

                                  Henry James

                                  The American

                     Preface to the New York Edition (1907)

The American, which I had begun in Paris early in the winter of 1875-76, made
its first appearance in The Atlantic Monthly in June of the latter year and
continued there, from month to month, till May of the next. It started on its
course while much was still unwritten, and there again come back to me, with
this remembrance, the frequent hauntings and alarms of that comparatively early
time; the habit of wondering what would happen if anything should happen, if one
should break one's arm by an accident or make a long illness or suffer, in body,
mind, fortune, any other visitation involving a loss of time. The habit of
apprehension became of course in some degree the habit of confidence that one
would pull through, that, with opportunity enough, grave interruption never yet
had descended, and that a special Providence, in short, despite the sad warning
of Thackeray's Denis Duval and of Mrs. Gaskell's Wives and Daughters (that of
Stevenson's Weir of Hermiston was yet to come) watches over anxious novelists
condemned to the economy of serialisation. I make myself out in memory as having
at least for many months and in many places given my Providence much to do: so
great a variety of scenes of labour, implying all so much renewal of
application, glimmer out of the book as I now read it over. And yet as the faded
interest of the whole episode becomes again mildly vivid what I seem most to
recover is, in its pale spectrality, a degree of joy, an eagerness on behalf of
my recital, that must recklessly enough have overridden anxieties of every sort,
including any view of inherent difficulties.
    I seem to recall no other like connexion in which the case was met, to my
measure, by so fond a complacency, in which my subject can have appeared so apt
to take care of itself. I see now that I might all the while have taken much
better care of it; yet, as I had at the time no sense of neglecting it, neither
acute nor rueful solicitude, I can but speculate all vainly to-day on the oddity
of my composure. I ask myself indeed if, possibly, recognising after I was
launched the danger of an inordinate leak - since the ship has truly a hole in
its side more than sufficient to have sunk it - I may not have managed, as a
counsel of mere despair, to stop my ears against the noise of waters and pretend
to myself I was afloat; being indubitably, in any case, at sea, with no harbour
of refuge till the end of my serial voyage. If I succeeded at all in that
emulation (in another sphere) of the pursued ostrich I must have succeeded
altogether; must have buried my head in the sand and there found beatitude. The
explanation of my enjoyment of it, no doubt, is that I was more than commonly
enamoured of my idea, and that I believed it, so trusted, so imaginatively
fostered, not less capable of limping to its goal on three feet than on one. The
lameness might be what it would: I clearly, for myself, felt the thing go -
which is the most a dramatist can ever ask of his drama; and I shall here
accordingly indulge myself in speaking first of how, superficially, it did so
proceed; explaining then what I mean by its practical dependence on a miracle.
    It had come to me, this happy, halting view of an interesting case, abruptly
enough, some years before: I recall sharply the felicity of the first glimpse,
though I forget the accident of thought that produced it. I recall that I was
seated in an American horse-car when I found myself, of a sudden, considering
with enthusiasm, as the theme of a story, the situation, in another country and
an aristocratic society, of some robust but insidiously beguiled and betrayed,
some cruelly wronged, compatriot: the point being in especial that he should
suffer at the hands of persons pretending to represent the highest possible
civilisation and to be of an order in every way superior to his own. What would
he do in that predicament, how would he right himself, or how, failing a remedy,
would he conduct himself under his wrong? This would be the question involved,
and I remember well how, having entered the horse-car without a dream of it, I
was presently to leave that vehicle in full possession of my answer. He would
behave in the most interesting manner - it would all depend on that: stricken,
smarting, sore, he would arrive at his just vindication and then would fail of
all triumphantly and all vulgarly enjoying it. He would hold his revenge and
cherish it and feel its sweetness, and then in the very act of forcing it home
would sacrifice it in disgust. He would let them go, in short, his haughty
contemners, even while feeling them, with joy, in his power, and he would obey,
in so doing, one of the large and easy impulses generally characteristic of his
type. He wouldn't forgive - that would have, in the case, no application; he
would simply turn, at the supreme moment, away, the bitterness of his personal
loss yielding to the very force of his aversion. All he would have at the end
would be therefore just the moral convenience, indeed the moral necessity, of
his practical, but quite unappreciated, magnanimity; and one's last view of him
would be that of a strong man indifferent to his strength and too wrapped in
fine, too wrapped above all in other and intenser, reflections for the assertion
of his rights. This last point was of the essence and constituted in fact the
subject: there would be no subject at all, obviously, - or simply the commonest
of the common, - if my gentleman should enjoy his advantage. I was charmed with
my idea, which would take, however, much working out; and precisely because it
had so much to give, I think, must I have dropped it for the time into the deep
well of unconscious cerebration: not without the hope, doubtless, that it might
eventually emerge from that reservoir, as one had already known the buried
treasure to come to light, with a firm iridescent surface and a notable increase
of weight.
    This resurrection then took place in Paris, where I was at the moment
living, and in December, 1875; my good fortune being apparently that Paris had
ever so promptly offered me, and with an immediate directness at which I now
marvel (since I had come back there, after earlier visitations, but a few weeks
before), everything that was needed to make my conception concrete. I seem again
at this distant day to see it become so quickly and easily, quite as if filling
itself with life in that air. The objectivity it had wanted it promptly put on,
and if the questions had been, with the usual intensity, for my hero and his
crisis - the whole formidable list, the who? the what? the where? the when? the
why? the how? - they gathered their answers in the cold shadow of the Arc de
Triomphe, for fine reasons, very much as if they had been plucking spring
flowers for the weaving of a frolic garland. I saw from one day to another my
particular cluster of circumstances, with the life of the splendid city playing
up in it like a flashing fountain in a marble basin. The very splendour seemed
somehow to witness and intervene; it was important for the effect of my friend's
discomfiture that it should take place on a high and lighted stage, and that his
original ambition, the project exposing him, should have sprung from beautiful
and noble suggestions - those that, at certain hours and under certain
impressions, we feel the many-tinted medium by the Seine irresistibly to
communicate. It was all charmingly simple, this conception, and the current must
have gushed, full and clear, to my imagination, from the moment Christopher
Newman rose before me, on a perfect day of the divine Paris spring, in the great
gilded Salon Carré of the Louvre. Under this strong contagion of the place he
would, by the happiest of hazards, meet his old comrade, now initiated and
domiciled; after which the rest would go of itself. If he was to be wronged he
would be wronged with just that conspicuity, with his felicity at just that
pitch and with the highest aggravation of the general effect of misery mocked
at. Great and gilded the whole trap set, in fine, for his wary freshness and
into which it would blunder upon its fate. I have, I confess, no memory of a
disturbing doubt; once the man himself was imaged to me (and that germination is
a process almost always untraceable) he must have walked into the situation as
by taking a pass-key from his pocket.
    But what then meanwhile would be the affront one would see him as most
feeling - the affront of course done him as a lover; and yet not that done by
his mistress herself, since injuries of this order are the stalest stuff of
romance. I was not to have him jilted, any more than I was to have him
successfully vindictive: both his wrong and his right would have been in these
cases of too vulgar a type. I doubtless even then felt that the conception of
Paris as the consecrated scene of rash infatuations and bold bad treacheries
belongs, in the Anglo-Saxon imagination, to the infancy of art. The right
renovation of any such theme as that would place it in Boston or at Cleveland,
at Hartford or at Utica - give it some local connexion in which we had not
already had so much of it. No, I should make my heroine herself, if heroine
there was to be, an equal victim - just as Romeo was not less the sport of fate
for not having been interestedly sacrificed by Juliet; and to this end I had but
to imagine great people again, imagine my hero confronted and involved with
them, and impute to them, with a fine free hand, the arrogance and cruelty, the
tortuous behaviour, in given conditions, of which great people have been
historically so often capable. But as this was the light in which they were to
show, so the essence of the matter would be that he should at the right moment
find them in his power, and so the situation would reach its highest interest
with the question of his utilisation of that knowledge. It would be here, in the
possession and application of his power, that he would come out strong and would
so deeply appeal to our sympathy. Here above all it really was, however, that my
conception unfurled, with the best conscience in the world, the emblazoned flag
of romance; which venerable ensign it had, though quite unwittingly, from the
first and at every point sported in perfect good faith. I had been plotting
arch-romance without knowing it, just as I began to write it that December day
without recognising it and just as I all serenely and blissfully pursued the
process from month to month and from place to place; just as I now, in short,
reading the book over, find it yields me no interest and no reward comparable to
the fond perception of this truth.
    The thing is consistently, consummately - and I would fain really make bold
to say charmingly - romantic; and all without intention, presumption,
hesitation, contrition. The effect is equally undesigned and unabashed, and I
lose myself, at this late hour, I am bound to add, in a certain sad envy of the
free play of so much unchallenged instinct. One would like to woo back such
hours of fine precipitation. They represent to the critical sense which the
exercise of one's whole faculty has, with time, so inevitably and so thoroughly
waked up, the happiest season of surrender to the invoked muse and the projected
fable: the season of images so free and confident and ready that they brush
questions aside and disport themselves, like the artless schoolboys of Gray's
beautiful Ode, in all the ecstasy of the ignorance attending them. The time
doubtless comes soon enough when questions, as I call them, rule the roost and
when the little victim, to adjust Gray's term again to the creature of frolic
fancy, doesn't't dare propose a gambol till they have all (like a board of
trustees discussing a new outlay) sat on the possibly scandalous case. I somehow
feel, accordingly, that it was lucky to have sacrificed on this particular altar
while one still could; though it is perhaps droll - in a yet higher degree - to
have done so not simply because one was guileless, but even quite under the
conviction, in a general way, that, since no rendering of any object and no
painting of any picture can take effect without some form of reference and
control, so these guarantees could but reside in a high probity of observation.
I must decidedly have supposed, all the while, that I was acutely observing -
and with a blessed absence of wonder at its being so easy. Let me certainly at
present rejoice in that absence; for I ask myself how without it I could have
written The American.
    Was it indeed meanwhile my excellent conscience that kept the charm as
unbroken as it appears to me, in rich retrospect, to have remained? - or is it
that I suffer the mere influence of remembered, of associated places and hours,
all acute impressions, to palm itself off as the sign of a finer confidence than
I could justly claim? It is a pleasure to perceive how again and again the
shrunken depths of old work yet permit themselves to be sounded or - even if
rather terrible the image - dragged: the long pole of memory stirs and rummages
the bottom, and we fish up such fragments and relics of the submerged life and
the extinct consciousness as tempt us to piece them together. My windows looked
into the Rue de Luxembourg - since then meagrely re-named Rue Cambon - and the
particular light Parisian click of the small cab-horse on the clear asphalt,
with its sharpness of detonation between the high houses, makes for the faded
page to-day a sort of interlineation of sound. This sound rises to a martial
clatter at the moment a troop of cuirassiers charges down the narrow street,
each morning, to file, directly opposite my house, through the plain portal of
the barracks occupying part of the vast domain attached in a rearward manner to
one of the Ministères that front on the Place Vendôme; an expanse marked, along
a considerable stretch of the street, by one of those high painted and
administratively-placarded garden walls that form deep, vague, recurrent notes
in the organic vastness of the city. I have but to re-read ten lines to recall
my daily effort not to waste time in hanging over the window-bar for a sight of
the cavalry the hard music of whose hoofs so directly and thrillingly appealed;
an effort that inveterately failed - and a trivial circumstance now dignified,
to my imagination, I may add, by the fact that the fruits of this weakness, the
various items of the vivid picture, so constantly recaptured, must have been in
themselves suggestive and inspiring, must have been rich strains, in their way,
of the great Paris harmony. I have ever, in general, found it difficult to write
of places under too immediate an impression - the impression that prevents
standing off and allows neither space nor time for perspective. The image has
had for the most part to be dim if the reflection was to be, as is proper for a
reflection, both sharp and quiet: one has a horror, I think, artistically, of
agitated reflections.
    Perhaps that is why the novel, after all, was to achieve, as it went on, no
great - certainly no very direct - transfusion of the immense overhanging
presence. It had to save as it could its own life, to keep tight hold of the
tenuous silver thread, the one hope for which was that it shouldn't be tangled
or clipped. This earnest grasp of the silver thread was doubtless an easier
business in other places - though as I remount the stream of composition I see
it faintly coloured again: with the bright protection of the Normandy coast (I
worked away a few weeks at Êtretat); with the stronger glow of southernmost
France, breaking in during a stay at Bayonne; then with the fine historic and
other psychic substance of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, a purple patch of terraced
October before returning to Paris. There comes after that the memory of a last
brief intense invocation of the enclosing scene, of the pious effort to unwind
my tangle, with a firm hand, in the very light (that light of high, narrowish
French windows in old rooms, the light somehow, as one always feels, of style
itself) that had quickened my original vision. I was to pass over to London that
autumn; which was a reason the more for considering the matter - the matter of
Newman's final predicament - with due intensity: to let a loose end dangle over
into alien air would so fix upon the whole, I strenuously felt, the dishonour of
piecemeal composition. Therefore I strove to finish - first in a small dusky
hotel of the Rive Gauche, where, though the windows again were high, the days
were dim and the crepuscular court, domestic, intimate, quaint, testified to
ancient manners almost as if it had been that of Balzac's Maison Vauquer in Le
Père Goriot: and then once more in the Rue de Luxembourg, where a black-framed
Empire portrait-medallion, suspended in the centre of each white panel of my
almost noble old salon, made the coolest, discreetest, most measured decoration,
and where, through casements open to the last mildness of the year, a belated
Saint Martin's summer, the tale was taken up afresh by the charming light click
and clatter, that sound as of the thin, quick, quite feminine surface-breathing
of Paris, the shortest of rhythms for so huge an organism.
    I shall not tell whether I did there bring my book to a close - and indeed I
shrink, for myself, from putting the question to the test of memory. I follow it
so far, the old urgent ingenious business, and then I lose sight of it: from
which I infer - all exact recovery of the matter failing - that I did not in the
event drag over the Channel a lengthening chain; which would have been
detestable. I reduce to the absurd perhaps, however by that small subjective
issue, any undue measure of the interest of this insistent recovery of what I
have called attendant facts. There always has been, for the valid work of art, a
history - though mainly inviting, doubtless, but to the curious critic, for whom
such things grow up and are formed very much in the manner of attaching young
lives and characters, those conspicuous cases of happy development as to which
evidence and anecdote are always in order. The development indeed must be
certain to have been happy, the life sincere, the character fine: the work of
art, to create or repay critical curiosity, must in short have been very valid
indeed. Yet there is on the other hand no mathematical measure of that
importance - it may be a matter of widely-varying appreciation; and I am willing
to grant, assuredly, that this interest, in a given relation, will nowhere so
effectually kindle as on the artist's own part. And I am afraid that after all
even his best excuse for it must remain the highly personal plea - the joy of
living over, as a chapter of experience, the particular intellectual adventure.
Here lurks an immense homage to the general privilege of the artist, to that
constructive, that creative passion - portentous words, but they are convenient
- the exercise of which finds so many an occasion for appearing to him the
highest of human fortunes, the rarest boon of the gods. He values it, all
sublimely and perhaps a little fatuously, for itself - as the great extension,
great beyond all others, of experience and of consciousness; with the toil and
trouble a mere sun-cast shadow that falls, shifts and vanishes, the result of
his living in so large a light. On the constant nameless felicity of this Robert
Louis Stevenson has, in an admirable passage and as in so many other connexions,
said the right word: that the partaker of the life of art who repines at the
absence of the rewards, as they are called, of the pursuit might surely be
better occupied. Much rather should he endlessly wonder at his not having to pay
half his substance for his luxurious immersion. He enjoys it, so to speak,
without a tax; the effort of labour involved, the torment of expression, of
which we have heard in our time so much, being after all but the last refinement
of his privilege. It may leave him weary and worn; but how, after his fashion,
he will have lived! As if one were to expect at once freedom and ease! That
silly safety is but the sign of bondage and forfeiture. Who can imagine free
selection - which is the beautiful, terrible whole of art - without free
difficulty? This is the very franchise of the city and high ambition of the
citizen. The vision of the difficulty, as one looks back, bathes one's course in
a golden glow by which the very objects along the road are transfigured and
glorified; so that one exhibits them to other eyes with an elation possibly
presumptuous.
    Since I accuse myself at all events of these complacencies I take advantage
of them to repeat that I value, in my retrospect, nothing so much as the lively
light on the romantic property of my subject that I had not expected to
encounter. If in The American I invoked the romantic association without malice
prepense, yet with a production of the romantic effect that is for myself
unmistakeable, the occasion is of the best perhaps for penetrating a little the
obscurity of that principle. By what art or mystery, what craft of selection,
omission or commission, does a given picture of life appear to us to surround
its theme, its figures and images, with the air of romance while another picture
close beside it may affect us as steeping the whole matter in the element of
reality? It is a question, no doubt, on the painter's part, very much more of
perceived effect, effect after the fact, than of conscious design - though
indeed I have ever failed to see how a coherent picture of anything is
producible save by a complex of fine measurements. The cause of the deflexion,
in one pronounced sense or the other, must lie deep, however; so that for the
most part we recognise the character of our interest only after the particular
magic, as I say, has thoroughly operated - and then in truth but if we be a bit
critically minded, if we find our pleasure, that is, in these intimate
appreciations (for which, as I am well aware, ninety-nine readers in a hundred
have no use whatever). The determining condition would at any rate seem so
latent that one may well doubt if the full artistic consciousness ever reaches
it; leaving the matter thus a case, ever, not of an author's plotting and
planning and calculating, but just of his feeling and seeing, of his conceiving,
in a word, and of his thereby inevitably expressing himself, under the influence
of one value or the other. These values represent different sorts and degrees of
the communicable thrill, and I doubt if any novelist, for instance, ever
proposed to commit himself to one kind or the other with as little mitigation as
we are sometimes able to find for him. The interest is greatest - the interest
of his genius, I mean, and of his general wealth - when he commits himself in
both directions; not quite at the same time or to the same effect, of course,
but by some need of performing his whole possible revolution, by the law of some
rich passion in him for extremes.
    Of the men of largest responding imagination before the human scene, of
Scott, of Balzac, even of the coarse, comprehensive, prodigious Zola, we feel, I
think, that the deflexion toward either quarter has never taken place; that
neither the nature of the man's faculty nor the nature of his experience has
ever quite determined it. His current remains therefore extraordinarily rich and
mixed, washing us successively with the warm wave of the near and familiar and
the tonic shock, as may be, of the far and strange. (In making which opposition
I suggest not that the strange and the far are at all necessarily romantic; they
happen to be simply the unknown, which is quite a different matter. The real
represents to my perception the things we cannot possibly not know, sooner or
later, in one way or another; it being but one of the accidents of our hampered
state, and one of the incidents of their quantity and number, that particular
instances have not yet come our way. The romantic stands, on the other hand, for
the things that, with all the facilities in the world, all the wealth and all
the courage and all the wit and all the adventure, we never can directly know;
the things that can reach us only through the beautiful circuit and subterfuge
of our thought and our desire.) There have been, I gather, many definitions of
romance, as a matter indispensably of boats, or of caravans, or of tigers, or of
historical characters, or of ghosts, or of forgers, or of detectives, or of
beautiful wicked women, or of pistols and knives, but they appear for the most
part reducible to the idea of the facing of danger, the acceptance of great
risks for the fascination, the very love, of their uncertainty, the joy of
success if possible and of battle in any case. This would be a fine formula if
it bore examination; but it strikes me as weak and inadequate, as by no means
covering the true ground and yet as landing us in strange confusions.
    The panting pursuit of danger is the pursuit of life itself, in which danger
awaits us possibly at every step and faces us at every turn; so that the dream
of an intenser experience easily becomes rather some vision of a sublime
security like that enjoyed on the flowery plains of heaven, where we may
conceive ourselves proceeding in ecstasy from one prodigious phase and form of
it to another. And if it be insisted that the measure of the type is then in the
appreciation of danger - the sign of our projection of the real being the
smallness of its dangers, and that of our projection of the romantic the
hugeness, the mark of the distinction being in short, as they say of collars and
gloves and shoes, the size and number of the danger - this discrimination again
surely fails, since it makes our difference not a difference of kind, which is
what we want, but a difference only of degree, and subject by that condition to
the indignity of a sliding scale and a shifting measure. There are immense and
flagrant dangers that are but sordid and squalid ones, as we feel, tainting with
their quality the very defiances they provoke; while there are common and covert
ones, that look like nothing and that can be but inwardly and occultly dealt
with, which involve the sharpest hazards to life and honour and the highest
instant decisions and intrepidities of action. It is an arbitrary stamp that
keeps these latter prosaic and makes the former heroic; and yet I should still
less subscribe to a mere subjective division - I mean one that would place the
difference wholly in the temper of the imperilled agent. It would be impossible
to have a more romantic temper than Flaubert's Madame Bovary, and yet nothing
less resembles a romance than the record of her adventures. To classify it by
that aspect - the definition of the spirit that happens to animate her - is like
settling the question (as I have seen it witlessly settled) by the presence or
absence of costume. Where again then does costume begin or end? - save with the
run of one or another sort of play? We must reserve vague labels for artless
mixtures.
    The only general attribute of projected romance that I can see, the only one
that fits all its cases, is the fact of the kind of experience with which it
deals - experience liberated, so to speak; experience disengaged, disembroiled,
disencumbered, exempt from the conditions that we usually know to attach to it
and, if we wish so to put the matter, drag upon it, and operating in a medium
which relieves it, in a particular interest, of the inconvenience of a related,
a measurable state, a state subject to all our vulgar communities. The greatest
intensity may so be arrived at evidently - when the sacrifice of community, of
the related sides of situations, has not been too rash. It must to this end not
flagrantly betray itself; we must even be kept if possible, for our illusion,
from suspecting any sacrifice at all. The balloon of experience is in fact of
course tied to the earth, and under that necessity we swing, thanks to a rope of
remarkable length, in the more or less commodious car of the imagination; but it
is by the rope we know where we are, and from the moment that cable is cut we
are at large and unrelated: we only swing apart from the globe - though
remaining as exhilarated, naturally, as we like, especially when all goes well.
The art of the romancer is, for the fun of it, insidiously to cut the cable, to
cut it without our detecting him. What I have recognised then in The American,
much to my surprise and after long years, is that the experience here
represented is the disconnected and uncontrolled experience - uncontrolled by
our general sense of the way things happen - which romance alone more or less
successfully palms off on us. It is a case of Newman's own intimate experience
all, that being my subject, the thread of which, from beginning to end, is not
once exchanged, however momentarily, for any other thread; and the experience of
others concerning us, and concerning him, only so far as it touches him and as
he recognises, feels or divines it. There is our general sense of the way things
happen - it abides with us indefeasibly, as readers of fiction, from the moment
we demand that our fiction shall be intelligible; and there is our particular
sense of the way they don't happen, which is liable to wake up unless reflection
and criticism, in us, have been skilfully and successfully drugged. There are
drugs enough, clearly - it is all a question of applying them with tact; in
which case the way things don't happen may be artfully made to pass for the way
things do.
    Amusing and even touching to me, I profess, at this time of day, the
ingenuity (worthy, with whatever lapses, of a better cause) with which, on
behalf of Newman's adventure, this hocus-pocus is attempted: the value of the
instance not being diminished either, surely, by its having been attempted in
such evident good faith. Yes, all is romantic to my actual vision here, and not
least so, I hasten to add, the fabulous felicity of my candour. The way things
happen is frankly not the way in which they are represented as having happened,
in Paris, to my hero: the situation I had conceived only saddled me with that
for want of my invention of something better. The great house of Bellegarde, in
a word, would, I now feel, given the circumstances, given the whole of the
ground, have comported itself in a manner as different as possible from the
manner to which my narrative commits it; of which truth, moreover, I am by no
means sure that, in spite of what I have called my serenity, I had not all the
while an uneasy suspicion. I had dug in my path, alas, a hole into which I was
destined to fall. I was so possessed of my idea that Newman should be ill-used -
which was the essence of my subject - that I attached too scant an importance to
its fashion of coming about. Almost any fashion would serve, I appear to have
assumed, that would give me my main chance for him; a matter depending not so
much on the particular trick played him as on the interesting face presented by
him to any damnable trick. So where I part company with terra-firma is in making
that projected, that performed outrage so much more showy, dramatically
speaking, than sound. Had I patched it up to a greater apparent soundness my own
trick, artistically speaking, would have been played; I should have cut the
cable without my reader's suspecting it. I doubtless at the time, I repeat,
believed I had taken my precautions; but truly they should have been greater, to
impart the air of truth to the attitude - that is first to the pomp and
circumstance, and second to the queer falsity - of the Bellegardes.
    They would positively have jumped then, the Bellegardes, at my rich and easy
American, and not have minded in the least any drawback - especially as, after
all, given the pleasant palette from which I have painted him, there were few
drawbacks to mind. My subject imposed on me a group of closely-allied persons
animated by immense pretensions - which was all very well, which might be full
of the promise of interest: only of interest felt most of all in the light of
comedy and of irony. This, better understood, would have dwelt in the idea not
in the least of their not finding Newman good enough for their alliance and
thence being ready to sacrifice him, but in that of their taking with alacrity
everything he could give them, only asking for more and more, and then adjusting
their pretensions and their pride to it with all the comfort in life. Such
accommodation of the theory of a noble indifference to the practice of a deep
avidity is the real note of policy in forlorn aristocracies - and I meant of
course that the Bellegardes should be virtually forlorn. The perversion of truth
is by no means, I think, in the displayed acuteness of their remembrance of who
and what they are, or at any rate take themselves for; since it is the
misfortune of all insistence on worldly advantages - and the situation of such
people bristles at the best (by which I mean under whatever invocation of a
superficial simplicity) with emphasis, accent, assumption - to produce at times
an effect of grossness. The picture of their tergiversation, at all events,
however it may originally have seemed to me to hang together, has taken on this
rococo appearance precisely because their preferred course, a thousand times
preferred, would have been to haul him and his fortune into their boat under
cover of night perhaps, in any case as quietly and with as little bumping and
splashing as possible, and there accommodate him with the very safest and most
convenient seat. Given Newman, given the fact that the thing constitutes itself
organically as his adventure, that too might very well be a situation and a
subject: only it wouldn't have been the theme of The American as the book
stands, the theme to which I was from so early pledged. Since I had wanted a
wrong this other turn might even have been arranged to give me that, might even
have been arranged to meet my requirement that somebody or something should be
in his power so delightfully; and with the signal effect, after all, of defining
everything. (It is as difficult, I said above, to trace the dividing-line
between the real and the romantic as to plant a milestone between north and
south; but I am not sure an infallible sign of the latter is not this rank
vegetation of the power of bad people that good get into, or vice versa. It is
so rarely, alas, into our power that any one gets!)
    It is difficult for me to-day to believe that I had not, as my work went on,
some shade of the rueful sense of my affront to verisimilitude; yet I catch the
memory at least of no great sharpness, no true critical anguish, of remorse: an
anomaly the reason of which in fact now glimmers interestingly out. My concern,
as I saw it, was to make and to keep Newman consistent; the picture of his
consistency was all my undertaking, and the memory of that infatuation perfectly
abides with me. He was to be the lighted figure, the others - even doubtless to
an excessive degree the woman who is made the agent of his discomfiture - were
to be the obscured; by which I should largely get the very effect most to be
invoked, that of a generous nature engaged with forces, with difficulties and
dangers, that it but half understands. If Newman was attaching enough, I must
have argued, his tangle would be sensible enough; for the interest of everything
is all that it is his vision, his conception, his interpretation: at the window
of his wide, quite sufficiently wide, consciousness we are seated, from that
admirable position we assist. He therefore supremely matters; all the rest
matters only as he feels it, treats it, meets it. A beautiful infatuation this,
always, I think, the intensity of the creative effort to get into the skin of
the creature; the act of personal possession of one being by another at its
completest - and with the high enhancement, ever, that it is, by the same
stroke, the effort of the artist to preserve for his subject that unity, and for
his use of it (in other words for the interest he desires to excite) that effect
of a centre, which most economise its value. Its value is most discussable when
that economy has most operated; the content and the importance of a work of art
are in fine wholly dependent on its being one: outside of which all prate of its
representative character, its meaning and its bearing, its morality and
humanity, are an impudent thing. Strong in that character, which is the
condition of its really bearing witness at all, it is strong every way. So much
remains true then on behalf of my instinct of multiplying the fine touches by
which Newman should live and communicate life; and yet I still ask myself, I
confess, what I can have made of life, in my picture, at such a juncture as the
interval offered as elapsing between my hero's first accepted state and the
nuptial rites that are to crown it. Nothing here is in truth offered -
everything is evaded, and the effect of this, I recognise, is of the oddest. His
relation to Madame de Cintré takes a great stride, but the author appears to
view that but as a signal for letting it severely alone.
    I have been stupefied, in so thoroughly revising the book, to find, on
turning a page, that the light in which he is presented immediately after Madame
de Bellegarde has conspicuously introduced him to all her circle as her
daughter's husband-to-be is that of an evening at the opera quite alone; as if
he wouldn't surely spend his leisure, and especially those hours of it, with his
intended. Instinctively, from that moment, one would have seen them intimately
and, for one's interest, beautifully together; with some illustration of the
beauty incumbent on the author. The truth was that at this point the author, all
gracelessly, could but hold his breath and pass; lingering was too difficult -
he had made for himself a crushing complication. Since Madame de Cintré was
after all to back out every touch in the picture of her apparent loyalty would
add to her eventual shame. She had acted in clear good faith, but how could I
give the detail of an attitude, on her part, of which the foundation was yet so
weak? I preferred, as the minor evil, to shirk the attempt - at the cost
evidently of a signal loss of charm; and with this lady, altogether, I
recognise, a light plank, too light a plank, is laid for the reader over a dark
psychological abyss. The delicate clue to her conduct is never definitely placed
in his hand: I must have liked verily to think it was delicate and to flatter
myself it was to be felt with finger-tips rather than heavily tugged at. Here
then, at any rate, is the romantic tout craché - the fine flower of Newman's
experience blooming in a medium cut off and shut up to itself. I don't for a
moment pronounce any spell proceeding from it necessarily the less workable, to
a rejoicing ingenuity, for that; beguile the reader's suspicion of his being
shut up, transform it for him into a positive illusion of the largest liberty,
and the success will ever be proportionate to the chance. Only all this gave me,
I make out, a great deal to look to, and I was perhaps wrong in thinking that
Newman by himself, and for any occasional extra inch or so I might smuggle into
his measurements, would see me through my wood. Anything more liberated and
disconnected, to repeat my terms, than his prompt general profession, before the
Tristrams, of aspiring to a great marriage, for example, could surely not well
be imagined. I had to take that over with the rest of him and fit it in - I had
indeed to exclude the outer air. Still, I find on re-perusal that I have been
able to breathe at least in my aching void; so that, clinging to my hero as to a
tall, protective, good-natured elder brother in a rough place, I leave the
record to stand or fall by his more or less convincing image.
 

                                   Chapter I

On a brilliant day in May, in the year 1868, a gentleman was reclining at his
ease on the great circular divan which at that period occupied the centre of the
Salon Carré, in the Museum of the Louvre. This commodious ottoman has since been
removed, to the extreme regret of all weak-kneed lovers of the fine arts; but
the gentleman in question had taken serene possession of its softest spot, and,
with his head thrown back and his legs outstretched, was staring at Murillo's
beautiful moon-borne Madonna in profound enjoyment of his posture. He had
removed his hat, and flung down beside him a little red guide-book and an
opera-glass. The day was warm; he was heated with walking, and he repeatedly
passed his handkerchief over his forehead, with a somewhat wearied gesture. And
yet he was evidently not a man to whom fatigue was familiar; long, lean, and
muscular, he suggested the sort of vigour that is commonly known as toughness.
But his exertions on this particular day had been of an unwonted sort, and he
had often performed great physical feats which left him less jaded than his
tranquil stroll through the Louvre. He had looked out all the pictures to which
an asterisk was affixed in those formidable pages of fine print in his Bädeker;
his attention had been strained and his eyes dazzled, and he had sat down with
an aesthetic headache. He had looked, moreover, not only at all the pictures, but
at all the copies that were going forward around them, in the hands of those
innumerable young women in irreproachable toilets who devote themselves, in
France, to the propagation of masterpieces; and if the truth must be told, he
had often admired the copy much more than the original. His physiognomy would
have sufficiently indicated that he was a shrewd and capable fellow, and in
truth he had often sat up all night over a bristling bundle of accounts, and
heard the cock crow without a yawn. But Raphael and Titian and Rubens were a new
kind of arithmetic, and they inspired our friend, for the first time in his
life, with a vague self-mistrust.
    An observer, with anything of an eye for national types, would have had no
difficulty in determining the local origin of this undeveloped connoisseur, and
indeed such an observer might have felt a certain humorous relish of the almost
ideal completeness with which he filled out the national mould. The gentleman on
the divan was a powerful specimen of an American. But he was not only a fine
American; he was in the first place, physically, a fine man. He appeared to
possess that kind of health and strength which, when found in perfection, are
the most impressive - the physical capital which the owner does nothing to keep
up. If he was a muscular Christian, it was quite without knowing it. If it was
necessary to walk to a remote spot, he walked, but he had never known himself to
exercise. He had no theory with regard to cold bathing or the use of Indian
clubs; he was neither an oarsman, a rifleman, nor a fencer - he had never had
time for these amusements - and he was quite unaware that the saddle is
recommended for certain forms of indigestion. He was by inclination a temperate
man; but he had supped the night before his visit to the Louvre at the Café
Anglais - someone had told him it was an experience not to be omitted - and he
had slept none the less the sleep of the just. His usual attitude and carriage
were of a rather relaxed and lounging kind, but when, under a special
inspiration, he straightened himself, he looked like a grenadier on parade. He
never smoked. He had been assured - such things are said - that cigars were
excellent for the health, and he was quite capable of believing it; but he knew
as little about tobacco as about homoeopathy. He had a very well-formed head,
with a shapely, symmetrical balance of the frontal and the occipital
development, and a good deal of straight, rather dry brown hair. His complexion
was brown, and his nose had a bold, well-marked arch. His eye was of a clear,
cold gray, and, save for a rather abundant moustache, he was clean-shaved. He
had the flat jaw and sinewy neck which are frequent in the American type; but
the traces of national origin are a matter of expression even more than of
feature, and it was in this respect that our friend's countenance was supremely
eloquent. The discriminating observer we have been supposing might, however,
perfectly have measured its expressiveness, and yet have been at a loss to
describe it. It had that typical vagueness which is not vacuity, that blankness
which is not simplicity, that look of being committed to nothing in particular,
of standing in an attitude of general hospitality to the chances of life, of
being very much at one's own disposal, so characteristic of many American faces.
It was our friend's eye that chiefly told his story; an eye in which innocence
and experience were singularly blended. It was full of contradictory
suggestions; and though it was by no means the glowing orb of a hero of romance,
you could find in it almost anything you looked for. Frigid and yet friendly,
frank yet cautious, shrewd yet credulous, positive yet sceptical, confident yet
shy, extremely intelligent and extremely good-humoured, there was something
vaguely defiant in its concessions, and something profoundly reassuring in its
reserve. The cut of this gentleman's moustache, with the two premature wrinkles
in the cheek above it, and the fashion of his garments, in which an exposed
shirt-front and a cerulean cravat played perhaps an obtrusive part, completed
the conditions of his identity. We have approached him, perhaps, at a not
especially favourable moment; he is by no means sitting for his portrait. But
listless as he lounges there, rather baffled on the aesthetic question, and
guilty of the damning fault (as we have lately discovered it to be) of
confounding the merit of the artist with that of his work (for he admires the
squinting Madonna of the young lady with the boyish coiffure, because he thinks
the young lady herself uncommonly taking), he is a sufficiently promising
acquaintance. Decision, salubrity, jocosity, prosperity, seem to hover within
his call; he is evidently a practical man, but the idea, in his case, has
undefined and mysterious boundaries, which invite the imagination to bestir
itself on his behalf.
    As the little copyist proceeded with her work, she sent every now and then a
responsive glance toward her admirer. The cultivation of the fine arts appeared
to necessitate, to her mind, a great deal of byplay, a great standing off with
folded arms and head drooping from side to side, stroking of a dimpled chin with
a dimpled hand, sighing and frowning and patting of the foot, fumbling in
disordered tresses for wandering hair-pins. These performances were accompanied
by a restless glance, which lingered longer than elsewhere upon the gentleman we
have described. At last he rose abruptly, put on his hat, and approached the
young lady. He placed himself before her picture and looked at it for some
moments, during which she pretended to be quite unconscious of his inspection.
Then, addressing her with the single word which constituted the strength of his
French vocabulary, and holding up one finger in a manner which appeared to him
to illuminate his meaning, »Combien?« he abruptly demanded.
    The artist stared a moment, gave a little pout, shrugged her shoulders, put
down her palette and brushes, and stood rubbing her hands.
    »How much?« said our friend, in English. »Combien?«
    »Monsieur wishes to buy it?« asked the young lady, in French.
    »Very pretty, splendide. Combien?« repeated the American.
    »It pleases monsieur, my little picture? It's a very beautiful subject,«
said the young lady.
    »The Madonna, yes; I am not a Catholic, but I want to buy it. Combien? Write
it here.« And he took a pencil from his pocket, and showed her the fly-leaf of
his guidebook. She stood looking at him and scratching her chin with the pencil.
»Is it not for sale?« he asked. And as she still stood reflecting, and looking
at him with an eye which, in spite of her desire to treat this avidity of
patronage as a very old story, betrayed an almost touching incredulity, he was
afraid he had offended her. She was simply trying to look indifferent, and
wondering how far she might go. »I haven't made a mistake - pas insulté, no?«
her interlocutor continued. »Don't you understand a little English?«
    The young lady's aptitude for playing a part at short notice was remarkable.
She fixed him with her conscious, perceptive eye, and asked him if he spoke no
French. Then, »Donnez!« she said briefly, and took the open guide-book. In the
upper corner of the fly-leaf she traced a number, in a minute and extremely neat
hand. Then she handed back the book, and took up her palette again.
    Our friend read the number: »2,000 francs.« He said nothing for a time, but
stood looking at the picture, while the copyist began actively to dabble with
her paint. »For a copy, isn't that a good deal?« he asked at last. »Pas
beaucoup?«
    The young lady raised her eyes from her palette, scanned him from head to
foot, and alighted with admirable sagacity upon exactly the right answer. »Yes,
it's a good deal. But my copy has remarkable qualities; it is worth nothing
less.«
    The gentleman in whom we are interested understood no French, but I have
said he was intelligent, and here is a good chance to prove it. He apprehended,
by a natural instinct, the meaning of the young woman's phrase, and it gratified
him to think that she was so honest. Beauty, talent, virtue; she combined
everything! »But you must finish it,« he said. »Finish, you know,« and he
pointed to the unpainted hand of the figure.
    »Oh, it shall be finished in perfection - in the perfection of perfections!«
cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise, she deposited a rosy blotch in
the middle of the Madonna's cheek.
    But the American frowned. »Ah, too red, too red!« he rejoined. »Her
complexion,« pointing to the Murillo, »is more delicate.«
    »Delicate? Oh, it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sèvres biscuit. I
am going to tone that down; I know all the secrets of my art. And where will you
allow us to send it to you? Your address?«
    »My address? Oh yes!« And the gentleman drew a card from his pocket-book and
wrote something upon it. Then hesitating a moment he said: »If I don't like it
when it is finished, you know, I shall not be obliged to take it.«
    The young lady seemed as good a guesser as himself. »Oh, I am very sure that
monsieur is not capricious,« she said with a roguish smile.
    »Capricious?« And at this monsieur began to laugh. »Oh no, I'm not
capricious. I am very faithful. I am very constant. Comprenez?«
    »Monsieur is constant; I understand perfectly. It's a rare virtue. To
recompense you, you shall have your picture on the first possible day; next week
- as soon as it is dry. I will take the card of monsieur.« And she took it and
read his name: »Christopher Newman.« Then she tried to repeat it aloud, and
laughed at her bad accent. »Your English names are so droll!«
    »Droll?« said Mr. Newman, laughing too. »Did you ever hear of Christopher
Columbus?«
    »Bien sûr! He invented America; a very great man. And is he your patron?«
    »My patron?«
    »Your patron-saint, in the calendar.«
    »Oh, exactly; my parents named me for him.«
    »Monsieur is American?«
    »Don't you see it?« monsieur inquired.
    »And you mean to carry my little picture away over there?« and she explained
her phrase with a gesture.
    »Oh, I mean to buy a great many pictures - beaucoup, beaucoup,« said
Christopher Newman.
    »The honour is not less for me,« the young lady answered, »for I am sure
monsieur has a great deal of taste.«
    »But you must give me your card,« Newman said; »your card, you know.«
    The young lady looked severe for an instant, and then said: »My father will
wait upon you.«
    But this time Mr. Newman's powers of divination were at fault. »Your card,
your address,« he simply repeated.
    »My address?« said mademoiselle. Then, with a little shrug: »Happily for
you, you are an American! It is the first time I ever gave my card to a
gentleman.« And, taking from her pocket a rather greasy portemonnaie, she
extracted from it a small glazed visiting card, and presented the latter to her
patron. It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a great many flourishes: Mlle.
Noémie Nioche. But Mr. Newman, unlike his companion, read the name with perfect
gravity; all French names to him were equally droll.
    »And precisely, here is my father, who has come to escort me home,« said
Mademoiselle Noémie. »He speaks English. He will arrange with you.« And she
turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up, peering over his
spectacles at Newman.
    M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural colour, which overhung his
little meek, white, vacant face, and left it hardly more expressive than the
unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed in the barber's window.
He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. His little ill-made coat,
desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highly-polished boots, his rusty,
shapely hat, told the story of a person who had had losses, and who clung to the
spirit of nice habits, though the letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among
other things M. Nioche had lost courage. Adversity had not only ruined him, it
had frightened him, and he was evidently going through his remnant of life on
tiptoe, for fear of waking up the hostile fates. If this strange gentleman was
saying anything improper to his daughter, M. Nioche would entreat him huskily,
as a particular favour, to forbear; but he would admit at the same time that he
was very presumptuous to ask for particular favours.
    »Monsieur has bought my picture,« said Mademoiselle Noémie. »When it is
finished you will carry it to him in a cab.«
    »In a cab!« cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way, as if he
had seen the sun rising at midnight.
    »Are you the young lady's father?« said Newman. »I think she said you speak
English.«
    »Speak English - yes,« said the old man, slowly rubbing his hands. »I will
bring it in a cab.«
    »Say something, then,« cried his daughter. »Thank him a little - not too
much.«
    »A little, my daughter, a little,« said M. Nioche, perplexed. »How much?«
    »Two thousand!« said Mademoiselle Noémie. »Don't make a fuss, or he will
take back his word.«
    »Two thousand!« cried the old man; and he began to fumble for his snuff-box.
He looked at Newman, from head to foot, at his daughter, and then at the
picture. »Take care you don't spoil it!« he cried, almost sublimely.
    »We must go home,« said Mademoiselle Noémie. »This is a good day's work.
Take care how you carry it!« And she began to put up her utensils.
    »How can I thank you?« said M. Nioche. »My English does not suffice.«
    »I wish I spoke French as well,« said Newman, good-naturedly. »Your daughter
is very clever.«
    »Oh sir!« and M. Nioche looked over his spectacles with tearful eyes and
nodded several times with a world of sadness. »She has had an education -
très-supérieure! Nothing was spared. Lessons in pastel at ten francs the lesson,
lessons in oil at twelve francs. I didn't look at the francs then. She's an
artiste, eh?«
    »Do I understand you to say that you have had reverses?« asked Newman.
    »Reverses? Oh sir, misfortunes - terrible!«
    »Unsuccessful in business, eh?«
    »Very unsuccessful, sir.«
    »Oh, never fear, you'll get on your legs again,« said Newman cheerily.
    The old man drooped his head on one side and looked at him with an
expression of pain, as if this were an unfeeling jest.
    »What does he say?« demanded Mademoiselle Noémie.
    M. Nioche took a pinch of snuff. »He says I will make my fortune again.«
    »Perhaps he will help you. And what else?«
    »He says thou art very clever.«
    »It is very possible. You believe it yourself, my father?«
    »Believe it, my daughter? With this evidence!« and the old man turned
afresh, with a staring, wondering homage, to the audacious daub on the easel.
    »Ask him, then, if he would not like to learn French.«
    »To learn French?«
    »To take lessons.«
    »To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?«
    »From you!«
    »From me, my child? How should I give lessons?«
    »Pas de raisons! Ask him immediately!« said Mademoiselle Noémie, with soft
brevity.
    M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter's eye he collected his wits,
and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, he executed her commands.
»Would it please you to receive instruction in our beautiful language?« he
inquired, with an appealing quaver.
    »To study French?« asked Newman, staring.
    M. Nioche pressed his finger-tips together and slowly raised his shoulders.
»A little conversation!«
    »Conversation - that's it!« murmured Mademoiselle Noémie, who had caught the
word. »The conversation of the best society.«
    »Our French conversation is famous, you know,« M. Nioche ventured to
continue. »It's a great talent.«
    »But isn't it awfully difficult?« asked Newman, very simply.
    »Not to a man of esprit, like monsieur, an admirer of beauty in every form!«
and M. Nioche cast a significant glance at his daughter's Madonna.
    »I can't fancy myself chattering French!« said Newman with a laugh. »And
yet, I suppose that the more a man knows the better.«
    »Monsieur expresses that very happily. Hélas, oui!«
    »I suppose it would help me a great deal, knocking about Paris, to know the
language.«
    »Ah, there are so many things monsieur must want to say: difficult things!«
    »Everything I want to say is difficult. But you give lessons?«
    Poor M. Nioche was embarrassed; he smiled more appealingly. »I am not a
regular professor,« he admitted. »I can't nevertheless tell him that I'm a
professor,« he said to his daughter.
    »Tell him it's a very exceptional chance,« answered Mademoiselle Noémie; »an
homme du monde - one gentleman conversing with another! Remember what you are -
what you have been!«
    »A teacher of languages in neither case! Much more formerly and much less
to-day! And if he asks the price of the lessons?«
    »He won't ask it,« said Mademoiselle Noémie.
    »What he pleases, I may say?«
    »Never! That's bad style.«
    »If he asks, then?«
    Mademoiselle Noémie had put on her bonnet and was tying the ribbons. She
smoothed them out, with her soft little chin thrust forward. »Ten francs,« she
said quickly.
    »Oh, my daughter! I shall never dare.«
    »Don't dare, then! He won't ask till the end of the lessons, and then I will
make out the bill.«
    M. Nioche turned to the confiding foreigner again, and stood rubbing his
hands, with an air of seeming to plead guilty which was not intenser only
because it was habitually so striking. It never occurred to Newman to ask him
for a guarantee of his skill in imparting instruction; he supposed of course M.
Nioche knew his own language, and his appealing forlornness was quite the
perfection of what the American, for vague reasons, had always associated with
all elderly foreigners of the lesson-giving class. Newman had never reflected
upon philological processes. His chief impression with regard to ascertaining
those mysterious correlatives of his familiar English vocables which were
current in this extraordinary city of Paris was, that it was simply a matter of
a good deal of unwonted and rather ridiculous muscular effort on his own part.
»How did you learn English?« he asked of the old man.
    »When I was young, before my miseries. Oh, I was wide awake, then. My father
was a great commerçant; he placed me for a year in a counting-house in England.
Some of it stuck to me; but I have forgotten!«
    »How much French can I learn in a month?«
    »What does he say?« asked Mademoiselle Noémie.
    M. Nioche explained.
    »He will speak like an angel!« said his daughter.
    But the native integrity which had been vainly exerted to secure M. Nioche's
commercial prosperity flickered up again. »Dame, monsieur!« he answered. »All I
can teach you!« And then, recovering himself at a sign from his daughter, »I
will wait upon you at your hotel.«
    »Oh yes, I should like to learn French,« Newman went on, with democratic
confidingness. »Hang me if I should ever have thought of it! I took for granted
it was impossible. But if you learned my language, why shouldn't I learn yours?«
and his frank, friendly laugh drew the sting from the jest. »Only, if we are
going to converse, you know, you must think of something cheerful to converse
about.«
    »You are very good, sir; I am overcome!« said M. Nioche, throwing out his
hands. »But you have cheerfulness and happiness for two!«
    »Oh no,« said Newman more seriously. »You must be bright and lively; that's
part of the bargain.«
    M. Nioche bowed, with his hand on his heart. »Very well, sir; you have
already made me lively.«
    »Come and bring me my picture then; I will pay you for it, and we will talk
about that. That will be a cheerful subject!«
    Mademoiselle Noémie had collected her accessories, and she gave the precious
Madonna in charge to her father, who retreated backwards out of sight, holding
it at arm's-length and reiterating his obeisances. The young lady gathered her
shawl about her like a perfect Parisienne, and it was with the smile of a
Parisienne that she took leave of her patron.
 

                                   Chapter II

He wandered back to the divan and seated himself on the other side, in view of
the great canvas on which Paul Veronese has depicted the marriage feast of Cana.
Wearied as he was he found the picture entertaining; it had an illusion for him;
it satisfied his conception, which was ambitious, of what a splendid banquet
should be. In the left-hand corner of the picture is a young woman with yellow
tresses confined in a golden head-dress; she is bending forward and listening,
with the smile of a charming woman at a dinner-party, to her neighbour. Newman
detected her in the crowd, admired her, and perceived that she too had her
votive copyist - a young man with his hair standing on end. Suddenly he became
conscious of the germ of the mania of the collector; he had taken the first
step; why should he not go on? It was only twenty minutes before that he had
bought the first picture of his life, and now he was already thinking of
art-patronage as a fascinating pursuit. His reflections quickened his
good-humour, and he was on the point of approaching the young man with another »
Combien?« Two or three facts in this relation are noticeable, although the
logical chain which connects them may seem imperfect. He knew Mademoiselle
Nioche had asked too much; he bore her no grudge for doing so, and he was
determined to pay the young man exactly the proper sum. At this moment, however,
his attention was attracted by a gentleman who had come from another part of the
room, and whose manner was that of a stranger to the gallery, although he was
equipped with neither guide-book nor opera-glass. He carried a white
sun-umbrella, lined with blue silk, and he strolled in front of the Paul
Veronese, vaguely looking at it, but much too near to see anything but the grain
of the canvas. Opposite to Christopher Newman he paused and turned, and then our
friend, who had been observing him, had a chance to verify a suspicion aroused
by an imperfect view of his face. The result of this larger scrutiny was that he
presently sprang to his feet, strode across the room, and, with an outstretched
hand, arrested the gentleman with the bluelined umbrella. The latter stared, but
put out his hand at a venture. He was corpulent and rosy; and though his
countenance, which was ornamented with a beautiful flaxen beard, carefully
divided in the middle and brushed outward at the sides, was not remarkable for
intensity of expression, he looked like a person who would willingly shake hands
with anyone. I know not what Newman thought of his face, but he found a want of
response in his grasp.
    »Oh, come, come,« he said, laughing; »don't say, now, you don't know me - if
I have not got a white parasol!«
    The sound of his voice quickened the other's memory, his face expanded to
its fullest capacity, and he also broke into a laugh.
    »Why, Newman - I'll be blowed! Where in the world - I declare - who would
have thought? You know you have changed.«
    »You haven't,« said Newman.
    »Not for the better, no doubt. When did you get here?«
    »Three days ago.«
    »Why didn't you let me know?«
    »I had no idea you were here.«
    »I have been here these six years.«
    »It must be eight or nine since we met.«
    »Something of that sort. We were very young.«
    »It was in St. Louis, during the war. You were in the army.«
    »Oh no, not I. But you were.«
    »I believe I was.«
    »You came out all right?«
    »I came out with my legs and arms - and with satisfaction. All that seems
very far away.«
    »And how long have you been in Europe?«
    »Seventeen days.«
    »First time?«
    »Yes, very much so.«
    »Made your everlasting fortune?«
    Christopher Newman was silent a moment, and then, with a tranquil smile, he
answered: »Yes.«
    »And come to Paris to spend it, eh?«
    »Well, we shall see. So they carry those parasols here - the men-folk?«
    »Of course they do. They're great things. They understand comfort out here.«
    »Where do you buy them?«
    »Anywhere, everywhere.«
    »Well, Tristram, I'm glad to get hold of you. You can show me the ropes. I
suppose you know Paris inside out.«
    Mr. Tristram gave a mellow smile of self-gratulation. »Well, I guess there
are not many men that can show me much. I'll take care of you.«
    »It's a pity you were not here a few minutes ago. I have just bought a
picture. You might have put the thing through for me.«
    »Bought a picture?« said Mr. Tristram, looking vaguely round at the walls.
»Why, do they sell them?«
    »I mean a copy.«
    »Oh, I see. These,« said Mr. Tristram, nodding at the Titians and Vandykes,
»these, I suppose, are originals?«
    »I hope so,« cried Newman. »I don't want a copy of a copy.«
    »Ah,« said Mr. Tristram, mysteriously, »you can never tell. They imitate,
you know, so deucedly well. It's like the jewellers, with their false stones. Go
into the Palais Royal, there; you see Imitation on half the windows. The law
obliges them to stick it on, you know; but you can't tell the things apart. To
tell the truth,« Mr. Tristram continued, with a wry face, »I don't do much in
pictures. I leave that to my wife.«
    »Ah, you have got a wife?«
    »Didn't I mention it? She's a very nice woman; you must know her. She's up
there in the Avenue d'Iéna.«
    »So you are regularly fixed - house and children and all?«
    »Yes; a tip-top house, and a couple of youngsters.«
    »Well,« said Christopher Newman, stretching his arms a little, with a sigh,
»I envy you.«
    »Oh no, you don't,« answered Mr. Tristram, giving him a little poke with his
parasol.
    »I beg your pardon; I do.«
    »Well, you won't, then, when - when --«
    »You don't certainly mean when I have seen your establishment?«
    »When you have seen Paris, my boy. You want to be your own master here.«
    »Oh, I have been my own master all my life, and I'm tired of it.«
    »Well, try Paris. How old are you?«
    »Thirty-six.«
    »C'est le bel âge, as they say here.«
    »What does that mean?«
    »It means that a man shouldn't send away his plate till he has eaten his
fill.«
    »All that? I have just made arrangements to take French lessons.«
    »Oh, you don't want any lessons. You'll pick it up. I never took any.«
    »I suppose you speak French as well as English?«
    »Better!« said Mr. Tristram, roundly. »It's a splendid language. You can say
all sorts of bright things in it.«
    »But I suppose,« said Christopher Newman, with an earnest desire for
information, »that you must be bright to begin with.«
    »Not a bit; that's just the beauty of it.«
    The two friends, as they exchanged these remarks, had remained standing
where they met, and leaning against the rail which protected the pictures. Mr.
Tristram at last declared that he was overcome with fatigue, and should be happy
to sit down. Newman recommended in the highest terms the great divan on which he
had been lounging, and they prepared to seat themselves. »This is a great place;
isn't it?« said Newman, with ardour.
    »Great place, great place. Finest thing in the world.« And then, suddenly,
Mr. Tristram hesitated and looked about him. »I suppose they won't let you smoke
here?«
    Newman stared. »Smoke? I'm sure I don't know. You know the regulations
better than I.«
    »I? I never was here before!«
    »Never! in six years?«
    »I believe my wife dragged me here once when we first came to Paris, but I
never found my way back.«
    »But you say you know Paris so well!«
    »I don't call this Paris!« cried Mr. Tristram, with assurance. »Come; let's
go over to the Palais Royal and have a smoke.«
    »I don't smoke,« said Newman.
    »A drink, then.«
    And Mr. Tristram led his companion away. They passed through the glorious
halls of the Louvre, down the staircases, along the cool, dim galleries of
sculpture, and out into the enormous court. Newman looked about him as he went,
but he made no comments; and it was only when they at last emerged into the open
air that he said to his friend: »It seems to me that in your place I should have
come here once a week.«
    »Oh no, you wouldn't!« said Mr. Tristram. »You think so, but you wouldn't.
You wouldn't have had time. You would always mean to go, but you never would go.
There's better fun than that, here in Paris. Italy's the place to see pictures;
wait till you get there. There you have to go; you can't do anything else. It's
an awful country; you can't get a decent cigar. I don't know why I went in there
to-day. I was strolling along, rather hard up for amusement. I sort of noticed
the Louvre as I passed, and I thought I would go in and see what was going on.
But if I hadn't found you there I should have felt rather sold. Hang it, I don't
care for pictures; I prefer the reality!« And Mr. Tristram tossed off this happy
formula with an assurance which the numerous class of persons suffering from an
overdose of culture might have envied him.
    The two gentlemen proceeded along the Rue de Rivoli and into the Palais
Royal, where they seated themselves at one of the little tables stationed at the
door of the café which projects into the great open quadrangle. The place was
filled with people, the fountains were spouting, a band was playing, clusters of
chairs were gathered beneath all the lime-trees, and buxom, white-capped nurses,
seated along the benches, were offering to their infant charges the amplest
facilities for nutrition. There was an easy, homely gaiety in the whole scene,
and Christopher Newman felt that it was most characteristically Parisian.
    »And now,« began Mr. Tristram, when they had tasted the decoction which he
had caused to be served to them, »now just give an account of yourself. What are
your ideas, what are your plans, where have you come from and where are you
going? In the first place, where are you staying?«
    »At the Grand Hotel,« said Newman.
    Mr. Tristram puckered his plump visage. »That won't do! You must change.«
    »Change?« demanded Newman. »Why, it's the finest hotel I ever was in.«
    »You don't want a fine hotel; you want something small and quiet and
elegant, where your bell is answered and your - your person is recognised.«
    »They keep running to see if I have rung before I have touched the bell,«
said Newman, »and as for my person, they are always bowing and scraping to it.«
    »I suppose you are always tipping them. That's very bad style.«
    »Always? By no means. A man brought me something yesterday, and then stood
loafing about in a beggarly manner. I offered him a chair and asked him if he
wouldn't sit down. Was that bad style?«
    »Very!«
    »But he bolted, instantly. At any rate, the place amuses me. Hang your
elegance, if it bores me. I sat in the court of the Grand Hotel last night until
two o'clock in the morning, watching the coming and going, and the people
knocking about.«
    »You're easily pleased. But you can do as you choose - a man in your shoes.
You have made a pile of money, eh?«
    »I have made enough.«
    »Happy the man who can say that! Enough for what?«
    »Enough to rest awhile, to forget the confounded thing, to look about me, to
see the world, to have a good time, to improve my mind, and, if the fancy takes
me, to marry a wife.« Newman spoke slowly, with a certain dryness of accent and
with frequent pauses. This was his habitual mode of utterance, but it was
especially marked in the words I have just quoted.
    »Jupiter! There's a programme!« cried Mr. Tristram. »Certainly, all that
takes money, especially the wife; unless indeed she gives it, as mine did. And
what's the story? How have you done it?«
    Newman had pushed his hat back from his forehead, folded his arms, and
stretched his legs. He listened to the music, he looked about him at the
bustling crowd, at the plashing fountains, at the nurses and the babies. »I have
worked!« he answered at last.
    Tristram looked at him for some moments, and allowed his placid eyes to
measure his friend's generous longitude and rest upon his comfortably
contemplative face. »What have you worked at?« he asked.
    »Oh, at several things.«
    »I suppose you're a smart fellow, eh?«
    Newman continued to look at the nurses and babies; they imparted to the
scene a kind of primordial, pastoral simplicity. »Yes,« he said at last, »I
suppose I am.« And then, in answer to his companion's inquiries, he related
briefly his history since their last meeting. It was an intensely Western story,
and it dealt with enterprises which it will be needless to introduce to the
reader in detail. Newman had come out of the war with a brevet of
brigadier-general, an honour which in this case - without invidious comparisons
- had lighted upon shoulders amply competent to bear it. But though he could
manage a fight, when need was, Newman heartily disliked the business; his four
years in the army had left him with an angry, bitter sense of the waste of
precious things - life and time and money and smartness and the early freshness
of purpose; and he had addressed himself to the pursuits of peace with
passionate zest and energy. He was of course as penniless when he plucked off
his shoulder-straps as when he put them on, and the only capital at his disposal
was his dogged resolution and his lively perception of ends and means. Exertion
and action were as natural to him as respiration; a more completely healthy
mortal had never trod the elastic soil of the West. His experience, moreover,
was as wide as his capacity; when he was fourteen years old, necessity had taken
him by his slim young shoulders and pushed him into the street, to earn that
night's supper. He had not earned it; but he had earned the next night's, and
afterwards, whenever he had had none, it was because he had gone without it to
use the money for something else, a keener pleasure or a finer profit. He had
turned his hand, with his brain in it, to many things; he had been enterprising,
in an eminent sense of the term; he had been adventurous and even reckless, and
he had known bitter failure as well as brilliant success; but he was a born
experimentalist, and he had always found something to enjoy in the pressure of
necessity, even when it was as irritating as the haircloth shirt of the medieval
monk. At one time failure seemed inexorably his portion; ill-luck became his
bedfellow, and whatever he touched he turned, not to gold, but to ashes. His
most vivid conception of a supernatural element in the world's affairs had come
to him once when this pertinacity of misfortune was at its climax; there seemed
to him something stronger in life than his own will. But the mysterious
something could only be the devil, and he was accordingly seized with an intense
personal enmity to this impertinent force. He had known what it was to have
utterly exhausted his credit, to be unable to raise a dollar, and to find
himself at nightfall in a strange city, without a penny to mitigate its
strangeness. It was under these circumstances that he made his entrance into San
Francisco, the scene, subsequently, of his happiest strokes of fortune. If he
did not, like Dr. Franklin in Philadelphia, march along the street munching a
penny loaf, it was only because he had not the penny loaf necessary to the
performance. In his darkest days he had had but one simple, practical impulse -
the desire, as he would have phrased it, to see the thing through. He did so at
last, buffeted his way into smooth waters, and made money largely. It must be
admitted, rather nakedly, that Christopher Newman's sole aim in life had been to
make money; what he had been placed in the world for was, to his own perception,
simply to wrest a fortune, the bigger the better, from defiant opportunity. This
idea completely filled his horizon and satisfied his imagination. Upon the uses
of money, upon what one might do with a life into which one had succeeded in
injecting the golden stream, he had up to his thirty- year very scantily
reflected. Life had been for him an open game, and he had played for high
stakes. He had won at last and carried off his winnings; and now what was he to
do with them? He was a man to whom, sooner or later, the question was sure to
present itself, and the answer to it belongs to our story. A vague sense that
more answers were possible than his philosophy had hitherto dreamt of had
already taken possession of him, and it seemed softly and agreeably to deepen as
he lounged in this brilliant corner of Paris with his friend.
    »I must confess,« he presently went on, »that here I don't feel at all
smart. My remarkable talents seem of no use. I feel as simple as a little child
and a little child might take me by the hand and lead me about.«
    »Oh, I'll be your little child,« said Tristram, jovially; »I'll take you by
the hand. Trust yourself to me.«
    »I am a good worker,« Newman continued, »but I rather think I am a poor
loafer. I have come abroad to amuse myself, but I doubt whether I know how.«
    »Oh, that's easily learned.«
    »Well, I may perhaps learn it, but I am afraid I shall never do it by rote.
I have the best will in the world about it, but my genius doesn't't lie in that
direction. As a loafer I shall never be original, as I take it that you are.«
    »Yes,« said Tristram, »I suppose I am original; like all those immoral
pictures in the Louvre.«
    »Besides,« Newman continued, »I don't want to work at pleasure, any more
than I played at work. I want to take it easily. I feel deliciously lazy, and I
should like to spend six months as I am now, sitting under a tree and listening
to a band. There's only one thing; I want to hear some good music.«
    »Music and pictures! Lord, what refined tastes! You are what my wife calls
intellectual. I ain't, a bit. But we can find something better for you to do
than to sit under a tree. To begin with, you must come to the club.«
    »What club?«
    »The Occidental. You will see all the Americans there; all the best of them,
at least. Of course you play poker?«
    »Oh, I say,« cried Newman, with energy, »you are not going to lock me up in
a club and stick me down at a card-table! I haven't come all this way for that.«
    »What the deuce have you come for! You were glad enough to play poker in St.
Louis, I recollect, when you cleaned me out.«
    »I have come to see Europe, to get the best out of it I can. I want to see
all the great things, and do what the clever people do.«
    »The clever people? Much obliged. You set me down as a blockhead, then?«
    Newman was sitting sidewise in his chair, with his elbow on the back and his
head leaning on his hand. Without moving he looked awhile at his companion, with
his dry, guarded, half-inscrutable, and yet altogether good-natured smile.
»Introduce me to your wife!« he said at last.
    Tristram bounced about in his chair. »Upon my word, I won't. She doesn't't
want any help to turn up her nose at me, nor do you, either!«
    »I don't turn up my nose at you, my dear fellow; nor at anyone, or anything.
I'm not proud, I assure you I'm not proud. That's why I am willing to take
example by the clever people.«
    »Well, if I'm not the rose, as they say here, I have lived near it. I can
show you some clever people, too. Do you know General Packard? Do you know C.P.
Hatch? Do you know Miss Kitty Upjohn?«
    »I shall be happy to make their acquaintance; I want to cultivate society.«
    Tristram seemed restless and suspicious; he eyed his friend askance, and
then: »What are you up to, any way?« he demanded. »Are you going to write a
book?«
    Christopher Newman twisted one end of his moustache awhile, in silence, and
at last he made answer. »One day, a couple of months ago, something very curious
happened to me. I had come on to New York on some important business; it was
rather a long story - a question of getting ahead of another party, in a certain
particular way, in the stock-market. This other party had once played me a very
mean trick. I owed him a grudge, I felt awfully savage at the time, and I vowed
that, when I got a chance, I would, figuratively speaking, put his nose out of
joint. There was a matter of some sixty thousand dollars at stake. If I put it
out of his way, it was a blow the fellow would feel, and he really deserved no
quarter. I jumped into a hack and went about my business, and it was in this
hack - this immortal, historical hack - that the curious thing I speak of
occurred. It was a hack like any other, only a trifle dirtier, with a greasy
line along the top of the drab cushions, as if it had been used for a great many
Irish funerals. It is possible I took a nap; I had been travelling all night,
and though I was excited with my errand, I felt the want of sleep. At all events
I woke up suddenly, from a sleep or from a kind of a reverie, with the most
extraordinary feeling in the world - a mortal disgust for the thing I was going
to do. It came upon me like that!« - and he snapped his fingers - »as abruptly
as an old wound that begins to ache. I couldn't tell the meaning of it; I only
felt that I loathed the whole business and wanted to wash my hands of it. The
idea of losing that sixty thousand dollars, of letting it utterly slide and
scuttle and never hearing of it again, seemed the sweetest thing in the world.
And all this took place quite independently of my will, and I sat watching it as
if it were a play at the theatre. I could feel it going on inside of me. You may
depend upon it that there are things going on inside of us that we understand
mighty little about.«
    »Jupiter! you make my flesh creep!« cried Tristram. »And while you sat in
your hack, watching the play, as you call it, the other man marched in and
bagged your sixty thousand dollars?«
    »I have not the least idea. I hope so, poor devil! but I never found out. We
pulled up in front of the place I was going to in Wall Street, but I sat still
in the carriage, and at last the driver scrambled down off his seat to see
whether his carriage had not turned into a hearse. I couldn't have got out, any
more than if I had been a corpse. What was the matter with me? Momentary idiocy,
you'll say. What I wanted to get out of was Wall Street. I told the man to drive
down to the Brooklyn ferry and to cross over. When we were over, I told him to
drive me out into the country. As I had told him originally to drive for dear
life down town, I suppose he thought me insane. Perhaps I was, but in that case
I am insane still. I spent the morning looking at the first green leaves on Long
Island. I was sick of business; I wanted to throw it all up and break off short;
I had money enough, or if I hadn't I ought to have. I seemed to feel a new man
inside my old skin, and I longed for a new world. When you want a thing so very
badly you had better treat yourself to it. I didn't understand the matter, not
in the least; but I gave the old horse the bridle and let him find his way. As
soon as I could get out of the game I sailed for Europe. That is how I come to
be sitting here.«
    »You ought to have bought up that hack,« said Tristram; »it isn't a safe
vehicle to have about. And you have really sold out, then; you have retired from
business?«
    »I have made over my hand to a friend; when I feel disposed, I can take up
the cards again. I daresay that a twelvemonth hence the operation will be
reversed. The pendulum will swing back again. I shall be sitting in the gondola
or on a dromedary, and all of a sudden I shall want to clear out. But for the
present I am perfectly free. I have even bargained that I am to receive no
business letters.«
    »Oh, it's a real caprice de prince,« said Tristram. »I back out; a poor
devil like me can't help you to spend such very magnificent leisure as that. You
should get introduced to the crowned heads.«
    Newman looked at him a moment, and then, with his easy smile: »How does one
do it?« he asked.
    »Come, I like that!« cried Tristram. »It shows you are in earnest.«
    »Of course I am in earnest. Didn't I say I wanted the best? I know the best
can't be had for mere money, but I rather think money will do a good deal. In
addition, I am willing to take a good deal of trouble.«
    »You are not bashful, eh?«
    »I haven't the least idea. I want the biggest kind of entertainment a man
can get. People, places, art, nature, everything! I want to see the tallest
mountains, and the bluest lakes, and the finest pictures, and the handsomest
churches, and the most celebrated men, and the most beautiful women.«
    »Settle down in Paris, then. There are no mountains that I know of, and the
only lake is in the Bois de Boulogne, and not particularly blue. But there is
everything else: plenty of pictures and churches, no end of celebrated men, and
several beautiful women.«
    »But I can't settle down in Paris at this season, just as summer is coming
on.«
    »Oh, for the summer go up to Trouville.«
    »What is Trouville?«
    »The French Newport. Half the Americans go.«
    »Is it anywhere near the Alps?«
    »About as near as Newport is to the Rocky Mountains.«
    »Oh, I want to see Mont Blanc,« said Newman, »and Amsterdam, and the Rhine,
and a lot of places. Venice in particular. I have great ideas about Venice.«
    »Ah,« said Mr. Tristram, rising, »I see I shall have to introduce you to my
wife!«
 

                                  Chapter III

He performed this ceremony on the following day, when, by appointment,
Christopher Newman went to dine with him. Mr. and Mrs. Tristram lived behind one
of those chalk-coloured façades which decorate with their pompous sameness the
broad avenues manufactured by Baron Haussmann in the neighbourhood of the Arc de
Triomphe. Their apartment was rich in the modern conveniences, and Tristram lost
no time in calling his visitor's attention to their principal household
treasures, the gas-lamps and the furnace-holes. »Whenever you feel homesick,« he
said, »you must come up here. We'll stick you down before a register, under a
good big burner, and --«
    »And you will soon get over your homesickness,« said Mrs. Tristram.
    Her husband stared; his wife often had a tone which he found inscrutable; he
could not tell for his life whether she was in jest or in earnest. The truth is
that circumstances had done much to cultivate in Mrs. Tristram a marked tendency
to irony. Her taste on many points differed from that of her husband; and though
she made frequent concessions, it must be confessed that her concessions were
not always graceful. They were founded upon a vague project she had of some day
doing something very positive, something a trifle passionate. What she meant to
do she could by no means have told you; but meanwhile, nevertheless, she was
buying a good conscience, by instalments.
    It should be added, without delay, to anticipate misconception, that her
little scheme of independence did not definitely involve the assistance of
another person, of the opposite sex; she was not saving up virtue to cover the
expenses of a flirtation. For this there were various reasons. To begin with,
she had a very plain face, and she was entirely without illusions as to her
appearance. She had taken its measure to a hair's breadth, she knew the worst
and the best, she had accepted herself. It had not been, indeed, without a
struggle. As a young girl, she had spent hours with her back to her mirror,
crying her eyes out; and later she had, from desperation and bravado, adopted
the habit of proclaiming herself the most ill-favoured of women, in order that
she might - as in common politeness was inevitable - be contradicted and
reassured. It was since she had come to live in Europe that she had begun to
take the matter philosophically. Her observation, acutely exercised here, had
suggested to her that a woman's first duty is not to be beautiful, but to be
pleasing; and she encountered so many women who pleased without beauty, that she
began to feel that she had discovered her mission. She had once heard an
enthusiastic musician, out of patience with a gifted bungler, declare that a
fine voice is really an obstacle to singing properly; and it occurred to her
that it might perhaps be equally true that a beautiful face is an obstacle to
the acquisition of charming manners. Mrs. Tristram, then, undertook to be
exquisitely agreeable, and she brought to the task a really touching devotion.
How well she would have succeeded I am unable to say; unfortunately she broke
off in the middle. Her own excuse was the want of encouragement in her immediate
circle. But I am inclined to think that she had not a real genius for the
matter, or she would have pursued the charming art for itself. The poor lady was
very incomplete. She fell back upon the harmonies of the toilet, which she
thoroughly understood, and contented herself with dressing in perfection. She
lived in Paris, which she pretended to detest, because it was only in Paris that
one could find things to exactly suit one's complexion. Besides, out of Paris it
was always more or less of a trouble to get ten-button gloves. When she railed
at this serviceable city, and you asked her where she would prefer to reside,
she returned some very unexpected answer. She would say in Copenhagen, or in
Barcelona; having, while making the tour of Europe, spent a couple of days at
each of these places. On the whole, with her poetic furbelows, and her
misshapen, intelligent little face, she was, when you knew her, a decidedly
interesting woman. She was naturally shy, and if she had been born a beauty, she
would (having no vanity) probably have remained shy. Now, she was both diffident
and importunate; extremely reserved sometimes with her friends, and strangely
expansive with strangers. She despised her husband; despised him too much, for
she had been perfectly at liberty not to marry him. She had been in love with a
clever man, who had slighted her, and she had married a fool, in the hope that
this thankless wit, reflecting on it, would conclude that she had no
appreciation of merit, and that he had flattered himself in supposing that she
cared for his own. Restless, discontented, visionary, without personal
ambitions, but with a certain avidity of imagination, she was, as I have said
before, eminently incomplete. She was full - both for good and for ill - of
beginnings that came to nothing; but she had nevertheless, morally, a spark of
the sacred fire.
    Newman was fond, under all circumstances, of the society of women; and now
that he was out of his native element, and deprived of his habitual interests,
he turned to it for compensation. He took a great fancy to Mrs. Tristram; she
frankly repaid it, and after their first meeting he passed a great many hours in
her drawing-room. After two or three talks, they were fast friends. Newman's
manner with women was peculiar, and it required some ingenuity on a lady's part
to discover that he admired her. He had no gallantry, in the usual sense of the
term; no compliments, no graces, no speeches. Very fond of what is called
chaffing, in his dealings with men, he never found himself on a sofa beside a
member of the softer sex without feeling extremely serious. He was not shy, and,
so far as awkwardness proceeds from a struggle with shyness, he was not awkward;
grave, attentive, submissive, often silent, he was simply swimming in a sort of
rapture of respect. This emotion was not at all theoretic, it was not even in a
high degree sentimental; he had thought very little about the position of women,
and he was not familiar, either sympathetically or otherwise, with the image of
a President in petticoats. His attitude was simply the flower of his general
good-nature, and a part of his instinctive and genuinely democratic assumption
of everyone's right to lead an easy life. If a shaggy pauper had a right to bed
and board and wages and a vote, women, of course, who were weaker than paupers,
and whose physical tissue was in itself an appeal, should be maintained,
sentimentally, at the public expense. Newman was willing to be taxed for this
purpose, largely, in proportion to his means. Moreover, many of the common
traditions with regard to women were with him fresh personal impressions; he had
never read a novel! He had been struck with their acuteness, their subtlety,
their tact, their felicity of judgment. They seemed to him exquisitely
organised. If it is true that one must always have in one's work here below a
religion, or at least an ideal, of some sort, Newman found his metaphysical
inspiration in a vague acceptance of final responsibility to some illumined
feminine brow.
    He spent a great deal of time in listening to advice from Mrs. Tristram;
advice, it must be added, for which he had never asked. He would have been
incapable of asking for it, for he had no perception of difficulties, and
consequently no curiosity about remedies. The complex Parisian world about him
seemed a very simple affair; it was an immense, amazing spectacle, but it
neither inflamed his imagination nor irritated his curiosity. He kept his hands
in his pockets, looked on good-humouredly, desired to miss nothing important,
observed a great many things narrowly, and never reverted to himself. Mrs.
Tristram's advice was a part of the show, and a more entertaining element, in
her abundant gossip, than the others. He enjoyed her talking about himself; it
seemed a part of her beautiful ingenuity; but he never made an application of
anything she said, or remembered it when he was away from her. For herself, she
appropriated him; he was the most interesting thing she had had to think about
in many a month. She wished to do something with him - she hardly knew what.
There was so much of him; he was so rich and robust, so easy, friendly,
well-disposed, that he kept her fancy constantly on the alert. For the present,
the only thing she could do was to like him. She told him that he was horribly
Western, but in this compliment the adverb was tinged with insincerity. She led
him about with her, introduced him to fifty people, and took extreme
satisfaction in her conquest. Newman accepted every proposal, shook hands
universally and promiscuously, and seemed equally unfamiliar with trepidation or
with elation. Tom Tristram complained of his wife's avidity, and declared that
he could never have a clear five minutes with his friend. If he had known how
things were going to turn out, he never would have brought him to the Avenue
d'Iéna. The two men, formerly, had not been intimate, but Newman remembered his
earlier impression of his host, and did Mrs. Tristram, who had by no means taken
him into her confidence, but whose secret he presently discovered, the justice
to admit that her husband was a rather degenerate mortal. At twenty-five he had
been a good fellow, and in this respect he was unchanged; but of a man of his
age one expected something more. People said he was sociable, but this was as
much a matter of course as for a dipped sponge to expand; and it was not a high
order of sociability. He was a great gossip and tattler, and to produce a laugh
would hardly have spared the reputation of his aged mother. Newman had a
kindness for old memories, but he found it impossible not to perceive that
Tristram was nowadays a very light weight. His only aspirations were to hold out
at poker, at his club, to know the names of all the cocottes, to shake hands all
round, to ply his rosy gullet with truffles and champagne, and to create
uncomfortable eddies and obstructions among the constituent atoms of the
American colony. He was shamefully idle, spiritless, sensual, snobbish. He
irritated our friend by the tone of his allusions to their native country, and
Newman was at a loss to understand why the United States were not good enough
for Mr. Tristram. He had never been a very conscious patriot, but it vexed him
to see them treated as little better than a vulgar smell in his friend's
nostrils, and he finally broke out and swore that they were the greatest country
in the world, that they could put all Europe into their breeches' pockets, and
that an American who spoke ill of them ought to be carried home in irons and
compelled to live in Boston. (This, for Newman, was putting it very
vindictively.) Tristram was a comfortable man to snub; he bore no malice, and he
continued to insist on Newman's finishing his evenings at the Occidental Club.
    Christopher Newman dined several times in the Avenue d'Iéna, and his host
always proposed an early adjournment to this institution. Mrs. Tristram
protested, and declared that her husband exhausted his ingenuity in trying to
displease her.
    »Oh no, I never try, my love,« he answered. »I know you loathe me quite
enough when I take my chance.«
    Newman hated to see a husband and wife on these terms, and he was sure one
or other of them must be very unhappy. He knew it was not Tristram. Mrs.
Tristram had a balcony before her windows, upon which, during the June evenings,
she was fond of sitting, and Newman used frankly to say that he preferred the
balcony to the club. It had a fringe of perfumed plants in tubs, and enabled you
to look up the broad street and see the Arch of Triumph vaguely massing its
heroic sculptures in the summer starlight. Sometimes Newman kept his promise of
following Mr. Tristram, in half an hour, to the Occidental, and sometimes he
forgot it. His hostess asked him a great many questions about himself, but on
this subject he was an indifferent talker. He was not what is called subjective,
though when he felt that her interest was sincere, he made an almost heroic
attempt to be. He told her a great many things he had done, and regaled her with
anecdotes of Western life; she was from Philadelphia, and with her eight years
in Paris, talked of herself as a languid Oriental. But some other person was
always the hero of the tale, by no means always to his advantage; and Newman's
own emotions were but scantily chronicled. She had an especial wish to know
whether he had ever been in love - seriously, passionately - and, failing to
gather any satisfaction from his allusions, she at last directly inquired. He
hesitated awhile, and at last he said: »No!« She declared that she was delighted
to hear it, as it confirmed her private conviction that he was a man of no
feeling.
    »Really?« he asked, very gravely. »Do you think so? How do you recognise a
man of feeling?«
    »I can't make out,« said Mrs. Tristram, »whether you are very simple or very
deep.«
    »I'm very deep. That's a fact.«
    »I believe that if I were to tell you with a certain air that you have no
feeling, you would implicitly believe me.«
    »A certain air?« said Newman. »Try it and see.«
    »You would believe me, but you would not care,« said Mrs. Tristram.
    »You have got it all wrong. I should care immensely, but I shouldn't believe
you. The fact is I have never had time to feel things. I have had to do them, to
make myself felt.«
    »I can imagine that you may have done that tremendously, sometimes.«
    »Yes, there's no mistake about that.«
    »When you are in a fury it can't be pleasant.«
    »I am never in a fury.«
    »Angry, then, or displeased.«
    »I am never angry, and it is so long since I have been displeased that I
have quite forgotten it.«
    »I don't believe,« said Mrs. Tristram, »that you are never angry. A man
ought to be angry sometimes, and you are neither good enough nor bad enough
always to keep your temper.«
    »I lose it perhaps once in five years.«
    »The time is coming round, then,« said his hostess. »Before I have known you
six months I shall see you in a fine fury.«
    »Do you mean to put me into one?«
    »I should not be sorry. You take things too coolly. It exasperates me. And
then you are too happy. You have what must be the most agreeable thing in the
world - the consciousness of having bought your pleasure beforehand, and paid
for it. You have not a day of reckoning staring you in the face. Your reckonings
are over.«
    »Well, I suppose I am happy,« said Newman, meditatively.
    »You have been odiously successful.«
    »Successful in copper,« said Newman, »only so-so in railroads, and a
hopeless fizzle in oil.«
    »It is very disagreeable to know how Americans have made their money. Now
you have the world before you. You have only to enjoy.«
    »Oh, I suppose I am very well off,« said Newman. »Only I am tired of having
it thrown up at me. Besides, there are several drawbacks. I am not
intellectual.«
    »One doesn't't expect it of you,« Mrs. Tristram answered. Then in a moment:
»Besides, you are!«
    »Well, I mean to have a good time, whether or no,« said Newman. »I am not
cultivated, I am not even educated; I know nothing about history, or art, or
foreign tongues, or any other learned matters. But I am not a fool, either, and
I shall undertake to know something about Europe by the time I have done with
it. I feel something under my ribs here,« he added in a moment, »that I can't
explain - a sort of a mighty hankering, a desire to stretch out and haul in.«
    »Bravo!« said Mrs. Tristram, »that is very fine. You are the great Western
Barbarian, stepping forth in his innocence and might, gazing awhile at this poor
effete Old World, and then swooping down on it.«
    »Oh come,« said Newman. »I am not a barbarian, by a good deal. I am very
much the reverse. I have seen barbarians; I know what they are.«
    »I don't mean that you are a Comanche chief, or that you wear a blanket and
feathers. There are different shades.«
    »I am a highly civilised man,« said Newman. »I stick to that. If you don't
believe it, I should like to prove it to you.«
    Mrs. Tristram was silent awhile. »I should like to make you prove it,« she
said, at last. »I should like to put you in a difficult place.«
    »Pray do,« said Newman.
    »That has a little conceited sound!« his companion rejoined.
    »Oh,« said Newman, »I have a very good opinion of myself.«
    »I wish I could put it to the test. Give me time, and I will.« And Mrs.
Tristram remained silent for some time afterwards, as if she was trying to keep
her pledge. It did not appear that evening that she succeeded; but as he was
rising to take his leave, she passed suddenly, as she was very apt to do, from
the tone of unsparing persiflage to that of almost tremulous sympathy. »Speaking
seriously,« she said, »I believe in you, Mr. Newman. You flatter my patriotism.«
    »Your patriotism?« Christopher demanded.
    »Even so. It would take too long to explain, and you probably would not
understand. Besides, you might take it - really, you might take it for a
declaration. But it has nothing to do with you personally; it's what you
represent. Fortunately you don't know all that, or your conceit would increase
insufferably.«
    Newman stood staring and wondering what under the sun he represented.
    »Forgive all my meddlesome chatter, and forget my advice. It is very silly
in me to undertake to tell you what to do. When you are embarrassed, do as you
think best, and you will do very well. When you are in a difficulty, judge for
yourself.«
    »I shall remember everything you have told me,« said Newman. »There are so
many forms and ceremonies over here --«
    »Forms and ceremonies are what I mean, of course.«
    »Ah, but I want to observe them,« said Newman. »Haven't I as good a right as
another? They don't scare me, and you needn't give me leave to violate them. I
won't take it.«
    »That is not what I mean. I mean, observe them in your own way. Settle nice
questions for yourself. Cut the knot or untie it, as you choose.«
    »Oh, I am sure I shall never fumble over it,« said Newman.
    The next time that he dined in the Avenue d'Iéna was a Sunday, a day on
which Mr. Tristram left the cards unshuffled, so that there was a trio in the
evening on the balcony. The talk was of many things, and at last Mrs. Tristram
suddenly observed to Christopher Newman that it was high time he should take a
wife.
    »Listen to her; she has the audacity!« said Tristram, who on Sunday evenings
was always rather acrimonious.
    »I don't suppose you have made up your mind not to marry?« Mrs. Tristram
continued.
    »Heaven forbid!« cried Newman. »I am sternly resolved on it.«
    »It's very easy,« said Tristram; »fatally easy!«
    »Well, then, I suppose you do not mean to wait till you are fifty.«
    »On the contrary, I am in a great hurry.«
    »One would never suppose it. Do you expect a lady to come and propose to
you?«
    »No; I am willing to propose. I think a great deal about it.«
    »Tell me some of your thoughts.«
    »Well,« said Newman, slowly, »I want to marry very well.«
    »Marry a woman of sixty, then,« said Tristram.
    »Well in what sense?«
    »In every sense. I shall be hard to please.«
    »You must remember that, as the French proverb says, the most beautiful girl
in the world can give but what she has.«
    »Since you ask me,« said Newman, »I will say frankly that I want extremely
to marry. It is time, to begin with; before I know it I shall be forty. And then
I'm lonely and helpless and dull. But if I marry now, so long as I didn't do it
in hot haste when I was twenty, I must do it with my eyes open. I want to do the
thing in handsome style. I not only want to make no mistakes, but I want to make
a great hit. I want to take my pick. My wife must be a magnificent woman.«
    »Voilà ce qui s'appelle parler!« cried Mrs. Tristram.
    »Oh, I have thought an immense deal about it.«
    »Perhaps you think too much. The best thing is simply to fall in love.«
    »When I find the woman who pleases me, I shall love her enough. My wife
shall be very comfortable.«
    »You are superb! There's a chance for the magnificent women.«
    »You are not fair,« Newman rejoined. »You draw a fellow out and put him off
his guard, and then you laugh at him.«
    »I assure you,« said Mrs. Tristram, »that I am very serious. To prove it, I
will make you a proposal. Should you like me, as they say here, to marry you?«
    »To hunt up a wife for me?«
    »She is already found. I will bring you together.«
    »Oh come,« said Tristram, »we don't keep a matrimonial bureau. He will think
you want your commission.«
    »Present me to a woman who comes up to my notions,« said Newman, »and I will
marry her to-morrow.«
    »You have a strange tone about it, and I don't quite understand you. I
didn't suppose you would be so cold-blooded and calculating.«
    Newman was silent a while. »Well,« he said, at last, »I want a great woman.
I stick to that. That's one thing I can treat myself to, and if it is to be had
I mean to have it. What else have I toiled and struggled for all these years? I
have succeeded, and now what am I to do with my success? To make it perfect, as
I see it, there must be a beautiful woman perched on the pile, like a statue on
a monument. She must be as good as she is beautiful, and as clever as she is
good. I can give my wife a good deal, so I am not afraid to ask a good deal
myself. She shall have everything a woman can desire; I shall not even object to
her being too good for me; she may be cleverer and wiser than I can understand,
and I shall only be the better pleased. I want to possess, in a word, the best
article in the market.«
    »Why didn't you tell a fellow all this at the outset?« Tristram demanded. »I
have been trying so to make you fond of me!«
    »This is very interesting,« said Mrs. Tristram. »I like to see a man know
his own mind.«
    »I have known mine for a long time,« Newman went on. »I made up my mind
tolerably early in life that a beautiful wife was the thing best worth having,
here below. It is the greatest victory over circumstances. When I say beautiful,
I mean beautiful in mind and in manners, as well as in person. It is a thing
every man has an equal right to; he may get it if he can. He doesn't't have to be
born with certain faculties on purpose; he needs only to be a man. Then he needs
only to use his will, and such wits as he has, and to try.«
    »It strikes me that your marriage is to be rather a matter of vanity.«
    »Well, it is certain,« said Newman, »that if people notice my wife and
admire her, I shall be mightily tickled.«
    »After this,« cried Mrs. Tristram, »call any man modest!«
    »But none of them will admire her so much as I.«
    »I see you have a taste for splendour.«
    Newman hesitated a little; and then: »I honestly believe I have« he said.
    »And I suppose you have already looked about you a good deal.«
    »A good deal, according to opportunity.«
    »And you have seen nothing that satisfied you?«
    »No,« said Newman, half reluctantly, »I am bound to say in honesty that I
have seen nothing that really satisfied me.«
    »You remind me of the heroes of the French romantic poets, Rolla and
Fortunio and all those other insatiable gentlemen for whom nothing in this world
was handsome enough. But I see you are in earnest, and I should like to help
you.«
    »Who the deuce is it, darling, that you are going to put upon him?« Tristram
cried. »We know a good many pretty girls, thank Heaven, but magnificent women
are not so common.«
    »Have you any objections to a foreigner?« his wife continued, addressing
Newman, who had tilted back his chair, and, with his feet on a bar of the
balcony railing and his hands in his pockets, was looking at the stars.
    »No Irish need apply,« said Tristram.
    Newman meditated awhile. »As a foreigner, no,« he said at last; »I have no
prejudices.«
    »My dear fellow, you have no suspicions!« cried Tristram. »You don't know
what terrible customers these foreign women are; especially the magnificent
ones. How should you like a fair Circassian, with a dagger in her belt?«
    Newman administered a vigorous slap to his knee. »I would marry a Japanese,
if she pleased me,« he affirmed.
    »We had better confine ourselves to Europe,« said Mrs. Tristram. »The only
thing is, then, that the person be in herself to your taste?«
    »She is going to offer you an unappreciated governess!« Tristram groaned.
    »Assuredly. I won't deny that, other things being equal, I should prefer one
of my own countrywomen. We should speak the same language, and that would be a
comfort. But I am not afraid of a foreigner. Besides, I rather like the idea of
taking in Europe, too. It enlarges the field of selection. When you choose from
a greater number, you can bring your choice to a finer point.«
    »You talk like Sardanapalus!« exclaimed Tristram.
    »You say all this to the right person,« said Newman's hostess. »I happen to
number among my friends the loveliest woman in the world. Neither more nor less.
I don't say a very charming person or a very estimable woman or a very great
beauty; I say simply the loveliest woman in the world.«
    »The deuce!« cried Tristram, »you have kept very quiet about her. Were you
afraid of me?«
    »You have seen her,« said his wife, »but you have no perception of such
merit as Claire's.«
    »Ah, her name is Claire? I give it up.«
    »Does your friend wish to marry?« asked Newman.
    »Not in the least. It is for you to make her change her mind. It will not be
easy; she has had one husband, and he gave her a low opinion of the species.«
    »Oh, she is a widow, then?« said Newman.
    »Are you already afraid? She was married at eighteen, by her parents, in the
French fashion, to a disagreeable old man. But he had the good taste to die a
couple of years afterwards, and she is now twenty-five.«
    »So she is French?«
    »French by her father, English by her mother. She is really more English
than French, and she speaks English as well as you or I - or rather much better.
She belongs to the very top of the basket, as they say here. Her family, on each
side, is of fabulous antiquity; her mother is the daughter of an English
Catholic earl. Her father is dead, and since her widowhood she has lived with
her mother and a married brother. There is another brother, younger, who I
believe is wild. They have an old hotel in the Rue de l'Université, but their
fortune is small, and they make a common household, for economy's sake. When I
was a girl I was put into a convent here for my education, while my father made
the tour of Europe. It was a silly thing to do with me, but it had the advantage
that it made me acquainted with Claire de Bellegarde. She was younger than I,
but we became fast friends. I took a tremendous fancy to her, and she returned
my passion as far as she could. They kept such a tight rein on her that she
could do very little, and when I left the convent she had to give me up. I was
not of her monde; I am not now, either, but we sometimes meet. They are terrible
people - her monde; all mounted upon stilts a mile high, and with pedigrees long
in proportion. It is the skim of the milk of the old noblesse. Do you know what
a Legitimist is, or an Ultramontane? Go into Madame de Cintré's drawing-room
some afternoon, at five o'clock, and you will see the best-preserved specimens.
I say go, but no one is admitted who can't show his fifty quarterings.«
    »And this is the lady you propose to me to marry?« asked Newman. »A lady I
can't even approach?«
    »But you said just now that you recognised no obstacles.«
    Newman looked at Mrs. Tristram a while, stroking his moustache. »Is she a
beauty?« he demanded.
    »No.«
    »Oh, then it's no use --«
    »She is not a beauty, but she is beautiful, two very different things. A
beauty has no faults in her face; the face of a beautiful woman may have faults
that only deepen its charm.«
    »I remember Madame de Cintré, now,« said Tristram. »She is as plain as a
pikestaff. A man wouldn't look at her twice.«
    »In saying that he would not look at her twice, my husband sufficiently
describes her,« Mrs. Tristram rejoined.
    »Is she good; is she clever?« Newman asked.
    »She is perfect! I won't say more than that. When you are praising a person
to another who is to know her, it is bad policy to go into details. I won't
exaggerate. I simply recommend her. Among all women I have known she stands
alone; she is of a different clay.«
    »I should like to see her,« said Newman, simply.
    »I will try to manage it. The only way will be to invite her to dinner. I
have never invited her before, and I don't know that she will come. Her old
feudal countess of a mother rules the family with an iron hand, and allows her
to have no friends but of her own choosing, and to visit only in a certain
sacred circle. But I can at least ask her.«
    At this moment Mrs. Tristram was interrupted; a servant stepped out upon the
balcony and announced that there were visitors in the drawing-room. When
Newman's hostess had gone in to receive her friends, Tom Tristram approached his
guest.
    »Don't put your foot into this, my boy,« he said, puffing the last whiffs of
his cigar. »There's nothing in it!«
    Newman looked askance at him, inquisitive. »You tell another story, eh?«
    »I say simply that Madame de Cintré is a great white doll of a woman, who
cultivates quiet haughtiness.«
    »Ah, she's haughty, eh?«
    »She looks at you as if you were so much thin air, and cares for you about
as much.«
    »She is very proud, eh!«
    »Proud? As proud as I'm humble.«
    »And not good-looking?«
    Tristram shrugged his shoulders: »It's a kind of beauty you must be
intellectual to understand. But I must go in and amuse the company.«
    Some time elapsed before Newman followed his friends into the drawing-room.
When he at last made his appearance there he remained but a short time, and
during this period sat perfectly silent, listening to a lady to whom Mrs.
Tristram had straightway introduced him and who chattered, without a pause, with
the full force of an extraordinarily high-pitched voice. Newman gazed and
attended. Presently he came to bid good-night to Mrs. Tristram.
    »Who is that lady?« he asked.
    »Miss Dora Finch. How do you like her?«
    »She's too noisy.«
    »She is thought so bright! Certainly, you are fastidious,« said Mrs.
Tristram.
    Newman stood a moment, hesitating. Then at last, »Don't forget about your
friend,« he said; »Madame What's-her-name? the proud beauty. Ask her to dinner,
and give me good notice.« And with this he departed.
    Some days later he came back; it was in the afternoon. He found Mrs.
Tristram in her drawing-room; with her was a visitor, a woman young and pretty,
dressed in white. The two ladies had risen and the visitor was apparently taking
her leave. As Newman approached, he received from Mrs. Tristram a glance of the
most vivid significance, which he was not immediately able to interpret.
    »This is a good friend of ours,« she said, turning to her companion, »Mr.
Christopher Newman. I have spoken of you to him and he has an extreme desire to
make your acquaintance. If you had consented to come and dine, I should have
offered him an opportunity.«
    The stranger turned her face toward Newman, with a smile. He was not
embarrassed, for his unconscious sang-froid was boundless; but as he became
aware that this was the proud and beautiful Madame de Cintré, the loveliest
woman in the world, the promised perfection, the proposed ideal, he made an
instinctive movement to gather his wits together. Through the slight
preoccupation that it produced he had a sense of a long, fair face, and of two
eyes that were both brilliant and mild.
    »I should have been most happy,« said Madame de Cintré. »Unfortunately, as I
have been telling Mrs. Tristram, I go on Monday to the country.«
    Newman had made a solemn bow. »I am very sorry,« he said.
    »Paris is getting too warm,« Madame dc Cintré added, taking her friend's
hand again in farewell.
    Mrs. Tristram seemed to have formed a sudden and somewhat venturesome
resolution, and she smiled more intensely, as women do when they take such
resolutions. »I want Mr. Newman to know you,« she said, dropping her head on one
side and looking at Madame de Cintré's bonnet ribbons.
    Christopher Newman stood gravely silent, while his native penetration
admonished him. Mrs. Tristram was determined to force her friend to address him
a word of encouragement which should be more than one of the common formulas of
politeness; and if she was prompted by charity, it was by the charity that
begins at home. Madame de Cintré was her dearest Claire, and her especial
admiration; but Madame de Cintré had found it impossible to dine with her, and
Madame de Cintré should for once be forced gently to render tribute to Mrs.
Tristram.
    »It would give me great pleasure,« she said, looking at Mrs. Tristram.
    »That's a great deal,« cried the latter, »for Madame de Cintré to say!«
    »I am very much obliged to you,« said Newman. »Mrs. Tristram can speak
better for me than I can speak for myself.«
    Madame de Cintré looked at him again, with the same soft brightness. »Are
you to be long in Paris?« she asked.
    »We shall keep him,« said Mrs. Tristram.
    »But you are keeping me!« and Madame de Cintré shook her friend's hand.
    »A moment longer,« said Mrs. Tristram.
    Madame de Cintré looked at Newman again; this time without her smile. Her
eyes lingered a moment. »Will you come and see me?« she asked.
    Mrs. Tristram kissed her. Newman expressed his thanks, and she took her
leave. Her hostess went with her to the door, and left Newman alone a moment.
Presently she returned, rubbing her hands. »It was a fortunate chance,« she
said. »She had come to decline my invitation. You triumphed on the spot, making
her ask you, at the end of three minutes, to her house.«
    »It was you who triumphed,« said Newman. »You must not be too hard upon
her.«
    Mrs. Tristram stared. »What do you mean?«
    »She did not strike me as so proud. I should say she was shy.«
    »You are very discriminating. And what do you think of her face?«
    »It's handsome!« said Newman.
    »I should think it was! Of course you will go and see her.«
    »To-morrow!« cried Newman.
    »No, not to-morrow; the next day. That will be Sunday; she leaves Paris on
Monday. If you don't see her, it will at least be a beginning.« And she gave him
Madame de Cintré's address.
    He walked across the Seine, late in the summer afternoon, and made his way
through those gray and silent streets of the Faubourg St. Germain, whose houses
present to the outer world a face as impassive and as suggestive of the
concentration of privacy within as the blank walls of Eastern seraglios. Newman
thought it a queer way for rich people to live; his ideal of grandeur was a
splendid façade, diffiusing its brilliancy outward too, irradiating hospitality.
The house to which he had been directed had a dark, dusty, painted portal, which
swung open in answer to his ring. It admitted him into a wide, gravelled court,
surrounded on three sides with closed windows, and with a doorway facing the
street, approached by three steps and surmounted by a tin canopy. The place was
all in the shade; it answered to Newman's conception of a convent. The portress
could not tell him whether Madame de Cintré was visible; he would please to
apply at the farther door. He crossed the court; a gentleman was sitting,
bareheaded, on the steps of the portico, playing with a beautiful pointer. He
rose as Newman approached, and, as he laid his hand upon the bell, said with a
smile, in English, that he was afraid Newman would be kept waiting; the servants
were scattered; he himself had been ringing; he didn't know what the deuce was
in them. He was a young man; his English was excellent, and his smile very
frank. Newman pronounced the name of Madame de Cintré.
    »I think,« said the young man, »that my sister is visible. Come in, and if
you will give me your card I will carry it to her myself.«
    Newman had been accompanied on his present errand by a slight sentiment, I
will not say of defiance - a readiness for aggression or defence, as they might
prove needful - but of reflective good-humoured suspicion. He took from his
pocket, while he stood on the portico, a card upon which, under his name, he had
written the words San Francisco, and while he presented it he looked warily at
his interlocutor. His glance was singularly reassuring; he liked the young man's
face; it strongly resembled that of Madame de Cintré. He was evidently her
brother. The young man, on his side, had made a rapid inspection of Newman's
person. He had taken the card and was about to enter the house with it when
another figure appeared on the threshold - an older man, of a fine presence,
wearing evening dress. He looked hard at Newman, and Newman looked at him.
»Madame de Cintré,« the younger man repeated, as an introduction of the visitor.
The other took the card from his hand, read it in a rapid glance, looked again
at Newman from head to foot, hesitated a moment, and then said, gravely, but
urbanely, »Madame de Cintré is not at home.«
    The younger man made a gesture, and then turning to Newman: »I am very
sorry, sir,« he said.
    Newman gave him a friendly nod, to show that he bore him no malice, and
retraced his steps. At the porter's lodge he stopped; the two men were still
standing on the portico.
    »Who is the gentleman with the dog?« he asked of the old woman who
reappeared. He had begun to learn French.
    »That is Monsieur le Comte.«
    »And the other?«
    »That is Monsieur le Marquis.«
    »A marquis?« said Christopher in English, which the old woman fortunately
did not understand. »Oh, then he's not the butler!«
 

                                   Chapter IV

Early one morning, before Christopher Newman was dressed, a little old man was
ushered into his apartment, followed by a youth in a blouse, bearing a picture
in a brilliant frame. Newman, among the distractions of Paris, had forgotten M.
Nioche and his accomplished daughter; but this was an effective reminder.
    »I am afraid you had given me up, sir,« said the old man, after many
apologies and salutations. »We have made you wait so many days. You accused us,
perhaps, of inconstancy, of bad faith. But behold me at last! And behold also
the pretty Madonna. Place it on a chair, my friend, in a good light, so that
monsieur may admire it.« And M. Nioche, addressing his companion, helped him to
dispose the work of art.
    It had been endued with a layer of varnish an inch thick, and its frame, of
an elaborate pattern, was at least a foot wide. It glittered and twinkled in the
morning light, and looked, to Newman's eyes, wonderfully splendid and precious.
It seemed to him a very happy purchase, and he felt rich in the possession of
it. He stood looking at it complacently, while he proceeded with his toilet, and
M. Nioche, who had dismissed his own attendant, hovered near, smiling and
rubbing his hands.
    »It has wonderful finesse,« he murmured, caressingly. »And here and there
are marvellous touches; you probably perceive them, sir. It attracted great
attention on the Boulevard, as we came along. And then a gradation of tones!
That's what it is to know how to paint. I don't say it because I am her father,
sir; but as one man of taste addressing another I cannot help observing that you
have there an exquisite work. It is hard to produce such things and to have to
part with them. If our means only allowed us the luxury of keeping it! I really
may say, sir« - and M. Nioche gave a little feebly insinuating laugh - »I really
may say that I envy you! You see,« he added in a moment, »we have taken the
liberty of offering you a frame. It increases by a trifle the value of the work,
and it will save you the annoyance - so great for a person of your delicacy - of
going about to bargain at the shops.«
    The language spoken by M. Nioche was a singular compound, which I shrink
from the attempt to reproduce in its integrity. He had apparently once possessed
a certain knowledge of English, and his accent was oddly tinged with the
cockneyism of the British metropolis. But his learning had grown rusty with
disuse, and his vocabulary was defective and capricious. He had repaired it with
large patches of French, with words anglicised by a process of his own, and with
native idioms literally translated. The result, in the form in which he in all
humility presented it, would be scarcely comprehensible to the reader, so that I
have ventured to trim and sift it. Newman only half understood it, but it amused
him, and the old man's decent forlornness appealed to his democratic instincts.
The assumption of a fatality in misery always irritated his strong good-nature -
it was almost the only thing that did so; and he felt the impulse to wipe it
out, as it were, with the sponge of his own prosperity. The papa of Mademoiselle
Noémie, however, had apparently on this occasion been vigorously indoctrinated,
and he showed a certain tremulous eagerness to cultivate unexpected
opportunities.
    »How much do I owe you, then, with the frame?« asked Newman.
    »It will make in all three thousand francs,« said the old man, smiling
agreeably, but folding his hands in instinctive suppliance.
    »Can you give me a receipt?«
    »I have brought one,« said M. Nioche. »I took the liberty of drawing it up
in case monsieur should happen to desire to discharge his debt.« And he drew a
paper from his pocket-book and presented it to his patron. The document was
written in a minute, fantastic hand, and couched in the choicest language.
    Newman laid down the money, and M. Nioche dropped the napoleons one by one,
solemnly and lovingly, into an old leathern purse.
    »And how is your young lady?« asked Newman. »She made a great impression on
me.«
    »An impression? Monsieur is very good. Monsieur admires her appearance?«
    »She is very pretty, certainly.«
    »Alas, yes, she is very pretty!«
    »And what is the harm in her being pretty?«
    M. Nioche fixed his eyes upon a spot on the carpet and shook his head. Then
looking up at Newman with a gaze that seemed to brighten and expand, »Monsieur
knows what Paris is. She is dangerous to beauty, when beauty hasn't the sou.«
    »Ah, but that is not the case with your daughter. She is rich, now.«
    »Very true; we are rich for six months. But if my daughter were a plain girl
I should sleep better, all the same.«
    »You are afraid of the young men?«
    »The young and the old!«
    »She ought to get a husband.«
    »Ah, monsieur, one doesn't't get a husband for nothing. Her husband must take
her as she is; I can't give her a sou. But the young men don't see with that
eye.«
    »Oh,« said Newman, »her talent is in itself a dowry.«
    »Ah, sir, it needs first to be converted into specie!« and M. Nioche slapped
his purse tenderly before he stowed it away. »The operation doesn't't take place
every day.«
    »Well, your young men are very shabby,« said Newman; »that's all I can say.
They ought to pay for your daughter, and not ask money themselves.«
    »Those are very noble ideas, monsieur; but what will you have? They are not
the ideas of this country. We want to know what we are about when we marry.«
    »How big a portion does your daughter want?«
    M. Nioche stared, as if he wondered what was coming next; but he promptly
recovered himself, at a venture, and replied that he knew a very nice young man,
employed by an insurance company, who would content himself with fifteen
thousand francs.
    »Let your daughter paint half-a-dozen pictures for me, and she shall have
her dowry.«
    »Half-a-dozen pictures - her dowry! Monsieur is not speaking
inconsiderately?«
    »If she will make me six or eight copies in the Louvre as pretty as that
Madonna, I will pay her the same price,« said Newman.
    Poor M. Nioche was speechless a moment, with amazement and gratitude, and
then he seized Newman's hand, pressed it between his own ten fingers, and gazed
at him with watery eyes. »As pretty as that? They shall be a thousand times
prettier - they shall be magnificent, sublime. Ah, if I only knew how to paint
myself, sir, so that I might lend a hand! What can I do to thank you? Voyons!«
and he pressed his forehead while he tried to think of something.
    »Oh, you have thanked me enough,« said Newman.
    »Ah, here it is, sir!« cried M. Nioche. »To express my gratitude, I will
charge you nothing for the lessons in French conversation.«
    »The lessons? I had quite forgotten them. Listening to your English,« added
Newman, laughing, »is almost a lesson in French.«
    »Ah, I don't profess to teach English, certainly,« said M. Nioche. »But for
my own admirable tongue I am still at your service.«
    »Since you are here, then,« said Newman, »we will begin. This is a very good
hour. I am going to have my coffee; come every morning at half-past nine and
have yours with me.«
    »Monsieur offers me my coffee, also?« cried M. Nioche. »Truly, my beaux
jours are coming back.«
    »Come,« said Newman, »let us begin. The coffee is almighty hot. How do you
say that in French?«
    Every day, then, for the following three weeks, the minutely respectable
figure of M. Nioche made its appearance, with a series of little inquiring and
apologetic obeisances, among the aromatic fumes of Newman's morning beverage. I
don't know how much French our friend learned; but, as he himself said, if the
attempt did him no good, it could at any rate do him no harm. And it amused him;
it gratified that irregularly sociable side of his nature which had always
expressed itself in a relish for ungrammatical conversation, and which often,
even in his busy and preoccupied days, had made him sit on rail fences in young
Western towns, in the twilight, in gossip hardly less than fraternal with
humorous loafers and obscure fortune-seekers. He had notions, wherever he went,
about talking with the natives; he had been assured, and his judgment approved
the advice, that in travelling abroad it was an excellent thing to look into the
life of the country. M. Nioche was very much of a native, and, though his life
might not be particularly worth looking into, he was a palpable and
smoothly-rounded unit in that picturesque Parisian civilisation which offered
our hero so much easy entertainment and propounded so many curious problems to
his inquiring and practical mind. Newman was fond of statistics; he liked to
know how things were done; it gratified him to learn what taxes were paid, what
profits were gathered, what commercial habits prevailed, how the battle of life
was fought. M. Nioche, as a reduced capitalist, was familiar with these
considerations, and he formulated his information, which he was proud to be able
to impart, in the neatest possible terms and with a pinch of snuff between
finger and thumb. As a Frenchman - quite apart from Newman's napoleons - M.
Nioche loved conversation, and even in his decay his urbanity had not grown
rusty. As a Frenchman, too, he could give a clear account of things, and - still
as a Frenchman - when his knowledge was at fault he could supply its lapses with
the most convenient and ingenious hypotheses. The little shrunken financier was
intensely delighted to have questions asked him, and he scraped together
information, by frugal processes, and took notes, in his little greasy
pocket-book, of incidents which might interest his munificent friend. He read
old almanacs at the book-stalls on the quays, and he began to frequent another
café, where more newspapers were taken and his post-prandial demitasse cost him
a penny extra, and where he used to con the tattered sheets for curious
anecdotes, freaks of nature, and strange coincidences. He would relate with
solemnity the next morning that a child of five years of age had lately died at
Bordeaux, whose brain had been found to weigh sixty ounces - the brain of a
Napoleon or a Washington! or that Madame P--, charcutière in the Rue de Clichy,
had found in the wadding of an old petticoat the sum of three hundred and sixty
francs, which she had lost five years before. He pronounced his words with great
distinctness and sonority, and Newman assured him that his way of dealing with
the French tongue was very superior to the bewildering chatter that he heard in
other mouths. Upon this M. Nioche's accent became more finely trenchant than
ever; he offered to read extracts from Lamartine, and he protested that,
although he did endeavour according to his feeble lights to cultivate refinement
of diction, monsieur, if he wanted the real thing, should go to the Théâtre
Français.
    Newman took an interest in French thriftiness and conceived a lively
admiration for Parisian economies. His own economic genius was so entirely for
operations on a larger scale, and, to move at his ease, he needed so
imperatively the sense of great risks and great prizes, that he found an
ungrudging entertainment in the spectacle of fortunes made by the aggregation of
copper coins, and in the minute subdivision of labour and profit. He questioned
M. Nioche about his own manner of life, and felt a friendly mixture of
compassion and respect over the recital of his delicate frugalities. The worthy
man told him how, at one period, he and his daughter had supported existence,
comfortably, upon the sum of fifteen sous per diem; recently, having succeeded
in hauling ashore the last floating fragments of the wreck of his fortune, his
budget had been a trifle more ample. But they still had to count their sous very
narrowly, and M. Nioche intimated with a sigh that Mademoiselle Noémie did not
bring to this task that zealous co-operation which might have been desired.
    »But what will you have?« he asked, philosophically. »One is young, one is
pretty, one needs new dresses and fresh gloves; one can't wear shabby gowns
among the splendours of the Louvre.«
    »But your daughter earns enough to pay for her own clothes,« said Newman.
    M. Nioche looked at him with weak, uncertain eyes. He would have liked to be
able to say that his daughter's talents were appreciated, and that her crooked
little daubs commanded a market; but it seemed a scandal to abuse the credulity
of this free-handed stranger, who, without a suspicion or a question, had
admitted him to equal social rights. He compromised, and declared that while it
was obvious that Mademoiselle Noémie's reproductions of the old masters had only
to be seen to be coveted, the prices which, in consideration of their altogether
peculiar degree of finish she felt obliged to ask for them, had kept purchasers
at a respectful distance. »Poor little one!« said M. Nioche, with a sigh; »it is
almost a pity that her work is so perfect! It would be in her interest to paint
less well.«
    »But if Mademoiselle Noémie has this devotion to her art,« Newman once
observed, »why should you have those fears for her that you spoke of the other
day?«
    M. Nioche meditated; there was an inconsistency in his position; it made him
chronically uncomfortable. Though he had no desire to destroy the goose with the
golden eggs - Newman's benevolent confidence - he felt a tremulous impulse to
speak out all his trouble. »Ah, she is an artist, my dear sir, most assuredly,«
he declared. »But to tell you the truth, she is also a franche coquette. I am
sorry to say,« he added in a moment, shaking his head with a world of harmless
bitterness, »that she comes honestly by it. Her mother was one before her!«
    »You were not happy with your wife?« Newman asked.
    M. Nioche gave half-a-dozen little backward jerks of his head. »She was my
purgatory, monsieur!«
    »She deceived you?«
    »Under my nose, year after year. I was too stupid, and the temptation was
too great. But I found her out at last. I have only been once in my life a man
to be afraid of; I know it very well: it was in that hour! Nevertheless I don't
like to think of it. I loved her - I can't tell you how much. She was a bad
woman.«
    »She is not living?«
    »She has gone to her account.«
    »Her influence on your daughter, then,« said Newman encouragingly, »is not
to be feared.«
    »She cared no more for her daughter than for the sole of her shoe! But
Noémie has no need of influence. She is sufficient to herself. She is stronger
than I.«
    »She doesn't't obey you, eh?«
    »She can't obey, monsieur, since I don't command. What would be the use? It
would only irritate her and drive her to some coup de tête. She is very clever,
like her mother; she would waste no time about it. As a child - when I was
happy, or supposed I was - she studied drawing and painting with first-class
professors, and they assured me she had a talent. I was delighted to believe it,
and when I went into society I used to carry her pictures with me in a portfolio
and hand them round to the company. I remember, once, a lady thought I was
offering them for sale, and I took it very ill. We don't know what we may come
to! Then came my dark days, and my explosion with Madame Nioche. Noémie had no
more twenty-franc lessons; but in the course of time, when she grew older, and
it became highly expedient that she should do something that would help to keep
us alive, she bethought herself of her palette and brushes. Some of our friends
in the quartier pronounced the idea fantastic; they recommended her to try
bonnet-making, to get a situation in a shop, or - if she was more ambitious - to
advertise for a place of dame de compagnie. She did advertise, and an old lady
wrote her a letter and bade her come and see her. The old lady liked her, and
offered her her living and six hundred francs a year; but Noémie discovered that
she passed her life in her arm-chair and had only two visitors, her confessor
and her nephew: the confessor very strict, and the nephew a man of fifty, with a
broken nose and a government clerkship of two thousand francs. She threw her old
lady over, bought a paint-box, a canvas, and a new dress, and went and set up
her easel in the Louvre. There, in one place and another, she has passed the
last two years; I can't say it has made us millionaires. But Noémie tells me
that Rome was not built in a day, that she is making great progress, that I must
leave her to her own devices. The fact is, without prejudice to her genius, that
she has no idea of burying herself alive. She likes to see the world, and to be
seen. She says, herself, that she can't work in the dark. With her appearance it
is very natural. Only, I can't help worrying and trembling and wondering what
may happen to her there all alone, day after day, amid all that coming and going
of strangers. I can't be always at her side. I go with her in the morning, and I
come to fetch her away, but she won't have me near her in the interval; she says
I make her nervous. As if it didn't make me nervous to wander about all day
without her! Ah, if anything were to happen to her!« cried M. Nioche, clenching
his two fists and jerking back his head again, portentously.
    »Oh, I guess nothing will happen,« said Newman.
    »I believe I should shoot her!« said the old man solemnly.
    »Oh, we'll marry her,« said Newman, »since that's how you manage it; and I
will go and see her to-morrow at the Louvre and pick out the pictures she is to
copy for me.«
    M. Nioche had brought Newman a message from his daughter, in acceptance of
his magnificent commission, the young lady declaring herself his most devoted
servant, promising her most zealous endeavour, and regretting that the
proprieties forbade her coming to thank him in person. The morning after the
conversation just narrated, Newman reverted to his intention of meeting
Mademoiselle Noémie at the Louvre. M. Nioche appeared preoccupied, and left his
budget of anecdotes unopened; he took a great deal of snuff, and sent certain
oblique, appealing glances toward his stalwart pupil. At last, when he was
taking his leave, he stood a moment, after he had polished his hat with his
calico pocket-handkerchief, with his small, pale eyes fixed strangely upon
Newman.
    »What's the matter?« our hero demanded.
    »Excuse the solicitude of a father's heart!« said M. Nioche. »You inspire me
with boundless confidence, but I can't help giving you a warning. After all, you
are a man, you are young and at liberty. Let me beseech you, then, to respect
the innocence of Mademoiselle Nioche!«
    Newman had wondered what was coming, and at this he broke into a laugh. He
was on the point of declaring that his own innocence struck him as the more
exposed, but he contented himself with promising to treat the young girl with
nothing less than veneration. He found her waiting for him, seated upon the
great divan in the Salon Carré. She was not in her working-day costume, but wore
her bonnet and gloves and carried her parasol, in honour of the occasion. These
articles had been selected with unerring taste, and a fresher, prettier image of
youthful alertness and blooming discretion was not to be conceived. She made
Newman a most respectful curtsy and expressed her gratitude for his liberality
in a wonderfully graceful little speech. It annoyed him to have a charming young
girl stand there thanking him, and it made him feel uncomfortable to think that
this perfect young lady, with her excellent manners and her finished intonation,
was literally in his pay. He assured her, in such French as he could muster,
that the thing was not worth mentioning, and that he considered her services a
great favour.
    »Whenever you please, then,« said Mademoiselle Noémie, »we will pass the
review.«
    They walked slowly round the room, then passed into the others and strolled
about for half an hour. Mademoiselle Noémie evidently relished her situation,
and had no desire to bring her public interview with her striking-looking patron
to a close. Newman perceived that prosperity agreed with her. The little
thin-lipped, peremptory air with which she had addressed her father on the
occasion of their former meeting had given place to the most lingering and
caressing tones.
    »What sort of pictures do you desire?« she asked. »Sacred, or profane?«
    »Oh, a few of each,« said Newman. »But I want something bright and gay.«
    »Something gay? There is nothing very gay in this solemn old Louvre. But we
will see what we can find. You speak French to-day like a charm. My father has
done wonders.«
    »Oh, I am a bad subject,« said Newman. »I am too old to learn a language.«
    »Too old? Quelle folie!« cried Mademoiselle Noémie, with a clear, shrill
laugh. »You are a very young man. And how do you like my father?«
    »He is a very nice old gentleman. He never laughs at my blunders.«
    »He is very come il faut, my papa,« said Mademoiselle Noémie, »and as
honest as the day. Oh, an exceptional probity! You could trust him with
millions.«
    »Do you always obey him?« asked Newman.
    »Obey him?«
    »Do you do what he bids you?«
    The young girl stopped and looked at him; she had a spot of colour in either
cheek, and in her expressive French eye, which projected too much for perfect
beauty, there was a slight gleam of audacity. »Why do you ask me that?« she
demanded.
    »Because I want to know.«
    »You think me a bad girl?« And she gave a strange smile.
    Newman looked at her a moment; he saw that she was pretty, but he was not in
the least dazzled. He remembered poor M. Nioche's solicitude for her innocence,
and he laughed out again as his eyes met hers. Her face was the oddest mixture
of youth and maturity, and beneath her candid brow her searching little smile
seemed to contain a world of ambiguous intentions. She was pretty enough,
certainly, to make her father nervous; but, as regards her innocence, Newman
felt ready on the spot to affirm that she had never parted with it. She had
simply never had any; she had been looking at the world since she was ten years
old, and he would have been a wise man who could tell her any secrets. In her
long mornings at the Louvre she had not only studied Madonnas and St. Johns; she
had kept an eye upon all the variously embodied human nature around her, and she
had formed her conclusions. In a certain sense, it seemed to Newman, M. Nioche
might be at rest; his daughter might do something very audacious, but she would
never do anything foolish. Newman, with his long-drawn, leisurely smile, and his
even, unhurried utterance, was always, mentally, taking his time; and he asked
himself, now, what she was looking at him in that way for. He had an idea that
she would like him to confess that he did think her a bad girl.
    »Oh no,« he said at last; »it would be very bad manners in me to judge you
that way. I don't know you.«
    »But my father has complained to you,« said Mademoiselle Noémie.
    »He says you are a coquette.«
    »He shouldn't go about saying such things to gentlemen! But you don't
believe it?«
    »No,« said Newman gravely, »I don't believe it.«
    She looked at him again, gave a shrug and a smile, and then pointed to a
small Italian picture, a Marriage of St. Catherine. »How should you like that?«
she asked.
    »It doesn't't please me,« said Newman. »The young lady in the yellow dress is
not pretty.«
    »Ah, you are a great connoisseur,« murmured Mademoiselle Noémie.
    »In pictures? Oh no; I know very little about them.«
    »In pretty women, then?«
    »In that I am hardly better.«
    »What do you say to that, then?« the young girl asked, indicating a superb
Italian portrait of a lady. »I will do it for you on a smaller scale.«
    »On a smaller scale? Why not as large as the original?«
    Mademoiselle Noémie glanced at the glowing splendour of the Venetian
masterpiece and gave a little toss of her head. »I don't like that woman. She
looks stupid.«
    »I do like her,« said Newman. »Decidedly, I must have her, as large as life.
And just as stupid as she is there.«
    The young girl fixed her eyes on him again, and with her mocking smile, »It
certainly ought to be easy for me to make her look stupid!« she said.
    »What do you mean?« asked Newman, puzzled.
    She gave another little shrug. »Seriously, then, you want that portrait -
the golden hair, the purple satin, the pearl necklace, the two magnificent
arms?«
    »Everything - just as it is.«
    »Would nothing else do, instead?«
    »Oh, I want some other things, but I want that too.«
    Mademoiselle Noémie turned away a moment, walked to the other side of the
hall, and stood there, looking vaguely about her. At last she came back. »It
must be charming to be able to order pictures at such a rate. Venetian
portraits, as large as life! You go at it en prince. And you are going to travel
about Europe that way?«
    »Yes, I intend to travel,« said Newman.
    »Ordering, buying, spending money?«
    »Of course I shall spend some money.«
    »You are very happy to have it. And you are perfectly free?«
    »How do you mean, free?«
    »You have nothing to bother you - no family, no wife, no fiancée?«
    »Yes, I am tolerably free.«
    »You are very happy,« said Mademoiselle Noémie gravely.
    »Je le veux bien!« said Newman, proving that he had learned more French than
he admitted.
    »And how long shall you stay in Paris?« the young girl went on.
    »Only a few days more.«
    »Why do you go away?«
    »It is getting hot, and I must go to Switzerland.«
    »To Switzerland? That's a fine country. I would give my new parasol to see
it! Lakes and mountains, romantic valleys and icy peaks! Oh, I congratulate you.
Meanwhile, I shall sit here through all the hot summer, daubing at your
pictures.«
    »Oh, take your time about it,« said Newman. »Do them at your convenience.«
    They walked farther and looked at a dozen other things. Newman pointed out
what pleased him, and Mademoiselle Noémie generally criticised it, and proposed
something else. Then suddenly she diverged and began to talk about some personal
matter.
    »What made you speak to me the other day in the Salon Carré?« she abruptly
asked.
    »I admired your picture.«
    »But you hesitated a long time.«
    »Oh, I do nothing rashly,« said Newman.
    »Yes, I saw you watching me. But I never supposed you were going to speak to
me. I never dreamed I should be walking about here with you to-day. It's very
curious.«
    »It is very natural,« observed Newman.
    »Oh, I beg your pardon; not to me. Coquette as you think me, I have never
walked about in public with a gentleman before. What was my father thinking of
when he consented to our interview?«
    »He was repenting of his unjust accusations,« replied Newman.
    Mademoiselle Noémie remained silent; at last she dropped into a seat. »Well,
then, for those five it is fixed,« she said. »Five copies as brilliant and
beautiful as I can make them. We have one more to choose. Shouldn't you like one
of those great Rubenses - the marriage of Marie de Médicis? Just look at it and
see how handsome it is.«
    »Oh yes; I should like that,« said Newman.
    »Finish off with that.« »Finish off with that - good!« And she laughed. She
sat a moment, looking at him, and then she suddenly rose and stood before him,
with her hands hanging and clasped in front of her. »I don't understand you,«
she said with a smile. »I don't understand how a man can be so ignorant.«
    »Oh, I am ignorant, certainly,« said Newman, putting his hands into his
pockets.
    »It's ridiculous! I don't know how to paint.«
    »You don't know how?«
    »I paint like a cat; I can't draw a straight line. I never sold a picture
until you bought that thing the other day.« And as she offered this surprising
information she continued to smile.
    Newman burst into a laugh. »Why do you tell me this?« he asked.
    »Because it irritates me to see a clever man blunder so. My pictures are
grotesque.«
    »And the one I possess --«
    »That one is rather worse than usual.«
    »Well,« said Newman, »I like it all the same!«
    She looked at him askance. »That is a very pretty thing to say,« she
answered; »but it is my duty to warn you before you go farther. This order of
yours is impossible, you know. What do you take me for? It is work for ten men.
You pick out the six most difficult pictures in the Louvre, and you expect me to
go to work as if I were sitting down to hem a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs. I
wanted to see how far you would go.«
    Newman looked at the young girl in some perplexity. In spite of the
ridiculous blunder of which he stood convicted, he was very far from being a
simpleton, and he had a lively suspicion that Mademoiselle Noémie's sudden
frankness was not essentially more honest than her leaving him in error would
have been. She was playing a game; she was not simply taking pity on his
aesthetic verdancy. What was it she expected to win? The stakes were high and the
risk was great; the prize therefore must have been commensurate. But even
granting that the prize might be great, Newman could not resist a movement of
admiration for his companion's intrepidity. She was throwing away with one hand,
whatever she might intend to do with the other, a very handsome sum of money.
    »Are you joking,« he said, »or are you serious?«
    »Oh, serious!« cried Mademoiselle Noémie, but with her extraordinary smile.
    »I know very little about pictures, or how they are painted. If you can't do
all that, of course you can't. Do what you can, then.«
    »It will be very bad,« said Mademoiselle Noémie.
    »Oh,« said Newman, laughing, »if you are determined it shall be bad, of
course it will. But why do you go on painting badly?«
    »I can do nothing else; I have no real talent.«
    »You are deceiving your father, then.«
    The young girl hesitated a moment. »He knows very well!«
    »No,« Newman declared; »I am sure he believes in you.«
    »He is afraid of me. I go on painting badly, as you say, because I want to
learn. I like it, at any rate. And I like being here; it is a place to come to
every day; it is better than sitting in a little dark damp room, on a court, or
selling buttons and whalebones over a counter.«
    »Of course it is much more amusing,« said Newman. »But for a poor girl isn't
it rather an expensive amusement?«
    »Oh, I am very wrong, there is no doubt about that,« said Mademoiselle
Noémie. »But rather than earn my living as some girls do - toiling with a
needle, in little black holes, out of the world - I would throw myself into the
Seine.«
    »There is no need of that,« Newman answered; »your father told you my
offer?«
    »Your offer?«
    »He wants you to marry, and I told him I would give you a chance to earn
your dot.«
    »He told me all about it, and you see the account I make of it! Why should
you take such an interest in my marriage?«
    »My interest was in your father. I hold to my offer; do what you can, and I
will buy what you paint.«
    She stood for some time, meditating, with her eyes on the ground. At last,
looking up: »What sort of a husband can you get for twelve thousand francs?« she
asked.
    »Your father tells me he knows some very good young men.«
    »Grocers and butchers and little maîtres de cafés! I will not marry at all
if I can't marry well.«
    »I would advise you not to be too fastidious,« said Newman. »That's all the
advice I can give you.«
    »I am very much vexed at what I have said!« cried the young girl. »It has
done me no good. But I couldn't help it.«
    »What good did you expect it to do you?«
    »I couldn't help it, simply.«
    Newman looked at her a moment. »Well, your pictures may be bad,« he said,
»but you are too clever for me, nevertheless. I don't understand you. Good-bye!«
And he put out his hand.
    She made no response, and offered him no farewell. She turned away and
seated herself sidewise on a bench, leaning her head on the back of her hand,
which clasped the rail in front of the pictures. Newman stood a moment and then
turned on his heel and retreated. He had understood her better than he
confessed; this singular scene was a practical commentary upon her father's
statement that she was a frank coquette.
 

                                   Chapter V

When Newman related to Mrs. Tristram his fruitless visit to Madame de Cintré,
she urged him not to be discouraged, but to carry out his plan of seeing Europe
during the summer, and return to Paris in the autumn and settle down comfortably
for the winter. »Madame de Cintré will keep,« she said; »she is not a woman who
will marry from one day to another.« Newman made no distinct affirmation that he
would come back to Paris; he even talked about Rome and the Nile, and abstained
from professing any especial interest in Madame de Cintré's continued widowhood.
This circumstance was at variance with his habitual frankness, and may perhaps
be regarded as characteristic of the incipient stage of that passion which is
more particularly known as the mysterious one. The truth is that the expression
of a pair of eyes, that were at once brilliant and mild, had become very
familiar to his memory, and he would not easily have resigned himself to the
prospect of never looking into them again. He communicated to Mrs. Tristram a
number of other facts, of greater or less importance, as you choose; but on this
particular point he kept his own counsel. He took a kindly leave of M. Nioche,
having assured him that, so far as he was concerned, the blue-cloaked Madonna
herself might have been present at his interview with Mademoiselle Noémie; and
left the old man nursing his breast-pocket, in an ecstasy which the acutest
misfortune might have been defied to dissipate. Newman then started on his
travels with all his usual appearance of slow-strolling leisure, and all his
essential directness and intensity of aim. No man seemed less in a hurry, and
yet no man achieved more in brief periods. He had certain practical instincts
which served him excellently in his trade of tourist. He found his way in
foreign cities by divination, his memory was excellent when once his attention
had been at all cordially given, and he emerged from dialogues in foreign
tongues, of which he had, formally, not understood a word, in full possession of
the particular fact he had desired to ascertain. His appetite for facts was
capacious, and although many of those which he noted would have seemed woefully
dry and colourless to the ordinary sentimental traveller, a careful inspection
of the list would have shown that he had a soft spot in his imagination. In the
charming city of Brussels - his first stopping-place after leaving Paris - he
asked a great many questions about the street-cars, and took extreme
satisfaction in the reappearance of this familiar symbol of American
civilisation; but he was also greatly struck with the beautiful Gothic tower of
the Hôtel de Ville, and wondered whether it would not be possible to get up
something like it in San Francisco. He stood for half an hour in the crowded
square before this edifice, in imminent danger from carriage-wheels, listening
to a toothless old cicerone mumble in broken English the touching history of
Counts Egmont and Horn; and he wrote the names of these gentlemen - for reasons
best known to himself - on the back of an old letter.
    At the outset, on his leaving Paris, his curiosity had not been intense;
passive entertainment, in the Champs Élysées and at the theatres, seemed about
as much as he need expect of himself, and although, as he had said to Tristram,
he wanted to see the mysterious, satisfying best, he had not the Grand Tour in
the least on his conscience, and was not given to cross-questioning the
amusement of the hour. He believed that Europe was made for him, and not he for
Europe. He had said that he wanted to improve his mind, but he would have felt a
certain embarrassment, a certain shame, even - a false shame, possibly - if he
had caught himself looking intellectually into the mirror. Neither in this nor
in any other respect had Newman a high sense of responsibility; it was his prime
conviction that a man's life should be easy, and that he should be able to
resolve privilege into a matter of course. The world, to his sense, was a great
bazaar, where one might stroll about and purchase handsome things; but he was no
more conscious, individually, of social pressure than he admitted the existence
of such a thing as an obligatory purchase. He had not only a dislike, but a sort
of moral mistrust, of uncomfortable thoughts, and it was both uncomfortable and
slightly contemptible to feel obliged to square oneself with a standard. One's
standard was the ideal of one's own good-humoured prosperity, the prosperity
which enabled one to give as well as take. To expand, without bothering about it
- without shiftless timidity on one side, or loquacious eagerness on the other -
to the full compass of what he would have called a pleasant experience, was
Newman's most definite programme of life. He had always hated to hurry to catch
railroad trains, and yet he had always caught them; and just so an undue
solicitude for culture seemed a sort of silly dawdling at the station, a
proceeding properly confined to women, foreigners, and other impractical
persons. All this admitted, Newman enjoyed his journey, when once he had fairly
entered the current, as profoundly as the most zealous dilettante. One's
theories, after all, matter little; it is one's humour that is the great thing.
Our friend was intelligent, and he could not help that. He lounged through
Belgium and Holland and the Rhineland, through Switzerland and Northern Italy,
planning about nothing, but seeing everything. The guides and valets de place
found him an excellent subject. He was always approachable, for he was much
addicted to standing about in the vestibules and porticoes of inns, and he
availed himself little of the opportunities for impressive seclusion which are
so liberally offered in Europe to gentlemen who travel with long purses. When an
excursion, a church, a gallery, a ruin was proposed to him, the first thing
Newman usually did, after surveying his postulant in silence, from head to foot,
was to sit down at a little table and order something to drink. The cicerone,
during this process, usually retreated to a respectful distance; otherwise I am
not sure that Newman would not have bidden him sit down and have a glass also,
and tell him as an honest fellow whether his church or his gallery was really
worth a man's trouble. At last he rose and stretched his long legs, beckoned to
the man of monuments, looked at his watch, and fixed his eye on his adversary.
»What is it?« he asked. »How far?« And whatever the answer was, although he
seemed to hesitate, he never declined. He stepped into an open cab, made his
conductor sit beside him to answer questions, bade the driver go fast (he had a
particular aversion to slow driving), and rolled, in all probability through a
dusty suburb, to the goal of his pilgrimage. If the goal was a disappointment,
if the church was meagre, or the ruin a heap of rubbish, Newman never protested
or berated his cicerone; he looked with an impartial eye upon great monuments
and small, made the guide recite his lesson, listened to it religiously, asked
if there was nothing else to be seen in the neighbourhood, and drove back again
at a rattling pace. It is to be feared that his perception of the difference
between good architecture and bad was not acute, and that he might sometimes
have been seen gazing with culpable serenity at inferior productions. Ugly
churches were a part of his pastime in Europe, as well as beautiful ones, and
his tour was altogether a pastime. But there is sometimes nothing like the
imagination of those people who have none, and Newman, now and then, in an
unguided stroll in a foreign city, before some lonely, sad-towered church, or
some angular image of one who had rendered civic service in an unknown past, had
felt a singular inward tremor. It was not an excitement or a perplexity; it was
a placid, fathomless sense of diversion.
    He encountered by chance in Holland a young American, with whom, for a time,
he formed a sort of traveller's partnership. They were men of a very different
cast, but each, in his way, was so good a fellow that, for a few weeks at least,
it seemed something of a pleasure to share the chances of the road. Newman's
comrade, whose name was Babcock, was a young Unitarian minister; a small, spare,
neatly-attired man, with a strikingly candid physiognomy. He was a native of
Dorchester, Massachusetts, and had spiritual charge of a small congregation in
another suburb of the New England metropolis. His digestion was weak, and he
lived chiefly on Graham bread and hominy - a regimen to which he was so much
attached that his tour seemed to him destined to be blighted when, on landing on
the Continent, he found that these delicacies did not flourish under the table
d'hôte system. In Paris he had purchased a bag of hominy at an establishment
which called itself an American Agency, and at which the New York illustrated
papers were also to be procured, and he had carried it about with him, and shown
extreme serenity and fortitude in the somewhat delicate position of having his
hominy prepared for him and served at anomalous hours, at the hotels he
successively visited. Newman had once spent a morning, in the course of
business, at Mr. Babcock's birthplace, and, for reasons too recondite to unfold,
his visit there always assumed in his mind a jocular cast. To carry out his
joke, which certainly seems poor so long as it is not explained, he used often
to address his companion as Dorchester. Fellow-travellers very soon grow
intimate; but it is highly improbable that at home these extremely dissimilar
characters would have found any very convenient points of contact. They were,
indeed, as different as possible. Newman, who never reflected on such matters,
accepted the situation with great equanimity, but Babcock used to meditate over
it privately; used often, indeed, to retire to his room early in the evening for
the express purpose of considering it conscientiously and impartially. He was
not sure that it was a good thing for him to associate with our hero, whose way
of taking life was so little his own. Newman was an excellent, generous fellow;
Mr. Babcock sometimes said to himself that he was a noble fellow, and,
certainly, it was impossible not to like him. But would it not be desirable to
try to exert an influence upon him, to try to quicken his moral life and sharpen
his sense of duty? He liked everything, he accepted everything, he found
amusement in everything; he was not discriminating, he had not a high tone. The
young man from Dorchester accused Newman of a fault which he considered very
grave, and which he did his best to avoid: what he would have called a want of
moral reaction. Poor Mr. Babcock was extremely fond of pictures and churches,
and carried Mrs. Jameson's works about in his trunk; he delighted in aesthetic
analysis, and received peculiar impressions from everything he saw. But
nevertheless in his secret soul he detested Europe, and he felt an irritating
need to protest against Newman's gross intellectual hospitality. Mr. Babcock's
moral malaise, I am afraid, lay deeper than where any definition of mine can
reach it. He mistrusted the European temperament, he suffered from the European
climate, he hated the European dinner-hour; European life seemed to him
unscrupulous and impure. And yet he had an exquisite sense of beauty; and as
beauty was often inextricably associated with the above displeasing conditions,
as he wished, above all, to be just and dispassionate, and as he was,
furthermore, extremely devoted to culture, he could not bring himself to decide
that Europe was utterly bad. But he thought it was very bad indeed, and his
quarrel with Newman was that this unregulated epicure had a sadly insufficient
perception of the bad. Babcock himself really knew as little about the bad, in
any quarter of the world, as a nursing infant; his most vivid realisation of
evil had been the discovery that one of his college classmates, who was studying
architecture in Paris, had a love affair with a young woman who did not expect
him to marry her. Babcock had related this incident to Newman, and our hero had
applied an epithet of an unflattering sort to the young girl. The next day his
companion asked him whether he was very sure he had used exactly the right word
to characterise the young architect's mistress. Newman stared and laughed.
»There are a great many words to express that idea,« he said; »you can take your
choice!«
    »Oh, I mean,« said Babcock, »was she possibly not to be considered in a
different light? Don't you think she really expected him to marry her?«
    »I am sure I don't know,« said Newman. »Very likely she did; I have no doubt
she is a grand woman.« And he began to laugh again.
    »I didn't mean that either,« said Babcock; »I was only afraid that I might
have seemed yesterday not to remember - not to consider; well, I think I will
write to Percival about it.«
    And he had written to Percival (who answered him in a really impudent
fashion), and he had reflected that it was, somehow, raw and reckless in Newman
to assume in that off-hand manner that the young woman in Paris might be grand.
The brevity of Newman's judgments very often shocked and discomposed him. He had
a way of damning people without farther appeal, or of pronouncing them capital
company in the face of uncomfortable symptoms, which seemed unworthy of a man
whose conscience had been properly cultivated. And yet poor Babcock liked him,
and remembered that even if he was sometimes perplexing and painful, this was
not a reason for giving him up. Goethe recommended seeing human nature in the
most various forms, and Mr. Babcock thought Goethe perfectly splendid. He often
tried, in odd half-hours of conversation, to infuse into Newman a little of his
own spiritual starch, but Newman's personal texture was too loose to admit of
stiffening. His mind could no more hold principles than a sieve can hold water.
He admired principles extremely, and thought Babcock a mighty fine little fellow
for having so many. He accepted all that his high-strung companion offered him,
and put them away in what he supposed to be a very safe place; but poor Babcock
never afterwards recognised his gifts among the articles that Newman had in
daily use.
    They travelled together through Germany and into Switzerland, where for
three or four weeks they trudged over passes and lounged upon blue lakes. At
last they crossed the Simplon and made their way to Venice. Mr. Babcock had
become gloomy and even a trifle irritable; he seemed moody, absent, preoccupied;
he got his plans into a tangle, and talked one moment of doing one thing and the
next of doing another. Newman led his usual life, made acquaintances, took his
ease in the galleries and churches, spent an unconscionable amount of time in
strolling in the Piazza San Marco, bought a great many bad pictures, and for a
fortnight enjoyed Venice grossly. One evening, coming back to his inn, he found
Babcock waiting for him in the little garden beside it. The young man walked up
to him, looking very dismal, thrust out his hand, and said with solemnity that
he was afraid they must part. Newman expressed his surprise and regret, and
asked why a parting had become necessary. »Don't be afraid I'm tired of you,« he
said.
    »You are not tired of me?« demanded Babcock, fixing him with his clear gray
eye.
    »Why the deuce should I be? You are a very plucky fellow. Besides, I don't
grow tired of things.«
    »We don't understand each other,« said the young minister.
    »Don't I understand you?« cried Newman. »Why, I hoped I did. But what if I
don't; where's the harm?«
    »I don't understand you,« said Babcock. And he sat down and rested his head
on his hand, and looked up mournfully at his immeasurable friend.
    »Oh Lord, I don't mind that!« cried Newman, with a laugh.
    »But it's very distressing to me. It keeps me in a state of unrest. It
irritates me; I can't settle anything. I don't think it's good for me.«
    »You worry too much; that's what's the matter with you,« said Newman.
    »Of course it must seem so to you. You think I take things too hard, and I
think you take things too easily. We can never agree.«
    »But we have agreed very well all along.«
    »No, I haven't agreed,« said Babcock, shaking his head. »I am very
uncomfortable. I ought to have separated from you a month ago.«
    »Oh, horrors! I'll agree to anything!« cried Newman.
    Mr. Babcock buried his head in both hands. At last, looking up, »I don't
think you appreciate my position,« he said. »I try to arrive at the truth about
everything. And then you go too fast. For me, you are too passionate, too
extravagant. I feel as if I ought to go over all this ground we have traversed
again, by myself, alone. I am afraid I have made a great many mistakes.«
    »Oh, you needn't give so many reasons,« said Newman. »You are simply tired
of my company. You have a good right to be.«
    »No, no, I am not tired!« cried the pestered young divine. »It is very wrong
to be tired.«
    »I give it up!« laughed Newman. »But of course it will never do to go on
making mistakes. Go your way, by all means. I shall miss you; but you have seen
I make friends very easily. You will be lonely yourself; but drop me a line,
when you feel like it, and I will wait for you anywhere.«
    »I think I will go back to Milan. I am afraid I didn't do justice to Luini.«
    »Poor Luini!« said Newman.
    »I mean that I am afraid I over-estimated him. I don't think that he is a
painter of the first rank.«
    »Luini?« Newman exclaimed; »why, he's enchanting - he's magnificent! There
is something in his genius that is like a beautiful woman. It gives one the same
feeling.«
    Mr. Babcock frowned and winced. And it must be added that this was, for
Newman, an unusually metaphysical flight; but in passing through Milan he had
taken a great fancy to the painter. »There you are again!« said Mr. Babcock.
»Yes, we had better separate.« And on the morrow he retraced his steps and
proceeded to tone down his impressions of the great Lombard artist.
    A few days afterwards Newman received a note from his late companion which
ran as follows:
 
        »My dear Mr. Newman, - I am afraid that my conduct at Venice, a week
        ago, seemed to you strange and ungrateful, and I wish to explain my
        position, which, as I said at the time, I do not think you appreciate. I
        had long had it on my mind to propose that we should part company, and
        this step was not really so abrupt as it seemed. In the first place, you
        know, I am travelling in Europe on funds supplied by my congregation,
        who kindly offered me a vacation and an opportunity to enrich my mind
        with the treasures of nature and art in the Old World. I feel,
        therefore, as if I ought to use my time to the very best advantage. I
        have a high sense of responsibility. You appear to care only for the
        pleasure of the hour, and you give yourself up to it with a violence
        which I confess I am not able to emulate. I feel as if I must arrive at
        some conclusion and fix my belief on certain points. Art and life seem
        to me intensely serious things, and in our travels in Europe we should
        especially remember the immense seriousness of Art. You seem to hold
        that if a thing amuses you for the moment, that is all you need ask for
        it; and your relish for mere amusement is also much higher than mine.
        You put, moreover, a kind of reckless confidence into your pleasure
        which at times, I confess, has seemed to me - shall I say it? - almost
        cynical. Your way at any rate is not my way, and it is unwise that we
        should attempt any longer to pull together. And yet, let me add, that I
        know there is a great deal to be said for your way; I have felt its
        attraction, in your society, very strongly. But for this I should have
        left you long ago. But I was so perplexed. I hope I have not done wrong.
        I feel as if I had a great deal of lost time to make up. I beg you take
        all this as I mean it, which, Heaven knows, is not invidiously. I have a
        great personal esteem for you, and hope that some day, when I have
        recovered my balance, we shall meet again. I hope you will continue to
        enjoy your travels; only do remember that Life and Art are extremely
        serious. Believe me your sincere friend and well-wisher,
        
                                                               BENJAMIN BABCOCK.
P.S. - I am greatly perplexed by Luini.«
 
This letter produced in Newman's mind a singular mixture of exhilaration and
awe. At first, Mr. Babcock's tender conscience seemed to him a capital farce,
and his travelling back to Milan only to get into a deeper muddle appeared, as
the reward of his pedantry, exquisitely and ludicrously just. Then Newman
reflected that these are mighty mysteries; that possibly he himself was indeed
that baleful and barely mentionable thing, a cynic, and that his manner of
considering the treasures of art and the privileges of life was probably very
base and immoral. Newman had a great contempt for immorality, and that evening,
for a good half hour, as he sat watching the star-sheen on the warm Adriatic, he
felt rebuked and depressed. He was at a loss how to answer Babcock's letter. His
good nature checked his resenting the young minister's lofty admonitions, and
his tough, inelastic sense of humour forbade his taking them seriously. He wrote
no answer at all, but a day or two afterwards he found in a curiosity-shop a
grotesque little statuette in ivory, of the sixteenth century, which he sent off
to Babcock without a commentary. It represented a gaunt, ascetic-looking monk,
in a tattered gown and cowl, kneeling with clasped hands and pulling a
portentously long face. It was a wonderfully delicate piece of carving, and in a
moment, through one of the rents of his gown, you espied a fat capon hung round
the monk's waist. In Newman's intention what did the figure symbolise? Did it
mean that he was going to try to be as high-toned as the monk looked at first,
but that he feared he should succeed no better than the friar, on a closer
inspection, proved to have done? It is not supposable that he intended a satire
upon Babcock's own asceticism, for this would have been a truly cynical stroke.
He made his late companion, at any rate, a very valuable little present.
    Newman, on leaving Venice, went through the Tyrol to Vienna, and then
returned westward, through Southern Germany. The autumn found him at
Baden-Baden, where he spent several weeks. The place was charming, and he was in
no hurry to depart; besides, he was looking about him and deciding what to do
for the winter. His summer had been very full, and as he sat under the great
trees beside the miniature river that trickles past the Baden flower-beds, he
slowly rummaged it over. He had seen and done a great deal, enjoyed and observed
a great deal; he felt older, and yet he felt younger too. He remembered Mr.
Babcock and his desire to form conclusions, and he remembered also that he had
profited very little by his friend's exhortation to cultivate the same
respectable habit. Could he not scrape together a few conclusions? Baden-Baden
was the prettiest place he had seen yet, and orchestral music in the evening,
under the stars, was decidedly a great institution. This was one of his
conclusions! But he went on to reflect that he had done very wisely to pull up
stakes and come abroad; this seeing of the world was a very interesting thing.
He had learned a great deal; he couldn't say just what, but he had it there
under his hat-band. He had done what he wanted; he had seen the great things,
and he had given his mind a chance to improve, if it would. He cheerfully
believed that it had improved. Yes, this seeing of the world was very pleasant,
and he would willingly do a little more of it. Thirty-six years old as he was,
he had a handsome stretch of life before him yet, and he need not begin to count
his weeks. Where should he take the world next? I have said he remembered the
eyes of the lady whom he had found standing in Mrs. Tristram's drawing-room;
four months had elapsed, and he had not forgotten them yet. He had looked - he
had made a point of looking - into a great many other eyes in the interval, but
the only ones he thought of now were Madame de Cintré's. If he wanted to see
more of the world, should he find it in Madame de Cintré's eyes? He would
certainly find something there, call it this world or the next. Throughout these
rather formless meditations he sometimes thought of his past life and the long
array of years (they had begun so early) during which he had had nothing in his
head but enterprise. They seemed far away now, for his present attitude was more
than a holiday, it was almost a rupture. He had told Tristram that the pendulum
was swinging back, and it appeared that the backward swing had not yet ended.
Still enterprise, which was over in the other quarter, wore to his mind a
different aspect at different hours. In its train a thousand forgotten episodes
came trooping back into his memory. Some of them he looked complacently enough
in the face; from some he averted his head. They were old efforts, old exploits,
antiquated examples of smartness and sharpness. Some of them, as he looked at
them, he felt decidedly proud of; he admired himself as if he had been looking
at another man. And, in fact, many of the qualities that make a great deed were
there; the decision, the resolution, the courage, the celerity, the clear eye,
and the strong hand. Of certain other achievements it would be going too far to
say that he was ashamed of them, for Newman had never had a stomach for dirty
work. He was blessed with a natural impulse to disfigure with a direct,
unreasoning blow the comely visage of temptation. And, certainly, in no man
could a want of integrity have been less excusable. Newman knew the crooked from
the straight at a glance, and the former had cost him, first and last, a great
many moments of lively disgust. But none the less some of his memories seemed to
wear at present a rather graceless and sordid mien, and it struck him that if he
had never done anything very ugly, he had never, on the other hand, done
anything particularly beautiful. He had spent his years in the unremitting
effort to add thousands to thousands, and, now that he stood well outside of it,
the business of money-getting appeared extremely dry and sterile. It is very
well to sneer at money-getting after you have filled your pockets, and Newman,
it may be said, should have begun somewhat earlier to moralise thus delicately.
To this it may be answered that he might have made another fortune, if he chose;
and we ought to add that he was not exactly moralising. It had come back to him
simply that what he had been looking at all the summer was a very rich and
beautiful world, and that it had not all been made by sharp railroad men and
stockbrokers.
    During his stay at Baden-Baden he received a letter from Mrs. Tristram,
scolding him for the scanty tidings he had sent to his friends of the Avenue
d'Iéna, and begging to be definitely informed that he had not concocted any
horrid scheme for wintering in outlying regions, but was coming back sanely and
promptly to the most comfortable city in the world. Newman's answer ran as
follows:
 
        »I supposed you knew I was a miserable letter- writer, and didn't expect
        anything of me. I don't think I have written twenty letters of pure
        friendship in my whole life; in America I conducted my correspondence
        altogether by telegrams. This is a letter of pure friendship; you have
        got hold of a curiosity, and I hope you will value it. You want to know
        everything that has happened to me these three months. The best way to
        tell you, I think, would be to send you my half-dozen guide-books, with
        my pencil-marks in the margin. Wherever you find a scratch, or a cross,
        or a Beautiful or a So true! or a Too thin! you may know that I have had
        a sensation of some sort or other. That has been about my history, ever
        since I left you. Belgium, Holland, Switzerland, Germany, Italy - I have
        been through the whole list, and I don't think I am any the worse for
        it. I know more about Madonnas and church-steeples than I supposed any
        man could. I have seen some very pretty things, and shall perhaps talk
        them over this winter, by your fireside. You see, my face is not
        altogether set against Paris. I have had all kinds of plans and visions,
        but your letter has blown most of them away. L'appétit vient en
        mangeant, says the French proverb, and I find that the more I see of the
        world the more I want to see. Now that I am in the shafts, why shouldn't
        I trot to the end of the course? Sometimes I think of the far East, and
        keep rolling the names of Eastern cities under my tongue; Damascus and
        Bagdad, Medina and Mecca. I spent a week last month in the company of a
        returned missionary, who told me I ought to be ashamed to be loafing
        about Europe when there are such big things to be seen out there. I do
        want to explore, but I think I would rather explore over in the Rue de
        l'Université. Do you ever hear from that pretty lady? If you can get her
        to promise she will be at home the next time I call, I will go back to
        Paris straight. I am more than ever in the state of mind I told you
        about that evening; I want a first-class wife. I have kept an eye on all
        the pretty girls I have come across this summer, but none of them came
        up to my notion, or anywhere near it. I should have enjoyed all this a
        thousand times more if I had had the lady just mentioned by my side. The
        nearest approach to her was a Unitarian minister from Boston, who very
        soon demanded a separation, for incompatibility of temper. He told me I
        was low-minded, immoral, a devotee of art for art - whatever that is:
        all of which greatly afflicted me, for he was really a sweet little
        fellow. But shortly afterwards I met an Englishman, with whom I struck
        up an acquaintance which at first seemed to promise well - a very bright
        man, who writes in the London papers and knows Paris nearly as well as
        Tristram. We knocked about for a week together, but he very soon gave me
        up in disgust. I was too virtuous by half; I was too stern a moralist.
        He told me, in a friendly way, that I was cursed with a conscience; that
        I judged things like a Methodist and talked about them like an old lady.
        This was rather bewildering. Which of my two critics was I to believe? I
        didn't worry about it, and very soon made up my mind they were both
        idiots. But there is one thing in which no one will ever have the
        impudence to pretend I am wrong; that is, in being your faithful friend,
                                                                           C.N.«
 

                                   Chapter VI

Newman gave up Damascus and Bagdad and returned to Paris before the autumn was
over. He established himself in some rooms selected for him by Tom Tristram, in
accordance with the latter's estimate of what he called his social position.
When Newman learned that his social position was to be taken into account, he
professed himself utterly incompetent, and begged Tristram to relieve him of the
care. »I didn't know I had a social position,« he said, »and if I have, I
haven't the smallest idea what it is. Isn't a social position knowing some two
or three thousand people and inviting them to dinner? I know you and your wife
and little old Mr. Nioche, who gave me French lessons last spring. Can I invite
you to dinner to meet each other? If I can, you must come tomorrow.«
    »That is not very grateful to me,« said Mrs. Tristram, »who introduced you
last year to every creature I know.«
    »So you did; I had quite forgotten. But I thought you wanted me to forget,«
said Newman, with that tone of simple deliberateness which frequently marked his
utterance, and which an observer would not have known whether to pronounce a
somewhat mysteriously humorous affectation of ignorance or a modest aspiration
to knowledge; »you told me you disliked them all.«
    »Ah, the way you remember what I say is at least very flattering. But in
future,« added Mrs. Tristram, »pray forget all the wicked things and remember
only the good ones. It will be easily done, and it will not fatigue your memory.
But I forewarn you that if you trust my husband to pick out your rooms, you are
in for something hideous.«
    »Hideous, darling?« cried Tristram.
    »To-day I must say nothing wicked; otherwise I should use stronger
language.«
    »What do you think she would say, Newman?« asked Tristram. »If she really
tried, now? She can express displeasure, volubly, in two or three languages;
that's what it is to be intellectual. It gives her the start of me completely,
for I can't swear, for the life of me, except in English. When I get mad I have
to fall back on our dear old mother tongue. There's nothing like it, after all.«
    Newman declared that he knew nothing about tables and chairs, and that he
would accept, in the way of a lodging, with his eyes shut, anything that
Tristram should offer him. This was partly pure veracity on our hero's part, but
it was also partly charity. He knew that to pry about and look at rooms, and
make people open windows, and poke into sofas with his cane, and gossip with
landladies, and ask who lived above and who below - he knew that this was of all
pastimes the dearest to Tristram's heart, and he felt the more disposed to put
it in his way as he was conscious that, as regards his obliging friend, he had
suffered the warmth of ancient good-fellowship somewhat to abate. Besides, he
had no taste for upholstery; he had even no very exquisite sense of comfort or
convenience. He had a relish for luxury and splendour, but it was satisfied by
rather gross contrivances. He scarcely knew a hard chair from a soft one, and he
possessed a talent for stretching his legs which quite dispensed with
adventitious facilities. His idea of comfort was to inhabit very large rooms,
have a great many of them, and be conscious of their possessing a number of
patented mechanical devices - half of which he should never have occasion to
use. The apartments should be light and brilliant and lofty; he had once said
that he liked rooms in which you wanted to keep your hat on. For the rest, he
was satisfied with the assurance of any respectable person that everything was
handsome. Tristram accordingly secured for him an apartment to which this
epithet might be lavishly applied. It was situated on the Boulevard Haussmann,
on a first-floor, and consisted of a series of rooms, gilded from floor to
ceiling a foot thick, draped in various light shades of satin, and chiefly
furnished with mirrors and clocks. Newman thought them magnificent, thanked
Tristram heartily, immediately took possession, and had one of his trunks
standing for three months in his drawing-room.
    One day Mrs. Tristram told him that her beautiful friend, Madame de Cintré,
had returned from the country; that she had met her three days before, coming
out of the Church of St. Sulpice; she herself having journeyed to that distant
quarter in quest of an obscure lace-mender, of whose skill she had heard high
praise.
    »And how were those eyes?« Newman asked.
    »Those eyes were red with weeping, if you please!« said Mrs. Tristram. »She
had been to confession.«
    »It doesn't't tally with your account of her,« said Newman, »that she should
have sins to confess.«
    »They were not sins; they were sufferings.«
    »How do you know that?«
    »She asked me to come and see her; I went this morning.«
    »And what does she suffer from?«
    »I didn't ask her. With her, somehow, one is very discreet. But I guessed,
easily enough. She suffers from her wicked old mother and her Grand Turk of a
brother. They persecute her. But I can almost forgive them, because, as I told
you, she is a saint, and a persecution is all that she needs to bring out her
saintliness and make her perfect.«
    »That's a comfortable theory for her. I hope you will never impart it to the
old folks. Why does she let them bully her? Is she not her own mistress?«
    »Legally, yes, I suppose; but morally, no. In France you must never say Nay
to your mother, whatever she requires of you. She may be the most abominable old
woman in the world, and make your life a purgatory; but after all she is ma mère
, and you have no right to judge her. You have simply to obey. The thing has a
fine side to it. Madame de Cintré bows her head and folds her wings.«
    »Can't she at least make her brother leave off?«
    »Her brother is the chef de la famille, as they say; he is the head of the
clan. With those people the family is everything; you must act, not for your own
pleasure, but for the advantage of the family.«
    »I wonder what my family would like me to do!« exclaimed Tristram.
    »I wish you had one!« said his wife.
    »But what do they want to get out of that poor lady?« Newman asked.
    »Another marriage. They are not rich, and they want to bring more money into
the family.«
    »There's your chance, my boy!« said Tristram.
    »And Madame de Cintré objects,« Newman continued.
    »She has been sold once; she naturally objects to being sold again. It
appears that the first time they made rather a poor bargain; M. de Cintré left a
scanty property.«
    »And to whom do they want to marry her now?«
    »I thought it best not to ask; but you may be sure it is to some horrid old
nabob, or to some dissipated little duke.«
    »There's Mrs. Tristram, as large as life!« cried her husband. »Observe the
richness of her imagination. She has not asked a single question - it's vulgar
to ask questions - and yet she knows everything. She has the history of Madame
de Cintré's marriage at her fingers' ends. She has seen the lovely Claire on her
knees, with loosened tresses and streaming eyes, and the rest of them standing
over her with spikes and goads and red-hot irons, ready to come down on her if
she refuses the tipsy duke. The simple truth is that they have made a fuss about
her milliner's bill or refused her an opera-box.«
    Newman looked from Tristram to his wife with a certain mistrust in each
direction. »Do you really mean,« he asked of Mrs. Tristram, »that your friend is
being forced into an unhappy marriage?«
    »I think it extremely probable. Those people are very capable of that sort
of thing.«
    »It is like something in a play,« said Newman; »that dark old house over
there looks as if wicked things had been done in it, and might be done again.«
    »They have a still darker old house in the country, Madame de Cintré tells
me, and there, during the summer, this scheme must have been hatched.«
    »Must have been; mind that!« said Tristram.
    »After all,« suggested Newman, after a silence, »she may be in trouble about
something else.«
    »If it is something else, then it is something worse,« said Mrs. Tristram,
with rich decision.
    Newman was silent awhile, and seemed lost in meditation. »Is it possible,«
he asked at last, »that they do that sort of thing over here? that helpless
women are bullied into marrying men they hate?«
    »Helpless women, all over the world, have a hard time of it,« said Mrs.
Tristram. »There is plenty of bullying everywhere.«
    »A great deal of that kind goes on in New York,« said Tristram. »Girls are
bullied or coaxed or bribed, or all three together, into marrying nasty fellows.
There is no end of that always going on in the Fifth Avenue, and other bad
things besides. The Mysteries of the Fifth Avenue! Someone ought to show them
up.«
    »I don't believe it!« said Newman, very gravely, »I don't believe that, in
America, girls are ever subjected to compulsion. I don't believe there have been
a dozen cases of it since the country began.«
    »Listen to the voice of the spread eagle!« cried Tristram.
    »The spread eagle ought to use his wings,« said Mrs. Tristram. »Fly to the
rescue of Madame de Cintré!«
    »To her rescue?«
    »Pounce down, seize her in your talons, and carry her off. Marry her
yourself.«
    Newman, for some moments, answered nothing; but presently, »I should suppose
she had heard enough of marrying,« he said. »The kindest way to treat her would
be to admire her, and yet never to speak of it. But that sort of thing is
infamous,« he added; »it makes me feel savage to hear of it.«
    He heard of it, however, more than once afterwards. Mrs. Tristram again saw
Madame de Cintré, and again found her looking very sad. But on these occasions
there had been no tears; her beautiful eyes were clear and still. »She is cold,
calm, and hopeless,« Mrs. Tristram declared, and she added that on her
mentioning that her friend Mr. Newman was again in Paris and was faithful in his
desire to make Madame de Cintré's acquaintance, this lovely woman had found a
smile in her despair, and declared that she was sorry to have missed his visit
in the spring and that she hoped he had not lost courage. »I told her something
about you,« said Mrs. Tristram.
    »That's a comfort,« said Newman, placidly. »I like people to know about me.«
    A few days after this, one dusky autumn afternoon, he went again to the Rue
de l'Université. The early evening had closed in as he applied for admittance at
the stoutly guarded Hôtel de Bellegarde. He was told that Madame de Cintré was
at home; he crossed the court, entered the farther door, and was conducted
through a vestibule, vast, dim, and cold, up a broad stone staircase with an
ancient iron balustrade, to an apartment on the second-floor. Announced and
ushered in, he found himself in a sort of panelled boudoir, at one end of which
a lady and gentleman were seated before the fire. The gentleman was smoking a
cigarette; there was no light in the room save that of a couple of candles and
the glow from the hearth. Both persons rose to welcome Newman, who, in the
firelight, recognised Madame de Cintré. She gave him her hand with a smile which
seemed in itself an illumination, and, pointing to her companion, said softly,
»My brother.« The gentleman offered Newman a frank, friendly greeting, and our
hero then perceived him to be the young man who had spoken to him in the court
of the hotel on his former visit and who had struck him as a good fellow.
    »Mrs. Tristram has spoken to me a great deal of you,« said Madame de Cintré
gently, as she resumed her former place.
    Newman, after he had seated himself, began to consider what, in truth, was
his errand. He had an unusual, unexpected sense of having wandered into a
strange corner of the world. He was not given, as a general thing, to
anticipating danger, or forecasting disaster, and he had had no social tremors
on this particular occasion. He was not timid and he was not impudent. He felt
too kindly toward himself to be the one, and too good-naturedly toward the rest
of the world to be the other. But his native shrewdness sometimes placed his
ease of temper at its mercy; with every disposition to take things simply, it
was obliged to perceive that some things were not so simple as others. He felt
as one does in missing a step, in an ascent, where one expected to find it. This
strange, pretty woman, sitting in fireside talk with her brother, in the gray
depths of her inhospitable-looking house - what had he to say to her? She seemed
enveloped in a sort of fantastic privacy; on what grounds had he pulled away the
curtain? For a moment he felt as if he had plunged into some medium as deep as
the ocean, and as if he must exert himself to keep from sinking. Meanwhile he
was looking at Madame de Cintré, and she was settling herself in her chair and
drawing in her long dress and turning her face towards him. Their eyes met; a
moment afterwards she looked away and motioned to her brother to put a log on
the fire. But the moment, and the glance which traversed it, had been sufficient
to relieve Newman of the first and the last fit of personal embarrassment he was
ever to know. He performed the movement which was so frequent with him, and
which was always a sort of symbol of his taking mental possession of a scene -
he extended his legs. The impression Madame de Cintré had made upon him on their
first meeting came back in an instant; it had been deeper than he knew. She was
pleasing, she was interesting; he had opened a book and the first lines held his
attention.
    She asked him several questions: how lately he had seen Mrs. Tristram, how
long he had been in Paris, how long he expected to remain there, how he liked
it. She spoke English without an accent, or rather with that distinctively
British accent which, on his arrival in Europe, had struck Newman as an
altogether foreign tongue, but which, in women, he had come to like extremely.
Here and there Madame de Cintré's utterance had a faint shade of strangeness,
but at the end of ten minutes Newman found himself waiting for these soft
roughnesses. He enjoyed them and he marvelled to see that gross thing, error,
brought down to so fine a point.
    »You have a beautiful country,« said Madame de Cintré, presently.
    »Oh, magnificent!« said Newman. »You ought to see it.«
    »I shall never see it,« said Madame de Cintré with a smile.
    »Why not?« asked Newman.
    »I don't travel; especially so far.«
    »But you go away sometimes; you are not always here?«
    »I go away in summer, a little way, to the country.«
    Newman wanted to ask her something more, something personal, he hardly knew
what. »Don't you find it rather - rather quiet here?« he said; »so far from the
street?« Rather gloomy, he was going to say, but he reflected that that would be
impolite.
    »Yes, it is very quiet,« said Madame de Cintré; »but we like that.«
    »Ah, you like that,« repeated Newman slowly.
    »Besides, I have lived here all my life.«
    »Lived here all your life,« said Newman, in the same way.
    »I was born here, and my father was born here before me, and my grandfather,
and my great-grandfathers. Were they not, Valentin?« and she appealed to her
brother.
    »Yes, it's a family habit to be born here!« the young man said with a laugh,
and rose and threw the remnant of his cigarette into the fire, and then remained
leaning against the chimney-piece. An observer would have perceived that he
wished to take a better look at Newman, whom he covertly examined, while he
stood, stroking his moustache.
    »Your house is tremendously old, then,« said Newman.
    »How old is it, brother?« asked Madame de Cintré.
    The young man took the two candles from the mantelshelf, lifted one high in
each hand, and looked up toward the cornice of the room, above the
chimney-piece. This latter feature of the apartment was of white marble, and in
the familiar rococo style of the last century; but above it was a panelling of
an earlier date, quaintly carved, painted white, and gilded here and there. The
white had turned to yellow, and the gilding was tarnished. On the top, the
figures ranged themselves into a sort of shield, on which an armorial device was
cut. Above it, in relief, was a date - 1627. »There you have it,« said the young
man. »That is old or new, according to your point of view.«
    »Well, over here,« said Newman, »one's point of view gets shifted round
considerably.« And he threw back his head and looked about the room. »Your house
is of a very curious style of architecture,« he said.
    »Are you interested in architecture?« asked the young man at the
chimney-piece.
    »Well, I took the trouble, this summer,« said Newman, »to examine - as well
as I can calculate - some four hundred and seventy churches. Do you call that
interested?«
    »Perhaps you are interested in theology,« said the young man.
    »Not particularly. Are you a Roman Catholic, madam?« And he turned to Madame
de Cintré.
    »Yes, sir,« she answered, gravely.
    Newman was struck with the gravity of her tone; he threw back his head and
began to look round the room again. »Had you never noticed that number up
there?« he presently asked.
    She hesitated a moment, and then, »In former years,« she said.
    Her brother had been watching Newman's movement. »Perhaps you would like to
examine the house,« he said.
    Newman slowly brought down his eyes and looked at him; he had a vague
impression that the young man at the chimney-piece was inclined to irony. He was
a handsome fellow, his face wore a smile, his moustachios were curled up at the
ends, and there was a little dancing gleam in his eye. »Damn his French
impudence!« Newman was on the point of saying to himself. »What the deuce is he
grinning at?« He glanced at Madame de Cintré; she was sitting with her eyes
fixed on the floor. She raised them, they met his, and she looked at her
brother. Newman turned again to this young man and observed that he strikingly
resembled his sister. This was in his favour, and our hero's first impression of
the Count Valentin, moreover, had been agreeable. His mistrust expired, and he
said he would be very glad to see the house.
    The young man gave a frank laugh, and laid his hand on one of the
candlesticks. »Good, good!« he exclaimed. »Come, then.«
    But Madame de Cintré rose quickly and grasped his arm. »Ah, Valentin!« she
said. »What do you mean to do?«
    »To show Mr. Newman the house. It will be very amusing.«
    She kept her hand on his arm and turned to Newman with a smile. »Don't let
him take you,« she said; »you will not find it amusing. It is a musty old house
like any other.«
    »It is full of curious things,« said the count, resisting. »Besides, I want
to do it; it is a rare chance.«
    »You are very wicked, brother,« Madame de Cintré answered.
    »Nothing venture, nothing have!« cried the young man. »Will you come?«
    Madame de Cintré stepped toward Newman, gently clasping her hands and
smiling softly. »Would you not prefer my society, here, by my fire, to stumbling
about dark passages after my brother?«
    »A hundred times!« said Newman. »We will see the house some other day.«
    The young man put down his candlestick with mock solemnity, and shaking his
head, »Ah, you have defeated a great scheme, sir!« he said.
    »A scheme? I don't understand,« said Newman.
    »You would have played your part in it all the better. Perhaps some day I
shall have a chance to explain it.«
    »Be quiet, and ring for the tea,« said Madame de Cintré.
    The young man obeyed, and presently a servant brought in the tea, placed the
tray on a small table, and departed. Madame de Cintré, from her place, busied
herself with making it. She had but just begun, when the door was thrown open
and a lady rushed in, making a loud rustling sound. She stared at Newman, gave a
little nod and a »Monsieur!« and then quickly approached Madame de Cintré, and
presented her forehead to be kissed. Madame de Cintré saluted her, and continued
to make tea. The new-comer was young and pretty, it seemed to Newman; she wore
her bonnet and cloak, and a train of royal proportions. She began to talk
rapidly in French. »Oh, give me some tea, my beautiful one, for the love of God!
I'm exhausted, mangled, massacred.« Newman found himself quite unable to follow
her; she spoke much less distinctly than M. Nioche.
    »That is my sister-in-law,« said the Count Valentin, leaning towards him.
    »She is very pretty,« said Newman.
    »Exquisite,« answered the young man, and this time, again, Newman suspected
him of irony.
    His sister-in-law came round to the other side of the fire with her cup of
tea in her hand, holding it out at arm's-length, so that she might not spill it
on her dress, and uttering little cries of alarm. She placed the cup on the
mantelshelf and began to unpin her veil and pull off her gloves, looking
meanwhile at Newman.
    »Is there anything I can do for you, my dear lady?« the Count Valentin
asked, in a sort of mock-caressing tone.
    »Present monsieur,« said his sister-in-law.
    The young man answered, »Mr. Newman!«
    »I can't curtsy to you, monsieur, or I shall spill my tea,« said the lady.
»So Claire receives strangers, like that?« she added in a low voice, in French,
to her brother-in-law.
    »Apparently!« he answered, with a smile. Newman stood a moment, and then he
approached Madame de Cintré. She looked up at him as if she were thinking of
something to say. But she seemed to think of nothing; so she simply smiled. He
sat down near her and she handed him a cup of tea. For a few moments they talked
about that, and meanwhile he looked at her. He remembered what Mrs. Tristram had
told him of her perfection, and of her having, in combination, all the brilliant
things that he dreamed of finding. This made him observe her not only without
mistrust, but without uneasy conjectures; the presumption, from the first moment
he looked at her, had been in her favour. And yet, if she was beautiful, it was
not a dazzling beauty. She was tall and moulded in long lines; she had thick,
fair hair, a wide forehead, and features with a sort of harmonious irregularity.
Her clear gray eyes were strikingly expressive; they were both gentle and
intelligent, and Newman liked them immensely; but they had not those depths of
splendour - those many-coloured rays - which illumine the brow of famous
beauties. Madame de Cintré was rather thin, and she looked younger than probably
she was. In her whole person there was something both youthful and subdued,
slender and yet ample, tranquil yet shy; a mixture of immaturity and repose, of
innocence and dignity. What had Tristram meant, Newman wondered, by calling her
proud? She was certainly not proud now, to him; or if she was, it was of no use,
it was lost upon him; she must pile it up higher if she expected him to mind it.
She was a beautiful woman, and it was very easy to get on with her. Was she a
countess, a marquise, a kind of historical formation? Newman, who had rarely
heard these words used, had never been at pains to attach any particular image
to them; but they occurred to him now and seemed charged with a sort of
melodious meaning. They signified something fair and softly bright, that had
easy motions and spoke very agreeably.
    »Have you many friends in Paris; do you go out?« asked Madame de Cintré, who
had at last thought of something to say.
    »Do you mean do I dance, and all that?«
    »Do you go dans le monde, as we say?«
    »I have seen a good many people. Mrs. Tristram has taken me about. I do
whatever she tells me.«
    »By yourself, you are not fond of amusements?«
    »Oh yes, of some sorts. I am not fond of dancing, and that sort of thing; I
am too old and sober. But I want to be amused; I came to Europe for that.«
    »But you can be amused in America, too.«
    »I couldn't; I was always at work. But, after all, that was my amusement.«
    At this moment Madame de Bellegarde came back for another cup of tea,
accompanied by the Count Valentin. Madame de Cintré, when she had served her,
began to talk again with Newman, and recalling what he had last said, »In your
own country you were very much occupied?« she asked.
    »I was in business. I have been in business since I was fifteen years old.«
    »And what was your business?« asked Madame de Bellegarde, who was decidedly
not so pretty as Madame de Cintré.
    »I have been in everything,« said Newman. »At one time I sold leather; at
one time I manufactured wash-tubs.«
    Madame de Bellegarde made a little grimace. »Leather? I don't like that.
Wash-tubs are better. I prefer the smell of soap. I hope at least they made your
fortune.« She rattled this off with the air of a woman who had the reputation of
saying everything that came into her head, and with a strong French accent.
    Newman had spoken with cheerful seriousness, but Madame de Bellegarde's tone
made him go on, after a meditative pause, with a certain light grimness of
jocularity. »No, I lost money on wash-tubs, but I came out pretty square on
leather.«
    »I have made up my mind, after all,« said Madame de Bellegarde, »that the
great point is - how do you call it? - to come out square. I am on my knees to
money; I don't deny it. If you have it, I ask no questions. For that I am a real
democrat - like you, monsieur. Madame de Cintré is very proud; but I find that
one gets much more pleasure in this sad life if one doesn't't look too close.«
    »Just Heaven, dear madam, how you go at it,« said the Count Valentin,
lowering his voice.
    »He's a man one can speak to, I suppose, since my sister receives him,« the
lady answered. »Besides, it's very true; those are my ideas.«
    »Ah, you call them ideas,« murmured the young man.
    »But Mrs. Tristram told me you had been in the army - in your war,« said
Madame de Cintré.
    »Yes, but that is not business!« said Newman.
    »Very true!« said M. de Bellegarde. »Otherwise perhaps I should not be
penniless.«
    »Is it true,« asked Newman in a moment, »that you are so proud? I had
already heard it.«
    Madame de Cintré smiled. »Do you find me so?«
    »Oh,« said Newman, »I am no judge. If you are proud with me, you will have
to tell me. Otherwise I shall not know it.«
    Madame de Cintré began to laugh. »That would be pride in a sad position!«
she said.
    »It would be partly,« Newman went on, »because I shouldn't want to know it.
I want you to treat me well.«
    Madame de Cintré, whose laugh had ceased, looked at him with her head half
averted, as if she feared what he was going to say.
    »Mrs. Tristram told you the literal truth,« he went on; »I want very much to
know you. I didn't come here simply to call to-day; I came in the hope that you
might ask me to come again.«
    »Oh, pray come often,« said Madame de Cintré.
    »But will you be at home?« Newman insisted. Even to himself he seemed a
trifle pushing, but he was, in truth, a trifle excited.
    »I hope so!« said Madame de Cintré.
    Newman got up. »Well, we shall see,« he said, smoothing his hat with his
coat-cuff.
    »Brother,« said Madame de Cintré, »invite Mr. Newman to come again.«
    The Count Valentin looked at our hero from head to foot with his peculiar
smile, in which impudence and urbanity seemed perplexingly commingled. »Are you
a brave man?« he asked, eyeing him askance.
    »Well, I hope so,« said Newman.
    »I rather suspect so. In that case, come again.«
    »Ah, what an invitation!« murmured Madame de Cintré, with something painful
in her smile.
    »Oh, I want Mr. Newman to come - particularly,« said the young man. »It will
give me great pleasure. I shall be desolate if I miss one of his visits. But I
maintain he must be brave. A stout heart, sir!« And he offered Newman his hand.
    »I shall not come to see you; I shall come to see Madame de Cintré,« said
Newman.
    »You will need all the more courage.«
    »Ah, Valentin!« said Madame de Cintré, appealingly.
    »Decidedly,« cried Madame de Bellegarde, »I am the only person here capable
of saying something polite! Come to see me; you will need no courage,« she said.
    Newman gave a laugh which was not altogether an assent, and took his leave.
Madame de Cintré did not take up her sister's challenge to be gracious, but she
looked with a certain troubled air at the retreating guest.
 

                                  Chapter VII

One evening, very late, about a week after his visit to Madame de Cintré,
Newman's servant brought him a card. It was that of young M. de Bellegarde.
When, a few moments later, he went to receive his visitor, he found him standing
in the middle of his great gilded parlour and eyeing it from cornice to carpet.
M. de Bellegarde's face, it seemed to Newman, expressed a sense of lively
entertainment. »What the devil is he laughing at now?« our hero asked himself.
But he put the question without acrimony, for he felt that Madame de Cintré's
brother was a good fellow, and he had a presentiment that on this basis of good
fellowship they were destined to understand each other. Only, if there was
anything to laugh at, he wished to have a glimpse of it too.
    »To begin with,« said the young man, as he extended his hand, »have I come
too late?«
    »Too late for what?« asked Newman.
    »To smoke a cigar with you.«
    »You would have to come early to do that,« said Newman. »I don't smoke.«
    »Ah, you are a strong man!«
    »But I keep cigars,« Newman added. »Sit down.«
    »Surely, I may not smoke here,« said M. de Bellegarde.
    »What is the matter? Is the room too small?«
    »It is too large. It is like smoking in a ball-room, or a church.«
    »That is what you were laughing at just now?« Newman asked; »the size of my
room?«
    »It is not size only,« replied M. de Bellegarde, »but splendour, and
harmony, and beauty of detail. It was the smile of admiration.«
    Newman looked at him a moment, and then, »So it is very ugly?« he inquired.
    »Ugly, my dear sir? It is magnificent.«
    »That is the same thing, I suppose,« said Newman, »Make yourself
comfortable. Your coming to see me, I take it, is an act of friendship. You were
not obliged to. Therefore, if anything around here amuses you, it will be all in
a pleasant way. Laugh as loud as you please; I like to see my visitors cheerful.
Only, I must make this request: that you explain the joke to me as soon as you
can speak. I don't want to lose anything, myself.«
    M. de Bellegarde stared, with a look of unresentful perplexity. He laid his
hand on Newman's sleeve and seemed on the point of saying something, but he
suddenly checked himself, leaned back in his chair, and puffed at his cigar. At
last, however, breaking silence, »Certainly,« he said, »my coming to see you is
an act of friendship. Nevertheless I was in a measure obliged to do so. My
sister asked me to come, and a request from my sister is, for me, a law. I was
near you, and I observed lights in what I supposed were your rooms. It was not a
ceremonious hour for making a call, but I was not sorry to do something that
would show I was not performing a mere ceremony.«
    »Well, here I am as large as life,« said Newman, extending his legs.
    »I don't know what you mean,« the young man went on, »by giving me unlimited
leave to laugh. Certainly I am a great laugher, and it is better to laugh too
much than too little. But it is not in order that we may laugh together - or
separately - that I have, I may say, sought your acquaintance. To speak with
almost impudent frankness, you interest me!« All this was uttered by M. de
Bellegarde with the modulated smoothness of the man of the world, and, in spite
of his excellent English, of the Frenchman; but Newman, at the same time that he
sat noting its harmonious flow, perceived that it was not mere mechanical
urbanity. Decidedly, there was something in his visitor that he liked. M. de
Bellegarde was a foreigner to his finger-tips, and if Newman had met him on a
Western prairie he would have felt it proper to address him with a »How-d'ye-do,
Mosseer?« But there was something in his physiognomy which seemed to cast a sort
of aerial bridge over the impassable gulf produced by difference of race. He was
below the middle height, and robust and agile in figure. Valentin de Bellegarde,
Newman afterwards learned, had a mortal dread of the robustness overtaking the
agility; he was afraid of growing stout; he was too short, as he said, to afford
a belly. He rode and fenced and practised gymnastics with unremitting zeal, and
if you greeted him with a »How well you are looking!« he started and turned
pale. In your well he read a grosser monosyllable. He had a round head, high
above the ears, a crop of hair at once dense and silky, a broad, low forehead, a
short nose, of the ironical and inquiring rather than of the dogmatic or
sensitive cast, and a moustache as delicate as that of a page in a romance. He
resembled his sister not in feature, but in the expression of his clear bright
eye, completely void of introspection, and in the way he smiled. The great point
in his face was that it was intensely alive - frankly, ardently, gallantly
alive. The look of it was like a bell, of which the handle might have been in
the young man's soul: at a touch of the handle it rang with a loud silver sound.
There was something in his quick, light brown eye which assured you that he was
not economising his consciousness. He was not living in a corner of it to spare
the furniture of the rest. He was squarely encamped in the centre, and he was
keeping open house. When he smiled, it was like the movement of a person who in
emptying a cup turns it upside down: he gave you the last drop of his jollity.
He inspired Newman with something of the same kindness that our hero used to
feel in his earlier years for those of his companions who could perform strange
and clever tricks - make their joints crack in queer places or whistle at the
back of their mouths.
    »My sister told me,« M. de Bellegarde continued, »that I ought to come and
remove the impression that I had taken such great pains to produce upon you; the
impression that I am a lunatic. Did it strike you that I behaved very oddly the
other day?«
    »Rather so,« said Newman.
    »So my sister tells me.« And M. de Bellegarde watched his host for a moment
through his smoke-wreaths. »If that is the case, I think we had better let it
stand. I didn't try to make you think I was a lunatic, at all; on the contrary,
I wanted to produce a favourable impression. But if, after all, I made a fool of
myself, it was the intention of Providence. I should injure myself by protesting
too much, for I should seem to set up a claim for wisdom which, in the sequel of
our acquaintance, I could by no means justify. Set me down as a lunatic with
intervals of sanity.«
    »Oh, I guess you know what you are about,« said Newman.
    »When I am sane, I am very sane; that I admit,« M. de Bellegarde answered.
»But I didn't come here to talk about myself. I should like to ask you a few
questions. You allow me?«
    »Give me a specimen,« said Newman.
    »You live here all alone?«
    »Absolutely. With whom should I live?«
    »For the moment,« said M. de Bellegarde with a smile, »I am asking
questions, not answering them. You have come to Paris for your pleasure?«
    Newman was silent awhile. Then, at last, »Everyone asks me that!« he said
with his mild slowness. »It sounds so awfully foolish.«
    »But at any rate you had a reason.«
    »Oh, I came for my pleasure!« said Newman. »Though it is foolish, it is
true.«
    »And you are enjoying it?«
    Like any other good American, Newman thought it as well not to truckle to
the foreigner. »Oh, so-so,« he answered.
    M. de Bellegarde puffed his cigar again in silence. »For myself,« he said at
last, »I am entirely at your service. Anything I can do for you I shall be very
happy to do. Call upon me at your convenience. Is there anyone you desire to
know - anything you wish to see? It is a pity you should not enjoy Paris.«
    »Oh, I do enjoy it!« said Newman, good-naturedly. »I'm much obliged to you.«
    »Honestly speaking,« M. de Bellegarde went on, »there is something absurd to
me in hearing myself make you these offers. They represent a great deal of
good-will, but they represent little else. You are a successful man and I am a
failure, and it's a turning of the tables to talk as if I could lend you a
hand.«
    »In what way are you a failure?« asked Newman.
    »Oh, I'm not a tragical failure!« cried the young man with a laugh. »I have
not fallen from a height, and my fiasco has made no noise. You, evidently, are a
success. You have made a fortune, you have built up an edifice, you are a
financial, commercial power, you can travel about the world until you have found
a soft spot, and lie down in it with the consciousness of having earned your
rest. Is not that true? Well, imagine the exact reverse of all that, and you
have me. I have done nothing - I can do nothing!«
    »Why not?«
    »It's a long story. Some day I will tell you. Meanwhile, I'm right, eh? You
are a success? You have made a fortune? It's none of my business, but, in short,
you are rich?«
    »That's another thing that it sounds foolish to say,« said Newman. »Hang it,
no man is rich!«
    »I have heard philosophers affirm,« laughed M. de Bellegarde, »that no man
was poor; but your formula strikes me as an improvement. As a general thing, I
confess, I don't like successful people, and I find clever men who have made
great fortunes very offensive. They tread on my toes; they make me
uncomfortable. But as soon as I saw you, I said to myself, Ah, there is a man
with whom I shall get on. He has the good-nature of success and none of the
morgue; he has not our confoundedly irritable French vanity. In short, I took a
fancy to you. We are very different, I'm sure; I don't believe there is a
subject on which we think or feel alike. But I rather think we shall get on, for
there is such a thing, you know, as being too different to quarrel.«
    »Oh, I never quarrel,« said Newman.
    »Never? Sometimes it's a duty - or at least it's a pleasure. Oh, I have had
two or three delicious quarrels in my day!« and M. de Bellegarde's handsome
smile assumed, at the memory of these incidents, an almost voluptuous intensity.
    With the preamble embodied in his share of the foregoing fragment of
dialogue, he paid our hero a long visit; as the two men sat with their heels on
Newman's glowing hearth, they heard the small hours of the morning striking
larger from a far-off belfry. Valentin de Bellegarde was, by his own confession,
at all times a great chatterer, and on this occasion he was evidently in a
particularly loquacious mood. It was a tradition of his race that people of its
blood always conferred a favour by their smiles, and as his enthusiasms were as
rare as his civility was constant, he had a double reason for not suspecting
that his friendship could ever be importunate. Moreover, the flower of an
ancient stem as he was, tradition (since I have used the word) had in his
temperament nothing of disagreeable rigidity. It was muffled in sociability and
urbanity, as an old dowager in her laces and strings of pearls. Valentin was
what is called in France a gentilhomme, of the purest source, and his rule of
life, so far as it was definite, was to play the part of a gentilhomme. This, it
seemed to him, was enough to occupy comfortably a young man of ordinary good
parts. But all that he was he was by instinct and not by theory, and the
amiability of his character was so great that certain of the aristocratic
virtues, which in some aspects seem rather brittle and trenchant, acquired in
his application of them an extreme geniality. In his younger years he had been
suspected of low tastes, and his mother had greatly feared he would make a slip
in the mud of the highway and bespatter the family shield. He had been treated,
therefore, to more than his share of schooling and drilling, but his instructors
had not succeeded in mounting him upon stilts. They could not spoil his safe
spontaneity, and he remained the least cautious and the most lucky of young
nobles. He had been tied with so short a rope in his youth that he had now a
mortal grudge against family discipline. He had been known to say, within the
limits of the family, that, lightheaded as he was, the honour of the name was
safer in his hands than in those of some of its other members, and that if a day
ever came to try it, they should see. His talk was an odd mixture of almost
boyish garrulity and of the reserve and discretion of the man of the world, and
he seemed to Newman, as afterwards young members of the Latin races often seemed
to him, now amusingly juvenile and now appallingly mature. In America, Newman
reflected, lads of twenty-five and thirty have old heads and young hearts, or at
least young morals; here they have young heads and very aged hearts, morals the
most grizzled and wrinkled.
    »What I envy you is your liberty,« observed M. de Bellegarde, »your wide
range, your freedom to come and go, your not having a lot of people, who take
themselves awfully seriously, expecting something of you. I live,« he added with
a sigh, »beneath the eyes of my admirable mother.«
    »It is your own fault; what is to hinder you ranging?« said Newman.
    »There is a delightful simplicity in that remark! Everything is to hinder
me. To begin with, I have not a penny.«
    »I had not a penny when I began to range.«
    »Ah, but your poverty was your capital. Being an American, it was impossible
you should remain what you were born, and being born poor - do I understand it?
- it was therefore inevitable that you should become rich. You were in a
position that makes one's mouth water; you looked round you and saw a world full
of things you had only to step up and take hold of. When I was twenty, I looked
around me and saw a world with everything ticketed Hands off! and the deuce of
it was that the ticket seemed meant only for me. I couldn't go into business, I
couldn't make money, because I was a Bellegarde. I couldn't go into politics,
because I was a Bellegarde - the Bellegardes don't recognise the Bonapartes. I
couldn't go into literature, because I was a dunce. I couldn't marry a rich
girl, because no Bellegarde had ever married a roturière, and it was not proper
that I should begin. We shall have to come to it, yet. Marriageable heiresses,
de notre bord, are not to be had for nothing; it must be name for name, and
fortune for fortune. The only thing I could do was to go and fight for the Pope.
That I did, punctiliously, and received an apostolic flesh-wound at
Castelfidardo. It did neither the Holy Father nor me any good, that I could see.
Rome was doubtless a very amusing place in the days of Caligula, but it has
sadly fallen off since. I passed three years in the Castle of St. Angelo, and
then came back to secular life.«
    »So you have no profession - you do nothing!« said Newman.
    »I do nothing! I am supposed to amuse myself, and, to tell the truth, I have
amused myself. One can, if one knows how. But you can't keep it up for ever. I
am good for another five years, perhaps, but I foresee that after that I shall
lose my appetite. Then what shall I do? I think I shall turn monk. Seriously, I
think I shall tie a rope round my waist and go into a monastery. It was an old
custom, and the old customs were very good. People understood life quite as well
as we do. They kept the pot boiling till it cracked, and then they put it on the
shelf altogether.«
    »Are you very religious?« asked Newman, in a tone which gave the inquiry a
grotesque effect.
    M. de Bellegarde evidently appreciated the comical element in the question,
but he looked at Newman a moment with extreme soberness. »I am a very good
Catholic. I respect the Church. I adore the blessed Virgin. I fear the Devil.«
    »Well, then,« said Newman, »you are well fixed. You have got pleasure in the
present and religion in the future; what do you complain of?«
    »It's a part of one's pleasure to complain. There is something in your own
circumstances that irritates me. You are the first man I have ever envied. It's
singular, but so it is. I have known many men who besides any factitious
advantages that I may possess, had money and brains into the bargain; but
somehow they have never disturbed my good-humour. But you have got something
that I should have liked to have. It is not money, it is not even brains -
though no doubt yours are excellent. It is not your six feet of height, though I
should have rather liked to be a couple of inches taller. It's a sort of air you
have of being thoroughly at home in the world. When I was a boy, my father told
me that it was by such an air as that that people recognised a Bellegarde. He
called my attention to it. He didn't advise me to cultivate it; he said that as
we grew up it always came of itself. I supposed it had come to me, because I
think I have always had the feeling. My place in life was made for me, and it
seemed easy to occupy it. But you who, as I understand it, have made your own
place, you who, as you told us the other day, have manufactured wash-tubs - you
strike me, somehow, as a man who stands at his ease, who looks at things from a
height. I fancy you going about the world like a man travelling on a railroad in
which he owns a large amount of stock. You make me feel as if I had missed
something. What is it?«
    »It is the proud consciousness of honest toil - of having manufactured a few
wash-tubs,« said Newman, at once jocose and serious.
    »Oh no; I have seen men who had done even more, men who had made not only
wash-tubs, but soap - strong-smelling yellow soap, in great bars; and they never
made me the least uncomfortable.«
    »Then it's the privilege of being an American citizen,« said Newman. »That
sets a man up.«
    »Possibly,« rejoined M. de Bellegarde. »But I am forced to say that I have
seen a great many American citizens who didn't seem at all set up or in the
least like large stockholders. I never envied them. I rather think the thing is
an accomplishment of your own.«
    »Oh, come,« said Newman, »you will make me proud!«
    »No, I shall not. You have nothing to do with pride, or with humility - that
is a part of this easy manner of yours. People are proud only when they have
something to lose, and humble when they have something to gain.«
    »I don't know what I have to lose,« said Newman, »but I certainly have
something to gain.«
    »What is it?« asked his visitor.
    Newman hesitated awhile. »I will tell you when I know you better.«
    »I hope that will be soon! Then, if I can help you to gain it, I shall be
happy.«
    »Perhaps you may,« said Newman.
    »Don't forget, then, that I am your servant,« M. de Bellegarde answered; and
shortly afterwards he took his departure.
    During the next three weeks Newman saw Bellegarde several times, and without
formally swearing an eternal friendship the two men established a sort of
comradeship. To Newman, Bellegarde was the ideal Frenchman, the Frenchman of
tradition and romance, so far as our hero was acquainted with these mystical
influences. Gallant, expansive, amusing, more pleased himself with the effect he
produced than those (even when they were well pleased) for whom he produced it;
a master of all the distinctively social virtues and a votary of all agreeable
sensations; a devotee of something mysterious and sacred to which he
occasionally alluded in terms more ecstatic even than those in which he spoke of
the last pretty woman, and which was simply the beautiful though somewhat
superannuated image of honour; he was irresistibly entertaining and enlivening;
and he formed a character to which Newman was as capable of doing justice when
he had once been placed in contact with it, as he was unlikely, in musing upon
the possible mixtures of our human ingredients, mentally to have foreshadowed
it. Bellegarde did not in the least cause him to modify his needful premise that
all Frenchmen are of a frothy and imponderable substance; he simply reminded him
that light materials may be beaten up into a most agreeable compound. No two
companions could be more different, but their differences made a capital basis
for a friendship of which the distinctive characteristic was that it was
extremely amusing to each.
    Valentin de Bellegarde lived in the basement of an old house in the Rue
d'Anjou St. Honoré, and his small apartments lay between the court of the house
and an old garden which spread itself behind it - one of those large, sunless,
humid gardens into which you look unexpectingly in Paris from back windows,
wondering how among the grudging habitations they find their space. When Newman
returned Bellegarde's visit, he hinted that his lodging was at least as much a
laughing matter as his own. But its oddities were of a different cast from those
of our hero's gilded saloons on the Boulevard Haussmann: the place was low,
dusky, contracted, and crowded with curious bric-à-brac. Bellegarde, penniless
patrician as he was, was an insatiable collector, and his walls were covered
with rusty arms and ancient panels and platters, his doorways draped in faded
tapestries, his floors muffled in the skins of beasts. Here and there was one of
those uncomfortable tributes to elegance in which the upholsterer's art, in
France, is so prolific; a curtained recess with a sheet of looking-glass in
which, among the shadows, you could see nothing; a divan on which, for its
festoons and furbelows, you could not sit: a fireplace draped, flounced, and
frilled to the complete exclusion of fire. The young man's possessions were in
picturesque disorder, and his apartment was pervaded by the odour of cigars,
mingled with perfumes more inscrutable. Newman thought it a damp, gloomy place
to live in, and was puzzled by the obstructive and fragmentary character of the
furniture.
    Bellegarde, according to the custom of his country, talked very generously
about himself, and unveiled the mysteries of his private history with an
unsparing hand. Inevitably, he had a vast deal to say about women, and he used
frequently to indulge in sentimental and ironical apostrophes to these authors
of his joys and woes. »Oh, the women, the women, and the things they have made
me do!« he would exclaim with a lustrous eye. »C'est égal, of all the follies
and stupidities I have committed for them I would not have missed one!« On this
subject Newman maintained an habitual reserve; to expatiate largely upon it had
always seemed to him a proceeding vaguely analogous to the cooing of pigeons and
the chatterings of monkeys, and even inconsistent with a fully-developed human
character. But Bellegarde's confidences greatly amused him, and rarely
displeased him, for the generous young Frenchman was not a cynic. »I really
think,« he had once said, »that I am not more depraved than most of my
contemporaries. They are tolerably depraved, my contemporaries!« He said
wonderfully pretty things about his female friends, and, numerous and various as
they had been, declared that on the whole there was more good in them than harm.
»But you are not to take that as advice,« he added. »As an authority I am very
untrustworthy. I'm prejudiced in their favour; I'm an idealist!« Newman listened
to him with his impartial smile, and was glad, for his own sake, that he had
fine feelings; but he mentally repudiated the idea of a Frenchman having
discovered any merit in the amiable sex which he himself did not suspect. M. de
Bellegarde, however, did not confine his conversation to the autobiographical
channel; he questioned our hero largely as to the events of his own life, and
Newman told him some better stories than any that Bellegarde carried in his
budget. He narrated his career, in fact, from the beginning, through all its
variations, and whenever his companion's credulity, or his habits of gentility,
appeared to protest, it amused him to heighten the colour of the episode. Newman
had sat with Western humorists in knots, round cast-iron stoves, and seen tall
stories grow taller without toppling over, and his own imagination had learned
the trick of piling up consistent wonders. Bellegarde's regular attitude at last
became that of laughing self-defence; to maintain his reputation as an
all-knowing Frenchman, he doubted of everything, wholesale. The result of this
was that Newman found it impossible to convince him of certain time-honoured
verities.
    »But the details don't matter,« said M. de Bellegarde. »You have evidently
had some surprising adventures; you have seen some strange sides of life, you
have revolved to and fro over a whole continent as I walk up and down the
Boulevard. You are a man of the world with a vengeance! You have spent some
deadly dull hours, and you have done some extremely disagreeable things: you
have shovelled sand, as a boy, for supper, and you have eaten roast dog in a
gold-diggers' camp. You have stood casting up figures for ten hours at a time,
and you have sat through Methodist sermons for the sake of looking at a pretty
girl in another pew. All that is rather stiff, as we say. But at any rate you
have done something and you are something; you have used your will and you have
made your fortune. You have not stupefied yourself with debauchery and you have
not mortgaged your fortune to social conveniences. You take things easily, and
you have fewer prejudices even than I, who pretend to have none, but who in
reality have three or four. Happy man, you are strong and you are free. But what
the deuce,« demanded the young man in conclusion, »do you propose to do with
such advantages? Really to use them you need a better world than this. There is
nothing worth your while here.«
    »Oh, I think there is something,« said Newman.
    »What is it?«
    »Well,« murmured Newman, »I will tell you some other time!«
    In this way our hero delayed from day to day broaching a subject which he
had very much at heart. Meanwhile, however, he was growing practically familiar
with it; in other words, he had called again, three times, on Madame de Cintré.
On only two of these occasions had he found her at home, and on each of them she
had other visitors. Her visitors were numerous and extremely loquacious, and
they exacted much of their hostess's attention. She found time, however, to
bestow a little of it on Newman, in an occasional vague smile, the very
vagueness of which pleased him, allowing him as it did to fill it out mentally,
both at the time and afterwards, with such meanings as most pleased him. He sat
by without speaking, looking at the entrances and exits, the greetings and
chatterings, of Madame de Cintré's visitors. He felt as if he were at the play,
and as if his own speaking would be an interruption; sometimes he wished he had
a book to follow the dialogue; he half expected to see a woman in a white cap
and pink ribbons come and offer him one for two francs. Some of the ladies
looked at him very hard - or very soft, as you please; others seemed profoundly
unconscious of his presence. The men only looked at Madame de Cintré. This was
inevitable; for whether one called her beautiful or not, she entirely occupied
and filled one's vision, just as an agreeable sound fills one's ear. Newman had
but twenty distinct words with her, but he carried away an impression to which
solemn promises could not have given a higher value. She was part of the play
that he was seeing acted, quite as much as her companions; but how she filled
the stage, and how much better she did it! Whether she rose or seated herself;
whether she went with her departing friends to the door and lifted up the heavy
curtain as they passed out, and stood an instant looking after them and giving
them the last nod; or whether she leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed
and her eyes resting, listening and smiling; she gave Newman the feeling that he
should like to have her always before him, moving slowly to and fro along the
whole scale of expressive hospitality. If it might be to him, it would be well;
if it might be for him, it would be still better! She was so tall and yet so
light, so active and yet so still, so elegant and yet so simple, so frank and
yet so mysterious! It was the mystery - it was what she was off the stage, as it
were - that interested Newman most of all. He could not have told you what
warrant he had for talking about mysteries; if it had been his habit to express
himself in poetic figures he might have said that in observing Madame de Cintré
he seemed to see the vague circle which sometimes accompanies the partly-filled
disc of the moon. It was not that she was reserved; on the contrary, she was as
frank as flowing water. But he was sure she had qualities which she herself did
not suspect.
    He had abstained for several reasons from saying some of these things to
Bellegarde. One reason was that before proceeding to any act he was always
circumspect, conjectural, contemplative; he had little eagerness, as became a
man who felt that whenever he really began to move he walked with long steps.
And then it simply pleased him not to speak - it occupied him, it excited him.
But one day Bellegarde had been dining with him, at a restaurant, and they had
sat long over their dinner. On rising from it, Bellegarde proposed that, to help
them through the rest of the evening, they should go and see Madame Dandelard.
Madame Dandelard was a little Italian lady who had married a Frenchman who
proved to be a rake and a brute and the torment of her life. Her husband had
spent all her money, and then, lacking the means of obtaining more expensive
pleasures, had taken, in his duller hours, to beating her. She had a blue spot
somewhere, which she showed to several persons, including Bellegarde. She had
obtained a separation from her husband, collected the scraps of her fortune
(they were very meagre) and come to live in Paris, where she was staying at a
hôtel garni. She was always looking for an apartment, and visiting inquiringly,
those of oilier people. She was very pretty, very childlike, and she made very
extraordinary remarks. Bellegarde had made her acquaintance, and the source of
his interest in her was, according to his own declaration, a curiosity as to
what would become of her. »She is poor, she is pretty, and she is silly,« he
said; »it seems to me she can go only one way. It's a pity, but it can't be
helped. I will give her six months. She has nothing to fear from me, but I am
watching the process. I am curious to see just how things will go. Yes, I know
what you are going to say: this horrible Paris hardens one's heart. But it
quickens one's wits, and it ends by teaching one a refinement of observation! To
see this little woman's little drama play itself out, now, is, for me, an
intellectual pleasure.«
    »If she is going to throw herself away,« Newman had said, »you ought to stop
her.«
    »Stop her? How stop her?«
    »Talk to her; give her some good advice.«
    Bellegarde laughed. »Heaven deliver us both! Imagine the situation! Go and
advise her yourself.«
    It was after this that Newman had gone with Bellegarde to see Madame
Dandelard. When they came away, Bellegarde reproached his companion. »Where was
your famous advice?« he asked. »I didn't hear a word of it.«
    »Oh, I give it up,« said Newman, simply.
    »Then you are as bad as I!« said Bellegarde.
    »No, because I don't take an intellectual pleasure in her prospective
adventures. I don't in the least want to see her going down hill. I had rather
look the other way. But why,« he asked, in a moment, »don't you get your sister
to go and see her?«
    Bellegarde stared. »Go and see Madame Dandelard - my sister?«
    »She might talk to her to very good purpose.«
    Bellegarde shook his head with sudden gravity. »My sister can't see that
sort of person. Madame Dandelard is nothing at all; they would never meet.«
    »I should think,« said Newman, »that your sister might see whom she
pleased.« And he privately resolved that after he knew her a little better, he
would ask Madame de Cintré to go and talk to the foolish little Italian lady.
    After his dinner with Bellegarde, on the occasion I have mentioned, he
demurred to his companion's proposal that they should go again and listen to
Madame Dandelard describe her sorrows and her bruises. »I have something better
in mind,« he said; »come home with me and finish the evening before my fire.«
    Bellegarde always welcomed the prospect of a long stretch of conversation,
and before long the two men sat watching the great blaze which scattered its
scintillations over the high adornments of Newman's ballroom.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

»Tell me something about your sister,« Newman began, abruptly.
    Bellegarde turned and gave him a quick look. »Now that I think of it, you
have never yet asked me a question about her.«
    »I know that very well.«
    »If it is because you don't trust me, you are very right,« said Bellegarde.
»I can't talk of her rationally. I admire her too much.«
    »Talk of her as you can,« rejoined Newman. »Let yourself go.«
    »Well, we are very good friends; we are such a brother and sister as have
not been seen since Orestes and Electra. You have seen her; you know what she
is: tall, thin, light, imposing, and gentle, half a grande dame and half an
angel; a mixture of pride and humility, of the eagle and the dove. She looks
like a statue which had failed as stone, resigned itself to its grave defects,
and come to life as flesh and blood, to wear white capes and long trains. All I
can say is that she really possesses every merit that her face, her glance, her
smile, the tone of her voice, lead you to expect; it is saying a great deal. As
a general thing, when a woman seems very charming, I should say Beware! But in
proportion as Claire seems charming you may fold your arms and let yourself
float with the current; you are safe. She is so good! I have never seen a woman
half so perfect or so complete. She has everything; that is all I can say about
her. There!« Bellegarde concluded: »I told you I should rhapsodize.«
    Newman was silent awhile, as if he were turning over his companion's words.
»She is very good, eh?« he repeated at last.
    »Divinely good!«
    »Kind, charitable, gentle, generous?«
    »Generosity itself; kindness double-distilled!«
    »Is she clever?«
    »She is the most intelligent woman I know. Try her, some day, with something
difficult, and you will see.«
    »Is she fond of admiration?«
    »Parbleu!« cried Bellegarde; »what woman is not?«
    »Ah, when they are too fond of admiration they commit all kinds of follies
to get it.«
    »I did not say she was too fond!« Bellegarde exclaimed. »Heaven forbid I
should say anything so idiotic. She is not too anything! If I were to say she
was ugly, I should not mean she was too ugly. She is fond of pleasing, and if
you are pleased she is grateful. If you are not pleased, she lets it pass and
thinks the worse neither of you nor of herself. I imagine, though, she hopes the
saints in heaven are, for I am sure she is incapable of trying to please by any
means of which they would disapprove.«
    »Is she grave or gay?« asked Newman.
    »She is both; not alternately, for she is always the same. There is gravity
in her gaiety, and gaiety in her gravity. But there is no reason why she should
be particularly gay.«
    »Is she unhappy?«
    »I won't say that, for unhappiness is according as one takes things, and
Claire takes them according to some receipt communicated to her by the Blessed
Virgin in a vision. To be unhappy is to be disagreeable, which, for her, is out
of the question. So she has arranged her circumstances so as to be happy in
them.«
    »She is a philosopher,« said Newman.
    »No, she is simply a very nice woman.«
    »Her circumstances, at any rate, have been disagreeable.«
    Bellegarde hesitated a moment - a thing he very rarely did. »Oh, my dear
fellow, if I go into the history of my family I shall give you more than you
bargain for.«
    »No, on the contrary, I bargain for that,« said Newman.
    »We shall have to appoint a special séance, then, beginning early. Suffice
it for the present that Claire has not slept on roses. She made, at eighteen, a
marriage that was expected to be brilliant, but that turned out like a lamp that
goes out; all smoke and bad smell. M. de Cintré was sixty years old, and an
odious old gentleman. He lived, however, but a short time, and after his death
his family pounced upon his money, brought a lawsuit against his widow, and
pushed things very hard. Their case was a good one, for M. de Cintré, who had
been trustee for some of his relatives, appeared to have been guilty of some
very irregular practices. In the course of the suit some revelations were made
as to his private history which my sister found so displeasing that she ceased
to defend herself and washed her hands of the property. This required some
pluck, for she was between two fires, her husband's family opposing her and her
own family forcing her. My mother and my brother wished her to cleave to what
they regarded as her rights. But she resisted firmly, and at last bought her
freedom - obtained my mother's assent to dropping the suit at the price of a
promise.«
    »What was the promise?«
    »To do anything else, for the next ten years, that was asked of her -
anything, that is, but marry.«
    »She had disliked her husband very much?«
    »No one knows how much!«
    »The marriage had been made in your horrible French way,« Newman continued,
»made by the two families without her having any voice?«
    »It was a chapter for a novel. She saw M. de Cintré for the first time a
month before the wedding, after everything, to the minutest detail, had been
arranged. She turned white when she looked at him, and white she remained till
her wedding-day. The evening before the ceremony she swooned away, and she spent
the whole night in sobs. My mother sat holding her two hands, and my brother
walked up and down the room. I declared it was revolting, and told my sister
publicly that if she would refuse downright, I would stand by her. I was told to
go about my business, and she became Comtesse de Cintré.«
    »Your brother,« said Newman reflectively, »must be a very nice young man.«
    »He is very nice, though he is not young. He is upwards of fifty; fifteen
years my senior. He has been a father to my sister and me. He is a very
remarkable man; he has the best manners in France. He is extremely clever;
indeed he is very learned. He is writing a history of The Princesses of France
who never Married.« This was said by Bellegarde with extreme gravity, looking
straight at Newman, and with an eye that betokened no mental reservation; or
that, at least, almost betokened none.
    Newman perhaps discovered there what little there was, for he presently
said: »You don't love your brother.«
    »I beg your pardon,« said Bellegarde ceremoniously; »well-bred people always
love their brothers.«
    »Well, I don't love him, then.« Newman answered.
    »Wait till you know him!« rejoined Bellegarde, and this time he smiled.
    »Is your mother also very remarkable?« Newman asked, after a pause.
    »For my mother,« said Bellegarde, now with intense gravity, »I have the
highest admiration. She is a very extraordinary woman. You cannot approach her
without perceiving it.«
    »She is the daughter, I believe, of an English nobleman.«
    »Of the Earl of St. Dunstan's.«
    »Is the Earl of St. Dunstan's a very old family?«
    »So-so; the sixteenth century. It is on my father's side that we go back -
back, back, back. The family antiquaries themselves lose breath. At last they
stop, panting and fanning themselves, somewhere in the ninth century, under
Charlemagne. That is where we begin.«
    »There is no mistake about it?« said Newman.
    »I'm sure I hope not. We have been mistaken at least for several centuries.«
    »And you have always married into old families?«
    »As a rule; though in so long a stretch of time there have been some
exceptions. Three or four Bellegardes, in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, took wives out of the bourgeoisie - married lawyers' daughters.«
    »A lawyer's daughter; that's very bad, is it?« asked Newman.
    »Horrible! one of us, in the Middle Ages, did better: he married a
beggar-maid, like King Cophetua. That was really better; it was like marrying a
bird or a monkey; one didn't have to think about her family at all. Our women
have always done well; they have never even gone into the petite noblesse. There
is, I believe, not a case on record of a misalliance among the women.«
    Newman turned this over awhile, and then at last he said: »You offered, the
first time you came to see me, to render me any service you could. I told you
that some time I would mention something you might do. Do you remember?«
    »Remember? I have been counting the hours.«
    »Very well; here's your chance. Do what you can to make your sister think
well of me.«
    Bellegarde stared, with a smile. »Why, I'm sure she thinks as well of you as
possible, already.«
    »An opinion founded on seeing me three or four times? That is putting me off
with very little. I want something more. I have been thinking of it a good deal,
and at last I have decided to tell you. I should like very much to marry Madame
de Cintré.«
    Bellegarde had been looking at him with quickened expectancy, and with the
smile with which he had greeted Newman's allusion to his promised request. At
this last announcement he continued to gaze; but his smile went through two or
three curious phases. It felt, apparently, a momentary impulse to broaden; but
this it immediately checked. Then it remained for some instants taking counsel
with itself, at the end of which it decreed a retreat. It slowly effaced itself
and left a look of seriousness modified by the desire not to be rude. Extreme
surprise had come into the Count Valentin's face; but he had reflected that it
would be uncivil to leave it there. And yet, what the deuce was he to do with
it? He got up, in his agitation, and stood before the chimney-piece, still
looking at Newman. He was a longer time thinking what to say than one would have
expected.
    »If you can't render me the service I ask,« said Newman, »say it out!«
    »Let me hear it again, distinctly,« said Bellegarde. »It's very important,
you know. I shall plead your cause with my sister, because you want - you want
to marry her? That's it, eh?«
    »Oh, I don't say plead my cause, exactly; I shall try and do that myself.
But say a good word for me, now and then - let her know that you think well of
me.«
    At this, Bellegarde gave a little light laugh.
    »What I want chiefly, after all,« Newman went on, »is just to let you know
what I have in mind. I suppose that is what you expect, isn't it? I want to do
what is customary over here. If there is anything particular to be done, let me
know and I will do it. I wouldn't for the world approach Madame de Cintré
without all the proper forms. If I ought to go and tell your mother, why I will
go and tell her. I will go and tell your brother, even. I will go and tell
anyone you please. As I don't know anyone else, I begin by telling you. But
that, if it is a social obligation, is a pleasure as well.«
    »Yes, I see - I see,« said Bellegarde, lightly stroking his chin. »You have
a very right feeling about it, but I'm glad you have begun with me.« He paused,
hesitated, and then turned away and walked slowly the length of the room. Newman
got up and stood leaning against the mantelshelf, with his hands in his pockets,
watching Bellegarde's promenade. The young Frenchman came back and stopped in
front of him. »I give it up,« he said; »I will not pretend I am not surprised. I
am - hugely! Ouf! It's a relief.«
    »That sort of news is always a surprise,« said Newman. »No matter what you
have done, people are never prepared. But if you are so surprised, I hope at
least you are pleased.«
    »Come!« said Bellegarde. »I am going to be tremendously frank. I don't know
whether I am pleased or horrified.«
    »If you are pleased, I shall be glad,« said Newman, »and I shall be -
encouraged. If you are horrified, I shall be sorry, but I shall not be
discouraged. You must make the best of it.«
    »That is quite right - that is your only possible attitude. You are
perfectly serious?«
    »Am I a Frenchman, that I should not be?« asked Newman. »But why is it,
by-the-bye, that you should be horrified?«
    Bellegarde raised his hand to the back of his head and rubbed his hair
quickly up and down, thrusting out the tip of his tongue as he did so. »Why, you
are not noble, for instance,« he said.
    »The devil I am not!« exclaimed Newman.
    »Oh,« said Bellegarde, a little more seriously, »I did not know you had a
title.«
    »A title? What do you mean by a title?« asked Newman. »A count, a duke, a
marquis? I don't know anything about that, I don't know who is and who is not.
But I say I am noble. I don't exactly know what you mean by it, but it's a fine
word and a fine idea; I put in a claim to it.«
    »But what have you to show, my dear fellow; what proofs?«
    »Anything you please! But you don't suppose I am going to undertake to prove
that I am noble. It is for you to prove the contrary.«
    »That's easily done. You have manufactured wash-tubs.«
    Newman stared a moment. »Therefore I am not noble? I don't see it. Tell me
something I have not done - something I cannot do.«
    »You cannot marry a woman like Madame de Cintré for the asking.«
    »I believe you mean,« said Newman slowly, »that I am not good enough.«
    »Brutally speaking - yes!«
    Bellegarde had hesitated a moment, and while he hesitated Newman's attentive
glance had grown somewhat eager. In answer to these last words he for a moment
said nothing. He simply blushed a little. Then he raised his eyes to the ceiling
and stood looking at one of the rosy cherubs that was painted upon it. »Of
course I don't expect to marry any woman for the asking,« he said at last; »I
expect first to make myself acceptable to her. She must like me, to begin with.
But that I am not good enough to make a trial is rather a surprise.«
    Bellegarde wore a look of mingled perplexity, sympathy, and amusement. »You
should not hesitate, then, to go up to-morrow and ask a duchess to marry you?«
    »Not if I thought she would suit me. But I am very fastidious; she might not
at all.«
    Bellegarde's amusement began to prevail. »And you should be surprised if she
refused you?«
    Newman hesitated a moment. »It sounds conceited to say Yes; but,
nevertheless, I think I should. For I should make a very handsome offer.«
    »What would it be?«
    »Everything she wishes. If I get hold of a woman that comes up to my
standard, I shall think nothing too good for her. I have been a long time
looking, and I find such women are rare. To combine the qualities I require
seems to be difficult, but when the difficulty is vanquished it deserves a
reward. My wife shall have a good position, and I am not afraid to say that I
shall be a good husband.«
    »And these qualities that you require - what are they?«
    »Goodness, beauty, intelligence, a fine education, personal elegance -
everything, in a word, that makes a splendid woman.«
    »And noble birth, evidently,« said Bellegarde.
    »Oh, throw that in, by all means, if it's there. The more the better!«
    »And my sister seems to you to have all these things?«
    »She is exactly what I have been looking for. She is my dream realised.«
    »And you would make her a very good husband?«
    »That is what I wanted you to tell her.«
    Bellegarde laid his hand on his companion's arm a moment, looked at him with
his head on one side, from head to foot, and then, with a loud laugh, and
shaking the other hand in the air, turned away. He walked again the length of
the room, and again he came back and stationed himself in front of Newman. »All
this is very interesting - it is very curious. In what I said just now I was
speaking, not for myself, but for my traditions, my superstitions. For myself,
really, your proposal tickles me. It startled me at first, but the more I think
of it the more I see in it. It's no use attempting to explain anything; you
don't understand me. After all, I don't see why you need; it's no great loss.«
    »Oh, if there is anything more to explain, try it! I want to proceed with my
eyes open. I will do my best to understand.«
    »No,« said Bellegarde, »it's disagreeable to me; I give it up. I liked you
the first time I saw you, and I will abide by that. It would be quite odious for
me to come talking to you as if I could patronise you. I have told you before
that I envy you; vous m'imposez, as we say. I didn't know you much until within
five minutes. So we will let things go, and I will say nothing to you that, if
our positions were reversed, you would not say to me.«
    I do not know whether, in renouncing the mysterious opportunity to which he
alluded, Bellegarde felt that he was doing something very generous. If so, he
was not rewarded; his generosity was not appreciated. Newman quite failed to
recognise the young Frenchman's power to wound his feelings, and he had now no
sense of escaping or coming off easily. He did not thank his companion even with
a glance. »My eyes are open, though,« he said, »so far as that you have
practically told me that your family and your friends will turn up their noses
at me. I have never thought much about the reasons that make it proper for
people to turn up their noses, and so I can only decide the question off-hand.
Looking at it in that way I can't see anything in it. I simply think, if you
want to know, that I'm as good as the best. Who the best are, I don't pretend to
say. I have never thought much about that either. To tell the truth, I have
always had rather a good opinion of myself; a man who is successful can't help
it. But I will admit that I was conceited. What I don't say Yes to is that I
don't stand high - as high as any one else. This is a line of speculation I
should not have chosen, but you must remember you began it yourself. I should
never have dreamed that I was on the defensive, or that I had to justify myself;
but if your people will have it so, I will do my best.«
    »But you offered, awhile ago, to make your court, as we say, to my mother
and my brother.«
    »Damn it!« cried Newman, »I want to be polite.«
    »Good!« rejoined Bellegarde; »this will go far, it will be very
entertaining. Excuse my speaking of it in that cold-blooded fashion, but the
matter must, of necessity, be for me something of a spectacle. It's positively
exciting. But apart from that I sympathise with you, and I shall be actor, so
far as I can, as well as spectator. You are a capital fellow; I believe in you
and I back you. The simple fact that you appreciate my sister will serve as the
proof I was asking for. All men are equal - especially men of taste!«
    »Do you think,« asked Newman presently, »that Madame de Cintré is determined
not to marry?«
    »That is my impression. But that is not against you; it's for you to make
her change her mind.«
    »I am afraid it will be hard,« said Newman gravely.
    »I don't think it will be easy. In a general way I don't see why a widow
should ever marry again. She has gained the benefits of matrimony - freedom and
consideration - and she has got rid of the drawbacks. Why should she put her
head into the noose again? Her usual motive is ambition; if a man can offer her
a great position, make her a princess or an ambassadress, she may think the
compensation sufficient.«
    »And - in that way - is Madame de Cintré ambitious?«
    »Who knows?« said Bellegarde, with a profound shrug. »I don't pretend to say
all that she is or all that she is not. I think she might be touched by the
prospect of becoming the wife of a great man. But in a certain way, I believe,
whatever she does will be the improbable. Don't be too confident, but don't
absolutely doubt. Your best chance for success will be precisely in being, to
her mind, unusual, unexpected, original. Don't try to be any one else; be simply
yourself, out and out. Something or other can't fail to come of it; I am very
curious to see what.«
    »I am much obliged to you for your advice,« said Newman. »And,« he added,
with a smile, »I am glad, for your sake, I am going to be so amusing.«
    »It will be more than amusing,« said Bellegarde; »it will be inspiring. I
look at it from my point of view, and you from yours. After all, anything for a
change! And only yesterday I was yawning so as to dislocate my jaw, and
declaring that there was nothing new under the sun! If it isn't new to see you
come into the family as a suitor, I am very much mistaken. Let me say that, my
dear fellow; I won't call it anything else, bad or good; I will simply call it
new.« And overcome with a sense of the novelty thus foreshadowed, Valentin de
Bellegarde threw himself into a deep armchair before the fire, and with a fixed
intense smile, seemed to read a vision of it in the flame of the logs. After
awhile he looked up. »Go ahead, my boy; you have my good wishes,« he said. »But
it is really a pity you don't understand me, that you don't know just what I am
doing.«
    »Oh,« said Newman laughing, »don't do anything wrong. Leave me to myself,
rather, or defy me, out and out. I wouldn't lay any load on your conscience.«
    Bellegarde sprang up again; he was evidently excited; there was a warmer
spark even than usual in his eye. »You never will understand - you never will
know,« he said; »and if you succeed, and I turn out to have helped you, you will
never be grateful, not as I shall deserve you should be. You will be an
excellent fellow always, but you will not be grateful. But it doesn't't matter,
for I shall get my own fun out of it.« And he broke into an extravagant laugh.
»You look puzzled,« he added; »you look almost frightened.«
    »It is a pity,« said Newman, »that I don't understand you. I shall lose some
very good jokes.«
    »I told you, you remember, that we were very strange people,« Bellegarde
went on. »I give you warning again. We are! My mother is strange, my brother is
strange, and I verily believe that I am stranger than either. You will even find
my sister a little strange. Old trees have crooked branches, old houses have
queer cracks, old races have odd secrets. Remember that we are eight hundred
years old!«
    »Very good,« said Newman; »that's the sort of thing I came to Europe for.
You come into my programme.«
    »Touchez-là, then,« said Bellegarde, putting out his hand. »It's a bargain:
I accept you; I espouse your cause. It's because I like you, in a great measure;
but that is not the only reason.« And he stood holding Newman's hand and looking
at him askance.
    »What is the other one?«
    »I am in the Opposition. I dislike someone else.«
    »Your brother?« asked Newman, in his unmodulated voice.
    Bellegarde laid his finger on his lips with a whispered hush! »Old races
have strange secrets!« he said. »Put yourself into motion, come and see my
sister, and be assured of my sympathy!« And on this he took his leave.
    Newman dropped into a chair before his fire, and sat a long time staring
into the blaze.
 

                                   Chapter IX

He went to see Madame de Cintré the next day, and was informed by the servant
that she was at home. He passed as usual up the large cold staircase, and
through a spacious vestibule above, where the walls seemed all composed of small
door panels, touched with long-faded gilding; whence he was ushered into the
sitting-room in which he had already been received. It was empty, and the
servant told him that Madame la Comtesse would presently appear. He had time,
while he waited, to wonder whether Bellegarde had seen his sister since the
evening before, and whether in this case he had spoken to her of their talk. In
this case Madame de Cintré's receiving him was an encouragement. He felt a
certain trepidation as he reflected that she might come in with the knowledge of
his supreme admiration and of the project he had built upon it in her eyes; but
the feeling was not disagreeable. Her face could wear no look that would make it
less beautiful, and he was sure beforehand that however she might take the
proposal he had in reserve, she would not take it in scorn or in irony. He had a
feeling that if she could only read the bottom of his heart, and measure the
extent of his good will toward her, she would be entirely kind.
    She came in at last, after so long an interval that he wondered whether she
had been hesitating. She smiled with her usual frankness, and held out her hand;
she looked at him straight with her soft and luminous eyes, and said, without a
tremor in her voice, that she was glad to see him, and that she hoped he was
well. He found in her what he had found before - that faint perfume of a
personal shyness worn away by contact with the world, but the more perceptible
the more closely you approached her. This lingering diffidence seemed to give a
peculiar value to what was definite and assured in her manner; it made it seem
like an accomplishment, a beautiful talent, something that one might compare to
an exquisite touch in a pianist. It was, in fact, Madame dc Cintré's authority,
as they say of artists, that especially impressed and fascinated Newman; he
always came back to the feeling that when he should complete himself by taking a
wife, that was the way he should like his wife to interpret him to the world.
The only trouble, indeed, was that when the instrument was so perfect it seemed
to interpose too much between you and the genius that used it. Madame de Cintré
gave Newman the sense of an elaborate education, of her having passed through
mysterious ceremonies and processes of culture in her youth, of her having been
fashioned and made flexible to certain exalted social needs. All this, as I have
affirmed, made her seem rare and precious - a very expensive article, as he
would have said, and one which a man with an ambition to have everything about
him of the best would find it highly agreeable to possess. But looking at the
matter with an eye to private felicity, Newman wondered where, in so exquisite a
compound, nature and art showed their dividing line. Where did the special
intention separate from the habit of good manners? Where did urbanity end and
sincerity begin? Newman asked himself these questions even while he stood ready
to accept the admired object in all its complexity; he felt that he could do so
in profound security, and examine its mechanism afterwards, at leisure.
    »I am very glad to find you alone,« he said. »You know I have never had such
good luck before.«
    »But you have seemed before very well contented with your luck,« said Madame
de Cintré. »You have sat and watched my visitors with an air of quiet amusement.
What have you thought of them?«
    »Oh, I have thought the ladies were very elegant and very graceful, and
wonderfully quick at repartee. But what I have chiefly thought has been that
they only help me to admire you.« This was not gallantry on Newman's part - an
art in which he was quite unversed. It was simply the instinct of the practical
man, who had quite made up his mind what he wanted, and was now beginning to
take active steps to obtain it.
    Madame de Cintré started slightly, and raised her eyebrows; she had
evidently not expected so fervid a compliment. »Oh, in that case,« she said,
with a laugh, »your finding me alone is not good luck for me. I hope some one
will come in quickly.«
    »I hope not,« said Newman. »I have something particular to say to you. Have
you seen your brother?«
    »Yes; I saw him an hour ago.«
    »Did he tell you that he had seen me last night?«
    »He said so.«
    »And did he tell you what we had talked about?«
    Madame de Cintré hesitated a moment. As Newman asked these questions she had
grown a little pale, as if she regarded what was coming as necessary, but not as
agreeable. »Did you give him a message to me?« she asked.
    »It was not exactly a message - I asked him to render me a service.«
    »The service was to sing your praises, was it not?« And she accompanied this
question with a little smile, as if to make it easier to herself.
    »Yes, that is what it really amounts to,« said Newman. »Did he sing my
praises?«
    »He spoke very well of you. But when I know that it was by your special
request, of course I must take his eulogy with a grain of salt.«
    »Oh, that makes no difference,« said Newman. »Your brother would not have
spoken well of me unless he believed what he was saying. He is too honest for
that.«
    »Are you very deep?« said Madame de Cintré. »Are you trying to please me by
praising my brother? I confess it is a good way.«
    »For me, any way that succeeds will be good. I will praise your brother all
day, if that will help me. He is a noble little fellow. He has made me feel, in
promising to do what he can to help me, that I can depend upon him.«
    »Don't make too much of that,« said Madame de Cintré. »He can help you very
little.«
    »Of course I must work my way myself. I know that very well; I only want a
chance to. In consenting to see me, after what he told you, you almost seem to
be giving me a chance.«
    »I am seeing you,« said Madame de Cintré, slowly and gravely, »because I
promised my brother I would.«
    »Blessings on your brother's head!« cried Newman. »What I told him last
evening was this: that I admired you more than any woman I had ever seen, and
that I should like immensely to make you my wife.« He uttered these words with
great directness and firmness, and without any sense of confusion. He was full
of his idea, he had completely mastered it, and he seemed to look down on Madame
de Cintré, with all her gathered elegance, from the height of his bracing good
conscience. It is probable that this particular tone and manner were the very
best he could have hit upon. Yet the light, just visibly forced smile, with
which his companion had listened to him died away, and she sat looking at him
with her lips parted and her face as solemn as a tragic mask. There was
evidently something very painful to her in the scene to which he was subjecting
her, and yet her impatience of it found no angry voice. Newman wondered whether
he was hurting her; he could not imagine why the liberal devotion he meant to
express should be disagreeable. He got up and stood before her, leaning one hand
on the chimney-piece. »I know I have seen you very little to say this,« he said,
»so little that it may make what I say seem disrespectful. That is my
misfortune! I could have said it the first time I saw you. Really, I had seen
you before; I had seen you in imagination; you seemed almost an old friend. So
what I say is not mere gallantry and compliments and nonsense - I can't talk
that way, I don't know how, and I wouldn't to you if I could. It's as serious as
such words can be. I feel as if I knew you and knew what a beautiful admirable
woman you are. I shall know better perhaps, some day, but I have a general
notion now. You are just the woman I have been looking for, except that you are
far more perfect. I won't make any protestations and vows, but you can trust me.
It is very soon, I know, to say all this; it is almost offensive. But why not
gain time if one can? And if you want time to reflect - of course you do - the
sooner you begin the better for me. I don't know what you think of me; but there
is no great mystery about me; you see what I am. Your brother told me that my
antecedents and occupations were against me; that your family stands somehow on
a higher level than I do. That is an idea which, of course, I don't understand
and don't accept. But you don't care anything about that. I can assure you that
I am a very solid fellow, and that if I give my mind to it I can arrange things
so that in a very few years I shall not need to waste time in explaining who I
am and what I am. You will decide for yourself whether you like me or not. What
there is you see before you. I honestly believe I have no hidden vices or nasty
tricks. I am kind, kind, kind! Everything that a man can give a woman I will
give you. I have a large fortune, a very large fortune; some day, if you will
allow me, I will go into details. If you want brilliancy, everything in the way
of brilliancy that money can give you, you shall have. And as regards anything
you may give up, don't take for granted too much that its place cannot be
filled. Leave that to me; I'll take care of you; I shall know what you need.
Energy and ingenuity can arrange everything. I'm a strong man! There, I have
said what I had on my heart! It was better to get it off. I am very sorry if
it's disagreeable to you; but think how much better it is that things should be
clear. Don't answer me now, if you don't wish it. Think about it; think about it
as slowly as you please. Of course I hav'n't said, I can't say, half I mean,
especially about my admiration for you. But take a favourable view of me; it
will only be just.«
    During this speech, the longest that Newman had ever made, Madame de Cintré
kept her gaze fixed upon him, and it expanded at the last into a sort of
fascinated stare. When he ceased speaking she lowered her eyes and sat for some
moments looking down and straight before her. Then she slowly rose to her feet,
and a pair of exceptionally keen eyes would have perceived that she was
trembling a little in the movement. She still looked extremely serious. »I am
very much obliged to you for your offer,« she said. »It seems very strange, but
I am glad you spoke without waiting any longer. It is better the subject should
be dismissed. I appreciate all you say; you do me great honour. But I have
decided not to marry.«
    »Oh, don't say that!« cried Newman, in a tone absolutely naïf from its
pleading and caressing cadence. She had turned away, and it made her stop a
moment with her back to him. »Think better of that. You are too young, too
beautiful, too much made to be happy and to make others happy. If you are afraid
of losing your freedom, I can assure you that this freedom here, this life you
now lead, is a dreary bondage to what I will offer you. You shall do things that
I don't think you have ever thought of. I will take you to live anywhere in the
wide world that you propose. Are you unhappy? You give me a feeling that you are
unhappy. You have no right to be, or to be made so. Let me come in and put an
end to it.«
    Madame de Cintré stood there a moment longer, looking away from him. If she
was touched by the way he spoke, the thing was conceivable. His voice, always
very mild and interrogative, gradually became as soft and as tenderly
argumentative as if he had been talking to a much-loved child. He stood watching
her, and she presently turned round again, but this time she did not look at
him, and she spoke with a quietness in which there was a visible trace of
effort.
    »There are a great many reasons why I should not marry,« she said, »more
than I can explain to you. As for my happiness, I am very happy. Your offer
seems strange to me, for more reasons also than I can say. Of course you have a
perfect right to make it. But I cannot accept it - it is impossible. Please
never speak of this matter again. If you cannot promise me this, I must ask you
not to come back.«
    »Why is it impossible?« Newman demanded. »You may think it is, at first,
without its really being so. I didn't expect you to be pleased at first, but I
do believe that if you will think of it a good while, you may be satisfied.«
    »I don't know you,« said Madame de Cintré. »Think how little I know you.«
    »Very little, of course, and therefore I don't ask for your ultimatum on the
spot. I only ask you not to say No, and to let me hope. I will wait as long as
you desire. Meanwhile you can see more of me and know me better, look at me as a
possible husband - as a candidate - and make up your mind.«
    Something was going on, rapidly, in Madame de Cintré's thoughts; she was
weighing a question there, beneath Newman's eyes, weighing it and deciding it.
»From the moment I don't very respectfully beg you to leave the house and never
return,« she said, »I listen to you, I seem to give you hope. I have listened to
you - against my judgment. It is because you are eloquent. If I had been told
this morning that I should consent to consider you as a possible husband, I
should have thought my informant a little crazy. I am listening to you, you
see!« And she threw her hands out for a moment and let them drop with a gesture
in which there was just the slightest expression of appealing weakness.
    »Well, as far as saying goes, I have said everything,« said Newman. »I
believe in you, without restriction, and I think all the good of you that it is
possible to think of a human creature. I firmly believe that in marrying me you
will be safe. As I said just now,« he went on with a smile, »I have no bad ways.
I can do so much for you. And if you are afraid that I am not what you have been
accustomed to, not refined and delicate and punctilious, you may easily carry
that too far. I am delicate! You shall see!«
    Madame de Cintré walked some distance away, and paused before a great plant,
an azalea, which was flourishing in a porcelain tub before her window. She
plucked off one of the flowers and, twisting it in her fingers, retraced her
steps. Then she sat down in silence, and her attitude seemed to be a consent
that Newman should say more.
    »Why should you say it is impossible you should marry?« he continued. »The
only thing that could make it really impossible would be your being already
married. Is it because you have been unhappy in marriage? That is all the more
reason. Is it because your family exert a pressure upon you, interfere with you,
annoy you? That is still another reason; you ought to be perfectly free, and
marriage will make you so. I don't say anything against your family - understand
that!« added Newman, with an eagerness which might have made a perspicacious
observer smile. »Whatever way you feel toward them is the right way, and
anything that you should wish me to do to make myself agreeable to them I will
do as well as I know how. Depend upon that!«
    Madame de Cintré rose again and came toward the fireplace, near which Newman
was standing. The expression of pain and embarrassment had passed out of her
face, and it was illuminated with something which, this time at least, Newman
need not have been perplexed whether to attribute to habit or to intention, to
art or to nature. She had the air of a woman who had stepped across the frontier
of friendship and, looking round her, finds the region vast. A certain checked
and controlled exaltation seemed mingled with the usual level radiance of her
glance. »I will not refuse to see you again,« she said, »because much of what
you have said has given me pleasure. But I will see you only on this condition:
that you say nothing more in the same way for a long time.«
    »For how long?«
    »For six months. It must be a solemn promise.«
    »Very well; I promise.«
    »Good-bye, then,« she said, and extended her hand.
    He held it a moment, as if he were going to say something more. But he only
looked at her; then he took his departure.
    That evening, on the Boulevard, he met Valentin de Bellegarde. After they
had exchanged greetings, Newman told him that he had seen Madame de Cintré a few
hours before.
    »I know it,« said Bellegarde. »I dined in the Rue de l'Université.« And
then, for some moments, both men were silent. Newman wished to ask Bellegarde
what visible impression his visit had made, and the Count Valentin had a
question of his own. Bellegarde spoke first.
    »It's none of my business, but what the deuce did you say to my sister?«
    »I am willing to tell you,« said Newman, »that I made her an offer of
marriage.«
    »Already!« And the young man gave a whistle. »Time is money! Is that what
you say in America? And Madame de Cintré?« he added, with an interrogative
inflection.
    »She did not accept my offer.«
    »She couldn't, you know, in that way.«
    »But I'm to see her again,« said Newman.
    »Oh the strangeness of woman!« exclaimed Bellegarde. Then he stopped, and
held Newman off at arms'-length. »I look at you with respect!« he exclaimed.
»You have achieved what we call a personal success! Immediately, now, I must
present you to my brother.«
    »Whenever you please!« said Newman.
 

                                   Chapter X

Newman continued to see his friends the Tristrams with a good deal of frequency,
though, if you had listened to Mrs. Tristram's account of the matter, you would
have supposed that they had been cynically repudiated for the sake of grander
acquaintance. »We were all very well so long as we had no rivals - we were
better than nothing. But now that you have become the fashion, and have your
pick every day of three invitations to dinner, we are tossed into the corner. I
am sure it is very good of you to come and see us once a month; I wonder you
don't send us your cards in an envelope. When you do, pray have them with black
edges; it will be for the death of my last illusion.« It was in this incisive
strain that Mrs. Tristram moralised over Newman's so-called neglect, which was
in reality a most exemplary constancy. Of course she was joking, but there was
always something ironical in her jokes, as there was always something jocular in
her gravity.
    »I know no better proof that I have treated you very well,« Newman had said,
»than the fact that you make so free with my character. Familiarity breeds
contempt; I have made myself too cheap. If I had a little proper pride I would
stay away awhile, and when vou asked me to dinner say I was going to the
Princess Borealska's. But I have not any pride where my pleasure is concerned,
and to keep you in the humour to see me - if you must see me only to call me bad
names - I will agree to anything you choose; I will admit that I am the biggest
snob in Paris.« Newman, in fact, had declined an invitation personally given by
the Princess Borealska, an inquiring Polish lady to whom he had been presented,
on the ground that on that particular day he always dined at Mrs. Tristram's;
and it was only a tenderly perverse theory of his hostess of the Avenue d'Iéna
that he was faithless to his early friendships. She needed the theory to explain
a certain moral irritation by which she was often visited; though, if this
explanation was unsound, a deeper analyst than I must give the right one. Having
launched our hero upon the current which was bearing him so rapidly along, she
appeared but half-pleased at its swiftness. She had succeeded too well; she had
played her game too cleverly, and she wished to mix up the cards. Newman had
told her, in due season, that her friend was satisfactory. The epithet was not
romantic, but Mrs. Tristram had no difficulty in perceiving that, in essentials,
the feeling which lay beneath it was. Indeed, the mild expansive brevity with
which it was uttered, and a certain look, at once appealing and inscrutable,
that issued from Newman's half-closed eyes as he leaned his head against the
back of his chair, seemed to her the most eloquent attestation of a mature
sentiment that she had ever encountered. Newman was, according to the French
phrase, only abounding in her own sense, but his temperate raptures exerted a
singular effect upon that ardour which she herself had so freely manifested a
few months before. She now seemed inclined to take a purely critical view of
Madame de Cintré, and wished to have it understood that she did not in the least
answer for her being a compendium of all the virtues. »No woman was ever so good
as that woman seems,« she said. »Remember what Shakespeare calls Desdemona: A
supersubtle Venetian. Madame de Cintré is a supersubtle Parisian. She is a
charming woman, and she has five hundred merits; but you had better keep that in
mind.« Was Mrs. Tristram simply finding out that she was jealous of her dear
friend on the other side of the Seine, and that in undertaking to provide Newman
with an ideal wife she had counted too much on her own disinterestedness? We may
be permitted to doubt it. The inconsistent little lady of the Avenue d'Iéna had
an insuperable need of changing her place, intellectually. She had a lively
imagination, and she was capable, at certain times, of imagining the direct
reverse of her most cherished beliefs, with a vividness more intense than that
of conviction. She got tired of thinking aright; but there was no serious harm
in it, as she got equally tired of thinking wrong. In the midst of her
mysterious perversities she had admirable flashes of justice. One of these
occurred when Newman related to her that he had made a formal proposal to Madame
de Cintré. He repeated in a few words what he had said, and in a great many what
she had answered. Mrs. Tristram listened with extreme interest.
    »But after all,« said Newman, »there is nothing to congratulate me upon. It
is not a triumph.«
    »I beg your pardon,« said Mrs. Tristram; »it is a great triumph. It is a
great triumph that she did not silence you at the first word, and request you
never to speak to her again.«
    »I don't see that,« observed Newman.
    »Of course you don't; heaven forbid you should! When I told you to go your
own way and do what came into your head, I had no idea you would go over the
ground so fast. I never dreamed you would offer yourself after five or six
morning-calls. As yet, what had you done to make her like you? You had simply
sat - not very straight - and stared at her. But she does like you.«
    »That remains to be seen.«
    »No, that is proved. What will come of it remains to be seen. That you
should propose to marry her, without more ado, could never have come into her
head. You can form very little idea of what passed through her mind as you
spoke; if she ever really marries you, the affair will be characterised by the
usual justice of all human things towards women. You will think you take
generous views of her; but you will never begin to know through what a strange
sea of feeling she passed before she accepted you. As she stood there in front
of you the other day, she plunged into it. She said, Why not? to something
which, a few hours earlier, had been inconceivable. She turned about on a
thousand gathered prejudices and traditions as on a pivot, and looked where she
had never looked hitherto. When I think of it - when I think of Claire de Cintré
and all that she represents, there seems to me something very fine in it. When I
recommended you to try your fortune with her I of course thought well of you,
and in spite of your sins I think so still. But I confess I don't see quite what
you are and what you have done, to make such a woman do this sort of thing for
you.«
    »Oh, there is something very fine in it!« said Newman, with a laugh,
repeating her words. He took an extreme satisfaction in hearing that there was
something fine in it. He had not the least doubt of it himself, but he had
already begun to value the world's admiration of Madame de Cintré, as adding to
the prospective glory of possession.
    It was immediately after this conversation that Valentin de Bellegarde came
to conduct his friend to the Rue de l'Université to present him to the other
members of his family. »You are already introduced,« he said, »and you have
begun to be talked about. My sister has mentioned your successive visits to my
mother, and it was an accident that my mother was present at none of them. I
have spoken of you as an American of immense wealth, and the best fellow in the
world, who is looking for something very superior in the way of a wife.«
    »Do you suppose,« asked Newman, »that Madame de Cintré has related to your
mother the last conversation I had with her?«
    »I am very certain that she has not; she will keep her own counsel.
Meanwhile you must make your way with the rest of the family. Thus much is known
about you: you have made a great fortune in trade; you are a little eccentric;
and you frankly admire our dear Claire. My sister-in-law, whom you remember
seeing in Madame de Cintré's sitting-room, took, it appears, a fancy to you; she
has described you as having beaucoup de cachet. My mother, therefore, is curious
to see you.«
    »She expects to laugh at me, eh?« said Newman.
    »She never laughs. If she does not like you, don't hope to purchase favour
by being amusing. Take warning by me!«
    This conversation took place in the evening, and half an hour later Valentin
ushered his companion into an apartment of the house of the Rue de l'Université
into which he had not yet penetrated, the salon of the dowager Marquise de
Bellegarde. It was a vast high room, with elaborate and ponderous mouldings,
painted a whitish gray, along the upper portion of the walls and the ceiling;
with a great deal of faded and carefully-repaired tapestry in the doorways and
chair-backs; a Turkey carpet in light colours, still soft and deep, in spite of
great antiquity, on the floor; and portraits of each of Madame de Bellegarde's
children, at the age of ten, suspended against an old screen of red silk. The
room was illumined, exactly enough for conversation, by half-a-dozen candles,
placed in odd corners, at a great distance apart. In a deep armchair, near the
fire, sat an old lady in black; at the other end of the room another person was
seated at the piano, playing a very expressive waltz. In this latter person
Newman recognised the young Marquise de Bellegarde.
    Valentin presented his friend, and Newman walked up to the old lady by the
fire and shook hands with her. He received a rapid impression of a white,
delicate, aged face, with a high forehead, a small mouth, and a pair of cold
blue eyes which had kept much of the freshness of youth. Madame de Bellegarde
looked hard at him, and returned his handshake with a sort of British
positiveness which reminded him that she was the daughter of the Earl of St.
Dunstan's. Her daughter-in-law stopped playing and gave him an agreeable smile.
Newman sat down and looked about him, while Valentin went and kissed the hand of
the young marquise.
    »I ought to have seen you before,« said Madame de Bellegarde. »You have paid
several visits to my daughter.«
    »Oh yes,« said Newman, smiling; »Madame de Cintré and I are old friends by
this time.«
    »You have gone fast,« said Madame de Bellegarde.
    »Not so fast as I should like,« said Newman bravely.
    »Oh, you are very ambitious,« answered the old lady.
    »Yes, I confess I am,« said Newman, smiling.
    Madame de Bellegarde looked at him with her cold fine eyes, and he returned
her gaze, reflecting that she was a possible adversary and trying to take her
measure. Their eyes remained in contact for some moments. Then Madame de
Bellegarde looked away, and without smiling: »I am very ambitious, too,« she
said.
    Newman felt that taking her measure was not easy; she was a formidable,
inscrutable little woman. She resembled her daughter, and yet she was utterly
unlike her. The colouring in Madame de Cintré was the same, and the high
delicacy of her brow and nose was hereditary. But her face was a larger and
freer copy, and her mouth in especial a happy divergence from that conservative
orifice, a little pair of lips at once plump and pinched, that looked, when
closed, as if they could not open wider than to swallow a gooseberry or to emit
an »Oh dear, no!« which probably had been thought to give the finishing touch to
the aristocratic prettiness of the Lady Emmeline Atheling as represented, forty
years before, in several Books of Beauty. Madame de Cintré's face had, to
Newman's eye, a range of expression as delightfully vast as the wind-streaked,
cloud-flecked distance on a Western prairie. But her mother's white, intense,
respectable countenance, with its formal gaze, and its circumscribed smile,
suggested a document signed and sealed; a thing of parchment, ink, and ruled
lines. »She is a woman of conventions and proprieties,« he said to himself as he
looked at her; »her world is the world of things immutably decreed. But how she
is at home in it, and what a paradise she finds it! She walks about in it as if
it were a blooming park, a Garden of Eden; and when she sees This is genteel, or
This is improper, written on a milestone she stops ecstatically, as if she were
listening to a nightingale or smelling a rose.« Madame de Bellegarde wore a
little black velvet hood tied under her chin, and she was wrapped in an old
black cashmere shawl.
    »You are an American?« she said presently. »I have seen several Americans.«
    »There are several in Paris,« said Newman jocosely.
    »Oh, really?« said Madame de Bellegarde. »It was in England I saw these, or
somewhere else; not in Paris. I think it must have been in the Pyrenees, many
years ago. I am told your ladies are very pretty. One of these ladies was very
pretty! such a wonderful complexion! She presented me a note of introduction
from some one - I forget whom - and she sent with it a note of her own. I kept
her letter a long time afterwards, it was so strangely expressed. I used to know
some of the phrases by heart. But I have forgotten them now, it is so many years
ago. Since then I have seen no more Americans. I think my daughter-in-law has;
she is a great gad-about, she sees everyone.«
    At this the young lady came rustling forward, pinching in a very slender
waist, and casting idly preoccupied glances over the front of her dress, which
was apparently designed for a ball. She was, in a singular way, at once ugly and
pretty; she had protuberant eyes, and lips that were strangely red. She reminded
Newman of his friend, Mademoiselle Nioche; this was what that much-obstructed
young lady would have liked to be. Valentin de Bellegarde walked behind her at a
distance, hopping about to keep off the far-spreading train of her dress.
    »You ought to show more of your shoulders behind,« he said, very gravely.
»You might as well wear a standing ruff as such a dress as that.«
    The young woman turned her back to the mirror over the chimney-piece, and
glanced behind her, to verify Valentin's assertion. The mirror descended low,
and yet it reflected nothing but a large unclad flesh surface. The young
marquise put her hands behind her and gave a downward pull to the waist of her
dress. »Like that, you mean?« she asked.
    »That is a little better,« said Bellegarde, in the same tone, »but it leaves
a good deal to be desired.«
    »Oh, I never go to extremes,« said his sister-in-law. And then, turning to
Madame de Bellegarde: »What were you calling me just now, madame?«
    »I called you a gad-about,« said the old lady. »But I might call you
something else, too.«
    »A gad-about? What an ugly word! What does it mean?«
    »A very beautiful person,« Newman ventured to say, seeing that it was in
French.
    »That is a pretty compliment but a bad translation,« said the young
marquise. And then, looking at him a moment: »Do you dance?«
    »Not a step.«
    »You are very wrong,« she said simply. And with another look at her back in
the mirror she turned away.
    »Do you like Paris?« asked the old lady, who was apparently wondering what
was the proper way to talk to an American.
    »Yes, rather,« said Newman. And then he added, with a friendly intonation:
»Don't you?«
    »I can't say I know it. I know my house - I know my friends - I don't know
Paris.«
    »Oh, you lose a great deal,« said Newman sympathetically.
    Madame de Bellegarde stared; it was presumably the first time she had been
condoled with on her losses.
    »I am content with what I have,« she said, with dignity.
    Newman's eyes, at this moment, were wandering round the room, which struck
him as rather sad and shabby; passing from the high casements, with their small
thickly-framed panes, to the sallow tints of two or three portraits in pastel,
of the last century, which hung between them. He ought obviously to have
answered that the contentment of his hostess was quite natural - she had a great
deal; but the idea did not occur to him during the pause of some moments which
followed.
    »Well, my dear mother,« said Valentin, coming and leaning against the
chimney-piece, »what do you think of my dear friend Newman? Is he not the
excellent fellow I told you?«
    »My acquaintance with Mr. Newman has not gone very far,« said Madame de
Bellegarde. »I can as yet only appreciate his great politeness.«
    »My mother is a great judge of these matters,« said Valentin to Newman. »If
you have satisfied her, it is a triumph.«
    »I hope I shall satisfy you, some day,« said Newman, looking at the old
lady. »I have done nothing yet.«
    »You must not listen to my son; he will bring you into trouble. He is a sad
scatterbrain.«
    »Oh, I like him - I like him,« said Newman genially.
    »He amuses you, eh?«
    »Yes, perfectly.«
    »Do you hear that, Valentin?« said Madame de Bellegarde. »You amuse Mr.
Newman.«
    »Perhaps we shall all come to that!« Valentin exclaimed.
    »You must see my other son,« said Madame de Bellegarde. »He is much better
than this one. But he will not amuse you.«
    »I don't know - I don't know!« murmured Valentin reflectively. »But we shall
very soon see. Here comes Monsieur mon frère.«
    The door had just opened to give ingress to a gentleman who stepped forward
and whose face Newman remembered. He had been the author of our hero's
discomfiture the first time he tried to present himself to Madame de Cintré.
Valentin de Bellegarde went to meet his brother, looked at him a moment, and
then, taking him by the arm, led him up to Newman.
    »This is my excellent friend Mr. Newman,« he said very blandly. »You must
know him.«
    »I am delighted to know Mr. Newman,« said the marquis, with a low bow, but
without offering his hand.
    »He is the old woman at second-hand,« Newman said to himself, as he returned
M. de Bellegarde's greeting. And this was the starting-point of a speculative
theory, in his mind, that the late marquis had been a very amiable foreigner,
with an inclination to take life easily and a sense that it was difficult for
the husband of the stilted little lady by the fire to do so. But if he had taken
little comfort in his wife he had taken much in his two younger children, who
were after his own heart, while Madame de Bellegarde had paired with her
eldest-born.
    »My brother has spoken to me of you,« said M. de Bellegarde; »and as you are
also acquainted with my sister, it was time we should meet.« He turned to his
mother and gallantly bent over her hand, touching it with his lips, and then he
assumed an attitude before the chimney-piece. With his long lean face, his
high-bridged nose, and his small opaque eyes, he looked much like an Englishman.
His whiskers were fair and glossy, and he had a large dimple, of unmistakable
British origin, in the middle of his handsome chin. He was distinguished to the
tips of his polished nails, and there was not a movement of his fine
perpendicular person that was not noble and majestic. Newman had never yet been
confronted with such an incarnation of the art of taking oneself seriously; he
felt a sort of impulse to step backward, as you do to get a view of a great
façade.
    »Urbain,« said young Madame de Bellegarde, who had apparently been waiting
for her husband to take her to her ball, »I call your attention to the fact that
I am dressed.«
    »That is a good idea,« murmured Valentin.
    »I am at your orders, my dear friend,« said M. de Bellegarde. »Only, you
must allow me first the pleasure of a little conversation with Mr. Newman.«
    »Oh, if you are going to a party, don't let me keep you,« objected Newman.
»I am very sure we shall meet again. Indeed, if you would like to converse with
me I will gladly name an hour.« He was eager to make it known that he would
readily answer all questions and satisfy all exactions.
    M. de Bellegarde stood in a well-balanced position before the fire,
caressing one of his fair whiskers with one of his white hands, and looking at
Newman, half askance, with eyes from which a particular ray of observation made
its way through a general meaningless smile. »It is very kind of you to make
such an offer,« he said. »If I am not mistaken, your occupations are such as to
make your time precious. You are in - a - as we say, dans les affaires.«
    »In business, you mean? Oh no, I have thrown business overboard for the
present. I am loafing, as we say. My time is quite my own.«
    »Ah, you are taking a holiday,« rejoined M. de Bellegarde. »Loafing. Yes, I
have heard that expression.«
    »Mr. Newman is American,« said Madame de Bellegarde.
    »My brother is a great ethnologist,« said Valentin.
    »An ethnologist?« said Newman. »Ah, you collect Negroes' skulls, and that
sort of thing.«
    The marquis looked hard at his brother, and began to caress his other
whisker. Then, turning to Newman, with sustained urbanity: »You are travelling
for your pleasure?« he asked.
    »Oh, I am knocking about to pick up one thing and another. Of course I get a
good deal of pleasure out of it.«
    »What especially interests you?« inquired the marquis.
    »Well, everything interests me,« said Newman. »I am not particular.
Manufactures are what I care most about.«
    »That has been your specialty?«
    »I can't say I have had any specialty. My specialty has been to make the
largest possible fortune in the shortest possible time« Newman made this last
remark very deliberately; he wished to open the way, if it were necessary, to an
authoritative statement of his means.
    M. de Bellegarde laughed agreeably. »I hope you have succeeded,« he said.
    »Yes, I have made a fortune in a reasonable time. I am not so old, you see.«
    »Paris is a very good place to spend a fortune. I wish you great enjoyment
of yours.« And M. de Bellegarde drew forth his gloves and began to put them on.
    Newman for a few moments watched him sliding his white hands into the white
kid, and as he did so his feelings took a singular turn. M. de Bellegarde's good
wishes seemed to descend out of the white expanse of his sublime serenity with
the soft scattered movement of a shower of snow-flakes. Yet Newman was not
irritated; he did not feel that he was being patronised; he was conscious of no
especial impulse to introduce a discord into so noble a harmony. Only he felt
himself suddenly in personal contact with the forces with which his friend
Valentin had told him that he would have to contend, and he became sensible of
their intensity. He wished to make some answering manifestations, to stretch
himself out at his own length, to sound a note at the uttermost end of his
scale. It must be added that if this impulse was not vicious or malicious, it
was by no means void of humorous expectancy. Newman was quite as ready to give
play to that loosely-adjusted smile of his, if his hosts should happen to be
shocked, as he was far from deliberately planning to shock them.
    »Paris is a very good place for idle people,« he said, »or it is a very good
place if your family has been settled here for a long time, and you have made
acquaintances and got your relations round you; or if you have got a big house
like this, and a wife and children and mother and sister, and everything
comfortable. I don't like that way of living all in rooms next door to each
other. But I am not an idler. I try to be, but I can't manage it; it goes
against the grain. My business habits are too deep-seated. Then, I hav'n't any
house to call my own, or anything in the way of a family. My sisters are five
thousand miles away, my mother died when I was a youngster, and I hav'n't any
wife; I wish I had! So, you see, I don't exactly know what to do with myself. I
am not fond of books, as you are, sir, and I get tired of dining out and going
to the opera. I miss my business activity. You see, I began to earn my living
when I was almost a baby, and until a few months ago I have never had my hand
off the plow. Elegant leisure comes hard.«
    This speech was followed by a profound silence of some moments, on the part
of Newman's entertainers. Valentin stood looking at him fixedly, with his hands
in his pockets, and then he slowly, with a half-sidling motion, went out of the
room. The marquis continued to draw on his gloves and to smile benignantly.
    »You began to earn your living when you were a mere baby?« said the
marquise.
    »Hardly more - a small boy.«
    »You say you are not fond of books,« said M. de Bellegarde; »but you must do
yourself the justice to remember that your studies were interrupted early.«
    »That is very true; on my tenth birthday I stopped going to school. I
thought it was a grand way to keep it. But I picked up some information
afterwards,« said Newman, reassuringly.
    »You have some sisters?« asked old Madame de Bellegarde.
    »Yes, two sisters. Splendid women!«
    »I hope that for them the hardships of life commenced less early.«
    »They married very early, if you call that a hardship, as girls do in our
Western country. One of them is married to the owner of the largest india-rubber
house in the West.«
    »Ah, you make houses also of india-rubber?« inquired the marquise.
    »You can stretch them as your family increases,« said young Madame de
Bellegarde, who was muffling herself in a long white shawl.
    Newman indulged in a burst of hilarity, and explained that the house in
which his brother-in-law lived was a large wooden structure, but that he
manufactured and sold india-rubber on a colossal scale.
    »My children have some little india-rubber shoes which they put on when they
go to play in the Tuileries in damp weather,« said the young marquise. »I wonder
whether your brother-in-law made them?«
    »Very likely,« said Newman; »if he did, you may be very sure that they are
well made.«
    »Well, you must not be discouraged,« said M. de Bellegarde, with vague
urbanity.
    »Oh, I don't mean to be. I have a project which gives me plenty to think
about, and that is an occupation.« And then Newman was silent a moment,
hesitating, yet thinking rapidly; he wished to make his point, and yet to do so
forced him to speak out in a way that was disagreeable to him. »Nevertheless,«
he continued, addressing himself to old Madame de Bellegarde, »I will tell you
my project; perhaps you can help me. I want to take a wife.«
    »It is a very good project, but I am no matchmaker,« said the old lady.
    Newman looked at her an instant, and then, with perfect sincerity: »I should
have thought you were,« he declared.
    Madame de Bellegarde appeared to think him too sincere. She murmured
something sharply in French, and fixed her eyes on her son. At this moment the
door of the room was thrown open, and with a rapid step Valentin reappeared.
    »I have a message for you,« he said to his sister-in-law. »Claire bids me to
request you not to start for your ball. She will go with you.«
    »Claire will go with us!« cried the young marquise. »En voilà, du nouveau!«
    »She has changed her mind; she decided half an hour ago, and she is sticking
the last diamond into her hair!« said Valentin.
    »What has taken possession of my daughter?« demanded Madame de Bellegarde
sternly. »She has not been into the world these three years. Does she take such
a step at half-an-hour's notice and without consulting me?«
    »She consulted me, dear mother, five minutes since,« said Valentin, »and I
told her that such a beautiful woman - she is beautiful, you will see - had no
right to bury herself alive.«
    »You should have referred Claire to her mother, my brother,« said M. de
Bellegarde, in French. »This is very strange.«
    »I refer her to the whole company!« said Valentin. »Here she comes!« and he
went to the open door, met Madame de Cintré on the threshold, took her by the
hand, and led her into the room. She was dressed in white; but a long blue
cloak, which hung almost to her feet, was fastened across her shoulders by a
silver clasp. She had tossed it back, however, and her long white arms were
uncovered. In her dense fair hair there glittered a dozen diamonds. She looked
serious and, Newman thought, rather pale; but she glanced round her, and, when
she saw him, smiled and put out her hand. He thought her tremendously handsome.
He had a chance to look at her full in the face, for she stood a moment in the
centre of the room, hesitating, apparently, what she should do, without meeting
his eyes. Then she went up to her mother, who sat in her deep chair by the fire,
looking at Madame de Cintré almost fiercely. With her back turned to the others,
Madame de Cintré held her cloak apart to show her dress.
    »What do you think of me?« she asked.
    »I think you are audacious,« said the marquise. »It was but three days ago,
when I asked you, as a particular favour to myself, to go to the Duchess de
Lusignan's, that you told me you were going nowhere, and that one must be
consistent. Is this your consistency? Why should you distinguish Madame
Robineau? Who is it you wish to please to-night?«
    »I wish to please myself, dear mother,« said Madame de Cintré. And she bent
over and kissed the old lady.
    »I don't like surprises, my sister,« said Urbain de Bellegarde; »especially
when one is on the point of entering a drawing-room.«
    Newman at this juncture felt inspired to speak. »Oh, if you are going into a
room with Madame de Cintré, you needn't be afraid of being noticed yourself!«
    M. de Bellegarde turned to his sister with a smile too intense to be easy.
»I hope you appreciate a compliment that is paid you at your brother's expense,«
he said. »Come, come, madam.« And offering Madame de Cintré his arm he led her
rapidly out of the room. Valentin rendered the same service to young Madame de
Bellegarde, who had apparently been reflecting on the fact that the ball-dress
of her sister-in-law was much less brilliant than her own, and yet had failed to
derive absolute comfort from the reflection. With a farewell smile she sought
the complement of her consolation in the eyes of the American visitor, and
perceiving in them a certain mysterious brilliancy, it is not improbable that
she may have flattered herself she had found it.
    Newman, left alone with old Madame de Bellegarde, stood before her a few
moments in silence. »Your daughter is very beautiful,« he said, at last.
    »She is very strange,« said Madame de Bellegarde.
    »I am glad to hear it,« Newman rejoined, smiling. »It makes me hope.«
    »Hope what?«
    »That she will consent, some day, to marry me.«
    The old lady rose slowly to her feet. »That really is your project, then?«
    »Yes; will you favour it?«
    »Favour it?« Madame de Bellegarde looked at him a moment and then shook her
head. »No!« she said softly.
    »Will you suffer it then? Will you let it pass?«
    »You don't know what you ask, I am a very proud and meddlesome old woman.«
    »Well, I am very rich,« said Newman.
    Madame de Bellegarde fixed her eyes on the floor, and Newman thought it
probable she was weighing the reasons in favour of resenting the brutality of
this remark. But at last looking up, she said simply: »How rich?«
    Newman expressed his income in a round number which had the magnificent
sound that large aggregations of dollars put on when they are translated into
francs. He added a few remarks of a financial character, which completed a
sufficiently striking presentment of his resources.
    Madame de Bellegarde listened in silence. »You are very frank,« she said
finally. »I will be the same. I would rather favour you, on the whole, than
suffer you. It will be easier.«
    »I am thankful for any terms,« said Newman. »But, for the present, you have
suffered me long enough. Good night!« And he took his leave.
 

                                   Chapter XI

Newman, on his return to Paris, had not resumed the study of French conversation
with M. Nioche; he found that he had too many other uses for his time. M.
Nioche, however, came to see him very promptly, having learned his whereabouts
by a mysterious process to which his patron never obtained the key. The shrunken
little capitalist repeated his visit more than once. He seemed oppressed by a
humiliating sense of having been overpaid, and wished apparently to redeem his
debt by the offer of grammatical and statistical information in small
instalments. He wore the same decently melancholy aspect as a few months before;
a few months more or less of brushing could make little difference in the
antique lustre of his coat and hat. But the poor old man's spirit was a trifle
more threadbare; it seemed to have received some hard rubs during the summer.
Newman inquired with interest about Mademoiselle Noémie; and M. Nioche, at
first, for answer, simply looked at him in lachrymose silence.
    »Don't ask me, sir,« he said at last. »I sit and watch her, but I can do
nothing.«
    »Do you mean that she misconducts herself?«
    »I don't know, I am sure. I can't follow her. I don't understand her. She
has something in her head; I don't know what she is trying to do. She is too
deep for me.«
    »Does she continue to go to the Louvre? Has she made any of those copies for
me?«
    »She goes to the Louvre, but I see nothing of the copies. She has something
on her easel; I suppose it is one of the pictures you ordered. Such a
magnificent order ought to give her fairy-fingers. But she is not in earnest. I
can't say anything to her; I am afraid of her. One evening, last summer, when I
took her to walk in the Champs Élysées, she said some things to me that
frightened me.«
    »What were they?«
    »Excuse an unhappy father from telling you,« said M. Nioche, unfolding his
calico pocket-handkerchief.
    Newman promised himself to pay Mademoiselle Noémie another visit at the
Louvre. He was curious about the progress of his copies, but it must be added
that he was still more curious about the progress of the young lady herself. He
went one afternoon to the great museum, and wandered through several of the
rooms in fruitless quest of her. He was bending his steps to the long hall of
the Italian masters, when suddenly he found himself face to face with Valentin
de Bellegarde. The young Frenchman greeted him with ardour, and assured him that
he was a godsend. He himself was in the worst of humours and he wanted someone
to contradict.
    »In a bad humour among all these beautiful things?« said Newman. »I thought
you were so fond of pictures, especially the old black ones. There are two or
three here that ought to keep you in spirits.«
    »Oh, to-day,« answered Valentin, »I am not in a mood for pictures, and the
more beautiful they are the less I like them. Their great staring eyes and fixed
positions irritate me. I feel as if I were at some big dull party, in a room
full of people I shouldn't wish to speak to. What should I care for their
beauty? It's a bore, and, worse still, it's a reproach. I have a great many
ennuis; I feel vicious.«
    »If the Louvre has so little comfort for you, why in the world did you come
here?« Newman asked.
    »That is one of my ennuis. I came to meet my cousin - a dreadful English
cousin, a member of my mother's family - who is in Paris for a week for her
husband, and who wishes me to point out the principal beauties. Imagine a woman
who wears a green crape bonnet in December and has straps sticking out of the
ankles of her interminable boots! My mother begged I would do something to
oblige them. I have undertaken to play valet de place this afternoon. They were
to have met me here at two o'clock, and I have been waiting for them twenty
minutes. Why doesn't't she arrive? She has at least a pair of feet to carry her. I
don't know whether to be furious at their playing me false, or delighted to have
escaped them.«
    »I think in your place I would be furious,« said Newman, »because they may
arrive yet, and then your fury will still be of use to you. Whereas if you were
delighted and they were afterwards to turn up, you might not know what to do
with your delight.«
    »You give me excellent advice, and I already feel better. I will be furious;
I will let them go to the deuce and I myself will go with you - unless by chance
you too have a rendezvous.«
    »It is not exactly a rendezvous,« said Newman. »But I have in fact come to
see a person, not a picture.«
    »A woman, presumably?«
    »A young lady.«
    »Well,« said Valentin, »I hope for you with all my heart that she is not
clothed in green tulle and that her feet are not too much out of focus.«
    »I don't know much about her feet, but she has very pretty hands.«
    Valentin gave a sigh. »And on that assurance I must part with you?«
    »I am not certain of finding my young lady,« said Newman, »and I am not
quite prepared to lose your company on the chance. It does not strike me as
particularly desirable to introduce you to her, and yet I should rather like to
have your opinion of her.«
    »Is she pretty?«
    »I guess you will think so.«
    Bellegarde passed his arm into that of his companion. »Conduct me to her on
the instant! I should be ashamed to make a pretty woman wait for my verdict.«
    Newman suffered himself to be gently propelled in the direction in which he
had been walking, but his step was not rapid. He was turning something over in
his mind. The two men passed into the long gallery of the Italian masters, and
Newman, after having scanned for a moment its brilliant vista, turned aside into
the smaller apartment devoted to the same school, on the left. It contained very
few persons, but at the farther end of it sat Mademoiselle Nioche, before her
easel. She was not at work; her palette and brushes had been laid down beside
her, her hands were folded in her lap, and she was leaning back in her chair and
looking intently at two ladies on the other side of the hall, who, with their
backs turned to her, had stopped before one of the pictures. These ladies were
apparently persons of high fashion; they were dressed with great splendour, and
their long silken trains and furbelows were spread over the polished floor. It
was at their dresses Mademoiselle Noémie was looking, though what she was
thinking of I am unable to say. I hazard the supposition that she was saying to
herself that to be able to drag such a train over a polished floor was a
felicity worth any price. Her reflections, at any rate, were disturbed by the
advent of Newman and his companion. She glanced at them quickly, and then,
colouring a little, rose and stood before her easel.
    »I came here on purpose to see you,« said Newman in his bad French, offering
to shake hands. And then, like a good American, he introduced Valentin formally:
»Allow me to make you acquainted with the Comte Valentin de Bellegarde.«
    Valentin made a bow which must have seemed to Mademoiselle Noémie quite in
harmony with the impressiveness of his title, but the graceful brevity of her
own response made no concession to underbred surprise. She turned to Newman,
putting up her hands to her hair and smoothing its delicately-felt roughness.
Then, rapidly, she turned the canvas that was on her easel over upon its face.
»You have not forgotten me?« she asked.
    »I shall never forget you,« said Newman. »You may be sure of that.«
    »Oh,« said the young girl, »there are a great many different ways of
remembering a person.« And she looked straight at Valentin de Bellegarde, who
was looking at her as a gentleman may when a verdict is expected of him.
    »Have you painted anything for me?« said Newman. »Have you been
industrious?«
    »No, I have done nothing.« And taking up her palette, she began to mix her
colours at hazard.
    »But your father tells me you have come here constantly.«
    »I have nowhere else to go! Here, all summer, it was cool, at least.«
    »Being here, then,« said Newman, »you might have tried something.«
    »I told you before,« she answered softly, »that I don't know how to paint.«
    »But you have something charming on your easel, now,« said Valentin, »if you
would only let me see it.«
    She spread out her two hands, with the fingers expanded, over the back of
the canvas - those hands which Newman had called pretty, and which, in spite of
several paint-stains, Valentin could now admire. »My painting is not charming,«
she said.
    »It is the only thing about you that is not, then, mademoiselle,« quoth
Valentin gallantly.
    She took up her little canvas and silently passed it to him. He looked at
it, and in a moment she said, »I am sure you are a judge.«
    »Yes,« he answered, »I am.«
    »You know, then, that that is very bad.«
    »Mon Dieu!« said Valentin, shrugging his shoulders, »let us distinguish.«
    »You know that I ought not to attempt to paint,« the young girl continued.
    »Frankly, then, mademoiselle, I think you ought not.«
    She began to look at the dresses of the two splendid ladies again - a point
on which, having risked one conjecture, I think I may risk another. While she
was looking at the ladies she was seeing Valentin de Bellegarde. He, at all
events, was seeing her. He put down the roughly-besmeared canvas and addressed a
little click with his tongue, accompanied by an elevation of the eyebrows, to
Newman.
    »Where have you been all these months?« asked Mademoiselle Noémie of our
hero. »You took those great journeys, you amused yourself well?«
    »Oh yes,« said Newman, »I amused myself well enough.«
    »I am very glad,« said Mademoiselle Noémie with extreme gentleness; and she
began to dabble in her colours again. She was singularly pretty, with the look
of serious sympathy that she threw into her face.
    Valentin took advantage of her downcast eyes to telegraph again to his
companion. He renewed his mysterious physiognomical play, making at the same
time a rapid tremulous movement in the air with his fingers. He was evidently
finding Mademoiselle Noémie extremely interesting; the blue devils had departed,
leaving the field clear.
    »Tell me something about your travels,« murmured the young girl.
    »Oh, I went to Switzerland - to Geneva, and Zermatt, and Zürich, and all
those places, you know; and down to Venice, and all through Germany, and down
the Rhine, and into Holland and Belgium - the regular round. How do you say that
in French - the regular round?« Newman asked of Valentin.
    Mademoiselle Nioche fixed her eyes an instant on Bellegarde, and then with a
little smile: »I don't understand, monsieur,« she said, »when he says so much at
once. Would you be so good as to translate?«
    »I would rather talk to you out of my own head«, Valentin declared.
    »No,« said Newman gravely, still in his bad French, »you must not talk to
Mademoiselle Nioche, because you say discouraging things. You ought to tell her
to work, to persevere.«
    »And we French, mademoiselle,« said Valentin, »are accused of being false
flatterers!«
    »I don't want any flattery, I want only the truth. But I know the truth.«
    »All I say is that I suspect there are some things that you can do better
than paint,« said Valentin.
    »I know the truth - I know the truth,« Mademoiselle Noémie repeated. And,
dipping a brush into a clot of red paint, she drew a great horizontal daub
across her unfinished picture.
    »What is that?« asked Newman.
    Without answering, she drew another long crimson daub, in a vertical
direction, down the middle of her canvas, and so, in a moment, completed the
rough indication of a cross. »It is the sign of the truth,« she said at last.
    The two men looked at each other, and Valentin indulged in another flash of
physiognomical eloquence. »You have spoiled your picture,« said Newman.
    »I know that very well. It was the only thing to do with it. I had sat
looking at it all day without touching it. I had begun to hate it. It seemed to
me something was going to happen.«
    »I like it better that way than as it was before,« said Valentin. »Now it is
more interesting. It tells a story. Is it for sale, mademoiselle?«
    »Everything I have is for sale,« said Mademoiselle Noémie.
    »How much is this thing?«
    »Ten thousand francs,« said the young girl, without a smile.
    »Everything that Mademoiselle Nioche may do at present is mine in advance,«
said Newman. »It makes part of an order I gave her some months ago. So you can't
have this.«
    »Monsieur will lose nothing by it,« said the young girl, looking at
Valentin. And she began to put up her utensils.
    »I shall have gained a charming memory,« said Valentin. »You are going away?
your day is over?«
    »My father is coming to fetch me,« said Mademoiselle Noémie.
    She had hardly spoken when, through the door behind her, which opens on one
of the great white stone staircases of the Louvre, M. Nioche made his
appearance. He came in with his usual patient shuffle, and he made a low salute
to the two gentlemen who were standing before his daughter's easel. Newman shook
his hand with muscular friendliness, and Valentin returned his greeting with
extreme deference. While the old man stood waiting for Noémie to make a parcel
of her implements, he let his mild oblique gaze hover towards Bellegarde, who
was watching Mademoiselle Noémie put on her bonnet and mantle. Valentin was at
no pains to disguise his scrutiny. He looked at a pretty girl as he would have
listened to a piece of music. Attention, in each case, was simple good manners.
M. Nioche at last took his daughter's paint-box in one hand and the bedaubed
canvas, after giving it a solemn puzzled stare, in the other, and led the way to
the door. Mademoiselle Noémie made the young men the salute of a duchess, and
followed her father.
    »Well,« said Newman, »what do you think of her?«
    »She is very remarkable. Diable, diable, diable!« repeated M. de Bellegarde,
reflectively; »she is very remarkable.«
    »I am afraid she is a sad little adventuress,« said Newman.
    »Not a little one - a great one. She has the material.« And Valentin began
to walk away slowly, looking vaguely at the pictures on the walls, with a
thoughtful illumination in his eye. Nothing could have appealed to his
imagination more than the possible adventures of a young lady endowed with the
material of Mademoiselle Nioche. »She is very interesting,« he went on. »She is
a beautiful type.«
    »A beautiful type? What the deuce do you mean?« asked Newman.
    »I mean from the artistic point of view. She is an artist - outside of her
painting, which obviously is execrable.«
    »But she is not beautiful. I don't even think her very pretty.«
    »She is quite pretty enough for her purposes, and it is a face and figure in
which everything tells. If she were prettier she would be less intelligent, and
her intelligence is half of her charm.«
    »In what way,« asked Newman, who was much amused at his companion's
immediate philosophisation of Mademoiselle Nioche, »does her intelligence strike
you as so remarkable?«
    »She has taken the measure of life, and she has determined to be something -
to succeed at any cost. Her painting, of course, is a mere trick to gain time.
She is waiting for her chance; she wishes to launch herself, and to do it well.
She knows her Paris. She is one of fifty thousand, so far as the mere ambition
goes; but I am very sure that in the way of resolution and capacity she is a
rarity. And in one gift - perfect heartlessness - I will warrant she is
unsurpassed. She has not as much heart as will go on the point of a needle. That
is an immense virtue. Yes, she is one of the celebrities of the future.«
    »Heaven help us!« said Newman, »how far the artistic point of view may take
a man! But in this case I must request that you don't let it take you too far.
You have learned a wonderful deal about Mademoiselle Noémie in a quarter of an
hour. Let that suffice; don't follow up your researches.«
    »My dear fellow,« cried Bellegarde, with warmth, »I hope I have too good
manners to intrude.«
    »You are not intruding. The girl is nothing to me. In fact, I rather dislike
her. But I like her poor old father, and for his sake I beg you to abstain from
any attempt to verify your theories.«
    »For the sake of that seedy old gentleman who came to fetch her?« demanded
Valentin, stopping short. And on Newman's assenting, »Ah no, ah no,« he went on
with a smile. »You are quite wrong, my dear fellow; you needn't mind him.«
    »I verily believe that you are accusing the poor gentleman of being capable
of rejoicing in his daughter's dishonour.«
    »Voyons!« said Valentin; »who is he? what is he?«
    »He is what he looks like: as poor as a rat, but very high-toned.«
    »Exactly. I noticed him perfectly; be sure I do him justice. He has had
losses, des malheurs, as we say. He is very low-spirited, and his daughter is
too much for him. He is the pink of respectability, and he has sixty years of
honesty on his back. All this I perfectly appreciate. But I know my fellow-men
and my fellow-Parisians, and I will make a bargain with you.« Newman gave ear to
his bargain and he went on. »He would rather his daughter were a good girl than
a bad one, but if the worst comes to the worst, the old man will not do what
Virginius did. Success justifies everything. If Mademoiselle Noémie makes a
figure, her papa will feel - well, we will call it relieved. And she will make a
figure. The old gentleman's future is assured.«
    »I don't know what Virginius did, but M. Nioche will shoot Miss Noémie,«
said Newman. »After that, I suppose his future will be assured in some snug
prison.«
    »I am not a cynic; I am simply an observer,« Valentin rejoined.
»Mademoiselle Noémie interests me; she is extremely remarkable. If there is a
good reason, in honour or decency, for dismissing her from my thoughts forever,
I am perfectly willing to do it. Your estimate of the papa's sensibilities is a
good reason until it is invalidated. I promise you not to look at the young girl
again until you tell me that you have changed your mind about the papa. When he
has given distinct proof of being a philosopher, you will raise your interdict.
Do you agree to that?«
    »Do you mean to bribe him?«
    »Oh, you admit, then, that he is bribable? No, he would ask too much, and it
would not be exactly fair. I mean simply to wait. You will continue, I suppose,
to see this interesting couple, and you will give me the news yourself.«
    »Well,« said Newman, »if the old man turns out a humbug, you may do what you
please. I wash my hands of the matter.«
    »For the girl herself, you may be at rest. I don't know what harm she may do
to me, but I certainly can't hurt her.«
    »It seems to me,« said Newman, »that you are very well matched. You are both
hard cases, and M. Nioche and I, I believe, are the only virtuous men to be
found in Paris.«
    Soon after this M. de Bellegarde, in punishment for his levity, received a
stern poke in the back from a pointed instrument. Turning quickly round he found
the weapon to be a parasol wielded by a lady in a green gauze bonnet. Valentin's
English cousins had been drifting about unpiloted, and evidently deemed that
they had a grievance. Newman left him to their mercies, but with a boundless
faith in his power to plead his cause.
 

                                  Chapter XII

Three days after his introduction to the family of Madame de Cintré, Newman,
coming in toward evening, found upon his table the card of the Marquis de
Bellegarde. On the following day he received a note informing him that the
Marquise de Bellegarde would be grateful for the honour of his company at
dinner.
    He went, of course, though he had to break another engagement to do it. He
was ushered into the room in which Madame de Bellegarde had received him before,
and here he found his venerable hostess, surrounded by her entire family. The
room was lighted only by the crackling fire, which illumined the very small pink
slippers of a lady who, seated in a low chair, was stretching out her toes
before it. This lady was the younger Madame de Bellegarde. Madame de Cintré was
seated at the other end of the room, holding a little girl against her knee, the
child of her brother Urbain, to whom she was apparently relating a wonderful
story. Valentin was sitting on a puff close to his sister-in-law, into whose ear
he was certainly distilling the finest nonsense. The marquis was stationed
before the fire, with his head erect and his hands behind him, in an attitude of
formal expectancy.
    Old Madame de Bellegarde stood up to give Newman her greeting, and there was
that in the way she did so which seemed to measure narrowly the extent of her
condescension. »We are all alone, you see; we have asked no one else,« she said
austerely.
    »I am very glad you didn't; this is much more sociable,« said Newman. »Good
evening, sir,« and he offered his hand to the marquis.
    M. de Bellegarde was affable, but in spite of his dignity he was restless.
He began to pace up and down the room, he looked out of the long windows, he
took up books and laid them down again. Young Madame de Bellegarde gave Newman
her hand without moving and without looking at him.
    »You may think that is coldness,« exclaimed Valentin; »but it is not, it is
warmth. It shows she is treating you as an intimate. Now she detests me, and yet
she is always looking at me.«
    »No wonder I detest you if I am always looking at you!« cried the lady. »If
Mr. Newman does not like my way of shaking hands, I will do it again.«
    But this charming privilege was lost upon our hero, who was already making
his way across the room to Madame de Cintré. She looked at him as she shook
hands, but she went on with the story she was telling her little niece. She had
only two or three phrases to add, but they were apparently of great moment. She
deepened her voice, smiling as she did so, and the little girl gazed at her with
round eyes.
    »But in the end the young prince married the beautiful Florabella,« said
Madame de Cintré, »and carried her off to live with him in the Land of the Pink
Sky. There she was so happy that she forgot all her troubles, and went out to
drive every day of her life in an ivory coach drawn by five hundred white mice.
Poor Florabella,« she explained to Newman, »had suffered terribly.«
    »She had had nothing to eat for six months,« said little Blanche.
    »Yes, but when the six months were over, she had a plum-cake as big as that
ottoman,« said Madame de Cintré. »That quite set her up again.«
    »What a checkered career!« said Newman. »Are you very fond of children?« He
was certain that she was, but he wished to make her say it.
    »I like to talk with them,« she answered; »we can talk with them so much
more seriously than with grown persons. That is great nonsense that I have been
telling Blanche, but it is a great deal more serious than most of what we say in
society.«
    »I wish you would talk to me, then, as if I were Blanche's age,« said Newman
laughing. »Were you happy at your ball the other night?«
    »Ecstatically!«
    »Now you are talking the nonsense that we talk in society«, said Newman. »I
don't believe that.«
    »It was my own fault if I was not happy. The ball was very pretty, and
everyone very amiable.«
    »It was on your conscience,« said Newman, »that you had annoyed your mother
and your brother.«
    Madame de Cintré looked at him a moment without answering. »That is true,«
she replied at last. »I had undertaken more than I could carry out. I have very
little courage; I am not a heroine.« She said this with a certain soft emphasis;
but then, changing her tone: »I could never have gone through the sufferings of
the beautiful Florabella,« she added, »not even for her prospective rewards.«
    Dinner was announced, and Newman betook himself to the side of old Madame de
Bellegarde. The dining-room, at the end of a cold corridor, was vast and sombre;
the dinner was simple and delicately excellent. Newman wondered whether Madame
de Cintré had had something to do with ordering the repast, and greatly hoped
she had. Once seated at table, with the various members of the ancient house of
Bellegarde around him, he asked himself the meaning of his position. Was the old
lady responding to his advances? Did the fact that he was a solitary guest
augment his credit or diminish it? Were they ashamed to show him to other
people, or did they wish to give him a sign of sudden adoption into their last
reserve of favour? Newman was on his guard; he was watchful and conjectural; and
yet at the same time he was vaguely indifferent. Whether they gave him a long
rope or a short one he was there now, and Madame de Cintré was opposite to him.
She had a tall candlestick on each side of her; she would sit there for the next
hour, and that was enough. The dinner was extremely solemn and measured; he
wondered whether this was always the state of things in old families. Madame de
Bellegarde held her head very high, and fixed her eyes, which looked peculiarly
sharp in her little finely-wrinkled white face, very intently upon the
table-service. The marquis appeared to have decided that the fine arts offered a
safe subject of conversation, as not leading to startling personal revelations.
Every now and then, having learned from Newman that he had been through the
museums of Europe, he uttered some polished aphorism upon the flesh-tints of
Rubens and the good-taste of Sansovino. His manners seemed to indicate a fine
nervous dread that something disagreeable might happen if the atmosphere were
not purified by allusions of a thoroughly superior cast. »What under the sun is
the man afraid of?« Newman asked himself. »Does he think I am going to offer to
swap jack-knives with him?« It was useless to shut his eyes to the fact that the
marquis was profoundly disagreeable to him. He had never been a man of strong
personal aversions; his nerves had not been at the mercy of the mystical
qualities of his neighbours. But here was a man towards whom he was irresistibly
in opposition; a man of forms and phrases and postures; a man full of possible
impertinences and treacheries. M. de Bellegarde made him feel as if he were
standing barefooted on a marble floor; and yet, to gain his desire, Newman felt
perfectly able to stand. He wondered what Madame de Cintré thought of his being
accepted, if accepted it was. There was no judging from her face, which
expressed simply the desire to be gracious in a manner which should require as
little explicit recognition as possible. Young Madame de Bellegarde had always
the same manners; she was always preoccupied, distracted, listening to
everything and hearing nothing, looking at her dress, her rings, her
finger-nails, seeming rather bored, and yet puzzling you to decide what was her
ideal of social diversion. Newman was enlightened on this point later. Even
Valentin did not quite seem master of his wits; his vivacity was fitful and
forced, yet Newman observed that in the lapses of his talk he appeared excited.
His eyes had an intenser spark than usual. The effect of all this was that
Newman, for the first time in his life, was not himself; that he measured his
movements, and counted his words, and resolved that if the occasion demanded
that he should appear to have swallowed a ramrod, he would meet the emergency.
    After dinner M. de Bellegarde proposed to his guest that they should go into
the smoking-room, and he led the way toward a small somewhat musty apartment,
the walls of which were ornamented with old hangings of stamped leather and
trophies of rusty arms. Newman refused a cigar, but he established himself upon
one of the divans, while the marquis puffed his own weed before the fireplace,
and Valentin sat looking through the light fumes of a cigarette from one to the
other.
    »I can't keep quiet any longer,« said Valentin, at last. »I must tell you
the news and congratulate you. My brother seems unable to come to the point; he
revolves around his announcement like the priest around the altar. You are
accepted as a candidate for the hand of our sister.«
    »Valentin, be a little proper!« murmured the marquis, with a look of the
most delicate irritation contracting the bridge of his high nose.
    »There has been a family council,« the young man continued; »my mother and
Urbain have put their heads together, and even my testimony has not been
altogether excluded. My mother and the marquis sat at a table covered with green
cloth; my sister-in-law and I were on a bench against the wall. It was like a
committee at the Corps Législatif. We were called up, one after the other, to
testify. We spoke of you very handsomely. Madame de Bellegarde said that if she
had not been told who you were, she would have taken you for a duke - an
American duke, the Duke of California. I said that I could warrant you grateful
for the smallest favours - modest, humble, unassuming. I was sure that you would
know your own place always, and never give us occasion to remind you of certain
differences. After all, you couldn't help it if you were not a duke. There were
none in your country; but if there had been, it was certain that, smart and
active as you are, you would have got the pick of the titles. At this point I
was ordered to sit down, but I think I made an impression in your favour.«
    M. de Bellegarde looked at his brother with dangerous coldness, and gave a
smile as thin as the edge of a knife. Then he removed a spark of cigar-ash from
the sleeve of his coat; he fixed his eyes for a while on the cornice of the
room, and at last he inserted one of his white hands into the breast of his
waistcoat. »I must apologise to you for the deplorable levity of my brother«, he
said, »and I must notify you that this is probably not the last time that his
want of tact will cause you serious embarrassment.«
    »No, I confess I have no tact,« said Valentin. »Is your embarrassment really
painful, Newman? The marquis will put you right again; his own touch is
deliciously delicate.«
    »Valentin, I am sorry to say,« the marquis continued, »has never possessed
the tone, the manner, that belong to a young man in his position. It has been a
great affliction to his mother, who is very fond of the old traditions. But you
must remember that he speaks for no one but himself.«
    »Oh, I don't mind him, sir,« said Newman good-humouredly. »I know what he
amounts to.«
    »In the good old times,« said Valentin, »marquises and counts used to have
their appointed fools and jesters, to crack jokes for them. Nowadays we see a
great strapping democrat keeping a count about him to play the fool. It's a good
situation, but I certainly am very degenerate.«
    M. de Bellegarde fixed his eyes for some time on the floor. »My mother
informed me,« he said presently, »of the announcement that you made to her the
other evening.«
    »That I desired to marry your sister?« said Newman.
    »That you wished to arrange a marriage,« said the marquis slowly, »with my
sister, the Comtesse de Cintré. The proposal was serious, and required, on my
mother's part, a great deal of reflection. She naturally took me into her
counsels, and I gave my most zealous attention to the subject. There was a great
deal to be considered; more than you appear to imagine. We have viewed the
question on all its faces, we have weighed one thing against another. Our
conclusion has been that we favour your suit. My mother has desired me to inform
you of our decision. She will have the honour of saying a few words to you on
the subject herself. Meanwhile, by us, the heads of the family, you are
accepted.«
    Newman got up and came nearer to the marquis. »You will do nothing to hinder
me, and all you can to help me, eh?«
    »I will recommend my sister to accept you.«
    Newman passed his hand over his face, and pressed it for a moment upon his
eyes. This promise had a great sound, and yet the pleasure he took in it was
embittered by his having to stand there so and receive his passport from M. de
Bellegarde. The idea of having this gentleman mixed up with his wooing and
wedding was more and more disagreeable to him. But Newman had resolved to go
through the mill, as he imaged it, and he would not cry out at the first turn of
the wheel. He was silent a while, and then he said, with a certain dryness which
Valentin told him afterwards had a very grand air: »I am much obliged to you.«
    »I take note of the promise,« said Valentin, »I register the vow.«
    M. de Bellegarde began to gaze at the cornice again; he apparently had
something more to say. »I must do my mother the justice,« he resumed, »I must do
myself the justice, to say that our decision was not easy. Such an arrangement
was not what we had expected. The idea that my sister should marry a gentleman -
ah - in business, was something of a novelty.«
    »So I told you, you know,« said Valentin, raising his finger at Newman.
    »The novelty has not quite worn away, I confess,« the marquis went on;
»perhaps it never will, entirely. But possibly that is not altogether to be
regretted,« and he gave his thin smile again. »It may be that the time has come
when we should make some concession to novelty. There had been no novelties in
our house for a great many years. I made the observation to my mother, and she
did me the honour to admit that it was worthy of attention.«
    »My dear brother,« interrupted Valentin, »is not your memory just here
leading you the least bit astray? Our mother is, I may say, distinguished for
her small respect for abstract reasoning. Are you very sure that she replied to
your striking proposition in the gracious manner you describe? You know how
terribly incisive she is sometimes. Didn't she, rather, do you the honour to
say: A fiddlestick for your phrases! There are better reasons than that?«
    »Other reasons were discussed,« said the marquis, without looking at
Valentin, but with an audible tremor in his voice; »some of them possibly were
better. We are conservative, Mr. Newman, but we are not also bigots. We judged
the matter liberally. We have no doubt that everything will be comfortable.«
    Newman had stood listening to these remarks with his arms folded and his
eyes fastened upon M. de Bellegarde. »Comfortable?« he said, with a sort of grim
flatness of intonation. »Why shouldn't we be comfortable? If you are not, it
will be your own fault; I have everything to make me so.«
    »My brother means that with the lapse of time you may get used to the
change,« and Valentin paused, to light another cigarette.
    »What change?« asked Newman, in the same tone.
    »Urbain,« said Valentin, very gravely, »I am afraid that Mr. Newman does not
quite realise the change. We ought to insist upon that.«
    »My brother goes too far,« said M. de Bellegarde. »It is his fatal want of
tact again. It is my mother's wish, and mine, that no such allusions should be
made. Pray never make them yourself. We prefer to assume that the person
accepted as the possible husband of my sister is one of ourselves, and that he
should have no explanations to make. With a little discretion on both sides,
everything, I think, will be easy. That is exactly what I wished to say - that
we quite understand what we have undertaken, and that you may depend upon our
adhering to our resolution.«
    Valentin shook his hands in the air and then buried his face in them. »I
have less tact than I might have, no doubt; but oh, my brother, if you knew what
you yourself were saying!« And he went off into a long laugh.
    M. de Bellegarde's face flushed a little, but he held his head higher, as if
to repudiate this concession to vulgar perturbability. »I am sure you understand
me,« he said to Newman.
    »Oh no, I don't understand you at all,« said Newman. »But you needn't mind
that. I don't care. In fact, I think I had better not understand you. I might
not like it. That wouldn't suit me at all, you know. I want to marry your
sister, that's all; to do it as quickly as possible, and to find fault with
nothing. I don't care how I do it. I am not marrying you, you know, sir. I have
got my leave, and that is all I want.«
    »You had better receive the last word from my mother,« said the marquis.
    »Very good; I will go and get it,« said Newman; and he prepared to return to
the drawing-room.
    M. de Bellegarde made a motion for him to pass first, and when Newman had
gone out he shut himself into the room with Valentin. Newman had been a trifle
bewildered by the audacious irony of the younger brother, and he had not needed
its aid to point the moral of M. de Bellegarde's transcendent patronage. He had
wit enough to appreciate the force of that civility which consists in calling
your attention to the impertinences it spares you. But he had felt warmly the
delicate sympathy with himself that underlay Valentin's fraternal irreverence,
and he was most unwilling that his friend should pay a tax upon it. He paused a
moment in the corridor, after he had gone a few steps, expecting to hear the
resonance of M. de Bellegarde's displeasure; but he detected only a perfect
stillness. The stillness itself seemed a trifle portentous; he reflected,
however, that he had no right to stand listening, and he made his way back to
the salon. In his absence several persons had come in. They were scattered about
the room in groups, two or three of them having passed into a small boudoir,
next to the drawing-room, which had now been lighted and opened. Old Madame de
Bellegarde was in her place by the fire, talking to a very old gentleman in a
wig and a profuse white neckcloth of the fashion of 1820. Madame de Cintré was
bending a listening head to the historic confidences of an old lady who was
presumably the wife of the old gentleman in the neckcloth, an old lady in a red
satin dress and an ermine cape, who wore across her forehead a band with a topaz
set in it. Young Madame de Bellegarde, when Newman came in, left some people
among whom she was sitting, and took the place that she had occupied before
dinner. Then she gave a little push to the puff that stood near her, and by a
glance at Newman seemed to indicate that she had placed it in position for him.
He went and took possession of it; the marquis's wife amused and puzzled him.
    »I know your secret,« she said, in her bad but charming English; »you need
make no mystery of it. You wish to marry my sister-in-law. C'est un beau choix.
A man like you ought to marry a tall thin woman. You must know that I have
spoken in your favour; you owe me a famous taper!«
    »You have spoken to Madame de Cintré?« said Newman.
    »Oh no, not that. You may think it strange, but my sister-in-law and I are
not so intimate as that. No; I spoke to my husband and my mother-in-law; I said
I was sure we could do what we chose with you.«
    »I am much obliged to you,« said Newman, laughing; »but you can't.«
    »I know that very well; I didn't believe a word of it. But I wanted you to
come into the house; I thought we should be friends.«
    »I am very sure of it,« said Newman.
    »Don't be too sure. If you like Madame de Cintré so much, perhaps you will
not like me. We are as different as blue and pink. But you and I have something
in common. I have come into this family by marriage; you want to come into it in
the same way.«
    »Oh no, I don't!« interrupted Newman. »I only want to take Madame de Cintré
out of it.«
    »Well, to cast your nets you have to go into the water. Our positions are
alike; we shall be able to compare notes. What do you think of my husband? It's
a strange question, isn't it? But I shall ask you some stranger ones yet.«
    »Perhaps a stranger one will be easier to answer,« said Newman. »You might
try me.«
    »Oh, you get off very well; the old Comte de la Rochefidèle, yonder,
couldn't do it better. I told them that if we only gave you a chance you would
be a perfect talon rouge. I know something about men. Besides, you and I belong
to the same camp. I am a ferocious democrat. By birth I am vielle roche; a good
little bit of the history of France is the history of my family. Oh, you never
heard of us, of course! Ce que c'est que la gloire! We are much better than the
Bellegardes, at any rate. But I don't care a pin for my pedigree; I want to
belong to my time. I'm a revolutionist, a radical, a child of the age! I am sure
I go beyond you. I like clever people, wherever they come from, and I take my
amusement wherever I find it. I don't pout at the Empire; here all the world
pouts at the Empire. Of course I have to mind what I say; but I expect to take
my revenge with you.« Madame de Bellegarde discoursed for some time longer in
this sympathetic strain, with an eager abundance which seemed to indicate that
her opportunities for revealing her esoteric philosophy were indeed rare. She
hoped that Newman would never be afraid of her, however he might be with the
others, for, really, she went very far indeed. Strong people - les gens forts -
were in her opinion equal, all the world over. Newman listened to her with an
attention at once beguiled and irritated. He wondered what the deuce she, too,
was driving at, with her hope that he would not be afraid of her and her
protestations of equality. In so far as he could understand her, she was wrong;
a silly rattling woman was certainly not the equal of a sensible man,
preoccupied with an ambitious passion. Madame de Bellegarde stopped suddenly,
and looked at him sharply, shaking her fan. »I see you don't believe me,« she
said, »you are too much on your guard. You will not form an alliance, offensive
or defensive? You are very wrong; I could help you.«
    Newman answered that he was very grateful and that he would certainly ask
for help; she should see. »But first of all,« he said, »I must help myself.« And
he went to join Madame de Cintré.
    »I have been telling Madame de la Rochefidèle that you are an American,« she
said, as he came up. »It interests her greatly. Her father went over with the
French troops to help you in your battles in the last century, and she has
always, in consequence, wanted greatly to see an American. But she has never
succeeded till tonight. You are the first - to her knowledge - that she has ever
looked at.«
    Madame de la Rochefidèle had an aged cadaverous face, with a falling of the
lower jaw which prevented her from bringing her lips together, and reduced her
conversation to a series of impressive but inarticulate gutturals. She raised an
antique eyeglass, elaborately mounted in chased silver, and looked at Newman
from head to foot. Then she said something to which he listened deferentially,
but which he completely failed to understand.
    »Madame de la Rochefidèle says that she is convinced that she must have seen
Americans without knowing it,« Madame de Cintré explained. Newman thought it
probable she had seen a great many things without knowing it; and the old lady,
again addressing herself to utterance, declared - as interpreted by Madame de
Cintré - that she wished she had known it.
    At this moment the old gentleman who had been talking to the elder Madame de
Bellegarde drew near, leading the marquise on his arm. His wife pointed out
Newman to him, apparently explaining his remarkable origin. M. de la
Rochefidèle, whose old age was rosy and rotund, spoke very neatly and clearly;
almost as prettily, Newman thought, as M. Nioche. When he had been enlightened,
he turned to Newman with an inimitable elderly grace.
    »Monsieur is by no means the first American that I have seen,« he said.
»Almost the first person I ever saw - to notice him - was an American.«
    »Ah!« said Newman, sympathetically.
    »The great Dr. Franklin,« said M. de la Rochefidèle. »Of course I was very
young. He was received very well in our monde«.
    »Not better than Mr. Newman,« said Madame de Bellegarde. »I beg he will
offer me his arm into the other room. I could have offered no higher privilege
to Dr. Franklin.«
    Newman, complying with Madame de Bellegarde's request, perceived that her
two sons had returned to the drawing-room. He scanned their faces an instant for
traces of the scene that had followed his separation from them, but the marquis
seemed neither more nor less frigidly grand than usual, and Valentin was kissing
ladies' hands with at least his habitual air of self-abandonment to the act.
Madame de Bellegarde gave a glance at her eldest son, and by the time she had
crossed the threshold of her boudoir he was at her side. The room was now empty
and offered a sufficient degree of privacy. The old lady disengaged herself from
Newman's arm and rested her hand on the arm of the marquis; and in this position
she stood a moment, holding her head high and biting her small under-lip. I am
afraid the picture was lost upon Newman, but Madame de Bellegarde was, in fact,
at this moment a striking image of the dignity which - even in the case of a
little time-shrunken old lady - may reside in the habit of unquestioned
authority and the absoluteness of a social theory favourable to yourself.
    »My son has spoken to you as I desired,« she said, »and you understand that
we shall not interfere. The rest will lie with yourself.«
    »M. de Bellegarde told me several things I didn't understand,« said Newman,
»but I made out that. You will leave me an open field. I am much obliged.«
    »I wish to add a word that my son probably did not feel at liberty to say,«
the marquise rejoined. »I must say it for my own peace of mind. We are
stretching a point; we are doing you a great favour.«
    »Oh, your son said it very well; didn't you?« said Newman.
    »Not so well as my mother,« declared the marquis.
    »I can only repeat - I am much obliged.«
    »It is proper I should tell you,« Madame de Bellegarde went on, »that I am
very proud, and that I hold my head very high. I may be wrong, but I am too old
to change. At least I know it, and I don't pretend to anything else. Don't
flatter yourself that my daughter is not proud. She is proud in her own way - a
somewhat different way from mine. You will have to make your terms with that.
Even Valentin is proud, if you touch the right spot - or the wrong one. Urbain
is proud - that you see for yourself. Sometimes I think he is a little too
proud; but I wouldn't change him. He is the best of my children; he cleaves to
his old mother. But I have said enough to show you that we are all proud
together. It is well that you should know the sort of people you have come
among.«
    »Well,« said Newman, »I can only say, in return, that I am not proud; I
shan't mind you! But you speak as if you intended to be very disagreeable.«
    »I shall not enjoy having my daughter marry you, and I shall not pretend to
enjoy it. If you don't mind that, so much the better.«
    »If you stick to your own side of the contract we shall not quarrel; that is
all I ask of you,« said Newman. »Keep your hands off, and give me an open field.
I am very much in earnest, and there is not the slightest danger of my getting
discouraged or backing out. You will have me constantly before your eyes; if you
don't like it, I am sorry for you. I will do for your daughter, if she will
accept me, everything that a man can do for a woman. I am happy to tell you
that, as a promise - a pledge. I consider that on your side you make me an equal
pledge. You will not back out, eh?«
    »I don't know what you mean by backing out,« said the marquise. »It suggests
a movement of which I think no Bellegarde has ever been guilty.«
    »Our word is our word,« said Urbain. »We have given it.«
    »Well, now,« said Newman, »I am very glad you are so proud; it makes me
believe you will keep it.«
    The marquise was silent a moment, and then, suddenly, »I shall always be
polite to you, Mr. Newman,« she declared, »but, decidedly, I shall never like
you.«
    »Don't be too sure,« said Newman, laughing.
    »I am so sure that I will ask you to take me back to my armchair without the
least fear of having my sentiments modified by the service you render me.« And
Madame de Bellegarde took his arm, and returned to the salon and to her
customary place.
    M. de la Rochefidèle and his wife were preparing to take their leave, and
Madame de Cintré's interview with the mumbling old lady was at an end. She stood
looking about her, asking herself, apparently, to whom she should next speak,
when Newman came up to her.
    »Your mother has given me leave - very solemnly - to come here often,« he
said. »I mean to come often.«
    »I shall be glad to see you,« she answered simply. And then, in a moment:
»You probably think it very strange that there should be such a solemnity - as
you say - about your coming.«
    »Well, yes; I do, rather.«
    »Do you remember what my brother Valentin said, the first time you came to
see me - that we were a strange, strange family?«
    »It was not the first time I came, but the second,« said Newman.
    »Very true. Valentin annoyed me at the time; but now I know you better, I
may tell you he was right. If you come often, you will see!« and Madame de
Cintré turned away.
    Newman watched her awhile, talking with other people, and then he took his
leave. He shook hands last with Valentin de Bellegarde, who came out with him to
the top of the staircase. »Well, you have got your permit,« said Valentin. »I
hope you liked the process.«
    »I like your sister more than ever. But don't worry your brother any more,
for my sake,« Newman added. »I don't mind him. I am afraid he came down on you
in the smoking-room, after I went out.«
    »When my brother comes down on me,« said Valentin, »he falls hard. I have a
peculiar way of receiving him. I must say,« he continued, »that they came up to
the mark much sooner than I expected. I don't understand it; they must have had
to turn the screw pretty tight. It's a tribute to your millions.«
    »Well, it's the most precious one they have ever received,« said Newman.
    He was turning away when Valentin stopped him, looking at him with a
brilliant softly-cynical glance. »I should like to know whether, within a few
days, you have seen your venerable friend M. Nioche.«
    »He was yesterday at my rooms,« Newman answered.
    »What did he tell you?«
    »Nothing particular.«
    »You didn't see the muzzle of a pistol sticking out of his pocket?«
    »What are you driving at?« Newman demanded. »I thought he seemed rather
cheerful, for him.«
    Valentin broke into a laugh. »I am delighted to hear it! I win my bet.
Mademoiselle Noémie has thrown her cap over the mill, as we say. She has left
the paternal domicile. She is launched! And M. Nioche is rather cheerful - for
him! Don't brandish your tomahawk at that rate; I have not seen her nor
communicated with her since that day at the Louvre. Andromeda has found another
Perseus than I. My information is exact; on such matters it always is. I suppose
that now you will raise your protest?«
    »My protest be hanged!« murmured Newman, disgustedly.
    But his tone found no echo in that in which Valentin, with his hand on the
door, to return to his mother's apartment, exclaimed: »But I shall see her now!
She is very remarkable - she is very remarkable!«
 

                                  Chapter XIII

Newman kept his promise, or his menace, of going often to the Rue de
l'Université, and during the next six weeks he saw Madame de Cintré more times
than he could have numbered. He flattered himself that he was not in love, but
his biographer may be supposed to know better. He claimed, at least, none of the
exemptions and emoluments of the romantic passion. Love, he believed, made a
fool of a man, and his present emotion was not folly but wisdom - wisdom sound,
serene, well-directed. What he felt was an intense all-consuming tenderness,
which had for its object an extraordinarily graceful and delicate, and at the
same time impressive woman, who lived in a large grey house on the left bank of
the Seine. This tenderness turned very often into a positive heartache; a sign
in which, certainly, Newman ought to have read the appellation which science has
conferred upon his sentiment. When the heart has a heavy weight upon it, it
hardly matters whether the weight be of gold or of lead; when, at any rate,
happiness passes into that place in which it becomes identical with pain, a man
may admit that the reign of wisdom is temporarily suspended. Newman wished
Madame de Cintré so well that nothing he could think of doing for her in the
future rose to the high standard which his present mood had set itself. She
seemed to him so felicitous a product of nature and circumstance, that his
invention, musing on future combinations, was constantly catching its breath
with the fear of stumbling into some brutal compression or mutilation of her
beautiful personal harmony. This is what I mean by Newman's tenderness: Madame
de Cintré pleased him so, exactly as she was, that his desire to interpose
between her and the troubles of life had the quality of a young mother's
eagerness to protect the sleep of her first-born child. Newman was simply
charmed, and he handled his charm as if it were a music-box which would stop if
one shook it. There can be no better proof of the hankering epicure that is
hidden in every man's temperament, waiting for a signal from some divine
confederate that he may safely, peep out. Newman at last was enjoying, purely,
freely, deeply. Certain of Madame de Cintré's personal qualities - the luminous
sweetness of her eyes, the delicate mobility of her face, the deep liquidity of
her voice - filled all his consciousness. A rose-crowned Greek of old, gazing at
a marble goddess with his whole bright intellect resting satisfied in the act,
could not have been a more complete embodiment of the wisdom that loses itself
in the enjoyment of quiet harmonies.
    He made no violent love to her - no sentimental speeches. He never
trespassed on what she had made him understand was for the present forbidden
ground. But he had, nevertheless, a comfortable sense that she knew better from
day to day how much he admired her. Though in general he was no great talker, he
talked much, and he succeeded perfectly in making her say many things. He was
not afraid of boring her, either by his discourse or by his silence; and whether
or no he did occasionally bore her, it is probable that on the whole she liked
him only the better for his absence of embarrassed scruples. Her visitors,
coming in often while Newman sat there, found a tall, lean, silent man, in a
half-lounging attitude, who laughed out sometimes when no one had meant to be
droll, and remained grave in the presence of calculated witticisms, for the
appreciation of which he had apparently not the proper culture.
    It must be confessed that the number of subjects upon which Newman had no
ideas was extremely large, and it must be added that as regards those subjects
upon which he was without ideas he was also perfectly without words. He had
little of the small change of conversation, and his stock of ready-made formulas
and phrases was the scantiest. On the other hand he had plenty of attention to
bestow, and his estimate of the importance of a topic did not depend upon the
number of clever things he could say about it. He himself was almost never
bored, and there was no man with whom it would have been a greater mistake to
suppose that silence meant displeasure. What it was that entertained him during
some of his speechless sessions I must, however, confess myself unable to
determine. We know in a general way that a great many things which were old
stories to a great many people had the charm of novelty to him, but a complete
list of his new impressions would probably contain a number of surprises for us.
He told Madame de Cintré a hundred long stories; he explained to her, in talking
of the United States, the working of various local institutions and mercantile
customs. Judging by the sequel, she was interested, but one would not have been
sure of it beforehand. As regards her own talk, Newman was very sure himself
that she herself enjoyed it: this was as a sort of amendment to the portrait
that Mrs. Tristram had drawn of her. He discovered that she had naturally an
abundance of gaiety. He had been right at first in saying she was shy; her
shyness, in a woman whose circumstances and tranquil beauty afforded every
facility for well-mannered hardihood, was only a charm the more. For Newman it
had lasted some time, and even when it went it left something behind it which
for awhile performed the same office. Was this the tearful secret of which Mrs.
Tristram had had a glimpse, and of which, as of her friend's reserve, her
high-breeding, and her profundity, she had given a sketch of which the outlines
were, perhaps, rather too heavy? Newman supposed so, but he found himself
wondering less every day what Madame de Cintré's secrets might be, and more
convinced that secrets were, in themselves, hateful things to her. She was a
woman for the light, not for the shade; and her natural line was not picturesque
reserve and mysterious melancholy, but frank, joyous, brilliant action, with
just so much meditation as was necessary, and not a grain more. To this,
apparently, he had succeeded in bringing her back. He felt, himself, that he was
an antidote to oppressive secrets; what he offered her was, in fact, above all
things a vast sunny immunity from the need of having any. He often passed his
evenings, when Madame de Cintré had so appointed it, at the chilly fireside of
Madame de Bellegarde, contenting himself with looking across the room, through
narrowed eyelids, at his mistress, who always made a point, before her family,
of talking to someone else. Madame de Bellegarde sat by the fire conversing
neatly and coldly with whosoever approached her, and glancing round the room
with her slowly-restless eye, the effect of which, when it lighted upon him, was
to Newman's sense identical with that of a sudden spurt of damp air. When he
shook hands with her he always asked her with a laugh whether she could stand
him another evening, and she replied, without a laugh, that, thank God, she had
always been able to do her duty. Newman, talking once of the marquise to Mrs.
Tristram, said that after all it was very easy to get on with her; it always was
easy to get on with out-and-out rascals.
    »And is it by that elegant term,« said Mrs. Tristram, »that you designate
the Marquise de Bellegarde?«
    »Well,« said Newman, »she is wicked, she is an old sinner.«
    »What is her crime?« asked Mrs. Tristram.
    »I shouldn't wonder if she had murdered some one - all from a sense of duty,
of course.«
    »How can you be so dreadful?« sighed Mrs. Tristram.
    »I am not dreadful. I am speaking of her favourably.«
    »Pray what will you say when you want to be severe?«
    »I shall keep my severity for someone else - for the marquis. There's a man
I can't swallow, mix the drink as I will.«
    »And what has he done?«
    »I can't quite make out; it is something dreadfully bad, something mean and
underhand, and not redeemed by audacity, as his mother's misdemeanours may have
been. If he has never committed murder, he has at least turned his back and
looked the other way while someone else was committing it.«
    In spite of this invidious hypothesis, which must be taken for nothing more
than an example of the capricious play of American humour, Newman did his best
to maintain an easy and friendly style of communication with M. de Bellegarde.
So long as he was in personal contact with people, he disliked extremely to have
anything to forgive them, and he was capable of a good deal of unsuspected
imaginative effort (for the sake of his own personal comfort) to assume for the
time that they were good fellows. He did his best to treat the marquis as one;
he believed honestly, moreover, that he could not, in reason, be such a
confounded fool as he seemed. Newman's familiarity was never importunate; his
sense of human equality was not an aggressive taste or an aesthetic theory, but
something as natural and organic as a physical appetite which had never been put
on a scanty allowance, and consequently was innocent of ungraceful eagerness.
His tranquil unsuspectingness of the relativity of his own place in the social
scale was probably irritating to M. de Bellegarde, who saw himself reflected in
the mind of his potential brother-in-law in a crude and colourless form,
unpleasantly dissimilar to the impressive image projected upon his own
intellectual mirror. He never forgot himself for an instant, and replied to what
he must have considered Newman's advances with mechanical politeness. Newman,
who was constantly forgetting himself, and indulging in an unlimited amount of
irresponsible inquiry and conjecture, now and then found himself confronted by
the conscious ironical smile of his host. What the deuce M. de Bellegarde was
smiling at he was at a loss to divine. M. de Bellegarde's smile may be supposed
to have been, for himself, a compromise between a great many emotions. So long
as he smiled he was polite, and it was proper he should be polite. A smile,
moreover, committed him to nothing more than politeness, and left the degree of
politeness agreeably vague. A smile, too, was neither dissent - which was too
serious - nor agreement, which might have brought on terrible complications. And
then a smile covered his own personal dignity, which in this critical situation
he was resolved to keep immaculate; it was quite enough that the glory of his
house should pass into eclipse. Between him and Newman, his whole manner seemed
to declare, there could be no interchange of opinion; he was holding his breath
so as not to inhale the odour of democracy. Newman was far from being versed in
European politics, but he liked to have a general idea of what was going on
about him, and he accordingly asked M. de Bellegarde several times what he
thought of public affairs. M. de Bellegarde answered with suave concision that
he thought as ill of them as possible, that they were going from bad to worse,
and that the age was rotten to its core. This gave Newman, for the moment, an
almost kindly feeling for the marquis; he pitied a man for whom the world was so
cheerless a place, and the next time he saw M. de Bellegarde he attempted to
call his attention to some of the brilliant features of the time. The marquis
presently replied that he had but a single political conviction, which was
enough for him: he believed in the divine right of Henry of Bourbon, Fifth of
his name, to the throne of France. Newman stared, and after this he ceased to
talk politics with M. de Bellegarde. He was not horrified nor scandalised, he
was not even amused; he felt as he should have felt if he had discovered in M.
de Bellegarde a taste for certain oddities of diet; an appetite, for instance,
for fishbones or nutshells. Under these circumstances, of course, he would never
have broached dietary questions with him.
    One afternoon, on his calling on Madame de Cintré, Newman was requested by
the servant to wait a few moments, as his hostess was not at liberty. He walked
about the room awhile, taking up her books, smelling her flowers, and looking at
her prints and photographs (which he thought prodigiously pretty), and at last
he heard the opening of a door to which his back was turned. On the threshold
stood an old woman whom he remembered to have met several times in entering and
leaving the house. She was tall and straight, and dressed in black, and she wore
a cap which, if Newman had been initiated into such mysteries, would have been a
sufficient assurance that she was not a Frenchwoman; a cap of pure British
composition. She had a pale, decent, depressed-looking face, and a clear, dull,
English eye. She looked at Newman a moment, both intently and timidly, and then
she dropped a short, straight English curtsy.
    »Madame de Cintré begs you will kindly wait,« she said. »She has just come
in; she will soon have finished dressing.«
    »Oh, I will wait as long as she wants,« said Newman. »Pray tell her not to
hurry.«
    »Thank you, sir,« said the woman softly; and then, instead of retiring with
the message, she advanced into the room. She looked about her for a moment, and
presently went to the table and began to arrange certain books and knick-knacks.
Newman was struck with the high respectability of her appearance; he was afraid
to address her as a servant. She busied herself for some moments with putting
the table in order and pulling the curtains straight, while Newman walked slowly
to and fro. He perceived at last, from her reflection in the mirror, as he was
passing, that her hands were idle and that she was looking at him intently. She
evidently wished to say something, and Newman perceiving it, helped her to
begin.
    »You are English?« he asked.
    »Yes, sir, please,« she answered quickly and softly; »I was born in
Wiltshire.«
    »And what do you think of Paris?«
    »Oh, I don't think of Paris, sir,« she said, in the same tone. »It is so
long since I have been here.«
    »Ah, you have been here very long?«
    »It is more than forty years, sir. I came over with Lady Emmeline.«
    »You mean with old Madame de Bellegarde?«
    »Yes, sir. I came with her when she was married. I was my lady's own woman.«
    »And you have been with her ever since?«
    »I have been in the house ever since. My lady has taken a younger person.
You see I am very old. I do nothing regular now. But I keep about.«
    »You look very strong and well,« said Newman, observing the erectness of her
figure, and a certain venerable rosiness in her cheek.
    »Thank God I am not ill, sir; I hope I know my duty too well to go panting
and coughing about the house. But I am an old woman, sir, and it is as an old
woman that I venture to speak to you.«
    »Oh, speak out,« said Newman, curiously. »You needn't be afraid of me.«
    »Yes, sir. I think you are kind. I have seen you before.«
    »On the stairs, you mean?«
    »Yes, sir. When you have been coming to see the countess. I have taken the
liberty of noticing that you come often.«
    »Oh yes; I come very often,« said Newman, laughing. »You need not have been
very wide awake to notice that.«
    »I have noticed it with pleasure, sir,« said the ancient tirewoman gravely.
And she stood looking at Newman with a strange expression of face. The old
instinct of deference and humility was there; the habit of decent
self-effacement and knowledge of her own place. But there mingled with it a
certain mild audacity, born of the occasion and of a sense, probably, of
Newman's unprecedented approachableness, and, beyond this, a vague indifference
to the old proprieties; as if my lady's own woman had at last begun to reflect
that, since my lady had taken another person, she had a slight reversionary
property in herself.
    »You take a great interest in the family?« said Newman.
    »A deep interest, sir. Especially in the countess.«
    »I am glad of that,« said Newman. And in a moment he added, smiling: »So do
I!«
    »So I supposed, sir. We can't help noticing these things and having our
ideas; can we, sir?«
    »You mean as a servant?« said Newman.
    »Ah, there it is, sir. I am afraid that when I let my thoughts meddle with
such matters I am no longer a servant. But I am so devoted to the countess; if
she were my own child I couldn't love her more. That is how I come to be so
bold, sir. They say you want to marry her.«
    Newman eyed his interlocutress and satisfied himself that she was not a
gossip, but a zealot; she looked anxious, appealing, discreet. »It is quite
true,« he said. »I want to marry Madame de Cintré.«
    »And to take her away to America?«
    »I will take her wherever she wants to go.«
    »The farther away the better, sir!« exclaimed the old woman with sudden
intensity. But she checked herself, and, taking up a paper-weight in mosaic,
began to polish it with her black apron. »I don't mean anything against the
house or the family, sir. But I think a great change would do the poor countess
good. It is very sad here.«
    »Yes, it's not very lively,« said Newman. »But Madame de Cintré is gay
herself.«
    »She is everything that is good. You will not be vexed to hear that she has
been gayer for a couple of months past than she had been in many a day before.«
    Newman was delighted to gather this testimony to the prosperity of his suit,
but he repressed all violent marks of elation. »Has Madame de Cintré been in bad
spirits before this?« he asked.
    »Poor lady, she has good reason. M. de Cintré was no husband for a sweet
young lady like that. And then, as I say, it has been a sad house. It is better,
in my humble opinion, that she were out of it. So, if you will excuse me for
saying so, I hope she will marry you.«
    »I hope she will!« said Newman.
    »But you must not lose courage, sir, if she doesn't't make up her mind at
once. That is what I wanted to beg of you, sir. Don't give it up, sir. You will
not take it ill if I say it's a great risk for any lady at any time; all the
more when she has got rid of one bad bargain. But if she can marry a good, kind,
respectable gentleman, I think she had better make up her mind to it. They speak
very well of you, sir, in the house, and, if you will allow me to say so, I like
your face. You have a very different appearance from the late count; he wasn't't
five feet high. And they say your fortune is beyond everything. There's no harm
in that. So I beseech you to be patient, sir, and bide your time. If I don't say
this to you, sir, perhaps no one will. Of course it is not for me to make any
promises. I can answer for nothing. But I think your chance is not so bad, sir.
I am nothing but a weary old woman in my quiet corner, but one woman understands
another, and I think I make out the countess. I received her in my arms when she
came into the world, and her first wedding-day was the saddest of my life. She
owes it to me to show me another and a brighter one. If you will hold firm, sir
- and you look as if you would - I think we may see it.«
    »I am much obliged to you for your encouragement,« said Newman heartily.
»One can't have too much. I mean to hold firm. And if Madame de Cintré marries
me, you must come and live with her.«
    The old woman looked at him strangely, with her soft lifeless eyes. »It may
seem a heartless thing to say, sir, when one has been forty years in a house,
but I may tell you that I should like to leave this place.«
    »Why, it's just the time to say it,« said Newman fervently. »After forty
years one wants a change.«
    »You are very kind, sir;« and this faithful servant dropped another curtsy
and seemed disposed to retire. But she lingered a moment, and gave a timid
joyless smile. Newman was disappointed, and his fingers stole half shyly half
irritably into his waistcoat-pocket. His informant noticed the movement. »Thank
God I am not a Frenchwoman,« she said. »If I were, I would tell you with a
brazen simper, old as I am, that if you please, monsieur, my information is
worth something. Let me tell you so in my own decent English way. It is worth
something.«
    »How much, please?« said Newman.
    »Simply this: a promise not to hint to the countess that I have said these
things.«
    »If that is all, you have it,« said Newman.
    »That is all, sir. Thank you, sir. Good-day, sir.« And having once more slid
down telescope-wise into her scanty petticoats, the old woman departed. At the
same moment Madame de Cintré came in by an opposite door. She noticed the
movement of the other portiére and asked Newman who had been entertaining him.
    »The British female!« said Newman. »An old lady in a black dress and a cap,
who curtsies up and down, and expresses herself ever so well.«
    »An old lady who curtsies and expresses herself?.... Ah, you mean poor Mrs.
Bread. I happen to know that you have made a conquest of her.«
    »Mrs. Cake, she ought to be called,« said Newman. »She is very sweet. She is
a delicious old woman.«
    Madame de Cintré looked at him a moment. »What can she have said to you? She
is an excellent creature, but we think her rather dismal.«
    »I suppose,« Newman answered presently, »that I like her because she has
lived near you so long. Since your birth, she told me.«
    »Yes,« said Madame de Cintré, simply; »she is very faithful; I can trust
her.«
    Newman had never made any reflections to this lady upon her mother and her
brother Urbain; had given no hint of the impression they made upon him. But, as
if she had guessed his thoughts, she seemed careful to avoid all occasion for
making him speak of them. She never alluded to her mother's domestic decrees;
she never quoted the opinions of the marquis. They had talked, however, of
Valentin, and she had made no secret of her extreme affection for her younger
brother. Newman listened sometimes with a certain harmless jealousy; he would
have liked to divert some of her tender allusions to his own credit. Once Madame
de Cintré told him, with a little air of triumph, about something that Valentin
had done which she thought very much to his honour. It was a service he had
rendered to an old friend of the family; something more serious than Valentin
was usually supposed capable of being. Newman said he was glad to hear of it,
and then began to talk about something which lay upon his own heart. Madame de
Cintré listened, but after awhile she said: »I don't like the way you speak of
my brother Valentin.« Hereupon Newman, surprised, said that he had never spoken
of him but kindly.
    »It is too kindly,« said Madame de Cintré. »It is a kindness that costs
nothing; it is the kindness you show to a child. It is as if you didn't respect
him.«
    »Respect him? Why, I think I do.«
    »You think? If you are not sure, it is no respect.«
    »Do you respect him?« said Newman. »If you do, I do.«
    »If one loves a person, that is a question one is not bound to answer,« said
Madame de Cintré.
    »You should not have asked it of me, then. I am very fond of your brother.«
    »He amuses you. But you would not like to resemble him.«
    »I shouldn't like to resemble anyone. It is hard enough work resembling
oneself.«
    »What do you mean,« asked Madame de Cintré, »by resembling oneself?«
    »Why, doing what is expected of one. Doing one's duty.«
    »But that is only when one is very good.«
    »Well, a great many people are good,« said Newman. »Valentin is quite good
enough for me.«
    Madame de Cintré was silent for a short time. »He is not good enough for
me,« she said at last. »I wish he would do something.«
    »What can he do?« asked Newman.
    »Nothing. Yet he is very clever.«
    »It is a proof of cleverness,« said Newman, »to be happy without doing
anything.«
    »I don't think Valentin is happy, in reality. He is clever, generous, brave
- but what is there to show for it? To me there is something sad in his life,
and sometimes I have a sort of foreboding about him. I don't know why, but I
fancy he will have some great trouble - perhaps an unhappy end.«
    »Oh, leave him to me,« said Newman jovially. »I will watch over him and keep
harm away.«
    One evening, in Madame de Bellegarde's salon, the conversation had flagged
most sensibly. The marquis walked up and down in silence, like a sentinel at the
door of some smooth-fronted citadel of the proprieties; his mother sat staring
at the fire; young Madame de Bellegarde worked at an enormous band of tapestry.
Usually there were three or four visitors, but on this occasion a violent storm
sufficiently accounted for the absence of even the most devoted habitués. In the
long silences the howling of the wind and the beating of the rain were
distinctly audible. Newman sat perfectly still, watching the clock, determined
to stay till the stroke of eleven, but not a moment longer. Madame de Cintré had
turned her back to the circle, and had been standing for some time within the
uplifted curtain of a window, with her forehead against the pane, gazing out
into the deluged darkness. Suddenly she turned round toward her sister-in-law.
    »For heaven's sake,« she said, with peculiar eagerness, »go to the piano and
play something.«
    Madame de Bellegarde held up her tapestry and pointed to a little white
flower. »Don't ask me to leave this. I am in the midst of a masterpiece. My
flower is going to smell very sweet; I am putting in the smell with his
gold-coloured silk. I am holding my breath; I can't leave off. Play something
yourself.«
    »It is absurd for me to play when you are present,« said Madame de Cintré.
But the next moment she went to the piano and began to strike the keys with
vehemence. She played for some time, rapidly and brilliantly; when she stopped,
Newman went to the piano and asked her to begin again. She shook her head, and,
on his insisting, she said: »I have not been playing for you; I have been
playing for myself.« She went back to the window again and looked out, and
shortly afterwards left the room. When Newman took leave, Urbain de Bellegarde
accompanied him, as he always did, just three steps down the staircase. At the
bottom stood a servant with his overcoat. He had just put it on when he saw
Madame de Cintré coming towards him across the vestibule.
    »Shall you be at home on Friday?« Newman asked.
    She looked at him a moment before answering his question. »You don't like my
mother and my brother,« she said.
    He hesitated a moment, and then he said softly: »No.«
    She laid her hand on the balustrade and prepared to ascend the stairs,
fixing her eyes on the first step.
    »Yes, I shall be at home on Friday,« and she passed up the wide dusky
staircase.
    On the Friday, as soon as he came in, she asked him to please to tell her
why he disliked her family.
    »Dislike your family?« he exclaimed. »That has a horrid sound. I didn't say
so, did I? I didn't mean it, if I did.«
    »I wish you would tell me what you think of them,« said Madame de Cintré.
    »I don't think of any of them but you.«
    »That is because you dislike them. Speak the truth; you can't offend me.«
    »Well, I don't exactly love your brother,« said Newman. »I remember now. But
what is the use of my saying so? I had forgotten it.«
    »You are too good-natured,« said Madame de Cintré, gravely. Then, as if to
avoid the appearance of inviting him to speak ill of the marquis, she turned
away, motioning him to sit down.
    But he remained standing before her and said presently: »What is of much
more importance is that they don't like me.«
    »No - they don't,« she said.
    »And don't you think they are wrong?« Newman asked. »I don't believe I am a
man to dislike.«
    »I suppose that a man who may be liked, may also be disliked. And my brother
- my mother,« she added, »have not made you angry?«
    »Yes, sometimes.«
    »You have never shown it.«
    »So much the better.«
    »Yes, so much the better. They think they have treated you very well.«
    »I have no doubt they might have handled me much more roughly,« said Newman.
»I am much obliged to them. Honestly.«
    »You are generous,« said Madame de Cintré. »It's a disagreeable position.«
    »For them, you mean. Not for me.«
    »For me,« said Madame de Cintré.
    »Not when their sins are forgiven!« said Newman. »They don't think I am as
good as they are. I do. But we shan't quarrel about it.«
    »I can't even agree with you without saying something that has a
disagreeable sound. The presumption was against you. That you probably don't
understand.«
    Newman sat down and looked at her for some time. »I don't think I really
understand it. But when you say it, I believe it.«
    »That's a poor reason,« said Madame de Cintré, smiling.
    »No, it's a very good one. You have a high spirit, a high standard; but with
you it's all natural and unaffected; you don't seem to have stuck your head into
a vice, as if you were sitting for the photograph of propriety. You think of me
as a fellow who has had no idea in life but to make money and drive sharp
bargains. That's a fair description of me, but it is not the whole story. A man
ought to care for something else, though I don't know exactly what. I cared for
money-making, but I never cared particularly for the money. There was nothing
else to do, and it was impossible to be idle. I have been very easy to others,
and to myself. I have done most of the things that people asked me - I don't
mean rascals. As regards your mother and your brother,« Newman added, »there is
only one point upon which I feel that I might quarrel with them. I don't ask
them to sing my praises to you, but I ask them to let you alone. If I thought
they talked ill of me to you, I should come down upon them.«
    »They have let me alone, as you say. They have not talked ill of you.«
    »In that case,« cried Newman, »I declare they are only too good for this
world!«
    Madame de Cintré appeared to find something startling in his exclamation.
She would, perhaps, have replied, but at this moment the door was thrown open,
and Urbain de Bellegarde stepped across the threshold. He appeared surprised at
finding Newman, but his surprise was but a momentary shadow across the surface
of an unwonted joviality. Newman had never seen the marquis so exhilarated; his
pale unlighted countenance had a sort of thin transfiguration. He held open the
door for someone else to enter, and presently appeared old Madame de Bellegarde,
leaning on the arm of a gentleman whom Newman had not seen before. He had
already risen, and Madame de Cintré rose, as she always did before her mother.
The marquis, who had greeted Newman almost genially, stood apart, slowly rubbing
his hands. His mother came forward with her companion. She gave a majestic
little nod at Newman, and then she released the strange gentleman, that he might
make his bow to her daughter.
    »My daughter,« she said, »I have brought you an unknown relative, Lord
Deepmere. Lord Deepmere is our cousin, but he has done only to-day what he ought
to have done long ago - come to make our acquaintance.«
    Madame de Cintré smiled, and offered Lord Deepmere her hand. »It is very
extraordinary,« said this noble laggard, »but this is the first time that I have
ever been in Paris for more than three or four weeks.«
    »And how long have you been here now?« asked Madame de Cintré.
    »Oh, for the last two months,« said Lord Deepmere.
    These two remarks might have constituted an impertinence; but a glance at
Lord Deepmere's face would have satisfied you, as it apparently satisfied Madame
de Cintré, that they constituted only a naïveté. When his companions were
seated, Newman, who was out of the conversation, occupied himself with observing
the newcomer. Observation, however, as regards Lord Deepmere's person, had no
great range. He was a small meagre man, of some three-and-thirty years of age,
with a bald head, a short nose, and no front teeth in the upper jaw; he had
round, candid, blue eyes, and several pimples on his chin. He was evidently very
shy, and he laughed a great deal, catching his breath with an odd startling
sound, as the most convenient imitation of repose. His physiognomy denoted great
simplicity, a certain amount of brutality, and a probable failure in the past to
profit by rare educational advantages. He remarked that Paris was awfully jolly,
but that for real, thoroughpaced entertainment it was nothing to Dublin. He even
preferred Dublin to London. Had Madame de Cintré ever been to Dublin? They must
all come over there some day, and he would show them some Irish sport. He always
went to Ireland for the fishing, and he came to Paris for the new Offenbach
things. They always brought them out in Dublin, but he couldn't wait. He had
been nine times to hear La Pomme de Paris. Madame de Cintré, leaning back, with
her arms folded, looked at Lord Deepmere with a more visibly puzzled face than
she usually showed to society. Madame de Bellegarde, on the other hand, wore a
fixed smile. The marquis said that among light operas his favourite was the
Gazza Ladra. The marquise then began a series of inquiries about the duke and
the cardinal, the old countess and Lady Barbara, after listening to which, and
to Lord Deepmere's somewhat irreverent responses, for a quarter of an hour,
Newman rose to take his leave. The marquis went with him three steps into the
hall.
    »Is he Irish?« asked Newman, nodding in the direction of the visitor.
    »His mother was the daughter of Lord Finucane,« said the marquis; »he has
great Irish estates. Lady Bridget, in the complete absence of male heirs, either
direct or collateral - a most extraordinary circumstance - came in for
everything. But Lord Deepmere's title is English, and his English property is
immense. He is a charming young man.«
    Newman answered nothing, but he detained the marquis as the latter was
beginning gracefully to recede. »It is a good time for me to thank you,« he
said, »for sticking so punctiliously to our bargain, for doing so much to help
me on with your sister.«
    The marquis stared. »Really, I have done nothing that I can boast of,« he
said.
    »Oh, don't be modest,« Newman answered, laughing. »I can't flatter myself
that I am doing so well simply by my own merit. And thank your mother for me,
too!« And he turned away, leaving M. de Bellegarde looking after him.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

The next time Newman came to the Rue de l'Université he had the good fortune to
find Madame de Cintré alone. He had come with a definite intention, and he lost
no time in executing it. She wore, moreover, a look which he eagerly interpreted
as expectancy.
    »I have been coming to see you for six months, now,« he said, »and I have
never spoken to you a second time of marriage. That was what you asked me; I
obeyed. Could any man have done better?«
    »You have acted with great delicacy,« said Madame de Cintré.
    »Well, I am going to change now,« said Newman, »I don't mean that I am going
to be indelicate; but I am going to go back to where I began. I am back there. I
have been all round the circle. Or rather, I have never been away from there. I
have never ceased to want what I wanted then. Only now I am more sure of it, if
possible; I am more sure of myself, and more sure of you. I know you better,
though I don't know anything I didn't believe three months ago. You are
everything - you are beyond everything - I can imagine or desire. You know me
now; you must know me. I won't say that you have seen the best - but you have
seen the worst. I hope you have been thinking all this while. You must have seen
that I was only waiting; you can't suppose that I was changing. What will you
say to me, now? Say that everything is clear and reasonable, and that I have
been very patient and considerate, and deserve my reward. And then give me your
hand. Madame de Cintré, do that. Do it.«
    »I knew you were only waiting,« she said; »and I was very sure this day
would come. I have thought about it a great deal. At first I was half afraid of
it. But I am not afraid of it now.« She paused a moment, and then she added:
»It's a relief.«
    She was sitting on a low chair, and Newman was on an ottoman, near her. He
leaned a little and took her hand, which for an instant she let him keep. »That
means that I have not waited for nothing,« he said. She looked at him for a
moment, and he saw her eyes fill with tears. »With me,« he went on, »you will be
as safe - as safe« - and even in his ardour he hesitated a moment for a
comparison - »as safe,« he said, with a kind of simple solemnity, »as in your
father's arms.«
    Still she looked at him and her tears increased. Then, abruptly, she buried
her face on the cushioned arm of the sofa beside her chair, and broke into
noiseless sobs. »I am weak - I am weak,« he heard her say.
    »All the more reason why you should give yourself up to me,« he answered.
»Why are you troubled? There is nothing here that should trouble you. I offer
you nothing but happiness. Is that so hard to believe?«
    »To you everything seems so simple,« she said, raising her head. »But things
are not so. I like you extremely. I liked you six months ago, and now I am sure
of it, as you say you are sure. But it is not easy, simply for that, to decide
to marry you. There are a great many things to think about.«
    »There ought to be only one thing to think about - that we love each other,«
said Newman. And as she remained silent he quickly added: »Very good; if you
can't accept that, don't tell me so.«
    »I should be very glad to think of nothing,« she said at last; »not to think
at all; only to shut both my eyes and give myself up. But I can't. I'm cold, I'm
old, I'm a coward; I never supposed I should marry again, and it seems to me
very strange I should ever have listened to you. When I used to think, as a
girl, of what I should do if I were to marry freely by my own choice, I thought
of a very different man from you.«
    »That's nothing against me,« said Newman, with an immense smile; »your taste
was not formed.«
    His smile made Madame de Cintré smile. »Have you formed it?« she asked. And
then she said, in a different tone: »Where do you wish to live?«
    »Anywhere in the wide world you like. We can easily settle that.«
    »I don't know why I ask you,« she presently continued. »I care very little.
I think if I were to marry you I could live almost anywhere. You have some false
ideas about me; you think that I need a great many things - that I must have a
brilliant worldly life. I am sure you are prepared to take a great deal of
trouble to give me such things. But that is very arbitrary; I have done nothing
to prove that.« She paused again, looking at him, and her mingled sound and
silence were so sweet to him that he had no wish to hurry her, any more than he
would have had a wish to hurry a golden sunrise. »Your being so different, which
at first seemed a difficulty, a trouble, began one day to seem to me a pleasure,
a great pleasure. I was glad you were different. And yet, if I had said so, no
one would have understood me; I don't mean simply to my family.«
    »They would have said I was a queer monster, eh?« said Newman.
    »They would have said I could never be happy with you - you were too
different; and I would have said it was just because you were so different that
I might be happy. But they would have given better reasons than I. My only
reason --« and she paused again.
    But this time, in the midst of his golden sunrise, Newman felt the impulse
to grasp at a rosy cloud. »Your only reason is that you love me!« he murmured,
with an eloquent gesture, and for want of a better reason Madame de Cintré
reconciled herself to this one.
 
Newman came back the next day, and in the vestibule, as he entered the house, he
encountered his friend Mrs. Bread. She was wandering about in honourable
idleness, and when his eyes fell upon her she delivered him one of her curtsies.
Then turning to the servant who had admitted him, she said, with the combined
majesty of her native superiority and of a rugged English accent: »You may
retire; I will have the honour of conducting monsieur.« In spite of this
combination, however, it appeared to Newman that her voice had a slight quaver,
as if the tone of command were not habitual to it. The man gave her an
impertinent stare, but he walked slowly away, and she led Newman upstairs. At
half its course the staircase gave a bend, forming a little platform. In the
angle of the wood stood an indifferent statue of an eighteenth-century nymph,
simpering, sallow, and cracked. Here Mrs. Bread stopped and looked with shy
kindness at her companion.
    »I know the good news, sir,« she murmured.
    »You have a good right to be first to know it,« said Newman. »You have taken
such a friendly interest.«
    Mrs. Bread turned away and began to blow the dust off the statue, as if this
might be mockery.
    »I suppose you want to congratulate me,« said Newman. »I am greatly
obliged.« And then he added: »You gave me much pleasure the other day.«
    She turned round, apparently reassured. »You are not to think that I have
been told anything,« she said; »I have only guessed. But when I looked at you,
as you came in, I was sure I had guessed aright.«
    »You are very sharp,« said Newman. »I am sure that in your quiet way you see
everything.«
    »I am not a fool, sir, thank Cod. I have guessed something else beside,«
said Mrs. Bread.
    »What's that?«
    »I needn't tell you that, sir; I don't think you would believe it. At any
rate it wouldn't please you.«
    »Oh, tell me nothing but what will please me,« laughed Newman. »That is the
way you began.«
    »Well, sir, I suppose you won't be vexed to hear that the sooner everything
is over the better.«
    »The sooner we are married, you mean? The better for me, certainly.«
    »The better for everyone.«
    »The better for you, perhaps. You know you are coming to live with us,« said
Newman.
    »I am extremely obliged to you, sir, but it is not of myself I was thinking.
I only wanted, if I might take the liberty, to recommend you to lose no time.«
    »Whom are you afraid of?«
    Mrs. Bread looked up the staircase and then down, and then she looked at the
undusted nymph, as if she possibly had sentient ears. »I am afraid of everyone,«
she said.
    »What an uncomfortable state of mind!« said Newman. »Does every one wish to
prevent my marriage?«
    »I am afraid of already having said too much,« Mrs. Bread replied. »I won't
take it back, but I won't say any more.« And she took her way up the staircase
again and led him into Madame de Cintré's salon.
    Newman indulged in a brief and silent imprecation when he found that Madame
de Cintré was not alone. With her sat her mother, and in the middle of the room
stood young Madame de Bellegarde, in her bonnet and mantle. The old marquise,
who was leaning back in her chair with a hand clasping the knob of each arm,
looked at him fixedly, without moving. She seemed barely conscious of his
greeting; she appeared to be musing intently. Newman said to himself that her
daughter had been announcing her engagement, and that the old lady found the
morsel hard to swallow. But Madame de Cintré, as she gave him her hand, gave him
also a look by which she appeared to mean that he should understand something.
Was it a warning or a request? Did she wish to enjoin speech or silence? He was
puzzled, and young Madame de Bellegarde's pretty grin gave him no information.
    »I have not told my mother,« said Madame de Cintré, abruptly, looking at
him.
    »Told me what?« demanded the marquise. »You tell me too little; you should
tell me everything.«
    »That is what I do,« said Madame Urbain, with a little laugh.
    »Let me tell your mother,« said Newman.
    The old lady stared at him again, and then turned to her daughter. »You are
going to marry him?« she cried softly.
    »Oui, ma mère,« said Madame de Cintré.
    »Your daughter has consented, to my great happiness,« said Newman.
    »And when was this arrangement made?« asked Madame de Bellegarde. »I seem to
be picking up the news by chance!«
    »My suspense came to an end yesterday,« said Newman.
    »And how long was mine to have lasted?« said the marquise to her daughter.
She spoke without irritation; with a sort of cold noble displeasure.
    Madame de Cintré stood silent, with her eyes on the ground. »It is over
now,« she said.
    »Where is my son - where is Urbain?« asked the marquise. »Send for your
brother and inform him.«
    Young Madame de Bellegarde laid her hand on the bell-rope. »He was to make
some visits with me, and I was to go and knock - very softly, very softly - at
the door of his study. But he can come to me!« She pulled the bell, and in a few
moments Mrs. Bread appeared, with a face of calm inquiry.
    »Send for your brother,« said the old lady.
    But Newman felt an irresistible impulse to speak, and to speak in a certain
way. »Tell the marquis we want him,« he said to Mrs. Bread, who quietly retired.
    Young Madame de Bellegarde went to her sister-in-law and embraced her. Then
she turned to Newman, with an intense smile. »She is charming. I congratulate
you.«
    »I congratulate you, sir,« said Madame de Bellegarde, with extreme
solemnity. »My daughter is an extraordinarily good woman. She may have faults,
but I don't know them.«
    »My mother does not often make jokes,« said Madame de Cintré; »but when she
does they are terrible.«
    »She is ravishing,« the Marquise Urbain resumed, looking at her
sister-in-law, with her head on one side. »Yes, I congratulate you.«
    Madame de Cintré turned away, and, taking up a piece of tapestry, began to
ply the needle. Some minutes of silence elapsed, which were interrupted by the
arrival of M. de Bellegarde. He came in with his hat in his hand, gloved, and
was followed by his brother Valentin, who appeared to have just entered the
house. M. de Bellegarde looked around the circle and greeted Newman with his
usual finely-measured courtesy. Valentin saluted his mother and his sisters,
and, as he shook hands with Newman, gave him a glance of acute interrogation.
    »Arrivez donc, messieurs!« cried young Madame de Bellegarde. »We have great
news for you.«
    »Speak to your brother, my daughter,« said the old lady.
    Madame de Cintré had been looking at her tapestry. She raised her eyes to
her brother. »I have accepted Mr. Newman.«
    »Your sister has consented,« said Newman. »You see, after all, I knew what I
was about.«
    »I am charmed!« said M. de Bellegarde, with superior benignity.
    »So am I,« said Valentin to Newman. »The marquis and I are charmed. I can't
marry, myself, but I can understand it. I can't stand on my head, but I can
applaud a clever acrobat. My dear sister, I bless your union.«
    The marquis stood looking for awhile into the crown of his hat. »We have
been prepared,« he said at last, »but it is inevitable that in the face of the
event one should experience a certain emotion.« And he gave a most unhilarious
smile.
    »I feel no emotion that I was not perfectly prepared for,« said his mother.
    »I can't say that for myself,« said Newman, smiling, but differently from
the marquis. »I am happier than I expected to be. I suppose it's the sight of
your happiness!«
    »Don't exaggerate that,« said Madame de Bellegarde, getting up and laying
her hand upon her daughter's arm. »You can't expect an honest old woman to thank
you for taking away her beautiful only daughter.«
    »You forget me, dear madame,« said the young marquise, demurely.
    »Yes, she is very beautiful,« said Newman.
    »And when is the wedding, pray?« asked young Madame de Bellegarde; »I must
have a month to think over a dress.«
    »That must be discussed,« said the marquise.
    »Oh, we will discuss it, and let you know!« Newman exclaimed.
    »I have no doubt we shall agree,« said Urbain.
    »If you don't agree with Madame de Cintré, you will be very unreasonable.«
    »Come, come, Urbain,« said young Madame de Bellegarde. »I must go straight
to my tailor's.«
    The old lady had been standing with her hand on her daughter's arm, looking
at her fixedly. She gave a little sigh and murmured, »No, I did not expect it!
You are a fortunate man,« she added, turning to Newman, with an expressive nod.
    »Oh, I know that!« he answered. »I feel tremendously proud. I feel like
crying it on the housetops - like stopping people in the street to tell them.«
    Madame de Bellegarde narrowed her lips. »Pray don't,« she said.
    »The more people that know it, the better,« Newman declared. »I haven't yet
announced it here, but I telegraphed it this morning to America.«
    »Telegraphed it to America?« the old lady murmured.
    »To New York, to St. Louis, and to San Francisco; those are the principal
cities, you know. To-morrow I shall tell my friends here.«
    »Have you many?« asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone of which I am afraid
that Newman but partly measured the impertinence.
    »Enough to bring me a great many hand-shakes and congratulations. To say
nothing,« he added, in a moment, »of those I shall receive from your friends.«
    »They will not use the telegraph,« said the marquise, taking her departure.
    M. de Bellegarde, whose wife, her imagination having apparently taken flight
to the tailor's, was fluttering her silken wings in emulation, shook hands with
Newman, and said, with a more persuasive accent than the latter had ever heard
him use: »You may count upon me.« Then his wife led him away.
    Valentin stood looking from his sister to our hero.
    »I hope you have both reflected seriously,« he said.
    Madame de Cintré smiled. »We have neither your powers of reflection nor your
depth of seriousness; but we have done our best.«
    »Well, I have a great regard for each of you,« Valentin continued. »You are
charming young people. But I am not satisfied, on the whole, that you belong to
that small and superior class - that exquisite group - composed of persons who
are worthy to remain unmarried. These are rare souls; they are the salt of the
earth. But I don't mean to be invidious; the marrying people are often very
nice.«
    »Valentin holds that women should marry, and that men should not,« said
Madame de Cintré. »I don't know how he arranges it.«
    »I arrange it by adoring you, my sister,« said Valentin, ardently.
»Good-bye.«
    »Adore some one whom you can marry,« said Newman. »I will arrange that for
you some day. I foresee that I am going to turn apostle.«
    Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment, with a face that had
turned grave. »I adore some one I can't marry!« he said. And he dropped the
portière and departed.
    »They don't like it,« said Newman, standing alone before Madame de Cintré.
    »No,« she said, after a moment; »they don't like it.«
    »Well, now do you mind that?« asked Newman.
    »Yes!« she said after another interval.
    »That's a mistake.«
    »I can't help it. I should prefer that my mother were pleased.«
    »Why the deuce,« demanded Newman, »is she not pleased? She gave you leave to
marry me.«
    »Very true; I don't understand it. And yet I do mind it, as you say. You
will call it superstitious.«
    »That will depend upon how much you let it bother you. Then I shall call it
an awful bore.«
    »I will keep it to myself,« said Madame de Cintré. »It shall not bother
you.« And they then talked of their marriage-day, and Madame de Cintré assented
unreservedly to Newman's desire to have it fixed for an early date.
    Newman's telegrams were answered with interest. Having despatched but three
electric missives, he received no less than eight gratulatory bulletins in
return. He put them into his pocketbook, and the next time he encountered old
Madame de Bellegarde drew them forth and displayed them to her. This, it must be
confessed, was a slightly malicious stroke; the reader must judge in what degree
the offence was venial. Newman knew that the marquise disliked his telegrams,
though he could see no sufficient reason for it. Madame de Cintré, on the other
hand, liked them; and, most of them being of a humorous cast, laughed at them
immoderately, and inquired into the character of their authors. Newman, now that
his prize was gained, felt a peculiar desire that his triumph should be
manifest. He more than suspected that the Bellegardes were keeping quiet about
it, and allowing it, in their select circle, but a limited resonance; and it
pleased him to think that if he were to take the trouble he might, as he phrased
it, break all the windows. No man likes being repudiated, and yet Newman, if he
was not flattered, was not exactly offended. He had not this good excuse for his
somewhat aggressive impulse to promulgate his felicity; his sentiment was of
another quality. He wanted for once to make the heads of the house of Bellegarde
feel him; he knew not when he should have another chance. He had had for the
past six months a sense of the old lady and her son looking straight over his
head, and he was now resolved that they should toe a mark which he would give
himself the satisfaction of drawing.
    »It is like seeing a bottle emptied when the wine is poured too slowly,« he
said to Mrs. Tristram. »They make me want to joggle their elbows and force them
to spill their wine.«
    To this Mrs. Tristram answered that he had better leave them alone, and let
them do things in their own way. »You must make allowances for them,« she said.
»It is natural enough that they should hang fire a little. They thought they
accepted you when you made your application; but they are not people of
imagination, they could not project themselves into the future, and now they
will have to begin again. But they are people of honour, and they will do
whatever is necessary.«
    Newman spent a few moments in narrow-eyed meditation.
    »I am not hard on them,« he presently said; »and to prove it I will invite
them all to a festival.«
    »To a festival?«
    »You have been laughing at my great gilded rooms all winter; I will show you
that they are good for something. I will give a party. What is the grandest
thing one can do here? I will hire all the great singers from the opera, and all
the first people from the Théâtre Française, and I will give an entertainment.«
    »And whom will you invite?«
    »You, first of all. And then the old lady and her son. And then everyone
among her friends whom I have met at her house or elsewhere, everyone who has
shown me the minimum of politeness, every duke of them and his wife. And then
all my friends, without exception - Miss Kitty Upjohn, Miss Dora Finch, General
Packard, C.P. Hatch, and all the rest. And everyone shall know what it is about;
that is, to celebrate my engagement to the Countess de Cintré. What do you think
of the idea?«
    »I think it is odious!« said Mrs, Tristram. And then in a moment: »I think
it is delicious!«
    The very next evening Newman repaired to Madame de Bellegarde's salon, where
he found her surrounded by her children, and invited her to honour his poor
dwelling by her presence on a certain evening a fortnight distant.
    The marquise stared a moment. »My dear sir,« she cried, »what do you want to
do to me?«
    »To make you acquainted with a few people, and then to place you in a very
easy chair and ask you to listen to Madame Frezzolini's singing.«
    »You mean to give a concert?«
    »Something of that sort.«
    »And to have a crowd of people?«
    »All my friends, and I hope some of yours and your daughter's. I want to
celebrate my engagement.«
    It seemed to Newman that Madame de Bellegarde turned pale. She opened her
fan, a fine old painted fan of the last century, and looked at the picture,
which represented a fête champêtre - a lady with a guitar, singing, and a group
of dancers round a garlanded Hermes.
    »We go out so little,« murmured the marquis, »since my poor father's death.«
    »But my dear father is still alive, my friend,« said his wife. »I am only
waiting for my invitation to accept it,« and she glanced with amiable confidence
at Newman. »It will be magnificent; I am very sure of that.«
    I am sorry to say, to the discredit of Newman's gallantry, that this lady's
invitation was not then and there bestowed; he was giving all his attention to
the old marquise. She looked up at last smiling. »I can't think of letting you
offer me a fête,« she said, »until I have offered you one. We want to present
you to our friends; we will invite them all. We have it very much at heart. We
must do things in order. Come to me about the 25th; I will let you know the
exact day immediately. We shall not have anyone so fine as Madame Frezzolini,
but we shall have some very good people. After that you may talk of your own
fête.« The old lady spoke with a certain quick eagerness, smiling more agreeably
as she went on.
    It seemed to Newman a handsome proposal, and such proposals always touched
the sources of his good-nature. He said to Madame de Bellegarde that he should
be glad to come on the 25th or any other day, and that it mattered very little
whether he met his friends at her house or at his own. I have said that Newman
was observant, but it must be admitted that on this occasion he failed to notice
a certain delicate glance which passed between Madame de Bellegarde and the
marquis, and which we may presume to have been a commentary upon the innocence
displayed in that latter clause of his speech.
    Valentin de Bellegarde walked away with Newman that evening, and when they
had left the Rue de l'Université some distance behind them he said reflectively:
»My mother is very strong - very strong.« Then in answer to an interrogative
movement of Newman's he continued: »She was driven to the wall; but you would
never have thought it. Her fête of the 25th was an invention of the moment. She
had no idea whatever of giving a fête, but finding it the only issue from your
proposal, she looked straight at the dose - excuse the expression - and bolted
it, as you saw, without winking. She is very strong.«
    »Dear me!« said Newman, divided between relish and compassion. »I don't care
a straw for her fête; I am willing to take the will for the deed.«
    »No, no,« said Valentin, with a little inconsequent touch of family pride.
»The thing will be done now, and done handsomely.«
 

                                   Chapter XV

Valentin de Bellegarde's announcement of the secession of Mademoiselle Nioche
from her father's domicile, and his irreverent reflections upon the attitude of
this anxious parent in so grave a catastrophe, received a practical commentary
in the fact that M. Nioche was slow to seek another interview with his late
pupil. It had cost Newman some disgust to be forced to assent to Valentin's
somewhat cynical interpretation of the old man's philosophy, and, though
circumstances seemed to indicate that he had not given himself up to a noble
despair, Newman thought it very possible he might be suffering more keenly than
was apparent. M. Nioche had been in the habit of paying him a respectful little
visit every two or three weeks, and his absence might be a proof quite as much
of extreme depression as of a desire to conceal the success with which he had
patched up his sorrow. Newman presently learned from Valentin several details
touching this new phase of Mademoiselle Noémie's career.
    »I told you she was remarkable,« this unshrinking observer declared, »and
the way she has managed this performance proves it. She has had other chances,
but she was resolved to take none but the best. She did you the honour to think
for awhile that you might be such a chance. You were not; so she gathered up her
patience and waited awhile longer. At last her occasion came along, and she made
her move with her eyes wide open. I am very sure she had no innocence to lose,
but she had all her respectability. Dubious little damsel as you thought her,
she had kept a firm hold of that; nothing could be proved against her, and she
was determined not to let her reputation go till she had got her equivalent.
About her equivalent she had high ideas. Apparently her ideal has been
satisfied. It is fifty years old, bald-headed, and deaf, but it is very easy
about money.«
    »And where in the world,« asked Newman, »did you pick up this valuable
information?«
    »In conversation. Remember my frivolous habits. In conversation with a young
woman engaged in the humble trade of glove-cleaner, who keeps a small shop in
the Rue St. Roch. M. Nioche lives in the same house, up six pair of stairs,
across the court, in and out of whose ill-swept doorway Miss Noémie has been
flitting for the last five years. The little glove-cleaner was an old
acquaintance; she used to be the friend of a friend of mine, who has married and
dropped such friends. I often saw her in his society. As soon as I espied her
behind her clear little windowpane, I recollected her. I had on a spotlessly
fresh pair of gloves, but I went in and held up my hands, and said to her: Dear
mademoiselle, what will you ask me for cleaning these? Dear count, she answered
immediately, I will clean them for you for nothing. She had instantly recognised
me, and I had to hear her history for the last six years. But after that, I put
her upon that of her neighbours. She knows and admires Noémie, and she told me
what I have just repeated.«
    A month elapsed without M. Nioche reappearing, and Newman, who every morning
read two or three suicides in the Figaro, began to suspect that, mortification
proving stubborn, he had sought a balm for his wounded pride in the waters of
the Seine. He had a note of M. Nioche's address in his pocketbook, and finding
himself one day in the quartier, he determined, in so far as he might, to clear
up his doubts. He repaired to the house in the Rue St. Roch which bore the
recorded number, and observed in a neighbouring basement, behind a dangling row
of neatly inflated gloves, the attentive physiognomy of Bellegarde's informant -
a sallow person in a dressing-gown - peering into the street as if she were
expecting that amiable nobleman to pass again. But it was not to her that Newman
applied; he simply asked of the portress if M. Nioche were at home. The portress
replied, as the portress invariably replies, that her lodger had gone out barely
three minutes before; but then, through the little square hole of her
lodge-window taking the measure of Newman's fortunes, and seeing them, by an
unspecified process, refresh the dry places of servitude to occupants of fifth
floors on courts, she added that M. Nioche would have had just time to reach the
Café de la Patrie, round the second corner to the left, at which establishment
he regularly spent his afternoons. Newman thanked her for the information, took
the second turning to the left, and arrived at the Café de la Patrie. He felt a
momentary hesitation to go in; was it not rather mean to follow up poor old
Nioche at that rate? But there passed across his vision an image of a haggard
little septuagenarian taking measured sips of a glass of sugar and water, and
finding them quite impotent to sweeten his desolation. He opened the door and
entered, perceiving nothing at first but a dense cloud of tobacco-smoke. Across
this, however, in a corner, he presently descried the figure of M. Nioche,
stirring the contents of a deep glass, with a lady seated in front of him. The
lady's back was turned to Newman, but M. Nioche very soon perceived and
recognised his visitor. Newman had gone toward him, and the old man rose slowly,
gazing at him with a more blighted expression even than usual.
    »If you are drinking hot punch,« said Newman, »I suppose you are not dead.
That's all right. Don't move.«
    M. Nioche stood staring, with a fallen jaw, not daring to put out his hand.
The lady, who sat facing him, turned round in her place and glanced upward with
a spirited toss of her head, displaying the agreeable features of his daughter.
She looked at Newman sharply, to see how he was looking at her, then - I don't
know what she discovered - she said graciously: »How d'ye do, monsieur? won't
you come into our little corner?«
    »Did you come - did you come after me?« asked M. Nioche, very softly.
    »I went to your house to see what had become of you. I thought you might be
sick,« said Newman.
    »It is very good of you, as always,« said the old man. »No, I am not well.
Yes, I am seek.«
    »Ask monsieur to sit down,« said Mademoiselle Nioche. »Garçon, bring a
chair.«
    »Will you do us the honour to seat?« said M. Nioche, timorously, and with a
double foreignness of accent.
    Newman said to himself that he had better see the thing out, and he took a
chair at the end of the table, with Mademoiselle Nioche on his left and her
father on the other side. »You will take something, of course,« said Miss
Noémie, who was sipping a glass of madeira. Newman said that he believed not,
and then she turned to her papa with a smile. »What an honour, eh? he has come
only for us.« M. Nioche drained his pungent glass at a long draught, and looked
out from eyes more lachrymose in consequence. »But you didn't come for me, eh?«
Mademoiselle Noémie went on. »You didn't expect to find me here?«
    Newman observed the change in her appearance. She was very elegant, and
prettier than before; she looked a year or two older, and it was noticeable
that, to the eye, she had only gained in respectability. She looked lady-like.
She was dressed in quiet colours, and she wore her expensively unobtrusive
toilet with a grace that might have come from years of practice. Her present
self-possession and aplomb struck Newman as really infernal, and he inclined to
agree with Valentin de Bellegarde that the young lady was very remarkable. »No,
to tell the truth, I didn't come for you,« he said, »and I didn't expect to find
you. I was told,« he added in a moment, »that you had left your father.«
    »Quelle horreur!« cried Mademoiselle Nioche, with a smile. »Does one leave
one's father? You have the proof of the contrary.«
    »Yes, convincing proof,« said Newman, glancing at M. Nioche. The old man
caught his glance obliquely, with his faded deprecating eye, and then, lifting
his empty glass, pretended to drink again.
    »Who told you that?« Noémie demanded. »I know very well. It was M. de
Bellegarde. Why don't you say yes? You are not polite.«
    »I am embarrassed,« said Newman.
    »I set you a better example. I know M. de Bellegarde told you. He knows a
great deal about me - or he thinks he does. He has taken a great deal of trouble
to find out, but half of it isn't true. In the first place, I haven't left my
father; I am much too fond of him. Isn't it so, little father? M. de Bellegarde
is a charming young man; it is impossible to be cleverer. I know a good deal
about him too; you can tell him that when you next see him.«
    »No,« said Newman, with a sturdy grin; »I won't carry any messages for you.«
    »Just as you please,« said Mademoiselle Nioche. »I don't depend upon you,
nor does M. de Bellegarde either. He is very much interested in me; he can be
left to his own devices. He is a contrast to you.«
    »Oh, he is a great contrast to me, I have no doubt,« said Newman. »But I
don't exactly know how you mean it.«
    »I mean it in this way. First of all, he never offered to help me to a dot
and a husband.« And Mademoiselle Nioche paused, smiling. »I won't say that is in
his favour, for I do you justice. What led you, by the way, to make me such a
queer offer? You didn't care for me.«
    »Oh yes, I did,« said Newman.
    »How so?«
    »It would have given me real pleasure to see you married to a respectable
young fellow.«
    »With six thousand francs of income!« cried Mademoiselle Nioche. »Do you
call that caring for me? I'm afraid you know little about women. You were not
galant; you were not what you might have been.«
    Newman flushed, a trifle fiercely. »Come!« he exclaimed, »that's rather
strong, I had no idea I had been so shabby.«
    Mademoiselle Nioche smiled as she took up her muff. »It is something, at any
rate, to have made you angry.«
    Her father had leaned both his elbows on the table, and his head, bent
forward, was supported in his hands, the thin white fingers of which were
pressed over his ears. In this position he was staring fixedly at the bottom of
his empty glass, and Newman supposed he was not hearing. Mademoiselle Noémie
buttoned her furred jacket and pushed back her chair, casting a glance charged
with the consciousness of an expensive appearance first down over her flounces
and then up at Newman.
    »You had better have remained an honest girl,« Newman said quietly.
    M. Nioche continued to stare at the bottom of his glass, and his daughter
got up, still bravely smiling. »You mean that I look so much like one? That's
more than most women do nowadays. Don't judge me yet awhile,« she added. »I mean
to succeed; that's what I mean to do. I leave you; I don't mean to be seen in
cafés, for one thing. I can't think what you want of my poor father; he's very
comfortable now. It isn't his fault either. Au revoir, little father.« And she
tapped the old man on the head with her muff. Then she stopped a minute, looking
at Newman. »Tell M. de Bellegarde, when he wants news of me, to come and get it
from me!« And she turned and departed, the white-aproned waiter, with a bow,
holding the door wide open for her.
    M. Nioche sat motionless, and Newman hardly knew what to say to him. The old
man looked dismally foolish. »So you determined not to shoot her, after all,«
Newman said presently.
    M. Nioche, without moving, raised his eyes and gave him a long peculiar
look. It seemed to confess everything, and yet not to ask for pity, nor to
pretend, on the other hand, to a rugged ability to do without it. It might have
expressed the state of mind of an innocuous insect, flat in shape, and conscious
of the impending pressure of a boot-sole, and reflecting that he was perhaps too
flat to be crushed. M. Nioche's gaze was a profession of moral flatness. »You
despise me terribly,« he said, in the weakest possible voice.
    »Oh no,« said Newman; »it is none of my business. It's a good plan to take
things easily.«
    »I made you too many fine speeches,« M. Nioche added. »I meant them at the
time.«
    »I am sure I am very glad you didn't shoot her,« said Newman. »I was afraid
you might have shot yourself. That is why I came to look you up.« And he began
to button his coat.
    »Neither,« said M. Nioche. »You despise me, and I can't explain to you. I
hoped I shouldn't see you again.«
    »Why, that's rather shabby,« said Newman. »You shouldn't drop your friends
that way. Besides, the last time you came to see me I thought you particularly
jolly.«
    »Yes, I remember,« said M. Nioche musingly; »I was in a fever. I didn't know
what I said, what I did. It was delirium.«
    »Ah well, you are quieter now.«
    M. Nioche was silent a moment. »As quiet as the grave,« he whispered softly.
    »Are you very unhappy?« asked Newman.
    M. Nioche rubbed his forehead slowly, and even pushed back his wig a little,
looking askance at his empty glass. »Yes - yes. But that's an old story. I have
always been unhappy. My daughter does what she will with me. I take what she
gives me, good or bad. I have no spirit, and when you have no spirit you must
keep quiet. I shan't trouble you any more.«
    »Well,« said Newman, rather disgusted at the smooth operation of the old
man's philosophy, »that's as you please.«
    M. Nioche seemed to have been prepared to be despised, but nevertheless he
made a feeble movement of appeal from Newman's faint praise. »After all,« he
said, »she is my daughter, and I can still look after her. If she will do wrong,
why she will. But there are many different paths, there are degrees. I can give
her the benefit - give her the benefit« - and M. Nioche paused, staring vaguely
at Newman, who began to suspect that his brain had softened -»the benefit of my
experience,« M. Nioche added.
    »Your experience?« inquired Newman, both amused and amazed.
    »My experience of business,« said M. Nioche gravely.
    »Ah yes,« said Newman, laughing, »that will be a great advantage to her!«
And then he said good-bye, and offered the poor foolish old man his hand.
    M. Nioche took it and leaned back against the wall, holding it a moment and
looking up at him. »I suppose you think my wits are going,« he said. »Very
likely; I have always a pain in my head. That's why I can't explain, I can't
tell you. And she's so strong, she makes me walk as she will, anywhere! But
there's this - there's this.« And he stopped, still staring up at Newman. His
little white eyes expanded and glittered for a moment like those of a cat in the
dark. »It's not as it seems. I haven't forgiven her. Oh no!«
    »That's right; don't,« said Newman. »She's a bad case.«
    »It's horrible, it's terrible,« said M. Nioche; »but do you want to know the
truth? I hate her! I take what she gives me, and I hate her more. To-day she
brought me three hundred francs; they are here in my waistcoat-pocket. Now I
hate her almost cruelly. No, I haven't forgiven her.«
    »Why did you accept the money?« Newman asked.
    »If I hadn't,« said M. Nioche, »I should have hated her still more. That's
what misery is. No, I haven't forgiven her.«
    »Take care you don't hurt her!« said Newman, laughing again. And with this
he took his leave. As he passed along the glazed side of the café, on reaching
the street, he saw the old man motioning the waiter, with a melancholy gesture,
to replenish his glass.
    One day, a week after his visit to the Café de la Patrie, he called upon
Valentin de Bellegarde, and by good fortune found him at home. Newman spoke of
his interview with M. Nioche and his daughter, and said he was afraid Valentin
had judged the old man correctly. He had found the couple hobnobbing together in
amity; the old gentleman's rigour was purely theoretic. Newman confessed that he
was disappointed; she should have expected to see M. Nioche take high ground.
    »High ground, my dear fellow,« said Valentin, laughing; »there is no high
ground for him to take. The only perceptible eminence in M. Nioche's horizon is
Montmartre, which is not an edifying quarter. You can't go mountaineering in a
flat country.«
    »He remarked, indeed,« said Newman, »that he had not forgiven her. But
she'll never find it out.«
    »We must do him the justice to suppose he doesn't't like the thing,« Valentin
rejoined. »Mademoiselle Nioche is like the great artists whose biographies we
read, who at the beginning of their career have suffered opposition in the
domestic circle. Their vocation has not been recognised by their families, but
the world has done it justice. Mademoiselle Nioche has a vocation.«
    »Oh, come,« said Newman impatiently, »you take the little baggage too
seriously.«
    »I know I do; but when one has nothing to think about, one must think of
little baggages. I suppose it is better to be serious about light things than
not to be serious at all. This little baggage entertains me.«
    »Oh, she has discovered that. She knows you have been hunting her up and
asking questions about her. She is very much tickled by it. That's rather
annoying.«
    »Annoying, my dear fellow,« laughed Valentin; »not the least!«
    »Hanged if I should want to have a greedy little adventuress like that know
I was giving myself such pains about her!« said Newman.
    »A pretty woman is always worth one's pains,« objected Valentin.
»Mademoiselle Nioche is welcome to be tickled by my curiosity, and to know that
I am tickled that she is tickled. She is not so much tickled, by the way.«
    »You had better go and tell her,« Newman rejoined. »She gave me a message
for you of some such drift.«
    »Bless your quiet imagination,« said Valentin, »I have been to see her -
three times in five days. She is a charming hostess; we talk of Shakespeare and
the musical-glasses. She is extremely clever and a very curious type; not at all
coarse or wanting to be coarse - determined not to be. She means to take very
good care of herself. She is extremely perfect; she is as hard and clear-cut as
some little figure of a sea-nymph in an antique intaglio, and I will warrant
that she has not a grain more of sentiment or heart than if she were scooped out
of a big amethyst. You can't scratch her even with a diamond. Extremely pretty -
really, when you know her, she is wonderfully pretty - intelligent, determined,
ambitious, unscrupulous, capable of looking at a man strangled without changing
colour, she is, upon my honour, extremely entertaining.«
    »It's a fine list of attractions,« said Newman; »they would serve as a
police-detective's description of a favourite criminal. I should sum them up by
another word than entertaining.«
    »Why, that is just the word to use. I don't say she is laudable or loveable.
I don't want her as my wife or my sister. But she is a very curious and
ingenious piece of machinery; I like to see it in operation.«
    »Well, I have seen some very curious machines, too,« said Newman; »and once,
in a needle factory, I saw a gentleman from the city, who had stepped too near
one of them, picked up as neatly as if he had been prodded by a fork, swallowed
down straight, and ground into small pieces.«
    Re-entering his domicile, late in the evening, three days after Madame de
Bellegarde had made her bargain with him - the expression is sufficiently
correct - touching the entertainment at which she was to present him to the
world, he found on his table a card of goodly dimensions bearing an announcement
that this lady would be at home on the 27th of the month, at ten o'clock in the
evening. He stuck it into the frame of his mirror and eyed it with some
complacency; it seemed an agreeable emblem of triumph, documentary evidence that
his prize was gained. Stretched out on a chair, he was looking at it lovingly,
when Valentin de Bellegarde was shown into the room. Valentin's glance presently
followed the direction of Newman's, and he perceived his mother's invitation.
    »And what have they put into the corner?« he asked. »Not the customary
music, dancing, or tableaux vivants? They ought at least to put An American.«
    »Oh, there are to be several of us,« said Newman. »Mrs. Tristram told me
to-day that she had received a card and sent an acceptance.«
    »Ah, then, with Mrs. Tristram and her husband you will have support. My
mother might have put on her card Three Americans. But I suspect you will not
lack amusement. You will see a great many of the best people in France. I mean
the long pedigrees and the high noses, and all that. Some of them are awful
idiots; I advise you to take them up cautiously.«
    »Oh, I guess I shall like them,« said Newman. »I am prepared to like
everyone and everything in these days; I am in high good-humour.«
    Valentin looked at him a moment in silence, and then dropped himself into a
chair with an unwonted air of weariness. »Happy man!« he said with a sigh. »Take
care you don't become offensive.«
    »If anyone chooses to take offence, he may. I have a good conscience,« said
Newman.
    »So you are really in love with my sister?«
    »Yes, sir!« said Newman, after a pause.
    »And she also?«
    »I guess she likes me,« said Newman.
    »What is the witchcraft you have used?« Valentin asked. »How do you make
love?«
    »Oh, I haven't any general rules,« said Newman. »In any way that seems
acceptable.«
    »I suspect that, if one knew it,« said Valentin, laughing, »you are a
terrible customer. You walk in seven-league boots.«
    »There is something the matter with you to-night,« Newman said in response
to this. »You are vicious. Spare me all discordant sounds until after my
marriage. Then, when I have settled down for life, I shall be better able to
take things as they come.«
    »And when does your marriage take place?«
    »About six weeks hence.«
    Valentin was silent awhile, and then he said: »And you feel very confident
about the future?«
    »Confident. I knew what I wanted, exactly, and I know what I have got.«
    »You are sure you are going to be happy?«
    »Sure?« said Newman. »So foolish a question deserves a foolish answer. Yes!«
    »You are not afraid of anything?«
    »What should I be afraid of? You can't hurt me unless you kill me by some
violent means. That I should indeed consider a tremendous sell. I want to live
and I mean to live. I can't die of illness, I am too ridiculously tough; and the
time for dying of old age won't come round yet awhile. I can't lose my wife, I
shall take too good care of her. I may lose my money, or a large part of it; but
that won't matter, for I shall make twice as much again. So what have I to be
afraid of?«
    »You are not afraid it may be rather a mistake for an American man of
business to marry a French countess?«
    »For the countess, possibly; but not for the man of business, if you mean
me! But my countess shall not be disappointed; I answer for her happiness!« And
as if he felt the impulse to celebrate his happy certitude by a bonfire, he got
up to throw a couple of logs upon the already blazing hearth. Valentin watched
for a few moments the quickened flame, and then, with his head leaning on his
hand, gave a melancholy sigh. »Got a headache?« Newman asked.
    »Je suis triste,« said Valentin, with Gallic simplicity.
    »You are sad, eh? Is it about the lady you said the other night that you
adored and that you couldn't marry?«
    »Did I really say that? It seemed to me afterwards that the words had
escaped me. Before Claire it was bad taste. But I felt gloomy as I spoke, and I
feel gloomy still. Why did you ever introduce me to that girl?«
    »Oh, it's Noémie, is it? Lord deliver us! You don't mean to say you are
lovesick about her?«
    »Lovesick, no; it's not a grand passion. But the cold-blooded little demon
sticks in my thoughts; she has bitten me with those even little teeth of hers; I
feel as if I might turn rabid and do something crazy in consequence. It's very
low; it's disgustingly low. She's the most mercenary little jade in Europe. Yet
she really affects my peace of mind; she is always running in my head. It's a
striking contrast to your noble and virtuous attachment - a vile contrast! It is
rather pitiful that it should be the best I am able to do for myself at my
present respectable age. I am a nice young man, eh, en somme? You can't warrant
my future, as you do your own.«
    »Drop that girl, short,« said Newman; »don't go near her again, and your
future will do. Come over to America and I will get you a place in a bank.«
    »It is easy to say drop her,« said Valentin, with a light laugh. »You can't
drop a pretty woman like that. One must be polite, even with Noémie. Besides,
I'll not have her suppose I am afraid of her.«
    »So, between politeness and vanity, you will get deeper into the mud? Keep
them both for something better. Remember, too, that I didn't want to introduce
you to her; you insisted. I had a sort of uneasy feeling about it.«
    »Oh, I don't reproach you,« said Valentin. »Heaven forbid! I wouldn't for
the world have missed knowing her. She is really extraordinary. The way she has
already spread her wings is amazing. I don't know when a woman has amused me
more. But excuse me,« he added in an instant; »she doesn't't amuse you, at second
hand, and the subject is an impure one. Let us talk of something else.« Valentin
introduced another topic, but within five minutes Newman observed that, by a
bold transition, he had reverted to Mademoiselle Nioche, and was giving pictures
of her manners and quoting specimens of her mots. These were very witty, and,
for a young woman who six months before had been painting the most artless
madonnas, startlingly cynical. But at last, abruptly, he stopped, became
thoughtful, and for some time afterwards said nothing. When he rose to go it was
evident that his thoughts were still running upon Mademoiselle Nioche. »Yes,
she's a frightful little monster!« he said.
 

                                  Chapter XVI

The next ten days were the happiest that Newman had ever known. He saw Madame de
Cintré every day, and never saw either old Madame de Bellegarde or the elder of
his prospective brothers-in-law. Madame de Cintré at last seemed to think it
becoming to apologise for their never being present. »They are much taken up,«
she said, »with doing the honours of Paris to Lord Deepmere.« There was a smile
in her gravity as she made this declaration, and it deepened as she added: »He
is our seventh cousin, you know, and blood is thicker than water. And then, he
is so interesting!« And with this she laughed.
    Newman met young Madame de Bellegarde two or three times, always roaming
about with graceful vagueness, as if in search of an unattainable ideal of
amusement. She always reminded him of a painted perfume-bottle with a crack in
it; but he had grown to have a kindly feeling for her, based on the fact of her
owing conjugal allegiance to Urbain de Bellegarde. He pitied M. de Bellegarde's
wife, especially since she was a silly, thirstily-smiling little brunette, with
a suggestion of an unregulated heart. The small marquise sometimes looked at him
with an intensity too marked not to be innocent, for coquetry is more finely
shaded. She apparently wanted to ask him something or tell him something; he
wondered what it was. But he was shy of giving her an opportunity, because, if
her communication bore upon the aridity of her matrimonial lot, he was at a loss
to see how he could help her. He had a fancy, however, of her coming up to him
some day and saying (after looking round behind her) with a little passionate
hiss: »I know you detest my husband; let me have the pleasure of assuring you
for once you are right. Pity a poor woman who is married to a clock-image in
papier-mâché!« Possessing, however, in default of a competent knowledge of the
principles of etiquette, a very downright sense of the meanness of certain
actions, it seemed to him to belong to his position to keep on his guard; he was
not going to put it into the power of these people to say that in their house he
had done anything unpleasant. As it was, Madame de Bellegarde used to give him
news of the dress she meant to wear at his wedding, and which had not yet, in
her creative imagination, in spite of many interviews with the tailor, resolved
itself into its composite totality. »I told you pale blue bows on the sleeves,
at the elbows,« she said. »But to-day I don't see my blue bows at all. I don't
know what has become of them. To-day I see pink - a tender pink. And then I pass
through strange dull phases in which neither blue nor pink says anything to me.
And yet I must have the bows.«
    »Have them green or yellow,« said Newman.
    »Malheureux!« the little marquise would cry. »Green bows would break your
marriage - your children would be illegitimate!«
    Madame de Cintré was calmly happy before the world, and Newman had the
felicity of fancying that before him, when the world was absent, she was almost
agitatedly happy. She said very tender things. »I take no pleasure in you. You
never give me a chance to scold you, to correct you. I bargained for that; I
expected to enjoy it. But you won't do anything dreadful; you are dismally
inoffensive. It is very stupid; there is no excitement for me; I might as well
be marrying someone else.«
    »I am afraid it's the worst I can do,« Newman would say in answer to this.
»Kindly overlook the deficiency.« He assured her that he, at least, would never
scold her; she was perfectly satisfactory. »If you only knew,« he said, »how
exactly you are what I coveted! And I am beginning to understand why I coveted
it; the having it makes all the difference that I expected. Never was a man so
pleased with his good fortune. You have been holding your head for a week past
just as I wanted my wife to hold hers. You say just the things I want her to
say. You walk about the room just as I want her to walk. You have just the taste
in dress that I want her to have. In short, you come up to the mark; and, I can
tell you, my mark was high.«
    These observations seemed to make Madame de Cintré rather grave. At last she
said: »Depend upon it, I don't come up to the mark; your mark is too high. I am
not all that you suppose; I am a much smaller affair. She is a magnificent
woman, your ideal. Pray, how did she come to such perfection?«
    »She was never anything else,« Newman said.
    »I really believe,« Madame de Cintré went on, »that she is better than my
own ideal. Do you know that is a very handsome compliment? Well, sir, I will
make her my own!«
    Mrs. Tristram came to see her dear Claire after Newman had announced his
engagement, and she told our hero the next day that his good fortune was simply
absurd. »For the ridiculous part of it is,« she said, »that you are evidently
going to be as happy as if you were marrying Miss Smith or Miss Thompson. I call
it a brilliant match for you, but you get brilliancy without paying any tax upon
it. Those things are usually a compromise, but here you have everything, and
nothing crowds anything else out. You will be brilliantly happy as well.« Newman
thanked her for her pleasant encouraging way of saying things; no woman could
encourage or discourage better. Tristram's way of saying things was different;
he had been taken by his wife to call upon Madame de Cintré, and he gave an
account of the expedition.
    »You don't catch me giving an opinion on your countess this time,« he said;
»I put my foot in it once. That's a d--d underhand thing to do, by the way -
coming round to sound a fellow upon the woman you are going to marry. You
deserve anything you get. Then of course you rush and tell her, and she takes
care to make it pleasant for the poor spiteful wretch the first time he calls. I
will do you the justice to say, however, that you don't seem to have told Madame
de Cintré; or, if you have, she's uncommonly magnanimous. She was very nice; she
was tremendously polite. She and Lizzie sat on the sofa, pressing each other's
hands and calling each other chère belle, and Madame de Cintré sent me with
every third word a magnificent smile, as if to give me to understand that I too
was a handsome dear. She quite made up for past neglect, I assure you; she was
very pleasant and sociable. Only in an evil hour it came into her head to say
that she must present us to her mother - her mother wished to know your friends.
I didn't want to know her mother, and I was on the point of telling Lizzie to go
in alone and let me wait for her outside. But Lizzie, with her usual infernal
ingenuity, guessed my purpose and reduced me by a glance of her eye. So they
marched off arm-in-arm, and I followed as I could. We found the old lady in her
armchair, twiddling her aristocratic thumbs. She looked at Lizzie from head to
foot; but at that game Lizzie, to do her justice, was a match for her. My wife
told her we were great friends of Mr. Newman. The marquise stared a moment, and
then said: Oh, Mr. Newman! My daughter has made up her mind to marry a Mr.
Newman. Then Madame de Cintré began to fondle Lizzie again, and said it was this
dear lady that had planned the match and brought them together. Oh, 'tis you I
have to thank for my American son-in-law, the old lady said to Mrs. Tristram. It
was a very clever thought of yours. Be sure of my gratitude. And then she began
to look at me, and presently said: Pray, are you engaged in some species of
manufacture? I wanted to say that I manufactured broomsticks for old witches to
ride on, but Lizzie got in ahead of me. My husband, Madame la Marquise, she
said, belongs to that unfortunate class of persons who have no profession and no
business, and do very little good in the world. To get her poke at the old woman
she didn't care where she shoved me. Dear me, said the marquise, we all have our
duties. I am sorry mine compel me to take leave of you, said Lizzie. And we
bundled out again. But you have a mother-in-law, in all the force of the term.«
    »Oh,« said Newman, »my mother-in-law desires nothing better than to let me
alone.«
    Betimes, on the evening of the 27th, he went to Madame de Bellegarde's ball.
The old house in the Rue de l'Université looked strangely brilliant. In the
circle of light projected from the outer gate a detachment of the populace stood
watching the carriages roll in; the court was illumined with flaring torches and
the portico carpeted with crimson. When Newman arrived there were but a few
people present. The marquise and her two daughters were at the top of the
staircase, where the sallow old nymph in the angle peeped out from a bower of
plants. Madame de Bellegarde, in purple and fine laces, looked like an old lady
painted by Vandyke; Madame de Cintré was dressed in white. The old lady greeted
Newman with majestic formality, and, looking round her, called several of the
persons who were standing near. They were elderly gentlemen, of what Valentin de
Bellegarde had designated as the high-nosed category; two or three of them wore
cordons and stars. They approached with measured alertness, and the marquise
said that she wished to present them to Mr. Newman, who was going to marry her
daughter. Then she introduced successively three dukes, three counts, and a
baron. These gentlemen bowed and smiled most agreeably, and Newman indulged in a
series of impartial hand shakes, accompanied by a »Happy to make your
acquaintance, sir.« He looked at Madame de Cintré, but she was not looking at
him. If his personal self-consciousness had been of a nature to make him
constantly refer to her, as the critic before whom, in company, he played his
part, he might have found it a flattering proof of her confidence that he never
caught her eyes resting upon him. It is a reflection Newman did not make, but we
may nevertheless risk it, that in spite of this circumstance she probably saw
every movement of his little finger. Young Madame de Bellegarde was dressed in
an audacious toilet of crimson crape, bestrewn with huge silver moons - thin
crescents and full discs.
    »You don't say anything about my dress,« she said to Newman.
    »I feel,« he answered, »as if I were looking at you through a telescope. It
is very strange.«
    »If it is strange it matches the occasion. But I am not a heavenly body.«
    »I never saw the sky at midnight that particular shade of crimson,« said
Newman.
    »That is my originality; anyone could have chosen blue. My sister-in-law
would have chosen a lovely shade of blue, with a dozen little delicate moons.
But I think crimson is much more amusing. And I give my idea, which is
moonshine.«
    »Moonshine and bloodshed,« said Newman.
    »A murder by moonlight,« laughed Madame de Bellegarde. »What a delicious
idea for a toilet! To make it complete, there is a dagger of diamonds, you see,
stuck into my hair. But here comes Lord Deepmere,« she added in a moment; »I
must find out what he thinks of it.« Lord Deepmere came up, looking very red in
the face, and laughing. »Lord Deepmere can't decide which he prefers, my
sister-in-law or me,« said Madame de Bellegarde. »He likes Claire because she is
his cousin, and me because I am not. But he has no right to make love to Claire,
whereas I am perfectly disponible. It is very wrong to make love to a woman who
is engaged, but it is very wrong not to make love to a woman who is married.«
    »Oh, it's very jolly making love to married women,« said Lord Deepmere,
»because they can't ask you to marry them.«
    »Is that what the others do - the spinsters?« Newman inquired.
    »Oh dear yes,« said Lord Deepmere; »in England all the girls ask a fellow to
marry them.«
    »And a fellow brutally refuses,« said Madame de Bellegarde.
    »Why, really, you know, a fellow can't marry any girl that asks him,« said
his lordship.
    »Your cousin won't ask you. She is going to marry Mr. Newman.«
    »Oh, that's a very different thing!« laughed Lord Deepmere.
    »You would have accepted her, I suppose. That makes me hope that after all
you prefer me.«
    »Oh, when things are nice I never prefer one to the other,« said the young
Englishman. »I take them all.«
    »Ah, what a horror! I won't be taken in that way; I must be kept apart,«
cried Madame de Bellegarde. »Mr. Newman is much better; he knows how to choose.
Oh, he chooses as if he were threading a needle. He prefers Madame de Cintré to
any conceivable creature or thing.«
    »Well, you can't help my being her cousin,« said Lord Deepmere to Newman,
with candid hilarity.
    »Oh no, I can't help that,« said Newman, laughing back; »neither can she!«
    »And you can't help my dancing with her,« said Lord Deepmere, with sturdy
simplicity.
    »I could prevent that only by dancing with her myself,« said Newman. »But
unfortunately I don't know how to dance.«
    »Oh, you may dance without knowing how; may you not, milord?« said Madame de
Bellegarde. But to this Lord Deepmere replied that a fellow ought to know how to
dance if he didn't want to make an ass of himself; and at this same moment
Urbain de Bellegarde joined the group, slow-stepping and with his hands behind
him.
    »This is a very splendid entertainment,« said Newman cheerfully. »The old
house looks very bright.«
    »If you are pleased, we are content,« said the marquis, lifting his
shoulders and bending them forward.
    »Oh, I suspect everyone is pleased,« said Newman. »How can they help being
pleased when the first thing they see as they come in is your sister, standing
there as beautiful as an angel?«
    »Yes, she is very beautiful,« rejoined the marquis solemnly. »But that is
not so great a source of satisfaction to other people, naturally, as to you.«
    »Yes, I am satisfied, marquis, I am satisfied,« said Newman, with his
protracted enunciation. »And now tell me,« he added, looking round, »who some of
your friends are.«
    M. de Bellegarde looked about him in silence, with his head bent and his
hand raised to his lower lip, which he slowly rubbed. A stream of people had
been pouring into the salon in which Newman stood with his host, the rooms were
filling up and the spectacle had become brilliant. It borrowed its splendour
chiefly from the shining shoulders and profuse jewels of the women, and from the
voluminous elegance of their dresses. There were no uniforms, as Madame de
Bellegarde's door was inexorably closed against the myrmidons of the upstart
power which then ruled the fortunes of France, and the great company of smiling
and chattering faces was not graced by any very frequent suggestions of
harmonious beauty. It is a pity, nevertheless, that Newman had not been a
physiognomist, for a great many of the faces were irregularly agreeable,
expressive, and suggestive. If the occasion had been different they would hardly
have pleased him; he would have thought the women not pretty enough and the men
too smirking; but he was now in a humour to receive none but agreeable
impressions, and he looked no more narrowly than to perceive that everyone was
brilliant, and to feel that the sum of their brilliancy was a part of his
credit. »I will present you to some people,« said M. de Bellegarde after awhile.
»I will make a point of it, in fact. You will allow me?«
    »Oh, I will shake hands with anyone you want,« said Newman. »Your mother
just introduced me to half-a-dozen old gentlemen. Take care you don't pick up
the same parties again.«
    »Who are the gentlemen to whom my mother presents you?«
    »Upon my word, I forget them,« said Newman, laughing. »The people here look
very much alike.«
    »I suspect they have not forgotten you,« said the marquis, and he began to
walk through the rooms. Newman, to keep near him in the crowd, took his arm;
after which, for some time, the marquis walked straight along, in silence. At
last, reaching the farther end of the suite of reception-rooms, Newman found
himself in the presence of a lady of monstrous proportions, seated in a very
capacious armchair, with several persons standing in a semicircle round her.
This little group had divided as the marquis came up, and M. de Bellegarde
stepped forward and stood for an instant silent and obsequious, with his hat
raised to his lips, as Newman had seen some gentlemen stand in churches as soon
as they entered their pews. The lady, indeed, bore a very fair likeness to a
reverend effigy in some idolatrous shrine. She was monumentally stout and
imperturbably serene. Her aspect was to Newman almost formidable; he had a
troubled consciousness of a triple chin, a small piercing eye, a vast expanse of
uncovered bosom, a nodding twinkling tiara of plumes and gems, and an immense
circumference of satin petticoat. With her little circle of beholders this
remarkable woman reminded him of the Fat Lady at a fair. She fixed her small,
unwinking eyes at the new-comers.
    »Dear duchess,« said the marquis, »let me present you our good friend Mr.
Newman, of whom you have heard us speak. Wishing to make Mr. Newman known to
those who are dear to us, I could not possibly fail to begin with you.«
    »Charmed, dear friend; charmed, monsieur,« said the duchess in a voice
which, though small and shrill, was not disagreeable, while Newman executed his
obeisance. »I came on purpose to see monsieur. I hope he appreciates the
compliment. You have only to look at me to do so, sir,« she continued, sweeping
her person with a much-encompassing glance. Newman hardly knew what to say,
though it seemed that to a duchess who joked about her corpulence one might say
almost anything. On hearing that the duchess had come on purpose to see Newman,
the gentlemen who surrounded her turned a little and looked at him with
sympathetic curiosity. The marquis with supernatural gravity mentioned to him
the name of each, while the gentleman who bore it bowed; they were all what are
called in France beaux noms. »I wanted extremely to see you,« the duchess went
on. »C'est positif. In the first place, I am very fond of the person you are
going to marry; she is the most charming creature in France. Mind you treat her
well, or you shall hear some news of me. But you look as if you were good. I am
told you are very remarkable. I have heard all sorts of extraordinary things
about you. Voyons, are they true?«
    »I don't know what you can have heard,« said Newman.
    »Oh, you have your légende. We have heard that you have had a career the
most chequered, the most bizarre. What is that about your having founded a city
some ten years ago in the great West, a city which contains to-day half a
million of inhabitants? Isn't it half a million, messieurs? You are exclusive
proprietor of this flourishing settlement, and are consequently fabulously rich,
and you would be richer still if you didn't grant lands and houses free of rent
to all new-comers who will pledge themselves never to smoke cigars. At this
game, in three years, we are told, you are going to be made president of
America.«
    The duchess recited this amusing legend with a smooth self-possession which
gave the speech, to Newman's mind, the air of being a bit of amusing dialogue in
a play, delivered by a veteran comic actress. Before she had ceased speaking he
had burst into loud, irrepressible laughter. »Dear duchess, dear duchess,« the
marquis began to murmur, soothingly. Two or three persons came to the door of
the room to see who was laughing at the duchess. But the lady continued with the
soft, serene assurance of a person who, as a duchess, was certain of being
listened to, and, as a garrulous woman, was independent of the pulse of her
auditors. »But I know you are very remarkable. You must be, to have endeared
yourself to this good marquis and to his admirable mother. They don't bestow
their esteem on all the world. They are very exacting. I myself am not very sure
at this hour of really possessing it. Eh, Bellegarde? To please you, I see, one
must be an American millionaire. But your real triumph, my dear sir, is pleasing
the countess; she is as difficult as a princess in a fairy tale. Your success is
a miracle. What is your secret? I don't ask you to reveal it before all these
gentlemen, but come and see me some day and give me a specimen of your talents.«
    »The secret is with Madame de Cintré,« said Newman. »You must ask her for
it. It consists in her having a great deal of charity.«
    »Very pretty!« said the duchess. »That's a very nice specimen, to begin
with. What, Bellegarde, are you already taking monsieur away?«
    »I have a duty to perform, dear friend,« said the marquis, pointing to the
other groups.
    »Ah, for you I know what that means. Well, I have seen monsieur; that is
what I wanted. He can't persuade me that he isn't very clever. Farewell.«
    As Newman passed on with his host, he asked who the duchess was. »The
greatest lady in France,« said the marquis. M. de Bellegarde then presented his
prospective brother-in-law to some twenty other persons of both sexes, selected
apparently for their typically august character. In some cases this character
was written in a good round hand upon the countenance of the wearer; in others
Newman was thankful for such help as his companion's impressively brief
intimation contributed to the discovery of it. There were large, majestic men,
and small, demonstrative men; there were ugly ladies in yellow lace and quaint
jewels, and pretty ladies with white shoulders from which jewels and everything
else were absent. Everyone gave Newman extreme attention, everyone smiled,
everyone was charmed to make his acquaintance, everyone looked at him with that
soft hardness of good society which puts out its hand but keeps its fingers
closed over the coin. If the marquis was going about as a bear-leader, if the
fiction of Beauty and the Beast was supposed to have found its companion-piece,
the general impression appeared to be that the bear was a very fair imitation of
humanity. Newman found his reception among the marquis's friends very pleasant;
he could not have said more for it. It was pleasant to be treated with so much
explicit politeness; it was pleasant to hear neatly-turned civilities, with a
flavour of wit, uttered from beneath carefully-shaped moustaches; it was
pleasant to see clever Frenchwomen - they all seemed clever - turn their backs
to their partners to get a good look at the strange American whom Claire de
Cintré was to marry, and reward the object of the exhibition with a charming
smile. At last, as he turned away from a battery of smiles and other amenities,
Newman caught the eye of the marquis looking at him heavily; and thereupon, for
a single instant, he checked himself. »Am I behaving like a d--d fool?« he asked
himself. »Am I stepping about like a terrier on his hind legs?« At this moment
he perceived Mrs. Tristram at the other side of the room, and he waved his hand
in farewell to M. de Bellegarde and made his way toward her.
    »Am I holding my head too high?« he asked. »Do I look as if I had the lower
end of a pulley fastened to my chin?«
    »You look like all happy men, very ridiculous,« said Mrs. Tristram. »It's
the usual thing, neither better nor worse. I have been watching you for the last
ten minutes, and I have been watching M. de Bellegarde. He doesn't't like it.«
    »The more credit to him for putting it through,« replied Newman. »But I
shall be generous. I shan't trouble him any more. But I am very happy. I can't
stand still here. Please to take my arm and we will go for a walk.«
    He led Mrs. Tristram through all the rooms. There were a great many of them,
and, decorated for the occasion and filled with a stately crowd, their somewhat
tarnished nobleness recovered its lustre. Mrs. Tristram, looking about her,
dropped a series of softly-incisive comments upon her fellow-guests. But Newman
made vague answers; he hardly heard her; his thoughts were elsewhere. They were
lost in a cheerful sense of success, of attainment and victory. His momentary
care as to whether he looked like a fool passed away, leaving him simply with a
rich contentment. He had got what he wanted. The savour of success had always
been highly agreeable to him, and it had been his fortune to know it often. But
it had never before been so sweet, been associated with so much that was
brilliant and suggestive and entertaining. The lights, the flowers, the music,
the crowd, the splendid women, the jewels, the strangeness even of the universal
murmur of a clever foreign tongue, were all a vivid symbol and assurance of his
having grasped his purpose and forced along his groove. If Newman's smile was
larger than usual, it was not tickled vanity that pulled the strings; he had no
wish to be shown with the finger or to achieve a personal success. If he could
have looked down at the scene, invisible, from a hole in the roof, he would have
enjoyed it quite as much. It would have spoken to him about his own prosperity
and deepened that easy feeling about life to which, sooner or later, he made all
experience contribute. Just now the cup seemed full.
    »It is a very pretty party,« said Mrs. Tristram, after they had walked
awhile. »I have seen nothing objectionable except my husband leaning against the
wall and talking to an individual whom I suppose he takes for a duke, but whom I
more than suspect to be the functionary who attends to the lamps. Do you think
you could separate them? Knock over a lamp!«
    I doubt whether Newman, who saw no harm in Tristram's conversing with an
ingenious mechanic, would have complied with this request; but at this moment
Valentin de Bellegarde drew near. Newman, some weeks previously, had presented
Madame de Cintré's youngest brother to Mrs. Tristram, for whose merits Valentin
professed a discriminating relish and to whom he had paid several visits.
    »Did you ever read Keats' Belle Dame sans Merci?« asked Mrs. Tristram. »You
remind me of the hero of the ballad:
 
Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?«
 
»If I am alone, it is because I have been deprived of your society,« said
Valentin. »Besides, it is good manners for no man except Newman to look happy.
This is all to his address. It is not for you and me to go before the curtain.«
    »You promised me last spring,« said Newman to Mrs. Tristram, »that six
months from that time I should get into a monstrous rage. It seems to me the
time's up, and yet the nearest I can come to doing anything rough now is to
offer you a café glacé.«
    »I told you we should do things grandly,« said Valentin. »I don't allude to
the cafés glacés. But everyone is here, and my sister told me just now that
Urbain had been adorable.«
    »He's a good fellow, he's a good fellow,« said Newman. »I love him as a
brother. That reminds me that I ought to go and say something polite to your
mother.«
    »Let it be something very polite indeed,« said Valentin. »It may be the last
time you will feel so much like it!«
    Newman walked away, almost disposed to clasp old Madame de Bellegarde round
the waist. He passed through several rooms and at last found the old marquise in
the first saloon, seated on a sofa, with her young kinsman, Lord Deepmere,
beside her. The young man looked somewhat bored; his hands were thrust into his
pockets and his eyes were fixed upon the toes of his shoes, his feet being
thrust out in front of him. Madame de Bellegarde appeared to have been talking
to him with some intensity and to be waiting for an answer to what she had said,
or for some sign of the effect of her words. Her hands were folded in her lap,
and she was looking at his lordship's simple physiognomy with an air of politely
suppressed irritation.
    Lord Deepmere looked up as Newman approached, met his eyes, and changed
colour.
    »I am afraid I disturb an interesting interview,« said Newman.
    Madame de Bellegarde rose, and her companion rising at the same time, she
put her hand into his arm. She answered nothing for an instant, and then, as he
remained silent, she said with a smile: »It would be polite for Lord Deepmere to
say it was very interesting.«
    »Oh, I'm not polite!« cried his lordship. »But it was interesting.«
    »Madame de Bellegarde was giving you some good advice, eh?« said Newman;
»toning you down a little?«
    »I was giving him some excellent advice,« said the marquise, fixing her
fresh cold eyes upon our hero. »It's for him to take it.«
    »Take it, sir, take it!« Newman exclaimed. »Any advice the marquise gives
you to-night must be good; for to-night, marquise, you must speak from a
cheerful, comfortable spirit, and that makes good advice. You see everything
going on so brightly and successfully round you. Your party is magnificent; it
was a very happy thought. It is much better than that thing of mine would have
been.«
    »If you are pleased I am satisfied,« said Madame de Bellegarde. »My desire
was to please you.«
    »Do you want to please me a little more?« said Newman. »Just drop our lordly
friend; I am sure he wants to be off and shake his heels a little. Then take my
arm and walk through the rooms.«
    »My desire was to please you,« the old lady repeated. And she liberated Lord
Deepmere, Newman rather wondering at her docility. »If this young man is wise,«
she added, »he will go and find my daughter and ask her to dance.«
    »I have been endorsing your advice,« said Newman, bending over her and
laughing, »I suppose I must swallow that!«
    Lord Deepmere wiped his forehead and departed, and Madame de Bellegarde took
Newman's arm. »Yes, it's a very pleasant, sociable entertainment,« the latter
declared, as they proceeded on their circuit. »Everyone seems to know everyone
and to be glad to see everyone. The marquis has made me acquainted with ever so
many people, and I feel quite like one of the family. It's an occasion,« Newman
continued, wanting to say something thoroughly kind and comfortable, »that I
shall always remember, and remember very pleasantly.«
    »I think it is an occasion that we shall none of us forget,« said the
marquise, with her pure, neat enunciation.
    People made way for her as she passed, others turned round and looked at
her, and she received a great many greetings and pressings of the hand, all of
which she accepted with the most delicate dignity. But though she smiled upon
everyone, she said nothing until she reached the last of the rooms, where she
found her elder son. Then, »This is enough, sir,« she declared with measured
softness to Newman, and turned to the marquis. He put out both his hands and
took both hers, drawing her to a seat with an air of the tenderest veneration.
It was a most harmonious family group, and Newman discreetly retired. He moved
through the rooms for some time longer, circulating freely, overtopping most
people by his great height, renewing acquaintance with some of the groups to
which Urbain de Bellegarde had presented him, and expending generally the
surplus of his equanimity. He continued to find it all extremely agreeable; but
the most agreeable things have an end, and the revelry on this occasion began to
deepen to a close. The music was sounding its ultimate strains and people were
looking for the marquise, to make their farewells. There seemed to be some
difficulty in finding her, and Newman heard a report that she had left the ball,
feeling faint. »She has succumbed to the emotions of the evening,« he heard a
lady say. »Poor, dear marquise; I can imagine all that they may have been for
her!«
    But he learned immediately afterwards that she had recovered herself and was
seated in an armchair near the doorway, receiving parting compliments from great
ladies who insisted upon her not rising. He himself set out in quest of Madame
de Cintré. He had seen her move past him many times in the rapid circles of a
waltz, but in accordance with her explicit instructions he had exchanged no
words with her since the beginning of the evening. The whole house having been
thrown open, the apartments of the rez-de-chaussée were also accessible, though
a smaller number of persons had gathered there. Newman wandered through them,
observing a few scattered couples to whom this comparative seclusion appeared
grateful, and reached a small conservatory which opened into the garden. The end
of the conservatory was formed by a clear sheet of glass, unmasked by plants,
and admitting the winter starlight so directly that a person standing there
would seem to have passed into the open air. Two persons stood there now, a lady
and a gentleman; the lady Newman, from within the room, and although she had
turned her back to it, immediately recognised as Madame de Cintré. He hesitated
as to whether he would advance, but as he did so she looked round, feeling
apparently that he was there. She rested her eyes on him a moment, and then
turned again to her companion.
    »It is almost a pity not to tell Mr. Newman,« she said softly, but in a tone
that Newman could hear.
    »Tell him if you like!« the gentleman answered, in the voice of Lord
Deepmere.
    »Oh, tell me by all means!« said Newman, advancing.
    Lord Deepmere, he observed, was very red in the face, and he had twisted his
gloves into a tight cord as if he had been squeezing them dry. These,
presumably, were tokens of violent emotion, and it seemed to Newman that the
traces of a corresponding agitation were visible in Madame de Cintré's face. The
two had been talking with much vivacity. »What I should tell you is only to my
lord's credit,« said Madame de Cintré, smiling frankly enough.
    »He wouldn't like it any better for that,« said my lord, with his awkward
laugh.
    »Come; what's the mystery?« Newman demanded. »Clear it up. I don't like
mysteries.«
    »We must have some things we don't like, and go without some we do,« said
the ruddy young nobleman, laughing still.
    »It is to Lord Deepmere's credit, but it is not to every one's,« said Madame
de Cintré. »So I shall say nothing about it. You may be sure,« she added; and
she put out her hand to the Englishman, who took it half shyly, half
impetuously. »And now go and dance!« she said.
    »Oh yes, I feel awfully like dancing!« he answered. »I shall go and get
tipsy.« And he walked away with a gloomy guffaw.
    »What has happened between you?« Newman asked.
    »I can't tell you - now,« said Madame de Cintré. »Nothing that need make you
unhappy.«
    »Has the little Englishman been trying to make love to you?«
    She hesitated, and then she uttered a grave »No! he's a very honest little
fellow.«
    »But you are agitated. Something is the matter.«
    »Nothing, I repeat, that need make you unhappy. My agitation is over. Some
day I will tell you what it was; not now. I can't now!«
    »Well, I confess,« remarked Newman, »I don't want to hear anything
unpleasant. I am satisfied with everything - most of all with you. I have seen
all the ladies and talked with a great many of them; but I am satisfied with
you.« Madame de Cintré covered him for a moment with her large, soft glance, and
then turned her eyes away into the starry night. So they stood silent a moment,
side by side. »Say you are satisfied with me,« said Newman.
    He had to wait a moment for the answer; but it came at last, low yet
distinct: »I am very happy.«
    It was presently followed by a few words from another source, which made
them both turn round. »I am sadly afraid Madame de Cintré will take a chill. I
have ventured to bring a shawl.« Mrs. Bread stood there softly solicitous,
holding a white drapery in her hand.
    »Thank you,« said Madame de Cinté, »the sight of those cold stars gives one
a sense of frost. I won't take your shawl, but we will go back into the house.«
    She passed back and Newman followed her, Mrs. Bread standing respectfully
aside to make way for them. Newman paused an instant before the old woman, and
she glanced up at him with a silent greeting. »Oh yes,« he said, »you must come
and live with us.«
    »Well then, sir, if you will,« she answered, »you have not seen the last of
me!«
 

                                  Chapter XVII

Newman was fond of music and went often to the opera. A couple of evenings after
Madame de Bellegarde's ball he sat listening to Don Giovanni, having in honour
of this work, which he had never yet seen represented, come to occupy his
orchestra-chair before the rising of the curtain. Frequently he took a large box
and invited a party of his compatriots; this was a mode of recreation to which
he was much addicted. He liked making up parties of his friends and conducting
them to the theatre, and taking them to drive on high drags or to dine at remote
restaurants. He liked doing things which involved his paying for people; the
vulgar truth is that he enjoyed treating them. This was not because he was what
is called purse-proud; handling money in public was on the contrary positively
disagreeable to him; he had a sort of personal modesty about it, akin to what he
would have felt about making a toilet before spectators. But just as it was a
gratification to him to be handsomely dressed, just so it was a private
satisfaction to him (he enjoyed it very clandestinely) to have interposed,
pecuniarily, in a scheme of pleasure. To set a large group of people in motion
and transport them to a distance, to have special conveyances, to charter
railway-carriages and steamboats, harmonised with his relish for bold processes,
and made hospitality seem more active and more to the purpose. A few evenings
before the occasion of which I speak he had invited several ladies and gentlemen
to the opera to listen to Madame Alboni - a party which included Miss Dora
Finch. It befell, however, that Miss Dora Finch, sitting near Newman in the box,
discoursed brilliantly, not only during the entr'actes, but during many of the
finest portions of the performance, so that Newman had really come away with an
irritated sense that Madame Alboni had a thin, shrill voice, and that her
musical phrase was much garnished with a laugh of the giggling order. After this
he promised himself to go for awhile to the opera alone.
    When the curtain had fallen upon the first act of Don Giovanni, he turned
round in his place to observe the house. Presently, in one of the boxes, he
perceived Urbain de Bellegarde and his wife. The little marquise was sweeping
the house very busily with a glass, and Newman, supposing that she saw him,
determined to go and bid her good-evening. M. de Bellegarde was leaning against
a column, motionless, looking straight in front of him, with one hand in the
breast of his white waistcoat and the other resting his hat on his thigh. Newman
was about to leave his place when he noticed in that obscure region devoted to
the small boxes which in France are called, not inaptly, bathing-tubs, a face
which even the dim light and the distance could not make wholly indistinct. It
was the face of a young and pretty woman, and it was surmounted with a coiffure
of pink roses and diamonds. This person was looking round the house, and her fan
was moving to and fro with the most practised grace; when she lowered it, Newman
perceived a pair of plump white shoulders and the edge of a rose-coloured dress.
Beside her, very close to the shoulders, and talking, apparently with an
earnestness which it pleased her scantily to heed, sat a young man with a red
face and a very low shirt-collar. A moment's gazing left Newman with no doubts;
the pretty young woman was Noémie Nioche. He looked hard into the depths of the
box, thinking her father might perhaps be in attendance, but from what he could
see the young man's eloquence had no other auditor. Newman at last made his way
out, and in doing so he passed beneath the baignoire of Mademoiselle Noémie. She
saw him as he approached, and gave him a nod and smile which seemed meant as an
assurance that she was still a good-natured girl, in spite of her enviable rise
in the world. Newman passed into the foyer and walked through it. Suddenly he
paused in front of a gentleman seated on one of the divans. The gentleman's
elbows were on his knees; he was leaning forward and staring at the pavement,
lost apparently in meditations of a somewhat gloomy cast. But in spite of his
bent head Newman recognised him, and in a moment sat down beside him. Then the
gentleman looked up and displayed the expressive countenance of Valentin de
Bellegarde.
    »What in the world are you thinking of so hard?« asked Newman.
    »A subject that requires hard thinking to do it justice,« said Valentin. »My
immeasurable idiocy.«
    »What is the matter now?«
    »The matter now is that I am a man again, and no more a fool than usual. But
I came within an inch of taking that girl au sérieux.«
    »You mean the young lady below stairs, in a baignoire, in a pink dress?«
said Newman.
    »Did you notice what a brilliant kind of pink it was?« Valentin inquired, by
way of answer. »It makes her look as white as new milk.«
    »White or black, as you please. But you have stopped going to see her?«
    »Oh, bless you, no. Why should I stop? I have changed, but she hasn't,« said
Valentin. »I see she is a vulgar little wretch, after all. But she is as amusing
as ever, and one must be amused.«
    »Well, I am glad she strikes you so unpleasantly,« Newman rejoined. »I
suppose you have swallowed all those fine words you used about her the other
night. You compared her to a sapphire, or a topaz, or an amethyst - some
precious stone; what was it?«
    »I don't remember,« said Valentin, »it may have been to a carbuncle! But she
won't make a fool of me now. She has no real charm. It's an awfully low thing to
make a mistake about a person of that sort.«
    »I congratulate you,« Newman declared, »upon the scales having fallen from
your eyes. It's a great triumph; it ought to make you feel better.«
    »Yes, it makes me feel better!« said Valentin gaily. Then, checking himself,
he looked askance at Newman. »I rather think you are laughing at me. If you were
not one of the family I would take it up.«
    »Oh no, I'm not laughing, any more than I am one of the family. You make me
feel badly. You are too clever a fellow, you are made of too good stuff, to
spend your time in ups and downs over that class of goods. The idea of splitting
hairs about Miss Nioche! It seems to me awfully foolish. You say you have given
up taking her seriously; but you take her seriously so long as you take her at
all.«
    Valentin turned round in his place and looked awhile at Newman, wrinkling
his forehead and rubbing his knees. »Vous parlez d'or. But she has wonderfully
pretty arms. Would you believe I didn't know it till this evening?«
    »But she is a vulgar little wretch, remember, all the same,« said Newman.
    »Yes; the other day she had the bad taste to begin to abuse her father, to
his face, in my presence. I shouldn't have expected it of her; it was a
disappointment; heigho!«
    »Why, she cares no more for her father than for her doormat,« said Newman.
»I discovered that the first time I saw her.«
    »Oh, that's another affair; she may think of the poor old beggar what she
pleases. But it was low in her to call him bad names; it quite threw me off. It
was about a frilled petticoat that he was to have fetched from the
washer-woman's; he appeared to have neglected this graceful duty. She almost
boxed his ears. He stood there staring at her with his little blank eyes and
smoothing his old hat with his coat-tail. At last he turned round and went out
without a word. Then I told her it was in very bad taste to speak so to one's
papa. She said she should be so thankful to me if I would mention it to her
whenever her taste was at fault; she had immense confidence in mine. I told her
I couldn't have the bother of forming her manners; I had had an idea they were
already formed, after the best models. She had disappointed me. But I shall get
over it,« said Valentin gaily.
    »Oh, time's a great consoler!« Newman answered with humorous sobriety. He
was silent a moment, and then he added in another tone: »I wish you would think
of what I said to you the other day. Come over to America with us, and I will
put you in the way of doing some business. You have got a very good head if you
will only use it.«
    Valentin made a genial grimace. »My head is much obliged to you. Do you mean
the place in a bank?«
    »There are several places, but I suppose you would consider the bank the
most aristocratic.«
    Valentin burst into a laugh. »My dear fellow, at night all cats are gray!
When one derogates there are no degrees.«
    Newman answered nothing for a minute. Then, »I think you will find there are
degrees in success,« he said with a certain dryness.
    Valentin had leaned forward again, with his elbows on his knees, and he was
scratching the pavement with his stick. At last he said, looking up: »Do you
really think I ought to do something!«
    Newman laid his hand on his companion's arm and looked at him a moment
through sagaciously-narrowed eyelids. »Try it and see. You are not good enough
for it, but we will stretch a point.«
    »Do you really think I can make some money? I should like to see how it
feels to have a little.«
    »Do what I tell you, and you shall be rich,« said Newman. »Think of it.« And
he looked at his watch and prepared to resume his way to Madame de Bellegarde's
box.
    »Upon my word I will think of it,« said Valentin. »I will go and listen to
Mozart another half hour - I can always think better to music - and profoundly
meditate upon it.«
    The marquis was with his wife when Newman entered their box; he was bland,
remote, and correct as usual; or, as it seemed to Newman, even more than usual.
    »What do you think of the opera?« asked our hero. »What do you think of the
Don?«
    »We all know what Mozart is,« said the marquis; »our impressions don't date
from this evening. Mozart is youth, freshness, brilliancy, facility - a little
too great facility, perhaps. But the execution is here and there deplorably
rough.«
    »I am very curious to see how it ends,« said Newman.
    »You speak as if it were a feuilleton in the Figaro,« observed the marquis.
»You have surely seen the opera before?«
    »Never,« said Newman. »I am sure I should have remembered it. Donna Elvira
reminds me of Madame de Cintré; I don't mean in her circumstances, but in the
music she sings.«
    »It is a very nice distinction,« laughed the marquis lightly. »There is no
great possibility, I imagine, of Madame de Cintré being forsaken.«
    »Not much!« said Newman. »But what becomes of the Don?«
    »The devil comes down - or comes up,« said Madame de Bellegarde, »and
carries him off. I suppose Zerlina reminds you of me.«
    »I will go to the foyer for a few moments,« said the marquis, »and give you
a chance to say that the Commander - the man of stone - resembles me.« And he
passed out of the box.
    The little marquise stared an instant at the velvet ledge of the balcony,
and then murmured: »Not a man of stone, a man of wood.« Newman had taken her
husband's empty chair. She made no protest, and then she turned suddenly and
laid her closed fan upon his arm. »I am very glad you came in,« she said. »I
want to ask you a favour. I wanted to do so on Thursday, at my mother-in-law's
ball, but you would give me no chance. You were in such very good spirits that I
thought you might grant my little favour then; not that you look particularly
doleful now. It is something you must promise me; now is the time to take you;
after you are married you will be good for nothing. Come, promise!«
    »I never sign a paper without reading it first,« said Newman. »Show me your
document.«
    »No, you must sign with your eyes shut; I will hold your hand. Come, before
you put your head into the noose. You ought to be thankful for me giving you a
chance to do something amusing.«
    »If it is so amusing,« said Newman, »it will be in even better season after
I am married.«
    »In other words,« cried Madame de Bellegarde, »you will not do it at all.
You will be afraid of your wife.«
    »Oh, if the thing is intrinsically improper,« said Newman, »I won't go into
it. If it is not, I will do it after my marriage.«
    »You talk like a treatise on logic, and English logic into the bargain!«
exclaimed Madame de Bellegarde. »Promise, then, after you are married. After
all, I shall enjoy keeping you to it.«
    »Well, then, after I am married,« said Newman serenely.
    The little marquise hesitated a moment, looking at him, and he wondered what
was coming. »I suppose you know what my life is,« she presently said. »I have no
pleasure, I see nothing, I do nothing. I live in Paris as I might live at
Poitiers. My mother-in-law calls me - what is the pretty word? - a gadabout?
accuses me of going to unheard-of places, and thinks it ought to be joy enough
for me to sit at home and count over my ancestors on my fingers. But why should
I bother about my ancestors? I am sure they never bothered about me. I don't
propose to live with a green shade on my eyes; I hold that things were made to
look at. My husband, you know, has principles, and the first on the list is that
the Tuileries are dreadfully vulgar. If the Tuileries are vulgar, his principles
are tiresome. If I chose I might have principles quite as well as he. If they
grew on one's family tree I should only have to give mine a shake to bring down
a shower of the finest. At any rate, I prefer clever Bonapartes to stupid
Bourbons.«
    »Oh, I see; you want to go to court,« said Newman, vaguely conjecturing that
she might wish him to appeal to the United States legation to smooth her way to
the imperial halls.
    The marquise gave a little sharp laugh. »You are a thousand miles away. I
will take care of the Tuileries myself; the day I decide to go they will be very
glad to have me. Sooner or later I shall dance in an imperial quadrille. I know
what you are going to say: How will you dare? But I shall dare. I am afraid of
my husband; he is soft, smooth, irreproachable, everything that you know; but I
am afraid of him - horribly afraid of him. And yet I shall arrive at the
Tuileries. But that will not be this winter, nor perhaps next, and meantime I
must live. For the moment, I want to go somewhere else; it's my dream. I want to
go to the Bal Bullier.«
    »To the Bal Bullier?« repeated Newman, for whom the words at first meant
nothing.
    »The ball in the Latin Quarter, where the students dance with their
mistresses. Don't tell me you have not heard of it.«
    »Oh yes,« said Newman; »I have heard of it; I remember now. I have even been
there. And you want to go there?«
    »It is silly, it is low, it is anything you please. But I want to go. Some
of my friends have been, and they say it is awfully drôle. My friends go
everywhere; it is only I who sit moping at home.«
    »It seems to me you are not at home now,« said Newman, »and I shouldn't
exactly say you were moping.«
    »I am bored to death. I have been to the opera twice a week for the last
eight years. Whenever I ask for anything my mouth is stopped with that: Pray,
madam, haven't you an opera-box? Could a woman of taste want more? In the first
place, my opera-box was down in my contrat; they have to give it to me.
To-night, for instance, I should have preferred a thousand times to go to the
Palais Royal. But my husband won't go to the Palais Royal because the ladies of
the court go there so much. You may imagine, then, whether he would take me to
Bullier's; he says it is a mere imitation - and a bad one - of what they do at
the Princess Kleinfuss's. But as I don't go to the Princess Kleinfuss's, the
next best thing is to go to Bullier's. It is my dream, at any rate; it's a fixed
idea. All I ask of you is to give me your arm; you are less compromising than
anyone else. I don't know why, but you are. I can arrange it. I shall risk
something, but that is my own affair. Besides, fortune favours the bold. Don't
refuse me; it is my dream!«
    Newman gave a loud laugh. It seemed to him hardly worth while to be the wife
of the Marquis de Bellegarde, a daughter of the crusaders, heiress of six
centuries of glories and traditions, to have centred one's aspirations upon the
sight of a couple of hundred young ladies kicking off young men's hats. It
struck him as a theme for the moralist; but he had no time to moralise upon it.
The curtain rose again; M. de Bellegarde returned, and Newman went back to his
seat.
    He observed that Valentin de Bellegarde had taken his place in the baignoire
of Mademoiselle Nioche, behind this young lady and her companion, where he was
visible only if one carefully looked for him. In the next act Newman met him in
the lobby and asked him if he had reflected upon possible emigration. »If you
really meant to meditate,« he said, »you might have chosen a better place for
it.«
    »Oh, the place was not bad,« said Valentin. »I was not thinking of that
girl. I listened to the music, and without thinking of the play or looking at
the stage, I turned over your proposal. At first it seemed quite fantastic. And
then a certain fiddle in the orchestra - I could distinguish it - began to say
as it scraped away: Why not, why not? And then, in that rapid movement, all the
fiddles took it up, and the conductor's stick seemed to beat it in the air: Why
not, why not? I'm sure I can't say! I don't see why not. I don't see why I
shouldn't do something. It appears to me really a very bright idea. This sort of
thing is certainly very stale. And then I could come back with a trunk full of
dollars. Besides, I might possibly find it amusing. They call me a raffiné; who
knows but that I might discover an unsuspected charm in shop-keeping? It would
really have a certain romantic, picturesque side; it would look well in my
biography. It would look as if I were a strong man, a first-rate man, a man who
dominated circumstances.«
    »Never mind how it would look,« said Newman. »It always looks well to have
half a million of dollars. There is no reason why you shouldn't have them if you
will mind what I tell you - I alone - and not talk to other parties.« He passed
his arm into that of his companion, and the two walked for some time up and down
one of the less frequented corridors. Newman's imagination began to glow with
the idea of converting his bright, impracticable friend into a first-class man
of business. He felt for the moment a sort of spiritual zeal, the zeal of the
propagandist. Its ardour was in part the result of that general discomfort which
the sight of all uninvested capital produced in him; so fine an intelligence as
Bellegarde's ought to be dedicated to high uses. The highest uses known to
Newman's experience were certain transcendent sagacities in the handling of
railway stock. And then his zeal was quickened by his personal kindness for
Valentin; he had a sort of pity for him which he was well aware he never could
have made the Comte de Bellegarde understand. He never lost a sense of its being
pitiable that Valentin should think it a large life to revolve in varnished
boots between the Rue d'Anjou and the Rue de l'Université, taking the Boulevard
des Italiens on the way, when over there in America one's promenade was a
continent, and one's boulevard stretched from New York to San Francisco. It
mortified him, moreover, to think that Valentin lacked money; there was a
painful grotesqueness in it. It affected him as the ignorance of a companion,
otherwise without reproach, touching some rudimentary branch of learning would
have done. There were things that one knew about as a matter of course, he would
have said in such a case. Just so, if one pretended to be easy in the world, one
had money as a matter of course; one had made it! There was something almost
ridiculously anomalous to Newman in the sight of lively pretensions
unaccompanied by large investments in railroads; though I may add that he would
not have maintained that such investments were in themselves a proper ground for
pretensions. »I will make you do something,« he said to Valentin; »I will put
you through. I know half-a-dozen things in which we can make a place for you.
You will see some lively work. It will take you a little while to get used to
the life, but you will work in before long, and at the end of six months - after
you have done a thing or two on your own account - you will like it. And then it
will be very pleasant for you, having your sister over there. It will be
pleasant for her to have you, too. Yes, Valentin,« continued Newman, pressing
his friend's arm genially, »I think I see just the opening for you. Keep quiet,
and I'll push you right in.«
    Newman pursued this favouring strain for some time longer. The two men
strolled about for a quarter of an hour. Valentin listened and questioned, many
of his questions making Newman laugh loud at the naïveté of his ignorance of the
vulgar processes of money-getting; smiling himself, too, half ironical and half
curious. And yet he was serious; he was fascinated by Newman's plain prose
version of the legend of El Dorado. It is true, however, that though to accept
an opening in an American mercantile house might be a bold, original, and in its
consequences extremely agreeable thing to do, he did not quite see himself
objectively doing it. So that when the bell rang to indicate the close of the
entr'acte, there was a certain mock-heroism in his saying, with his brilliant
smile: »Well, then, put me through; push me in! I make myself over to you. Dip
me into the pot and turn me into gold.«
    They had passed into the corridor which encircled the row of baignoires, and
Valentin stopped in front of the dusky little box in which Mademoiselle Nioche
had bestowed herself, laying his hand on the door-knob. »Oh, come, are you going
back there?« asked Newman.
    »Mon Dieu, oui,« said Valentin.
    »Haven't you another place?«
    »Yes, I have my usual place, in the stalls.«
    »You had better go and occupy it, then.«
    »I see her very well from there, too,« added Valentin serenely; »and
to-night she is worth seeing. But,« he added in a moment, »I have a particular
reason for going back just now.«
    »Oh, I give you up,« said Newman. »You are infatuated!«
    »No, it is only this. There is a young man in the box whom I shall annoy by
going in, and I want to annoy him.«
    »I am sorry to hear it,« said Newman. »Can't you leave the poor fellow
alone?«
    »No, he has given me cause. The box is not his; Noémie came in alone and
installed herself. I went and spoke to her, and in a few moments she asked me to
go and get her fan from the pocket of her cloak, which the ouvreuse had carried
off. In my absence this gentleman came in and took the chair beside Noémie in
which I had been sitting. My reappearance disgusted him, and he had the
grossness to show it. He came within an ace of being impertinent. I don't know
who he is; he is some vulgar wretch. I can't think where she picks up such
acquaintances. He has been drinking, too, but he knows what he is about. Just
now, in the second act, he was unmannerly again. I shall put in another
appearance for ten minutes - time enough to give him an opportunity to commit
himself, if he feels inclined. I really can't let the brute suppose that he is
keeping me out of the box.«
    »My dear fellow,« said Newman remonstrantly, »what child's play! You are not
going to pick a quarrel about that girl, I hope.«
    »That girl has nothing to do with it, and I have no intention of picking a
quarrel. I am not a bully nor a fire-eater. I simply wish to make a point that a
gentleman must.«
    »Oh, damn your point!« said Newman. »That is the trouble with you Frenchmen;
you must be always making points. Well,« he added, »be short. But if you are
going in for this kind of thing, we must ship you off to America in advance.«
    »Very good,« Valentin answered, »whenever you please. But if I go to
America, I must not let this gentleman suppose that it is to run away from him.«
    And they separated. At the end of the act Newman observed that Valentin was
still in the baignoire. He strolled into the corridor again, expecting to meet
him, and when he was within a few yards of Mademoiselle Nioche's box, saw his
friend pass out, accompanied by the young man who had been seated beside its
fair occupant. The two gentlemen walked with some quickness of step to a distant
part of the lobby, where Newman perceived them stop and stand talking. The
manner of each was perfectly quiet, but the stranger, who looked flushed, had
begun to wipe his face very emphatically with his pocket-handkerchief. By this
time Newman was abreast of the baignoire; the door had been left ajar, and he
could see a pink dress inside. He immediately went in. Mademoiselle Nioche
turned and greeted him with a brilliant smile.
    »Ah, you have at last decided to come and see me?« she exclaimed. »You just
save your politeness. You find me in a fine moment. Sit down.« There was a very
becoming little flush in her cheek, and her eye had a noticeable spark. You
would have said that she had received some very good news.
    »Something has happened here!« said Newman, without sitting down.
    »You find me in a very fine moment,« she repeated. »Two gentlemen - one of
them is M. de Bellegarde, the pleasure of whose acquaintance I owe to you - have
just had words about your humble servant. Very big words too. They can't come
off without crossing swords. A duel - that will give me a push!« cried
Mademoiselle Noémie, clapping her little hands. »C'est ça qui pose une femme!«
    »You don't mean to say that Bellegarde is going to fight about you!«
exclaimed Newman disgustedly.
    »Nothing less!« and she looked at him with a hard little smile. »No, no, you
are not galant! And if you prevent this affair I shall owe you a grudge - and
pay my debt!«
    Newman uttered an imprecation which, though brief - it consisted simply of
the interjection »Oh!« followed by a geographical, or more correctly, perhaps, a
theological noun in four letters - had better not be transferred to these pages.
He turned his back without more ceremony upon the pink dress and went out of the
box. In the corridor he found Valentin and his companion walking towards him.
The latter was thrusting a card into his waistcoat-pocket. Mademoiselle Noémie's
jealous votary was a tall robust young man with a thick nose, a prominent blue
eye, a Germanic physiognomy, and a massive watch-chain. When they reached the
box, Valentin with an emphasised bow made way for him to pass in first. Newman
touched Valentin's arm as a sign that he wished to speak with him, and
Bellegarde answered that he would be with him in an instant. Valentin entered
the box after the robust young man, but a couple of minutes afterwards he
reappeared, largely smiling.
    »She is immensely tickled,« he said. »She says we will make her fortune. I
don't want to be fatuous, but I think it is very possible.«
    »So you are going to fight?« said Newman.
    »My dear fellow, don't look so mortally disgusted. It was not my own choice.
The thing is all arranged.«
    »I told you so!« groaned Newman.
    »I told him so,« said Valentin, smiling.
    »What did he do to you?«
    »My good friend, it doesn't't matter what. He used an expression - I took it
up.«
    »But I insist upon knowing; I can't, as your elder brother, have you rushing
into this sort of nonsense.«
    »I am very much obliged to you,« said Valentin. »I have nothing to conceal,
but I can't go into particulars now and here.«
    »We will leave this place, then. You can tell me outside.«
    »Oh no, I can't leave this place; why should I hurry away? I will go to my
orchestra-stall and sit out the opera.«
    »You will not enjoy it; you will be preoccupied.«
    Valentin looked at him a moment, coloured a little, smiled, and patted him
on the arm. »You are delightfully simple! Before an affair a man is quiet. The
quietest thing I can do is to go straight to my place.«
    »Ah,« said Newman, »you want her to see you there - you and your quietness.
I am not so simple! It is a poor business.«
    Valentin remained, and the two men, in their respective places, sat out the
rest of the performance, which was also enjoyed by Mademoiselle Nioche and her
truculent admirer. At the end Newman joined Valentin again, and they went into
the street together. Valentin shook his head at his friend's proposal that he
should get into Newman's own vehicle, and stopped on the edge of the pavement.
»I must go off alone,« he said; »I must look up a couple of friends who will
take charge of this matter.«
    »I will take charge of it,« Newman declared. »Put it into my hands.«
    »You are very kind, but that is hardly possible. In the first place, you
are, as you said just now, almost my brother; you are about to marry my sister.
That alone disqualifies you; it casts doubts on your impartiality. And if it
didn't, it would be enough for me that I strongly suspect you of disapproving of
the affair. You would try to prevent a meeting.«
    »Of course I should,« said Newman. »Whoever your friends are, I hope they
will do that.«
    »Unquestionably they will. They will urge that excuses be made, proper
excuses. But you would be too good-natured. You won't do.«
    Newman was silent a moment. He was keenly annoyed, but he saw it was useless
to attempt interference. »When is this precious performance to come off?« he
asked.
    »The sooner the better,« said Valentin. »The day after tomorrow, I hope.«
    »Well,« said Newman, »I have certainly a claim to know the facts. I can't
consent to shut my eyes to the matter.«
    »I shall be most happy to tell you the facts,« said Valentin. »They are very
simple, and it will be quickly done. But now everything depends on my putting my
hands on my friends without delay. I will jump into a cab; you had better drive
to my room and wait for me there. I will turn up at the end of an hour.«
    Newman assented protestingly, let his friend go, and then betook himself to
the picturesque little apartment in the Rue d'Anjou. It was more than an hour
before Valentin returned, but when he did so he was able to announce that he had
found one of his desired friends, and that this gentleman had taken upon himself
the care of securing an associate. Newman had been sitting without lights by
Valentin's faded fire, upon which he had thrown a log; the blaze played over the
richly-encumbered little sitting-room and produced fantastic gleams and shadows.
He listened in silence to Valentin's account of what had passed between him and
the gentleman whose card he had in his pocket - M. Stanislas Kapp, of Strasbourg
- after his return to Mademoiselle Nioche's box. This hospitable young lady had
espied an acquaintance on the other side of the house, and had expressed her
displeasure at his not having the civility to come and pay her a visit. »Oh, let
him alone!« M. Stanislas Kapp had hereupon exclaimed. »There are too many people
in the box already.« And he had fixed his eyes with a demonstrative stare upon
M. de Bellegarde. Valentin had promptly retorted that if there were too many
people in the box it was easy for M. Kapp to diminish the number. »I shall be
most happy to open the door for you!« M. Kapp exclaimed. »I shall be delighted
to fling you into the pit!« Valentin had answered. »Oh, do make a rumpus and get
into the papers!« Miss Noémie had gleefully ejaculated. »M. Kapp, turn him out;
or, M. de Bellegarde, pitch him into the pit, into the orchestra - anywhere! I
don't care who does which, so long as you make a scene.« Valentin answered that
they would make no scene, but that the gentleman would be so good as to step
into the corridor with him. In the corridor, after a brief further exchange of
words, there had been an exchange of cards. M. Stanislas Kapp was very stiff. He
evidently meant to force his offence home.
    »The man, no doubt, was insolent,« Newman said; »but if you hadn't gone back
into the box the thing wouldn't have happened.«
    »Why, don't you see,« Valentin replied, »that the event proves the extreme
propriety of my going back into the box? M. Kapp wished to provoke me; he was
awaiting his chance. In such a case - that is, when he has been, so to speak,
notified - a man must be on hand to receive the provocation. My not returning
would simply have been tantamount to my saying to M. Stanislas Kapp: Oh, if you
are going to be disagreeable --« --«
    »You must manage it by yourself; damned if I'll help you! That would have
been a thoroughly sensible thing to say. The only attraction for you seems to
have been the prospect of M. Kapp's impertinence,« Newman went on. »You told me
you were not going back for that girl.«
    »Oh, don't mention that girl any more,« murmured Valentin. »She's a bore.«
    »With all my heart. But if that is the way you feel about her, why couldn't
you let her alone?«
    Valentin shook his head with a fine smile. »I don't think you quite
understand, and I don't believe I can make you. She understood the situation;
she knew what was in the air; she was watching us.«
    »A cat may look at a king! What difference does that make?«
    »Why, a man can't back down before a woman.«
    »I don't call her a woman. You said yourself she was a stone,« cried Newman.
    »Well,« Valentin rejoined, »there is no disputing about tastes. It's a
matter of feeling; it's measured by one's sense of honour.«
    »Oh, confound your sense of honour!« cried Newman.
    »It is vain talking,« said Valentin; »words have passed, and the thing is
settled.«
    Newman turned away, taking his hat. Then pausing with his hand on the door,
»What are you going to use?« he asked.
    »That is for M. Stanislas Kapp, as the challenged party, to decide. My own
choice would be a short, light sword. I handle it well. I'm an indifferent
shot.«
    Newman had put on his hat; he pushed it back, gently scratching his forehead
high up. »I wish it were pistols,« he said. »I could show you how to lodge a
bullet!«
    Valentin broke into a laugh. »What is it some English poet says about
consistency? It's a flower, or a star, or a jewel. Yours has the beauty of all
three!« But he agreed to see Newman again on the morrow, after the details of
his meeting with M. Stanislas Kapp should have been arranged.
    In the course of the day Newman received three lines from him, saying that
it had been decided that he should cross the frontier, with his adversary, and
that he was to take the night express to Geneva. He should have time, however,
to dine with Newman. In the afternoon Newman called upon Madame de Cintré, but
his visit was brief. She was as gracious and sympathetic as he had ever found
her, but she was sad, and she confessed, on Newman's charging her with her red
eyes, that she had been crying. Valentin had been with her a couple of hours
before, and his visit had left her with a painful impression. He had laughed and
gossiped, he had brought her no bad news, he had only been, in his manner,
rather more affectionate than usual. His fraternal tenderness had touched her,
and on his departure she had burst into tears. She had felt as if something
strange and sad were going to happen; she had tried to reason away the fancy,
and the effort had only given her a headache. Newman, of course, was perforce
tongue-tied about Valentin's projected duel, and his dramatic talent was not
equal to satirising Madame de Cintré's presentiment as pointedly as perfect
security demanded. Before he went away he asked Madame de Cintré whether
Valentin had seen his mother.
    »Yes,« she said, »but he didn't make her cry.«
    It was in Newman's own apartment that Valentin dined, having brought his
portmanteau, so that he might adjourn directly to the railway. M. Stanislas Kapp
had positively declined to make excuses, and he, on his side, obviously, had
none to offer. Valentin had found out with whom he was dealing. M. Stanislas
Kapp was the son and heir of a rich brewer of Strasbourg, a youth of a
sanguineous - and sanguinary - temperament. He was making ducks and drakes of
the paternal brewery, and although he passed in a general way for a good fellow,
he had already been observed to be quarrelsome after dinner. »Que voulez-vous?«
said Valentin. »Brought up on beer, he can't stand champagne.« He had chosen
pistols. Valentin, at dinner, had an excellent appetite; he made a point, in
view of his long journey, of eating more than usual. He took the liberty of
suggesting to Newman a slight modification in the composition of a certain
fish-sauce; he thought it would be worth mentioning to the cook. But Newman had
no thoughts for fish-sauce; he felt thoroughly discontented. As he sat and
watched his amiable and clever companion going through his excellent repast with
the delicate deliberation of hereditary epicurism, the folly of so charming a
fellow travelling off to expose his agreeable young life for the sake of M.
Stanislas and Mademoiselle Noémie struck him with intolerable force. He had
grown fond of Valentin, he felt now how fond; and his sense of helplessness only
increased his irritation.
    »Well, this sort of thing may be all very well,« he cried at last, »but I
declare I don't see it. I can't stop you, perhaps, but at least I can protest. I
do protest, violently.«
    »My dear fellow, don't make a scene,« said Valentin. »Scenes in these cases
are in very bad taste.«
    »Your duel itself is a scene,« said Newman; »that's all it is! It's a
wretched theatrical affair. Why don't you take a band of music with you
outright? It's d--d barbarous and it's d--d corrupt, both.«
    »Oh, I can't begin, at this time of day, to defend the theory of duelling,«
said Valentin. »It is our custom, and I think it is a good thing. Quite apart
from the goodness of the cause in which a duel may be fought, it has a kind of
picturesque charm which in this age of vile prose seems to me greatly to
recommend it. It's a remnant of a higher-tempered time; one ought to cling to
it. Depend upon it; a duel is never amiss.«
    »I don't know what you mean by a higher-tempered time,« said Newman.
»Because your great-grandfather was an ass, is that any reason why you should
be? For my part, I think we had better let our temper take care of itself; it
generally seems to me quite high enough; I am not afraid of being too meek. If
your great-grandfather were to make himself unpleasant to me, I think I could
manage him yet.«
    »My dear friend,« said Valentin, smiling, »you can't invent anything that
will take the place of satisfaction for an insult. To demand it and to give it
are equally excellent arrangements.«
    »Do you call this sort of thing satisfaction?« Newman asked. »Does it
satisfy you to receive a present of the carcass of that coarse fop? does it
gratify you to make him a present of yours? If a man hits you, hit him back; if
a man libels you, haul him up.«
    »Haul him up, into court? Oh, that is very nasty!« said Valentin.
    »The nastiness is his - not yours. And for that matter, what you are doing
is not particularly nice. You are too good for it. I don't say you are the most
useful man in the world, or the cleverest, or the most amiable. But you are too
good to go and get your throat cut for a prostitute.«
    Valentin flushed a little, but he laughed. »I shan't get my throat cut if I
can help it. Moreover, one's honour hasn't two different measures. It only knows
that it is hurt; it doesn't't ask when, or how, or where.«
    »The more fool it is!« said Newman.
    Valentin ceased to laugh; he looked grave. »I beg you not to say any more,«
he said. »If you do I shall almost fancy you don't care about - about« - and he
paused.
    »About what?«
    »About that matter - about one's honour.«
    »Fancy what you please,« said Newman. »Fancy while you are at it that I care
about you - though you are not worth it. But come back without damage,« he added
in a moment, »and I will forgive you. And then,« he continued, as Valentin was
going: »I will ship you straight off to America.«
    »Well,« answered Valentin, »if I am to turn over a new page, this may figure
as a tail-piece to the old.« And then he lit another cigar and departed.
    »Blast that girl!« said Newman, as the door closed upon Valentin.
 

                                 Chapter XVIII

Newman went the next morning to see Madame de Cintré, timing his visit so as to
arrive after the noonday breakfast. In the court of the hôtel, before the
portico, stood Madame de Bellegarde's old square carriage. The servant who
opened the door answered Newman's inquiry with a slightly embarrassed and
hesitating murmur, and at the same moment Mrs. Bread appeared in the background,
dim-visaged as usual, and wearing a large black bonnet and shawl.
    »What is the matter?« asked Newman. »Is Madame la Comtesse at home, or not?«
    Mrs. Bread advanced, fixing her eyes upon him; he observed that she held a
sealed letter, very delicately, in her fingers. »The countess has left a message
for you, sir; she has left this,« said Mrs. Bread, holding out the letter, which
Newman took.
    »Left it? Is she out? Is she gone away?«
    »She is going away, sir; she is leaving town,« said Mrs. Bread.
    »Leaving town!« exclaimed Newman. »What has happened?«
    »It is not for me to say, sir,« said Mrs. Bread, with her eyes on the
ground. »But I thought it would come.«
    »What would come, pray?« Newman demanded. He had broken the seal of the
letter, but he still questioned. »She is in the house? She is visible?«
    »I don't think she expected you this morning,« the old waiting-woman
replied. »She was to leave immediately.«
    »Where is she going?«
    »To Fleurières.«
    »To Fleurières? But surely I can see her?«
    Mrs. Bread hesitated a moment, and then clasping together her two hands, »I
will take you!« she said. And she led the way upstairs. At the top of the
staircase she paused and fixed her dry, sad eyes upon Newman. »Be very easy with
her,« she said; »she is most unhappy!« Then she went on to Madame de Cintré's
apartment; Newman, perplexed and alarmed, followed her rapidly. Mrs. Bread threw
open the door, and Newman pushed back the curtain at the farther side of its
deep embrasure. In the middle of the room stood Madame de Cintré; her face was
pale and she was dressed for travelling. Behind her, before the fireplace, stood
Urbain de Bellegarde, looking at his finger-nails; near the marquis sat his
mother, buried in an armchair, and with her eyes immediately fixing themselves
upon Newman. He felt, as soon as he entered the room, that he was in the
presence of something evil; he was startled and pained, as he would have been by
a threatening cry in the stillness of the night. He walked straight to Madame de
Cintré and seized her by the hand.
    »What is the matter?« he asked commandingly; »what is happening?«
    Urbain de Bellegarde stared, then left his place and came and leaned upon
his mother's chair, behind. Newman's sudden irruption had evidently discomposed
both mother and son. Madame de Cintré stood silent, with her eyes resting upon
Newman's. She had often looked at him with all her soul, as it seemed to him;
but in this present gaze there was a sort of bottomless depth. She was in
distress; it was the most touching thing he had ever seen. His heart rose into
his throat, and he was on the point of turning to her companions with an angry
challenge; but she checked him, pressing the hand that held her own.
    »Something very grave has happened,« she said. »I cannot marry you.«
    Newman dropped her hand and stood staring, first at her and then at the
others. »Why not?« he asked, as quietly as possible.
    Madame de Cintré almost smiled, but the attempt was strange. »You must ask
my mother, you must ask my brother.«
    »Why can't she marry me?« said Newman, looking at them.
    Madame de Bellegarde did not move in her place, but she was as pale as her
daughter. The marquis looked down at her. She said nothing for some moments, but
she kept her keen clear eyes upon Newman bravely. The marquis drew himself up
and looked at the ceiling. »It's impossible!« he said softly.
    »It's improper,« said Madame de Bellegarde.
    Newman began to laugh. »Oh, you are fooling!« he exclaimed.
    »My sister, you have no time; you are losing your train,« said the marquis.
    »Come, is he mad?« asked Newman.
    »No; don't think that,« said Madame de Cintré. »But I am going away.«
    »Where are you going?«
    »To the country, to Fleurières; to be alone.«
    »To leave me?« said Newman slowly.
    »I can't see you, now,« said Madame de Cintré.
    »Now - why not?«
    »I am ashamed,« said Madame de Cintré simply.
    Newman turned toward the marquis. »What have you done to her - what does it
mean?« he asked with the same effort at calmness, the fruit of his constant
practice in taking things easily. He was excited, but excitement with him was
only an intenser deliberateness; it was the swimmer stripped.
    »It means that I have given you up,« said Madame de Cintré. »It means that.«
    Her face was too charged with tragic expression not fully to confirm her
words. Newman was profoundly shocked, but he felt as yet no resentment against
her. He was amazed, bewildered, and the presence of the old marquise and her son
seemed to smite his eyes like the glare of a watchman's lantern. »Can't I see
you alone?« he asked.
    »It would be only more painful. I hoped I should not see you - I should
escape. I wrote to you. Good-bye.« And she put out her hand again.
    Newman put both his own into his pockets. »I will go with you,« he said.
    She laid her two hands on his arm. »Will you grant me a last request?« and
as she looked at him, urging this, her eyes filled with tears. »Let me go alone
- let me go in peace. I can't call it peace - it's death. But let me bury
myself. So - good-bye.«
    Newman passed his hand into his hair and stood slowly rubbing his head and
looking through his keenly-narrowed eyes from one to the other of the three
persons before him. His lips were compressed, and the two lines which had formed
themselves beside his mouth might have made it appear at a first glance that he
was smiling. I have said that his excitement was an intenser deliberateness, and
now he looked grimly deliberate. »It seems very much as if you had interfered,
marquis,« he said slowly. »I thought you said you wouldn't interfere. I know you
don't like me; but that doesn't't make any difference. I thought you promised me
you wouldn't interfere. I thought you swore on your honour that you wouldn't
interfere. Don't you remember, marquis?«
    The marquis lifted his eyebrows; but he was apparently determined to be even
more urbane than usual. He rested his two hands upon the back of his mother's
chair and bent forward, as if he were leaning over the edge of a pulpit or a
lecture-desk. He did not smile, but he looked softly grave. »Excuse me, sir,« he
said, »I assured you that I would not influence my sister's decision. I adhered,
to the letter, to my engagement. Did I not, sister?«
    »Don't appeal, my son,« said the marquise, »your word is sufficient.«
    »Yes - she accepted me,« said Newman. »That is very true; I can't deny that.
At least,« he added, in a different tone, turning to Madame de Cintré, »you did
accept me?«
    Something in the tone seemed to move her strongly. She turned away, burying
her face in her hands.
    »But you have interfered now, haven't you?« inquired Newman of the marquis.
    »Neither then nor now have I attempted to influence my sister. I used no
persuasion then, I have used no persuasion to-day.«
    »And what have you used?«
    »We have used authority,« said Madame de Bellegarde in a rich, bell-like
voice.
    »Ah, you have used authority,« Newman exclaimed. »They have used authority,«
he went on, turning to Madame de Cintré. »What is it? how did they use it?«
    »My mother commanded,« said Madame de Cintré.
    »Commanded you to give me up - I see. And you obey - I see. But why do you
obey?« asked Newman.
    Madame de Cintré looked across at the old marquise; her eyes slowly measured
her from head to foot. »I am afraid of my mother,« she said.
    Madame de Bellegarde rose with a certain quickness, crying: »This is a most
indecent scene!«
    »I have no wish to prolong it,« said Madame de Cintré; and turning to the
door she put out her hand again. »If you can pity me a little, let me go alone.«
    Newman shook her hand quietly and firmly. »I'll come down there,« he said.
The portière dropped behind her, and Newman sank with a long breath into the
nearest chair. He leaned back in it, resting his hands on the knobs of the arms
and looking at Madame de Bellegarde and Urbain. There was a long silence. They
stood side by side, with their heads high and their handsome eyebrows arched.
    »So you make a distinction?« Newman said at last. »You make a distinction
between persuading and commanding? It's very neat. But the distinction is in
favour of commanding. That rather spoils it.«
    »We have not the least objection to defining our position,« said M. de
Bellegarde. »We understand that it should not at first appear to you quite
clear. We rather expect, indeed, that you should not do us justice.«
    »Oh, I'll do you justice,« said Newman. »Don't be afraid. Please proceed.«
    The marquise laid her hand on her son's arm, as if to deprecate the attempt
to define their position. »It is quite useless,« she said, »to try and arrange
this matter so as to make it agreeable to you. It can never be agreeable to you.
It is a disappointment, and disappointments are unpleasant. I thought it over
carefully and tried to arrange it better; but I only gave myself a headache and
lost my sleep. Say what we will, you will think yourself ill-treated, and you
will publish your wrongs among your friends. But we are not afraid of that.
Besides, your friends are not our friends, and it will not matter. Think of us
as you please. I only beg you not to be violent. I have never in my life been
present at a violent scene of any kind, and at my age I can't be expected to
begin.«
    »Is that all you have got to say?« asked Newman, slowly rising out of his
chair. »That's a poor show for a clever lady like you, marquise. Come, try
again.«
    »My mother goes to the point, with her usual honesty and intrepidity,« said
the marquis, toying with his watch-guard. »But it is perhaps well to say a
little more. We of course quite repudiate the charge of having broken faith with
you. We left you entirely at liberty to make yourself agreeable to my sister. We
left her quite at liberty to entertain your proposal. When she accepted you we
said nothing. We therefore quite observed our promise. It was only at a later
stage of the affair, and on quite a different basis, as it were, that we
determined to speak. It would have been better, perhaps, if we had spoken
before. But really, you see, nothing has yet been done.«
    »Nothing has yet been done?« Newman repeated the words, unconscious of their
comical effect. He had lost the sense of what the marquis was saying; M. de
Bellegarde's superior style was a mere humming in his ears. All that he
understood, in his deep and simple indignation, was that the matter was not a
violent joke, and that the people before him were perfectly serious, »Do you
suppose I can take this?« he asked. »Do you suppose it can matter to me what you
say? Do you suppose I can seriously listen to you? You are simply crazy!«
    Madame de Bellegarde gave a rap with her fan in the palm of her hand. »If
you don't take it you can leave it, sir. It matters very little what you do. My
daughter has given you up.«
    »She doesn't't mean it,« Newman declared after a moment.
    »I think I can assure you that she does,« said the marquis.
    »Poor woman, what damnable thing have you done to her?« cried Newman.
    »Gently, gently!« murmured M. de Bellegarde.
    »She told you,« said the old lady. »I commanded her.«
    Newman shook his head heavily. »This sort of thing can't be, you know,« he
said. »A man can't be used in this fashion. You have got no right; you have got
no power.«
    »My power,« said Madame de Bellegarde, »is in my children's obedience.«
    »In their fear, your daughter said. There is something very strange in it.
Why should your daughter be afraid of you?« added Newman, after looking a moment
at the old lady. »There is some foul play.«
    The marquise met his gaze without flinching, and as if she did not hear or
heed what he said. »I did my best,« she said quietly. »I could endure it no
longer.«
    »It was a bold experiment!« said the marquis.
    Newman felt disposed to walk to him, clutch his neck with his fingers and
press his windpipe with his thumb. »I needn't tell you how you strike me,« he
said, »of course you know that. But I should think you would be afraid of your
friends - all those people you introduced me to the other night. There were some
very nice people among them; you may depend upon it there were some honest men
and women.«
    »Our friends approve us,« said M. de Bellegarde; »there is not a family
among them that would have acted otherwise. And however that may be, we take the
cue from no one. The Bellegardes have been used to set the example, not to wait
for it.«
    »You would have waited long before anyone would have set you such an example
as this,« exclaimed Newman. »Have I done anything wrong?« he demanded. »Have I
given you reason to change your opinion? Have you found out anything against me?
I can't imagine.«
    »Our opinion,« said Madame de Bellegarde, »is quite the same as at first -
exactly. We have no ill-will towards yourself; we are very far from accusing you
of misconduct. Since your relations with us began you have been, I frankly
confess, less - less peculiar than I expected. It is not your disposition that
we object to, it is your antecedents. We really cannot reconcile ourselves to a
commercial person. We fancied in an evil hour that we could; it was a great
misfortune. We determined to persevere to the end, and to give you every
advantage. I was resolved that you should have no reason to accuse me of a want
of loyalty. We let the thing certainly go very far - we introduced you to our
friends. To tell the truth, it was that, I think, that broke me down. I
succumbed to the scene that took place on Thursday night in these rooms. You
must excuse me if what I say is disagreeable to you, but we cannot release
ourselves without an explanation.«
    »There can be no better proof of our good faith,« said the marquis, »than
our committing ourselves to you in the eyes of the world the other evening. We
endeavoured to bind ourselves - to tie our hands, as it were.«
    »But it was that,« added his mother, »that opened our eyes and broke our
bonds. We should have been most uncomfortable! You know,« she added in a moment,
»that you were forewarned. I told you we were very proud.«
    Newman took up his hat and began mechanically to smooth it; the very
fierceness of his scorn kept him from speaking. »You are not proud enough,« he
observed at last.
    »In all this matter,« said the marquis, smiling, »I really see nothing but
our humility.«
    »Let us have no more discussion than is necessary,« resumed Madame de
Bellegarde. »My daughter told you everything when she said she gave you up.«
    »I am not satisfied about your daughter,« said Newman; »I want to know what
you did to her. It is all very easy talking about authority and saying you
commanded her. She didn't accept me blindly, and she wouldn't have given me up
blindly. Not that I believe yet she has really given me up; she will talk it
over with me. But you have frightened her, you have bullied her, you have hurt
her. What was it you did to her?«
    »I did very little!« said Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone which gave Newman
a chill when he afterwards remembered it.
    »Let me remind you that we offered you these explanations,« the marquis
observed, »with the express understanding that you should abstain from violence
of language.«
    »I am not violent,« Newman answered, »it is you who are violent! But I don't
know that I have much more to say to you. What you expect of me, apparently, is
to go my way, thanking you for favours received, and promising never to trouble
you again.«
    »We expect of you to act like a clever man,« said Madame de Bellegarde. »You
have shown yourself that already, and what we have done is altogether based upon
your being so. When one must submit, one must. Since my daughter absolutely
withdraws, what will be the use of your making a noise?«
    »It remains to be seen whether your daughter absolutely withdraws. Your
daughter and I are still very good friends; nothing is changed in that. As I
say, I will talk it over with her.«
    »That will be of no use,« said the old lady. »I know my daughter well enough
to know that words spoken as she just now spoke to you are final. Besides, she
has promised me.«
    »I have no doubt her promise is worth a good deal more than your own,« said
Newman; »nevertheless I don't give her up.«
    »Just as you please! But if she won't even see you - and she won't - your
constancy must remain purely Platonic.«
    Poor Newman was feigning a greater confidence than he felt. Madame de
Cintré's strange intensity had in fact struck a chill to his heart; her face,
still impressed upon his vision, had been a terribly vivid image of
renunciation. He felt sick, and suddenly helpless. He turned away and stood for
a moment with his hand on the door; then he faced about, and after the briefest
hesitation broke out with a different accent. »Come, think of what this must be
to me, and let her alone! Why should you object to me so - what's the matter
with me? I can't hurt you, I wouldn't if I could. I'm the most unobjectionable
fellow in the world. What if I am a commercial person? What under the sun do you
mean? A commercial person? I will be any sort of person you want. I never talk
to you about business. Let her go, and I will ask no questions. I will take her
away, and you shall never see me or hear of me again. I will stay in America if
you like. I'll sign a paper promising never to come back to Europe! All I want
is not to lose her!«
    Madame de Bellegarde and her son exchanged a glance of lucid irony, and
Urbain said: »My dear sir, what you propose is hardly an improvement. We have
not the slightest objection to seeing you, as an amiable foreigner, and we have
every reason for not wishing to be eternally separated from my sister. We object
to the marriage; and in that way,« and M. de Bellegarde gave a small, thin
laugh, »she would be more married than ever.«
    »Well, then,« said Newman, »where is this place of yours - Fleurières? I
know it is near some old city on a hill.«
    »Precisely. Poitiers is on a hill,« said Madame de Bellegarde. »I don't know
how old it is. We are not afraid to tell you.«
    »It is Poitiers, is it? Very good,« said Newman. »I shall immediately follow
Madame de Cintré.«
    »The trains after this hour won't serve you,« said Urbain.
    »I shall hire a special train!«
    »That will be a very silly waste of money,« said Madame de Bellegarde.
    »It will be time enough to talk about waste three days hence,« Newman
answered; and clapping his hat on his head, he departed.
    He did not immediately start for Fleurières; he was too stunned and wounded
for consecutive action. He simply walked; he walked straight before him,
following the river, till he got out of the enceinte of Paris. He had a burning,
tingling sense of personal outrage. He had never in his life received so
absolute a check; he had never been pulled up, or, as he would have said, let
down, so short; and he found the sensation intolerable; he strode along, tapping
the trees and lamp-posts fiercely with his stick and inwardly raging. To lose
Madame de Cintré after he had taken such jubilant and triumphant possession of
her was as great an affront to his pride as it was an injury to his happiness.
And to lose her by the interference and the dictation of others, by an impudent
old woman and a pretentious fop stepping in with their authority! It was too
preposterous, it was too pitiful. Upon what he deemed the unblushing treachery
of the Bellegardes, Newman wasted little thought; he consigned it, once for all,
to eternal perdition. But the treachery of Madame de Cintré herself amazed and
confounded him; there was a key to the mystery, of course, but he groped for it
in vain. Only three days had elapsed since she stood beside him in the
starlight, beautiful and tranquil as the trust with which he had inspired her,
and told him that she was happy in the prospect of their marriage. What was the
meaning of the change? of what infernal potion had she tasted? Poor Newman had a
terrible apprehension that she had really changed. His very admiration for her
attached the idea of force and weight to her rupture. But he did not rail at her
as false, for he was sure she was unhappy. In his walk he had crossed one of the
bridges of the Seine, and he still followed, unheedingly, the long, unbroken
quay. He had left Paris behind him, and he was almost in the country; he was in
the pleasant suburb of Auteuil. He stopped at last, looked around him without
seeing or caring for its pleasantness, and then slowly turned and at a slower
pace retraced his steps. When he came abreast of the fantastic embankment known
as the Trocadero, he reflected, through his throbbing pain, that he was near
Mrs. Tristram's dwelling, and that Mrs. Tristram, on particular occasions, had
much of a woman's kindness in her utterance. He felt that he needed to pour out
his ire, and took the road to her house. Mrs. Tristram was at home and alone,
and as soon as she had looked at him, on his entering the room, she told him
that she knew what he had come for. Newman sat down heavily, in silence, looking
at her.
    »They have backed out!« she said. »Well, you may think it strange, but I
felt something the other night in the air.« Presently he told her his story; she
listened, with her eyes fixed on him. When he had finished she said quietly:
»They want her to marry Lord Deepmere.« Newman stared. He did not know that she
knew anything about Lord Deepmere. »But I don't think she will,« Mrs. Tristram
added.
    »She marry that poor little cub!« cried Newman. »Oh, Lord! And yet, why did
she refuse me?«
    »But that isn't the only thing,« said Mrs. Tristram. »They really couldn't
endure you any longer. They had overrated their courage. I must say, to give the
devil his due, that there is something rather fine in that. It was your
commercial quality in the abstract they couldn't swallow. That is really
aristocratic. They wanted your money, but they have given you up for an idea.«
    Newman frowned most ruefully, and took up his hat again. »I thought you
would encourage me!« he said, with almost childlike sadness.
    »Excuse me,« she answered very gently. »I feel none the less sorry for you,
especially as I am at the bottom of your troubles. I have not forgotten that I
suggested the marriage to you. I don't believe that Madame de Cintré has any
intention of marrying Lord Deepmere. It is true he is not younger than she, as
he looks. He is thirty-three years old; I looked in the Peerage. But no - I
can't believe her so horribly, cruelly false.«
    »Please say nothing against her,« said Newman.
    »Poor woman, she is cruel. But of course you will go after her and you will
plead powerfully. Do you know that as you are now,« Mrs. Tristram pursued with
characteristic audacity of comment, »you are extremely eloquent, even without
speaking? To resist you a woman must have a very fixed idea in her head. I wish
I had done you a wrong, that you might come to me in that fine fashion! But go
to Madame de Cintré at any rate, and tell her that she is a puzzle even to me. I
am very curious to see how far family discipline will go.«
    Newman sat awhile longer, leaning his elbows on his knees and his head in
his hands, and Mrs. Tristram continued to temper charity with philosophy, and
compassion with criticism. At last she inquired: »And what does the Count
Valentin say to it?« Newman started; he had not thought of Valentin and his
errand on the Swiss frontier since the morning. The reflection made him restless
again, and he took his leave. He went straight to his apartment, where, upon the
table of the vestibule, he found a telegram. It ran (with the date and place) as
follows: »I am seriously ill; please to come to me as soon as possible. V.B.«
Newman groaned at this miserable news, and at the necessity of deferring his
journey to the Château de Fleurières. But he wrote to Madame de Cintré these few
lines; they were all he had time for:
 
        »I don't give you up, and I don't really believe you give me me up. I
        don't understand it, but we shall clear it up together. I can't follow
        you to- day, as I am called to see a friend at a distance who is very
        ill, perhaps dying. But I shall come to you as soon as I can leave my
        friend. Why shouldn't I say that he is your brother? - C.N.«
 
After this he had only time to catch the night express to Geneva.
 

                                  Chapter XIX

Newman possessed a remarkable talent for sitting still when it was necessary,
and he had an opportunity to use it on his journey to Switzerland. The
successive hours of the night brought him no sleep; but he sat motionless in his
corner of the railway-carriage, with his eyes closed, and the most observant of
his fellow-travellers might have envied him his apparent slumber. Toward morning
slumber really came, as an effect of mental rather than of physical fatigue. He
slept for a couple of hours, and at last, waking, found his eyes resting upon
one of the snow-powdered peaks of the Jura, behind which the sky was just
reddening with the dawn. But he saw neither the cold mountain nor the warm sky;
his consciousness began to throb again, on the very instant, with a sense of his
wrong. He got out of the train half an hour before it reached Geneva, in the
cold morning twilight, at the station indicated in Valentin's telegram. A drowsy
station-master was on the platform with a lantern, and the hood of his overcoat
over his head, and near him stood a gentleman who advanced to meet Newman. This
personage was a man of forty, with a tall lean figure, a sallow face, a dark
eye, a neat moustache, and a pair of fresh gloves. He took off his hat, looking
very grave, and pronounced Newman's name. Our hero assented and said: »You are
M. de Bellegarde's friend?«
    »I unite with you in claiming that sad honour,« said the gentleman. »I had
placed myself at M. de Bellegarde's service in this melancholy affair, together
with M. de Grosjoyaux, who is now at his bedside. M. de Grosjoyaux, I believe,
has had the honour of meeting you in Paris, but as he is a better nurse than I
he remained with our poor friend. Bellegarde has been eagerly expecting you.«
    »And how is Bellegarde?« said Newman. »He was badly hit?«
    »The doctor has condemned him; we brought a surgeon with us. But he will die
in the best sentiments. I sent last evening for the curé of the nearest French
village, who spent an hour with him. The curé was quite satisfied.«
    »Heaven forgive us!« groaned Newman. »I would rather the doctor were
satisfied! And can he see me - shall he know me?«
    »When I left him, half an hour ago, he had fallen asleep, after a feverish,
wakeful night. But we shall see.« And Newman's companion proceeded to lead the
way out of the station to the village, explaining as he went that the little
party was lodged in the humblest of Swiss inns, where, however, they had
succeeded in making M. de Bellegarde much more comfortable than could at first
have been expected. »We are old companions-in-arms,« said Valentin's second; »it
is not the first time that one of us has helped the other to lie easily. It is a
very nasty wound, and the nastiest thing about it is that Bellegarde's adversary
was no shot. He put his bullet where he could. It took it into its head to walk
straight into Bellegarde's left side, just below the heart.«
    As they picked their way in the gray, deceptive dawn, between the
manure-heaps of the village street, Newman's new acquaintance narrated the
particulars of the duel. The conditions of the meeting had been that if the
first exchange of shots should fail to satisfy one of the two gentlemen, a
second should take place. Valentin's first bullet had done exactly what Newman's
companion was convinced he had intended it to do; it had grazed the arm of M.
Stanislas Kapp, just scratching the flesh. M. Kapp's own projectile, meanwhile,
had passed at ten good inches from the person of Valentin. The representatives
of M. Stanislas had demanded another shot, which was granted. Valentin had then
fired aside and the young Alsatian had done effective execution. »I saw, when we
met him on the ground,« said Newman's informant, »that he was not going to be
commode. It is a kind of bovine temperament.« Valentin had immediately been
installed at the inn, and M. Stanislas and his friends had withdrawn to regions
unknown. The police authorities of the canton had waited upon the party at the
inn, had been extremely majestic, and had drawn up a long procès-verbal; but it
was probable that they would wink at so very gentlemanly a bit of bloodshed.
Newman asked whether a message had not been sent to Valentin's family, and
learned that up to a late hour on the preceding evening Valentin had opposed it.
He had refused to believe his wound was dangerous. But after his interview with
the curé he had consented, and a telegram had been despatched to his mother.
»But the marquise had better hurry,« said Newman's conductor.
    »Well, it's an abominable affair!« said Newman. »That's all I have got to
say!« To say this, at least, in a tone of infinite disgust, was an irresistible
need.
    »Ah, you don't approve?« questioned his conductor, with curious urbanity.
    »Approve?« cried Newman. »I wish that when I had him there, night before
last, I had locked him up in my cabinet de toilette!«
    Valentin's late second opened his eyes, and shook his head up and down two
or three times, gravely, with a little flute-like whistle. But they had reached
the inn, and a stout maid-servant in a night-cap was at the door with a lantern,
to take Newman's travelling-bag from the porter who trudged behind him. Valentin
was lodged on the ground-floor at the back of the house, and Newman's companion
went along a stone-faced passage and softly opened a door. Then he beckoned to
Newman, who advanced and looked into the room, which was lighted by a single
shaded candle. Beside the fire sat M. de Grosjoyaux asleep in his dressing-gown
- a little plump fair man whom Newman had seen several times in Valentin's
company. On the bed lay Valentin, pale and still, with his eyes closed - a
figure very shocking to Newman, who had seen it hitherto awake to its
finger-tips. M. de Grosjoyaux's colleague pointed to an open door beyond, and
whispered that the doctor was within, keeping guard. So long as Valentin slept,
or seemed to sleep, of course Newman could not approach him; so our hero
withdrew for the present, committing himself to the care of the half-waked bonne
. She took him to a room above-stairs, and introduced him to a bed on which a
magnified bolster, in yellow calico, figured as a counterpane. Newman lay down,
and, in spite of his counterpane, slept for three or four hours. When he awoke,
the morning was advanced and the sun was filling his window, and he heard,
outside of it, the clucking of hens.
    While he was dressing there came to his door a messenger from M. de
Grosjoyaux and his companion, proposing that he should breakfast with them.
Presently he went down-stairs to the little stone-paved dining-room, where the
maid-servant, who had taken off her night-cap, was serving the repast. M. de
Grosjoyaux was there, surprisingly fresh for a gentleman who had been playing
sick-nurse half the night, rubbing his hands and watching the breakfast-table
attentively. Newman renewed acquaintance with him, and learned that Valentin was
still sleeping; the surgeon, who had had a fairly tranquil night, was at present
sitting with him. Before M. de Grosjoyaux's associate reappeared, Newman learned
that his name was M. Ledoux, and that Bellegarde's acquaintance with him dated
from the days when they served together in the Pontifical Zouaves. M. Ledoux was
the nephew of a distinguished Ultramontane bishop. At last the bishop's nephew
came in with a toilet in which an ingenious attempt at harmony with the peculiar
situation was visible, and with a gravity tempered by a decent deference to the
best breakfast that the Croix Helvétique had ever set forth. Valentin's servant,
who was allowed only in scanty measure the honour of watching with his master,
had been lending a light Parisian hand in the kitchen. The two Frenchmen did
their best to prove that if circumstances might overshadow, they could not
really obscure the national talent for conversation, and M. Ledoux delivered a
neat little eulogy on poor Bellegarde, whom he pronounced the most charming
Englishman he had ever known.
    »Do you call him an Englishman?« Newman asked.
    M. Ledoux smiled a moment and then made an epigram. »C'est plus qu'un
Anglais - c'est un Anglomane!« Newman said soberly that he had never noticed it;
and M. de Grosjoyaux remarked that it was really too soon to deliver a funeral
oration upon poor Bellegarde. »Evidently,« said M. Ledoux. »But I couldn't help
observing this morning to Mr. Newman that when a man has taken such excellent
measures for his salvation as our dear friend did last evening, it seems almost
a pity he should put it in peril again by returning to the world.« M. Ledoux was
a great Catholic, and Newman thought him a queer mixture. His countenance, by
day-light, had a sort of amiably saturnine cast; he had a very large thin nose,
and looked like a Spanish picture. He appeared to think duelling a very perfect
arrangement, provided, if one should get hit, one could promptly see the priest.
He seemed to take a great satisfaction in Valentin's interview with the curé,
and yet his conversation did not at all indicate a sanctimonious habit of mind.
M. Ledoux had evidently a high sense of the becoming, and was prepared to be
urbane and tasteful on all points. He was always furnished with a smile (which
pushed his moustache up under his nose) and an explanation. Savoir-vivre -
knowing how to live - was his specialty, in which he included knowing how to
die; but, as Newman reflected, with a good deal of dumb irritation, he seemed
disposed to delegate to others the application of his learning on this latter
point. M. de Grosjoyaux was of quite another complexion, and appeared to regard
his friend's theological unction as the sign of an inaccessibly superior mind.
He was evidently doing his utmost, with a kind of jovial tenderness, to make
life agreeable to Valentin to the last, and help him as little as possible to
miss the Boulevard des Italiens; but what chiefly occupied his mind was the
mystery of a bungling brewer's son making so neat a shot. He himself could snuff
a candle, &amp;c., and yet he confessed that he could not have done better than
this. He hastened to add that on the present occasion he would have made a point
of not doing so well. It was not an occasion for that sort of murderous work,
que diable! He would have picked out some quiet fleshy spot and just tapped it
with a harmless ball. M. Stanislas Kapp had been deplorably heavy-handed; but
really, when the world had come to that pass that one granted a meeting to a
brewer's son!... This was M. de Grosjoyaux's nearest approach to a
generalisation. He kept looking through the window, over the shoulder of M.
Ledoux, at a slender tree which stood at the end of a lane, opposite to the inn,
and seemed to be measuring its distance from his extended arm and secretly
wishing that, since the subject had been introduced, propriety did not forbid a
little speculative pistol-practice.
    Newman was in no humour to enjoy good company. He could neither eat nor
talk; his soul was sore with grief and anger, and the weight of his double
sorrow was intolerable. He sat with his eyes fixed upon his plate, counting the
minutes, wishing at one moment that Valentin would see him and leave him free to
go in quest of Madame de Cintré and his lost happiness, and mentally calling
himself a vile brute the next, for the impatient egotism of the wish. He was
very poor company, himself, and even his acute preoccupation and his general
lack of the habit of pondering the impression he produced did not prevent him
from reflecting, that his companions must be puzzled to see how poor Bellegarde
came to take such a fancy to this taciturn Yankee that he must needs have him at
his death-bed. After breakfast he strolled forth alone into the village and
looked at the fountain, the geese, the open barn doors, the brown, bent old
women, showing their hugely darned stocking-heels at the ends of their
slowly-clicking sabots, and the beautiful view of snowy Alp and purple Jura at
either end of the little street. The day was brilliant; early spring was in the
air and sunshine, and the winter's damp was trickling out of the cottage eaves.
It was birth and brightness for all nature, even for chirping chickens and
waddling goslings, and it was to be death and burial for poor, foolish,
generous, delightful Bellegarde. Newman walked as far as the village church, and
went into the small graveyard beside it, where he sat down and looked at the
awkward tablets which were planted around. They were all sordid and hideous, and
Newman could feel nothing but the hardness and coldness of death. He got up and
came back to the inn, where he found M. Ledoux having coffee and a cigarette at
a little green table which he had caused to be carried into the small garden.
Newman, learning that the doctor was still sitting with Valentin, asked M.
Ledoux if he might not be allowed to relieve him; he had a great desire to be
useful to his poor friend. This was easily arranged; the doctor was very glad to
go to bed. He was a youthful and rather jaunty practitioner, but he had a clever
face, and the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole; Newman listened
attentively to the instructions he gave him before retiring, and took
mechanically from his hand a small volume which the surgeon recommended as a
help to wakefulness, and which turned out to be an old copy of Les Liaisons
Dangereuses.
    Valentin was still lying with his eyes closed, and there was no visible
change in his condition. Newman sat down near him, and for a long time narrowly
watched him. Then his eyes wandered away with his thoughts upon his own
situation, and rested upon the chain of the Alps, disclosed by the drawing of
the scant white cotton curtain of the window, through which the sunshine passed
and lay in squares upon the red-tiled floor. He tried to interweave his
reflections with hope, but he only half succeeded. What had happened to him
seemed to have, in its violence and audacity, the force of a real calamity - the
strength and insolence of Destiny herself. It was unnatural and monstrous, and
he had no arms against it. At last a sound struck upon the stillness, and he
heard Valentin's voice.
    »It can't be about me you are pulling that long face!« He found, when he
turned, that Valentin was lying in the same position; but his eyes were open,
and he was even trying to smile. It was with a very slender strength that he
returned the pressure of Newman's hand. »I have been watching you for a quarter
of an hour,« Valentin went on; »you have been looking as black as thunder. You
are greatly disgusted with me, I see. Well, of course! So am I!«
    »Oh, I shall not scold you,« said Newman. »I feel too badly. And how are you
getting on?«
    »Oh, I'm getting off! They have quite settled that; haven't they?«
    »That's for you to settle; you can get well if you try,« said Newman with
resolute cheerfulness.
    »My dear fellow, how can I try? Trying is violent exercise, and that sort of
thing isn't in order for a man with a hole in his side as big as your hat, that
begins to bleed if he moves a hair's-breadth. I knew you would come,« he
continued; »I knew I should wake up and find you here; so I'm not surprised. But
last night I was very impatient. I didn't see how I could keep still until you
came. It was a matter of keeping still, just like this; as still as a mummy in
his case. You talk about trying; I tried that! Well, here I am yet - these
twenty hours. It seems like twenty days.« Bellegarde talked slowly and feebly,
but distinctly enough. It was visible, however, that he was in extreme pain, and
at last he closed his eyes. Newman begged him to remain silent and spare
himself; the doctor had left urgent orders. »Oh,« said Valentin, »let us eat and
drink, for to-morrow - to-morrow« - and he paused again. »No, not to-morrow,
perhaps, but to-day. I can't eat and drink, but I can talk. What's to be gained,
at this pass, by renun - renunciation? I mustn't use such big words. I was
always a chatterer; Lord, how I have talked in my day!«
    »That's a reason for keeping quiet now,« said Newman. »We know how well you
talk, you know.«
    But Valentin, without heeding him, went on in the same weak dying drawl. »I
wanted to see you because you have seen my sister. Does she know - will she
come?«
    Newman was embarrassed. »Yes, by this time she must know.«
    »Didn't you tell her?« Valentin asked. And then, in a moment: »Didn't you
bring me any message from her?« His eyes rested upon Newman's with a certain
soft keenness.
    »I didn't see her after I got your telegram,« said Newman. »I wrote to her.«
    »And she sent you no answer?«
    Newman was obliged to reply that Madame de Cintré had left Paris. »She went
yesterday to Fleurières.«
    »Yesterday - to Fleurières? Why did she go to Fleurières? What day is this?
What day was yesterday? Ah, then I shan't see her,« said Valentin sadly.
»Fleurières is too far!« And then he closed his eyes again. Newman sat silent,
summoning pious invention to his aid, but he was relieved at finding that
Valentin was apparently too weak to reason or to be curious. Bellegarde,
however, presently went on. »And my mother - and my brother - will they come?
Are they at Fleurières?«
    »They were in Paris, but I didn't see them, either,« Newman answered. »If
they received your telegram in time, they will have started this morning.
Otherwise they will be obliged to wait for the night-express, and they will
arrive at the same hour as I did.«
    »They won't thank me - they won't thank me,« Valentin murmured. »They will
pass an atrocious night, and Urbain doesn't't like the early morning air. I don't
remember ever in my life to have seen him before noon - before breakfast. No one
ever saw him. We don't know how he is then. Perhaps he's different. Who knows?
Posterity, perhaps, will know. That's the time he works, in his cabinet, at the
history of the Princesses. But I had to send for them - hadn't I? And then I
want to see my mother sit there where you sit, and say good-bye to her. Perhaps,
after all, I don't know her, and she will have some surprise for me. Don't think
you know her yet, yourself; perhaps, she may surprise you. But if I can't see
Claire, I don't care for anything. I have been thinking of it - and in my
dreams, too. Why did she go to Fleurières to-day? She never told me. What has
happened? Ah, she ought to have guessed I was here - this way. It is the first
time in her life she ever disappointed me. Poor Claire!«
    »You know we are not man and wife quite yet - your sister and I,« said
Newman. »She doesn't't yet account to me for all her actions.« And, after a
fashion, he smiled.
    Valentin looked at him a moment. »Have you quarrelled?«
    »Never, never, never!« Newman exclaimed.
    »How happily you say that!« said Valentin. »You are going to be happy - va!«
In answer to this stroke of irony, none the less powerful for being so
unconscious, all poor Newman could do was to give a helpless and transparent
stare. Valentin continued to fix him with his own rather over-bright gaze, and
presently he said: »But something is the matter with you. I watched you just
now; you haven't a bridegroom's face.«
    »My dear fellow,« said Newman, »how can I show you a bridegroom's face? If
you think I enjoy seeing you lie there and not being able to help you --«
    »Why, you are just the man to be cheerful; don't forfeit your rights! I'm a
proof of your wisdom. When was a man ever gloomy when he could say: I told you
so? You told me so, you know. You did what you could about it. You said some
very good things; I have thought them over. But, my dear friend, I was right,
all the same. This is the regular way.«
    »I didn't do what I ought,« said Newman. »I ought to have done something
else.«
    »For instance?«
    »Oh, something or other. I ought to have treated you as a small boy.«
    »Well, I'm a very small boy, now,« said Valentin. »I'm rather less than an
infant. An infant is helpless, but it's generally voted promising. I'm not
promising, eh? Society can't lose a less valuable member.«
    Newman was strongly moved. He got up and turned his back upon his friend and
walked away to the window, where he stood looking out, but only vaguely seeing.
»No, I don't like the look of your back,« Valentin continued. »I have always
been an observer of backs; yours is quite out of sorts.«
    Newman returned to his bedside and begged him to be quiet. »Be quiet and get
well,« he said. »That's what you must do. Get well and help me.«
    »I told you you were in trouble! How can I help you?« Valentin asked.
    »I'll let you know when you are better. You were always curious; there is
something to get well for!« Newman answered, with resolute animation.
    Valentin closed his eyes and lay a long time without speaking. He seemed
even to have fallen asleep. But at the end of half an hour he began to talk
again. »I am rather sorry about that place in the bank. Who knows but that I
might have become another Rothschild? But I wasn't't meant for a banker; bankers
are not so easy to kill. Don't you think I have been very easy to kill? It's not
like a serious man. It's really very mortifying. It's like telling your hostess
you must go, when you count upon her begging you to stay, and then finding she
does no such thing. Really - so soon? You've only just come! Life doesn't't make
me any such polite little speech.«
    Newman for some time said nothing, but at last he broke out. »It's a bad
case - it's a bad case - it's the worst case I ever met. I don't want to say
anything unpleasant, but I can't help it. I've seen men dying before - and I've
seen men shot. But it always seemed more natural; they were not so clever as
you. Damnation - damnation! You might have done something better than this. It's
about the meanest winding-up of a man's affairs that I can imagine!«
    Valentin feebly waved his hand to and fro. »Don't insist - don't insist! It
is mean - decidedly mean. For you see at the bottom - down at the bottom, in a
little place as small as the end of a wine-funnel - I agree with you!«
    A few moments after this the doctor put his head through the half-opened
door, and, perceiving that Valentin was awake, came in and felt his pulse. He
shook his head and declared that he had talked too much - ten times too much.
»Nonsense!« said Valentin; »a man sentenced to death can never talk too much.
Have you never read an account of an execution in a newspaper? Don't they always
set a lot of people at the prisoner - lawyers, reporters, priests - to make him
talk? But it's not Mr. Newman's fault; he sits there as mum as a death's-head.«
    The doctor observed that it was time his patient's wound should be dressed
again; MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux, who had already witnessed this delicate
operation, taking Newman's place as assistants. Newman withdrew and learned from
his fellow-watchers that they had received a telegram from Urbain de Bellegarde
to the effect that their message had been delivered in the Rue de l'Université
too late to allow him to take the morning train, but that he would start with
his mother in the evening. Newman wandered away into the village again, and
walked about restlessly for two or three hours. The day seemed terribly long. At
dusk he came back and dined with the doctor and M. Ledoux. The dressing of
Valentin's wound had been a very critical operation; the doctor didn't really
see how he was to endure a repetition of it. He then declared that he must beg
of Mr. Newman to deny himself for the present the satisfaction of sitting with
M. de Bellegarde; more than anyone else, apparently, he had the flattering but
inconvenient privilege of exciting him. M. Ledoux, at this, swallowed a glass of
wine in silence; he must have been wondering what the deuce Bellegarde found so
exciting in the American.
    Newman, after dinner, went up to his room, where he sat for a long time
staring at his lighted candle, and thinking that Valentin was dying downstairs.
Late, when the candle had burnt low, there came a soft tap at his door. The
doctor stood there with a candlestick and a shrug.
    »He must amuse himself still!« said Valentin's medical adviser. »He insists
upon seeing you, and I am afraid you must come. I think, at this rate, that he
will hardly outlast the night.«
    Newman went back to Valentin's room, which he found lighted by a taper on
the hearth. Valentin begged him to light a candle. »I want to see your face,« he
said. »They say you excite me,« he went on, as Newman complied with this
request, »and I confess I do feel excited; but it isn't you - it's my own
thoughts. I have been thinking - thinking. Sit down there and let me look at you
again.« Newman seated himself, folded his arms, and bent a heavy gaze upon his
friend. He seemed to be playing a part, mechanically, in a lugubrious comedy.
Valentin looked at him for some time. »Yes, this morning I was right; you have
something on your mind heavier than Valentin de Bellegarde. Come, I'm a dying
man and it's indecent to deceive me. Something happened after I left Paris. It
was not for nothing that my sister started off at this season of the year for
Fleurières. Why was it? It sticks in my crop. I have been thinking it over, and
if you don't tell me I shall guess.«
    »I had better not tell you,« said Newman. »It won't do you any good.«
    »If you think it will do me any good not to tell me, you are very much
mistaken. There is trouble about your marriage.«
    »Yes,« said Newman. »There is trouble about my marriage.«
    »Good!« And Valentin was silent again. »They have stopped it.«
    »They have stopped it,« said Newman. Now that he had spoken out, he found a
satisfaction in it which deepened as he went on. »Your mother and brother have
broken faith. They have decided that it can't take place. They have decided that
I am not good enough, after all. They have taken back their word. Since you
insist, there it is!«
    Valentin gave a sort of groan, lifted his hands a moment, and then let them
drop.
    »I am sorry not to have anything better to tell you about them,« Newman
pursued. »But it's not my fault. I was, indeed, very unhappy when your telegram
reached me; I was quite upside down. You may imagine whether I feel any better
now.«
    Valentin moaned gaspingly, as if his wound were throbbing. »Broken faith,
broken faith!« he murmured. »And my sister - my sister?«
    »Your sister is very unhappy; she has consented to give me up. I don't know
why. I don't know what they have done to her; it must be something pretty bad.
In justice to her you ought to know it. They have made her suffer. I haven't
seen her alone, but only before them! We had an interview yesterday morning.
They came out flat, in so many words. They told me to go about my business. It
seems to me a very bad case. I'm angry, I'm sore, I'm sick.«
    Valentin lay there staring, with his eyes more brilliantly lighted, his lips
soundlessly parted, and a flush of colour in his pale face. Newman had never
before uttered so many words in the plaintive key, but now, in speaking to
Valentin in the poor fellow's extremity, he had a feeling that he was making his
complaint somewhere within the presence of the power that men pray to in
trouble; he felt his out-gush of resentment as a sort of spiritual privilege.
    »And Claire,« said Bellegarde, »Claire? She has given you up?«
    »I don't really believe it,« said Newman.
    »No, don't believe it, don't believe it. She is gaining time; excuse her.«
    »I pity her!« said Newman.
    »Poor Claire!« murmured Valentin. »But they - but they« - and he paused
again. »You saw them; they dismissed you, face to face?«
    »Face to face. They were very explicit.«
    »What did they say?«
    »They said they couldn't stand a commercial person.«
    Valentin put out his hand and laid it upon Newman's arm. »And about their
promise - their engagement with you?«
    »They made a distinction. They said it was to hold good only until Madame de
Cintré accepted me.«
    Valentin lay staring awhile, and his flush died away. »Don't tell me any
more,« he said at last; »I'm ashamed.«
    »You? You are the soul of honour,« said Newman simply.
    Valentin groaned and turned away his head. For some time nothing more was
said. Then Valentin turned back again and found a certain force to press
Newman's arm. »It's very bad - very bad. When my people - when my race - come to
that, it is time for me to withdraw. I believe in my sister; she will explain.
Excuse her. If she can't - if she can't, forgive her. She has suffered. But for
the others it is very bad - very bad. You take it very hard? No, it's a shame to
make you say so.« He closed his eyes and again there was a silence. Newman felt
almost awed; he had evoked a more solemn spirit than he expected. Presently
Valentin looked at him again, removing his hand from his arm. »I apologise,« he
said. »Do you understand? Here on my death-bed. I apologise for my family. For
my mother. For my brother. For the ancient house of Bellegarde. Voilà!« he added
softly.
    Newman for all answer took his hand and pressed it with a world of kindness.
Valentin remained quiet, and at the end of half an hour the doctor softly came
in. Behind him, through the half-open door, Newman saw the two questioning faces
of MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux. The doctor laid his hand on Valentin's wrist
and sat looking at him. He gave no sign and the two gentlemen came in, M. Ledoux
having first beckoned to someone outside. This was M. le Curé, who carried in
his hand an object unknown to Newman, and covered with a white napkin. M. le
Curé was short, round, and red: he advanced, pulling off his little black cap to
Newman, and deposited his burden on the table; and then he sat down in the best
armchair, with his hands folded across his person. The other gentlemen had
exchanged glances which expressed unanimity as to the timeliness of their
presence. But for a long time Valentin neither spoke nor moved. It was Newman's
belief, afterwards, that M. le Curé went to sleep. At last, abruptly, Valentin
pronounced Newman's name. His friend went to him, and he said in French: »You
are not alone. I want to speak to you alone.« Newman looked at the doctor, and
the doctor looked at the curé, who looked back at him; and then the doctor and
the curé, together, gave a shrug. »Alone - for five minutes,« Valentin repeated.
»Please leave us.«
    The curé took up his burden again and led the way out, followed by his
companions. Newman closed the door behind them and came back to Valentin's
bedside. Bellegarde had watched all this intently.
    »It's very bad, it's very bad,« he said, after Newman had seated himself
close to him. »The more I think of it the worse it is.«
    »Oh, don't think of it,« said Newman.
    But Valentin went on, without heeding him. »Even if they should come round
again, the shame - the baseness - is there.«
    »Oh, they won't come round!« said Newman.
    »Well, you can make them.«
    »Make them?«
    »I can tell you something - a great secret - an immense secret. You can use
it against them - frighten them, force them.«
    »A secret!« Newman repeated. The idea of letting Valentin, on his death-bed,
confide to him an immense secret shocked him, for the moment, and made him draw
back. It seemed an illicit way of arriving at information, and even had a vague
analogy with listening at a keyhole. Then, suddenly, the thought of forcing
Madame de Bellegarde and her son became attractive, and Newman bent his head
closer to Valentin's lips. For some time, however, the dying man said nothing
more. He only lay and looked at his friend with his kindled, expanded, troubled
eye, and Newman began to believe that he had spoken in delirium. But at last he
said:
    »There was something done - something done at Fleurières. It was foul play.
My father - something happened to him. I don't know; I have been ashamed -
afraid to know. But I know there is something. My mother knows - Urbain knows.«
    »Something happened to your father?« said Newman urgently.
    Valentin looked at him, still more wide-eyed. »He didn't get well.«
    »Get well of what?«
    But the immense effort which Valentin had made, first to decide to utter
these words, and then to bring them out, appeared to have taken his last
strength. He lapsed again into silence, and Newman sat watching him. »Do you
understand?« he began again presently. »At Fleurières. You can find out. Mrs.
Bread knows. Tell her I begged you to ask her. Then tell them that, and see. It
may help you. If not, tell everyone. It will - it will« - here Valentin's voice
sank to the feeblest murmur - »it will avenge you!«
    The words died away in a long soft groan. Newman stood up, deeply impressed,
not knowing what to say; his heart was beating violently. »Thank you,« he said
at last. »I am much obliged.« But Valentin seemed not to hear him; he remained
silent, and his silence continued. At last Newman went and opened the door. M.
le Curé re-entered, bearing his sacred vessel, and followed by the three
gentlemen and by Valentin's servant. It was almost processional.
 

                                   Chapter XX

Valentin de Bellegarde died tranquilly, just as the cold faint March dawn began
to illumine the faces of the little knot of friends gathered about his bedside.
An hour afterwards Newman left the inn and drove to Geneva; he was naturally
unwilling to be present at the arrival of Madame de Bellegarde and her
first-born. At Geneva, for the moment, he remained. He was like a man who has
had a fall and wants to sit still and count his bruises. He instantly wrote to
Madame de Cintré, relating to her the circumstances of her brother's death -
with certain exceptions - and asking her what was the earliest moment at which
he might hope that she would consent to see him. M. Ledoux had told him that he
had reason to know that Valentin's will - Bellegarde had a great deal of elegant
personal property to dispose of - contained a request that he should be buried
near his father in the churchyard of Fleurières, and Newman intended that the
state of his own relations with the family should not deprive him of the
satisfaction of helping to pay the last earthly honours to the best fellow in
the world. He reflected that Valentin's friendship was older than Urbain's
enmity, and that at a funeral it was easy to escape notice. Madame de Cintré's
answer to his letter enabled him to time his arrival at Fleurières. This answer
was very brief; it ran as follows:
 
        »I thank you for your letter, and for your being with Valentin. It is a
        most inexpressible sorrow to me that I was not. To see you will be
        nothing but a distress to me; there is no need, therefore, to wait for
        what you call brighter days. It is all one now, and I shall have no
        brighter days. Come when you please; only notify me first. My brother is
        to be buried here on Friday, and my family is to remain. - C. DE C. «
 
As soon as he received this letter Newman went straight to Paris and to
Poitiers. The journey took him far southward, through green Touraine and across
the far-shining Loire, into a country where the early spring deepened about him
as he went; but he had never made a journey during which he heeded less what he
would have called the lay of the land. He obtained lodging at an inn at
Poitiers, and the next morning drove in a couple of hours to the village of
Fleurières. But here, preoccupied though he was, he could not fail to notice the
picturesqueness of the place. It was what the French call a petit bourg; it lay
at the base of a sort of huge mound, on the summit of which stood the crumbling
ruins of a feudal castle, much of whose sturdy material, as well as that of the
wall which dropped along the hill, to enclose the clustered houses defensively,
had been absorbed into the very substance of the village. The church was simply
the former chapel of the castle, fronting upon its grass-grown court, which,
however, was of generous enough width to have given up its quaintest corner to a
little graveyard. Here the very headstones themselves seemed to sleep, as they
slanted into the grass; the patient elbow of the rampart held them together on
one side, and in front, far beneath their mossy lids, the green plains and blue
distances stretched away. The way to church, up the hill, was impracticable to
vehicles. It was lined with peasants two or three rows deep, who stood watching
old Madame de Bellegarde slowly ascend it, on the arm of her elder son, behind
the pallbearers of the other. Newman chose to lurk among the common mourners,
who murmured »Madame la Comtesse« as a tall figure veiled in black passed before
them. He stood in the dusky little church while the service was going forward,
but at the dismal tombside, he turned away and walked down the hill. He went
back to Poitiers, and spent two days in which patience and impatience were
singularly commingled. On the third day he sent Madame de Cintré a note, saying
that he would call upon her in the afternoon, and in accordance with this he
again took his way to Fleurières. He left his vehicle at the tavern in the
village street, and obeyed the simple instructions which were given him for
finding the château.
    »It is just beyond there,« said the landlord, and pointed to the tree-tops
of the park above the opposite houses. Newman followed the first cross-road to
the right - it was bordered with mouldy cottages - and in a few moments saw
before him the peaked roofs of the towers. Advancing farther he found himself
before a vast iron gate, rusty and closed; here he paused a moment, looking
through the bars. The château was near the road; this was at once its merit and
its defect; but its aspect was extremely impressive. Newman learned afterwards,
from a guide-book of the province, that it dated from the time of Henry IV. It
presented to the wide paved area which preceded it, and which was edged with
shabby farm-buildings, an immense façade of dark time-stained brick, flanked by
two low wings, each of which terminated in a little Dutch-looking pavilion,
capped with a fantastic roof. Two towers rose behind, and behind the towers was
a mass of elms and beeches, now just faintly green.
    But the great feature was a wide green river, which washed the foundations
of the château. The building rose from an island in the circling stream, so that
this formed a perfect moat, spanned by a two-arched bridge without a parapet.
The dull brick walls, which here and there made a grand straight sweep, the ugly
little cupolas of the wings, the deep-set windows, the long steep pinnacles of
mossy slate, all mirrored themselves in the quiet water. Newman rang at the
gate, and was almost frightened at the tone with which a big rusty bell above
his head replied to him. An old woman came out from the gate-house and opened
the creaking portal just wide enough for him to pass, and he went in, across the
dry bare court and the little cracked white slabs of the causeway on the moat.
At the door of the château he waited for some moments, and this gave him a
chance to observe that Fleurières was not kept up, and to reflect that it was a
melancholy place of residence. »It looks,« said Newman to himself - and I give
the comparison for what it is worth - »like a Chinese penitentiary.« At last the
door was opened by a servant whom he remembered to have seen in the Rue de
l'Université. The man's dull face brightened as he perceived our hero, for
Newman, for indefinable reasons, enjoyed the confidence of the liveried gentry.
The footman led the way across a great central vestibule, with a pyramid of
plants in tubs in the middle, and glass doors all around, to what appeared to be
the principal drawing-room of the château. Newman crossed the threshold of a
room of superb proportions, which made him feel at first like a tourist with a
guide-book and a cicerone awaiting a fee. But when his guide had left him alone,
with the observation that he would call Madame la Comtesse, Newman perceived
that the salon contained little that was remarkable, save a dark ceiling with
curiously-carved rafters, some curtains of elaborate antiquated tapestry, and a
dark oaken floor, polished like a mirror. He waited some minutes, walking up and
down; but at length, as he turned at the end of the room, he saw that Madame de
Cintré had come in by a distant door. She wore a black dress, and she stood
looking at him. As the length of the immense room lay between them he had time
to look at her before they met in the middle of it.
    He was dismayed at the change in her appearance. Pale, heavy-browed, almost
haggard, with a sort of monastic rigidity in her dress, she had little but her
pure features in common with the woman whose radiant good grace he had hitherto
admired. She let her eyes rest on his own, and she let him take her hand; but
her eyes looked like two rainy autumn moons, and her touch was portentously
lifeless.
    »I was at your brother's funeral,« Newman said. »Then I waited three days.
But I could wait no longer.«
    »Nothing can be lost or gained by waiting,« said Madame de Cintré. »But it
was very considerate of you to wait, wronged as you have been.«
    »I'm glad you think I have been wronged,« said Newman, with that oddly
humorous accent with which he often uttered words of the gravest meaning.
    »Do I need to say so?« she asked. »I don't think I have wronged, seriously,
many persons; certainly not consciously. To you, to whom I have done this hard
and cruel thing, the only reparation I can make is to say: I know it, I feel it!
The reparation is pitifully small!«
    »Oh, it's a great step forward!« said Newman, with a gracious smile of
encouragement. He pushed a chair towards her and held it, looking at her
urgently. She sat down mechanically, and he seated himself near her; but in a
moment he got up, restlessly, and stood before her. She remained seated, like a
troubled creature who had passed through the stage of restlessness.
    »I say nothing is to be gained by my seeing you,« she went on, »and yet I am
very glad you came. Now I can tell you what I feel. It is a selfish pleasure,
but it is one of the last I shall have.« And she paused, with her great misty
eyes fixed upon him. »I know how I have deceived and injured you; I know how
cruel and cowardly I have been. I see it as vividly as you do - I feel it to the
ends of my fingers.« And she unclasped her hands, which were locked together in
her lap, lifted them, and dropped them at her side. »Anything that you may have
said of me in your angriest passion is nothing to what I have said to myself.«
    »In my angriest passion,« said Newman, »I have said nothing hard of you. The
very worst thing I have said of you yet is that you are the loveliest of women.«
And he seated himself before her again abruptly.
    She flushed a little, but even her flush was pale. »That is because you
think I will come back. But I will not come back. It is in that hope you have
come here, I know; I am very sorry for you. I would do almost anything for you.
To say that, after what I have done, seems simply impudent; but what can I say
that will not seem impudent? To wrong you and apologise - that is easy enough. I
should not have wronged you.« She stopped a moment, looking at him, and motioned
him to let her go on. »I ought never to have listened to you at first; that was
the wrong. No good could come of it. I felt it, and yet I listened; that was
your fault. I liked you too much; I believed in you.«
    »And don't you believe in me now?«
    »More than ever. But now it doesn't't matter. I have given you up.«
    Newman gave a powerful thump with his clenched fist upon his knee. »Why,
why, why?« he cried. »Give me a reason - a decent reason. You are not a child -
you are not a minor, nor an idiot. You are not obliged to drop me because your
mother told you to. Such a reason isn't worthy of you.«
    »I know that; it's not worthy of me. But it's the only one I have to give.
After all,« said Madame de Cintré, throwing out her hands, »think me an idiot
and forget me! That will be the simplest way.«
    Newman got up and walked away with a crushing sense that his cause was lost,
and yet with an equal inability to give up fighting. He went to one of the great
windows, and looked out at the stiffly embanked river and the formal gardens
which lay beyond it. When he turned round, Madame de Cintré had risen; she stood
there silent and passive. »You are not frank,« said Newman; »you are not honest.
Instead of saying that you are imbecile, you should say that other people are
wicked. Your mother and your brother have been false and cruel; they have been
so to me, and I am sure they have been so to you. Why do you try to shield them?
Why do you sacrifice me to them? I'm not false; I'm not cruel. You don't know
what you give up; I can tell you that - you don't. They bully you and plot about
you; and I - I --« And he paused, holding out his hands. She turned away and
began to leave him. »You told me the other day that you were afraid of your
mother,« he said, following her. »What did you mean?«
    Madame de Cintré shook her head. »I remember; I was sorry afterwards.«
    »You were sorry when she came down and put on the thumbscrews. In God's
name, what is it she does to you?«
    »Nothing. Nothing that you can understand. And now that I have given you up,
I must not complain of her to you.«
    »That's no reasoning!« cried Newman. »Complain of her, on the contrary. Tell
me all about it, frankly and trustfully, as you ought, and we will talk it over
so satisfactorily that you won't give me up.«
    Madame de Cintré looked down some moments, fixedly; and then, raising her
eyes, she said: »One good at least has come of this: I have made you judge me
more fairly. You thought of me in a way that did me great honour; I don't know
why you had taken it into your head. But it left me no loophole for escape - no
chance to be the common weak creature I am. It was not my fault; I warned you
from the first. But I ought to have warned you more. I ought to have convinced
you that I was doomed to disappoint you. But I was, in a way, too proud. You see
what my superiority amounts to, I hope!« she went on, raising her voice with a
tremor which even then and there Newman thought beautiful. »I am too proud to be
honest, I am not too proud to be faithless. I am timid and cold and selfish. I
am afraid of being uncomfortable.«
    »And you call marrying me uncomfortable!« said Newman, staring.
    Madame de Cintré blushed a little, and seemed to say that if begging his
pardon in words was impudent, she might at least thus mutely express her perfect
comprehension of his finding her conduct odious. »It is not marrying you; it is
doing all that would go with it. It's the rupture, the defiance, the insisting
upon being happy in my own way. What right have I to be happy when - when --«
And she paused.
    »When what?« said Newman.
    »When others have been most unhappy.«
    »What others?« Newman asked. »What have you to do with any others but me?
Besides, you said just now that you wanted happiness, and that you should find
it by obeying your mother. You contradict yourself.«
    »Yes, I contradict myself; that shows you that I am not even intelligent.«
    »You are laughing at me!« cried Newman. »You are mocking me!«
    She looked at him intently, and an observer might have said that she was
asking herself whether she might not most quickly end their common pain by
confessing that she was mocking him. »No; I am not,« she presently said.
    »Granting that you are not intelligent,« he went on, »that you are weak,
that you are common, that you are nothing that I have believed you were - what I
ask of you is not an heroic effort, it is a very common effort. There is a great
deal on my side to make it easy. The simple truth is that you don't care enough
about me to make it.«
    »I am cold,« said Madame de Cintré. »I am as cold as that flowing river.«
    Newman gave a great rap on the floor with his stick, and a long grim laugh.
»Good, good!« he cried. »You go altogether too far - you overshoot the mark.
There isn't a woman in the world as bad as you would make yourself out. I see
your game; it's what I said. You are blackening yourself to whiten others. You
don't want to give me up at all; you like me - you like me. I know you do; you
have shown it, and I have felt it. After that you may be as cold as you please!
They have bullied you, I say; they have tortured you. It's an outrage, and I
insist upon saving you from the extravagance of your own generosity. Would you
chop off your hand if your mother requested it?«
    Madame de Cintré looked a little frightened. »I spoke of my mother too
blindly the other day. I am my own mistress, by law and by her approval. She can
do nothing to me; she has done nothing. She has never alluded to those hard
words I used about her.«
    »She has made you feel them, I'll promise you!« said Newman.
    »It's my conscience that makes me feel them.«
    »Your conscience seems to me to be rather mixed!« exclaimed Newman
passionately.
    »It has been in great trouble, but now it is very clear,« said Madame de
Cintré. »I don't give you up for any worldly advantage or for any worldly
happiness.«
    »Oh, you don't give me up for Lord Deepmere, I know,« said Newman. »I won't
pretend, even to provoke you, that I think that. But that's what your mother and
your brother wanted, and your mother, at that villainous ball of hers - I liked
it at the time, but the very thought of it now makes me rabid - tried to push
him on to make up to you.«
    »Who told you this?« said Madame de Cintré softly.
    »Not Valentin. I observed it. I guessed it. I didn't know at the time that I
was observing it, but it stuck in my memory. And afterwards, you recollect, I
saw Lord Deepmere with you in the conservatory. You said then that you would
tell me at another time what he had said to you.«
    »That was before - before this,« said Madame de Cintré.
    »It doesn't't matter,« said Newman; »and besides, I think I know. He's an
honest little Englishman. He came and told you what your mother was up to - that
she wanted him to supplant me; not being a commercial person. If he would make
you an offer she would undertake to bring you over and give me the slip. Lord
Deepmere isn't very intellectual, so she had to spell it out to him. He said he
admired you no end, and that he wanted you to know it; but he didn't like being
mixed up with that sort of underhand work, and he came to you and told tales.
That was about the amount of it, wasn't't it? And then you said you were perfectly
happy.«
    »I don't see why we should talk of Lord Deepmere,« said Madame de Cintré.
»It was not for that you came here; and about my mother, it doesn't't matter what
you suspect and what you know. When once my mind has been made up, as it is now,
I should not discuss these things. Discussing anything, now, is very idle. We
must try and live each as we can. I believe you will be happy again; even,
sometimes, when you think of me. When you do so, think this - that it was not
easy, and that I did the best I could. I have things to reckon with that you
don't know. I mean I have feelings. I must do as they force me - I must, I must.
They would haunt me otherwise,« she cried, with vehemence; »they would kill me!«
    »I know what your feelings are: they are superstitions! They are the feeling
that, after all, though I am a good fellow, I have been in business; the feeling
that your mother's looks are law and your brother's words are gospel; that you
all hang together, and that it's a part of the everlasting proprieties that they
should have a hand in everything you do. It makes my blood boil. That is cold;
you are right. And what I feel here,« and Newman struck his heart and became
more poetical than he knew, »is a glowing fire!«
    A spectator less preoccupied than Madame de Cintré's distracted wooer would
have felt sure from the first that her appealing calm of manner was the result
of violent effort, in spite of which the tide of agitation was rapidly rising.
On these last words of Newman's it overflowed, though at first she spoke low,
for fear of her voice betraying her. »No, I was not right - I am not cold! I
believe that if I am doing what seems so bad, it is not mere weakness and
falseness. Mr. Newman, it's like a religion. I can't tell you - I can't! It's
cruel of you to insist. I don't see why I shouldn't ask you to believe me - and
pity me. It's like a religion. There's a curse upon the house; I don't know what
- I don't know why - don't ask me. We must all bear it. I have been too selfish;
I wanted to escape from it. You offered me a great chance - besides my liking
you. It seemed good to change completely, to break, to go away. And then I
admired you. But I can't - it has overtaken and come back to me.« Her
self-control had now completely abandoned her, and her words were broken with
long sobs. »Why do such dreadful things happen to us - why is my brother
Valentin killed, like a beast, in the midst of his youth and his gaiety and his
brightness and all that we loved him for? Why are there things I can't ask about
- that I am afraid to know? Why are there places I can't look at, sounds I can't
hear? Why is it given to me to choose, to decide, in a case so hard and so
terrible as this? I am not meant for that - I am not made for boldness and
defiance. I was made to be happy in a quiet natural way.« At this Newman gave a
most expressive groan, but Madame de Cintré went on: »I was made to do gladly
and gratefully what is expected of me. My mother has always been very good to
me; that's all I can say. I must not judge her; I must not criticise her. If I
did, it would come back to me. I can't change!«
    »No,« said Newman bitterly; »I must change - if I break in two in the
effort!«
    »You are different. You are a man; you will get over it. You have all kinds
of consolation. You were born - you were trained, to changes. Besides - besides,
I shall always think of you.«
    »I don't care for that!« cried Newman. »You are cruel - you are terribly
cruel. God forgive you! You may have the best reasons and the finest feelings in
the world; that makes no difference. You are a mystery to me; I don't see how
such hardness can go with such loveliness.«
    Madame de Cintré fixed him a moment with her swimming eyes. »You believe I
am hard, then?«
    Newman answered her look, and then broke out: »You are a perfect faultless
creature! Stay by me!«
    »Of course I am hard,« she went on. »Whenever we give pain we are hard. And
we must give pain; that's the world - the hateful miserable world! Ah!« and she
gave a long deep sigh, »I can't even say I am glad to have known you - though I
am. That too is to wrong you. I can say nothing that is not cruel. Therefore let
us part, without more of this. Good-bye!« And she put out her hand.
    Newman stood and looked at it without taking it, and then raised his eyes to
her face. He felt himself like shedding tears of rage. »What are you going to
do?« he asked. »Where are you going?«
    »Where I shall give no more pain and suspect no more evil. I am going out of
the world.«
    »Out of the world?«
    »I am going into a convent.«
    »Into a convent!« Newman repeated the words with the deepest dismay; it was
as if she had said she was going into a hospital. »Into a convent - you!«
    »I told you that it was not for my worldly advantage or pleasure I was
leaving you.«
    But still Newman hardly understood. »You are going to be a nun,« he went on,
»in a cell - for life - with a gown and white veil?«
    »A nun - a Carmelite nun,« said Madame de Cintré. »For life, with God's
leave.«
    The idea struck Newman as too dark and horrible for belief, and made him
feel as he would have done if she had told him that she was going to mutilate
her beautiful face, or drink some potion that would make her mad. He clasped his
hands and began to tremble visibly.
    »Madame de Cintré, don't, don't!« he said, »I beseech you! On my knees, if
you like, I'll beseech you.«
    She laid her hand upon his arm, with a tender, pitying, almost reassuring
gesture. »You don't understand,« she said. »You have wrong ideas. It's nothing
horrible. It is only peace and safety. It is to be out of the world, where such
troubles as this come to the innocent, to the best. And for life - that's the
blessing of it! They can't begin again.«
    Newman dropped into a chair and sat looking at her with a long inarticulate
murmur. That this superb woman, in whom he had seen all human grace and
household force, should turn from him and all the brightness that he offered her
- him and his future and his fortune and his fidelity - to muffle herself in
ascetic rags and entomb herself in a cell, was a confounding combination of the
inexorable and the grotesque. As the image deepened before him the grotesque
seemed to expand and overspread it; it was a reduction to the absurd of the
trial to which he was subjected. »You - you a nun!« he exclaimed; »you with your
beauty defaced - you behind locks and bars! Never, never, if I can prevent it!«
And he sprang to his feet with a violent laugh.
    »You can't prevent it,« said Madame de Cintré, »and it ought - a little - to
satisfy you. Do you suppose I will go on living in the world, still beside you,
and yet not with you? It is all arranged. Good-bye, good-bye.«
    This time he took her hand, took it in both his own. »Forever?« he said. Her
lips made an inaudible movement and his own uttered a deep imprecation. She
closed her eyes, as if with the pain of hearing it; then he drew her towards him
and clasped her to his breast. He kissed her white face; for an instant she
resisted and for a moment she submitted; then, with force, she disengaged
herself and hurried away over the long shining floor. The next moment the door
closed behind her.
    Newman made his way out as he could.
 

                                  Chapter XXI

There is a pretty public walk at Poitiers, laid out upon the crest of the high
hill around which the little city clusters, planted with thick trees, and
looking down upon the fertile fields in which the old English princes fought for
their right and held it. Newman paced up and down this quiet promenade for the
greater part of the next day, and let his eyes wander over the historic
prospect; but he would have been sadly at a loss to tell you afterwards whether
the latter was made up of coal-fields or of vineyards. He was wholly given up to
his grievance, of which reflection by no means diminished the weight. He feared
that Madame de Cintré was irretrievably lost; and yet, as he would have said
himself, he didn't see his way clear to giving her up. He found it impossible to
turn his back upon Fleurières and its inhabitants; it seemed to him that some
germ of hope or reparation must lurk there somewhere, if he could only stretch
his arm out far enough to pluck it. It was as if he had his hand on a door-knob
and were closing his clenched fist upon it: he had thumped, he had called, he
had pressed the door with his powerful knee, and shaken it with all his
strength, and dead damning silence had answered him. And yet something held him
there - something hardened the grasp of his fingers. Newman's satisfaction had
been too intense, his whole plan too deliberate and mature, his prospect of
happiness too rich and comprehensive, for this fine moral fabric to crumble at a
stroke. The very foundation seemed fatally injured, and yet he felt a stubborn
desire still to try to save the edifice. He was filled with a sorer sense of
wrong than he had ever known, or than he had supposed it possible he should
know. To accept his injury and walk away without looking behind him was a
stretch of good-nature of which he found himself incapable. He looked behind him
intently and continually, and what he saw there did not assuage his resentment.
He saw himself trustful, generous, liberal, patient, easy, pocketing frequent
irritation and furnishing unlimited modesty. To have eaten humble pie, to have
been snubbed and patronised and satirised, and have consented to take it as one
of the conditions of the bargain - to have done this, and done it all for
nothing, surely gave one a right to protest. And to be turned off because one
was a commercial person! As if he had ever talked or dreamt of the commercial
since his connection with the Bellegardes began - as if he had made the least
circumstance of the commercial - as if he would not have consented to confound
the commercial fifty times a day, if it might have increased by a hair's breadth
the chance of the Bellegardes' not playing him a trick! Granted that being
commercial was fair ground for having a trick played upon one, how little they
knew about the class so designated and its enterprising way of not standing upon
trifles! It was in the light of his injury that the weight of Newman's past
endurance seemed so heavy; his actual irritation had not been so great, merged
as it was in his vision of the cloudless blue that overarched his immediate
wooing. But now his sense of outrage was deep, rancorous, and ever present; he
felt that he was a good fellow wronged. As for Madame de Cintré's conduct, it
struck him with a kind of awe, and the fact that he was powerless to understand
it or feel the reality of its motives only deepened the force with which he had
attached himself to her. He had never let the fact of her Catholicism trouble
him; Catholicism to him was nothing but a name, and to express a mistrust of the
form in which her religious feelings had moulded themselves would have seemed to
him on his own part a rather pretentious affectation of Protestant zeal. If such
superb white flowers as that could bloom in Catholic soil, the soil was not
insalubrious. But it was one thing to be a Catholic, and another to turn nun -
on your hands! There was something lugubriously comical in the way Newman's
thoroughly contemporaneous optimism was confronted with this dusky old-world
expedient. To see a woman made for him and for motherhood to his children
juggled away in this tragic travesty - it was a thing to rub one's eyes over, a
nightmare, an illusion, a hoax. But the hours passed away without disproving the
thing, and leaving him only the after-sense of the vehemence with which he had
embraced Madame de Cintré. He remembered her words and her looks; he turned them
over and tried to shake the mystery out of them, and to infuse them with an
endurable meaning. What had she meant by her feeling being a kind of religion?
It was the religion simply of the family laws, the religion of which her
implacable little mother was the high-priestess. Twist the thing about as her
generosity would, the one certain fact was that they had used force against her.
Her generosity had tried to screen them, but Newman's heart rose into his throat
at the thought that they should go scot-free.
    The twenty-four hours wore themselves away, and the next morning Newman
sprang to his feet with the resolution to return to Fleurières and demand
another interview with Madame de Bellegarde and her son. He lost no time in
putting it into practice. As he rolled swiftly over the excellent road in the
little calèche furnished him at the inn at Poitiers, he drew forth, as it were,
from the very safe place in his mind to which he had consigned it, the last
information given him by poor Valentin. Valentin had told him he could do
something with it, and Newman thought it would be well to have it at hand. This
was of course not the first time, lately, that Newman had given it his
attention. It was information in the rough - it was dark and puzzling; but
Newman was neither helpless nor afraid. Valentin had evidently meant to put him
in possession of a powerful instrument, though he could not be said to have
placed the handle very securely within his grasp. But if he had not really told
him the secret, he had at least given him the clew to it - a clew of which that
queer old Mrs. Bread held the other end. Mrs. Bread had always looked to Newman
as if she knew secrets; and as he apparently enjoyed her esteem, he suspected
she might be induced to share her knowledge with him. So long as there was only
Mrs. Bread to deal with, he felt easy. As to what there was to find out, he had
only one fear - that it might not be bad enough. Then, when the image of the
marquise and her son rose before him again, standing side by side, the old
woman's hand in Urbain's arm, and the same cold unsociable fixedness in the eyes
of each, he cried out to himself that the fear was groundless. There was blood
in the secret at the very least! He arrived at Fleurières almost in a state of
elation; he had satisfied himself, logically, that in the presence of his threat
of exposure they would, as he mentally phrased it, rattle down like unwound
buckets. He remembered indeed that he must first catch his hare - first
ascertain what there was to expose; but after that, why shouldn't his happiness
be as good as new again? Mother and son would drop their lovely victim in
terror, and take to hiding, and Madame de Cintré, left to herself, would surely
come back to him. Give her a chance and she would rise to the surface, return to
the light. How could she fail to perceive that his house would be much the most
comfortable sort of convent?
    Newman, as he had done before, left his conveyance at the inn and walked the
short remaining distance to the château. When he reached the gate, however, a
singular feeling took possession of him - a feeling which, strange as it may
seem, had its source in its unfathomable good-nature. He stood there awhile,
looking through the bars of the large time-stained face of the edifice, and
wondering to what crime it was that the dark old house, with its flowery name,
had given convenient occasion. It had given occasion, first and last, to
tyrannies and sufferings enough, Newman said to himself; it was an evil-looking
place to live in. Then, suddenly, came the reflection: What a horrible
rubbish-heap of iniquity to fumble in! The attitude of inquisitor turned its
ignoble face, and with the same movement Newman declared that the Bellegardes
should have another chance. He would appeal once more directly to their sense of
fairness, and not to their fear; and if they should be accessible to reason, he
need know nothing worse about them than what he already knew. That was bad
enough.
    The gate-keeper let him in through the same stiff crevice as before, and he
passed through the court and over the little rustic bridge on the moat. The door
was opened before he had reached it, and, as if to put his clemency to rout with
the suggestion of a richer opportunity, Mrs. Bread stood there awaiting him. Her
face, as usual, looked as hopelessly blank as the tide-smoothed sea-sand, and
her black garments seemed of an intenser sable. Newman had already learned that
her strange inexpressiveness could be a vehicle for emotion, and he was not
surprised at the muffled vivacity with which she whispered: »I thought you would
try again, sir. I was looking out for you.«
    »I am glad to see you,« said Newman; »I think you are my friend.«
    Mrs. Bread looked at him opaquely. »I wish you well, sir; but it's vain
wishing now.«
    »You know, then, how they have treated me?«
    »Oh sir,« said Mrs. Bread dryly, »I know everything.«
    Newman hesitated a moment. »Everything?«
    Mrs. Bread gave him a glance somewhat more lucent. »I know at least too
much, sir.«
    »One can never know too much. I congratulate you. I have come to see Madame
de Bellegarde and her son,« Newman added. »Are they at home? If they are not, I
will wait.«
    »My lady is always at home,« Mrs. Bread replied, »and the marquis is mostly
with her.«
    »Please then tell them - one or the other, or both - that I am here and that
I desire to see them.«
    Mrs. Bread hesitated. »May I take a great liberty, sir?«
    »You have never taken a liberty but you have justified it,« said Newman,
with diplomatic urbanity.
    Mrs. Bread dropped her wrinkled eyelids as if she were curtsying; but the
curtsy stopped there; the occasion was too grave. »You have come to plead with
them again, sir? Perhaps you don't know this - that Madame de Cintré returned
this morning to Paris.«
    »Ah, she's gone!« And Newman, groaning, smote the pavement with his stick.
    »She has gone straight to the convent - the Carmelites they call it. I see
you know, sir. My lady and the marquis take it very ill. It was only last night
she told them.«
    »Ah, she had kept it back, then?« cried Newman. »Good, good! And they are
very fierce?«
    »They are not pleased,« said Mrs. Bread. »But they may well dislike it. They
tell me it's most dreadful, sir; of all the nuns in Christendom the Carmelites
are the worst. You may say they are really not human, sir; they make you give up
everything - forever. And to think of her there! If I was one that cried, sir, I
could cry.«
    Newman looked at her an instant. »We mustn't cry, Mrs. Bread; we must act.
Go and call them!« And he made a movement to enter farther.
    But Mrs. Bread gently checked him. »May I take another liberty? I am told
you were with my dearest Mr. Valentin, in his last hours. If you would tell me a
word about him! The poor count was my own boy, sir; for the first year of his
life he was hardly out of my arms; I taught him to speak. And the count spoke so
well, sir! He always spoke well to his poor old Bread. When he grew up and took
his pleasure he always had a kind word for me. And to die in that wild way! They
have a story that he fought with a wine merchant. I can't believe that, sir! And
was he in great pain?«
    »You are a wise kind old woman, Mrs. Bread,« said Newman. »I hoped I might
see you with my own children in your arms. Perhaps I shall yet.« And he put out
his hand. Mrs. Bread looked for a moment at his open palm, and then, as if
fascinated by the novelty of the gesture, extended her own ladylike fingers.
Newman held her hand firmly and deliberately, fixing his eyes upon her. »You
want to know all about Mr. Valentin?« he said.
    »It would be a sad pleasure, sir.«
    »I can tell you everything. Can you sometimes leave this place?«
    »The château, sir? I really don't know. I never tried.«
    »Try, then; try hard. Try this evening, at dusk. Come to me in the old ruin
there on the hill, in the court before the church. I will wait for you there; I
have something very important to tell you. An old woman like you can do as she
pleases.«
    Mrs. Bread stared, wondering, with parted lips. »Is it from the count, sir?«
she asked.
    »From the count - from his death-bed,« said Newman.
    »I will come, then. I will be bold, for once, for him.«
    She led Newman into the great drawing-room with which he had already made
acquaintance, and retired to execute his commands. Newman waited a long time; at
last he was on the point of ringing and repeating his request. He was looking
round him for a bell when the marquis came in with his mother on his arm. It
will be seen that Newman had a logical mind when I say that he declared to
himself, in perfect good faith, as a result of Valentin's dark hints, that his
adversaries looked grossly wicked. »There is no mistake about it now,« he said
to himself as they advanced. »They're a bad lot; they have pulled off the mask.«
Madame de Bellegarde and her son certainly bore in their faces the signs of
extreme perturbation; they looked like people who had passed a sleepless night.
Confronted, moreover, with an annoyance which they hoped they had disposed of,
it was not natural that they should have any very tender glances to bestow upon
Newman. He stood before them, and such eyebeams as they found available they
levelled at him; Newman feeling as if the door of a sepulchre had suddenly been
opened, and the damp darkness were being exhaled.
    »You see I have come back,« he said. »I have come to try again.«
    »It would be ridiculous,« said M. de Bellegarde, »to pretend that we are
glad to see you or that we don't question the taste of your visit.«
    »Oh, don't talk about taste,« said Newman with a laugh, »or that will bring
us round to yours! If I consulted my taste I certainly shouldn't come to see
you. Besides, I will make as short work as you please. Promise me to raise the
blockade - to set Madame de Cintré at liberty - and I will retire instantly.«
    »We hesitated as to whether we would see you,« said Madame de Bellegarde;
»and we were on the point of declining the honour. But it seemed to me that we
should act with civility, as we have always done, and I wished to have the
satisfaction of informing you that there are certain weaknesses that people of
our way of feeling can be guilty of but once.«
    »You may be weak but once, but you will be audacious many times, madam,«
Newman answered. »I didn't come, however, for conversational purposes. I came to
say this simply: That if you will write immediately to your daughter that you
withdraw your opposition to her marriage, I will take care of the rest. You
don't want her to turn nun - you know more about the horrors of it than I do.
Marrying a commercial person is better than that. Give me a letter to her,
signed and sealed, saying you retract, and that she may marry me with your
blessing, and I will take it to her at the convent and bring her out. There's
your chance - I call those easy terms.«
    »We look at the matter otherwise, you know. We call them very hard terms,«
said Urbain de Bellegarde. They had all remained standing rigidly in the middle
of the room. »I think my mother will tell you that she would rather her daughter
should become Soeur Catherine than Mrs. Newman.«
    But the old lady, with the serenity of supreme power, let her son make her
epigrams for her. She only smiled, almost sweetly, shaking her head and
repeating: »But once, Mr. Newman; but once!«
    Nothing that Newman had ever seen or heard gave him such a sense of marble
hardness as this movement and the tone that accompanied it. »Could anything
compel you?« he asked. »Do you know of anything that would force you?«
    »This language, sir,« said the marquis, »addressed to people in bereavement
and grief is beyond all qualification.«
    »In most cases,« Newman answered, »your objection would have some weight,
even admitting that Madame de Cintré's present intentions make time precious.
But I have thought of what you speak of, and I have come here to-day without
scruple simply because I consider your brother and you two very different
parties. I see no connection between you. Your brother was ashamed of you. Lying
there wounded and dying, the poor fellow apologised to me for your conduct. He
apologised to me for that of his mother.«
    For a moment the effect of these words was as if Newman had struck a
physical blow. A quick flush leaped into the faces of Madame de Bellegarde and
her son, and they exchanged a glance like a twinkle of steel. Urbain uttered two
words which Newman but half heard, but of which the sense came to him as it were
in the reverberation of the sound, »Le misérable!«
    »You show little respect for the living,« said Madame de Bellegarde, »but at
least respect the dead. Don't profane - don't insult - the memory of my innocent
son.«
    »I speak the simple truth,« Newman declared, »and I speak it for a purpose.
I repeat it - distinctly. Your son was utterly disgusted - your son apologised.«
    Urbain de Bellegarde was frowning portentously, and Newman supposed he was
frowning at poor Valentin's invidious image. Taken by surprise, his scant
affection for his brother had made a momentary concession to dishonour. But not
for an appreciable instant did his mother lower her flag. »You are immensely
mistaken, sir,« she said. »My son was sometimes light, but he was never
indecent. He died faithful to his name.«
    »You simply misunderstood him,« said the marquis, beginning to rally. »You
affirm the impossible.«
    »Oh, I don't care for poor Valentin's apology,« said Newman. »It was far
more painful than pleasant to me. This atrocious thing was not his fault; he
never hurt me, or anyone else; he was the soul of honour. But it shows how he
took it.«
    »If you wish to prove that my poor brother, in his last moments, was out of
his head, we can only say that under the melancholy circumstances nothing was
more possible. But confine yourself to that.«
    »He was quite in his right mind,« said Newman, with gentle but dangerous
doggedness; »I have never seen him so bright and clever. It was terrible to see
that witty capable fellow dying such a death. You know I was very fond of your
brother. And I have further proof of his sanity,« Newman concluded.
    The marquise gathered herself together majestically. »This is too gross!«
she cried. »We decline to accept your story, sir - we repudiate it. Urbain, open
the door.« She turned away, with an imperious motion to her son, and passed
rapidly down the length of the room. The marquis went with her and held the door
open. Newman was left standing.
    He lifted his finger, as a sign to M. de Bellegarde, who closed the door
behind his mother and stood waiting. Newman slowly advanced, more silent, for
the moment, than life. The two men stood face to face. Then Newman had a
singular sensation; he felt his sense of injury almost brimming over into
jocularity. »Come,« he said, »you don't treat me well; at least admit that.«
    M. de Bellegarde looked at him from head to foot, and then, in the most
delicate best-bred voice: »I detest you personally,« he said.
    »That's the way I feel to you, but for politeness' sake I don't say it,«
said Newman. »It's singular I should want so much to be your brother-in-law, but
I can't give it up. Let me try once more.« And he paused a moment. »You have a
secret - you have a skeleton in the closet.« M. de Bellegarde continued to look
at him hard, but Newman could not see whether his eyes betrayed anything; the
look of his eyes was always so strange. Newman paused again, and then went on.
»You and your mother have committed a crime.« At this M. de Bellegarde's eyes
certainly did change; they seemed to flicker, like blown candles. Newman could
see that he was profoundly startled; but there was something admirable in his
self-control.
    »Continue,« said M. de Bellegarde.
    Newman lifted a finger and made it waver a little in the air. »Need I
continue? You are trembling.«
    »Pray where did you obtain this interesting information?« M. de Bellegarde
asked very softly.
    »I shall be strictly accurate,« said Newman. »I won't pretend to know more
than I do. At present that is all I know. You have done something that you must
hide, something that would damn you if it were known, something that would
disgrace the name you are so proud of. I don't know what it is, but I can find
out. Persist in your present course and I will find out. Change it, let your
sister go in peace, and I will leave you alone. It's a bargain?«
    The marquis almost succeeded in looking untroubled; the breaking up of the
ice in his handsome countenance was an operation that was necessarily gradual.
But Newman's mildly-syllabled argumentation seemed to press, and press, and
presently he averted his eyes. He stood some moments, reflecting.
    »My brother told you this,« he said, looking up.
    Newman hesitated a moment. »Yes, your brother told me.«
    The marquis smiled, handsomely. »Didn't I say that he was out of his mind?«
    »He was out of his mind if I don't find out. He was very much in it if I
do.«
    M. de Bellegarde gave a shrug. »Eh, sir, find out or not, as you please.«
    »I don't frighten you?« demanded Newman.
    »That's for you to judge.«
    »No, it's for you to judge, at your leisure. Think it over, feel yourself
all round. I will give you an hour or two. I can't give you more, for how do we
know how fast they may be making Madame de Cintré a nun? Talk it over with your
mother; let her judge whether she is frightened. I don't believe she is as
easily frightened, in general, as you; but you will see. I will go and wait in
the village, at the inn, and I beg you to let me know as soon as possible. Say
by three o'clock. A simple yes or no on paper will do. Only, you know, in case
of a yes I shall expect you, this time, to stick to your bargain.« And with this
Newman opened the door and let himself out. The marquis did not move, and
Newman, retiring, gave him another look. »At the inn, in the village,« he
repeated. Then he turned away altogether and passed out of the house.
    He was extremely excited by what he had been doing, for it was inevitable
that there should be a certain emotion in calling up the spectre of dishonour
before a family a thousand years old. But he went back to the inn and contrived
to wait there, deliberately, for the next two hours. He thought it more than
probable that Urbain de Bellegarde would give no sign; for an answer to his
challenge, in either sense, would be a confession of guilt. What he most
expected was silence - in other words defiance. But he prayed that, as he imaged
it, his shot might bring them down. It did bring, by three o'clock, a note,
delivered by a footman; a note addressed in Urbain de Bellegarde's handsome
English hand. It ran as follows:
 
        »I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of letting you know that I return
        to Paris, to-morrow, with my mother, in order that we may see my sister
        and confirm her in the resolution which is the most effectual reply to
        your audacious pertinacity.
                                                    HENRI-URBAIN DE BELLEGARDE.«
 
Newman put the letter into his pocket, and continued his walk up and down the
inn-parlour. He had spent most of his time, for the past week, in walking up and
down. He continued to measure the length of the little salle of the Armes de
France until the day began to wane, when he went out to keep his rendezvous with
Mrs. Bread. The path which led up the hill to the ruin was easy to find, and
Newman in a short time had followed it to the top. He passed beneath the rugged
arch of the castle-wall, and looked about him in the early dusk for an old woman
in black. The castle-yard was empty, but the door of the church was open. Newman
went into the little nave and of course found a deeper dusk than without. A
couple of tapers, however, twinkled on the altar and just enabled him to
perceive a figure seated by one of the pillars. Closer inspection helped him to
recognise Mrs. Bread, in spite of the fact that she was dressed with unwonted
splendour. She wore a large black silk bonnet, with imposing bows of crape, and
an old black satin dress disposed itself in vaguely lustrous folds about her
person. She had judged it proper to the occasion to appear in her stateliest
apparel. She had been sitting with her eyes fixed upon the ground, but when
Newman passed before her she looked up at him, and then she rose.
    »Are you a Catholic, Mrs. Bread?« he asked.
    »No, sir; I'm a good Church of England woman, very Low,« she answered. »But
I thought I should be safer in here than outside. I was never out in the evening
before, sir.«
    »We shall be safer,« said Newman, »where no one can hear us.« And he led the
way back into the castle-court and then followed a path beside the church, which
he was sure must lead into another part of the ruin. He was not deceived. It
wandered along the crest of the hill and terminated before a fragment of wall
pierced by a rough aperture which had once been a door. Through this aperture
Newman passed and found himself in a nook peculiarly favourable to quiet
conversation, as probably many an earnest couple, otherwise assorted than our
friends, had assured themselves. The hill sloped abruptly away, and on the
remnant of its crest were scattered two or three fragments of stone. Beneath,
over the plain, lay the gathered twilight, through which, in the near distance,
gleamed two or three lights from the château. Mrs. Bread rustled slowly after
her guide, and Newman, satisfying himself that one of the fallen stones was
steady, proposed to her to sit upon it. She cautiously complied, and he placed
himself upon another, near her.
 

                                  Chapter XXII

»I am very much obliged to you for coming,« Newman said. »I hope it won't get
you into trouble.«
    »I don't think I shall be missed. My lady, in these days, is not fond of
having me about her.« This was said with a certain fluttered eagerness which
increased Newman's sense of having inspired the old woman with confidence.
    »From the first, you know,« he answered, »you took an interest in my
prospects. You were on my side. That gratified me, I assure you. And now that
you know what they have done to me, I am sure you are with me all the more.«
    »They have not done well - I must say it,« said Mrs. Bread. »But you mustn't
blame the poor countess; they pressed her hard.«
    »I would give a million of dollars to know what they did to her!« cried
Newman.
    Mrs. Bread sat with a dull, oblique gaze fixed upon the lights of the
château. »They worked on her feelings; they knew that was the way. She is a
delicate creature. They made her feel wicked. She is only too good.«
    »Ah, they made her feel wicked,« said Newman slowly; and then he repeated
it. »They made her feel wicked - they made her feel wicked.« The words seemed to
him for the moment a vivid description of infernal ingenuity.
    »It was because she was so good that she gave up - poor sweet lady!« added
Mrs. Bread.
    »But she was better to them than to me,« said Newman.
    »She was afraid,« said Mrs. Bread, very confidently; »she has always been
afraid, or at least for a long time. That was the real trouble, sir. She was
like a fair peach, I may say, with just one little speck. She had one little sad
spot. You pushed her into the sunshine, sir, and it almost disappeared. Then
they pulled her back into the shade and in a moment it began to spread. Before
we knew it she was gone. She was a delicate creature.«
    This singular attestation of Madame de Cintré's delicacy, for all its
singularity, set Newman's wound aching afresh. »I see,« he presently said; »she
knew something bad about her mother.«
    »No, sir, she knew nothing,« said Mrs. Bread, holding her head very stiff
and keeping her eyes fixed upon the glimmering windows of the château.
    »She guessed something, then, or suspected it.«
    »She was afraid to know,« said Mrs. Bread.
    »But you know, at any rate,« said Newman.
    She slowly turned her vague eyes upon Newman, squeezing her hands together
in her lap. »You are not quite faithful, sir. I thought it was to tell me about
Mr. Valentin you asked me to come here.«
    »Oh, the more we talk of Mr. Valentin the better,« said Newman. »That's
exactly what I want. I was with him, as I told you, in his last hour. He was in
a great deal of pain, but he was quite himself. You know what that means; he was
bright and lively and clever.«
    »Oh, he would always be clever, sir,« said Mrs. Bread. »And did he know of
your trouble?«
    »Yes, he guessed it of himself.«
    »And what did he say to it?«
    »He said it was a disgrace to his name - but it was not the first.«
    »Lord, Lord!« murmured Mrs. Bread.
    »He said that his mother and his brother had once put their heads together
and invented something even worse.«
    »You shouldn't have listened to that, sir.«
    »Perhaps not. But I did listen, and I don't forget it. Now I want to know
what it is they did.«
    Mrs. Bread gave a soft moan. »And you have enticed me up into this strange
place to tell you?«
    »Don't be alarmed,« said Newman. »I won't say a word that shall be
disagreeable to you. Tell me as it suits you, and when it suits you. Only
remember that it was Mr. Valentin's last wish that you should.«
    »Did he say that?«
    »He said it with his last breath: Tell Mrs. Bread I told you to ask her.«
    »Why didn't he tell you himself?«
    »It was too long a story for a dying man; he had no breath left in his body.
He could only say that he wanted me to know - that, wronged as I was, it was my
right to know.«
    »But how will it help you, sir?« said Mrs. Bread.
    »That's for me to decide. Mr. Valentin believed it would, and that's why he
told me. Your name was almost the last word he spoke.«
    Mrs. Bread was evidently awe-struck by this statement; she shook her clasped
hands slowly up and down. »Excuse me, sir,« she said, »if I take a great
liberty. Is it the solemn truth you are speaking? I must ask you that; must I
not, sir?«
    »There's no offence. It is the solemn truth; I solemnly swear it. Mr.
Valentin himself would certainly have told me more if he had been able.«
    »Oh, sir, if he knew more!«
    »Don't you suppose he did?«
    »There's no saying what he knew about anything,« said Mrs. Bread, with a
mild head-shake. »He was so mightily clever. He could make you believe he knew
things that he didn't, and that he didn't know others that he had better not
have known.«
    »I suspect he knew something about his brother that kept the marquis civil
to him,« Newman propounded; »he made the marquis feel him. What he wanted now
was to put me in his place; he wanted to give me a chance to make the marquis
feel me.«
    »Mercy on us!« cried the old waiting-woman, »how wicked we all are!«
    »I don't know,« said Newman; »some of us are wicked, certainly. I am very
angry, I am very sore, and I am very bitter, but I don't know that I am wicked.
I have been cruelly injured. They have hurt me, and I want to hurt them. I don't
deny that; on the contrary, I tell you plainly that that is the use I want to
make of your secret.«
    Mrs. Bread seemed to hold her breath. »You want to publish them - you want
to shame them?«
    »I want to bring them down - down, down, down! I want to turn the tables
upon them - I want to mortify them as they mortified me. They took me up into a
high place and made me stand there for all the world to see me, and then they
stole behind me and pushed me into this bottomless pit, where I lie howling and
gnashing my teeth! I made a fool of myself before all their friends; but I shall
make something worse of them.«
    This passionate sally, which Newman uttered with the greater fervour that it
was the first time he had had a chance to say all this aloud, kindled two small
sparks in Mrs. Bread's fixed eyes. »I suppose you have a right to your anger,
sir; but think of the dishonour you will draw down on Madame de Cintré.«
    »Madame de Cintré is buried alive,« cried Newman. »What are honour or
dishonour to her? The door of the tomb is at this moment closing behind her.«
    »Yes, it is most awful,« moaned Mrs. Bread.
    »She has moved off, like her brother Valentin, to give me room to work. It's
as if it were done on purpose.«
    »Surely,« said Mrs. Bread, apparently impressed by the ingenuity of this
reflection. She was silent for some moments; then she added: »And would you
bring my lady before the courts?«
    »The courts care nothing for my lady,« Newman replied. »If she has committed
a crime, she will be nothing for the courts but a wicked old woman.«
    »And will they hang her, sir?«
    »That depends upon what she has done.« And Newman eyed Mrs. Bread intently.
    »It would break up the family most terribly, sir!«
    »It's time such a family should be broken up!« said Newman, with a laugh.
    »And me at my age out of place, sir!« sighed Mrs. Bread.
    »Oh, I will take care of you! You shall come and live with me. You shall be
my housekeeper, or anything you like. I will pension you for life.«
    »Dear, dear, sir, you think of everything.« And she seemed to fall
a-brooding.
    Newman watched her awhile, and then he said suddenly: »Ah, Mrs. Bread, you
are too fond of my lady!«
    She looked at him as quickly. »I wouldn't have you say that, sir. I don't
think it any part of my duty to be fond of my lady. I have served her faithfully
this many a year; but if she were to die tomorrow, I believe, before Heaven, I
shouldn't shed a tear for her.« Then after a pause, »I have no reason to love
her!« Mrs. Bread added. »The most she has done for me has been not to turn me
out of the house.« Newman felt that decidedly his companion was more and more
confidential - that if luxury is corrupting, Mrs. Bread's conservative habits
were already relaxed by the spiritual comfort of this preconcerted interview, in
a remarkable locality, with a freespoken millionaire. All his native shrewdness
admonished him that his part was simply to let her take her time - let the charm
of the occasion work. So he said nothing; he only looked at her kindly. Mrs.
Bread sat nursing her lean elbows. »My lady once did me a great wrong,« she went
on at last. »She has a terrible tongue when she is vexed. It was many a year
ago, but I have never forgotten it. I have never mentioned it to a human
creature; I have kept my grudge to myself. I daresay I have been wicked, but my
grudge has grown old with me. It has grown good for nothing, too, I daresay; but
it has lived along, as I have lived. It will die when I die - not before!«
    »And what is your grudge?« Newman asked.
    Mrs. Bread dropped her eyes and hesitated. »If I were a foreigner, sir, I
should make less of telling you; it comes harder to a decent Englishwoman. But I
sometimes think I have picked up too many foreign ways. What I was telling you
belongs to a time when I was much younger and very different looking to what I
am now. I had a very high colour, sir, if you can believe it; indeed I was a
very smart lass. My lady was younger, too, and the late marquis was youngest of
all - I mean in the way he went on, sir; he had a very high spirit; he was a
magnificent man. He was fond of his pleasure, like most foreigners, and it must
be owned that he sometimes went rather below him to take it. My lady was often
jealous, and, if you'll believe it, sir, she did me the honour to be jealous of
me. One day I had a red ribbon in my cap, and my lady flew out at me and ordered
me to take it off. She accused me of putting it on to make the marquis look at
me. I don't know that I was impertinent, but I spoke up like an honest girl and
didn't count my words. A red ribbon indeed! As if it was my ribbons the marquis
looked at! My lady knew afterwards that I was perfectly respectable, but she
never said a word to show that she believed it. But the marquis did!« Mrs. Bread
presently added: »I took off my red ribbon and put it away in a drawer, where I
have kept it to this day. It's faded, now, it's a very pale pink; but there it
lies. My grudge has faded, too; the red has all gone out of it; but it lies here
yet.« And Mrs. Bread stroked her black satin bodice.
    Newman listened with interest to this decent narrative, which seemed to have
opened up the deeps of memory to his companion. Then, as she remained silent,
and seemed to be losing herself in retrospective meditation upon her perfect
respectability, he ventured upon a short cut to his goal. »So Madame de
Bellegarde was jealous; I see. And M. de Bellegarde admired pretty women,
without distinction of class. I suppose one mustn't be hard upon him, for they
probably didn't all behave so properly as you. But years afterwards it could
hardly have been jealousy that turned Madame de Bellegarde into a criminal.«
    Mrs. Bread gave a weary sigh. »We are using dreadful words, sir, but I don't
care now. I see you have your idea, and I have no will of my own. My will was
the will of my children, as I called them; but I have lost my children now. They
are dead - I may say it of both of them; and what should I care for the living?
What is anyone in the house to me now - what am I to them? My lady objects to me
- she has objected to me these thirty years. I should have been glad to be
something to young Madame de Bellegarde, though I never was nurse to the present
marquis. When he was a baby I was too young; they wouldn't trust me with him.
But his wife told her own maid, Mamselle Clarisse, the opinion she had of me.
Perhaps you would like to hear it, sir.«
    »Oh, immensely,« said Newman.
    »She said that if I would sit in her children's schoolroom I should do very
well for a penwiper! When things have come to that I don't think I need stand
upon ceremony.«
    »Decidedly not,« said Newman. »Go on, Mrs. Bread.«
    Mrs. Bread, however, relapsed again into troubled dumbness, and all Newman
could do was to fold his arms and wait. But at last she appeared to have set her
memories in order. »It was when the late marquis was an old man and his eldest
son had been two years married. It was when the time came on for marrying
Mademoiselle Claire; that's the way they talk of it here, you know, sir. The
marquis's health was bad; he was very much broken down. My lady had picked out
M. de Cintré, for no good reason that I could see. But there are reasons, I very
well know, that are beyond me, and you must be high in the world to understand
them. Old M. de Cintré was very high, and my lady thought him almost as good as
herself; that's saying a good deal. Mr. Urbain took sides with his mother, as he
always did. The trouble, I believe, was that my lady would give very little
money, and all the other gentlemen asked more. It was only M. de Cintré that was
satisfied. The Lord willed it he should have that one soft spot; it was the only
one he had. He may have been very grand in his birth, and he certainly was very
grand in his bows and speeches; but that was all the grandeur he had. I think he
was like what I have heard of comedians; not that I have ever seen one. But I
know he painted his face. He might paint it all he would; he could never make me
like it! The marquis couldn't abide him, and declared that sooner than take such
a husband as that, Mademoiselle Claire should take none at all. He and my lady
had a great scene; it came even to our ears in the servants' hall. It was not
their first quarrel, if the truth must be told. They were not a loving couple,
but they didn't often come to words, because, I think, neither of them thought
the other's doings worth the trouble. My lady had long ago got over her
jealousy, and she had taken to indifference. In this, I must say, they were well
matched. The marquis was very easy-going; he had a most gentlemanly temper. He
got angry only once a year, but then it was very bad. He always took to bed
directly afterwards. This time I speak of he took to bed as usual, but he never
got up again. I'm afraid the poor gentleman was paying for his dissipation;
isn't it true they mostly do, sir, when they get old? My lady and Mr. Urbain
kept quiet, but I know my lady wrote letters to M. de Cintré. The marquis got
worse and the doctors gave him up. My lady she gave him up too, and if the truth
must be told, she gave him up gladly. When once he was out of the way she could
do what she pleased with her daughter, and it was all arranged that my poor
innocent child should be handed over to M. de Cintré. You don't know what
mademoiselle was in those days, sir; she was the sweetest young creature in
France, and knew as little of what was going on around her as the lamb does of
the butcher. I used to nurse the marquis, and I was always in his room. It was
here at Fleurières, in the autumn. We had a doctor from Paris, who came and
stayed two or three weeks in the house. Then there came two others, and there
was a consultation, and these two others, as I said, declared that the marquis
couldn't be saved. After this they went off, pocketing their fees, but the other
one stayed and did what he could. The marquis himself kept crying out that he
wouldn't die, that he didn't want to die, that he would live and look after his
daughter. Mademoiselle Claire and the viscount - that was Mr. Valentin, you know
- were both in the house. The doctor was a clever man - that I could see myself
- and I think he believed that the marquis might get well. We took good care of
him, he and I, between us, and one day, when my lady had almost ordered her
mourning, my patient suddenly began to mend. He got better and better, till the
doctor said he was out of danger. What was killing him was the dreadful fits of
pain in his stomach. But little by little they stopped, and the poor marquis
began to make his jokes again. The doctor found something that gave him great
comfort - some white stuff that we kept in a great bottle on the chimney-piece.
I used to give it to the marquis through a glass tube; it always made him
easier. Then the doctor went away, after telling me to keep on giving him the
mixture whenever he was bad. After that there was a little doctor from Poitiers,
who came every day. So we were alone in the house - my lady and her poor husband
and their three children. Young Madame de Bellegarde had gone away, with her
little girl, to her mother's. You know she is very lively, and her maid told me
that she didn't like to be where people were dying.« Mrs. Bread paused a moment,
and then she went on with the same quiet consistency. »I think you have guessed,
sir, that when the marquis began to turn my lady was disappointed.« And she
paused again, bending upon Newman a face which seemed to grow whiter as the
darkness settled down upon them.
    Newman had listened eagerly - with an eagerness greater even than that with
which he had bent his ear to Valentin de Bellegarde's last words. Every now and
then, as his companion looked up at him, she reminded him of an ancient tabby
cat, protracting the enjoyment of a dish of milk. Even her triumph was measured
and decorous; the faculty of exultation had been chilled by disuse. She
presently continued. »Late one night I was sitting by the marquis in his room,
the great red room in the west tower. He had been complaining a little, and I
gave him a spoonful of the doctor's dose. My lady had been there in the early
part of the evening; she sat for more than an hour by his bed. Then she went
away and left me alone. After midnight she came back, and her eldest son was
with her. They went to the bed and looked at the marquis, and my lady took hold
of his hand. Then she turned to me and said he was not so well; I remember how
the marquis, without saying anything, lay staring at her. I can see his white
face, at this moment, in the great black square between the bed-curtains. I said
I didn't think he was very bad; and she told me to go to bed - she would sit a
while with him. When the marquis saw me going he gave a sort of groan, and
called out to me not to leave him; but Mr. Urbain opened the door for me and
pointed the way out. The present marquis - perhaps you have noticed, sir - has a
very proud way of giving orders, and I was there to take orders. I went to my
room, but I wasn't't easy; I couldn't tell you why. I didn't undress; I sat there
waiting and listening. For what would you have said, sir? I couldn't have told
you; for surely a poor gentleman might be comfortable with his wife and his son.
It was as if I expected to hear the marquis moaning after me again. I listened,
but I heard nothing. It was a very still night; I never knew a night so still.
At last the very stillness itself seemed to frighten me, and I came out of my
room and went very softly downstairs. In the anteroom, outside of the marquis's
chamber, I found Mr. Urbain walking up and down. He asked me what I wanted, and
I said I came back to relieve my lady. He said he would relieve my lady, and
ordered me back to bed; but as I stood there, unwilling to turn away, the door
of the room opened and my lady came out. I noticed she was very pale; she was
very strange. She looked a moment at the count and at me, and then she held out
her arms to the count. He went to her, and she fell upon him and hid her face. I
went quickly past her into the room, and to the marquis's bed. He was lying
there, very white, with his eyes shut, like a corpse. I took hold of his hand
and spoke to him, and he felt to me like a dead man. Then I turned round; my
lady and Mr. Urbain were there. My poor Bread, said my lady, M. le Marquis is
gone. Mr. Urbain knelt down by the bed and said softly, Mon père, mon père. I
thought it wonderful strange, and asked my lady what in the world had happened,
and why she hadn't called me. She said nothing had happened; that she had only
been sitting there with the marquis, very quiet. She had closed her eyes,
thinking she might sleep, and she had slept she didn't know how long. When she
woke up he was dead. It's death, my son, it's death, she said to the count. Mr.
Urbain said they must have the doctor immediately, from Poitiers, and that he
would ride off and fetch him. He kissed his father's face, and then he kissed
his mother and went away. My lady and I stood there at the bedside. As I looked
at the poor marquis it came into my head that he was not dead, that he was in a
kind of swoon. And then my lady repeated, My poor Bread, it's death, it's death;
and I said, Yes, my lady, it's certainly death. I said just the opposite to what
I believed; it was my notion. Then my lady said we must wait for the doctor, and
we sat there and waited. It was a long time; the poor marquis neither stirred
nor changed. I have seen death before, said my lady, and it's terribly like
this. Yes, please, my lady, said I; and I kept thinking. The night wore away
without the count's coming back, and my lady began to be frightened. She was
afraid he had had an accident in the dark, or met with some wild people. At last
she got so restless that she went below to watch in the court for her son's
return. I sat there alone and the marquis never stirred.«
    Here Mrs. Bread paused again, and the most artistic of romancers could not
have been more effective. Newman made a movement as if he were turning over the
page of a novel. »So he was dead!« he exclaimed.
    »Three days afterwards he was in his grave,« said Mrs. Bread sententiously.
»In a little while I went away to the front of the house and looked out into the
court, and there, before long, I saw Mr. Urbain ride in alone. I waited a bit,
to hear him come upstairs with his mother, but they stayed below, and I went
back to the marquis's room. I went to the bed and held up the light to him, but
I don't know why I didn't let the candlestick fall. The marquis's eyes were open
- open wide! they were staring at me. I knelt down beside him and took his
hands, and begged him to tell me, in the name of wonder, whether he was alive or
dead. Still he looked at me a long time, and then he made me a sign to put my
ear close to him: I am dead, he said, I am dead. The marquise has killed me. I
was all in a tremble. I didn't understand him. I didn't know what had become of
him. He seemed both a man and a corpse if you can fancy, sir. But you'll get
well, now, sir, I said. And then he whispered again, ever so weak: I wouldn't
get well, for a kingdom. I wouldn't be that woman's husband again. And then he
said more; he said she had murdered him. I asked him what she had done to him,
but he only replied: Murder, murder. And she'll kill my daughter, he said; my
poor unhappy child. And he begged me to prevent that, and then he said that he
was dying, that he was dead. I was afraid to move or to leave him; I was almost
dead myself. All of a sudden he asked me to get a pencil and write for him; and
then I had to tell him that I couldn't manage a pencil. He asked me to hold him
up in bed while he wrote himself, and I said he could never, never do such a
thing. But he seemed to have a kind of terror that gave him strength. I found a
pencil in the room and a piece of paper and a book, and I put the paper on the
book and the pencil into his hand, and moved the candle near him. You will think
all this very strange, sir; and very strange it was. The strangest part of it
was that I believed he was dying, and that I was eager to help him to write. I
sat on the bed and put my arm round him, and held him up. I felt very strong; I
believe I could have lifted him and carried him. It was a wonder how he wrote,
but he did write, in a big scratching hand; he almost covered one side of the
paper. It seemed a long time; I suppose it was three or four minutes. He was
groaning, terribly, all the while. Then he said it was ended, and I let him down
upon his pillows, and he gave me the paper and told me to fold it, and hide it,
and to give it to those who would act upon it. Whom do you mean? I said. Who are
those who will act upon it? But he only groaned, for an answer; he couldn't
speak, for weakness. In a few minutes he told me to go and look at the bottle on
the chimney-piece. I knew the bottle he meant; the white stuff that was good for
his stomach. I went and looked at it, but it was empty. When I came back his
eyes were open and he was staring at me; but soon he closed them and he said no
more. I hid the paper in my dress; I didn't look at what was written upon it,
though I can read very well, sir, if I haven't any hand-writing. I sat down near
the bed, but it was nearly half an hour before my lady and the count came in.
The marquis looked as he did when they left him, and I never said a word about
his having been otherwise. Mr. Urbain said that the doctor had been called to a
person in child-birth, but that he promised to set out for Fleurières
immediately. In another half hour he arrived, and as soon as he had examined the
marquis he said that we had had a false alarm. The poor gentleman was very low,
but he was still living. I watched my lady and her son when he said this, to see
if they looked at each other, and I am obliged to admit that they didn't. The
doctor said there was no reason he should die; he had been going on so well. And
then he wanted to know how he had suddenly fallen off; he had left him so very
hearty. My lady told her little story again - what she had told Mr. Urbain and
me - and the doctor looked at her and said nothing. He stayed all the next day
at the château, and hardly left the marquis. I was always there. Mademoiselle
and Mr. Valentin came and looked at their father, but he never stirred. It was a
strange, deathly stupor. My lady was always about; her face was as white as her
husband's, and she looked very proud, as I had seen her look when her orders or
her wishes had been disobeyed. It was as if the poor marquis had defied her; and
the way she took it made me afraid of her. The apothecary from Poitiers kept the
marquis along through the day, and we waited for the other doctor from Paris,
who, as I told you, had been staying at Fleurières. They had telegraphed for him
early in the morning, and in the evening he arrived. He talked a bit outside
with the doctor from Poitiers, and then they came in to see the marquis
together. I was with him, and so was Mr. Urbain. My lady had been to receive the
doctor from Paris, and she didn't come back with him into the room. He sat down
by the marquis - I can see him there now, with his hand on the marquis's wrist,
and Mr. Urbain watching him with a little looking-glass in his hand. I'm sure
he's better, said the little doctor from Poitiers; I'm sure he'll come back. A
few moments after he had said this the marquis opened his eyes, as if he were
waking up, and looked at us, from one to the other. I saw him look at me very
softly, as you'd say. At the same moment my lady came in on tiptoe; she came up
to the bed and put in her head between me and the count. The marquis saw her and
gave a long, most wonderful moan. He said something we couldn't understand, and
he seemed to have a kind of spasm. He shook all over and then closed his eyes,
and the doctor jumped up and took hold of my lady. He held her for a moment a
bit roughly. The marquis was stone dead! This time there were those there that
knew.«
    Newman felt as if he had been reading by starlight the report of highly
important evidence in a great murder case. »And the paper - the paper!« he said,
excitedly. »What was written upon it?«
    »I can't tell you, sir,« answered Mrs. Bread. »I couldn't read it; it was in
French.«
    »But could no one else read it?«
    »I never asked a human creature.«
    »No one has ever seen it?«
    »If you see it you'll be the first.«
    Newman seized the old woman's hand in both his own and pressed it
vigorously. »I thank you ever so much for that,« he cried. »I want to be the
first; I want it to be my property and no one else's! You're the wisest old
woman in Europe. And what did you do with the paper?« This information had made
him feel extraordinarily strong. »Give it to me quick!«
    Mrs. Bread got up with a certain majesty. »It is not so easy as that, sir.
If you want the paper, you must wait.«
    »But waiting is horrible, you know,« urged Newman.
    »I am sure I have waited; I have waited; these many years,« said Mrs. Bread.
    »That is very true. You have waited for me. I won't forget it. And yet, how
comes it you didn't do as M. de Bellegarde said, show the paper to someone?«
    »To whom should I show it?« answered Mrs. Bread mournfully. »It was not easy
to know, and many's the night I have lain awake thinking of it. Six months
afterwards, when they married Mademoiselle to her vicious old husband, I was
very near bringing it out. I thought it was my duty to do something with it, and
yet I was mightily afraid. I didn't know what was written on the paper, or how
bad it might be, and there was no one I could trust enough to ask. And it seemed
to me a cruel kindness to do that sweet young creature, letting her know that
her father had written her mother down so shamefully; for that's what he did I
suppose. I thought she would rather be unhappy with her husband than be unhappy
that way. It was for her and for my dear Mr. Valentin I kept quiet. Quiet I call
it, but for me it was a weary quietness. It worried me terribly, and it changed
me altogether. But for others I held my tongue, and no one, to this hour, knows
what passed between the poor marquis and me.«
    »But evidently there were suspicions,« said Newman. »Where did Mr. Valentin
get his ideas?«
    »It was the little doctor from Poitiers. He was very ill-satisfied, and he
made a great talk. He was a sharp Frenchman, and coming to the house, as he did,
day after day, I suppose he saw more than he seemed to see. And indeed the way
the poor marquis went off as soon as his eyes fell on my lady was a most
shocking sight for anyone. The medical gentleman from Paris was much more
accommodating, and he hushed up the other. But for all he could do Mr. Valentin
and Mademoiselle heard something; they knew their father's death was somehow
against nature. Of course they couldn't accuse their mother, and, as I tell you,
I was as dumb as that stone. Mr. Valentin used to look at me sometimes, and his
eyes seemed to shine, as if he were thinking of asking me something. I was
dreadfully afraid he would speak, and I always looked away and went about my
business. If I were to tell him, I was sure he would hate me afterwards, and
that I could never have borne. Once I went up to him and took a great liberty; I
kissed him, as I had kissed him when he was a child. You oughtn't to look so
sad, sir, I said; believe your poor old Bread. Such a gallant, handsome young
man can have nothing to be sad about. And I think he understood me; he
understood that I was begging off, and he made up his mind in his own way. He
went about with his unasked question in his mind, as I did with my untold tale;
we were both afraid of bringing dishonour on a great house. And it was the same
with Mademoiselle. She didn't know what had happened; she wouldn't know. My lady
and Mr. Urbain asked me no questions because they had no reason. I was as still
as a mouse. When I was younger my lady thought me a hussy, and now she thought
me a fool. How should I have any ideas?«
    »But you say the little doctor from Poitiers made a talk,« said Newman. »Did
no one take it up?«
    »I heard nothing of it, sir. They are always talking scandal in these
foreign countries - you may have noticed - and I suppose they shook their heads
over Madame de Bellegarde. But after all, what could they say? The marquis had
been ill, and the marquis had died; he had as good a right to die as anyone. The
doctor couldn't say he had not come honestly by his cramps. The next year the
little doctor left the place and bought a practice in Bordeaux, and if there has
been any gossip it died out. And I don't think there could have been much gossip
about my lady that anyone would listen to. My lady is so very respectable.«
    Newman, at this last affirmation, broke into an immense, resounding laugh.
Mrs. Bread had begun to move away from the spot where they were sitting, and he
helped her through the aperture in the wall and along the homeward path. »Yes,«
he said, »my lady's respectability is delicious; it will be a great crash!« They
reached the empty space in front of the church, where they stopped a moment,
looking at each other with something of an air of closer fellowship - like two
sociable conspirators. »But what was it,« said Newman, »what was it she did to
her husband? She didn't stab him or poison him.«
    »I don't know, sir; no one saw it.«
    »Unless it was Mr. Urbain. You say he was walking up and down, outside the
room. Perhaps he looked through the keyhole. But no; I think that with his
mother he would take it on trust.«
    »You may be sure I have often thought of it,« said Mrs. Bread. »I am sure
she didn't touch him with her hands. I saw nothing on him, anywhere. I believe
it was in this way. He had a fit of his great pain, and he asked her for his
medicine. Instead of giving it to him she went and poured it away, before his
eyes. Then he saw what she meant, and, weak and helpless as he was, he was
frightened, he was terrified. You want to kill me, he said. Yes, M. le Marquis,
I want to kill you, says my lady, and sits down and fixes her eyes upon him. You
know my lady's eyes, I think, sir; it was with them she killed him; it was with
the terrible strong will she put into them. It was like a frost on flowers.«
    »Well, you are a very intelligent woman; you have shown great discretion,«
said Newman. »I shall value your services as housekeeper extremely.«
    They had begun to descend the hill, and Mrs. Bread said nothing until they
reached the foot. Newman strolled lightly beside her; his head was thrown back
as he was gazing at all the stars; he seemed to himself to be riding his
vengeance along the Milky Way. »So you are serious, sir, about that?« said Mrs.
Bread, softly.
    »About your living with me? Why of course I take care of you to the end of
your days. You can't live with those people any longer. And you oughtn't to, you
know, after this. You give me the paper, and you move away.«
    »It seems very flighty in me to be taking a new place at this time of life,«
observed Mrs. Bread lugubriously. »But if you are going to turn the house upside
down, I would rather be out of it.«
    »Oh,« said Newman, in the cheerful tone of a man who feels rich in
alternatives, »I don't think I shall bring in the constables, if that's what you
mean. Whatever Madame de Bellegarde did, I am afraid the law can't take hold of
it. But I am glad of that; it leaves it altogether to me!«
    »You are a mighty bold gentleman, sir,« murmured Mrs. Bread, looking at him
round the edge of her great bonnet.
    He walked with her back to the château; the curfew had tolled for the
laborious villagers of Fleurières, and the street was unlighted and empty. She
promised him that he should have the marquis's manuscript in half an hour. Mrs.
Bread choosing not to go in by the great gate, they passed round by a winding
lane to a door in the wall of the park, of which she had the key, and which
would enable her to enter the château from behind. Newman arranged with her that
he should await outside the wall her return with the coveted document.
    She went in, and his half hour in the dusky lane seemed very long. But he
had plenty to think about. At last the door in the wall opened and Mrs. Bread
stood there, with one hand on the latch and the other holding out a scrap of
white paper, folded small. In a moment he was master of it, and it had passed
into his waistcoatpocket. »Come and see me in Paris,« he said; »we are to settle
your future, you know; and I will translate poor M. de Bellegarde's French to
you.« Never had he felt so grateful as at this moment for M. Nioche's
instructions.
    Mrs. Bread's dull eyes had followed the disappearance of the paper, and she
gave a heavy sigh. »Well, you have done what you would with me, sir, and I
suppose you will do it again. You must take care of me now. You are a terribly
positive gentleman.«
    »Just now,« said Newman, »I'm a terribly impatient gentleman!« And he bade
her good-night and walked rapidly back to the inn. He ordered his vehicle to be
prepared for his return to Poitiers, and then he shut the door of the common
salle and strode towards the solitary lamp on the chimney-piece. He pulled out
the paper and quickly unfolded it. It was covered with pencil-marks, which at
first, in the feeble light, seemed indistinct. But Newman's fierce curiosity
forced a meaning from the tremulous signs. The English of them was as follows:
 
        »My wife has tried to kill me, and she has done it; I am dying, dying
        horribly. It is to marry my dear daughter to M. de Cintré. With all my
        soul I protest - I forbid it. I am not insane - ask the doctors, ask
        Mrs. B--. It was alone with me here, to-night; she attacked me and put
        me to death. It is murder, if murder ever was. Ask the doctors.
                                                    HENRI-URBAIN DE BELLEGARDE.«
 

                                 Chapter XXIII

Newman returned to Paris the second day after his interview with Mrs. Bread. The
morrow he had spent at Poitiers, reading over and over again the little document
which he had lodged in his pocketbook, and thinking what he would do in the
circumstances and how he would do it. He would not have said that Poitiers was
an amusing place; yet the day seemed very short. Domiciled once more in the
Boulevard Haussmann, he walked over to the Rue de l'Université and inquired of
Madame de Bellegarde's portress whether the marquise had come back. The portress
told him that she had arrived, with M. le Marquis, on the preceding day, and
further informed him that if he desired to enter, Madame de Bellegarde and her
son were both at home. As she said these words the little white-faced old woman
who peered out of the dusky gatehouse of the Hôtel de Bellegarde gave a small
wicked smile - a smile which seemed to Newman to mean, »Go in if you dare!« She
was evidently versed in the current domestic history; she was placed where she
could feel the pulse of the house. Newman stood a moment, twisting his moustache
and looking at her; then he abruptly turned away. But this was not because he
was afraid to go in - though he doubted whether, if he did so, he should be able
to make his way, unchallenged, into the presence of Madame de Cintré's
relatives. Confidence - excessive confidence, perhaps - quite as much as
timidity prompted his retreat. He was nursing his thunderbolt; he loved it; he
was unwilling to part with it. He seemed to be holding it aloft in the rumbling,
vaguely-flashing air, directly over the heads of his victims, and he fancied he
could see their pale upturned faces. Few specimens of the human countenance had
ever given him such pleasure as these, lighted in the lurid fashion I have
hinted at, and he was disposed to sip the cup of contemplative revenge in a
leisurely fashion. It must be added, too, that he was at a loss to see exactly
how he could arrange to witness the operation of his thunder. To send in his
card to Madame de Bellegarde would be a waste of ceremony; she would certainly
decline to receive him. On the other hand he could not force his way into her
presence. It annoyed him keenly to think that he might be reduced to the blind
satisfaction of writing her a letter; but he consoled himself in a measure with
the reflection that a letter might lead to an interview. He went home, and
feeling rather tired - nursing a vengeance was, it must be confessed, a rather
fatiguing process; it took a good deal out of one - flung himself into one of
his brocaded fauteuils, stretched his legs, thrust his hands into his pockets,
and, while he watched the reflected sunset fading from the ornate house-tops on
the opposite side of the Boulevard, began mentally to compose a cool epistle to
Madame de Bellegarde. While he was so occupied his servant threw open the door
and announced ceremoniously, »Madame Brett!«
    Newman roused himself, expectantly, and in a few moments perceived upon his
threshold the worthy woman with whom he had conversed to such good purpose on
the starlit hill-top of Fleurières. Mrs. Bread had made for this visit the same
toilet as for her former expedition. Newman was struck with her distinguished
appearance. His lamp was not lit, and as her large grave face gazed at him
through the light dusk from under the shadow of her ample bonnet, he felt the
incongruity of such a person presenting herself as a servant. He greeted her
with high geniality, and bade her come in and sit down and make herself
comfortable. There was something which might have touched the springs both of
mirth and of melancholy in the ancient maidenliness with which Mrs. Bread
endeavoured to comply with these directions. She was not playing at being
fluttered, which would have been simply ridiculous; she was doing her best to
carry herself as a person so humble that, for her, even embarrassment would have
been pretentious; but evidently she had never dreamed of its being in her
horoscope to pay a visit, at nightfall, to a friendly single gentleman who lived
in theatrical-looking rooms on one of the new boulevards.
    »I truly hope I am not forgetting my place, sir,« she murmured.
    »Forgetting your place?« cried Newman. »Why, you are remembering it. This is
your place, you know. You are already in my service; your wages, as housekeeper,
began a fortnight ago. I can tell you my house wants keeping! Why don't you take
off your bonnet and stay?«
    »Take off my bonnet?« said Mrs. Bread, with timid literalness. »Oh sir, I
haven't my cap. And with your leave, sir, I couldn't keep house in my best
gown.«
    »Never mind your gown,« said Newman cheerfully. »You shall have a better
gown than that.«
    Mrs. Bread stared solemnly and then stretched her hands over her lustreless
satin skirt, as if the perilous side of her situation was defining itself. »Oh
sir, I am fond of my own clothes,« she murmured.
    »I hope you have left those wicked people, at any rate,« said Newman.
    »Well, sir, here I am!« said Mrs. Bread. »That's all I can tell you. Here I
sit, poor Catherine Bread. It's a strange place for me to be. I don't know
myself; I never supposed I was so bold. But indeed, sir, I have gone as far as
my own strength will bear me.«
    »Oh come, Mrs. Bread,« said Newman, almost caressingly, »don't make yourself
uncomfortable. Now's the time to feel lively, you know.«
    She began to speak again with a trembling voice. »I think it would be more
respectable if I could - if I could --« and her voice trembled to a pause.
    »If you could give up this sort of thing altogether?« said Newman kindly,
trying to anticipate her meaning, which he supposed might be a wish to retire
from service.
    »If I could give up everything, sir! All I should ask is a decent Protestant
burial.«
    »Burial!« cried Newman, with a burst of laughter. »Why, to bury you now
would be a sad piece of extravagance. It's only rascals who have to be buried to
get respectable. Honest folks like you and me can live our time out - and live
together. Come! did you bring your baggage?«
    »My box is locked and corded; but I haven't yet spoken to my lady.«
    »Speak to her, then, and have done with it. I should like to have your
chance!« cried Newman.
    »I would gladly give it you, sir. I have passed some weary hours in my
lady's dressing-room; but this will be one of the longest. She will tax me with
ingratitude.«
    »Well,« said Newman, »so long as you can tax her with murder --«
    »Oh sir, I can't; not I,« sighed Mrs. Bread.
    »You don't mean to say anything about it? So much the better. Leave that to
me.«
    »If she calls me a thankless old woman,« said Mrs. Bread, »I shall have
nothing to say. But it is better so,« she softly added. »She shall be my lady to
the last. That will be more respectable.«
    »And then you will come to me and I shall be your gentleman,« said Newman;
»that will be more respectable still!«
    Mrs. Bread rose, with lowered eyes, and stood a moment; then, looking up,
she rested her eyes upon Newman's face. The disordered proprieties were somehow
settling to rest. She looked at Newman so long and so fixedly, with such a dull
intense devotedness, that he himself might have had a pretext for embarrassment.
At last she said gently: »You are not looking well, sir.«
    »That's natural enough,« said Newman. »I have nothing to feel well about. To
be very indifferent and very fierce, very dull and very jovial, very sick and
very lively, all at once - why, it rather mixes one up.«
    Mrs. Bread gave a noiseless sigh. »I can tell you something that will make
you feel duller still, if you want to feel all one way. About Madame de Cintré.«
    »What can you tell me?« Newman demanded. »Not that you have seen her?«
    She shook her head. »No, indeed, sir, nor ever shall. That's the dullness of
it. Nor my lady. Nor M. de Bellegarde.«
    »You mean that she is kept so close.«
    »Close, close,« said Mrs. Bread, very softly.
    These words, for an instant, seemed to check the beating of Newman's heart.
He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the old woman. »They have tried to
see her, and she wouldn't - she couldn't?«
    »She refused - forever! I had it from my lady's own maid,« said Mrs. Bread,
»who had it from my lady. To speak of it to such a person my lady must have felt
the shock. Madame de Cintré won't see them now, and now is her only chance. A
while hence she will have no chance.«
    »You mean the other women - the mothers, the daughters, the sister; what is
it they call them? - won't let her?«
    »It is what they call the rule of the house - or of the order, I believe,«
said Mrs. Bread. »There is no rule so strict as that of the Carmelites. The bad
women in the reformatories are fine ladies to them. They wear old brown cloaks -
so the femme de chamber told me - that you wouldn't use for a horse blanket. And
the poor countess was so fond of soft-feeling dresses; she would never have
anything stiff! They sleep on the ground,« Mrs. Bread went on; »they are no
better, no better« - and she hesitated for a comparison - »they are no better
than tinkers' wives. They give up everything, down to the very name their poor
old nurses called them by. They give up father and mother, brother and sister -
to say nothing of other persons,« Mrs. Bread delicately added. »They wear a
shroud under their brown cloaks and a rope round their waists, and they get up
on winter nights and go off into cold places to pray to the Virgin Mary. The
Virgin Mary is a hard mistress!«
    Mrs. Bread, dwelling on these terrible facts, sat dry-eyed and pale, with
her hands clasped in her satin lap. Newman gave a melancholy groan and fell
forward, leaning his head in his hands. There was a long silence, broken only by
the ticking of the great gilded clock on the chimney-piece.
    »Where is this place - where is the convent?« Newman asked at last, looking
up.
    »There are two houses,« said Mrs. Bread. »I found out; I thought you would
like to know - though it's poor comfort, I think. One is the Avenue de Messine;
they have learned that Madame de Cintré is there. The other is in the Rue
d'Enfer. That's a terrible name; I suppose you know what it means.«
    Newman got up and walked away to the end of his long room. When he came back
Mrs. Bread had got up, and stood by the fire with folded hands. »Tell me this,«
he said. »Can I get near her - even if I don't see her? Can I look through a
grating, or some such thing, at the place where she is?«
    It is said that all women love a lover, and Mrs. Bread's sense of the
pre-established harmony which kept servants in their place, even as planets in
their orbits (not that Mrs. Bread had ever consciously likened herself to a
planet), barely availed to temper the maternal melancholy with which she leaned
her head on one side and gazed at her new employer. She probably felt for the
moment as if, forty years before, she had held him also in her arms. »That
wouldn't help you, sir. It would only make her seem farther away.«
    »I want to go there, at all events,« said Newman. »Avenue de Messine, you
say? And what is it they call themselves?«
    »Carmelites,« said Mrs. Bread.
    »I shall remember that.«
    Mrs. Bread hesitated a moment, and then: »It's my duty to tell you this,
sir,« she went on. »The convent has a chapel, and some people are admitted on
Sunday to the mass. You don't see the poor creatures that are shut up there, but
I am told you can hear them sing. It's a wonder they have any heart for singing!
Some Sunday I shall make bold to go. It seems to me I should know her voice in
fifty.«
    Newman looked at his visitor very gratefully; then he held out his hand and
shook hers. »Thank you,« he said. »If anyone can get in, I will.« A moment later
Mrs. Bread proposed, deferentially, to retire, but he checked her and put a
lighted candle into her hand. »There are half-a-dozen rooms there I don't use,«
he said, pointing through an open door. »Go and look at them and take your
choice. You can live in the one you like best.« From this bewildering
opportunity Mrs. Bread at first recoiled; but finally, yielding to Newman's
gentle, reassuring push, she wandered off into the dusk with her tremulous
taper. She remained absent a quarter of an hour, during which Newman paced up
and down, stopped occasionally to look out of the window at the lights on the
Boulevard, and then resumed his walk. Mrs. Bread's relish for her investigations
apparently increased as she proceeded; but at last she reappeared and deposited
her candlestick on the chimney-piece.
    »Well, have you picked one out?« asked Newman.
    »A room, sir? They are all too fine for a dingy old body like me. There
isn't one that hasn't a bit of gilding.«
    »It's only tinsel, Mrs. Bread,« said Newman. »If you stay there a while it
will all peel off of itself.« And he gave a dismal smile.
    »Oh, sir, there are things enough peeling off already!« rejoined Mrs. Bread,
with a head-shake. »Since I was there I thought I would look about me. I don't
believe you know, sir. The corners are most dreadful. You do want a
house-keeper, that you do; you want a tidy Englishwoman that isn't above taking
hold of a broom.«
    Newman assured her that he suspected, if he had not measured, his domestic
abuses, and that to reform them was a mission worthy of her powers. She held her
candlestick aloft again and looked round the salon with compassionate glances;
then she intimated that she accepted the mission, and that its sacred character
would sustain her in her rupture with Madame de Bellegarde. With this she
curtsied herself away.
    She came back the next day with her worldly goods, and Newman going into his
drawing-room, found her upon her aged knees before a divan, sewing up some
detached fringe. He questioned her as to her leave-taking with her late
mistress, and she said it had proved easier than she feared. »I was perfectly
civil, sir, but the Lord helped me to remember that a good woman has no call to
tremble before a bad one.«
    »I should think so!« cried Newman. »And does she know you have come to me?«
    »She asked me where I was going, and I mentioned your name,« said Mrs.
Bread.
    »What did she say to that?«
    »She looked at me very hard, and she turned very red. Then she bade me leave
her. I was all ready to go, and I had got the coachman, who is an Englishman, to
bring down my poor box, and to fetch me a cab. But when I went down myself to
the gate I found it closed. My lady had sent orders to the porter not to let me
pass, and by the same orders the porter's wife - she is a dreadful sly old body
- had gone out in a cab to fetch home M. de Bellegarde from his club.«
    Newman slapped his knee. »She is scared! she is scared!« he cried
exultantly.
    »I was frightened too, sir,« said Mrs. Bread, »but I was also mightily
vexed. I took it very high with the porter, and asked him by what right he used
violence to an honourable Englishwoman who had lived in the house for thirty
years before he was heard of. Oh, sir, I was very grand, and I brought the man
down. He drew his bolts, and let me out, and I promised the cab man something
handsome if he would drive fast. But he was terribly slow; it seemed as if we
should never reach your blessed door. I am all of a tremble still; it took me
five minutes, just now, to thread my needle.«
    Newman told her, with a gleeful laugh, that if she chose she might have a
little maid on purpose to thread her needles; and he went away murmuring to
himself again that the old woman was scared - she was scared!
    He had not shown Mrs. Tristram the little paper that he carried in his
pocket-book, but since his return to Paris he had seen her several times, and
she had told him that he seemed to her to be in a strange way - an even stranger
way than his sad situation made natural. Had his disappointment gone to his
head? He looked like a man who was going to be ill, and yet she had never seen
him more restless and active. One day he would sit hanging his head and looking
as if he were firmly resolved never to smile again; another he would indulge in
laughter that was almost unseemly and made jokes that were bad even for him. If
he was trying to carry off his sorrow, he at such times really went too far. She
begged him of all things not to be strange. Feeling in a measure responsible as
she did for the affair which had turned out so ill for him, she could endure
anything but his strangeness. He might be melancholy if he would, or he might be
stoical; he might be cross and cantankerous with her and ask her why she had
ever dared to meddle with his destiny: to this she would submit; for this she
would make allowances. Only, for Heaven's sake, let him not be incoherent. That
would be extremely unpleasant. It was like people talking in their sleep; they
always frightened her. And Mrs. Tristram intimated that, taking very high ground
as regards the moral obligation which events had laid upon her, she proposed not
to rest quiet until she should have confronted him with the least inadequate
substitute for Madame de Cintré that the two hemispheres contained.
    »Oh,« said Newman, »we are even now, and we had better not open a new
account! You may bury me some day, but you shall never marry me. It's too rough.
I hope, at any rate,« he added, »that there is nothing incoherent in this - that
I want to go next Sunday to the Carmelite chapel in the Avenue de Messine. You
know one of the Catholic ministers - an abbé, is that it? - I have seen him
here, you know; that motherly old gentleman with the big waistband. Please ask
him if I need a special leave to go in, and if I do, beg him to obtain it for
me.«
    Mrs. Tristram gave expression to the liveliest joy. »I am so glad you have
asked me to do something!« she cried. »You shall get into the chapel if the abbé
is disfrocked for his share in it.« And two days afterwards she told him that it
was all arranged; the abbé was enchanted to serve him, and if he would present
himself civilly at the convent-gate there would be no difficulty.
 

                                  Chapter XXIV

Sunday was as yet two days off; but meanwhile, to beguile his impatience, Newman
took his way to the Avenue de Messine and got what comfort he could in staring
at the blank outer wall of Madame de Cintré's present residence. The street in
question, as some travellers will remember, adjoins the Parc Monceau, which is
one of the prettiest corners of Paris. The quarter has an air of modern opulence
and convenience which seems at variance with the ascetic institution, and the
impression made upon Newman's gloomily-irritated gaze by the fresh-looking,
windowless expanse behind which the woman he loved was perhaps even then
pledging herself to pass the rest of her days was less exasperating than he had
feared. The place suggested a convent with the modern improvements - an asylum
in which privacy, though unbroken, might be not quite identical with privation,
and meditation, though monotonous, might be of a cheerful cast. And yet he knew
the case was otherwise; only at present it was not a reality to him. It was too
strange and too mocking to be real; it was like a page torn out of a romance,
with no context in his own experience.
    On Sunday morning, at the hour which Mrs. Tristram had indicated, he rang at
the gate in the blank wall. It instantly opened and admitted him into a clean,
cold-looking court, from beyond which a dull, plain edifice looked down upon
him. A robust lay sister with a cheerful complexion emerged from a porter's
lodge, and, on his stating his errand, pointed to the open door of the chapel,
an edifice which occupied the right side of the court and was preceded by a high
flight of steps. Newman ascended the steps and immediately entered the open
door. Service had not yet begun; the place was dimly lighted, and it was some
moments before he could distinguish its features. Then he saw it was divided by
a large close iron screen into two unequal portions. The altar was on the hither
side of the screen, and between it and the entrance were disposed several
benches and chairs. Three or four of these were occupied by vague, motionless
figures - figures that he presently perceived to be women, deeply absorbed in
their devotion. The place seemed to Newman very cold; the smell of the incense
itself was cold. Besides this there was a twinkle of tapers and here and there a
glow of coloured glass. Newman seated himself; the praying women kept still,
with their backs turned. He saw they were visitors like himself, and he would
have liked to see their faces; for he believed that they were the mourning
mothers and sisters of other women who had had the same pitiless courage as
Madame de Cintré. But they were better off than he, for they at least shared the
faith to which the others had sacrificed themselves. Three or four persons came
in; two of them were elderly gentlemen. Everyone was very quiet. Newman fastened
his eyes upon the screen behind the altar. That was the convent, the real
convent, the place where she was. But he could see nothing; no light came
through the crevices. He got up and approached the partition very gently, trying
to look through. But behind it there was darkness, with nothing stirring. He
went back to his place, and after that a priest and two altar-boys came in and
began to say mass.
    Newman watched their genuflections and gyrations with a grim, still enmity;
they seemed aids and abettors of Madame de Cintré's desertion; they were
mouthing and droning out their triumph. The priest's long, dismal intonings
acted upon his nerves and deepened his wrath; there was something defiant in his
unintelligible drawl; it seemed meant for Newman himself. Suddenly there arose
from the depths of the chapel, from behind the inexorable grating, a sound which
drew his attention from the altar - the sound of a strange, lugubrious chant
uttered by women's voices. It began softly, but it presently grew louder, and as
it increased it became more of a wail and a dirge. It was the chant of the
Carmelite nuns, their only human utterance. It was their dirge over their buried
affections and over the vanity of earthly desires. At first Newman was
bewildered - almost stunned - by the strangeness of the sound; then, as he
comprehended its meaning, he listened intently and his heart began to throb. He
listened for Madame de Cintré's voice, and in the very heart of the tuneless
harmony he imagined he made it out. (We are obliged to believe that he was
wrong, inasmuch as she had obviously not yet had time to become a member of the
invisible sisterhood.) The chant kept on, mechanical and monotonous, with dismal
repetitions and despairing cadences. It was hideous, it was horrible; as it
continued, Newman felt that he needed all his self-control. He was growing more
agitated; he felt tears in his eyes. At last, as in its full force the thought
came over him that this confused, impersonal wail was all that he or the world
she had deserted should ever hear of the voice he had found so sweet, he felt
that he could bear it no longer. He rose abruptly and made his way out. On the
threshold he paused, listened again to the dreary strain, and then hastily
descended into the court. As he did so he saw that the good sister with the
high-coloured cheeks and the fan-like frill to her coiffure, who had admitted
him, was in conference at the gate with two persons who had just come in. A
second glance informed him that these persons were Madame de Bellegarde and her
son, and that they were about to avail themselves of that method of approach to
Madame de Cintré which Newman had found but a mockery of consolation. As he
crossed the court M. de Bellegarde recognised him; the marquis was coming to the
steps, leading his mother. The old lady also gave Newman a look, and it
resembled that of her son. Both faces expressed a franker perturbation,
something more akin to the humbleness of dismay than Newman had yet seen in
them. Evidently he startled the Bellegardes, and they had not their grand
behaviour immediately in hand. Newman hurried past them, guided only by the
desire to get out of the convent-walls into the street. The gate opened itself
at his approach; he strode over the threshold and it closed behind him. A
carriage, which appeared to have been standing there, was just turning away from
the sidewalk. Newman looked at it for a moment, blankly; then he became
conscious, through the dusky mist that swam before his eyes, that a lady seated
in it was bowing to him. The vehicle had turned away before he recognised her;
it was an ancient landau with one half the cover lowered. The lady's bow was
very positive and accompanied with a smile; a little girl was seated beside her.
He raised his hat, and then the lady bade the coachman stop.
    The carriage halted again beside the pavement, and she sat there and
beckoned to Newman - beckoned with the demonstrative grace of Madame Urbain de
Bellegarde. Newman hesitated a moment before he obeyed her summons; during this
moment he had time to curse his stupidity for letting the others escape him. He
had been wondering how he could get at them; fool that he was for not stopping
them then and there! What better place than beneath the very prison-walls to
which they had consigned the promise of his joy? He had been too bewildered to
stop them, but now he felt ready to wait for them at the gate. Madame Urbain,
with a certain attractive petulance, beckoned to him again, and this time he
went over to the carriage. She leaned out and gave him her hand, looking at him
kindly, and smiling.
    »Ah monsieur,« she said, »you don't include me in your wrath? I had nothing
to do with it.«
    »Oh, I don't suppose you could have prevented it!« Newman answered in a tone
which was not that of studied gallantry.
    »What you say is too true for me to resent the small account it makes of my
influence. I forgive you, at any rate, because you look as if you had seen a
ghost.«
    »I have!« said Newman.
    »I am glad, then, I didn't go in with Madame de Bellegarde and my husband.
You must have seen them, eh? Was the meeting affectionate? Did you hear the
chanting? They say it's like the lamentations of the damned. I wouldn't go in:
one is certain to hear that soon enough. Poor Claire - in a white shroud and a
big brown cloak! That's the toilette of the Carmelites, you know. Well, she was
always fond of long, loose things. But I must not speak of her to you; only I
must say that I am very sorry for you, that if I could have helped you I would,
and that I think everyone has been very shabby. I was afraid of it, you know; I
felt it in the air for a fortnight before it came. When I saw you at my
mother-in-law's ball, taking it all so easily, I felt as if you were dancing on
your grave. But what could I do? I wish you all the good I can think of. You
will say that isn't much! Yes; they have been very shabby; I am not a bit afraid
to say it; I assure you everyone thinks so. We are not all like that. I am sorry
I am not going to see you again; you know I think you very good company. I would
prove it by asking you to get into the carriage and drive with me for a quarter
of an hour, while I wait for my mother-in-law. Only if we were seen -
considering what has passed, and everyone knows you have been turned away - it
might be thought I was going a little too far, even for me. But I shall see you
sometimes - somewhere, eh? You know« - this was said in English - »we have a
plan for a little amusement.«
    Newman stood there with his hand on the carriage-door, listening to this
consolatory murmur with an unlighted eye. He hardly knew what Madame de
Bellgarde was saying; he was only conscious that she was chattering
ineffectively. But suddenly it occurred to him that, with her pretty
professions, there was a way of making her effective; she might help him to get
at the old woman and the marquis. »They are coming back soon - your companions?«
he said. »You are waiting for them?«
    »They will hear the mass out; there is nothing to keep them longer. Claire
has refused to see them.«
    »I want to speak to them,« said Newman; »and you can help me, you can do me
a favour. Delay your return for five minutes and give me a chance at them. I
will wait for them here.«
    Madame de Bellegarde clasped her hands with a tender grimace. »My poor
friend, what do you want to do to them? To beg them to come back to you? It will
be wasted words. They will never come back!«
    »I want to speak to them, all the same. Pray do what I ask you. Stay away
and leave them to me for five minutes; you needn't be afraid; I shall not be
violent; I am very quiet.«
    »Yes, you look very quiet! If they had le coeur tendre you would move them.
But they haven't! However, I will do better for you than what you propose. The
understanding is not that I shall come back for them. I am going to the Parc
Monceau with my little girl to give her a walk, and my mother-in-law, who comes
so rarely into this quarter, is to profit by the same opportunity to take the
air. We are to wait for her in the park, where my husband is to bring her to us.
Follow me now; just within the gates I shall get out of my carriage. Sit down on
a chair in some quiet corner and I will bring them near you. There's devotion
for you! Le reste vous regarde.«
    This proposal seemed to Newman extremely felicitous; it revived his drooping
spirit, and he reflected that Madame Urbain was not such a goose as she seemed.
He promised immediately to overtake her, and the carriage drove away.
    The Parc Monceau is a very pretty piece of landscape-gardening, but Newman,
passing into it, bestowed little attention upon its elegant vegetation, which
was full of the freshness of spring. He found Madame de Bellegarde promptly,
seated in one of the quiet corners of which she had spoken, while before her, in
the alley, her little girl, attended by the footman and the lap-dog, walked up
and down as if she were taking a lesson in deportment. Newman sat down beside
the mamma, and she talked a great deal, apparently with the design of convincing
him that - if he would only see it - poor dear Claire did not belong to the most
fascinating type of woman. She was too tall and thin, too stiff and cold; her
mouth was too wide and her nose too narrow. She had no dimples anywhere. And
then she was eccentric, eccentric in cold blood; she was an Anglaise, after all.
Newman was very impatient; she was counting the minutes until his victims should
reappear. He sat silent, leaning upon his cane, looking absently and insensibly
at the little marquise. At length Madame de Bellegarde said she would walk
toward the gate of the park and meet her companions; but before she went she
dropped her eyes, and, after playing a moment with the lace of her sleeve,
looked up again at Newman.
    »Do you remember,« she asked, »the promise you made me three weeks ago?« And
then, as Newman, vainly consulting his memory, was obliged to confess that the
promise had escaped it, she declared that he had made her, at the time, a very
queer answer - an answer at which, viewing it in the light of the sequel, she
had fair ground for taking offence. »You promised to take me to Bullier's after
your marriage. After your marriage - you made a great point of that. Three days
after that your marriage was broken off. Do you know, when I heard the news, the
first thing I said to myself? Oh heaven, now he won't go with me to Bullier's!
And I really began to wonder if you had not been expecting the rupture.«
    »Oh, my dear lady,« murmured Newman, looking down the path to see if the
others were not coming.
    »I shall be good-natured,« said Madame de Bellegarde. »One must not ask too
much of a gentleman who is in love with a cloistered nun. Besides, I can't go to
Bullier's while we are in mourning. But I haven't given it up for that. The
partie is arranged; I have my cavalier. Lord Deepmere, if you please! He has
gone back to his dear Dublin; but a few months hence I am to name any evening
and he will come over from Ireland on purpose. That's what I call gallantry!«
    Shortly after this Madame de Bellegarde walked away with her little girl.
Newman sat in his place; the time seemed terribly long. He felt how fiercely his
quarter of an hour in the convent chapel had raked over the glowing coals of his
resentment. Madame de Bellegarde kept him waiting, but she proved as good as her
word. At last she reappeared at the end of the path, with her little girl and
her footman; beside her slowly walked her husband, with his mother on his arm.
They were a long time advancing, during which Newman sat unmoved. Tingling as he
was with passion, it was extremely characteristic of him that he was able to
moderate his expression of it, as he would have turned down a flaring
gas-burner. His native coolness, shrewdness, and deliberateness, his life-long
submissiveness to the sentiment that words were acts and acts were steps in
life, and that in this matter of taking steps curveting and prancing were
exclusively reserved for quadrupeds and foreigners - all this admonished him
that rightful wrath had no connection with being a fool and indulging in
spectacular violence. So as he rose, when old Madame de Bellegarde and her son
were close to him, he only felt very tall and light. He had been sitting beside
some shrubbery, in such a way as not to be noticeable at a distance; but M. de
Bellegarde had evidently already perceived him. His mother and he were holding
their course, but Newman stepped in front of them, and they were obliged to
pause. He lifted his hat slightly, and looked at them for a moment; they were
pale with amazement and disgust.
    »Excuse me for stopping you,« he said in a low tone, »but I must profit by
the occasion. I have ten words to say to you. Will you listen to them?«
    The marquis glared at him and then turned to his mother. »Can Mr. Newman
possibly have anything to say that is worth our listening to?«
    »I assure you I have something,« said Newman; »besides, it is my duty to say
it. It's a notification - a warning.«
    »Your duty?« said old Madame de Bellegarde, her thin lips curving like
scorched paper. »This is your affair, not ours.«
    Madame Urbain meanwhile had seized her little girl by the hand, with a
gesture of surprise and impatience which struck Newman, intent as he was upon
his own words, with its dramatic effectiveness. »If Mr. Newman is going to make
a scene in public,« she exclaimed, »I will take my poor child out of the mêlée.
She is too young to see such naughtiness!« and she instantly resumed her walk.
    »You had much better listen to me,« Newman went on. »Whether you do or not,
things will be disagreeable for you; but at any rate you will be prepared.«
    »We have already heard something of your threats,« said the marquis, »and
you know what we think of them.«
    »You think a good deal more than you admit. A moment,« Newman added in reply
to an exclamation of the old lady. »I remember perfectly that we are in a public
place, and you see I am very quiet. I am not going to tell your secret to the
passers-by; I shall keep it, to begin with, for certain picked listeners. Anyone
who observes us will think that we are having a friendly chat, and that I am
complimenting you, madam, on your venerable virtues.«
    The marquis gave three short sharp raps on the ground with his stick. »I
demand of you to step out of our path!« he hissed.
    Newman instantly complied, and M. de Bellegarde stepped forward with his
mother. Then Newman said: »Half an hour hence Madame de Bellegarde will regret
that she didn't learn exactly what I mean.«
    The marquise had taken a few steps, but at these words she paused, looking
at Newman with eyes like two scintillating globules of ice. »You are like a
peddler with something to sell,« she said, with a little cold laugh which only
partially concealed the tremor in her voice.
    »Oh no, not to sell,« Newman rejoined; »I give it to you for nothing.« And
he approached nearer to her, looking her straight in the eyes. »You killed your
husband,« he said, almost in a whisper. »That is, you tried once and failed, and
then, without trying, you succeeded.«
    Madame de Bellegarde closed her eyes and gave a little cough, which, as a
piece of dissimulation, struck Newman as really heroic. »Dear mother,« said the
marquis, »does this stuff amuse you so much?«
    »The rest is more amusing,« said Newman. »You had better not lose it.«
    Madame de Bellegarde opened her eyes; the scintillations had gone out of
them; they were fixed and dead. But she smiled superbly with her narrow little
lips, and repeated Newman's word. »Amusing? Have I killed someone else?«
    »I don't count your daughter,« said Newman, »though I might! Your husband
knew what you were doing. I have a proof of it, whose existence you have never
suspected.« And he turned to the marquis, who was terribly white - whiter than
Newman had ever seen anyone out of a picture. »A paper written by the hand, and
signed with the name of Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde. Written after you, madam,
had left him for dead, and while you, sir, had gone - not very fast - for the
doctor.«
    The marquis looked at his mother; she turned away, looking vaguely round
her. »I must sit down,« she said in a low tone, going toward the bench on which
Newman had been sitting.
    »Couldn't you have spoken to me alone?« said the marquis to Newman, with a
strange look.
    »Well, yes, if I could have been sure of speaking to your mother alone,
too,« Newman answered. »But I have had to take you as I could get you.«
    Madame de Bellegarde, with a movement very eloquent of what he would have
called her grit, her steel-cold pluck and her instinctive appeal to her own
personal resources, drew her hand out of her son's arm and went and seated
herself upon the bench. There she remained, with her hands folded in her lap,
looking straight at Newman. The expression of her face was such that he fancied
at first that she was smiling; but he went and stood in front of her, and saw
that her elegant features were distorted by agitation. He saw, however, equally,
that she was resisting her agitation with all the rigour of her inflexible will,
and there was nothing like either fear or submission in her stony stare. She had
been startled, but she was not terrified. Newman had an exasperating feeling
that she would get the better of him still; he would not have believed it
possible that he could so utterly fail to be touched by the sight of a woman
(criminal or other) in so tight a place. Madame de Bellegarde gave a glance at
her son which seemed tantamount to an injunction to be silent and leave her to
her own devices. The marquis stood beside her, with his hands behind him,
looking at Newman.
    »What paper is this you speak of?« asked the old lady, with an imitation of
tranquillity which would have been applauded in a veteran actress.
    »Exactly what I have told you,« said Newman. »A paper written by your
husband after you had left him for dead, and during the couple of hours before
you returned. You see he had the time; you shouldn't have stayed away so long.
It declares distinctly his wife's murderous intent.«
    »I should like to see it,« Madame de Bellegarde observed.
    »I thought you might,« said Newman, »and I have taken a copy.« And he drew
from his waistcoat-pocket a small folded sheet.
    »Give it to my son,« said Madame de Bellegarde. Newman handed it to the
marquis, whose mother, glancing at him, said simply, »Look at it.« M. de
Bellegarde's eyes had a pale eagerness which it was useless for him to try to
dissimulate; he took the paper in his light-gloved fingers and opened it. There
was a silence, during which he read it. He had more than time to read it, but
still he said nothing; he stood staring at it. »Where is the original?« asked
Madame de Bellegarde, in a voice which was really a consummate negation of
impatience.
    »In a very safe place. Of course I can't show you that,« said Newman. »You
might want to take hold of it,« he added with conscious quaintness. »But that's
a very correct copy - except, of course, the handwriting. I am keeping the
original to show someone else.«
    M. de Bellegarde at last looked up, and his eyes were still very eager. »To
whom do you mean to show it?«
    »Well, I'm thinking of beginning with the duchess,« said Newman; »that stout
lady I saw at your ball. She asked me to come and see her, you know. I thought
at the moment I shouldn't have much to say to her; but my little document will
give us something to talk about.«
    »You had better keep it, my son,« said Madame de Bellegarde.
    »By all means,« said Newman; »keep it and show it to your mother when you
get home.«
    »And after showing it to the duchess?« asked the marquis, folding the paper
and putting it away.
    »Well, I'll take up the dukes,« said Newman. »Then the counts and the barons
- all the people you had the cruelty to introduce me to in a character of which
you meant immediately to deprive me. I have made out a list.«
    For a moment neither Madame de Bellegarde nor her son said a word; the old
lady sat with her eyes upon the ground; M. de Bellegarde's blanched pupils were
fixed upon her face. Then, looking at Newman, »Is that all you have to say?« she
asked.
    »No, I want to say a few words more. I want to say that I hope you quite
understand what I'm about. This is my revenge, you know. You have treated me
before the world - convened for the express purpose - as if I were not good
enough for you. I mean to show the world that however bad I may be, you are not
quite the people to say it.«
    Madame de Bellegarde was silent again, and then she broke her silence. Her
self-possession continued to be extraordinary. »I needn't ask you who has been
your accomplice. Mrs. Bread told me that you had purchased her services.«
    »Don't accuse Mrs. Bread of venality,« said Newman. »She has kept your
secret all these years. She had given you a long respite. It was beneath her
eyes your husband wrote that paper; he put it into her hands with a solemn
injunction that she was to make it public. She was too good-hearted to make use
of it.«
    The old lady appeared for an instant to hesitate, and then, »She was my
husband's mistress,« she said softly. This was the only concession to
self-defence that she condescended to make.
    »I doubt that,« said Newman.
    Madame de Bellegarde got up from her bench. »It was not to your opinions I
undertook to listen, and if you have nothing left but them to tell me I think
this remarkable interview may terminate.« And turning to the marquis she took
his arm again. »My son,« she said, »say something!«
    M. de Bellegarde looked down at his mother, passing his hand over his
forehead, and then, tenderly, caressingly, »What shall I say?« he asked.
    »There is only one thing to say,« said the marquise. »That it was really not
worth while to have interrupted our walk.«
    But the marquis thought he could improve this. »Your paper's a forgery,« he
said to Newman.
    Newman shook his head a little, with a tranquil smile. »M. de Bellegarde,«
he said, »your mother does better. She has done better all along, from the first
of my knowing you. You're a mighty plucky woman, madam,« he continued. »It's a
great pity you have made me your enemy. I should have been one of your greatest
admirers.«
    »Mon pauvre ami,« said Madame de Bellegarde to her son in French, and as if
she had not heard these words, »you must take me immediately to my carriage.«
    Newman stepped back and let them leave him; he watched them a moment and saw
Madame Urbain, with her little girl, come out of a by-path to meet them. The old
lady stooped and kissed her grandchild. »Damn it, she is plucky!« said Newman,
and he walked home with a slight sense of being balked. She was so
inexpressively defiant! But on reflection he decided that what he had witnessed
was no real sense of security, still less a real innocence. It was only a very
superior style of brazen assurance. »Wait till she reads the paper!« he said to
himself; and he concluded that he should hear from her soon.
    He heard sooner than he expected. The next morning, before midday, when he
was about to give orders for his breakfast to be served, M. de Bellegarde's card
was brought to him. »She has read the paper and she has passed a bad night,«
said Newman. He instantly admitted his visitor, who came in with the air of the
ambassador of a great power meeting the delegate of a barbarous tribe whom an
absurd accident had enabled for the moment to be abominably annoying. The
ambassador, at all events, had passed a bad night, and his faultlessly careful
toilet only threw into relief the frigid rancour in his eyes and the mottled
tones of his refined complexion. He stood before Newman a moment, breathing
quickly and softly, and shaking his forefinger curtly as his host pointed to a
chair.
    »What I have come to say is soon said,« he declared, »and can only be said
without ceremony.«
    »I am good for as much or for as little as you desire,« said Newman.
    The marquis looked round the room a moment, and then: »On what terms will
you part with your scrap of paper?«
    »On none!« And while Newman, with his head on one side and his hands behind
him sounded the marquis's turbid gaze with his own, he added: »Certainly, that
is not worth sitting down about.«
    M. de Bellegarde meditated a moment, as if he had not heard Newman's
refusal. »My mother and I, last evening,« he said, »talked over your story. You
will be surprised to learn that we think your little document is - a« - and he
held back his word a moment - »is genuine.«
    »You forget that with you I am used to surprises!« exclaimed Newman, with a
laugh.
    »The very smallest amount of respect that we owe to my father's memory,« the
marquis continued, »makes us desire that he should not be held up to the world
as the author of so - so infernal an attack upon the reputation of a wife whose
only fault was that she had been submissive to accumulated injury.«
    »Oh, I see,« said Newman. »It's for your father's sake.« And he laughed the
laugh in which he indulged when he was most amused - a noiseless laugh, with his
lips closed.
    But M. de Bellegarde's gravity held good. »There are a few of my father's
particular friends for whom the knowledge of so - so unfortunate an -
inspiration - would be a real grief. Even say we firmly established by medical
evidence the presumption of a mind disordered by fever, il en resterait quelque
chose. At the best it would look ill in him. Very ill!«
    »Don't try medical evidence,« said Newman. »Don't touch the doctors and they
won't touch you. I don't mind your knowing that I have not written to them.«
    Newman fancied that he saw signs in M. de Bellegarde's discoloured mask that
this information was extremely pertinent. But it may have been merely fancy; for
the marquis remained majestically argumentative. »For instance, Madame
d'Outreville,« he said, »of whom you spoke yesterday. I can imagine nothing that
would shock her more.«
    »Oh, I am quite prepared to shock Madame d'Outreville, you know. That's on
the cards. I expect to shock a great many people.«
    M. de Bellegarde examined for a moment the stitching on the back of one of
his gloves. Then, without looking up, »We don't offer you money,« he said. »That
we suppose to be useless.«
    Newman, turning away, took a few turns about the room, and then came back.
»What do you offer me? By what I can make out, the generosity is all to be on my
side.«
    The marquis dropped his arms at his side and held his head a little higher.
»What we offer you is a chance - a chance that a gentleman should appreciate. A
chance to abstain from inflicting a terrible blot upon the memory of a man who
certainly had his faults, but who, personally, had done you no wrong.«
    »There are two things to say to that,« said Newman. »The first is, as
regards appreciating your chance, that you don't consider me a gentleman. That's
your great point, you know. It's a poor rule that won't work both ways. The
second is that - well, in a word, you are talking great nonsense!«
    Newman, who in the midst of his bitterness had, as I have said, kept well
before his eyes a certain ideal of saying nothing rude, was immediately somewhat
regretfully conscious of the sharpness of these words. But he speedily observed
that the marquis took them more quietly than might have been expected. M. de
Bellegarde, like the stately ambassador that he was, continued the policy of
ignoring what was disagreeable in his adversary's replies. He gazed at the
gilded arabesques on the opposite wall, and then presently transferred his
glance to Newman, as if he too were a large grotesque in a rather vulgar system
of chamber-decoration. »I suppose you know that as regards yourself, it won't do
at all.«
    »How do you mean it won't do?«
    »Why, of course you damn yourself. But I suppose that's in your programme.
You propose to throw mud at us; you believe, you hope, that some of it may
stick. We know, of course, it can't,« explained the marquis in a tone of
conscious lucidity; »but you take the chance, and are willing at any rate to
show that you yourself have dirty hands.«
    »That's a good comparison; at least half of it is,« said Newman. »I take the
chance of something sticking. But as regards my hands, they are clean. I have
taken the matter up with my finger-tips.«
    M. de Bellegarde looked a moment into his hat. »All our friends are quite
with us,« he said. »They would have done exactly as we have done.«
    »I shall believe that when I hear them say it. Meanwhile I shall think
better of human nature.«
    The marquis looked into his hat again. »Madame de Cintré was extremely fond
of her father. If she knew of the existence of the few written words of which
you propose to make this scandalous use, she would demand of you proudly for his
sake to give it up to her, and she would destroy it without reading it.«
    »Very possibly,« Newman rejoined. »But she will not know. I was in that
convent yesterday, and I know what she is doing. Lord deliver us! You can guess
whether it made me feel forgiving!«
    M. de Bellegarde appeared to have nothing more to suggest; but he continued
to stand there, rigid and elegant, as a man who believed that his mere personal
presence had an argumentative value. Newman watched him, and, without yielding
an inch on the main issue, felt an incongruously good-natured impulse to help
him to retreat in good order.
    »Your visit's a failure, you see,« he said. »You offer too little.«
    »Propose something yourself,« said the marquis.
    »Give me back Madame de Cintré in the same state in which you took her from
me.«
    M. de Bellegarde threw back his head and his pale face flushed. »Never!« he
said.
    »You can't!«
    »We wouldn't if we could! In the sentiment which led us to deprecate her
marriage nothing is changed.«
    »Deprecate is good!« cried Newman. »It was hardly worth while to come here
only to tell me that you are not ashamed of yourselves. I could have guessed
that!«
    The marquis slowly walked toward the door, and Newman, following, opened it
for him. »What you propose to do will be very disagreeable,« M. de Bellegarde
said. »That is very evident. But it will be nothing more.«
    »As I understand it,« Newman answered, »that will be quite enough!«
    M. de Bellegarde stood a moment looking on the ground, as if he were
ransacking his ingenuity to see what else he could do to save his father's
reputation. Then, with a little cold sigh, he seemed to signify that he
regretfully surrendered the late marquis to the penalty of his turpitude. He
gave a hardly perceptible shrug, took his neat umbrella from the servant in the
vestibule, and, with his gentlemanly walk, passed out. Newman stood listening
till he heard the door close; then he slowly exclaimed: »Well, I ought to begin
to be satisfied now!«
 

                                  Chapter XXV

Newman called upon the comical duchess and found her at home. An old gentleman
with a high nose and a gold-headed cane was just taking leave of her; he made
Newman a protracted obeisance as he retired, and our hero supposed that he was
one of the mysterious grandees with whom he had shaken hands at Madame de
Bellegarde's ball. The duchess, in her armchair, from which she did not move,
with a great flower-pot on one side of her, a pile of pink-covered novels on the
other, and a large piece of tapestry depending from her lap, presented an
expansive and imposing front; but her aspect was in the highest degree gracious,
and there was nothing in her manner to check the effusion of his confidence. She
talked to him about flowers and books, getting launched with marvellous
promptitude; about the theatres, about the peculiar institutions of his native
country, about the humidity of Paris, about the pretty complexions of the
American ladies, about his impressions of France and his opinion of its female
inhabitants. All this was a brilliant monologue on the part of the duchess, who,
like many of her countrywomen, was a person of an affirmative rather than an
interrogative cast of mind, who made mots and put them herself into circulation,
and who was apt to offer you a present of a convenient little opinion, neatly
enveloped in the gilt paper of a happy Gallicism. Newman had come to her with a
grievance, but he found himself in an atmosphere in which apparently no
cognisance was taken of grievances; an atmosphere into which the chill of
discomfort had never penetrated, and which seemed exclusively made up of mild,
sweet, stale intellectual perfumes. The feeling with which he had watched Madame
d'Outreville at the treacherous festival of the Bellegardes came back to him;
she struck him as a wonderful old lady in a comedy, particularly well up in her
part. He observed before long that she asked him no questions about their common
friends; she made no allusion to the circumstances under which he had been
presented to her. She neither feigned ignorance of a change in these
circumstances nor pretended to condole with him upon it; but she smiled and
discoursed and compared the tender-tinted wools of her tapestry, as if the
Bellegardes and their wickedness were not of this world. »She is fighting shy!«
said Newman to himself; and, having made the observation, he was prompted to
observe, further, how the duchess would carry off her indifference. She did so
in a masterly manner. There was not a gleam of disguised consciousness in those
small, clear, demonstrative eyes which constituted her nearest claim to personal
loveliness; there was not a symptom of apprehension that Newman would trench
upon the ground she proposed to avoid. »Upon my word, she does it very well,« he
tacitly commented. »They all hold together bravely, and, whether anyone else can
trust them or not, they can certainly trust each other.«
    Newman, at this juncture, fell to admiring the duchess for her fine manners.
He felt, most accurately, that she was not a grain less urbane than she would
have been if his marriage were still in prospect; but he felt also that she was
not a particle more urbane. He had come, so reasoned the duchess - Heaven knew
why he had come, after what had happened; and for the half hour, therefore, she
would be charmante. But she would never see him again. Finding no ready-made
opportunity to tell his story, Newman pondered these things more dispassionately
than might have been expected; he stretched his legs, as usual, and even
chuckled a little, appreciatively and noiselessly. And then as the duchess went
on relating a mot with which her mother had snubbed the great Napoleon, it
occurred to Newman that her evasion of a chapter of French history more
interesting to himself might possibly be the result of an extreme consideration
for his feelings. Perhaps it was delicacy on the duchess's part - not policy. He
was on the point of saying something himself, to make the chance which he had
determined to give her still better, when the servant announced another visitor.
The duchess, on hearing the name - it was that of an Italian prince - gave a
little imperceptible pout, and said to Newman, rapidly: »I beg you to remain; I
desire this visit to be short.« Newman said to himself, at this, that Madame
d'Outreville intended, after all, that they should discuss the Bellegardes
together.
    The prince was a short stout man, with a head disproportionately large. He
had a dusky complexion and a bushy eyebrow, beneath which his eye wore a fixed
and somewhat defiant expression; he seemed to be challenging you to insinuate
that he was top-heavy. The duchess, judging from her charge to Newman, regarded
him as a bore; but this was not apparent from the unchecked flow of her
conversation. She made a fresh series of mots, characterised with great felicity
the Italian intellect and the taste of the figs at Sorrento, predicted the
ultimate future of the Italian kingdom (disgust with the brutal Sardinian rule
and complete reversion, throughout the peninsula, to the sacred sway of the Holy
Father), and, finally, gave a history of the love affairs of the Princess X--.
This narrative provoked some rectifications on the part of the prince, who, as
he said, pretended to know something about that matter; and having satisfied
himself that Newman was in no laughing mood, either with regard to the size of
his head or anything else, he entered into the controversy with an animation for
which the duchess, when she set him down as a bore, could not have been
prepared. The sentimental vicissitudes of the Princess X-- led to a discussion
of the heart-history of Florentine nobility in general; the duchess had spent
five weeks in Florence and had gathered much information on the subject. This
was merged, in turn, in an examination of the Italian heart per se. The duchess
took a brilliantly heterodox view - thought it the least susceptible organ of
its kind that she had ever encountered, related examples of its want of
susceptibility, and at last declared that for her the Italians were a people of
ice. The prince became flame to refute her, and his visit really proved
charming. Newman was naturally out of the conversation; he sat with his head a
little on one side watching the interlocutors. The duchess, as she talked,
frequently looked at him with a smile, as if to intimate, in the charming manner
of her nation, that it lay only with him to say something very much to the
point. But he said nothing at all, and at last his thoughts began to wander. A
singular feeling came over him - a sudden sense of the folly of his errand. What
under the sun had he to say to the duchess, after all? Wherein would it profit
him to tell her that the Bellegardes were traitors and that the old lady, into
the bargain, was a murderess? He seemed morally to have turned a sort of
somersault, and to find things looking differently in consequence. He felt a
sudden stiffening of his will and quickening of his reserve. What in the world
had he been thinking of when he fancied the duchess could help him, and that it
would conduce to his comfort to make her think ill of the Bellegardes? What did
her opinion of the Bellegardes matter to him? It was only a shade more important
than the opinion the Bellegardes entertained of her. The duchess help him - that
cold, stout, soft, artificial woman help him? - she who in the last twenty
minutes had built up between them a wall of polite conversation in which she
evidently flattered herself that he would never find a gate. Had it come to that
- that he was asking favours of conceited people, and appealing for sympathy
where he had no sympathy to give? He rested his arms on his knees, and sat for
some minutes staring into his hat. As he did so his ears tingled - he had come
very near being an ass. Whether or no the duchess would hear his story, he
wouldn't tell it. Was he to sit there another half hour for the sake of exposing
the Bellegardes? The Bellegardes be hanged! He got up abruptly, and advanced to
shake hands with his hostess.
    »You can't stay longer?« she asked very graciously.
    »I am afraid not,« he said.
    She hesitated a moment, and then, »I had an idea you had something
particular to say to me,« she declared.
    Newman looked at her; he felt a little dizzy; for the moment he seemed to be
turning his somersault again. The little Italian prince came to his help: »Ah,
madam, who has not that?« he softly sighed.
    »Don't teach Mr. Newman to say fadaises,« said the duchess. »It is his merit
that he doesn't't know how.«
    »Yes, I don't know how to say fadaises,« said Newman, »and I don't want to
say anything unpleasant.«
    »I am sure you are very considerate,« said the duchess with a smile; and she
gave him a little nod for good-bye, with which he took his departure.
    Once in the street, he stood for some time on the pavement, wondering
whether, after all, he was not an ass not to have discharged his pistol. And
then he decided that to talk to anyone whomsoever about the Bellegardes would be
extremely disagreeable to him. The least disagreeable thing, under the
circumstances, was to banish them from his mind, and never think of them again.
Indecision had not hitherto been one of Newman's weaknesses, and in this case it
was not of long duration. For three days after this he did not, or at least he
tried not to, think of the Bellegardes. He dined with Mrs. Tristram, and on her
mentioning their name, he begged her almost severely to desist. This gave Tom
Tristram a much-coveted opportunity to offer his condolences.
    He leaned forward, laying his hand on Newman's arm, compressing his lips,
and shaking his head. »The fact is, my dear fellow, you see, that you ought
never to have gone into it. It was not your doing, I know - it was all my wife.
If you want to come down on her, I'll stand off: I give you leave to hit her as
hard as you like. You know she has never had a word of reproach from me in her
life, and I think she is in need of something of the kind. Why didn't you listen
to me? You know I didn't believe in the thing. I thought it at the best an
amiable delusion. I don't profess to be a Don Juan or a gay Lothario - that
class of man, you know; but I do pretend to know something about the harder sex.
I have never disliked a woman in my life that she has not turned out badly. I
was not at all deceived in Lizzie, for instance; I always had my doubts about
her. Whatever you may think of my present situation, I must at least admit that
I got into it with my eyes open. Now suppose you had got into something like
this box with Madame de Cintré. You may depend upon it she would have turned out
a stiff one. And upon my word I don't see where you could have found your
comfort. Not from the marquis, my dear Newman; he wasn't't a man you could go and
talk things over with in a sociable, common-sense way. Did he ever seem to want
to have you on the premises - did he ever try to see you alone? Did he ever ask
you to come and smoke a cigar with him of an evening, or step in, when you had
been calling on the ladies, and take something? I don't think you would have got
much encouragement out of him. And as for the old lady, she struck one as an
uncommonly strong dose. They have a great expression here, you know; they call
it sympathetic. Everything is sympathetic - or ought to be. Now Madame de
Bellegarde is about as sympathetic as that mustard-pot. They're a d--d
cold-blooded lot, any way; I felt it awfully at that ball of theirs. I felt as
if I were walking up and down in the Armoury, in the Tower of London! My dear
boy, don't think me a vulgar brute for hinting at it, but you may depend upon
it, all they wanted was your money. I know something about that; I can tell when
people want one's money! Why they stopped wanting yours I don't know; I suppose
because they could get someone else's without working so hard for it. It isn't
worth finding out. It may be that it was not Madame de Cintré that backed out
first; very likely the old woman put her up to it. I suspect she and her mother
are really as thick as thieves, eh? You are well out of it, my boy; make up your
mind to that. If I express myself strongly it is all because I love you so much;
and from that point of view I may say I should as soon have thought of making up
to that piece of pale high-mightiness as I should have thought of making up to
the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde.«
    Newman sat gazing at Tristram during this harangue with a lack-lustre eye;
never yet had he seemed to himself to have outgrown so completely the phase of
equal comradeship with Tom Tristram. Mrs. Tristram's glance at her husband had
more of a spark; she turned to Newman with a slightly lurid smile. »You must at
least do justice,« she said, »to the felicity with which Mr. Tristram repairs
the indiscretions of a too zealous wife.«
    But even without the aid of Tom Tristram's conversational felicities, Newman
would have begun to think of the Bellegardes again. He could cease to think of
them only when he ceased to think of his loss and privation, and the days had as
yet but scantily lightened the weight of this incommodity. In vain Mrs. Tristram
begged him to cheer up; she assured him that the sight of his countenance made
her miserable.
    »How can I help it?« he demanded with a trembling voice. »I feel like a
widower - and a widower who has not even the consolation of going to stand
beside the grave of his wife - who has not the right to wear so much mourning as
a weed on his hat. I feel,« he added in a moment, »as if my wife had been
murdered and her assassins were still at large.«
    Mrs. Tristram made no immediate rejoinder, but at last she said, with a
smile which, in so far as it was a forced one, was less successfully simulated
than such smiles, on her lips, usually were: »Are you very sure that you would
have been happy?«
    Newman stared a moment, and then shook his head. »That's weak,« he said;
»that won't do.«
    »Well,« said Mrs. Tristram with a more triumphant bravery, »I don't believe
you would have been happy.«
    Newman gave a little laugh. »Say I should have been miserable, then; it's a
misery I should have preferred to any happiness.«
    Mrs. Tristram began to muse. »I should have been curious to see; it would
have been very strange.«
    »Was it from curiosity that you urged me to try and marry her?«
    »A little,« said Mrs. Tristram, growing still more audacious. Newman gave
her the one angry look he had been destined ever to give her, turned away and
took up his hat. She watched him a moment, and then she said, »That sounds very
cruel, but it is less so than it sounds. Curiosity has a share in almost
everything I do. I wanted very much to see, first, whether such a marriage could
actually take place; second, what would happen if it should take place.«
    »So you didn't believe,« said Newman, resentfully.
    »Yes, I believed - I believed that it would take place, and that you would
be happy. Otherwise I should have been, among my speculations, a very heartless
creature. But,« she continued, laying her hand upon Newman's arm and hazarding a
grave smile, »it was the highest flight ever taken by a tolerably bold
imagination!«
    Shortly after this she recommended him to leave Paris and travel for three
months. Change of scene would do him good, and he would forget his misfortune
sooner in absence from the objects which had witnessed it. »I really feel,«
Newman rejoined, »as if to leave you, at least, would do me good - and cost me
very little effort. You are growing cynical; you shock me and pain me.«
    »Very good,« said Mrs. Tristram, good-naturedly or cynically, as may be
thought most probable. »I shall certainly see you again.«
    Newman was very willing to get away from Paris; the brilliant streets he had
walked through in his happier hours, and which then seemed to wear a higher
brilliancy in honour of his happiness, appeared now to be in the secret of his
defeat and to look down upon it in shining mockery. He would go somewhere; he
cared little where; and he made his preparations. Then, one morning, at
haphazard, he drove to the train that would transport him to Boulogne and
despatch him thence to the shores of Britain. As he rolled along in the train he
asked himself what had become of his revenge, and he was able to say that it was
provisionally pigeonholed in a very safe place; it would keep till called for.
    He arrived in London in the midst of what is called the season, and it
seemed to him at first that he might here put himself in the way of being
diverted from his heavy-heartedness. He knew no one in all England, but the
spectacle of the mighty metropolis roused him somewhat from his apathy. Anything
that was enormous usually found favour with Newman, and the multitudinous
energies and industries of England stirred within him a dull vivacity of
contemplation. It is on record that the weather, at that moment, was of the
finest English quality; he took long walks and explored London in every
direction; he sat by the hour in Kensington Gardens and beside the adjoining
Drive, watching the people and the horses and the carriages; the rosy English
beauties, the wonderful English dandies, and the splendid flunkies. He went to
the opera and found it better than in Paris; he went to the theatre and found a
surprising charm in listening to dialogue the finest points of which came within
the range of his comprehension. He made several excursions into the country,
recommended by the waiter at his hotel, with whom, on this and similar points,
he had established confidential relations. He watched the deer in Windsor Forest
and admired the Thames from Richmond Hill; he ate whitebait and brown-bread and
butter at Greenwich, and strolled in the grassy shadow of the cathedral of
Canterbury. He also visited the Tower of London and Madame Tussaud's exhibition.
One day he thought he would go to Sheffield, and then, thinking again, he gave
it up. Why should he go to Sheffield? He had a feeling that the link which bound
him to a possible interest in the manufacture of cutlery was broken. He had no
desire for an inside view of any successful enterprise whatever, and he would
not have given the smallest sum for the privilege of talking over the details of
the most splendid business with the shrewdest of overseers.
    One afternoon he had walked into Hyde Park, and was slowly threading his way
through the human maze which edges the Drive. The stream of carriages was no
less dense, and Newman, as usual, marvelled at the strange dingy figures which
he saw taking the air in some of the stateliest vehicles. They reminded him of
what he had read of eastern and southern countries, in which grotesque idols and
fetiches were sometimes taken out of their temples and carried abroad in golden
chariots to be displayed to the multitude. He saw a great many pretty cheeks
beneath high-plumed hats as he squeezed his way through serried waves of
crumpled muslin; and sitting on little chairs at the base of the great serious
English trees, he observed a number of quiet-eyed maidens, who seemed only to
remind him afresh that the magic of beauty had gone out of the world with Madame
de Cintré: to say nothing of other damsels, whose eyes were not quiet, and who
struck him still more as a satire on possible consolation. He had been walking
for some time, when, directly in front of him, borne back by the summer breeze,
he heard a few words uttered in that bright Parisian idiom from which his ears
had begun to alienate themselves. The voice in which the words were spoken made
them seem even more like a thing with which he had once been familiar, and as he
bent his eyes it lent an identity to the commonplace elegance of the black hair
and shoulders of a young lady walking in the same direction as himself.
Mademoiselle Nioche, apparently, had come to seek a more rapid advancement in
London, and another glance led Newman to suppose that she had found it. A
gentleman was strolling beside her, lending a most attentive ear to her
conversation and too entranced to open his lips. Newman did not hear his voice,
but perceived that he presented the dorsal expression of a well-dressed
Englishman. Mademoiselle Nioche was attracting attention: the ladies who passed
her turned round to survey the Parisian perfection of her toilet. A great
cataract of flounces rolled down from the young lady's waist to Newman's feet;
he had to step aside to avoid treading upon them. He stepped aside, indeed, with
a decision of movement which the occasion scarcely demanded; for even this
imperfect glimpse of Miss Noémie had excited his displeasure. She seemed an
odious blot upon the face of nature; he wanted to put her out of his sight. He
thought of Valentin de Bellegarde, still green in the earth of his burial - his
young life clipped by this flourishing impudence. The perfume of the young
lady's finery sickened him; he turned his head and tried to deflect his course;
but the pressure of the crowd kept him near her a few minutes longer, so that he
heard what she was saying.
    »Ah, I'm sure he will miss me,« she murmured. »It was very cruel in me to
leave him; I am afraid you will think me a very heartless creature. He might
perfectly well have come with us. I don't think he is very well,« she added; »it
seemed to me to-day that he was not very gay.«
    Newman wondered whom she was talking about, but just then an opening among
his neighbours enabled him to turn away, and he said to himself that she was
probably paying a tribute to British propriety and playing at tender solicitude
about her papa. Was that miserable old man still treading the path of vice in
her train? Was he still giving her the benefit of his experience of affairs, and
had he crossed the sea to serve as her interpreter? Newman walked some distance
farther, and then began to retrace his steps, taking care not to traverse again
the orbit of Mademoiselle Nioche. At last he looked for a chair under the trees,
but he had some difficulty in finding an empty one. He was about to give up the
search when he saw a gentleman rise from the seat he had been occupying, leaving
Newman to take it without looking at his neighbours. He sat there for some time
without heeding them; his attention was lost in the irritation and bitterness
produced by his recent glimpse of Miss Noémie's iniquitous vitality. But at the
end of a quarter of an hour, dropping his eyes, he perceived a small pug-dog
squatted upon the path near his feet - a diminutive but very perfect specimen of
its interesting species. The pug was sniffing at the fashionable world, as it
passed him, with his little black muzzle, and was kept from extending his
investigation by a large blue ribbon attached to his collar with an enormous
rosette, and held in the hand of a person seated next to Newman. To this person
Newman transferred his attention, and immediately perceived that he was the
object of all that of his neighbour, who was staring up at him from a pair of
little fixed white eyes. These eyes Newman instantly recognized; he had been
sitting for the last quarter of an hour beside M. Nioche. He had vaguely felt
that someone was staring at him. M. Nioche continued to stare; he appeared
afraid to move, even to the extent of evading Newman's glance.
    »Dear me!« said Newman; »are you here, too?« And he looked at his
neighbour's helplessness more grimly than he knew. M. Nioche had a new hat and a
pair of kid gloves; his clothes, too, seemed to belong to a more recent
antiquity than of yore. Over his arm was suspended a lady's mantilla - a light
and brilliant tissue, fringed with white lace - which had apparently been
committed to his keeping; and the little dog's blue ribbon was wound tightly
round his hand. There was no expression of recognition in his face - or of
anything indeed save a sort of feeble fascinated dread. Newman looked at the pug
and the lace mantilla, and then he met the old man's eyes again. »You know me, I
see,« he pursued. »You might have spoken to me before.« M. Nioche still said
nothing, but it seemed to Newman that his eyes began faintly to water. »I didn't
expect,« our hero went on, »to meet you so far from - from the Café de la
Patrie.« The old man remained silent, but decidedly Newman had touched the
source of tears. His neighbour sat staring, and Newman added: »What's the
matter, M. Nioche? You used to talk - to talk very prettily. Don't you remember
you even gave lessons in conversation?«
    At this M. Nioche decided to change his attitude. He stooped and picked up
the pug, lifted it to his face and wiped his eyes on its little soft back. »I am
afraid to speak to you,« he presently said, looking over the puppy's shoulder.
»I hoped you wouldn't notice me. I should have moved away, but I was afraid that
if I moved you would notice me. So I sat very still.«
    »I suspect you have a bad conscience, sir,« said Newman.
    The old man put down the little dog and held it carefully in his lap. Then
he shook his head, with his eyes still fixed upon his interlocutor. »No, Mr.
Newman, I have a good conscience,« he murmured.
    »Then why should you want to slink away from me?«
    »Because - because you don't understand my position.«
    »Oh, I think you once explained it to me,« said Newman. »But it seems
improved.«
    »Improved!« exclaimed M. Nioche, under his breath. »Do you call this
improvement?« And he glanced at the treasures in his arms.
    »Why, you are on your travels,« Newman rejoined. »A visit to London in the
season is certainly a sign of prosperity.«
    M. Nioche, in answer to this cruel piece of irony, lifted the puppy up to
his face again, peering at Newman with his small blank eye-holes. There was
something almost imbecile in the movement, and Newman hardly knew whether he was
taking refuge in a convenient affectation of unreason, or whether he had in fact
paid for his dishonour by the loss of his wits. In the latter case, just now, he
felt little more tenderly to the foolish old man than in the former. Responsible
or not, he was equally an accomplice of his detestably mischievous daughter.
Newman was going to leave him abruptly, when a ray of entreaty appeared to
disengage itself from the old man's misty gaze. »Are you going away?« he asked.
    »Do you want me to stay?« said Newman.
    »I should have left you - from consideration. But my dignity suffers at your
leaving me - that way.«
    »Have you got anything particular to say to me?«
    M. Nioche looked round him to see that no one was listening, and then he
said, very softly but distinctly, »I have not forgiven her!«
    Newman gave a short laugh, but the old man seemed for the moment not to
perceive it; he was gazing away, absently, at some metaphysical image of his
implacability. »It doesn't't much matter whether you forgive her or not,« said
Newman. »There are other people who won't, I assure you.«
    »What has she done?« M. Nioche softly questioned, turning round again. »I
don't know what she does, you know.«
    »She has done a devilish mischief; it doesn't't matter what,« said Newman.
»She's a nuisance; she ought to be stopped.«
    M. Nioche stealthily put out his hand and laid it very gently upon Newman's
arm. »Stopped, yes,« he whispered. »That's it. Stopped short. She is running
away - she must be stopped.« Then he paused a moment and looked round him. »I
mean to stop her,« he went on. »I am only waiting for my chance.«
    »I see,« said Newman, laughing briefly again. »She is running away and you
are running after her. You have run a long distance!«
    But M. Nioche stared insistently: »I shall stop her!« he softly repeated.
    He had hardly spoken when the crowd in front of them separated, as if by the
impulse to make way for an important personage. Presently, through the opening,
advanced Mademoiselle Nioche, attended by the gentleman whom Newman had lately
observed. His face being now presented to our hero, the latter recognised the
irregular features, the hardly more regular complexion, and the amiable
expression of Lord Deepmere. Noémie, on finding herself suddenly confronted with
Newman, who, like M. Nioche, had risen from his seat, faltered for a barely
perceptible instant. She gave him a little nod, as if she had seen him
yesterday, and then, with a good-natured smile, »Tiens, how we keep meeting!«
she said. She looked consummately pretty, and the front of her dress was a
wonderful work of art. She went up to her father, stretching out her hands for
the little dog, which he submissively placed in them, and she began to kiss it
and murmur over it: »To think of leaving him all alone - what a wicked,
abominable creature he must believe me! He has been very unwell,« she added,
turning and affecting to explain to Newman, with a spark of infernal impudence,
fine as a needle-point, in her eye. »I don't think the English climate agrees
with him.«
    »It seems to agree wonderfully well with his mistress,« said Newman.
    »Do you mean me? I have never been better, thank you,« Miss Noémie declared.
»But with milord,« and she gave a brilliant glance at her late companion, »how
can one help being well?« She seated herself in the chair from which her father
had risen, and began to arrange the little dog's rosette.
    Lord Deepmere carried off such embarrassment as might be incidental to this
unexpected encounter with the inferior grace of a male and a Briton. He blushed
a good deal, and greeted the object of his late momentary aspiration to rivalry
in the favour of a person other than the mistress of the invalid pug with an
awkward nod and a rapid ejaculation - an ejaculation to which Newman, who often
found it hard to understand the speech of English people, was able to attach no
meaning. Then the young man stood there, with his hand on his hip, and with a
conscious grin, staring askance at Miss Noémie. Suddenly an idea seemed to
strike him, and he said, turning to Newman, »Oh, you know her?«
    »Yes,« said Newman, »I know her. I don't believe you do.«
    »Oh dear, yes, I do!« said Lord Deepmere, with another grin. »I knew her in
Paris - by my poor cousin Bellegarde, you know. He knew her, poor fellow, didn't
he? It was she, you know, who was at the bottom of his affair. Awfully sad,
wasn't't it?« continued the young man, talking off his embarrassment as his simple
nature permitted. »They got up some story about its being for the Pope; about
the other man having said something against the Pope's morals. They always do
that, you know. They put it on the Pope because Bellegarde was once in the
Zouaves. But it was about her morals - she was the Pope!« Lord Deepmere pursued,
directing an eye illumined by this pleasantry toward Mademoiselle Nioche, who
was bending gracefully over her lap-dog, apparently absorbed in conversation
with it. »I daresay you think it rather odd that I should - ah - keep up the
acquaintance,« the young man resumed; »but she couldn't help it, you know, and
Bellegarde was only my twentieth cousin. I daresay you think it's rather cheeky,
my showing with her in Hyde Park; but you see she isn't known yet, and she's in
such very good form --« And Lord Deepmere's conclusion was lost in the attesting
glance which he again directed toward the young lady.
    Newman turned away; he was having more of her than he relished. M. Nioche
had stepped aside on his daughter's approach, and he stood there, within a very
small compass, looking down hard at the ground. It had never yet, as between him
and Newman, been so apposite to place on record the fact that he had not
forgiven his daughter. As Newman was moving away he looked up and drew near to
him, and Newman, seeing the old man had something particular to say, bent his
head for an instant.
    »You will see it some day in the papers,« murmured M. Nioche.
    Our hero departed to hide his smile, and to this day, though the newspapers
form his principal reading, his eyes have not been arrested by any paragraph
forming a sequel to this announcement.
 

                                  Chapter XXVI

In that uninitiated observation of the great spectacle of English life upon
which I have touched, it might be supposed that Newman passed a great many dull
days. But the dullness of his days pleased him; his melancholy, which was
settling into a secondary stage, like a healing wound, had in it a certain
acrid, palatable sweetness. He had company in his thoughts, and for the present
he wanted no other. He had no desire to make acquaintances, and he left
untouched a couple of notes of introduction which had been sent him by Tom
Tristram. He thought a great deal of Madame de Cintré - sometimes with a dogged
tranquillity which might have seemed, for a quarter of an hour at a time, a near
neighbour to forgetfulness. He lived over again the happiest hours he had known
- that silver chain of numbered days in which his afternoon visits, tending
sensibly to the ideal result, had subtilised his good humour to a sort of
spiritual intoxication. He came back to reality, after such reveries, with a
somewhat muffled shock; he had begun to feel the need of accepting the
unchangeable. At other times the reality became an infamy again and the
unchangeable an imposture, and he gave himself up to his angry restlessness till
he was weary. But on the whole he fell into a rather reflective mood. Without in
the least intending it or knowing it, he attempted to read the moral of his
strange misadventure. He asked himself, in his quieter hours, whether perhaps,
after all, he was more commercial than was pleasant. We know that it was in
obedience to a strong reaction against questions exclusively commercial that he
had come out to pick up aesthetic entertainment in Europe; it may therefore be
understood that he was able to conceive that a man might be too commercial. He
was very willing to grant it, but the concession, as to his own case, was not
made with any very oppressive sense of shame. If he had been too commercial, he
was ready to forget it, for in being so he had done no man any wrong that might
not be as easily forgotten. He reflected with sober placidity that at least
there were no monuments of his meanness scattered about the world. If there was
any reason in the nature of things why his connection with business should have
cast a shadow upon a connection - even a connection broken - with a woman justly
proud, he was willing to sponge it out of his life forever. The thing seemed a
possibility; he could not feel it, doubtless, as keenly as some people, and it
hardly seemed worth while to flap his wings very hard to rise to the idea; but
he could feel it enough to make any sacrifice that still remained to be made. As
to what such sacrifice was now to be made to, here Newman stopped short before a
blank wall over which there sometimes played a shadowy imagery. He had a fancy
of carrying out his life as he would have directed it if Madame de Cintré had
been left to him - of making it a religion to do nothing that she would have
disliked. In this, certainly there was no sacrifice; but there was a pale,
oblique ray of inspiration. It would be lonely entertainment - a good deal like
a man talking to himself in the mirror for want of better company. Yet the idea
yielded Newman several half hours' dumb exaltation as he sat, with his hands in
his pockets and his legs stretched, over the relics of an expensively poor
dinner, in the undying English twilight. If, however, his commercial imagination
was dead, he felt no contempt for the surviving actualities begotten by it. He
was glad he had been prosperous and had been a great man of business rather than
a small one; he was extremely glad he was rich. He felt no impulse to sell all
he had and give to the poor, or to retire into meditative economy and
asceticism. He was glad he was rich and tolerably young; if it was possible to
think too much about buying and selling, it was a gain to have a good slice of
life left in which not to think about them. Come, what should he think about
now? Again and again Newman could only think of one thing; his thoughts always
came back to it, and as they did so, with an emotional rush which seemed
physically to express itself in a sudden upward choking, he leaned forward - the
waiter having left the room - and, resting his arms on the table, buried his
troubled face.
    He remained in England till midsummer, and spent a month in the country,
wandering about among cathedrals, castles and ruins. Several times, taking a
walk from his inn into meadows and parks, he stopped by a well-worn stile,
looked across through the early evening at a gray church tower, with its dusky
nimbus of thickcircling swallows, and remembered that this might have been part
of the entertainment of his honeymoon. He had never been so much alone or
indulged so little in accidental dialogue. The period of recreation appointed by
Mrs. Tristram had at last expired, and he asked himself what he should do now.
Mrs. Tristram had written to him, proposing to him that he should join her in
the Pyrenees; but he was not in the humour to return to France. The simplest
thing was to repair to Liverpool and embark on the first American steamer.
Newman made his way to the great seaport and secured his berth; and the night
before sailing he sat in his room at the hotel, staring down, vacantly and
wearily, at an open portmanteau. A number of papers were lying upon it, which he
had been meaning to look over; some of them might conveniently be destroyed. But
at last he shuffled them roughly together, and pushed them into a corner of the
valise; they were business papers, and he was in no humour for sifting them.
Then he drew forth his pocket-book and took out a paper of smaller size than
those he had dismissed. He did not unfold it; he simply sat looking at the back
of it. If he had momentarily entertained the idea of destroying it, the idea
quickly expired. What the paper suggested was the feeling that lay in his
innermost heart and that no reviving cheerfulness could long quench - the
feeling that after all and above all he was a good fellow wronged. With it came
a hearty hope that the Bellegardes were enjoying their suspense as to what he
would do yet. The more it was prolonged the more they would enjoy it! He had
hung fire once, yes; perhaps, in his present queer state of mind, he might hang
fire again. But he restored the little paper to his pocketbook very tenderly,
and felt better for thinking of the suspense of the Bellegardes. He felt better
every time he thought of it after that, as he sailed the summer seas. He landed
in New York and journeyed across the continent to San Francisco, and nothing
that he observed by the way contributed to mitigate his sense of being a good
fellow wronged.
    He saw a great many other good fellows - his old friends - but he told none
of them of the trick that had been played him. He said simply that the lady he
was to have married had changed her mind, and when he was asked if he had
changed his own, he said, »Suppose we change the subject.« He told his friends
that he had brought home no new ideas from Europe, and his conduct probably
struck them as an eloquent proof of failing invention. He took no interest in
chatting about his affairs and manifested no desire to look over his accounts.
He asked half-a-dozen questions which, like those of an eminent physician
inquiring for particular symptoms, showed that he still knew what he was talking
about; but he made no comments and gave no directions. He not only puzzled the
gentlemen on the Stock Exchange, but he was himself surprised at the extent of
his indifference. As it seemed only to increase, he made an effort to combat it;
he tried to interest himself and to take up his old occupations. But they
appeared unreal to him; do what he would he somehow could not believe in them.
Sometimes he began to fear that there was something the matter with his head;
that his brain, perhaps, had softened, and that the end of his strong activities
had come. This idea came back to him with an exasperating force. A hopeless,
helpless loafer, useful to no one and detestable to himself - this was what the
treachery of the Bellegardes had made of him. In his restless idleness he came
back from San Francisco to New York, and sat for three days in the lobby of his
hotel, looking out through a huge wall of plate-glass at the unceasing stream of
pretty girls in Parisian-looking dresses, undulating past with little parcels
nursed against their neat figures. At the end of three days he returned to San
Francisco, and having arrived there he wished he had stayed away. He had nothing
to do, his occupation was gone, and it seemed to him that he should never find
it again. He had nothing to do here, he sometimes said to himself; but there was
something beyond the ocean that he was still to do; something that he had left
undone experimentally and speculatively, to see if it could content itself to
remain undone. But it was not content: it kept pulling at his heart-strings and
thumping at his reason; it murmured in his ears and hovered perpetually before
his eyes. It interposed between all new resolutions and their fulfilment; it
seemed like a stubborn ghost, dumbly entreating to be laid. Till that was done
he should never be able to do anything else.
    One day, toward the end of the winter, after a long interval, he received a
letter from Mrs. Tristram, who apparently was animated by a charitable desire to
amuse and distract her correspondent. She gave him much Paris gossip, talked of
General Packard and Miss Kitty Upjohn, enumerated the new plays at the theatre,
and enclosed a note from her husband, who had gone down to spend a month at
Nice. Then came her signature, and after this her postscript. The latter
consisted of these few lines: »I heard three days since from my friend, the Abbé
Aubert, that Madame de Cintré last week took the veil at the Carmelites. It was
on her twenty-seventh birthday, and she took the name of her patroness, St.
Veronica. Sister Veronica has a lifetime before her!«
    This letter came to Newman in the morning; in the evening he started for
Paris. His wound began to ache with its first fierceness, and during his long
bleak journey the thought of Madame de Cintré's lifetime, passed within prison
walls on whose outer side he might stand, kept him perpetual company. Now he
would fix himself in Paris forever; he would extort a sort of happiness from the
knowledge that if she was not there, at least the stony sepulchre that held her
was. He descended, unannounced, upon Mrs. Bread, whom he found keeping lonely
watch in his great empty saloons on the Boulevard Haussmann. They were as neat
as a Dutch village; Mrs. Bread's only occupation had been removing individual
dust-particles. She made no complaint, however, of her loneliness, for in her
philosophy a servant was but a mysteriously projected machine, and it would be
as fantastic for a housekeeper to comment upon a gentleman's absences as for a
clock to remark upon not being wound up. No particular clock, Mrs. Bread
supposed, kept all the time, and no particular servant could enjoy all the
sunshine diffused by the career of an exacting master. She ventured,
nevertheless, to express a modest hope that Newman meant to remain a while in
Paris. Newman laid his hand on hers and shook it gently. »I mean to remain
forever,« he said.
    He went after this to see Mrs. Tristram, to whom he had telegraphed, and who
expected him. She looked at him a moment and shook her head. »This won't do,«
she said; »you have come back too soon.« He sat down and asked about her husband
and her children, tried even to inquire about Miss Dora Finch. In the midst of
this - »Do you know where she is?« he asked, abruptly.
    Mrs. Tristram hesitated a moment; of course he couldn't mean Miss Dora
Finch. Then she answered, properly: »She has gone to the other house - in the
Rue d'Enfer.« After Newman had sat a while longer, looking very sombre, she went
on: »You are not so good a man as I thought. You are more - you are more --«
    »More what?« Newman asked.
    »More unforgiving.«
    »Good God!« cried Newman; »do you expect me to forgive?«
    »No, not that. I have not forgiven, so of course you can't. But you might
forget! You have a worse temper about it than I should have expected. You look
wicked - you look dangerous.«
    »I may be dangerous,« he said; »but I am not wicked. No, I am not wicked.«
And he got up to go. Mrs. Tristram asked him to come back to dinner; but he
answered that he did not feel like pledging himself to be present at an
entertainment, even as a solitary guest. Later in the evening, if he should be
able, he would come.
    He walked away through the city, beside the Seine and over it, and took the
direction of the Rue d'Enfer. The day had the softness of early spring; but the
weather was gray and humid. Newman found himself in a part of Paris which he
little knew - a region of convents and prisons, of streets bordered by long dead
walls and traversed by few wayfarers. At the intersection of two of these
streets stood the house of the Carmelites - a dull, plain edifice, with a
high-shouldered blank wall all round it. From without Newman could see its upper
windows, its steep roof and its chimneys. But these things revealed no symptoms
of human life; the place looked dumb, deaf, inanimate. The pale, dead,
discoloured wall stretched beneath it far down the empty side street - a vista
without a human figure. Newman stood there a long time; there were no passers;
he was free to gaze his fill. This seemed the goal of his journey; it was what
he had come for. It was a strange satisfaction, and yet it was a satisfaction;
the barren stillness of the place seemed to be his own release from ineffectual
longing. It told him that the woman within was lost beyond recall, and that the
days and years of the future would pile themselves above her like the huge
immovable slab of a tomb. These days and years, in this place, would always be
just so gray and silent. Suddenly, from the thought of their seeing him stand
there, again the charm utterly departed. He would never stand there again; it
was gratuitous dreariness. He turned away with a heavy heart, but with a heart
lighter than the one he had brought.
    Everything was over, and he too at last could rest. He walked down through
narrow, winding streets to the edge of the Seine again, and there he saw, close
above him, the soft, vast towers of Notre Dame. He crossed one of the bridges
and stood a moment in the empty place before the great cathedral; then he went
in beneath the grossly-imaged portals. He wandered some distance up the nave and
sat down in the splendid dimness. He sat a long time; he heard far-away bells
chiming off, at long intervals, to the rest of the world. He was very tired;
this was the best place he could be in. He said no prayers; he had no prayers to
say. He had nothing to be thankful for, and he had nothing to ask; nothing to
ask, because now he must take care of himself. But a great cathedral offers a
very various hospitality, and Newman sat in his place, because while he was
there he was out of the world. The most unpleasant thing that had ever happened
to him had reached its formal conclusion, as it were; he could close the book
and put it away. He leaned his head for a long time on the chair in front of
him; when he took it up he felt that he was himself again. Somewhere in his
mind, a tight knot seemed to have loosened. He thought of the Bellegardes; he
had almost forgotten them. He remembered them as people he had meant to do
something to. He gave a groan as he remembered what he had meant to do; he was
annoyed at having meant to do it; the bottom, suddenly, had fallen out of his
revenge. Whether it was Christian charity or unregenerate good nature - what it
was, in the background of his soul - I don't pretend to say; but Newman's last
thought was that of course he would let the Bellegardes go.
    If he had spoken it aloud he would have said that he didn't want to hurt
them. He was ashamed of having wanted to hurt them. They had hurt him, but such
things were really not his game. At last he got up and came out of the darkening
church; not with the elastic step of a man who has won a victory or taken a
resolve, but strolling soberly, like a good-natured man who is still a little
ashamed.
    Going home, he said to Mrs. Bread that he must trouble her to put back his
things into the portmanteau she had had unpacked the evening before. His gentle
stewardess looked at him through eyes a trifle bedimmed. »Dear me, sir,« she
exclaimed, »I thought you said that you were going to stay forever.«
    »I meant that I was going to stay away forever,« said Newman kindly. And
since his departure from Paris on the following day he has certainly not
returned. The gilded apartments I have so often spoken of stand ready to receive
him; but they serve only as a spacious residence for Mrs. Bread, who wanders
eternally from room to room, adjusting the tassels of the curtains, and keeps
her wages, which are regularly brought her by a banker's clerk, in a great pink
Sèvres vase on the drawing-room mantelshelf.
    Late in the evening Newman went to Mrs. Tristram's and found Tom Tristram by
the domestic fireside. »I'm glad to see you back in Paris,« this gentleman
declared. »You know it's really the only place for a white man to live.« Mr.
Tristram made his friend welcome, according to his own rosy light, and offered
him a convenient résumé of the Franco-American gossip of the last six months.
Then at last he got up and said he would go for half an hour to the club. »I
suppose a man who has been for six months in California wants a little
intellectual conversation. I'll let my wife have a go at you.«
    Newman shook hands heartily with his host, but did not ask him to remain;
and then he relapsed into his place on the sofa, opposite to Mrs. Tristram. She
presently asked him what he had done after leaving her. »Nothing particular,«
said Newman.
    »You struck me,« she rejoined, »as a man with a plot in his head. You looked
as if you were bent on some sinister errand, and after you had left me I
wondered whether I ought to have let you go.«
    »I only went over to the other side of the river - to the Carmelites,« said
Newman.
    Mrs. Tristram looked at him a moment and smiled. »What did you do there? Try
to scale the wall?«
    »I did nothing. I looked at the place for a few minutes and then came away.«
    Mrs. Tristram gave him a sympathetic glance. »You didn't happen to meet M.
de Bellegarde,« she asked, »staring hopelessly at the convent-wall as well? I am
told he takes his sister's conduct very hard.«
    »No, I didn't meet him, I am happy to say,« Newman answered, after a pause.
    »They are in the country,« Mrs. Tristram went on; »at - what is the name of
the place? - Fleurières. They returned there at the time you left Paris and have
been spending the year in extreme seclusion. The little marquise must enjoy it;
I expect to hear that she has eloped with her daughter's music-master!«
    Newman was looking at the light wood-fire; but he listened to this with
extreme interest. At last he spoke: »I mean never to mention the name of those
people again, and I don't want to hear anything more about them.« And then he
took out his pocketbook and drew forth a scrap of paper. He looked at it an
instant, then got up and stood by the fire. »I am going to burn them up,« he
said. »I am glad to have you as a witness. There they go!« And he tossed the
paper into the flame.
    Mrs. Tristram sat with her embroidery-needle suspended. »What is that
paper?« she asked.
    Newman, leaning against the fireplace, stretched his arms and drew a longer
breath than usual. Then after a moment, »I can tell you now,« he said. »It was a
paper containing a secret of the Bellegardes - something which would damn them
if it were known.«
    Mrs. Tristram dropped her embroidery with a reproachful moan. »Ah, why
didn't you show it to me?«
    »I thought of showing it to you - I thought of showing it to everyone. I
thought of paying my debt to the Bellegardes that way. So I told them, and I
frightened them. They have been staying in the country, as you tell me, to keep
out of the explosion. But I have given it up.«
    Mrs. Tristram began to take slow stitches again. »Have you quite given it
up?«
    »Oh yes.«
    »Is it very bad, this secret?«
    »Yes, very bad.«
    »For myself,« said Mrs. Tristram, »I am sorry you have given it up. I should
have liked immensely to see your paper. They have wronged me too, you know, as
your sponsor and guarantee, and it would have served for my revenge as well. How
did you come into possession of your secret?«
    »It's a long story. But honestly, at any rate.«
    »And they knew you were master of it?«
    »Oh, I told them.«
    »Dear me, how interesting!« cried Mrs. Tristram. »And you humbled them at
your feet?«
    Newman was silent a moment. »No, not at all. They pretended not to care -
not to be afraid. But I know they did care - they were afraid.«
    »Are you very sure?«
    Newman stared a moment. »Yes, I'm sure.«
    Mrs. Tristram resumed her slow stitches. »They defied you, eh?«
    »Yes,« said Newman, »it was about that.«
    »You tried by the threat of exposure to make them retract?« Mrs. Tristram
pursued.
    »Yes, but they wouldn't. I gave them their choice, and they chose to take
their chance of bluffing off the charge and convicting me of fraud. But they
were frightened,« Newman added, »and I have had all the vengeance I want.«
    »It is most provoking,« said Mrs. Tristram, »to hear you talk of the charge
when the charge is burnt up. Is it quite consumed?« she asked, glancing at the
fire.
    Newman assured her that there was nothing left of it.
    »Well then,« she said, »I suppose there is no harm in saying that you
probably did not make them so very uncomfortable. My impression would be that
since, as you say, they defied you, it was because they believed that, after
all, you would never really come to the point. Their confidence, after counsel
taken of each other, was not in their innocence, nor in their talent for
bluffing things off; it was in your remarkable good nature! You see they were
right.«
    Newman instinctively turned to see if the little paper was in fact consumed;
but there was nothing left of it.
