title:        The American
author:       Henry James
preparer:     Pauline J. Iacono ([email protected]), John Hamm
([email protected])
language:     English (en)
writedate:    1877
generator:    RaptorBook/1.1
generated:    Nov. 18, 2003 10:38 GMT

Chapter 1

   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

   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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   "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 2

   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

   "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?"


   "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

   "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?"


   "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

   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

   "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

Chapter 3

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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.

   "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

   "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.

   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.

   "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 4

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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 5

   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

   "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

   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,


   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

   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

   "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 6

   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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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 7

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   "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

   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

   "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 8

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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 9

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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 10

   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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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.

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "Well, you must not be discouraged," said M. de Bellegarde, with vague

   "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 11

   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

   "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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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 12

   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

   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?"


   "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

   "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

   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

   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

   "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.

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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 13

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "How much, please?" said Newman.

   "Simply this: a promise not to hint to the countess that I have said these

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   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

   "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 14

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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 15

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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, 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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "Oh, I haven't any general rules," said Newman. "In any way that seems

   "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 16

   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

   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

   "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 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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "Come; what's the mystery?" Newman demanded. "Clear it up. I don't like

   "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

   "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

   "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

Chapter 17

   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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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

   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

   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

   "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 18

   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

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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 19

   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

   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

   "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

   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

   "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

   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

   "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 20

   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

   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

   "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,

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   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 21

   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

   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,

   "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

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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.


   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 22

   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

   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

   "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

   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

   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

   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

   "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

   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

   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

   "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.


Chapter 23

   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

   "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!" 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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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,

   "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 24

   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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   "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

   M. de Bellegarde threw back his head and his pale face flushed. "Never!" he

   "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

   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 25

   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

   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

   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

   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!" 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 26

   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

   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

   "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

   "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

   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.