“It is too kindly,” said Madame de Cintré. “It is a kindness that costs nothing; it is the kindness you show to a child. It is as if you didn’t respect him.”
“Respect him? Why I think I do.”
“You think? If you are not sure, it is no respect.”
“Do you respect him?” said Newman. “If you do, I do.”
“If one loves a person, that is a question one is not bound to answer,” said Madame de Cintré.
“You should not have asked it of me, then. I am very fond of your brother.”
“He amuses you. But you would not like to resemble him.”
“I shouldn’t like to resemble anyone. It is hard enough work resembling one’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 quite good enough for me.”
Madame de Cintré was silent for a short time. “He is not good enough for me,” she said at last. “I wish he would do something.”
“What can he do?” asked Newman.
“Nothing. Yet he is very clever.”
“It is a proof of cleverness,” said Newman, “to be happy without doing anything.”
“I don’t think Valentin is happy, in reality. He is clever, generous, brave; but what is there to show for it? To me there is something sad in his life, and sometimes I have a sort of foreboding about him. I don’t know why, but I fancy he will have some great trouble—perhaps an unhappy end.”
“Oh, leave him to me,” said Newman, jovially. “I will watch over him and keep harm away.”
One evening, in Madame de Bellegarde’s salon, the conversation had flagged most sensibly. The marquis walked up and down in silence, like a sentinel at the door of some smooth-fronted citadel of the proprieties; his mother sat staring at the fire; young Madame de Bellegarde worked at an enormous band of tapestry. Usually there were three or four visitors, but on this occasion a violent storm sufficiently accounted for the absence of even the most devoted habitués. In the long silences the howling of the wind and the beating of the rain were distinctly audible. Newman sat perfectly still, watching the clock, determined to stay till the stroke of eleven, but not a moment longer. Madame de Cintré had turned her back to the circle, and had been standing for some time within the uplifted curtain of a window, with her forehead against the pane, gazing out into the deluged darkness. Suddenly she turned round toward her sister-in-law.
“For Heaven’s sake,” she said, with peculiar eagerness, “go to the piano and play something.”
Madame de Bellegarde held up her tapestry and pointed to a little white flower. “Don’t ask me to leave this. I am in the midst of a masterpiece. My flower is going to smell very sweet; I am putting in the smell with this gold-colored silk. I am holding my breath; I can’t leave off. Play something yourself.”
“It is absurd for me to play when you are present,” said Madame de Cintré. But the next moment she went to the piano and began to strike the keys with vehemence. She played for some time, rapidly and brilliantly; when she stopped, Newman went to the piano and asked her to begin again. She shook her head, and, on his insisting, she said, “I have not been playing for you; I have been playing for myself.” She went back to the window again and looked out, and shortly afterwards left the room. When Newman took leave, Urbain de Bellegarde accompanied him, as he always did, just three steps down the staircase. At the bottom stood a servant with his overcoat. He had just put it on when he saw Madame de Cintré coming towards him across the vestibule.
“Shall you be at home on Friday?” Newman asked.
She looked at him a moment before answering his question. “You don’t like my mother and my brother,” she said.
He hesitated a moment, and then he said softly, “No.”
She laid her hand on the balustrade and prepared to ascend the stairs, fixing her eyes on the first step.
“Yes, I shall be at home on Friday,” and she passed up the wide dusky staircase.
On the Friday, as soon as he came in, she asked him to please to tell her why he disliked her family.
“Dislike your family?” he exclaimed. “That has a horrid sound. I didn’t say so, did I? I didn’t mean it, if I did.”
“I wish you would tell me what you think of them,” said Madame de Cintré.
“I don’t think of any of them but you.”
“That is because you dislike them. Speak the truth; you can’t offend me.”
“Well, I don’t exactly love your brother,” said Newman. “I remember now. But what is the use of my saying so? I had forgotten it.”
“You are too good-natured,” said Madame de Cintré gravely. Then, as if to avoid the appearance of inviting him to speak ill of the marquis, she turned away, motioning him to sit down.
But he remained standing before her and said presently, “What is of much more importance is that they don’t like me.”
“No—they don’t,” she said.
“And don’t you think they are wrong?” Newman asked. “I don’t believe I am a man to dislike.”
“I suppose that a man who may be liked may also be disliked. And my brother—my mother,” she added, “have not made you angry?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“You have never shown it.”
“So much the better.”
“Yes, so much the better. They think they have treated you very well.”
“I have no doubt they might have handled me much more roughly,” said Newman. “I am much obliged to them. Honestly.”
“You are generous,” said Madame de Cintré. “It’s a disagreeable position.”
“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 am as good as they are. I do. But we shan’t quarrel about it.”
“I can’t even agree with you without saying something that has a disagreeable sound. The presumption was against you. That you probably don’t understand.”
Newman sat down and looked at her for some time. “I don’t think I really understand it. But when you say it, I believe it.”
“That’s a poor reason,” said Madame de Cintré, smiling.
“No, it’s a very good one. You have a high spirit, a high standard; but with you it’s all natural and unaffected; you don’t seem to have stuck your head into a vise, as if you were sitting for the photograph of propriety. You think of me as a fellow who has had no idea in life but to make money and drive sharp bargains. That’s a fair description of me, but it is not the whole story. A man ought to care for something else, though I don’t know exactly what. I cared for money-making, but I never cared particularly for the money. There was nothing else to do, and it was impossible to be idle. I have been very easy to others, and to myself. I have done most of the things that people asked me—I don’t mean rascals. As regards your mother and your brother,” Newman added, “there is only one point upon which I feel that I might quarrel with them. I don’t ask them to sing my praises to you, but I ask them to let you alone. If I thought they talked ill of me to you, I should come down upon them.”
“They have let me alone, as you say. They have not talked ill of you.”
“In that case,” cried Newman, “I declare they are only too good for this world!”
Madame de Cintré appeared to find something startling in his exclamation. She would, perhaps, have replied, but at this moment the door was thrown open and Urbain de Bellegarde stepped across the threshold. He appeared surprised at finding Newman, but his surprise was but a momentary shadow across the surface of an unwonted joviality. Newman had never seen the marquis so exhilarated; his pale, unlighted countenance had a sort of thin transfiguration. He held open the door for someone else to enter, and presently appeared old Madame de Bellegarde, leaning on the arm of a gentleman whom Newman had not seen before. He had already risen, and Madame de Cintré rose, as she always did before her mother. The marquis, who had greeted Newman almost genially, stood apart, slowly rubbing his hands. His mother came forward with her companion. She gave a majestic little nod at Newman, and then she released the strange gentleman, that he might make his bow to her daughter.
“My daughter,” she said, “I have brought you an unknown relative, Lord Deepmere. Lord Deepmere is our cousin, but he has done only to-day what he ought to have done long ago—come to make our acquaintance.”
Madame de Cintré smiled, and offered Lord Deepmere her hand. “It is very extraordinary,” said this noble laggard, “but this is the first time that I have ever been in Paris for more than three or four weeks.”
“And how long have you been here now?” asked Madame de Cintré.
“Oh, for the last two months,” said Lord Deepmere.
These two remarks might have constituted an impertinence; but a glance at Lord Deepmere’s face would have satisfied you, as it apparently satisfied Madame de Cintré, that they constituted only a naïveté. When his companions were seated, Newman, who was out of the conversation, occupied himself with observing the newcomer. Observation, however, as regards Lord Deepmere’s person; had no great range. He was a small, meagre man, of some three and thirty years of age, with a bald head, a short nose and no front teeth in the upper jaw; he had round, candid blue eyes, and several pimples on his chin. He was evidently very shy, and he laughed a great deal, catching his breath with an odd, startling sound, as the most convenient imitation of repose. His physiognomy denoted great simplicity, a certain amount of brutality, and probable failure in the past to profit by rare educational advantages. He remarked that Paris was awfully jolly, but that for real, thorough-paced entertainment it was nothing to Dublin. He even preferred Dublin to London. Had Madame de Cintré ever been to Dublin? They must all come over there some day, and he would show them some Irish sport. He always went to Ireland for the fishing, and he came to Paris for the new Offenbach things. They always brought them out in Dublin, but he couldn’t wait. He had been nine times to hear La Pomme de Paris. Madame de Cintré, leaning back, with her arms folded, looked at Lord Deepmere with a more visibly puzzled face than she usually showed to society. Madame de Bellegarde, on the other hand, wore a fixed smile. The marquis said that among light operas his favorite was the Gazza Ladra. The marquise then began a series of inquiries about the duke and the cardinal, the old countess and Lady Barbara, after listening to which, and to Lord Deepmere’s somewhat irreverent responses, for a quarter of an hour, Newman rose to take his leave. The marquis went with him three steps into the hall.
“Is he Irish?” asked Newman, nodding in the direction of the visitor.
“His mother was the daughter of Lord Finucane,” said the marquis; “he has great Irish estates. Lady Bridget, in the complete absence of male heirs, either direct or collateral—a most extraordinary circumstance—came in for everything. But Lord Deepmere’s title is English and his English property is immense. He is a charming young man.”
Newman answered nothing, but he detained the marquis as the latter was beginning gracefully to recede. “It is a good time for me to thank you,” he said, “for sticking so punctiliously to our bargain, for doing so much to help me on with your sister.”
The marquis stared. “Really, I have done nothing that I can boast of,” he said.
“Oh don’t be modest,” Newman answered, laughing. “I can’t flatter myself that I am doing so well simply by my own merit. And thank your mother for me, too!” And he turned away, leaving M. de Bellegarde looking after him.
CHAPTER XIV
The next time Newman came to the Rue de l’Université he had the good fortune to find Madame de Cintré alone. He had come with a definite intention, and he lost no time in executing it. She wore, moreover, a look which he eagerly interpreted as expectancy.
“I have been coming to see you for six months, now,” he said, “and I have never spoken to you a second time of marriage. That was what you asked me; I obeyed. Could any man have done better?”
“You have acted with great delicacy,” said Madame de Cintré.
“Well, I’m going to change now,” said Newman. “I don’t mean that I am going to be indelicate; but I’m going to go back to where I began. I am back there. I have been all round the circle. Or rather, I have never been away from here. I have never ceased to want what I wanted then. Only now I am more sure of it, if possible; I am more sure of myself, and more sure of you. I know you better, though I don’t know anything I didn’t believe three months ago. You are everything—you are beyond everything—I can imagine or desire. You know me now; you must know me. I won’t say that you have seen the best—but you have seen the worst. I hope you have been thinking all this while. You must have seen that I was only waiting; you can’t suppose that I was changing. What will you say to me, now? Say that everything is clear and reasonable, and that I have been very patient and considerate, and deserve my reward. And then give me your hand. Madame de Cintré do that. Do it.”
“I knew you were only waiting,” she said; “and I was very sure this day would come. I have thought about it a great deal. At first I was half afraid of it. But I am not afraid of it now.” She paused a moment, and then she added, “It’s a relief.”
She was sitting on a low chair, and Newman was on an ottoman, near her. He leaned a little and took her hand, which for an instant she let him keep. “That means that I have not waited for nothing,” he said. She looked at him for a moment, and he saw her eyes fill with tears. “With me,” he went on, “you will be as safe—as safe”—and even in his ardor he hesitated a moment for a comparison—“as safe,” he said, with a kind of simple solemnity, “as in your father’s arms.”
Still she looked at him and her tears increased. Then, abruptly, she buried her face on the cushioned arm of the sofa beside her chair, and broke into noiseless sobs. “I am weak—I am weak,” he heard her say.
“All the more reason why you should give yourself up to me,” he answered. “Why are you troubled? There is nothing but happiness. Is that so hard to believe?”
“To you everything seems so simple,” she said, raising her head. “But things are not so. I like you extremely. I liked you six months ago, and now I am sure of it, as you say you are sure. But it is not easy, simply for that, to decide to marry you. There are a great many things to think about.”
“There ought to be only one thing to think about—that we love each other,” said Newman. And as she remained silent he quickly added, “Very good, if you can’t accept that, don’t tell me so.”
“I should be very glad to think of nothing,” she said at last; “not to think at all; only to shut both my eyes and give myself up. But I can’t. I’m cold, I’m old, I’m a coward; I never supposed I should marry again, and it seems to me very strange I should ever have listened to you. When I used to think, as a girl, of what I should do if I were to marry freely, by my own choice, I thought of a very different man from you.”
“That’s nothing against me,” said Newman with an immense smile; “your taste was not formed.”
His smile made Madame de 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 very little. I think if I were to marry you I could live almost anywhere. You have some false ideas about me; you think that I need a great many things—that I must have a brilliant, worldly life. I am sure you are prepared to take a great deal of trouble to give me such things. But that is very arbitrary; I have done nothing to prove that.” She paused again, looking at him, and her mingled sound and silence were so sweet to him that he had no wish to hurry her, any more than he would have had a wish to hurry a golden sunrise. “Your being so different, which at first seemed a difficulty, a trouble, began one day to seem to me a pleasure, a great pleasure. I was glad you were different. And yet if I had said so, no one would have understood me; I don’t mean simply to my family.”
“They would have said I was a queer monster, eh?” said Newman.
“They would have said I could never be happy with you—you were too different; and I would have said it was just because you were so different that I might be happy. But they would have given better reasons than I. My only reason”—and she paused again.
But this time, in the midst of his golden sunrise, Newman felt the impulse to grasp at a rosy cloud. “Your only reason is that you love me!” he murmured with an eloquent gesture, and for want of a better reason Madame de Cintré reconciled herself to this one.
Newman came back the next day, and in the vestibule, as he entered the house, he encountered his friend Mrs. Bread. She was wandering about in honorable idleness, and when his eyes fell upon her she delivered him one of her curtsies. Then turning to the servant who had admitted him, she said, with the combined majesty of her native superiority and of a rugged English accent, “You may retire; I will have the honor of conducting monsieur.” In spite of this combination, however, it appeared to Newman that her voice had a slight quaver, as if the tone of command were not habitual to it. The man gave her an impertinent stare, but he walked slowly away, and she led Newman upstairs. At half its course the staircase gave a bend, forming a little platform. In the angle of the wall stood an indifferent statue of an eighteenth-century nymph, simpering, sallow, and cracked. Here Mrs. Bread stopped and looked with shy kindness at her companion.
“I know the good news, sir,” she murmured.
“You have a good right to be first to know it,” said Newman. “You have taken such a friendly interest.”
Mrs. Bread turned away and began to blow the dust off the statue, as if this might be mockery.
“I suppose you want to congratulate me,” said Newman. “I am greatly obliged.” And then he added, “You gave me much pleasure the other day.”
She turned around, apparently reassured. “You are not to think that I have been told anything,” she said; “I have only guessed. But when I looked at you, as you came in, I was sure I had guessed aright.”
“You are very sharp,” said Newman. “I am sure that in your quiet way you see everything.”
“I am not a fool, sir, thank God. I have guessed something else beside,” said Mrs. Bread.
“What’s that?”
“I needn’t tell you that, sir; I don’t think you would believe it. At any rate it wouldn’t please you.”
“Oh, tell me nothing but what will please me,” laughed Newman. “That is the way you began.”
“Well, sir, I suppose you won’t be vexed to hear that the sooner everything is over the better.”
“The sooner we are married, you mean? The better for me, certainly.”
“The better for 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 was thinking. I only wanted, if I might take the liberty, to recommend you to lose no time.”
“Whom are you afraid of?”
Mrs. Bread looked up the staircase and then down and then she looked at the undusted nymph, as if she possibly had sentient ears. “I am afraid of 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. “I won’t take it back, but I won’t say any more.” And she took her way up the staircase again and led him into Madame de Cintré’s salon.
Newman indulged in a brief and silent imprecation when he found that Madame de Cintré was not alone. With her sat her mother, and in the middle of the room stood young Madame de Bellegarde, in her bonnet and mantle. The old marquise, who was leaning back in her chair with a hand clasping the knob of each arm, looked at him fixedly without moving. She seemed barely conscious of his greeting; she appeared to be musing intently. Newman said to himself that her daughter had been announcing her engagement and that the old lady found the morsel hard to swallow. But Madame de Cintré, as she gave him her hand gave him also a look by which she appeared to mean that he should understand something. Was it a warning or a request? Did she wish to enjoin speech or silence? He was puzzled, and young Madame de Bellegarde’s pretty grin gave him no information.
“I have not told my mother,” said Madame de Cintré abruptly, looking at him.
“Told me what?” demanded the marquise. “You tell me too little; you should tell me everything.”
“That is what I do,” said Madame Urbain, with a little laugh.
“Let me tell your mother,” said Newman.
The old lady stared at him again, and then turned to her daughter. “You are going to marry him?” she cried, softly.
“Oui, ma 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. “I seem to be picking up the news by chance!”
“My suspense came to an end yesterday,” said Newman.
“And how long was mine to have lasted?” said the marquise to her daughter. She spoke without irritation; with a sort of cold, noble displeasure.
Madame de Cintré stood silent, with her eyes on the ground. “It is over now,” she said.
“Where is my son—where is Urbain?” asked the marquise. “Send for your brother and inform him.”
Young Madame de Bellegarde laid her hand on the bell-rope. “He was to make some visits with me, and I was to go and knock—very softly, very softly—at the door of his study. But he can come to me!” She pulled the bell, and in a few moments Mrs. Bread appeared, with a face of calm inquiry.
“Send for your brother,” said the old lady.
But Newman felt an irresistible impulse to speak, and to speak in a certain way. “Tell the marquis we want him,” he said to Mrs. Bread, who quietly retired.
Young Madame de Bellegarde went to her sister-in-law and embraced her. Then she turned to Newman, with an intense smile. “She is charming. I congratulate you.”
“I congratulate you, sir,” said Madame de Bellegarde, with extreme solemnity. “My daughter is an extraordinarily good woman. She may have faults, but I don’t know them.”
“My mother does not often make jokes,” said Madame de Cintré; “but when she does they are terrible.”
“She is ravishing,” the Marquise Urbain resumed, looking at her sister-in-law, with her head on one side. “Yes, I congratulate you.”
Madame de Cintré turned away, and, taking up a piece of tapestry, began to ply the needle. Some minutes of silence elapsed, which were interrupted by the arrival of M. de Bellegarde. He came in with his hat in his hand, gloved, and was followed by his brother Valentin, who appeared to have just entered the house. M. de Bellegarde looked around the circle and greeted Newman with his usual finely-measured courtesy. Valentin saluted his mother and his sisters, and, as he shook hands with Newman, gave him a glance of acute interrogation.
“Arrivez donc, messieurs!” cried young Madame de Bellegarde. “We have great news for you.”
“Speak to your brother, my daughter,” said the old lady.
Madame de Cintré had been looking at her tapestry. She raised her eyes to her brother. “I have accepted Mr. Newman.”
“Your sister has consented,” said Newman. “You see after all, I knew what I was about.”
“I am charmed!” said M. de Bellegarde, with superior benignity.
“So am I,” said Valentin to Newman. “The marquis and I are charmed. I can’t marry, myself, but I can understand it. I can’t stand on my head, but I can applaud a clever acrobat. My dear sister, I bless your union.”
The marquis stood looking for a while into the crown of his hat. “We have been prepared,” he said at last “but it is inevitable that in face of the event one should experience a certain emotion.” And he gave a most unhilarious smile.
“I feel no emotion that I was not perfectly prepared for,” said his mother.
“I can’t say that for myself,” said Newman, smiling but differently from the marquis. “I am happier than I expected to be. I suppose it’s the sight of your happiness!”
“Don’t exaggerate that,” said Madame de Bellegarde, getting up and laying her hand upon her daughter’s arm. “You can’t expect an honest old woman to thank you for taking away her beautiful, only daughter.”
“You forgot me, dear madame,” said the young marquise demurely.
“Yes, she is very beautiful,” said Newman.
“And when is the wedding, pray?” asked young Madame de Bellegarde; “I must have a month to think over a dress.”
“That must be discussed,” said the marquise.
“Oh, we will discuss it, and let you know!” Newman exclaimed.
“I have no doubt we shall agree,” said Urbain.
“If you don’t agree with Madame de Cintré, you will be very unreasonable.”
“Come, come, Urbain,” said young Madame de Bellegarde, “I must go straight to my tailor’s.”
The old lady had been standing with her hand on her daughter’s arm, looking at her fixedly. She gave a little sigh, and murmured, “No, I did not expect it! You are a fortunate man,” she added, turning to Newman, with an expressive nod.
“Oh, I know that!” he answered. “I feel tremendously proud. I feel like crying it on the housetops,—like stopping people in the street to tell them.”
Madame de Bellegarde narrowed her lips. “Pray don’t,” she said.
“The more people that know it, the better,” Newman declared. “I haven’t yet announced it here, but I telegraphed it this morning to America.”
“Telegraphed it to America?” the old lady murmured.
“To New York, to St. Louis, and to San Francisco; those are the principal cities, you know. To-morrow I shall tell my friends here.”
“Have you many?” asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone of which I am afraid that Newman but partly measured the impertinence.
“Enough to bring me a great many hand-shakes and congratulations. To say nothing,” he added, in a moment, “of those I shall receive from your friends.”
“They will not use the telegraph,” said the marquise, taking her departure.
M. de Bellegarde, whose wife, her imagination having apparently taken flight to the tailor’s, was fluttering her silken wings in emulation, shook hands with Newman, and said with a more persuasive accent than the latter had ever heard him use, “You may count upon me.” Then his wife led him away.
Valentin stood looking from his sister to our hero. “I hope you both reflected seriously,” he said.
Madame de Cintré smiled. “We have neither your powers of reflection nor your depth of seriousness; but we have done our best.”
“Well, I have a great regard for each of you,” Valentin continued. “You are charming young people. But I am not satisfied, on the whole, that you belong to that small and superior class—that exquisite group composed of persons who are worthy to remain unmarried. These are rare souls; they are the salt of the earth. But I don’t mean to be invidious; the marrying people are often very nice.”
“Valentin holds that women should marry, and that men should not,” said Madame de 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 that for you some day. I foresee that I am going to turn apostle.”
Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment with a face that had turned grave. “I adore someone I can’t marry!” he said. And he dropped the portière and departed.
“They don’t like it,” said Newman, standing alone before Madame de Cintré.
“No,” she said, after a moment; “they don’t like it.”
“Well, now, do you mind that?” asked Newman.
“Yes!” she said, after another interval.
“That’s a mistake.”
“I can’t help it. I should prefer that my mother were pleased.”
“Why the deuce,” demanded Newman, “is she not pleased? She gave you leave to marry me.”
“Very true; I don’t understand it. And yet I do ‘mind it,’ as you say. You will call it superstitious.”
“That will depend upon how much you let it bother you. Then I shall call it an awful bore.”
“I will keep it to myself,” said Madame de Cintré, “It shall not bother you.” And then they talked of their marriage-day, and Madame de Cintré assented unreservedly to Newman’s desire to have it fixed for an early date.
Newman’s telegrams were answered with interest. Having dispatched but three electric missives, he received no less than eight gratulatory bulletins in return. He put them into his pocket-book, and the next time he encountered old Madame de Bellegarde drew them forth and displayed them to her. This, it must be confessed, was a slightly malicious stroke; the reader must judge in what degree the offense was venial. Newman knew that the marquise disliked his telegrams, though he could see no sufficient reason for it. Madame de Cintré, on the other hand, liked them, and, most of them being of a humorous cast, laughed at them immoderately, and inquired into the character of their authors. Newman, now that his prize was gained, felt a peculiar desire that his triumph should be manifest. He more than suspected that the Bellegardes were keeping quiet about it, and allowing it, in their select circle, but a limited resonance; and it pleased him to think that if he were to take the trouble he might, as he phrased it, break all the windows. No man likes being repudiated, and yet Newman, if he was not flattered, was not exactly offended. He had not this good excuse for his somewhat aggressive impulse to promulgate his felicity; his sentiment was of another quality. He wanted for once to make the heads of the house of Bellegarde feel him; he knew not when he should have another chance. He had had for the past six months a sense of the old lady and her son looking straight over his head, and he was now resolved that they should toe a mark which he would give himself the satisfaction of drawing.
“It is like seeing a bottle emptied when the wine is poured too slowly,” he said to Mrs. Tristram. “They make me want to joggle their elbows and force them to spill their wine.”