The American

by Henry James

  CHAPTER XVII

  Newman was fond of music and went often to the opera. A couple ofevenings after Madame de Bellegarde’s ball he sat listening to “DonGiovanni,” having in honor of this work, which he had never yet seenrepresented, come to occupy his orchestra-chair before the rising ofthe curtain. Frequently he took a large box and invited a party ofhis compatriots; this was a mode of recreation to which he was muchaddicted. He liked making up parties of his friends and conducting themto the theatre, and taking them to drive on high drags or to dine atremote restaurants. He liked doing things which involved his paying forpeople; the vulgar truth is that he enjoyed “treating” them. This wasnot because he was what is called purse-proud; handling money in publicwas on the contrary positively disagreeable to him; he had a sort ofpersonal modesty about it, akin to what he would have felt about makinga toilet before spectators. But just as it was a gratification to him tobe handsomely dressed, just so it was a private satisfaction to him (heenjoyed it very clandestinely) to have interposed, pecuniarily, ina scheme of pleasure. To set a large group of people in motion andtransport them to a distance, to have special conveyances, to charterrailway-carriages and steamboats, harmonized with his relish forbold processes, and made hospitality seem more active and more to thepurpose. A few evenings before the occasion of which I speak he hadinvited several ladies and gentlemen to the opera to listen to MadameAlboni--a party which included Miss Dora Finch. It befell, however, thatMiss Dora Finch, sitting near Newman in the box, discoursed brilliantly,not only during the entr’actes, but during many of the finest portionsof the performance, so that Newman had really come away with anirritated sense that Madame Alboni had a thin, shrill voice, and thather musical phrase was much garnished with a laugh of the gigglingorder. After this he promised himself to go for a while to the operaalone.

  When the curtain had fallen upon the first act of “Don Giovanni” heturned round in his place to observe the house. Presently, in one ofthe boxes, he perceived Urbain de Bellegarde and his wife. The littlemarquise 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, lookingstraight in front of him, with one hand in the breast of his whitewaistcoat and the other resting his hat on his thigh. Newman was aboutto leave his place when he noticed in that obscure region devoted to thesmall boxes which in France are called, not inaptly, “bathing-tubs,” a face which even the dim light and the distance could not make whollyindistinct. It was the face of a young and pretty woman, and it wassurmounted with a _coiffure_ of pink roses and diamonds. This person waslooking round the house, and her fan was moving to and fro with the mostpracticed grace; when she lowered it, Newman perceived a pair of plumpwhite shoulders and the edge of a rose-colored dress. Beside her, veryclose to the shoulders and talking, apparently with an earnestness whichit pleased her scantily to heed, sat a young man with a red face and avery low shirt-collar. A moment’s gazing left Newman with no doubts; thepretty young woman was Noémie Nioche. He looked hard into the depths ofthe box, thinking her father might perhaps be in attendance, but fromwhat he could see the young man’s eloquence had no other auditor.Newman at last made his way out, and in doing so he passed beneath the_baignoire_ of Mademoiselle Noémie. She saw him as he approached andgave him a nod and smile which seemed meant as an assurance that she wasstill a good-natured girl, in spite of her enviable rise in the world.Newman passed into the _foyer_ and walked through it. Suddenly he pausedin front of a gentleman seated on one of the divans. The gentleman’selbows were on his knees; he was leaning forward and staring at thepavement, lost apparently in meditations of a somewhat gloomy cast. Butin spite of his bent head Newman recognized him, and in a momentsat down beside him. Then the gentleman looked up and displayed theexpressive countenance of Valentin de Bellegarde.

  “What in the world are you thinking of so hard?” asked Newman.

  “A subject that requires hard thinking to do it justice,” said Valentin.“My immeasurable idiocy.”

  “What is the matter now?”

  “The matter now is that I am a man again, and no more a fool than usual.But I came within an inch of taking that girl _au sérieux_.”

  “You mean the young lady below stairs, in a _baignoire_ in a pinkdress?” said Newman.

  “Did you notice what a brilliant kind of pink it was?” Valentininquired, 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 sheis as amusing as ever, and one _must_ be amused.”

  “Well, I am glad she strikes you so unpleasantly,” Newman rejoiced. “Isuppose you have swallowed all those fine words you used about herthe other night. You compared her to a sapphire, or a topaz, or anamethyst--some precious stone; what was it?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Valentin, “it may have been to a carbuncle! Butshe won’t make a fool of me now. She has no real charm. It’s an awfullylow thing to make a mistake about a person of that sort.”

  “I congratulate you,” Newman declared, “upon the scales having fallenfrom your eyes. It’s a great triumph; it ought to make you feel better.”

  “Yes, it makes me feel better!” said Valentin, gaily. Then, checkinghimself, he looked askance at Newman. “I rather think you are laughingat 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. Youmake me feel badly. You are too clever a fellow, you are made of toogood stuff, to spend your time in ups and downs over that class ofgoods. The idea of splitting hairs about Miss Nioche! It seems to meawfully foolish. You say you have given up taking her seriously; but youtake 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_. Butshe has wonderfully pretty arms. Would you believe I didn’t know it tillthis evening?”

  “But she is a vulgar little wretch, remember, all the same,” saidNewman.

  “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 wasa disappointment; heigho!”

  “Why, she cares no more for her father than for her door-mat,” saidNewman. “I discovered that the first time I saw her.”

  “Oh, that’s another affair; she may think of the poor old beggar whatshe pleases. But it was low in her to call him bad names; it quite threwme off. It was about a frilled petticoat that he was to have fetchedfrom the washer-woman’s; he appeared to have neglected this gracefulduty. She almost boxed his ears. He stood there staring at her with hislittle blank eyes and smoothing his old hat with his coat-tail. At lasthe turned round and went out without a word. Then I told her it wasin very bad taste to speak so to one’s papa. She said she should be sothankful to me if I would mention it to her whenever her taste was atfault; she had immense confidence in mine. I told her I couldn’t havethe bother of forming her manners; I had had an idea they were alreadyformed, after the best models. She had disappointed me. But I shall getover it,” said Valentin, gaily.

  “Oh, time’s a great consoler!” Newman answered with humorous sobriety.He was silent a moment, and then he added, in another tone, “I wish youwould think of what I said to you the other day. Come over to Americawith us, and I will put you in the way of doing some business. You havea very good head, if you will only use it.”

  Valentin made a genial grimace. “My head is much obliged to you. Do youmean the place in a bank?”

  “There are several places, but I suppose you would consider the bank themost aristocratic.”

  Valentin burst into a laugh. “My dear fellow, at night all cats aregray! When one derogates there are no degrees.”


  Newman answered nothing for a minute. Then, “I think you will find thereare degrees in success,” he said with a certain dryness.

  Valentin had leaned forward again, with his elbows on his knees, and hewas 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 momentthrough sagaciously-narrowed eyelids. “Try it and see. You are not goodenough for it, but we will stretch a point.”

  “Do you really think I can make some money? I should like to see how itfeels 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 deBellegarde’s box.

  “Upon my word I will think of it,” said Valentin. “I will go and listento Mozart another half hour--I can always think better to music--andprofoundly meditate upon it.”

  The marquis was with his wife when Newman entered their box; he wasbland, remote, and correct as usual; or, as it seemed to Newman, evenmore than usual.

  “What do you think of the opera?” asked our hero. “What do you think ofthe Don?”

  “We all know what Mozart is,” said the marquis; “our impressionsdon’t date from this evening. Mozart is youth, freshness, brilliancy,facility--a little too great facility, perhaps. But the execution ishere and there deplorably rough.”

  “I am very curious to see how it ends,” said Newman.

  “You speak as if it were a _feuilleton_ in the _Figaro_,” observed themarquis. “You have surely seen the opera before?”

  “Never,” said Newman. “I am sure I should have remembered it.Donna Elvira reminds me of Madame de Cintré; I don’t mean in hercircumstances, but in the music she sings.”

  “It is a very nice distinction,” laughed the marquis lightly. “There isno great possibility, I imagine, of Madame de Cintré being forsaken.”

  “Not much!” said Newman. “But what becomes of the Don?”

  “The devil comes down--or comes up,” said Madame de Bellegarde, “andcarries him off. I suppose Zerlina reminds you of me.”

  “I will go to the _foyer_ for a few moments,” said the marquis, “andgive you a chance to say that the commander--the man of stone--resemblesme.” And he passed out of the box.

  The little marquise stared an instant at the velvet ledge of thebalcony, and then murmured, “Not a man of stone, a man of wood.” Newmanhad taken her husband’s empty chair. She made no protest, and then sheturned suddenly and laid her closed fan upon his arm. “I am very gladyou came in,” she said. “I want to ask you a favor. I wanted to do so onThursday, 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 mylittle favor then; not that you look particularly doleful now. It issomething you must promise me; now is the time to take you; after youare married you will be good for nothing. Come, promise!”

  “I never sign a paper without reading it first,” said Newman. “Show meyour document.”

  “No, you must sign with your eyes shut; I will hold your hand. Come,before you put your head into the noose. You ought to be thankful to mefor giving you a chance to do something amusing.”

  “If it is so amusing,” said Newman, “it will be in even better seasonafter I am married.”

  “In other words,” cried Madame de Bellegarde, “you will not do it atall. You will be afraid of your wife.”

  “Oh, if the thing is intrinsically improper,” said Newman, “I won’t gointo 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 wonderedwhat was coming. “I suppose you know what my life is,” she presentlysaid. “I have no pleasure, I see nothing, I do nothing. I live in Parisas I might live at Poitiers. My mother-in-law calls me--what is thepretty word?--a gad-about? accuses me of going to unheard-of places, andthinks it ought to be joy enough for me to sit at home and count over myancestors 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 witha green shade on my eyes; I hold that things were made to look at. Myhusband, you know, has principles, and the first on the list is thatthe Tuileries are dreadfully vulgar. If the Tuileries are vulgar, hisprinciples are tiresome. If I chose I might have principles quite aswell as he. If they grew on one’s family tree I should only have to givemine a shake to bring down a shower of the finest. At any rate, I preferclever Bonapartes to stupid Bourbons.”

  “Oh, I see; you want to go to court,” said Newman, vaguely conjecturingthat she might wish him to appeal to the United States legation tosmooth 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 theywill be very glad to have me. Sooner or later I shall dance in animperial quadrille. I know what you are going to say: ‘How will youdare?’ But I _shall_ dare. I am afraid of my husband; he is soft,smooth, irreproachable; everything that you know; but I am afraid ofhim--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 mustlive. For the moment, I want to go somewhere else; it’s my dream. I wantto go to the Bal Bullier.”

  “To the Bal Bullier?” repeated Newman, for whom the words at first meantnothing.

  “The ball in the Latin Quarter, where the students dance with theirmistresses. Don’t tell me you have not heard of it.”

  “Oh yes,” said Newman; “I have heard of it; I remember now. I have evenbeen there. And you want to go there?”

  “It is silly, it is low, it is anything you please. But I want to go.Some of my friends have been, and they say it is awfully _drôle_. Myfriends 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’texactly say you were moping.”

  “I am bored to death. I have been to the opera twice a week for the lasteight 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 haveto give it to me. To-night, for instance, I should have preferred athousand times to go to the Palais Royal. But my husband won’t go to thePalais Royal because the ladies of the court go there so much. You mayimagine, then, whether he would take me to Bullier’s; he says it isa mere imitation--and a bad one--of what they do at the PrincessKleinfuss’s. But as I don’t go to the Princess Kleinfuss’s, the nextbest thing is to go to Bullier’s. It is my dream, at any rate, it’sa fixed idea. All I ask of you is to give me your arm; you are lesscompromising than anyone else. I don’t know why, but you are. I canarrange 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 thewife of the Marquis de Bellegarde, a daughter of the crusaders, heiressof six centuries of glories and traditions, to have centred one’saspirations upon the sight of a couple of hundred young ladies kickingoff young men’s hats. It struck him as a theme for the moralist; buthe had no time to moralize upon it. The curtain rose again; M. deBellegarde returned, and Newman went back to his seat.

  He observed that Valentin de Bellegarde had taken his place in the_baignoire_ of Mademoiselle Nioche, behind this young lady and hercompanion, 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 hadreflected upon possible emigration. “If you really meant to meditate,” he said, “you might have chosen a better pla
ce for it.”

  “Oh, the place was not bad,” said Valentin. “I was not thinking of thatgirl. I listened to the music, and, without thinking of the play orlooking at the stage, I turned over your proposal. At first it seemedquite fantastic. And then a certain fiddle in the orchestra--I coulddistinguish 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 theconductor’s stick seemed to beat it in the air: ‘Why not, why not?’ I’msure I can’t say! I don’t see why not. I don’t see why I shouldn’t dosomething. It appears to me really a very bright idea. This sort ofthing is certainly very stale. And then I could come back with a trunkfull of dollars. Besides, I might possibly find it amusing. They call mea _raffiné_; who knows but that I might discover an unsuspected charm inshop-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 strongman, a first-rate man, a man who dominated circumstances.”

  “Never mind how it would look,” said Newman. “It always looks well tohave half a million of dollars. There is no reason why you shouldn’thave them if you will mind what I tell you--I alone--and not talk toother parties.” He passed his arm into that of his companion, andthe two walked for some time up and down one of the less frequentedcorridors. Newman’s imagination began to glow with the idea ofconverting his bright, impracticable friend into a first-class man ofbusiness. He felt for the moment a sort of spiritual zeal, the zealof the propagandist. Its ardor was in part the result of that generaldiscomfort which the sight of all uninvested capital produced in him; sofine an intelligence as Bellegarde’s ought to be dedicated to high uses.The highest uses known to Newman’s experience were certain transcendentsagacities in the handling of railway stock. And then his zeal wasquickened by his personal kindness for Valentin; he had a sort of pityfor him which he was well aware he never could have made the Comte deBellegarde understand. He never lost a sense of its being pitiable thatValentin should think it a large life to revolve in varnished bootsbetween the Rue d’Anjou and the Rue de l’Université, taking theBoulevard des Italiens on the way, when over there in America one’spromenade was a continent, and one’s Boulevard stretched from New Yorkto San Francisco. It mortified him, moreover, to think that Valentinlacked money; there was a painful grotesqueness in it. It affected himas the ignorance of a companion, otherwise without reproach, touchingsome rudimentary branch of learning would have done. There were thingsthat one knew about as a matter of course, he would have said in such acase. Just so, if one pretended to be easy in the world, one had moneyas a matter of course, one had made it! There was something almostridiculously anomalous to Newman in the sight of lively pretensionsunaccompanied by large investments in railroads; though I may add thathe would not have maintained that such investments were in themselves aproper ground for pretensions. “I will make you do something,” he saidto Valentin; “I will put you through. I know half a dozen things inwhich we can make a place for you. You will see some lively work. Itwill take you a little while to get used to the life, but you will workin before long, and at the end of six months--after you have done athing or two on your own account--you will like it. And then it willbe very pleasant for you, having your sister over there. It will bepleasant for her to have you, too. Yes, Valentin,” continued Newman,pressing his friend’s arm genially, “I think I see just the opening foryou. Keep quiet and I’ll push you right in.”

  Newman pursued this favoring strain for some time longer. The twomen strolled about for a quarter of an hour. Valentin listened andquestioned, many of his questions making Newman laugh loud at the_naïveté_ of his ignorance of the vulgar processes of money-getting;smiling himself, too, half ironical and half curious. And yet he wasserious; he was fascinated by Newman’s plain prose version of the legendof El Dorado. It is true, however, that though to accept an “opening” in an American mercantile house might be a bold, original, and in itsconsequences extremely agreeable thing to do, he did not quite seehimself objectively doing it. So that when the bell rang to indicate theclose 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! Imake 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 inwhich Mademoiselle Nioche had bestowed herself, laying his hand on thedoorknob. “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, “andto-night she is worth seeing. But,” he added in a moment, “I have aparticular 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 annoyby going in, and I want to annoy him.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” said Newman. “Can’t you leave the poor fellowalone?”

  “No, he has given me cause. The box is not his. Noémie came in aloneand installed herself. I went and spoke to her, and in a few moments sheasked 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 inand took the chair beside Noémie in which I had been sitting. Myreappearance disgusted him, and he had the grossness to show it. He camewithin an ace of being impertinent. I don’t know who he is; he is somevulgar wretch. I can’t think where she picks up such acquaintances. Hehas been drinking, too, but he knows what he is about. Just now, in thesecond act, he was unmannerly again. I shall put in another appearancefor ten minutes--time enough to give him an opportunity to commithimself, if he feels inclined. I really can’t let the brute suppose thathe is keeping me out of the box.”

  “My dear fellow,” said Newman, remonstrantly, “what child’s play! Youare 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 pickinga quarrel. I am not a bully nor a fire-eater. I simply wish to make apoint that a gentleman must.”

  “Oh, damn your point!” said Newman. “That is the trouble with youFrenchmen; 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 toAmerica in advance.”

  “Very good,” Valentin answered, “whenever you please. But if I go toAmerica, I must not let this gentleman suppose that it is to run awayfrom him.”

  And they separated. At the end of the act Newman observed that Valentinwas still in the _baignoire_. He strolled into the corridor again,expecting to meet him, and when he was within a few yards ofMademoiselle Nioche’s box saw his friend pass out, accompanied bythe young man who had been seated beside its fair occupant. The twogentlemen walked with some quickness of step to a distant part of thelobby, where Newman perceived them stop and stand talking. The mannerof each was perfectly quiet, but the stranger, who looked flushed, hadbegun to wipe his face very emphatically with his pocket-handkerchief.By this time Newman was abreast of the _baignoire_; the door had beenleft 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. “Youjust 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 anoticeable spark. You would have said that she had received some verygood news.

  “Something has happened here!” said Newman, without sitting down.

  “You find me in a very fine moment,” she repeated. “Two gentlemen--oneof them is M. de Bellegarde, the pleasure of whose acquaintance I owe toyou--have just had words about your humble servant. Very b
ig words too.They can’t come off without crossing swords. A duel--that will give mea push!” cried Mademoiselle Noémie clapping her little hands. “_C’est çaqui 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 agrudge--and pay my debt!”

  Newman uttered an imprecation which, though brief--it consisted simplyof the interjection “Oh!” followed by a geographical, or morecorrectly, perhaps a theological noun in four letters--had better notbe transferred to these pages. He turned his back without more ceremonyupon the pink dress and went out of the box. In the corridor he foundValentin and his companion walking towards him. The latter was thrustinga card into his waistcoat pocket. Mademoiselle Noémie’s jealous votarywas a tall, robust young man with a thick nose, a prominent blue eye, aGermanic physiognomy, and a massive watch-chain. When they reached thebox, 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 withhim, and Bellegarde answered that he would be with him in an instant.Valentin entered the box after the robust young man, but a couple ofminutes 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 tookit up.”

  “But I insist upon knowing; I can’t, as your elder brother, have yourushing into this sort of nonsense.”

  “I am very much obliged to you,” said Valentin. “I have nothing toconceal, 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 tomy 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 pattedhim on the arm. “You are delightfully simple! Before an affair a man isquiet. 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 yourquietness. I am not so simple! It is a poor business.”

  Valentin remained, and the two men, in their respective places, satout the rest of the performance, which was also enjoyed by MademoiselleNioche and her truculent admirer. At the end Newman joined Valentinagain, and they went into the street together. Valentin shook his headat 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,” hesaid; “I must look up a couple of friends who will take charge of thismatter.”

  “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, youare, as you said just now, almost my brother; you are about to marrymy sister. That alone disqualifies you; it casts doubts on yourimpartiality. And if it didn’t, it would be enough for me that Istrongly suspect you of disapproving of the affair. You would try toprevent a meeting.”

  “Of course I should,” said Newman. “Whoever your friends are, I hopethey will do that.”

  “Unquestionably they will. They will urge that excuses be made, properexcuses. But you would be too good-natured. You won’t do.”

  Newman was silent a moment. He was keenly annoyed, but he saw it wasuseless to attempt interference. “When is this precious performance tocome off?” he asked.

  “The sooner the better,” said Valentin. “The day after to-morrow, Ihope.”

  “Well,” said Newman, “I have certainly a claim to know the facts. Ican’t consent to shut my eyes to the matter.”

  “I shall be most happy to tell you the facts,” said Valentin. “They arevery simple, and it will be quickly done. But now everything depends onmy 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 atthe end of an hour.”

  Newman assented protestingly, let his friend go, and then betook himselfto the picturesque little apartment in the Rue d’Anjou. It was morethan an hour before Valentin returned, but when he did so he was ableto announce that he had found one of his desired friends, and that thisgentleman had taken upon himself the care of securing an associate.Newman had been sitting without lights by Valentin’s faded fire, uponwhich he had thrown a log; the blaze played over the richly-encumberedlittle sitting-room and produced fantastic gleams and shadows. Helistened in silence to Valentin’s account of what had passed between himand the gentleman whose card he had in his pocket--M. Stanislas Kapp,of Strasbourg--after his return to Mademoiselle Nioche’s box. Thishospitable young lady had espied an acquaintance on the other sideof the house, and had expressed her displeasure at his not having thecivility to come and pay her a visit. “Oh, let him alone!” M. StanislasKapp had hereupon exclaimed. “There are too many people in the boxalready.” And he had fixed his eyes with a demonstrative stare upon M.de Bellegarde. Valentin had promptly retorted that if there were toomany people in the box it was easy for M. Kapp to diminish the number.“I shall be most happy to open the door for _you!_” M. Kapp exclaimed.“I shall be delighted to fling you into the pit!” Valentin had answered.“Oh, do make a rumpus and get into the papers!” Miss Noémie hadgleefully ejaculated. “M. Kapp, turn him out; or, M. de Bellegarde,pitch him into the pit, into the orchestra--anywhere! I don’t care whodoes which, so long as you make a scene.” Valentin answered that theywould make no scene, but that the gentleman would be so good as tostep into the corridor with him. In the corridor, after a brief furtherexchange of words, there had been an exchange of cards. M. StanislasKapp was very stiff. He evidently meant to force his offence home.

  “The man, no doubt, was insolent,” Newman said; “but if you hadn’t goneback into the box the thing wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Why, don’t you see,” Valentin replied, “that the event proves theextreme propriety of my going back into the box? M. Kapp wished toprovoke me; he was awaiting his chance. In such a case--that is, whenhe has been, so to speak, notified--a man must be on hand to receive theprovocation. My not returning would simply have been tantamount tomy saying to M. Stanislas Kapp, ‘Oh, if you are going to bedisagreeable’”----

  “‘You must manage it by yourself; damned if I’ll help you!’ That wouldhave been a thoroughly sensible thing to say. The only attraction foryou seems to have been the prospect of M. Kapp’s impertinence,” Newmanwent on. “You told me you were not going back for that girl.”

  “Oh, don’t mention that girl any more,” murmured Valentin. “She’s abore.”

  “With all my heart. But if that is the way you feel about her, whycouldn’t you let her alone?”

  Valentin shook his head with a fine smile. “I don’t think you quiteunderstand, and I don’t believe I can make you. She understood thesituation 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,” criedNewman.

  “Well,” Valentin rejoined, “there is no disputing about tastes. It’s amatter 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
thingis settled.”

  Newman turned away, taking his hat. Then pausing with his hand on thedoor, “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 anindifferent shot.”

  Newman had put on his hat; he pushed it back, gently scratching hisforehead, high up. “I wish it were pistols,” he said. “I could show youhow to lodge a bullet!”

  Valentin broke into a laugh. “What is it some English poet says aboutconsistency? It’s a flower, or a star, or a jewel. Yours has the beautyof all three!” But he agreed to see Newman again on the morrow, afterthe details of his meeting with M. Stanislas Kapp should have beenarranged.

  In the course of the day Newman received three lines from him, sayingthat it had been decided that he should cross the frontier, with hisadversary, and that he was to take the night express to Geneva. Heshould have time, however, to dine with Newman. In the afternoon Newmancalled upon Madame de Cintré, but his visit was brief. She was asgracious and sympathetic as he had ever found her, but she was sad, andshe confessed, on Newman’s charging her with her red eyes, that she hadbeen crying. Valentin had been with her a couple of hours before, andhis visit had left her with a painful impression. He had laughed andgossiped, he had brought her no bad news, he had only been, in hismanner, rather more affectionate than usual. His fraternal tendernesshad touched her, and on his departure she had burst into tears. She hadfelt as if something strange and sad were going to happen; she had triedto reason away the fancy, and the effort had only given her a headache.Newman, of course, was perforce tongue-tied about Valentin’s projectedduel, and his dramatic talent was not equal to satirizing Madame deCintré’s presentiment as pointedly as perfect security demanded. Beforehe went away he asked Madame de Cintré whether Valentin had seen hismother.

  “Yes,” she said, “but he didn’t make her cry.”

  It was in Newman’s own apartment that Valentin dined, having broughthis portmanteau, so that he might adjourn directly to the railway. M.Stanislas Kapp had positively declined to make excuses, and he, on hisside, obviously, had none to offer. Valentin had found out with whom hewas dealing. M. Stanislas Kapp was the son of and heir of a rich brewerof Strasbourg, a youth of a sanguineous--and sanguinary--temperament.He was making ducks and drakes of the paternal brewery, and although hepassed in a general way for a good fellow, he had already been observedto 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 viewof his long journey, of eating more than usual. He took the libertyof suggesting to Newman a slight modification in the composition of acertain fish-sauce; he thought it would be worth mentioning to thecook. But Newman had no thoughts for fish-sauce; he felt thoroughlydiscontented. As he sat and watched his amiable and clever companiongoing through his excellent repast with the delicate deliberation ofhereditary epicurism, the folly of so charming a fellow traveling offto expose his agreeable young life for the sake of M. Stanislas andMademoiselle Noémie struck him with intolerable force. He had grown fondof Valentin, he felt now how fond; and his sense of helplessness onlyincreased his irritation.

  “Well, this sort of thing may be all very well,” he cried at last, “butI declare I don’t see it. I can’t stop you, perhaps, but at least I canprotest. I do protest, violently.”

  “My dear fellow, don’t make a scene,” said Valentin. “Scenes in thesecases are in very bad taste.”

  “Your duel itself is a scene,” said Newman; “that’s all it is! It’s awretched theatrical affair. Why don’t you take a band of music with yououtright? 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 ofdueling,” said Valentin. “It is our custom, and I think it is a goodthing. Quite apart from the goodness of the cause in which a duel maybe fought, it has a kind of picturesque charm which in this age ofvile prose seems to me greatly to recommend it. It’s a remnant of ahigher-tempered time; one ought to cling to it. Depend upon it, a duelis 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 youshould be? For my part I think we had better let our temper take care ofitself; it generally seems to me quite high enough; I am not afraidof being too meek. If your great-grandfather were to make himselfunpleasant to me, I think I could manage him yet.”

  “My dear friend,” said Valentin, smiling, “you can’t invent anythingthat will take the place of satisfaction for an insult. To demand it andto give it are equally excellent arrangements.”

  “Do you call this sort of thing satisfaction?” Newman asked. “Does itsatisfy you to receive a present of the carcass of that coarse fop? doesit gratify you to make him a present of yours? If a man hits you, hithim 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 aredoing is not particularly nice. You are too good for it. I don’t sayyou are the most useful man in the world, or the cleverest, or themost amiable. But you are too good to go and get your throat cut for aprostitute.”

  Valentin flushed a little, but he laughed. “I shan’t get my throat cutif 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 sayany more,” he said. “If you do I shall almost fancy you don’t careabout--about”--and he paused.

  “About what?”

  “About that matter--about one’s honor.”

  “Fancy what you please,” said Newman. “Fancy while you are at it thatI care about _you_--though you are not worth it. But come back withoutdamage,” he added in a moment, “and I will forgive you. And then,” he continued, as Valentin was going, “I will ship you straight off toAmerica.”

  “Well,” answered Valentin, “if I am to turn over a new page, this mayfigure as a tail-piece to the old.” And then he lit another cigar anddeparted.

  “Blast that girl!” said Newman as the door closed upon Valentin.