The American

by Henry James

  CHAPTER XIII

  Newman kept his promise, or his menace, of going often to the Rue del’Université, and during the next six weeks he saw Madame de Cintré moretimes than he could have numbered. He flattered himself that he was notin 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 notfolly but wisdom; wisdom sound, serene, well-directed. What he feltwas an intense, all-consuming tenderness, which had for its object anextraordinarily graceful and delicate, and at the same time impressive,woman who lived in a large gray house on the left bank of the Seine.This tenderness turned very often into a positive heartache; a signin which, certainly, Newman ought to have read the appellation whichscience has conferred upon his sentiment. When the heart has a heavyweight upon it, it hardly matters whether the weight be of gold or oflead; when, at any rate, happiness passes into that place in which itbecomes identical with pain, a man may admit that the reign of wisdomis temporarily suspended. Newman wished Madame de Cintré so well thatnothing he could think of doing for her in the future rose to the highstandard which his present mood had set itself. She seemed to him sofelicitous a product of nature and circumstance that his invention,musing on future combinations, was constantly catching its breath withthe fear of stumbling into some brutal compression or mutilation of herbeautiful personal harmony. This is what I mean by Newman’s tenderness:Madame de Cintré pleased him so, exactly as she was, that his desireto interpose between her and the troubles of life had the quality of ayoung 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 amusic-box which would stop if one shook it. There can be no better proofof the hankering epicure that is hidden in every man’s temperament,waiting for a signal from some divine confederate that he may safelypeep out. Newman at last was enjoying, purely, freely, deeply. Certainof Madame de Cintré’s personal qualities--the luminous sweetness ofher eyes, the delicate mobility of her face, the deep liquidity of hervoice--filled all his consciousness. A rose-crowned Greek of old, gazingat a marble goddess with his whole bright intellect resting satisfiedin the act, could not have been a more complete embodiment of the wisdomthat loses itself in the enjoyment of quiet harmonies.

  He made no violent love to her--no sentimental speeches. He nevertrespassed on what she had made him understand was for the presentforbidden ground. But he had, nevertheless, a comfortable sense that sheknew better from day to day how much he admired her. Though in generalhe was no great talker, he talked much, and he succeeded perfectly inmaking her say many things. He was not afraid of boring her, either byhis discourse or by his silence; and whether or no he did occasionallybore her, it is probable that on the whole she liked him only the betterfor his absence of embarrassed scruples. Her visitors, coming inoften while Newman sat there, found a tall, lean, silent man in ahalf-lounging attitude, who laughed out sometimes when no one hadmeant to be droll, and remained grave in the presence of calculatedwitticisms, for appreciation of which he had apparently not the properculture.

  It must be confessed that the number of subjects upon which Newman hadno ideas was extremely large, and it must be added that as regards thosesubjects upon which he was without ideas he was also perfectly withoutwords. He had little of the small change of conversation, and his stockof ready-made formulas and phrases was the scantiest. On the other handhe had plenty of attention to bestow, and his estimate of the importanceof a topic did not depend upon the number of clever things he could sayabout it. He himself was almost never bored, and there was no man withwhom it would have been a greater mistake to suppose that silencemeant displeasure. What it was that entertained him during some of hisspeechless sessions I must, however, confess myself unable to determine.We know in a general way that a great many things which were old storiesto a great many people had the charm of novelty to him, but a completelist of his new impressions would probably contain a number of surprisesfor us. He told Madame de Cintré a hundred long stories; he explainedto her, in talking of the United States, the working of various localinstitutions and mercantile customs. Judging by the sequel she wasinterested, but one would not have been sure of it beforehand. Asregards her own talk, Newman was very sure himself that she herselfenjoyed it: this was as a sort of amendment to the portrait that Mrs.Tristram had drawn of her. He discovered that she had naturally anabundance of gaiety. He had been right at first in saying she was shy;her shyness, in a woman whose circumstances and tranquil beauty affordedevery facility for well-mannered hardihood, was only a charm the more.For Newman it had lasted some time, and even when it went it leftsomething behind it which for a while performed the same office. Wasthis the tearful secret of which Mrs. Tristram had had a glimpse, andof which, as of her friend’s reserve, her high-breeding, and herprofundity, she had given a sketch of which the outlines were, perhaps,rather too heavy? Newman supposed so, but he found himself wonderingless every day what Madame de Cintré’s secrets might be, and moreconvinced that secrets were, in themselves, hateful things to her. Shewas a woman for the light, not for the shade; and her natural line wasnot picturesque reserve and mysterious melancholy, but frank, joyous,brilliant action, with just so much meditation as was necessary, andnot a grain more. To this, apparently, he had succeeded in bringing herback. He felt, himself, that he was an antidote to oppressive secrets;what he offered her was, in fact, above all things a vast, sunnyimmunity from the need of having any.

  He often passed his evenings, when Madame de Cintré had so appointed it,at the chilly fireside of Madame de Bellegarde, contenting himself withlooking across the room, through narrowed eyelids, at his mistress,who always made a point, before her family, of talking to someone else.Madame de Bellegarde sat by the fire conversing neatly and coldlywith whomsoever approached her, and glancing round the room with herslowly-restless eye, the effect of which, when it lighted upon him, wasto 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 whethershe could “stand him” another evening, and she replied, without a laugh,that thank God she had always been able to do her duty. Newman, talkingonce of the marquise to Mrs. Tristram, said that after all it was veryeasy to get on with her; it always was easy to get on with out-and-outrascals.

  “And is it by that elegant term,” said Mrs. Tristram, “that youdesignate the Marquise de Bellegarde?”

  “Well,” said Newman, “she is wicked, she is an old sinner.”

  “What is her crime?” asked Mrs. Tristram.

  “I shouldn’t wonder if she had murdered someone--all from a sense ofduty, of course.”

  “How can you be so dreadful?” sighed Mrs. Tristram.

  “I am not dreadful. I am speaking of her favorably.”

  “Pray what will you say when you want to be severe?”

  “I shall keep my severity for someone else--for the marquis. There’s aman 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, somethingmean and underhand, and not redeemed by audacity, as his mother’smisdemeanors may have been. If he has never committed murder, he has atleast turned his back and looked the other way while someone else wascommitting it.”

  In spite of this invidious hypothesis, which must be taken for nothingmore than an example of the capricious play of “American humor,” Newmandid his best to maintain an easy and friendly style of communicationwith M. de Bellegarde. So long as he was in personal contact with peoplehe disliked extremely to have anything to forgive them, and he wascapable of a good deal of unsuspected imaginative effort (for the sakeof his own personal comfort) to assume for the time that they weregood fellows. He did his best to treat the marquis as one; he believedhonestly, moreover, that he could not, in reason, be such a confoundedfool as he seemed. Newman’s familiarity was never importunate; his
senseof human equality was not an aggressive taste or an æsthetic theory, butsomething as natural and organic as a physical appetite which hadnever been put on a scanty allowance and consequently was innocent ofungraceful eagerness. His tranquil unsuspectingness of the relativityof his own place in the social scale was probably irritating to M.de Bellegarde, who saw himself reflected in the mind of his potentialbrother-in-law in a crude and colorless form, unpleasantly dissimilarto the impressive image projected upon his own intellectual mirror. Henever forgot himself for an instant, and replied to what he must haveconsidered Newman’s “advances” with mechanical politeness. Newman, whowas constantly forgetting himself, and indulging in an unlimited amountof irresponsible inquiry and conjecture, now and then found himselfconfronted by the conscious, ironical smile of his host. What thedeuce 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, acompromise between a great many emotions. So long as he smiled hewas polite, and it was proper he should be polite. A smile, moreover,committed him to nothing more than politeness, and left the degree ofpoliteness agreeably vague. A smile, too, was neither dissent--whichwas too serious--nor agreement, which might have brought on terriblecomplications. And then a smile covered his own personal dignity, whichin this critical situation he was resolved to keep immaculate; it wasquite enough that the glory of his house should pass into eclipse.Between him and Newman, his whole manner seemed to declare there couldbe no interchange of opinion he was holding his breath so as notto inhale the odor of democracy. Newman was far from being versed inEuropean politics, but he liked to have a general idea of what was goingon about him, and he accordingly asked M. de Bellegarde several timeswhat he thought of public affairs. M. de Bellegarde answered with suaveconcision that he thought as ill of them as possible, that they weregoing from bad to worse, and that the age was rotten to its core. Thisgave 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 thenext time he saw M. de Bellegarde he attempted to call his attentionto some of the brilliant features of the time. The marquis presentlyreplied that he had but a single political conviction, which was enoughfor him: he believed in the divine right of Henry of Bourbon, Fifthof his name, to the throne of France. Newman stared, and after this heceased to talk politics with M. de Bellegarde. He was not horrified norscandalized, he was not even amused; he felt as he should have felt ifhe had discovered in M. de Bellegarde a taste for certain oddities ofdiet; an appetite, for instance, for fishbones or nutshells. Under thesecircumstances, of course, he would never have broached dietary questionswith him.

  One afternoon, on his calling on Madame de Cintré, Newman was requestedby 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 herflowers, and looking at her prints and photographs (which he thoughtprodigiously pretty), and at last he heard the opening of a door towhich his back was turned. On the threshold stood an old woman whom heremembered to have met several times in entering and leaving the house.She was tall and straight and dressed in black, and she wore a capwhich, if Newman had been initiated into such mysteries, would have beena sufficient assurance that she was not a Frenchwoman; a cap of pureBritish composition. She had a pale, decent, depressed-looking face, anda clear, dull, English eye. She looked at Newman a moment, both intentlyand timidly, and then she dropped a short, straight English curtsey.

  “Madame de Cintré begs you will kindly wait,” she said. “She has justcome in; she will soon have finished dressing.”

  “Oh, I will wait as long as she wants,” said Newman. “Pray tell her notto hurry.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the woman, softly; and then, instead of retiringwith her message, she advanced into the room. She looked about her for amoment, and presently went to a table and began to arrange certain booksand knick-knacks. Newman was struck with the high respectability ofher appearance; he was afraid to address her as a servant. She busiedherself for some moments with putting the table in order and pulling thecurtains straight, while Newman walked slowly to and fro. He perceivedat last from her reflection in the mirror, as he was passing that herhands were idle and that she was looking at him intently. She evidentlywished 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 inWiltshire.”

  “And what do you think of Paris?”

  “Oh, I don’t think of Paris, sir,” she said in the same tone. “It is solong 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 ownwoman.”

  “And you have been with her ever since?”

  “I have been in the house ever since. My lady has taken a youngerperson. You see I am very old. I do nothing regular now. But I keepabout.”

  “You look very strong and well,” said Newman, observing the erectness ofher 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 gopanting and coughing about the house. But I am an old woman, sir, and itis 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 takenthe liberty of noticing that you come often.”

  “Oh yes; I come very often,” said Newman, laughing. “You need not havebeen wide-awake to notice that.”

  “I have noticed it with pleasure, sir,” said the ancient tirewoman,gravely. And she stood looking at Newman with a strange expression offace. The old instinct of deference and humility was there; the habitof decent self-effacement and knowledge of her “own place.” But theremingled with it a certain mild audacity, born of the occasion and of asense, probably, of Newman’s unprecedented approachableness, and, beyondthis, a vague indifference to the old proprieties; as if my lady’s ownwoman had at last begun to reflect that, since my lady had taken anotherperson, 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, “Sodo I!”

  “So I suppose, sir. We can’t help noticing these things and having ourideas; can we, sir?”

  “You mean as a servant?” said Newman.

  “Ah, there it is, sir. I am afraid that when I let my thoughts meddlewith such matters I am no longer a servant. But I am so devoted to thecountess; if she were my own child I couldn’t love her more. That is howI come to be so bold, sir. They say you want to marry her.”

  Newman eyed his interlocutress and satisfied himself that she was nota gossip, but a zealot; she looked anxious, appealing, discreet. “It isquite true,” he said. “I want to marry Madame de Cintré.”

  “And to take her away to America?”

  “I will take her wherever she wants to go.”

  “The farther away the better, sir!” exclaimed the old woman, with suddenintensity. But she checked herself, and, taking up a paper-weight inmosaic, began to polish it with her black apron. “I don’t mean anythingagainst the house or the family, sir. But I think a great change woulddo the poor countess good. It is very sad here.”

  “Yes, it’s not very lively,” said Newman. “But Madame de Cintré is gayherself.”

  “She is everything that is good. You will not be vexed to hear that shehas been gayer for a couple of months past than she had bee
n in many aday before.”

  Newman was delighted to gather this testimony to the prosperity of hissuit, but he repressed all violent marks of elation. “Has Madame deCintré been in bad spirits before this?” he asked.

  “Poor lady, she had good reason. M. de Cintré was no husband for a sweetyoung lady like that. And then, as I say, it has been a sad house. It isbetter, in my humble opinion, that she were out of it. So, if you willexcuse 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 atonce. 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 anytime; all the more when she has got rid of one bad bargain. But if shecan marry a good, kind, respectable gentleman, I think she had bettermake 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 verydifferent appearance from the late count, he wasn’t five feet high. Andthey 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 saythis to you, sir, perhaps no one will. Of course it is not for me tomake any promises. I can answer for nothing. But I think your chance isnot 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 firstwedding day was the saddest of my life. She owes it to me to show meanother and a brighter one. If you will hold firm, sir--and you look asif 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 Madamede Cintré marries me you must come and live with her.”

  The old woman looked at him strangely, with her soft, lifeless eyes. “Itmay seem a heartless thing to say, sir, when one has been forty years ina 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. “Afterforty years one wants a change.”

  “You are very kind, sir;” and this faithful servant dropped anothercurtsey and seemed disposed to retire. But she lingered a moment andgave a timid, joyless smile. Newman was disappointed, and his fingersstole half shyly half irritably into his waistcoat-pocket. His informantnoticed the movement. “Thank God I am not a Frenchwoman,” she said. “IfI were, I would tell you with a brazen simper, old as I am, that if youplease, monsieur, my information is worth something. Let me tell you soin my own decent English way. It _is_ worth something.”

  “How much, please?” said Newman.

  “Simply this: a promise not to hint to the countess that I have saidthese things.”

  “If that is all, you have it,” said Newman.

  “That is all, sir. Thank you, sir. Good day, sir.” And having oncemore slid down telescope-wise into her scanty petticoats, the old womandeparted. At the same moment Madame de Cintré came in by an oppositedoor. She noticed the movement of the other _portière_ and asked Newmanwho had been entertaining him.

  “The British female!” said Newman. “An old lady in a black dress and acap, who curtsies up and down, and expresses herself ever so well.”

  “An old lady who curtsies and expresses herself?... Ah, you mean poorMrs. Bread. I happen to know that you have made a conquest of her.”

  “Mrs. Cake, she ought to be called,” said Newman. “She is very sweet.She is a delicious old woman.”

  Madame de Cintré looked at him a moment. “What can she have said to you?She is an excellent creature, but we think her rather dismal.”

  “I suppose,” Newman answered presently, “that I like her because she haslived near you so long. Since your birth, she told me.”

  “Yes,” said Madame de Cintré, simply; “she is very faithful; I can trusther.”

  Newman had never made any reflections to this lady upon her mother andher brother Urbain; had given no hint of the impression they made uponhim. But, as if she had guessed his thoughts, she seemed careful toavoid all occasion for making him speak of them. She never alluded toher mother’s domestic decrees; she never quoted the opinions of themarquis. They had talked, however, of Valentin, and she had made nosecret of her extreme affection for her younger brother. Newman listenedsometimes with a certain harmless jealousy; he would have liked todivert some of her tender allusions to his own credit. Once Madamede Cintré told him with a little air of triumph about something thatValentin had done which she thought very much to his honor. It was aservice he had rendered to an old friend of the family; something more“serious” than Valentin was usually supposed capable of being. Newmansaid he was glad to hear of it, and then began to talk about somethingwhich lay upon his own heart. Madame de Cintré listened, but after awhile she said, “I don’t like the way you speak of my brother Valentin.” Hereupon Newman, surprised, said that he had never spoken of him butkindly.

  “It is too kindly,” said Madame de Cintré. “It is a kindness that costsnothing; it is the kindness you show to a child. It is as if you didn’trespect him.”

  “Respect him? Why I think I do.”

  “You think? If you are not sure, it is no respect.”

  “Do you respect him?” said Newman. “If you do, I do.”

  “If one loves a person, that is a question one is not bound to answer,” said Madame de Cintré.

  “You should not have asked it of me, then. I am very fond of yourbrother.”

  “He amuses you. But you would not like to resemble him.”

  “I shouldn’t like to resemble anyone. It is hard enough work resemblingone’s self.”

  “What do you mean,” asked Madame de Cintré, “by resembling one’s self?”

  “Why, doing what is expected of one. Doing one’s duty.”

  “But that is only when one is very good.”

  “Well, a great many people are good,” said Newman. “Valentin is quitegood enough for me.”

  Madame de Cintré was silent for a short time. “He is not good enough forme,” 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 doinganything.”

  “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 inhis life, and sometimes I have a sort of foreboding about him. I don’tknow why, but I fancy he will have some great trouble--perhaps anunhappy end.”

  “Oh, leave him to me,” said Newman, jovially. “I will watch over him andkeep harm away.”

  One evening, in Madame de Bellegarde’s salon, the conversation hadflagged most sensibly. The marquis walked up and down in silence, like asentinel at the door of some smooth-fronted citadel of the proprieties;his mother sat staring at the fire; young Madame de Bellegarde worked atan enormous band of tapestry. Usually there were three or four visitors,but on this occasion a violent storm sufficiently accounted for theabsence of even the most devoted habitués. In the long silences thehowling of the wind and the beating of the rain were distinctly audible.Newman sat perfectly still, watching the clock, determined to stay tillthe stroke of eleven, but not a moment longer. Madame de Cintré hadturned her back to the circle, and had been standing for some timewithin the uplifted curtain of a window, with her forehead against thepane, gazing out into the deluged darkness. Suddenly she turned roundtoward her sister-in-law.

  “For Heaven’s sake,” she said, with peculiar eagerness, “go to the pianoand play something.”

  Madame de Bellegarde held up her tapestry and pointed to a little whiteflower. “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 withthis gold-colored silk. I am holding my breath; I can’t leave
off. Playsomething yourself.”

  “It is absurd for me to play when you are present,” said Madame deCintré. But the next moment she went to the piano and began tostrike the keys with vehemence. She played for some time, rapidly andbrilliantly; when she stopped, Newman went to the piano and asked herto begin again. She shook her head, and, on his insisting, she said, “Ihave not been playing for you; I have been playing for myself.” She wentback to the window again and looked out, and shortly afterwards left theroom. When Newman took leave, Urbain de Bellegarde accompanied him, ashe always did, just three steps down the staircase. At the bottom stooda servant with his overcoat. He had just put it on when he saw Madame deCintré 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’tlike 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 duskystaircase.

  On the Friday, as soon as he came in, she asked him to please to tellher why he disliked her family.

  “Dislike your family?” he exclaimed. “That has a horrid sound. I didn’tsay so, did I? I didn’t mean it, if I did.”

  “I wish you would tell me what you think of them,” said Madame deCintré.

  “I don’t think of any of them but you.”

  “That is because you dislike them. Speak the truth; you can’t offendme.”

  “Well, I don’t exactly love your brother,” said Newman. “I remember now.But what is the use of my saying so? I had forgotten it.”

  “You are too good-natured,” said Madame de Cintré gravely. Then, as ifto avoid the appearance of inviting him to speak ill of the marquis, sheturned away, motioning him to sit down.

  But he remained standing before her and said presently, “What is of muchmore 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 Iam a man to dislike.”

  “I suppose that a man who may be liked may also be disliked. And mybrother--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,” saidNewman. “I am much obliged to them. Honestly.”

  “You are generous,” said Madame de Cintré. “It’s a disagreeableposition.”

  “For them, you mean. Not for me.”

  “For me,” said Madame de Cintré.

  “Not when their sins are forgiven!” said Newman. “They don’t think I amas 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 adisagreeable sound. The presumption was against you. That you probablydon’t understand.”

  Newman sat down and looked at her for some time. “I don’t think I reallyunderstand it. But when you say it, I believe it.”

  “That’s a poor reason,” said Madame de Cintré, smiling.

  “No, it’s a very good one. You have a high spirit, a high standard; butwith you it’s all natural and unaffected; you don’t seem to have stuckyour head into a vise, as if you were sitting for the photograph ofpropriety. You think of me as a fellow who has had no idea in life butto 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 nevercared particularly for the money. There was nothing else to do, andit was impossible to be idle. I have been very easy to others, and tomyself. I have done most of the things that people asked me--I don’tmean rascals. As regards your mother and your brother,” Newman added,“there is only one point upon which I feel that I might quarrel withthem. I don’t ask them to sing my praises to you, but I ask them to letyou alone. If I thought they talked ill of me to you, I should come downupon 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 thisworld!”

  Madame de Cintré appeared to find something startling in hisexclamation. She would, perhaps, have replied, but at this momentthe door was thrown open and Urbain de Bellegarde stepped across thethreshold. He appeared surprised at finding Newman, but his surprisewas but a momentary shadow across the surface of an unwonted joviality.Newman had never seen the marquis so exhilarated; his pale, unlightedcountenance had a sort of thin transfiguration. He held open thedoor for someone else to enter, and presently appeared old Madame deBellegarde, leaning on the arm of a gentleman whom Newman had not seenbefore. He had already risen, and Madame de Cintré rose, as she alwaysdid before her mother. The marquis, who had greeted Newman almostgenially, stood apart, slowly rubbing his hands. His mother came forwardwith her companion. She gave a majestic little nod at Newman, and thenshe released the strange gentleman, that he might make his bow to herdaughter.

  “My daughter,” she said, “I have brought you an unknown relative, LordDeepmere. Lord Deepmere is our cousin, but he has done only to-day whathe ought to have done long ago--come to make our acquaintance.”

  Madame de Cintré smiled, and offered Lord Deepmere her hand. “It is veryextraordinary,” said this noble laggard, “but this is the first timethat I have ever been in Paris for more than three or four weeks.”

  “And how long have you been here now?” asked Madame de Cintré.

  “Oh, for the last two months,” said Lord Deepmere.

  These two remarks might have constituted an impertinence; but a glanceat Lord Deepmere’s face would have satisfied you, as it apparentlysatisfied Madame de Cintré, that they constituted only a _naïveté_. Whenhis 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, candidblue eyes, and several pimples on his chin. He was evidently very shy,and he laughed a great deal, catching his breath with an odd, startlingsound, as the most convenient imitation of repose. His physiognomydenoted great simplicity, a certain amount of brutality, and probablefailure in the past to profit by rare educational advantages. Heremarked that Paris was awfully jolly, but that for real, thorough-pacedentertainment it was nothing to Dublin. He even preferred Dublin toLondon. Had Madame de Cintré ever been to Dublin? They must all comeover there some day, and he would show them some Irish sport. He alwayswent to Ireland for the fishing, and he came to Paris for the newOffenbach things. They always brought them out in Dublin, but hecouldn’t wait. He had been nine times to hear La Pomme de Paris. Madamede Cintré, leaning back, with her arms folded, looked at Lord Deepmerewith a more visibly puzzled face than she usually showed to society.Madame de Bellegarde, on the other hand, wore a fixed smile. The marquissaid that among light operas his favorite was the Gazza Ladra. Themarquise then began a series of inquiries about the duke and thecardinal, the old countess and Lady Barbara, after listening to which,and to Lord Deepmere’s somewhat irreverent responses, for a quarter ofan hour, Newman rose to take his leave. The marquis went with him threesteps 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; “hehas great Irish estates. Lady Bridget, in the complete absence ofmale heirs, either direct or collateral--a most extraordinarycircumstance--came in for everything. But
Lord Deepmere’s title isEnglish and his English property is immense. He is a charming youngman.”

  Newman answered nothing, but he detained the marquis as the latter wasbeginning gracefully to recede. “It is a good time for me to thank you,” he said, “for sticking so punctiliously to our bargain, for doing somuch to help me on with your sister.”

  The marquis stared. “Really, I have done nothing that I can boast of,” he said.

  “Oh don’t be modest,” Newman answered, laughing. “I can’t flatter myselfthat I am doing so well simply by my own merit. And thank your motherfor me, too!” And he turned away, leaving M. de Bellegarde looking afterhim.