by Henry James
CHAPTER XIV
The next time Newman came to the Rue de l’Université he had the goodfortune to find Madame de Cintré alone. He had come with a definiteintention, and he lost no time in executing it. She wore, moreover, alook which he eagerly interpreted as expectancy.
“I have been coming to see you for six months, now,” he said, “and Ihave never spoken to you a second time of marriage. That was what youasked me; I obeyed. Could any man have done better?”
“You have acted with great delicacy,” said Madame de Cintré.
“Well, I’m going to change now,” said Newman. “I don’t mean that I amgoing 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 havenever been away from here. I have never ceased to want what I wantedthen. Only now I am more sure of it, if possible; I am more sure ofmyself, and more sure of you. I know you better, though I don’t knowanything I didn’t believe three months ago. You are everything--you arebeyond 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 theworst. I hope you have been thinking all this while. You must have seenthat I was only waiting; you can’t suppose that I was changing. Whatwill you say to me, now? Say that everything is clear and reasonable,and that I have been very patient and considerate, and deserve myreward. And then give me your hand. Madame de Cintré do that. Do it.”
“I knew you were only waiting,” she said; “and I was very sure this daywould come. I have thought about it a great deal. At first I was halfafraid of it. But I am not afraid of it now.” She paused a moment, andthen 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 himkeep. “That means that I have not waited for nothing,” he said. Shelooked at him for a moment, and he saw her eyes fill with tears. “Withme,” he went on, “you will be as safe--as safe”--and even in his ardorhe hesitated a moment for a comparison--“as safe,” he said, with a kindof simple solemnity, “as in your father’s arms.”
Still she looked at him and her tears increased. Then, abruptly, sheburied her face on the cushioned arm of the sofa beside her chair, andbroke 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,” heanswered. “Why are you troubled? There is nothing but happiness. Is thatso hard to believe?”
“To you everything seems so simple,” she said, raising her head. “Butthings are not so. I like you extremely. I liked you six months ago, andnow I am sure of it, as you say you are sure. But it is not easy, simplyfor that, to decide to marry you. There are a great many things to thinkabout.”
“There ought to be only one thing to think about--that we love eachother,” said Newman. And as she remained silent he quickly added, “Verygood, 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 tothink at all; only to shut both my eyes and give myself up. But I can’t.I’m cold, I’m old, I’m a coward; I never supposed I should marry again,and it seems to me very strange I should ever have listened to you.When I used to think, as a girl, of what I should do if I were to marryfreely, by my own choice, I thought of a very different man from you.”
“That’s nothing against me,” said Newman with an immense smile; “yourtaste was not formed.”
His smile made Madame de Cintré smile. “Have you formed it?” she asked.And then she said, in a different tone, “Where do you wish to live?”
“Anywhere in the wide world you like. We can easily settle that.”
“I don’t know why I ask you,” she presently continued. “I care verylittle. 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 manythings--that I must have a brilliant, worldly life. I am sure you areprepared to take a great deal of trouble to give me such things. Butthat is very arbitrary; I have done nothing to prove that.” She pausedagain, looking at him, and her mingled sound and silence were so sweetto him that he had no wish to hurry her, any more than he would havehad a wish to hurry a golden sunrise. “Your being so different, whichat first seemed a difficulty, a trouble, began one day to seem to me apleasure, a great pleasure. I was glad you were different. And yet if Ihad said so, no one would have understood me; I don’t mean simply to myfamily.”
“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 toodifferent; and I would have said it was just _because_ you were sodifferent that I might be happy. But they would have given betterreasons than I. My only reason”--and she paused again.
But this time, in the midst of his golden sunrise, Newman felt theimpulse to grasp at a rosy cloud. “Your only reason is that you loveme!” he murmured with an eloquent gesture, and for want of a betterreason Madame de Cintré reconciled herself to this one.
Newman came back the next day, and in the vestibule, as he entered thehouse, he encountered his friend Mrs. Bread. She was wandering about inhonorable idleness, and when his eyes fell upon her she delivered himone of her curtsies. Then turning to the servant who had admitted him,she said, with the combined majesty of her native superiority and ofa rugged English accent, “You may retire; I will have the honor ofconducting monsieur.” In spite of this combination, however, it appearedto Newman that her voice had a slight quaver, as if the tone of commandwere not habitual to it. The man gave her an impertinent stare, but hewalked slowly away, and she led Newman upstairs. At half its course thestaircase gave a bend, forming a little platform. In the angle ofthe wall stood an indifferent statue of an eighteenth-century nymph,simpering, sallow, and cracked. Here Mrs. Bread stopped and looked withshy 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 havetaken such a friendly interest.”
Mrs. Bread turned away and began to blow the dust off the statue, as ifthis might be mockery.
“I suppose you want to congratulate me,” said Newman. “I am greatlyobliged.” And then he added, “You gave me much pleasure the other day.”
She turned around, apparently reassured. “You are not to think that Ihave been told anything,” she said; “I have only guessed. But when Ilooked 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 yousee everything.”
“I am not a fool, sir, thank God. I have guessed something else beside,” said Mrs. Bread.
“What’s that?”
“I needn’t tell you that, sir; I don’t think you would believe it. Atany rate it wouldn’t please you.”
“Oh, tell me nothing but what will please me,” laughed Newman. “That isthe way you began.”
“Well, sir, I suppose you won’t be vexed to hear that the soonereverything is over the better.”
“The sooner we are married, you mean? The better for me, certainly.”
“The better for everyone.”
“The better for you, perhaps. You know you are coming to live with us,” said Newman.
“I’m extremely obliged to you, sir, but it is not of myself I wasthinking. I only wanted, if I might take the liberty, to recommend youto lose no time.”
“Whom are you afraid of?”
Mrs. Bread looked up the staircase and then down and then she looked atthe undusted nymph, as if she possibly had sentient ears. “I am afraidof everyone,” she said.
“What an uncomfortable state of mind!” said Newman. “Does ‘everyone’wish to prevent my marriage?”
“I am afraid of already having said too much,” Mrs. Bread replied. “Iwon’t take it back, but I won’t say any more.” And she took her way upthe staircase again and l
ed him into Madame de Cintré’s salon.
Newman indulged in a brief and silent imprecation when he found thatMadame de Cintré was not alone. With her sat her mother, and in themiddle of the room stood young Madame de Bellegarde, in her bonnet andmantle. The old marquise, who was leaning back in her chair with a handclasping the knob of each arm, looked at him fixedly without moving.She seemed barely conscious of his greeting; she appeared to be musingintently. Newman said to himself that her daughter had been announcingher engagement and that the old lady found the morsel hard to swallow.But Madame de Cintré, as she gave him her hand gave him also a look bywhich she appeared to mean that he should understand something. Was ita warning or a request? Did she wish to enjoin speech or silence? Hewas puzzled, and young Madame de Bellegarde’s pretty grin gave him noinformation.
“I have not told my mother,” said Madame de Cintré abruptly, looking athim.
“Told me what?” demanded the marquise. “You tell me too little; youshould 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. “Youare going to marry him?” she cried, softly.
“_Oui, ma mère_,” said Madame de Cintré.
“Your daughter has consented, to my great happiness,” said Newman.
“And when was this arrangement made?” asked Madame de Bellegarde. “Iseem 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 herdaughter. She spoke without irritation with a sort of cold, nobledispleasure.
Madame de Cintré stood silent, with her eyes on the ground. “It is overnow,” she said.
“Where is my son--where is Urbain?” asked the marquise. “Send for yourbrother and inform him.”
Young Madame de Bellegarde laid her hand on the bell-rope. “He was tomake some visits with me, and I was to go and knock--very softly, verysoftly--at the door of his study. But he can come to me!” She pulledthe bell, and in a few moments Mrs. Bread appeared, with a face of calminquiry.
“Send for your brother,” said the old lady.
But Newman felt an irresistible impulse to speak, and to speak in acertain way. “Tell the marquis we want him,” he said to Mrs. Bread, whoquietly retired.
Young Madame de Bellegarde went to her sister-in-law and embraced her.Then she turned to Newman, with an intense smile. “She is charming. Icongratulate you.”
“I congratulate you, sir,” said Madame de Bellegarde, with extremesolemnity. “My daughter is an extraordinarily good woman. She may havefaults, but I don’t know them.”
“My mother does not often make jokes,” said Madame de Cintré; “but whenshe does they are terrible.”
“She is ravishing,” the Marquise Urbain resumed, looking at hersister-in-law, with her head on one side. “Yes, I congratulate you.”
Madame de Cintré turned away, and, taking up a piece of tapestry,began to ply the needle. Some minutes of silence elapsed, which wereinterrupted by the arrival of M. de Bellegarde. He came in with hishat in his hand, gloved, and was followed by his brother Valentin, whoappeared to have just entered the house. M. de Bellegarde looked aroundthe circle and greeted Newman with his usual finely-measured courtesy.Valentin saluted his mother and his sisters, and, as he shook hands withNewman, gave him a glance of acute interrogation.
“_Arrivez donc, messieurs!_” cried young Madame de Bellegarde. “We havegreat news for you.”
“Speak to your brother, my daughter,” said the old lady.
Madame de Cintré had been looking at her tapestry. She raised her eyesto her brother. “I have accepted Mr. Newman.”
“Your sister has consented,” said Newman. “You see after all, I knewwhat 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. Ican’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. “Wehave been prepared,” he said at last “but it is inevitable that in faceof the event one should experience a certain emotion.” And he gave amost unhilarious smile.
“I feel no emotion that I was not perfectly prepared for,” said hismother.
“I can’t say that for myself,” said Newman, smiling but differently fromthe marquis. “I am happier than I expected to be. I suppose it’s thesight of your happiness!”
“Don’t exaggerate that,” said Madame de Bellegarde, getting up andlaying her hand upon her daughter’s arm. “You can’t expect an honest oldwoman 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; “Imust have a month to think over a dress.”
“That must be discussed,” said the marquise.
“Oh, we will discuss it, and let you know!” Newman exclaimed.
“I have no doubt we shall agree,” said Urbain.
“If you don’t agree with Madame de Cintré, you will be veryunreasonable.”
“Come, come, Urbain,” said young Madame de Bellegarde, “I must gostraight 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 likecrying it on the housetops,--like stopping people in the street to tellthem.”
Madame de Bellegarde narrowed her lips. “Pray don’t,” she said.
“The more people that know it, the better,” Newman declared. “I haven’tyet 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 theprincipal cities, you know. To-morrow I shall tell my friends here.”
“Have you many?” asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone of which I amafraid that Newman but partly measured the impertinence.
“Enough to bring me a great many hand-shakes and congratulations. Tosay nothing,” he added, in a moment, “of those I shall receive from yourfriends.”
“They will not use the telegraph,” said the marquise, taking herdeparture.
M. de Bellegarde, whose wife, her imagination having apparently takenflight to the tailor’s, was fluttering her silken wings in emulation,shook hands with Newman, and said with a more persuasive accent than thelatter had ever heard him use, “You may count upon me.” Then his wifeled him away.
Valentin stood looking from his sister to our hero. “I hope you bothreflected seriously,” he said.
Madame de Cintré smiled. “We have neither your powers of reflection noryour depth of seriousness; but we have done our best.”
“Well, I have a great regard for each of you,” Valentin continued. “Youare charming young people. But I am not satisfied, on the whole, thatyou belong to that small and superior class--that exquisite groupcomposed of persons who are worthy to remain unmarried. These are raresouls; they are the salt of the earth. But I don’t mean to be invidious;the marrying people are often very nice.”
“Valentin holds that women should marry, and that men should not,” saidMadame de Cintré. “I don’t know how he arranges it.”
“I arrange it by adoring you, my sister,” said Valentin ardently.“Good-bye.”
“Adore someone whom you can marry,” said Newman. “I will arrange thatfor you some day. I fores
ee that I am going to turn apostle.”
Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment with a facethat had turned grave. “I adore someone I can’t marry!” he said. And hedropped the _portière_ and departed.
“They don’t like it,” said Newman, standing alone before Madame deCintré.
“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 youleave 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 callit an awful bore.”
“I will keep it to myself,” said Madame de Cintré, “It shall not botheryou.” And then they talked of their marriage-day, and Madame de Cintréassented unreservedly to Newman’s desire to have it fixed for an earlydate.
Newman’s telegrams were answered with interest. Having dispatched butthree electric missives, he received no less than eight gratulatorybulletins in return. He put them into his pocket-book, and the next timehe encountered old Madame de Bellegarde drew them forth and displayedthem to her. This, it must be confessed, was a slightly maliciousstroke; the reader must judge in what degree the offense was venial.Newman knew that the marquise disliked his telegrams, though he couldsee no sufficient reason for it. Madame de Cintré, on the other hand,liked them, and, most of them being of a humorous cast, laughed at themimmoderately, and inquired into the character of their authors. Newman,now that his prize was gained, felt a peculiar desire that his triumphshould be manifest. He more than suspected that the Bellegardes werekeeping quiet about it, and allowing it, in their select circle, but alimited resonance; and it pleased him to think that if he were to takethe trouble he might, as he phrased it, break all the windows. No manlikes being repudiated, and yet Newman, if he was not flattered, wasnot exactly offended. He had not this good excuse for his somewhataggressive impulse to promulgate his felicity; his sentiment was ofanother quality. He wanted for once to make the heads of the house ofBellegarde _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 sonlooking straight over his head, and he was now resolved that they shouldtoe 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 andforce them to spill their wine.”
To this Mrs. Tristram answered that he had better leave them aloneand let them do things in their own way. “You must make allowances forthem,” she said. “It is natural enough that they should hang fire alittle. They thought they accepted you when you made your applicationbut they are not people of imagination, they could not projectthemselves into the future, and now they will have to begin again. Butthey _are_ people of honor, and they will do whatever is necessary.”
Newman spent a few moments in narrow-eyed meditation. “I am not hard onthem,” he presently said, “and to prove it I will invite them all to afestival.”
“To a festival?”
“You have been laughing at my great gilded rooms all winter; I will showyou that they are good for something. I will give a party. What is thegrandest thing one can do here? I will hire all the great singers fromthe opera, and all the first people from the Théâtre Français, and Iwill give an entertainment.”
“And whom will you invite?”
“You, first of all. And then the old lady and her son. And then everyoneamong her friends whom I have met at her house or elsewhere, everyonewho has shown me the minimum of politeness, every duke of them and hiswife. And then all my friends, without exception: Miss Kitty Upjohn,Miss Dora Finch, General Packard, C. P Hatch, and all the rest.And everyone shall know what it is about, that is, to celebrate myengagement to the Countess de Cintré. What do you think of the idea?”
“I think it is odious!” said Mrs. Tristram. And then in a moment: “Ithink 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 honorhis poor dwelling by her presence on a certain evening a fortnightdistant.
The marquise stared a moment. “My dear sir,” she cried, “what do youwant to do to me?”
“To make you acquainted with a few people, and then to place you in avery 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 tocelebrate my engagement.”
It seemed to Newman that Madame de Bellegarde turned pale. She openedher fan, a fine old painted fan of the last century, and looked at thepicture, which represented a _fête champêtre_--a lady with a guitar,singing, and a group of dancers round a garlanded Hermes.
“We go out so little,” murmured the marquis, “since my poor father’sdeath.”
“But _my_ dear father is still alive, my friend,” said his wife. “Iam only waiting for my invitation to accept it,” and she glanced withamiable confidence at Newman. “It will be magnificent; I am very sure ofthat.”
I am sorry to say, to the discredit of Newman’s gallantry, that thislady’s invitation was not then and there bestowed; he was giving all hisattention to the old marquise. She looked up at last, smiling. “I can’tthink of letting you offer me a fête,” she said, “until I have offeredyou 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 meabout the 25th; I will let you know the exact day immediately. We shallnot have anyone so fine as Madame Frezzolini, but we shall have somevery good people. After that you may talk of your own fête.” The oldlady spoke with a certain quick eagerness, smiling more agreeably as shewent on.
It seemed to Newman a handsome proposal, and such proposals alwaystouched the sources of his good-nature. He said to Madame de Bellegardethat he should be glad to come on the 25th or any other day, and that itmattered very little whether he met his friends at her house or at hisown. I have said that Newman was observant, but it must be admitted thaton this occasion he failed to notice a certain delicate glance whichpassed between Madame de Bellegarde and the marquis, and which we maypresume to have been a commentary upon the innocence displayed in thatlatter clause of his speech.
Valentin de Bellegarde walked away with Newman that evening, and whenthey had left the Rue de l’Université some distance behind them he saidreflectively, “My mother is very strong--very strong.” Then in answer toan interrogative movement of Newman’s he continued, “She was driven tothe wall, but you would never have thought it. Her fête of the 25th wasan invention of the moment. She had no idea whatever of giving a fête,but finding it the only issue from your proposal, she looked straightat the dose--excuse the expression--and bolted it, as you saw, withoutwinking. She is very strong.”
“Dear me!” said Newman, divided between relish and compassion. “I don’tcare a straw for her fête, I am willing to take the will for the deed.”
“No, no,” said Valentin, with a little inconsequent touch of familypride. “The thing will be done now, and done handsomely.”
