diff options
Diffstat (limited to '177-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 177-0.txt | 15099 |
1 files changed, 15099 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/177-0.txt b/177-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..716aeec --- /dev/null +++ b/177-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15099 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The American, by Henry James + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The American + +Author: Henry James + +Release Date: November, 1994 [eBook #177] +[Most recently updated: February 23, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Pauline J. Iacono, John Hamm and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMERICAN *** + +cover + + + + +The American + +by Henry James + +1877 + + +Contents + + + CHAPTER I + CHAPTER II + CHAPTER III + CHAPTER IV + CHAPTER V + CHAPTER VI + CHAPTER VII + CHAPTER VIII + CHAPTER IX + CHAPTER X + CHAPTER XI + CHAPTER XII + CHAPTER XIII + CHAPTER XIV + CHAPTER XV + CHAPTER XVI + CHAPTER XVII + CHAPTER XVIII + CHAPTER XIX + CHAPTER XX + CHAPTER XXI + CHAPTER XXII + CHAPTER XXIII + CHAPTER XXIV + CHAPTER XXV + CHAPTER XXVI + + + + +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 vigor that +is commonly known as “toughness.” But his exertions on this particular +day had been of an unwonted sort, and he had 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 æsthetic 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 +homœopathy. 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-humored, 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 favorable moment; he is by +no means sitting for his portrait. But listless as he lounges there, +rather baffled on the æsthetic 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 +by-play, 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 guide-book. 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 it’s 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 honor 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 color 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 +scant 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 even 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 favor, to forbear; but he would admit at the +same time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favors. + +“Monsieur has bought my picture,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “When it’s +finished you’ll 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’ll +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; he looked 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 much 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 obeisance. 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 had 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 neighbor. +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-humor, 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 blue-lined 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 ardor. + +“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 tested 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 you—your person is +recognized.” + +“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 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 honor 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 mediæval monk. At one time failure seemed inexorably his +portion; ill-luck became his bed-fellow, 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-fifth 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 +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 a while 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 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, anyway?” he demanded. “Are you going to +write a book?” + +Christopher Newman twisted one end of his moustache a while, 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 traveling 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 dare say that a twelvemonth hence the operation +will be reversed. The pendulum will swing back again. I shall be +sitting in a 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 du 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-colored façades which decorate with their +pompous sameness the broad avenues manufactured by Baron Haussmann in +the neighborhood 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-favored 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 +organized. 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-humoredly, 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 evening 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 a while, 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 +recognize 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 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 a +while 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 civilized 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 a while. “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 do +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 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 tomorrow.” + +“You have a strange tone about it, and I don’t quite understand you. I +didn’t suppose you would be so coldblooded 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 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 splendor.” + +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 a while. “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 afterward, 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 recognized 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 pike-staff. 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 a 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 de 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 resolution. “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 diffusing 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 reflection, good-humored +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 marvelous 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 anglicized 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 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 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 traveling 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 civilization 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 postprandial _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 endeavor 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 +labor 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 cooperation +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 splendors 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 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 armchair 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 tomorrow 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 endeavor, 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 honor 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 curtsey 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 +favor. + +“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 _comme 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 color 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 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 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 splendor 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 æsthetic 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 colorless to the ordinary sentimental traveler, 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 civilization; 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 one’s self with a standard. One’s standard was the ideal of +one’s own good-humored 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 unpractical 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 humor 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 +porticos 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 sometimes 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 +neighborhood, 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 these 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 traveler’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-travelers 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 æsthetic 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 realization +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 characterize 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 recognized his gifts +among the articles that Newman had in daily use. + +They traveled 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 overestimated 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 traveling 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, however, 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 traveling 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 +humor forbade his taking them seriously. He wrote no answer at all but +a day or two afterward 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 symbolize? 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 +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 tolerably 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 moralize 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 moralizing. It +had come back to him simply that what he had been looking at all summer +was a very rich and beautiful world, and that it had not all been made +by sharp railroad men and stock-brokers. + +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, + + + + +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 +to-morrow.” + +“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 affection +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 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 splendor, 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 the 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 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 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 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 a while, 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 of thing 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 afterward. 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 paneled 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, recognized 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 fire-side 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 marveled 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 mantel-shelf, 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 paneling 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 moustaches +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 favor, 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 mantel-shelf and begun 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 courtesy 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 favor. 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 +splendor—those many-colored rays—which illumine the brows 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 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, eying 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 parlor and +eying 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 splendor, 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 practiced 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 economizing 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 favorable 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 a while. 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 goodwill, 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 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 favor +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, light-headed as he was, the +honor 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 your 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 to 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 recognize +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 Castlefidardo. +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 +forever. 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 very 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-humor. 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 recognized 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 traveling 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 stock-holders. 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 a while. “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 +concerned 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 _honor_; 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 curtain +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 odor 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 chattering 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 favor; 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 color 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-defense; 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-honored 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 +walked 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 shoveled 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 stupified 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 looked only 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 disk 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 other 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 +ball-room. + + + + +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 a while, 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 worst 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 upward 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 for a while, 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 +mantel-shelf, 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’m 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 +realized.” + +“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 tradition, 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 won’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 patronize 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 recognize 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 anyone 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, a while 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 sympathize 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 anyone 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 a while 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 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 fingers upon 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 de +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 helped 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 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 someone 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 +haven’t said, I can’t say, half I mean, especially about my admiration +for you. But take a favorable 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 honor. 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 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 in 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 has stepped across the frontier of friendship and, +looking around 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 moralized 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 a while, and when you 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 humor 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 the ardor +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 +on 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 +characterized by the usual justice of all human beings 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 +favor 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 colors, 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 recognized 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 hand-shake +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 coloring 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 mile-stone 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 someone—I forgot 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 younger 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 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 +eye he looked much like an Englishman. His whiskers were fair and +glossy, and he had a large dimple, of unmistakably 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 one’s +self 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 +traveling 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 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 patronized; 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 manifestation, 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 good 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 haven’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 haven’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 door. 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 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 favor 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, madame.” 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 slowly rose to her feet. “That really is your project, +then?” + +“Yes; will you favor it?” + +“Favor 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 favor 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 favor 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 installments. +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 ardor, and assured him that he was a +godsend. He himself was in the worst of humors and he wanted someone to +contradict. + +“In a bad humor 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 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 splendor, 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, +coloring 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 colors 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 colors 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?” + +“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 even, patient shuffle, and he +made a low salute to the two gentlemen who were standing before his +daughter’s easel. Newman shook his hands 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 toward 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 on 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 dishonor.” + +“_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 honor 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 +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 +honor 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 +illuminated 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 exclaimed 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 the 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 favor? 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 neighbors. +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 bare-footed 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 fire-place, 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 favors—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 favor.” + +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 apologize 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 belongs 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-humoredly. “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 favor your suit. My mother has desired me to inform you of +our decision. She will have the honor 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 imagined 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 honor 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 of 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 honor 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 realize 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 neck cloth 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 favor; 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 _vieille 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”—_le 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 to-night. 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 conversations 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 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 favorable 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 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 favor.” + +“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 that 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 a while, 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 gray 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 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 a while 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 whomsoever 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 someone—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 favorably.” + +“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 +misdemeanors 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 humor,” 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 æsthetic +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 colorless 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 odor 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 scandalized, 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 a while, 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 curtsey. + +“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 her message, she advanced into the room. She looked about her for +a moment, and presently went to a 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 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 suppose, 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 had 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 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 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 +curtsey 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 _portière_ 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 honor. 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 a while 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 +one’s self.” + +“What do you mean,” asked Madame de Cintré, “by resembling one’s self?” + +“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 this gold-colored 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 vise, 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 probable failure in the past to profit by rare +educational advantages. He remarked that Paris was awfully jolly, but +that for real, thorough-paced 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 +favorite 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’m going to change now,” said Newman. “I don’t mean that I am +going to be indelicate; but I’m 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 here. 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 ardor 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 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 +honorable 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 honor 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 wall 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 around, 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 God. 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’m 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 ‘everyone’ +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 a while into the crown of his hat. “We +have been prepared,” he said at last “but it is inevitable that in 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 forgot 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 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 someone 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 someone 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 then they 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 dispatched but +three electric missives, he received no less than eight gratulatory +bulletins in return. He put them into his pocket-book, 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 offense 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 honor, 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 Français, 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 honor +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 honor to think for a while that you might be such a chance. You +were not; so she gathered up her patience and waited a while 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 +window-pane, 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 recognized me, and I had to hear her history for the last +six years. But after that, I put her upon that of her neighbors. 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 pocket-book, 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 neighboring 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 recognized 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 honor 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 +honor, 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 colors, and 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 favor, 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 his 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?” + +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 horrible,” 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 all amity; the old gentleman’s rigor +was purely theoretic. Newman confessed that he was disappointed; he +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 has not forgiven her. But +she’ll never find it out.” + +“We must do him the justice to suppose he doesn’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 +recognized 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 was 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 color, she is upon my +honor, extremely entertaining.” + +“It’s a fine list of attractions,” said Newman; “they would serve as a +police-detective’s description of a favorite 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 +lovable. 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 +stopped 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 in 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 +every one and everything in these days; I am in high good-humor.” + +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 offense, 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 a while, 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 a while. 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? It is 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 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 apologize for their never +being present. “They are much taken up,” she said, “with doing the +honors 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 around behind her) with a little passionate hiss, “I know you +detest my husband; let me have the pleasure of assuring you for once +that 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 started 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 broom-sticks 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 +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 crescent and full disks. + +“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 the silver +dagger, 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 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 splendor 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 +humor to receive none but agreeable impressions, and he looked no more +narrowly than to perceive that everyone was brilliant, and to feel that +the sun of their brilliancy was a part of his credit. “I will present +you to some people,” said M. de Bellegarde after a while. “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 presented you?” + +“Upon my word, I forgot 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 and +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 checkered, 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 amazing “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 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 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 flavor 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 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 savor 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 +a while. “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’s 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 +color. + +“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 recognized 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 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’s to Lord Deepmere’s credit, but it is not to everyone’s,” said +Madam 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 Cintré, “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 honor 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, harmonized 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 a while 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 practiced grace; when she lowered it, +Newman perceived a pair of plump white shoulders and the edge of a +rose-colored 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 recognized 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 rejoiced. “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 a while 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 door-mat,” 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 +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 favor. 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 favor 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 to me +for 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 gad-about? 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 favors 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 moralize 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 ardor 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 favoring 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 +doorknob. “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 else!” 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 emphasized 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 +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 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, colored 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 to-morrow, 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 honor.” + +“Oh, confound your sense of honor!” 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 satirizing +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 of 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 +traveling 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 +dueling,” 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 honor hasn’t two different measures. +It only knows that it is hurt; it doesn’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 honor.” + +“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 traveling. Behind her, before the +fire-place, 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 make any difference. I thought you +promised me you wouldn’t interfere. I thought you swore on your honor +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 favor 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 expected, 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 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 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 endeavored 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 favors 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 great 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 a person you want. I never +talked 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 he 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 a while 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 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-travelers 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 honor,” 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 honor 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 not 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 dispatched 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 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 traveling-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 fingertips. 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 +downstairs 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 honor 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 +daylight, had a sort of amiably saturnine cast; he had a very large +thin nose, and looked like a Spanish picture. He appeared to think +dueling 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, etc., 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 +generalization. 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 humor 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 Alps and purple Jura at either end of the +little street. The day was brilliant; early spring was in the air and +in the 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 +Honor 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 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 yet account to me for all her actions.” And, after +a fashion, he smiled. + +Valentin looked at him a moment. “Have you quarreled?” + +“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 +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 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 rap +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 color 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 outgush 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 a while, and his flush died away. “Don’t tell me +any more,” he said at last. “I’m ashamed.” + +“You? You are the soul of honor,” 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 apologize,” he +said. “Do you understand? Here on my death-bed. I apologize for my +family. For my mother. For my brother. For the ancient house of +Bellegarde. _Voilà!_” he added softly. + +Newman for an 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 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 honors 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 here. 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 the 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 pall-bearers +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 tomb-side 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 tranquil river. 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 of 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 apologize—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 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 +honor; 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 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 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 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 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 criticize 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 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 an 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 patronized and satirized 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 designed 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 hand! 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 a while, looking through the bars at 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 ignobler 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 curtseying; but +the curtsey 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 eye-beams as they found available they leveled 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 honor. 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 Sœur 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 apologized to me for your conduct. He apologized 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 apologized.” + +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 +dishonor. 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 honor. 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 dishonor 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 imagined 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-parlor. 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 recognize Mrs. Bread, in spite of the fact +that she was dressed with unwonted splendor. 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 favorable 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 offense. 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 it 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 fervor +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 dishonor you will +draw down on Madame de Cintré.” + +“Madame de Cintré is buried alive,” cried Newman. “What are honor or +dishonor to her? The door of the tomb is at this moment closing behind +her.” + +“Yes, it’s 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 a while, 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 to-morrow, 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 free-spoken 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 dare say I have been wicked, but my grudge +has grown old with me. It has grown good for nothing, too, I dare say; +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 color, +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 honor 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 mothers. 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 far 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 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. 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 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 handwriting. 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 childbirth, 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 dishonor on a great +house. And it was the same with Mademoiselle. She didn’t know what +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 and 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 will 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 waistcoat pocket. “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 toward 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 pocket-book, 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 gate-house 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 endeavored 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 +night-fall, 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 were +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 sisters; 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 chambre_ 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 on 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 in 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 +investigation 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 housekeeper, 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 around 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 honorable 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 cabman 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 make 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 travelers +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 the 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 colored 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 either 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 the good sister with the +high-colored cheeks and the fanlike 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 recognized 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 +behavior immediately in hand. Newman hurried past them, guided only by +the desire to get out of the convent walls and 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 recognized 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 +Bellegarde 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 favor. 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 cœur 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 into 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; he 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 offense. “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. “That 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 rigor 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 has 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-defense 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 rancor 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 discolored 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 supposed 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 for 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 marvelous 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 +country-women, 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 cognizance was taken of +grievance; 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, farther, 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_, characterized 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 favors 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 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 again 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 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 Armory, 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 honor 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 dispatch 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 pigeon-holed 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 favor 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 white-bait 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, marveled 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 back 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 am 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 neighbors 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 +neighbors. 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 neighbor, 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 +neighbor’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 neighbor 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’m 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 dishonor 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 around 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 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 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 recognized 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 needlepoint, 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 favor 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 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 dare say 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 dare say 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 +neighbor 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 subtilized his good +humor 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 æsthetic +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 think only 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 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 thick-circling 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 humor 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 humor 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 +pocket-book 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 +heartstrings and thumping at his reason; it murmured in his ears and +hovered perpetually before his eyes. It interposed between all new +resolutions and their fulfillment; 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 +“life-time,” 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, went 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 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 a 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, +discolored 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 had 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 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 pocket-book 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. + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMERICAN *** + +***** This file should be named 177-0.txt or 177-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/177/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + |