruously good-natured impulse to help him to retreat in good order. </p><p>"Your visit's a failure, you see," he said. "You offer too little." </p><p>"Propose something yourself," said the marquis. </p><p>"Give me back Madame de Cintre in the same state in which you took her </p><p>from me." </p><p>M. de Bellegarde threw back his head and his pale face flushed. "Never!" </p><p>he said. </p><p>"You can't!" </p><p>"We wouldn't if we could! In the sentiment which led us to deprecate her </p><p>marriage nothing is changed." </p><p>"'Deprecate' is good!" cried Newman. "It was hardly worth while to come </p><p>here only to tell me that you are not ashamed of yourselves. I could </p><p>have guessed that!" </p><p>The marquis slowly walked toward the door, and Newman, following, opened </p><p>it for him. "What you propose to do will be very disagreeable," M. de </p><p>Bellegarde said. "That is very evident. But it will be nothing more." </p><p>"As I understand it," Newman answered, "that will be quite enough!" </p><p>M. de Bellegarde stood for a moment looking on the ground, as if he </p><p>were ransacking his ingenuity to see what else he could do to save his </p><p>father's reputation. Then, with a little cold sigh, he seemed to signify </p><p>that he regretfully surrendered the late marquis to the penalty of his </p><p>turpitude. He gave a hardly perceptible shrug, took his neat umbrella </p><p>from the servant in the vestibule, and, with his gentlemanly walk, </p><p>passed out. Newman stood listening till he heard the door close; then he </p><p>slowly exclaimed, "Well, I ought to begin to be satisfied now!" </p><p>CHAPTER XXV </p><p>Newman called upon the comical duchess and found her at home. An old </p><p>gentleman with a high nose and a gold-headed cane was just taking leave </p><p>of her; he made Newman a protracted obeisance as he retired, and our </p><p>hero supposed that he was one of the mysterious grandees with whom he </p><p>had shaken hands at Madame de Bellegarde's ball. The duchess, in her </p><p>arm-chair, from which she did not move, with a great flower-pot on one </p><p>side of her, a pile of pink-covered novels on the other, and a large </p><p>piece of tapestry depending from her lap, presented an expansive and </p><p>imposing front; but her aspect was in the highest degree gracious, and </p><p>there was nothing in her manner to check the effusion of his confidence. </p><p>She talked to him about flowers and books, getting launched with </p><p>marvelous promptitude; about the theatres, about the peculiar </p><p>institutions of his native country, about the humidity of Paris about </p><p>the pretty complexions of the American ladies, about his impressions </p><p>of France and his opinion of its female inhabitants. All this was a </p><p>brilliant monologue on the part of the duchess, who, like many of </p><p>her country-women, was a person of an affirmative rather than an </p><p>interrogative cast of mind, who made mots and put them herself into </p><p>circulation, and who was apt to offer you a present of a convenient </p><p>little opinion, neatly enveloped in the gilt paper of a happy Gallicism. </p><p>Newman had come to her with a grievance, but he found himself in an </p><p>atmosphere in which apparently no cognizance was taken of grievance; an </p><p>atmosphere into which the chill of discomfort had never penetrated, </p><p>and which seemed exclusively made up of mild, sweet, stale intellectual </p><p>perfumes. The feeling with which he had watched Madame d'Outreville at </p><p>the treacherous festival of the Bellegardes came back to him; she struck </p><p>him as a wonderful old lady in a comedy, particularly well up in her </p><p>part. He observed before long that she asked him no questions about </p><p>their common friends; she made no allusion to the circumstances under </p><p>which he had been presented to her. She neither feigned ignorance of a</p><p>change in these circumstances nor pretended to condole with him upon it; </p><p>but she smiled and discoursed and compared the tender-tinted wools of </p><p>her tapestry, as if the Bellegardes and their wickedness were not of </p><p>this world. "She is fighting shy!" said Newman to himself; and, having </p><p>made the observation, he was prompted to observe, farther, how the </p><p>duchess would carry off her indifference. She did so in a masterly </p><p>manner. There was not a gleam of disguised consciousness in those </p><p>small, clear, demonstrative eyes which constituted her nearest claim to </p><p>personal loveliness, there was not a symptom of apprehension that Newman </p><p>would trench upon the ground she proposed to avoid. "Upon my word, </p><p>she does it very well," he tacitly commented. "They all hold together </p><p>bravely, and, whether any one else can trust them or not, they can </p><p>certainly trust each other." </p><p>Newman, at this juncture, fell to admiring the duchess for her fine </p><p>manners. He felt, most accurately, that she was not a grain less urbane </p><p>than she would have been if his marriage were still in prospect; but </p><p>he felt also that she was not a particle more urbane. He had come, </p><p>so reasoned the duchess--Heaven knew why he had come, after what had </p><p>happened; and for the half hour, therefore, she would be charmante. But </p><p>she would never see him again. Finding no ready-made opportunity to tell </p><p>his story, Newman pondered these things more dispassionately than might </p><p>have been expected; he stretched his legs, as usual, and even chuckled a </p><p>little, appreciatively and noiselessly. And then as the duchess went on </p><p>relating a mot with which her mother had snubbed the great Napoleon, it </p><p>occurred to Newman that her evasion of a chapter of French history </p><p>more interesting to himself might possibly be the result of an extreme </p><p>consideration for his feelings. Perhaps it was delicacy on the duchess's </p><p>part--not policy. He was on the point of saying something himself, to </p><p>make the chance which he had determined to give her still better, when </p><p>the servant announced another visitor. The duchess, on hearing the </p><p>name--it was that of an Italian prince--gave a little imperceptible </p><p>pout, and said to Newman, rapidly: "I beg you to remain; I desire </p><p>this visit to be short." Newman said to himself, at this, that </p><p>Madame d'Outreville intended, after all, that they should discuss the </p><p>Bellegardes together. </p><p>The prince was a short, stout man, with a head disproportionately large. </p><p>He had a dusky complexion and a bushy eyebrow, beneath which his </p><p>eye wore a fixed and somewhat defiant expression; he seemed to be </p><p>challenging you to insinuate that he was top-heavy. The duchess, judging </p><p>from her charge to Newman, regarded him as a bore; but this was not </p><p>apparent from the unchecked flow of her conversation. She made a fresh </p><p>series of mots, characterized with great felicity the Italian intellect </p><p>and the taste of the figs at Sorrento, predicted the ultimate future of </p><p>the Italian kingdom (disgust with the brutal Sardinian rule and complete </p><p>reversion, throughout the peninsula, to the sacred sway of the Holy </p><p>Father), and, finally, gave a history of the love affairs of the </p><p>Princess X----. This narrative provoked some rectifications on the part </p><p>of the prince, who, as he said, pretended to know something about that </p><p>matter; and having satisfied himself that Newman was in no laughing </p><p>mood, either with regard to the size of his head or anything else, he </p><p>entered into the controversy with an animation for which the duchess, </p><p>when she set him down as a bore, could not have been prepared. The </p><p>sentimental vicissitudes of the Princess X----led to a discussion of the </p><p>heart history of Florentine nobility in general; the duchess had spent </p><p>five weeks in Florence and had gathered much information on the subject. </p><p>This was merged, in turn, in an examination of the Italian heart per se. </p><p>The duchess took a brilliantly heterodox view--thought it the least</p><p>susceptible organ of its kind that she had ever encountered, related </p><p>examples of its want of susceptibility, and at last declared that for </p><p>her the Italians were a people of ice. The prince became flame to refute </p><p>her, and his visit really proved charming. Newman was naturally out of </p><p>the conversation; he sat with his head a little on one side, watching </p><p>the interlocutors. The duchess, as she talked, frequently looked at him </p><p>with a smile, as if to intimate, in the charming manner of her nation, </p><p>that it lay only with him to say something very much to the point. But </p><p>he said nothing at all, and at last his thoughts began to wander. A </p><p>singular feeling came over him--a sudden sense of the folly of his </p><p>errand. What under the sun had he to say to the duchess, after all? </p><p>Wherein would it profit him to tell her that the Bellegardes were </p><p>traitors and that the old lady, into the bargain was a murderess? He </p><p>seemed morally to have turned a sort of somersault, and to find things </p><p>looking differently in consequence. He felt a sudden stiffening of </p><p>his will and quickening of his reserve. What in the world had he been </p><p>thinking of when he fancied the duchess could help him, and that it </p><p>would conduce to his comfort to make her think ill of the Bellegardes? </p><p>What did her opinion of the Bellegardes matter to him? It was only a </p><p>shade more important than the opinion the Bellegardes entertained of </p><p>her. The duchess help him--that cold, stout, soft, artificial woman help </p><p>him?--she who in the last twenty minutes had built up between them a </p><p>wall of polite conversation in which she evidently flattered herself </p><p>that he would never find a gate. Had it come to that--that he was asking </p><p>favors of conceited people, and appealing for sympathy where he had </p><p>no sympathy to give? He rested his arms on his knees, and sat for some </p><p>minutes staring into his hat. As he did so his ears tingled--he had come </p><p>very near being an ass. Whether or no the duchess would hear his story, </p><p>he wouldn't tell it. Was he to sit there another half hour for the </p><p>sake of exposing the Bellegardes? The Bellegardes be hanged! He got up </p><p>abruptly, and advanced to shake hands with his hostess. </p><p>"You can't stay longer?" she asked, very graciously. </p><p>"I am afraid not," he said. </p><p>She hesitated a moment, and then, "I had an idea you had something </p><p>particular to say to me," she declared. </p><p>Newman looked at her; he felt a little dizzy; for the moment he seemed </p><p>to be turning his somersault again. The little Italian prince came to </p><p>his help: "Ah, madam, who has not that?" he softly sighed. </p><p>"Don't teach Mr. Newman to say fadaises," said the duchess. "It is his </p><p>merit that he doesn't know how." </p><p>"Yes, I don't know how to say fadaises," said Newman, "and I don't want </p><p>to say anything unpleasant." </p><p>"I am sure you are very considerate," said the duchess with a smile; and </p><p>she gave him a little nod for good-by with which he took his departure. </p><p>Once in the street, he stood for some time on the pavement, wondering </p><p>whether, after all, he was not an ass not to have discharged his pistol. </p><p>And then again he decided that to talk to any one whomsoever about </p><p>the Bellegardes would be extremely disagreeable to him. The least </p><p>disagreeable thing, under the circumstances, was to banish them from his </p><p>mind, and never think of them again. Indecision had not hitherto </p><p>been one of Newman's weaknesses, and in this case it was not of long</p><p>duration. For three days after this he did not, or at least he tried not </p><p>to, think of the Bellegardes. He dined with Mrs. Tristram, and on her </p><p>mentioning their name, he begged her almost severely to desist. This </p><p>gave Tom Tristram a much-coveted opportunity to offer his condolences. </p><p>He leaned forward, laying his hand on Newman's arm compressing his lips </p><p>and shaking his head. "The fact is my dear fellow, you see, that you </p><p>ought never to have gone into it. It was not your doing, I know--it was </p><p>all my wife. If you want to come down on her, I'll stand off; I give you </p><p>leave to hit her as hard as you like. You know she has never had a word </p><p>of reproach from me in her life, and I think she is in need of something </p><p>of the kind. Why didn't you listen to ME? You know I didn't believe in </p><p>the thing. I thought it at the best an amiable delusion. I don't profess </p><p>to be a Don Juan or a gay Lothario,--that class of man, you know; but I </p><p>do pretend to know something about the harder sex. I have never disliked </p><p>a woman in my life that she has not turned out badly. I was not at all </p><p>deceived in Lizzie, for instance; I always had my doubts about her. </p><p>Whatever you may think of my present situation, I must at least admit </p><p>that I got into it with my eyes open. Now suppose you had got into </p><p>something like this box with Madame de Cintre. You may depend upon it </p><p>she would have turned out a stiff one. And upon my word I don't see </p><p>where you could have found your comfort. Not from the marquis, my dear </p><p>Newman; he wasn't a man you could go and talk things over with in a </p><p>sociable, common-sense way. Did he ever seem to want to have you on the </p><p>premises--did he ever try to see you alone? Did he ever ask you to come </p><p>and smoke a cigar with him of an evening, or step in, when you had been </p><p>calling on the ladies, and take something? I don't think you would have </p><p>got much encouragement out of HIM. And as for the old lady, she struck </p><p>one as an uncommonly strong dose. They have a great expression here, you </p><p>know; they call it 'sympathetic.' Everything is sympathetic--or ought </p><p>to be. Now Madame de Bellegarde is about as sympathetic as that </p><p>mustard-pot. They're a d--d cold-blooded lot, any way; I felt it awfully </p><p>at that ball of theirs. I felt as if I were walking up and down in the </p><p>Armory, in the Tower of London! My dear boy, don't think me a vulgar </p><p>brute for hinting at it, but you may depend upon it, all they wanted </p><p>was your money. I know something about that; I can tell when people </p><p>want one's money! Why they stopped wanting yours I don't know; I suppose </p><p>because they could get some one else's without working so hard for it. </p><p>It isn't worth finding out. It may be that it was not Madame de Cintre </p><p>that backed out first, very likely the old woman put her up to it. I </p><p>suspect she and her mother are really as thick as thieves, eh? You are </p><p>well out of it, my boy; make up your mind to that. If I express myself </p><p>strongly it is all because I love you so much; and from that point of </p><p>view I may say I should as soon have thought of making up to that piece </p><p>of pale high-mightiness as I should have thought of making up to the </p><p>Obelisk in the Place des la Concorde." </p><p>Newman sat gazing at Tristram during this harangue with a lack-lustre </p><p>eye; never yet had he seemed to himself to have outgrown so completely </p><p>the phase of equal comradeship with Tom Tristram. Mrs. Tristram's glance </p><p>at her husband had more of a spark; she turned to Newman with a slightly </p><p>lurid smile. "You must at least do justice," she said, "to the felicity </p><p>with which Mr. Tristram repairs the indiscretions of a too zealous </p><p>wife." </p><p>But even without the aid of Tom Tristram's conversational felicities, </p><p>Newman would have begun to think of the Bellegardes again. He could </p><p>cease to think of them only when he ceased to think of his loss and </p><p>privation, and the days had as yet but scantily lightened the weight</p><p>of this incommodity. In vain Mrs. Tristram begged him to cheer up; she </p><p>assured him that the sight of his countenance made her miserable. </p><p>"How can I help it?" he demanded with a trembling voice. "I feel like </p><p>a widower--and a widower who has not even the consolation of going to </p><p>stand beside the grave of his wife--who has not the right to wear so </p><p>much mourning as a weed on his hat. I feel," he added in a moment "as if </p><p>my wife had been murdered and her assassins were still at large." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram made no immediate rejoinder, but at last she said, with </p><p>a smile which, in so far as it was a forced one, was less successfully </p><p>simulated than such smiles, on her lips, usually were; "Are you very </p><p>sure that you would have been happy?" </p><p>Newman stared a moment, and then shook his head. "That's weak," he said; </p><p>"that won't do." </p><p>"Well," said Mrs. Tristram with a more triumphant bravery, "I don't </p><p>believe you would have been happy." </p><p>Newman gave a little laugh. "Say I should have been miserable, then; </p><p>it's a misery I should have preferred to any happiness." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram began to muse. "I should have been curious to see; it </p><p>would have been very strange." </p><p>"Was it from curiosity that you urged me to try and marry her?" </p><p>"A little," said Mrs. Tristram, growing still more audacious. Newman </p><p>gave her the one angry look he had been destined ever to give her, </p><p>turned away and took up his hat. She watched him a moment, and then </p><p>she said, "That sounds very cruel, but it is less so than it sounds. </p><p>Curiosity has a share in almost everything I do. I wanted very much to </p><p>see, first, whether such a marriage could actually take place; second, </p><p>what would happen if it should take place." </p><p>"So you didn't believe," said Newman, resentfully. </p><p>"Yes, I believed--I believed that it would take place, and that you </p><p>would be happy. Otherwise I should have been, among my speculations, </p><p>a very heartless creature. BUT," she continued, laying her hand upon </p><p>Newman's arm and hazarding a grave smile, "it was the highest flight </p><p>ever taken by a tolerably bold imagination!" </p><p>Shortly after this she recommended him to leave Paris and travel for </p><p>three months. Change of scene would do him good, and he would forget his </p><p>misfortune sooner in absence from the objects which had witnessed it. "I </p><p>really feel," Newman rejoined, "as if to leave YOU, at least, would do </p><p>me good--and cost me very little effort. You are growing cynical, you </p><p>shock me and pain me." </p><p>"Very good," said Mrs. Tristram, good-naturedly or cynically, as may be </p><p>thought most probable. "I shall certainly see you again." </p><p>Newman was very willing to get away from Paris; the brilliant streets he </p><p>had walked through in his happier hours, and which then seemed to wear </p><p>a higher brilliancy in honor of his happiness, appeared now to be in </p><p>the secret of his defeat and to look down upon it in shining mockery. He </p><p>would go somewhere; he cared little where; and he made his preparations.</p><p>Then, one morning, at haphazard, he drove to the train that would </p><p>transport him to Boulogne and dispatch him thence to the shores of </p><p>Britain. As he rolled along in the train he asked himself what had </p><p>become of his revenge, and he was able to say that it was provisionally </p><p>pigeon-holed in a very safe place; it would keep till called for. </p><p>He arrived in London in the midst of what is called "the season," and </p><p>it seemed to him at first that he might here put himself in the way </p><p>of being diverted from his heavy-heartedness. He knew no one in all </p><p>England, but the spectacle of the mighty metropolis roused him somewhat </p><p>from his apathy. Anything that was enormous usually found favor with </p><p>Newman, and the multitudinous energies and industries of England stirred </p><p>within him a dull vivacity of contemplation. It is on record that the </p><p>weather, at that moment, was of the finest English quality; he took </p><p>long walks and explored London in every direction; he sat by the hour in </p><p>Kensington Gardens and beside the adjoining Drive, watching the people </p><p>and the horses and the carriages; the rosy English beauties, the </p><p>wonderful English dandies, and the splendid flunkies. He went to the </p><p>opera and found it better than in Paris; he went to the theatre and </p><p>found a surprising charm in listening to dialogue the finest points </p><p>of which came within the range of his comprehension. He made several </p><p>excursions into the country, recommended by the waiter at his hotel, </p><p>with whom, on this and similar points, he had established confidential </p><p>relations. He watched the deer in Windsor Forest and admired the Thames </p><p>from Richmond Hill; he ate white-bait and brown-bread and butter </p><p>at Greenwich, and strolled in the grassy shadow of the cathedral of </p><p>Canterbury. He also visited the Tower of London and Madame Tussaud's </p><p>exhibition. One day he thought he would go to Sheffield, and then, </p><p>thinking again, he gave it up. Why should he go to Sheffield? He had </p><p>a feeling that the link which bound him to a possible interest in the </p><p>manufacture of cutlery was broken. He had no desire for an "inside view" </p><p>of any successful enterprise whatever, and he would not have given the </p><p>smallest sum for the privilege of talking over the details of the most </p><p>"splendid" business with the shrewdest of overseers. </p><p>One afternoon he had walked into Hyde Park, and was slowly threading </p><p>his way through the human maze which edges the Drive. The stream of </p><p>carriages was no less dense, and Newman, as usual, marveled at the </p><p>strange, dingy figures which he saw taking the air in some of the </p><p>stateliest vehicles. They reminded him of what he had read of eastern </p><p>and southern countries, in which grotesque idols and fetiches were </p><p>sometimes taken out of their temples and carried abroad in golden </p><p>chariots to be displayed to the multitude. He saw a great many pretty </p><p>cheeks beneath high-plumed hats as he squeezed his way through serried </p><p>waves of crumpled muslin; and sitting on little chairs at the base of </p><p>the great serious English trees, he observed a number of quiet-eyed </p><p>maidens who seemed only to remind him afresh that the magic of beauty </p><p>had gone out of the world with Madame de Cintre: to say nothing of other </p><p>damsels, whose eyes were not quiet, and who struck him still more as a </p><p>satire on possible consolation. He had been walking for some time, when, </p><p>directly in front of him, borne back by the summer breeze, he heard a </p><p>few words uttered in that bright Parisian idiom from which his ears had </p><p>begun to alienate themselves. The voice in which the words were spoken </p><p>made them seem even more like a thing with which he had once been </p><p>familiar, and as he bent his eyes it lent an identity to the commonplace </p><p>elegance of the back hair and shoulders of a young lady walking in the </p><p>same direction as himself. Mademoiselle Nioche, apparently, had come to </p><p>seek a more rapid advancement in London, and another glance led Newman </p><p>to suppose that she had found it. A gentleman was strolling beside her,</p><p>lending a most attentive ear to her conversation and too entranced to </p><p>open his lips. Newman did not hear his voice, but perceived that </p><p>he presented the dorsal expression of a well-dressed Englishman. </p><p>Mademoiselle Nioche was attracting attention: the ladies who passed her </p><p>turned round to survey the Parisian perfection of her toilet. A great </p><p>cataract of flounces rolled down from the young lady's waist to Newman's </p><p>feet; he had to step aside to avoid treading upon them. He stepped </p><p>aside, indeed, with a decision of movement which the occasion scarcely </p><p>demanded; for even this imperfect glimpse of Miss Noemie had excited </p><p>his displeasure. She seemed an odious blot upon the face of nature; </p><p>he wanted to put her out of his sight. He thought of Valentin de </p><p>Bellegarde, still green in the earth of his burial--his young life </p><p>clipped by this flourishing impudence. The perfume of the young lady's </p><p>finery sickened him; he turned his head and tried to deflect his course; </p><p>but the pressure of the crowd kept him near her a few minutes longer, so </p><p>that he heard what she was saying. </p><p>"Ah, I am sure he will miss me," she murmured. "It was very cruel in me </p><p>to leave him; I am afraid you will think me a very heartless creature. </p><p>He might perfectly well have come with us. I don't think he is very </p><p>well," she added; "it seemed to me to-day that he was not very gay." </p><p>Newman wondered whom she was talking about, but just then an opening </p><p>among his neighbors enabled him to turn away, and he said to himself </p><p>that she was probably paying a tribute to British propriety and playing </p><p>at tender solicitude about her papa. Was that miserable old man still </p><p>treading the path of vice in her train? Was he still giving her the </p><p>benefit of his experience of affairs, and had he crossed the sea to </p><p>serve as her interpreter? Newman walked some distance farther, and then </p><p>began to retrace his steps taking care not to traverse again the orbit </p><p>of Mademoiselle Nioche. At last he looked for a chair under the trees, </p><p>but he had some difficulty in finding an empty one. He was about to give </p><p>up the search when he saw a gentleman rise from the seat he had been </p><p>occupying, leaving Newman to take it without looking at his neighbors. </p><p>He sat there for some time without heeding them; his attention was lost </p><p>in the irritation and bitterness produced by his recent glimpse of Miss </p><p>Noemie's iniquitous vitality. But at the end of a quarter of an hour, </p><p>dropping his eyes, he perceived a small pug-dog squatted upon the path </p><p>near his feet--a diminutive but very perfect specimen of its interesting </p><p>species. The pug was sniffing at the fashionable world, as it passed </p><p>him, with his little black muzzle, and was kept from extending his </p><p>investigation by a large blue ribbon attached to his collar with an </p><p>enormous rosette and held in the hand of a person seated next to </p><p>Newman. To this person Newman transferred his attention, and immediately </p><p>perceived that he was the object of all that of his neighbor, who was </p><p>staring up at him from a pair of little fixed white eyes. These eyes </p><p>Newman instantly recognized; he had been sitting for the last quarter of </p><p>an hour beside M. Nioche. He had vaguely felt that some one was staring </p><p>at him. M. Nioche continued to stare; he appeared afraid to move, even </p><p>to the extent of evading Newman's glance. </p><p>"Dear me," said Newman; "are you here, too?" And he looked at his </p><p>neighbor's helplessness more grimly than he knew. M. Nioche had a new </p><p>hat and a pair of kid gloves; his clothes, too, seemed to belong to a </p><p>more recent antiquity than of yore. Over his arm was suspended a lady's </p><p>mantilla--a light and brilliant tissue, fringed with white lace--which </p><p>had apparently been committed to his keeping; and the little dog's blue </p><p>ribbon was wound tightly round his hand. There was no expression of </p><p>recognition in his face--or of anything indeed save a sort of feeble,</p><p>fascinated dread; Newman looked at the pug and the lace mantilla, and </p><p>then he met the old man's eyes again. "You know me, I see," he pursued. </p><p>"You might have spoken to me before." M. Nioche still said nothing, </p><p>but it seemed to Newman that his eyes began faintly to water. "I didn't </p><p>expect," our hero went on, "to meet you so far from--from the Cafe de la </p><p>Patrie." The old man remained silent, but decidedly Newman had touched </p><p>the source of tears. His neighbor sat staring and Newman added, "What's </p><p>the matter, M. Nioche? You used to talk--to talk very prettily. Don't </p><p>you remember you even gave lessons in conversation?" </p><p>At this M. Nioche decided to change his attitude. He stooped and picked </p><p>up the pug, lifted it to his face and wiped his eyes on its little soft </p><p>back. "I'm afraid to speak to you," he presently said, looking over the </p><p>puppy's shoulder. "I hoped you wouldn't notice me. I should have moved </p><p>away, but I was afraid that if I moved you would notice me. So I sat </p><p>very still." </p><p>"I suspect you have a bad conscience, sir," said Newman. </p><p>The old man put down the little dog and held it carefully in his lap. </p><p>Then he shook his head, with his eyes still fixed upon his interlocutor. </p><p>"No, Mr. Newman, I have a good conscience," he murmured. </p><p>"Then why should you want to slink away from me?" </p><p>"Because--because you don't understand my position." </p><p>"Oh, I think you once explained it to me," said Newman. "But it seems </p><p>improved." </p><p>"Improved!" exclaimed M. Nioche, under his breath. "Do you call this </p><p>improvement?" And he glanced at the treasures in his arms. </p><p>"Why, you are on your travels," Newman rejoined. "A visit to London in </p><p>the season is certainly a sign of prosperity." </p><p>M. Nioche, in answer to this cruel piece of irony, lifted the puppy up </p><p>to his face again, peering at Newman with his small blank eye-holes. </p><p>There was something almost imbecile in the movement, and Newman hardly </p><p>knew whether he was taking refuge in a convenient affectation of </p><p>unreason, or whether he had in fact paid for his dishonor by the loss of </p><p>his wits. In the latter case, just now, he felt little more tenderly </p><p>to the foolish old man than in the former. Responsible or not, he was </p><p>equally an accomplice of his detestably mischievous daughter. Newman </p><p>was going to leave him abruptly, when a ray of entreaty appeared to </p><p>disengage itself from the old man's misty gaze. "Are you going away?" he </p><p>asked. </p><p>"Do you want me to stay?" said Newman. </p><p>"I should have left you--from consideration. But my dignity suffers at </p><p>your leaving me--that way." </p><p>"Have you got anything particular to say to me?" </p><p>M. Nioche looked around him to see that no one was listening, and then </p><p>he said, very softly but distinctly, "I have NOT forgiven her!" </p><p>Newman gave a short laugh, but the old man seemed for the moment not to</p><p>perceive it; he was gazing away, absently, at some metaphysical image </p><p>of his implacability. "It doesn't much matter whether you forgive her or </p><p>not," said Newman. "There are other people who won't, I assure you." </p><p>"What has she done?" M. Nioche softly questioned, turning round again. </p><p>"I don't know what she does, you know." </p><p>"She has done a devilish mischief; it doesn't matter what," said Newman. </p><p>"She's a nuisance; she ought to be stopped." </p><p>M. Nioche stealthily put out his hand and laid it very gently upon </p><p>Newman's arm. "Stopped, yes," he whispered. "That's it. Stopped short. </p><p>She is running away--she must be stopped." Then he paused a moment and </p><p>looked round him. "I mean to stop her," he went on. "I am only waiting </p><p>for my chance." </p><p>"I see," said Newman, laughing briefly again. "She is running away and </p><p>you are running after her. You have run a long distance!" </p><p>But M. Nioche stared insistently: "I shall stop her!" he softly </p><p>repeated. </p><p>He had hardly spoken when the crowd in front of them separated, as if by </p><p>the impulse to make way for an important personage. Presently, through </p><p>the opening, advanced Mademoiselle Nioche, attended by the gentleman </p><p>whom Newman had lately observed. His face being now presented to our </p><p>hero, the latter recognized the irregular features, the hardly more </p><p>regular complexion, and the amiable expression of Lord Deepmere. Noemie, </p><p>on finding herself suddenly confronted with Newman, who, like M. Nioche, </p><p>had risen from his seat, faltered for a barely perceptible instant. She </p><p>gave him a little nod, as if she had seen him yesterday, and then, with </p><p>a good-natured smile, "Tiens, how we keep meeting!" she said. She looked </p><p>consummately pretty, and the front of her dress was a wonderful work of </p><p>art. She went up to her father, stretching out her hands for the little </p><p>dog, which he submissively placed in them, and she began to kiss it </p><p>and murmur over it: "To think of leaving him all alone,--what a wicked, </p><p>abominable creature he must believe me! He has been very unwell," she </p><p>added, turning and affecting to explain to Newman, with a spark of </p><p>infernal impudence, fine as a needlepoint, in her eye. "I don't think </p><p>the English climate agrees with him." </p><p>"It seems to agree wonderfully well with his mistress," said Newman. </p><p>"Do you mean me? I have never been better, thank you," Miss Noemie </p><p>declared. "But with MILORD"--and she gave a brilliant glance at her </p><p>late companion--"how can one help being well?" She seated herself in the </p><p>chair from which her father had risen, and began to arrange the little </p><p>dog's rosette. </p><p>Lord Deepmere carried off such embarrassment as might be incidental </p><p>to this unexpected encounter with the inferior grace of a male and </p><p>a Briton. He blushed a good deal, and greeted the object of his late </p><p>momentary aspiration to rivalry in the favor of a person other than </p><p>the mistress of the invalid pug with an awkward nod and a rapid </p><p>ejaculation--an ejaculation to which Newman, who often found it hard to </p><p>understand the speech of English people, was able to attach no meaning. </p><p>Then the young man stood there, with his hand on his hip, and with a </p><p>conscious grin, staring askance at Miss Noemie. Suddenly an idea seemed </p><p>to strike him, and he said, turning to Newman, "Oh, you know her?"</p><p>"Yes," said Newman, "I know her. I don't believe you do." </p><p>"Oh dear, yes, I do!" said Lord Deepmere, with another grin. "I knew </p><p>her in Paris--by my poor cousin Bellegarde you know. He knew her, poor </p><p>fellow, didn't he? It was she you know, who was at the bottom of his </p><p>affair. Awfully sad, wasn't it?" continued the young man, talking off </p><p>his embarrassment as his simple nature permitted. "They got up some </p><p>story about its being for the Pope; about the other man having said </p><p>something against the Pope's morals. They always do that, you know. They </p><p>put it on the Pope because Bellegarde was once in the Zouaves. But </p><p>it was about HER morals--SHE was the Pope!" Lord Deepmere pursued, </p><p>directing an eye illumined by this pleasantry toward Mademoiselle </p><p>Nioche, who was bending gracefully over her lap-dog, apparently absorbed </p><p>in conversation with it. "I dare say you think it rather odd that I </p><p>should--a--keep up the acquaintance," the young man resumed. "But she </p><p>couldn't help it, you know, and Bellegarde was only my twentieth cousin. </p><p>I dare say you think it's rather cheeky, my showing with her in Hyde </p><p>Park. But you see she isn't known yet, and she's in such very good </p><p>form"--And Lord Deepmere's conclusion was lost in the attesting glance </p><p>which he again directed toward the young lady. </p><p>Newman turned away; he was having more of her than he relished. M. </p><p>Nioche had stepped aside on his daughter's approach, and he stood there, </p><p>within a very small compass, looking down hard at the ground. It had </p><p>never yet, as between him and Newman, been so apposite to place on </p><p>record the fact that he had not forgiven his daughter. As Newman was </p><p>moving away he looked up and drew near to him, and Newman, seeing the </p><p>old man had something particular to say, bent his head for an instant. </p><p>"You will see it some day in the papers,"' murmured M. Nioche. </p><p>Our hero departed to hide his smile, and to this day, though the </p><p>newspapers form his principal reading, his eyes have not been arrested </p><p>by any paragraph forming a sequel to this announcement. </p><p>CHAPTER XXVI </p><p>In that uninitiated observation of the great spectacle of English life </p><p>upon which I have touched, it might be supposed that Newman passed a </p><p>great many dull days. But the dullness of his days pleased him; his </p><p>melancholy, which was settling into a secondary stage, like a healing </p><p>wound, had in it a certain acrid, palatable sweetness. He had company in </p><p>his thoughts, and for the present he wanted no other. He had no desire </p><p>to make acquaintances, and he left untouched a couple of notes of </p><p>introduction which had been sent him by Tom Tristram. He thought a great </p><p>deal of Madame de Cintre--sometimes with a dogged tranquillity which </p><p>might have seemed, for a quarter of an hour at a time, a near neighbor </p><p>to forgetfulness. He lived over again the happiest hours he had </p><p>known--that silver chain of numbered days in which his afternoon visits, </p><p>tending sensibly to the ideal result, had subtilized his good humor to </p><p>a sort of spiritual intoxication. He came back to reality, after such </p><p>reveries, with a somewhat muffled shock; he had begun to feel the need </p><p>of accepting the unchangeable. At other times the reality became an </p><p>infamy again and the unchangeable an imposture, and he gave himself up </p><p>to his angry restlessness till he was weary. But on the whole he fell</p><p>into a rather reflective mood. Without in the least intending it or </p><p>knowing it, he attempted to read the moral of his strange misadventure. </p><p>He asked himself, in his quieter hours, whether perhaps, after all, he </p><p>WAS more commercial than was pleasant. We know that it was in obedience </p><p>to a strong reaction against questions exclusively commercial that </p><p>he had come out to pick up aesthetic entertainment in Europe; it may </p><p>therefore be understood that he was able to conceive that a man might be </p><p>too commercial. He was very willing to grant it, but the concession, as </p><p>to his own case, was not made with any very oppressive sense of shame. </p><p>If he had been too commercial, he was ready to forget it, for in being </p><p>so he had done no man any wrong that might not be as easily forgotten. </p><p>He reflected with sober placidity that at least there were no monuments </p><p>of his "meanness" scattered about the world. If there was any reason in </p><p>the nature of things why his connection with business should have cast a </p><p>shadow upon a connection--even a connection broken--with a woman justly </p><p>proud, he was willing to sponge it out of his life forever. The thing </p><p>seemed a possibility; he could not feel it, doubtless, as keenly as some </p><p>people, and it hardly seemed worth while to flap his wings very hard to </p><p>rise to the idea; but he could feel it enough to make any sacrifice that </p><p>still remained to be made. As to what such sacrifice was now to be </p><p>made to, here Newman stopped short before a blank wall over which there </p><p>sometimes played a shadowy imagery. He had a fancy of carrying out his </p><p>life as he would have directed it if Madame de Cintre had been left to </p><p>him--of making it a religion to do nothing that she would have disliked. </p><p>In this, certainly, there was no sacrifice; but there was a pale, </p><p>oblique ray of inspiration. It would be lonely entertainment--a good </p><p>deal like a man talking to himself in the mirror for want of better </p><p>company. Yet the idea yielded Newman several half hours' dumb exaltation </p><p>as he sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched, </p><p>over the relics of an expensively poor dinner, in the undying English </p><p>twilight. If, however, his commercial imagination was dead, he felt no </p><p>contempt for the surviving actualities begotten by it. He was glad he </p><p>had been prosperous and had been a great man of business rather than a </p><p>small one; he was extremely glad he was rich. He felt no impulse to sell </p><p>all he had and give to the poor, or to retire into meditative economy </p><p>and asceticism. He was glad he was rich and tolerably young; it was </p><p>possible to think too much about buying and selling, it was a gain to </p><p>have a good slice of life left in which not to think about them. Come, </p><p>what should he think about now? Again and again Newman could think only </p><p>of one thing; his thoughts always came back to it, and as they did so, </p><p>with an emotional rush which seemed physically to express itself in a </p><p>sudden upward choking, he leaned forward--the waiter having left the </p><p>room--and, resting his arms on the table, buried his troubled face. </p><p>He remained in England till midsummer, and spent a month in the country, </p><p>wandering about cathedrals, castles, and ruins. Several times, taking </p><p>a walk from his inn into meadows and parks, he stopped by a well-worn </p><p>stile, looked across through the early evening at a gray church tower, </p><p>with its dusky nimbus of thick-circling swallows, and remembered that </p><p>this might have been part of the entertainment of his honeymoon. He had </p><p>never been so much alone or indulged so little in accidental dialogue. </p><p>The period of recreation appointed by Mrs. Tristram had at last expired, </p><p>and he asked himself what he should do now. Mrs. Tristram had written </p><p>to him, proposing to him that he should join her in the Pyrenees; but </p><p>he was not in the humor to return to France. The simplest thing was to </p><p>repair to Liverpool and embark on the first American steamer. Newman </p><p>made his way to the great seaport and secured his berth; and the night </p><p>before sailing he sat in his room at the hotel, staring down, vacantly </p><p>and wearily, at an open portmanteau. A number of papers were lying</p><p>upon it, which he had been meaning to look over; some of them might </p><p>conveniently be destroyed. But at last he shuffled them roughly </p><p>together, and pushed them into a corner of the valise; they were </p><p>business papers, and he was in no humor for sifting them. Then he drew </p><p>forth his pocket-book and took out a paper of smaller size than those he </p><p>had dismissed. He did not unfold it; he simply sat looking at the back </p><p>of it. If he had momentarily entertained the idea of destroying it, the </p><p>idea quickly expired. What the paper suggested was the feeling that </p><p>lay in his innermost heart and that no reviving cheerfulness could long </p><p>quench--the feeling that after all and above all he was a good fellow </p><p>wronged. With it came a hearty hope that the Bellegardes were enjoying </p><p>their suspense as to what he would do yet. The more it was prolonged the </p><p>more they would enjoy it! He had hung fire once, yes; perhaps, in his </p><p>present queer state of mind, he might hang fire again. But he restored </p><p>the little paper to his pocket-book very tenderly, and felt better for </p><p>thinking of the suspense of the Bellegardes. He felt better every time </p><p>he thought of it after that, as he sailed the summer seas. He landed </p><p>in New York and journeyed across the continent to San Francisco, and </p><p>nothing that he observed by the way contributed to mitigate his sense of </p><p>being a good fellow wronged. </p><p>He saw a great many other good fellows--his old friends--but he told </p><p>none of them of the trick that had been played him. He said simply that </p><p>the lady he was to have married had changed her mind, and when he </p><p>was asked if he had changed his own, he said, "Suppose we change the </p><p>subject." He told his friends that he had brought home no "new ideas" </p><p>from Europe, and his conduct probably struck them as an eloquent proof </p><p>of failing invention. He took no interest in chatting about his affairs </p><p>and manifested no desire to look over his accounts. He asked half a </p><p>dozen questions which, like those of an eminent physician inquiring </p><p>for particular symptoms, showed that he still knew what he was talking </p><p>about; but he made no comments and gave no directions. He not only </p><p>puzzled the gentlemen on the stock exchange, but he was himself </p><p>surprised at the extent of his indifference. As it seemed only to </p><p>increase, he made an effort to combat it; he tried to interest himself </p><p>and to take up his old occupations. But they appeared unreal to him; do </p><p>what he would he somehow could not believe in them. Sometimes he began </p><p>to fear that there was something the matter with his head; that his </p><p>brain, perhaps, had softened, and that the end of his strong activities </p><p>had come. This idea came back to him with an exasperating force. </p><p>A hopeless, helpless loafer, useful to no one and detestable to </p><p>himself--this was what the treachery of the Bellegardes had made of him. </p><p>In his restless idleness he came back from San Francisco to New York, </p><p>and sat for three days in the lobby of his hotel, looking out through </p><p>a huge wall of plate-glass at the unceasing stream of pretty girls in </p><p>Parisian-looking dresses, undulating past with little parcels nursed </p><p>against their neat figures. At the end of three days he returned to San </p><p>Francisco, and having arrived there he wished he had stayed away. He </p><p>had nothing to do, his occupation was gone, and it seemed to him that he </p><p>should never find it again. He had nothing to do here, he sometimes said </p><p>to himself; but there was something beyond the ocean that he was </p><p>still to do; something that he had left undone experimentally and </p><p>speculatively, to see if it could content itself to remain undone. But </p><p>it was not content: it kept pulling at his heartstrings and thumping at </p><p>his reason; it murmured in his ears and hovered perpetually before his </p><p>eyes. It interposed between all new resolutions and their fulfillment; </p><p>it seemed like a stubborn ghost, dumbly entreating to be laid. Till that </p><p>was done he should never be able to do anything else. </p><p>One day, toward the end of the winter, after a long interval, he </p><p>received a letter from Mrs. Tristram, who apparently was animated by a </p><p>charitable desire to amuse and distract her correspondent. She gave </p><p>him much Paris gossip, talked of General Packard and Miss Kitty Upjohn, </p><p>enumerated the new plays at the theatre, and inclosed a note from her </p><p>husband, who had gone down to spend a month at Nice. Then came her </p><p>signature, and after this her postscript. The latter consisted of these </p><p>few lines: "I heard three days since from my friend, the Abbe Aubert, </p><p>that Madame de Cintre last week took the veil at the Carmelites. It was </p><p>on her twenty-seventh birthday, and she took the name of her, patroness, </p><p>St. Veronica. Sister Veronica has a life-time before her!" </p><p>This letter came to Newman in the morning; in the evening he started for </p><p>Paris. His wound began to ache with its first fierceness, and during his </p><p>long bleak journey the thought of Madame de Cintre's "life-time," </p><p>passed within prison walls on whose outer side he might stand, kept him </p><p>perpetual company. Now he would fix himself in Paris forever; he would </p><p>extort a sort of happiness from the knowledge that if she was not </p><p>there, at least the stony sepulchre that held her was. He descended, </p><p>unannounced, upon Mrs. Bread, whom he found keeping lonely watch in his </p><p>great empty saloons on the Boulevard Haussmann. They were as neat as a </p><p>Dutch village, Mrs. Bread's only occupation had been removing individual </p><p>dust-particles. She made no complaint, however, of her loneliness, for </p><p>in her philosophy a servant was but a mysteriously projected machine, </p><p>and it would be as fantastic for a housekeeper to comment upon a </p><p>gentleman's absences as for a clock to remark upon not being wound up. </p><p>No particular clock, Mrs. Bread supposed, went all the time, and no </p><p>particular servant could enjoy all the sunshine diffused by the career </p><p>of an exacting master. She ventured, nevertheless, to express a modest </p><p>hope that Newman meant to remain a while in Paris. Newman laid his hand </p><p>on hers and shook it gently. "I mean to remain forever," he said. </p><p>He went after this to see Mrs. Tristram, to whom he had telegraphed, and </p><p>who expected him. She looked at him a moment and shook her head. "This </p><p>won't do," she said; "you have come back too soon." He sat down and </p><p>asked about her husband and her children, tried even to inquire about </p><p>Miss Dora Finch. In the midst of this--"Do you know where she is?" he </p><p>asked, abruptly. </p><p>Mrs. Tristram hesitated a moment; of course he couldn't mean Miss Dora </p><p>Finch. Then she answered, properly: "She has gone to the other house--in </p><p>the Rue d'Enfer." After Newman had sat a while longer looking very </p><p>sombre, she went on: "You are not so good a man as I thought. You are </p><p>more--you are more--" </p><p>"More what?" Newman asked. </p><p>"More unforgiving." </p><p>"Good God!" cried Newman; "do you expect me to forgive?" </p><p>"No, not that. I have forgiven, so of course you can't. But you might </p><p>forget! You have a worse temper about it than I should have expected. </p><p>You look wicked--you look dangerous." </p><p>"I may be dangerous," he said; "but I am not wicked. No, I am not </p><p>wicked." And he got up to go. Mrs. Tristram asked him to come back to </p><p>dinner; but he answered that he did not feel like pledging himself to </p><p>be present at an entertainment, even as a solitary guest. Later in the</p><p>evening, if he should be able, he would come. </p><p>He walked away through the city, beside the Seine and over it, and took </p><p>the direction of the Rue d'Enfer. The day had the softness of early </p><p>spring; but the weather was gray and humid. Newman found himself in a </p><p>part of Paris which he little knew--a region of convents and prisons, of </p><p>streets bordered by long dead walls and traversed by a few wayfarers. </p><p>At the intersection of two of these streets stood the house of the </p><p>Carmelites--a dull, plain edifice, with a high-shouldered blank wall </p><p>all round it. From without Newman could see its upper windows, its steep </p><p>roof and its chimneys. But these things revealed no symptoms of human </p><p>life; the place looked dumb, deaf, inanimate. The pale, dead, discolored </p><p>wall stretched beneath it, far down the empty side street--a vista </p><p>without a human figure. Newman stood there a long time; there were </p><p>no passers; he was free to gaze his fill. This seemed the goal of his </p><p>journey; it was what he had come for. It was a strange satisfaction, and </p><p>yet it was a satisfaction; the barren stillness of the place seemed to </p><p>be his own release from ineffectual longing. It told him that the woman </p><p>within was lost beyond recall, and that the days and years of the future </p><p>would pile themselves above her like the huge immovable slab of a tomb. </p><p>These days and years, in this place, would always be just so gray and </p><p>silent. Suddenly, from the thought of their seeing him stand there, </p><p>again the charm utterly departed. He would never stand there again; it </p><p>was gratuitous dreariness. He turned away with a heavy heart, but with </p><p>a heart lighter than the one he had brought. Everything was over, and he </p><p>too at last could rest. He walked down through narrow, winding streets </p><p>to the edge of the Seine again, and there he saw, close above him, the </p><p>soft, vast towers of Notre Dame. He crossed one of the bridges and stood </p><p>a moment in the empty place before the great cathedral; then he went </p><p>in beneath the grossly-imaged portals. He wandered some distance up the </p><p>nave and sat down in the splendid dimness. He sat a long time; he heard </p><p>far-away bells chiming off, at long intervals, to the rest of the world. </p><p>He was very tired; this was the best place he could be in. He said no </p><p>prayers; he had no prayers to say. He had nothing to be thankful for, </p><p>and he had nothing to ask; nothing to ask, because now he must take care </p><p>of himself. But a great cathedral offers a very various hospitality, and </p><p>Newman sat in his place, because while he was there he was out of the </p><p>world. The most unpleasant thing that had ever happened to him had </p><p>reached its formal conclusion, as it were; he could close the book and </p><p>put it away. He leaned his head for a long time on the chair in front of </p><p>him; when he took it up he felt that he was himself again. Somewhere </p><p>in his mind, a tight knot seemed to have loosened. He thought of the </p><p>Bellegardes; he had almost forgotten them. He remembered them as people </p><p>he had meant to do something to. He gave a groan as he remembered what </p><p>he had meant to do; he was annoyed at having meant to do it; the bottom, </p><p>suddenly, had fallen out of his revenge. Whether it was Christian </p><p>charity or unregenerate good nature--what it was, in the background of </p><p>his soul--I don't pretend to say; but Newman's last thought was that </p><p>of course he would let the Bellegardes go. If he had spoken it aloud </p><p>he would have said that he didn't want to hurt them. He was ashamed </p><p>of having wanted to hurt them. They had hurt him, but such things were </p><p>really not his game. At last he got up and came out of the darkening </p><p>church; not with the elastic step of a man who had won a victory or </p><p>taken a resolve, but strolling soberly, like a good-natured man who is </p><p>still a little ashamed. </p><p>Going home, he said to Mrs. Bread that he must trouble her to put back </p><p>his things into the portmanteau she had unpacked the evening before. His </p><p>gentle stewardess looked at him through eyes a trifle bedimmed. "Dear</p><p>me, sir," she exclaimed, "I thought you said that you were going to stay </p><p>forever." </p><p>"I meant that I was going to stay away forever," said Newman kindly. And </p><p>since his departure from Paris on the following day he has certainly not </p><p>returned. The gilded apartments I have so often spoken of stand ready to </p><p>receive him; but they serve only as a spacious residence for Mrs. Bread, </p><p>who wanders eternally from room to room, adjusting the tassels of the </p><p>curtains, and keeps her wages, which are regularly brought her by </p><p>a banker's clerk, in a great pink Sevres vase on the drawing-room </p><p>mantel-shelf. </p><p>Late in the evening Newman went to Mrs. Tristram's and found Tom </p><p>Tristram by the domestic fireside. "I'm glad to see you back in Paris," </p><p>this gentleman declared. "You know it's really the only place for a </p><p>white man to live." Mr. Tristram made his friend welcome, according </p><p>to his own rosy light, and offered him a convenient resume of the </p><p>Franco-American gossip of the last six months. Then at last he got up </p><p>and said he would go for half an hour to the club. "I suppose a man </p><p>who has been for six months in California wants a little intellectual </p><p>conversation. I'll let my wife have a go at you." </p><p>Newman shook hands heartily with his host, but did not ask him to </p><p>remain; and then he relapsed into his place on the sofa, opposite to </p><p>Mrs. Tristram. She presently asked him what he had done after leaving </p><p>her. "Nothing particular," said Newman. </p><p>"You struck me," she rejoined, "as a man with a plot in his head. You </p><p>looked as if you were bent on some sinister errand, and after you had </p><p>left me I wondered whether I ought to have let you go." </p><p>"I only went over to the other side of the river--to the Carmelites," </p><p>said Newman. </p><p>Mrs. Tristram looked at him a moment and smiled. "What did you do there? </p><p>Try to scale the wall?" </p><p>"I did nothing. I looked at the place for a few minutes and then came </p><p>away." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram gave him a sympathetic glance. "You didn't happen to meet </p><p>M. de Bellegarde," she asked, "staring hopelessly at the convent wall as </p><p>well? I am told he takes his sister's conduct very hard." </p><p>"No, I didn't meet him, I am happy to say," Newman answered, after a </p><p>pause. </p><p>"They are in the country," Mrs. Tristram went on; "at--what is the name </p><p>of the place?--Fleurieres. They returned there at the time you left </p><p>Paris and have been spending the year in extreme seclusion. The little </p><p>marquise must enjoy it; I expect to hear that she has eloped with her </p><p>daughter's music-master!" </p><p>Newman was looking at the light wood-fire; but he listened to this with </p><p>extreme interest. At last he spoke: "I mean never to mention the name of </p><p>those people again, and I don't want to hear anything more about them." </p><p>And then he took out his pocket-book and drew forth a scrap of paper. He </p><p>looked at it an instant, then got up and stood by the fire. "I am going </p><p>to burn them up," he said. "I am glad to have you as a witness. There</p><p>they go!" And he tossed the paper into the flame. </p><p>Mrs. Tristram sat with her embroidery needle suspended. "What is that </p><p>paper?" she asked. </p><p>Newman leaning against the fire-place, stretched his arms and drew a </p><p>longer breath than usual. Then after a moment, "I can tell you now," he </p><p>said. "It was a paper containing a secret of the Bellegardes--something </p><p>which would damn them if it were known." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram dropped her embroidery with a reproachful moan. "Ah, why </p><p>didn't you show it to me?" </p><p>"I thought of showing it to you--I thought of showing it to every one. </p><p>I thought of paying my debt to the Bellegardes that way. So I told them, </p><p>and I frightened them. They have been staying in the country as you tell </p><p>me, to keep out of the explosion. But I have given it up." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram began to take slow stitches again. "Have you quite given </p><p>it up?" </p><p>"Oh yes." </p><p>"Is it very bad, this secret?" </p><p>"Yes, very bad." </p><p>"For myself," said Mrs. Tristram, "I am sorry you have given it up. I </p><p>should have liked immensely to see your paper. They have wronged me too, </p><p>you know, as your sponsor and guarantee, and it would have served for my </p><p>revenge as well. How did you come into possession of your secret?" </p><p>"It's a long story. But honestly, at any rate." </p><p>"And they knew you were master of it?" </p><p>"Oh, I told them." </p><p>"Dear me, how interesting!" cried Mrs. Tristram. "And you humbled them </p><p>at your feet?" </p><p>Newman was silent a moment. "No, not at all. They pretended not to </p><p>care--not to be afraid. But I know they did care--they were afraid." </p><p>"Are you very sure?" </p><p>Newman stared a moment. "Yes, I'm sure." </p><p>Mrs. Tristram resumed her slow stitches. "They defied you, eh?" </p><p>"Yes," said Newman, "it was about that." </p><p>"You tried by the threat of exposure to make them retract?" Mrs. </p><p>Tristram pursued. </p><p>"Yes, but they wouldn't. I gave them their choice, and they chose to </p><p>take their chance of bluffing off the charge and convicting me of </p><p>fraud. But they were frightened," Newman added, "and I have had all the </p><p>vengeance I want."</p><p>"It is most provoking," said Mrs. Tristram, "to hear you talk of the </p><p>'charge' when the charge is burnt up. Is it quite consumed?" she asked, </p><p>glancing at the fire. </p><p>Newman assured her that there was nothing left of it. "Well then," she </p><p>said, "I suppose there is no harm in saying that you probably did not </p><p>make them so very uncomfortable. My impression would be that since, as </p><p>you say, they defied you, it was because they believed that, after </p><p>all, you would never really come to the point. Their confidence, after </p><p>counsel taken of each other, was not in their innocence, nor in their </p><p>talent for bluffing things off; it was in your remarkable good nature! </p><p>You see they were right." </p><p>Newman instinctively turned to see if the little paper was in fact </p><p>consumed; but there was nothing left of it. </p><p>End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The American, by Henry James </p><p>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMERICAN *** </p><p>***** This file should be named 177.txt or 177.zip ***** </p><p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: </p><p> http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/177/</p><p>Produced by Pauline J. 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