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The American
by Henry James
1877



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 Carre, 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
Badeker; his attention had been strained and his eyes dazzled,
and he had sat down with an aesthetic headache.  He had looked,
moreover, not only at all the pictures, but at all the copies
that were going forward around them, in the hands of those
innumerable young women in irreproachable toilets who devote
themselves, in France, to the propagation of masterpieces, and
if the truth must be told, he had often admired the copy much
more than the original.  His physiognomy would have sufficiently
indicated that he was a shrewd and capable fellow, and in truth
he had often sat up all night over a bristling bundle of
accounts, and heard the cock crow without a yawn.  But Raphael
and Titian and Rubens were a new kind of arithmetic, and they
inspired our friend, for the first time in his life, with a
vague self-mistrust.

An observer with anything of an eye for national types would
have had no difficulty in determining the local origin of this
undeveloped connoisseur, and indeed such an observer might have
felt a certain humorous relish of the almost ideal completeness
with which he filled out the national mould.  The gentleman on
the divan was a powerful specimen of an American.  But he was
not only a fine American; he was in the first place, physically,
a fine man.  He appeared to possess that kind of health and
strength which, when found in perfection, are the most
impressive--the physical capital which the owner does nothing to
"keep up."  If he was a muscular Christian, it was quite without
knowing it.  If it was necessary to walk to a remote spot, he
walked, but he had never known himself to "exercise."  He had no
theory with regard to cold bathing or the use of Indian clubs;
he was neither an oarsman, a rifleman, nor a fencer--he had
never had time for these amusements--and he was quite unaware
that the saddle is recommended for certain forms of indigestion.
 He was by inclination a temperate man; but he had supped the
night before his visit to the Louvre at the Cafe Anglais--some
one 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 homeopathy.  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 mustache 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 skeptical,
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 mustache, 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
aesthetic question, and guilty of the damning fault (as we have
lately discovered it to be) of confounding the merit of the
artist with that of his work (for he admires the squinting
Madonna of the young lady with the boyish coiffure, because he
thinks the young lady herself uncommonly taking), he is a
sufficiently promising acquaintance.  Decision, salubrity,
jocosity, prosperity, seem to hover within his call; he is
evidently a practical man, but the idea in his case, has
undefined and mysterious boundaries, which invite the
imagination to bestir itself on his behalf.

As the little copyist proceeded with her work, she sent every
now and then a responsive glance toward her admirer.  The
cultivation of the fine arts appeared to necessitate, to her
mind, a great deal of byplay, a great standing off with folded
arms and head drooping from side to side, stroking of a dimpled
chin with a dimpled hand, sighing and frowning and patting of
the foot, fumbling in disordered tresses for wandering
hair-pins.  These performances were accompanied by a restless
glance, which lingered longer than elsewhere upon the gentleman
we have described.  At last he rose abruptly, put on his hat,
and approached the young lady.  He placed himself before her
picture and looked at it for some moments, during which she
pretended to be quite unconscious of his inspection.  Then,
addressing her with the single word which constituted the
strength of his French vocabulary, and holding up one finger in
a manner which appeared to him to illuminate his meaning,
"Combien?" he abruptly demanded.

The artist stared a moment, gave a little pout, shrugged her
shoulders, put down her palette and brushes, and stood rubbing
her hands.

"How much?" said our friend, in English.  "Combien?"

"Monsieur wishes to buy it?" asked the young lady in French.

"Very pretty, splendide.  Combien?" repeated the American.

"It pleases monsieur, my little picture?  It's a very beautiful
subject," said the young lady.

"The Madonna, yes; I am not a Catholic, but I want to buy it.
Combien?  Write it here." And he took a pencil from his pocket
and showed her the fly-leaf of his 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 simply trying to look indifferent, and wondering how far she
might go.  "I haven't made a mistake--pas insulte, 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
Sevres 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 sur!  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 porte-monnaie, 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.  Noemie 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 Noemie.  "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 Noemie.
"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 Noemie.  "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 Noemie.  "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--tres-superieure!  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, ah!"

"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 Noemie.

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
Noemie, 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 Noemie, 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. Helas, 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
Noemie; "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 Noemie.

"What he pleases, I may say?"

"Never!  That's bad style."

"If he asks, then?"

Mademoiselle Noemie 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 commercant; he placed me for a
year in a counting-house in England.  Some of it stuck to me;
but I have forgotten!"

"How much French can I learn in a month?"

"What does he say?" asked Mademoiselle Noemie.

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 Noemie 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 any one.  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
menfolk?"

"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
jewelers, 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'Iena."

"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 age, 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 cafe 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 gayety 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 mediaeval
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 any one,
or anything.  I'm not proud, I assure you I'm not proud.  That's
why I am willing to take example by the clever people."

"Well, if I'm not the rose, as they say here, I have lived near
it.  I can show you some clever people, too.  Do you know
General Packard?  Do you know C. P. Hatch?  Do you know Miss
Kitty Upjohn?"

"I shall be happy to make their acquaintance; I want to
cultivate society."

Tristram seemed restless and suspicious; he eyed his friend
askance, and then, "What are you up to, any way?" he demanded.
"Are you going to write a book?"

Christopher Newman twisted one end of his mustache 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."

39 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 facades
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 installments.

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
every one'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'Iena.  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'Iena, 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'Iena 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."

"Voila 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'Universite, 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 Cintre'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 mustache.
"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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre.
"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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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 Cintre was her dearest Claire, and
her especial admiration but Madame de Cintre had found it
impossible to dine with her and Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre
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 Cintre 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 Cintre shook her
friend's hand.

"A moment longer," said Mrs. Tristram.

Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre'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 facade 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, graveled
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 Cintre 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 Cintre.

"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 defense, 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 Cintre.  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 Cintre," 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 Cintre 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 Noemie, 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 cafe, 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--, charcutiere 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 Theatre Francais.

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 Noemie 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 Noemie'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 Noemie 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 Noemie 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 tete.  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.  Noemie 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 Noemie discovered that she passed her life in
her arm-chair and had only two visitors, her confessor and her
nephew: the confessor very strict, and the nephew a man of
fifty, with a broken nose and a government clerkship of two
thousand francs.  She threw her old lady over, bought a
paint-box, a canvas, and a new dress, and went and set up her
easel in the Louvre.  There in one place and another, she has
passed the last two years; I can't say it has made us
millionaires.  But Noemie 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 Noemie 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 Carre.  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 Noemie, "we will
pass the review."

They walked slowly round the room, then passed into the others
and strolled about for half an hour.  Mademoiselle Noemie
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 Noemie, 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 Noemie,
"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 Noemie.

"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 Noemie.

"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 Noemie 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 Noemie 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
fiancee?"

"Yes, I am tolerably free."

"You are very happy," said Mademoiselle Noemie, 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 Noemie 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 Carre?"
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 Noemie 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 Medicis? 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 Noemie's sudden frankness was not essentially more
honest than her leaving him in error would have been.  She was
playing a game; she was not simply taking pity on his aesthetic
verdancy.  What was it she expected to win?  The stakes were
high and the risk was great; the prize therefore must have been
commensurate.  But even granting that the prize might be great,
Newman could not resist a movement of admiration for his
companion's intrepidity.  She was throwing away with one hand,
whatever she might intend to do with the other, a very handsome
sum of money.

"Are you joking," he said, "or are you serious?"

"Oh, serious!" cried Mademoiselle Noemie, but with her
extraordinary smile.

"I know very little about pictures or now 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 Noemie.

"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 Noemie.  "But rather than earn my living as same
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 maitres de cafes!  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-by!" 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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 Noemie; 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 Hotel 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 Elysees 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'hote 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 aesthetic analysis, and received
peculiar impressions from everything he saw.  But nevertheless
in his secret soul he detested Europe, and he felt an irritating
need to protest against Newman's gross intellectual hospitality.
 Mr. Babcock's moral malaise, I am afraid, lay deeper than where
any definition of mine can reach it.  He mistrusted the European
temperament, he suffered from the European climate, he hated the
European dinner-hour; European life seemed to him unscrupulous
and impure.  And yet he had an exquisite sense of beauty; and as
beauty was often inextricably associated with the above
displeasing conditions, as he wished, above all, to be just and
dispassionate, and as he was, furthermore, extremely devoted to
"culture," he could not bring himself to decide that Europe was
utterly bad.  But he thought it was very bad indeed, and his
quarrel with Newman was that this unregulated epicure had a
sadly insufficient perception of the bad.  Babcock himself
really knew as little about the bad, in any quarter of the
world, as a nursing infant, his most vivid 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 became 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 Cintre's.  If he
wanted to see more of the world, should he find it in Madame de
Cintre'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'Iena, 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'appetit 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'Universite.  Do you
ever hear from that pretty lady?  If you can get her to promise
she will be at home the next time I call, I will go back to
Paris straight.  I am more than ever in the state of mind I told
you about that evening; I want a first-class wife.  I have kept
an eye on all the pretty girls I have come across this summer,
but none of them came up to my notion, or anywhere near it.  I
should have enjoyed all this a thousand times more if I had had
the lady just mentioned by my side.  The nearest approach to her
was a Unitarian minister from Boston, who very soon demanded a
separation, for incompatibility of temper.  He told me I was
low-minded, immoral, a devotee of 'art for art'--whatever that
is: all of which greatly afflicted me, for he was really a sweet
little fellow.  But shortly afterwards I met an Englishman, with
whom I struck up an acquaintance which at first seemed to
promise well--a very bright man, who writes in the London papers
and knows Paris nearly as well as Tristram.  We knocked about
for a week together, but he very soon gave me up in disgust.  I
was too virtuous by half; I was too stern a moralist.  He told
me, in a friendly way, that I was cursed with a conscience; that
I judged things like a Methodist and talked about them like an
old lady.  This was rather bewildering.  Which of my two critics
was I to believe?  I didn't worry about it and very soon made up
my mind they were both idiots.  But there is one thing in which
no one will ever have the impudence to pretend I am wrong, that
is, in being your faithful friend,

C. N."



CHAPTER VI


Newman gave up Damascus and Bagdad and returned to Paris before
the autumn was over.  He established himself in some rooms
selected for him by Tom Tristram, in accordance with the
latter's estimate of what he called his social position.  When
Newman learned that his social position was to be taken into
account, he professed himself utterly incompetent, and begged
Tristram to relieve him of the care.  "I didn't know I had a
social position," he said, "and if I have, I haven't the
smallest idea what it is.  Isn't a social position knowing some
two or three thousand people and inviting them to dinner?  I
know you and your wife and little old Mr. Nioche, who gave me
French lessons last spring.  Can I invite you to dinner to meet
each other?  If I can, you must come 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 Cintre, 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 mere, and you
have no right to judge her.  You have simply to obey.  The thing
has a fine side to it.  Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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
Cintre 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!  Some one 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 Cintre!"

"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 Cintre, 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 Cintre'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'Universite.  The early evening had closed in as
he applied for admittance at the stoutly guarded Hotel de
Bellegarde.  He was told that Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre.  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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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 Cintre, presently.

"Oh, magnificent!" said Newman.  "You ought to see it."

"I shall never see it," said Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre; "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 mustache.

"Your house is tremendously old, then," said Newman.

"How old is it, brother?" asked Madame de Cintre.

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 Cintre.

"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 mustaches 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 Cintre; 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 Cintre 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 Cintre answered.

"Nothing venture, nothing have!" cried the young man. "Will you
come?"

Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre.

The young man obeyed, and presently a servant brought in the
tea, placed the tray on a small table, and departed.  Madame de
Cintre, 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 Cintre and presented her forehead to be kissed.  Madame de
Cintre 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 any thing 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 Cintre.  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 Cintre 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
Cintre, 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 Cintre, 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.

"l 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 Cintre.

"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 Cintre 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 Cintre.

"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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre.

"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 Cintre.

Newman got up.  "Well, we shall see," he said smoothing his hat
with his coat-cuff.

"Brother," said Madame de Cintre, "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 Cintre, 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
Cintre," said Newman.

"You will need all the more courage."

"Ah, Valentin!" said Madame de Cintre, 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 Cintre 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
Cintre, 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 Cintre'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 mustache 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, "Every one 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 any one 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
obligated 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 it's 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 roturiere, 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. Honore, 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-a-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 egal, 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 Cintre.  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
Cintre'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 Cintre.  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 Cintre 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 hotel 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 Cintre 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 gayety, and gayety 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 seance, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 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 Cintre."

"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
bourgoisie--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.  l 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 Cintre."

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 any thing particular to be done, let me know and l will
do it.  I wouldn't for the world approach Madame de Cintre
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 any one you please.  As I
don't know any one 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 Cintre 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 any one else. This is a line of speculation I
should not have chosen, but you must remember you began it
yourself.  I should never have dreamed that I was on the
defensive, or that I had to justify myself; but if your people
will have it so, I will do my best."

"But you offered, 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 Cintre
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 Cintre ambitious?"

"Who knows?" said Bellegarde, with a profound shrug.  "I don't
pretend to say all that she is or all that she is not.  I think
she might be touched by the prospect of becoming the wife of a
great man.  But in a certain way, I believe, whatever she does
will be the IMPROBABLE.  Don't be too confident, but don't
absolutely doubt.  Your best chance for success will be
precisely in being, to her mind, unusual, unexpected, original.
Don't try to be any one else; be simply yourself, out and out.
Something or other can't fail to come of it; I am very curious
to see what."

"I am much obliged to you for your advice," said Newman.  "And,"
he added with a smile, "I am glad, for your sake, I am going to
be so amusing."

"It will be more than amusing," said Bellegarde; "it will be
inspiring.  I look at it from my point of view, and you from
yours.  After all, anything for a change!  And only yesterday I
was yawning so as to dislocate my jaw, and declaring that there
was nothing new under the sun!  If it isn't new to see you come
into the family as a suitor, I am very much mistaken.  Let me
say that, my dear fellow; I won't call it anything else, bad or
good; I will simply call it NEW"  And overcome with a sense
of the novelty thus foreshadowed, Valentin de Bellegarde threw
himself into a deep arm-chair 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-la, 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 some one 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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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 Cintre'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 Cintre
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 Cintre.  "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 Cintre started slightly, and raised her eyebrows; she
had evidently not expected so fervid a compliment.  "Oh, in that
case," she said with a laugh, "your finding me alone is not good
luck for me.  I hope some one will come in quickly."

"I hope not," said Newman.  "I have something particular to say
to you.  Have you seen your brother?"

"Yes, I saw him an hour ago."

"Did he tell you that he had seen me last night?"

"He said so."

"And did he tell you what we had talked about?"

Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre.  "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 Cintre.  "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 Cintre, 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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
naif 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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  "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 Cintre'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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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-by, 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 Cintre a few hours before.

"I know it," said Bellegarde.  "I dined in the Rue de
l'Universite."  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
Cintre?" 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'Iena 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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'Iena 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 Cintre.  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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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'Universite
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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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'Universite 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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 some one--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 every
one."

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 frere."

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 Cintre.  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 facade.

"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 voila,
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 Cintre 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 Cintre almost fiercely.  With
her back turned to the others, Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre
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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Noemie;
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 Elysees, 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 Noemie 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 some one 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 Noemie 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
Noemie 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
Noemie 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 Noemie 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
Noemie 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 Zurich
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 Noemie
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 Noemie.

"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 Noemie.

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 Noemie to make a parcel of her implements, he let
his mild, oblique gaze hover toward Bellegarde, who was watching
Mademoiselle Noemie 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 Noemie 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 philosophization 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 Noemie 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
Noemie 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
Noemie," 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 Noemie 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
Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  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 Cintre, "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 Cintre.  "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 every one very amiable."

"It was on your conscience," said Newman, "that you had annoyed
your mother and your brother."

Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre
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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Legislatif.  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 Cintre.  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
Cintre 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 Cintre?" 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Rochefidele,
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
Cintre.

"I have been telling Madame de la Rochefidele 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 Rochefidele 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 Rochefidele says that she is convinced that she
must have seen Americans without knowing it," Madame de Cintre
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
Cintre--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 Rochefidele, 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 Rochefidele.  "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 marquise 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
arm-chair 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 Rochefidele and his wife were preparing to take their
leave, and Madame de Cintre'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 Cintre 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 Noemie 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'Universite, and during the next six weeks he saw Madame
de Cintre 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 heart-ache; 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 Cintre
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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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 absense 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 Cintre 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 gayety.  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 Cintre'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 Cintre 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 some one 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 some one--all from a
sense of duty, of course."

"How can you be so dreadful?" sighed Mrs. Tristram.

"I am not dreadful.  I am speaking of her favorably."

"Pray what will you say when you want to be severe?"

"I shall keep my severity for some one 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 some one 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
aesthetic theory, but something as natural and organic as a
physical appetite which had never been put on a scanty allowance
and consequently was innocent of ungraceful eagerness.  His
tranquil unsuspectingness of the relativity of his own place in
the social scale was probably irritating to M. de Bellegarde,
who saw himself reflected in the mind of his potential
brother-in-law in a crude and 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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
tire-woman, 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 Cintre."

"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 Cintre
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 Cintre been in bad spirits before this?" he asked.

"Poor lady, she had good reason.  M. de Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre
came in by an opposite door.  She noticed the movement of the
other portiere 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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  "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 Cintre.

"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 any one.  It is hard enough work
resembling one's self."

"What do you mean," asked Madame de Cintre, "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 Cintre 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 l 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 habitues.  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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  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 Cintre 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 Cintre.

"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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  "It's a disagreeable
position."

"For them, you mean.  Not for me."

"For me," said Madame de Cintre.

"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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 some one 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre.

"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 Cintre, that they constituted
only a naivete.  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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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'Universite he had the
good fortune to find Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre.

"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 Cintre 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 l
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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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
up-stairs.  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 every one."

"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 every one," she said.

"What an uncomfortable state of mind!" said Newman.  "Does
'every one' wish to prevent my marriage?"

"I am afraid of already having said too much," Mrs. Bread
replied.  "I won't take it back, but I won't say any more."  And
she took her way up the staircase again and led him into Madame
de Cintre's salon.

Newman indulged in a brief and silent imprecation when he found
that Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 mere," said Madame de Cintre.

"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 Cintre 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 Cintre;
"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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  "I don't know how he arranges it."

"I arrange it by adoring you, my sister," said Valentin
ardently.  "Good-by."

"Adore some one whom you can marry," said Newman.  "I will
arrange that for you some day.  I foresee that I am going to
turn apostle."

Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment with a
face that had turned grave.  "I adore some one I can't marry!"
he said.  And he dropped the portiere and departed.

"They don't like it," said Newman, standing alone before Madame
de Cintre.

"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 Cintre, "It shall not
bother you."  And then they talked of their marriage-day, and
Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Theatre Francais, 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 every one among her friends whom I have met at her house or
elsewhere, every one 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 every one shall know
what it is about, that is, to celebrate my engagement to the
Countess de Cintre.  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 fete champetre--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 fete,"
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 any one so fine as Madame Frezzolini, but we shall have
some very good people.  After that you may talk of your own
fete."  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'Universite 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 fete of the 25th was an
invention of the moment.  She had no idea whatever of giving a
fete, 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 fete, 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 Noemie'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 Noemie 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 Noemie, 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 Cafe 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 Cafe 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.  "Garcon,
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 Noemie, 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
Noemie 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?" Noemie 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 Noemie 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 a while," she added.  "I mean to succeed; that's
what I mean to do.  I leave you; I don't mean to be seen in
cafes, 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-by, 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 cafe, 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 Cafe 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."

Reentering 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 any one 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 Noemie, 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 Noemie.  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 Cintre every day, and never saw either old
Madame de Bellegarde or the elder of his prospective
brothers-in-law.  Madame de Cintre 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-mache!"  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 Cintre 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 some one 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre; 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 chere belle, and
Madame de Cintre 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 arm-chair,
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 Cintre 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'Universite
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 Cintre 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 Cintre, 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; any one 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 Cintre 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 every one 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 every one 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 any one 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 arm-chair, 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 legende.  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 newcomers
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 Cintre," 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 every thing else were absent.  Every one gave Newman
extreme attention, every one smiled, every one was charmed to
make his acquaintance, every one 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
mustaches; 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 Cintre 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 Cintre'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 cafe glace."

"I told you we should do things grandly," said Valentin.  "I
don't allude to the cafes glaces.  But every one 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 indorsing 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.  "Every one seems to know every one and to be
glad to see every one.  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 every one, 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 Cintre.  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-chaussee 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 Cintre.  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 Cintre'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 Cintre, 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 every one's,"
said Madam de Cintre.  "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 Cintre.  "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
Cintre 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
Cintre 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 Cintre, "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
Noemie 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 Noemie.  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
serieux."

"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, gayly.  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,
gayly.

"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 Cintre; 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 Cintre
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 Newt man.
"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
drole.  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 any one
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 raffine;  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'Universite, 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 naivete 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. Noemie 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 Noemie
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 Noemie clapping her little hands.  "C'est ca
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 Noemie'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 Noemie 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 Cintre,
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 Cintre's presentiment as pointedly as perfect security
demanded.  Before he went away he asked Madame de Cintre 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 Noemie 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 Cintre, timing his
visit so as to arrive after the noonday breakfast.  In the court
of the hotel, 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 Fleurieres."

"To Fleurieres?  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 Cintre'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 Cintre; 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
arm-chair, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  "But I am going
away."

"Where are you going?"

"To the country, to Fleurieres; to be alone."

"To leave me?" said Newman, slowly.

"I can't see you, now," said Madame de Cintre.

"NOW--why not?"

"I am ashamed," said Madame de Cintre, 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 Cintre.  "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-by." 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-by."

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 Cintre, "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 Cintre.  "What
is it? how did they use it?"

"My mother commanded," said Madame de Cintre.

"Commanded you to give me up--I see.  And you obey--I see.  But
why do you obey?" asked Newman.

Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre; 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 portiere 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 any one 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 Cintre'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--Fleurieres?  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 Cintre."

"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 Fleurieres; 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Chateau de Fleurieres.  But he
wrote to Madame de Cintre 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 mustache, 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 cure of the nearest French village, who spent an hour with
him.  The cure 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
proces-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 cure 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 finger tips.  M.
de Grosjoyaux's colleague pointed to an open door beyond, and
whispered that the doctor was within, keeping guard.  So long as
Valentin slept, or seemed to sleep, of course Newman could not
approach him; so our hero withdrew for the present, committing
himself to the care of the half-waked bonne.  She took him
to a room above-stairs, and introduced him to a bed on which a
magnified bolster, in yellow calico, figured as a counterpane.
Newman lay down, and, in spite of his counterpane, slept for
three or four hours.  When he awoke, the morning was advanced
and the sun was filling his window, and he heard, outside of it,
the clucking of hens.  While he was dressing there came to his
door a messenger from M. de Grosjoyaux and his companion
proposing that he should breakfast with them.  Presently he went
down-stairs to the little stone-paved dining-room, where the
maid-servant, who had taken off her night-cap, was serving the
repast.  M. de Grosjoyaux was there, surprisingly fresh for a
gentleman who had been playing sick-nurse half the night,
rubbing his hands and watching the breakfast table attentively.
Newman renewed acquaintance with him, and learned that Valentin
was still sleeping; the surgeon, who had had a fairly tranquil
night, was at present sitting with him.  Before M. de
Grosjoyaux's associate reappeared, Newman learned that his name
was M. Ledoux, and that Bellegarde's acquaintance with him dated
from the days when they served together in the Pontifical
Zouaves.  M. Ledoux was the nephew of a distinguished
Ultramontane bishop.  At last the bishop's nephew came in with a
toilet in which an ingenious attempt at harmony with the
peculiar situation was visible, and with a gravity tempered by a
decent deference to the best breakfast that the Croix Helvetique
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 cure, 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 mustache 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 Cintre 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 grave-yard 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
"Faublas." 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 today.  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 Cintre had left
Paris.  "She went yesterday to Fleurieres."

"Yesterday--to Fleurieres?  Why did she go to Fleurieres?  What
day is this?  What day was yesterday?  Ah, then I shan't see
her," said Valentin, sadly. "Fleurieres 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 Fleurieres?"

"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-by 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 Fleurieres 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 what 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'Universite 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 any one 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 down-stairs.  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
Fleurieres.  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 Cintre 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.
Voila!" 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 some one
outside.  This was M. le cure, who carried in his hand an object
unknown to Newman, and covered with a white napkin.  M. le cure
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 arm-chair, 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 cure 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 cure, who looked back at
him; and then the doctor and the cure, together, gave a shrug.
"Alone--for five minutes," Valentin repeated.  "Please leave us."

The cure 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 key-hole.  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 Fleurieres.  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 Fleurieres.  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, every one.  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 cure reentered, 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 Cintre, 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 church-yard of Fleurieres, 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
Cintre's answer to his letter enabled him to time his arrival at
Fleurieres.  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 Fleurieres.  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 inclose 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 Cintre a note, saying that he
would call upon her in the afternoon, and in accordance with
this he again took his way to Fleurieres.  He left his vehicle
at the tavern in the village street, and obeyed the simple
instructions which were given him for finding the chateau.

"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 chateau 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 facade 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 chateau.  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 chateau he waited for some moments, and this gave him a
chance to observe that Fleurieres 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'Universite.  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 chateau.  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 Cintre 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
Cintre.  "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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre shook her head.  "I remember; I was sorry
afterwards."

"You were sorry when she came down and put on the thumb-screws.
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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre, "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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  "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 Cintre 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 Cintre.

"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 Cintre.  "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 Cintre'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 gayety 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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-by!"  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 Cintre.  "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 Cintre, 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 Cintre, "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-by, good-by."

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, or which reflection by no means diminished the
weight.  He feared that Madame de Cintre 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 Fleurieres 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 Cintre'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 Cintre.  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
Fleurieres 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 caleche 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
last!  He arrived at Fleurieres 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 Cintre, 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 chateau.  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 Cintre 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 chateau, 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 Cintre 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
Soeur Catherine than Mrs. Newman."

But the old lady, with the serenity of supreme power, let her
son make her epigrams for her.  She only smiled, almost sweetly,
shaking her head and repeating, "But once, Mr. Newman; but once!"

Nothing that Newman had ever seen or heard gave him such a sense
of marble hardness as this movement and the tone that
accompanied it.  "Could anything compel you?" he asked.  "Do you
know of anything that would force you?"

"This language, sir," said the marquis, "addressed to people in
bereavement and grief is beyond all qualification."

"In most cases," Newman answered, "your objection would have
some weight, even admitting that Madame de Cintre'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 miserable!"

"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 any one 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 Cintre 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 Prance 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 chateau.  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 chateau.  "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 Cintre'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 chateau.

"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 Cintre."

"Madame de Cintre 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 any one 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 Cintre, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre.  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 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 Cintre.  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
Fleurieres, 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 down-stairs.  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 pere, mon pere.'  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 child-birth, but that he
promised to set out for Fleurieres 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 chateau, 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 Fleurieres.  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 some one?"

"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 any one.  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
any one 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 chateau; the curfew had tolled
for the laborious villagers of Fleurieres, 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 chateau 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
Cintre.  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'Universite 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 Hotel 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 mustache 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 Cintre's relatives.  Confidence--excessive
confidence, perhaps--quite as much as timidity prompted his
retreat.  He was nursing his thunder-bolt; 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
Fleurieres.  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 Cintre."

"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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 any one 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 Cintre 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 abbe, is that it?--I
have seen him here, you know; that motherly old gentleman with
the big waist-band.  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 abbe is disfrocked for his share in
it." And two days afterwards she told him that it was all
arranged; the abbe 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 Cintre'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 Cintre.  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.  Every one 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 Cintre'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 Cintre'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 Cintre 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 every one 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 every one 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 every one 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 coeur tendre you
would move them.  But they haven't!  However, I will do better
for you than what you propose.  The understanding is not that I
shall come back for them.  I am going 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
melee.  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. Any
one 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 some one 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 any one out of a picture.  "A paper written by the hand,
and signed with the name, of Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde.
Written after you, madame, 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
some one 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 arm-chair, 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 any one 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-by 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 any one 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 Cintre.  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 some one
else's without working so hard for it.  It isn't worth finding
out. It may be that it was not Madame de Cintre 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 des 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 Cintre: 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 Noemie 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 Noemie'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 some one 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 Cafe 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.  Noemie, 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
Noemie 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 Noemie.  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--a--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 Cintre--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 aesthetic
entertainment in Europe; it may therefore be understood that he
was able to conceive that a man might be too commercial.  He was
very willing to grant it, but the concession, as to his own
case, was not made with any very oppressive sense of shame.  If
he had been too commercial, he was ready to forget it, for in
being so he had done no man any wrong that might not be as
easily forgotten.  He reflected with sober placidity that at
least there were no monuments of his "meanness" scattered about
the world.  If there was any reason in the nature of things why
his connection with business should have cast a shadow upon a
connection--even a connection broken--with a woman justly proud,
he was willing to sponge it out of his life forever.  The thing
seemed a possibility; he could not feel it, doubtless, as keenly
as some people, and it hardly seemed worth while to flap his
wings very hard to rise to the idea; but he could feel it enough
to make any sacrifice that still remained to be made. As to what
such sacrifice was now to be made to, here Newman stopped short
before a blank wall over which there sometimes played a shadowy
imagery.  He had a fancy of carrying out his life as he would
have directed it if Madame de Cintre 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; 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 inclosed 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 Abbe
Aubert, that Madame de Cintre 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
life-time 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 Cintre'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 Sevres vase on the drawing-room
mantel-shelf.

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 resume 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?--Fleurieres.  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 fire-place, 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
every one.  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.



End of Project Gutenberg edition of The American by Henry James