by Henry James
CHAPTER VIII
“Tell me something about your sister,” Newman began abruptly.
Bellegarde turned and gave him a quick look. “Now that I think of it,you have never yet asked me a question about her.”
“I know that very well.”
“If it is because you don’t trust me, you are very right,” saidBellegarde. “I can’t talk of her rationally. I admire her too much.”
“Talk of her as you can,” rejoined Newman. “Let yourself go.”
“Well, we are very good friends; we are such a brother and sister ashave not been seen since Orestes and Electra. You have seen her; youknow what she is: tall, thin, light, imposing, and gentle, half a_grande dame_ and half an angel; a mixture of pride and humility, of theeagle and the dove. She looks like a statue which had failed as stone,resigned itself to its grave defects, and come to life as flesh andblood, to wear white capes and long trains. All I can say is that shereally possesses every merit that her face, her glance, her smile, thetone of her voice, lead you to expect; it is saying a great deal. As ageneral thing, when a woman seems very charming, I should say ‘Beware!’But in proportion as Claire seems charming you may fold your arms andlet yourself float with the current; you are safe. She is so good!I have never seen a woman half so perfect or so complete. She haseverything; that is all I can say about her. There!” Bellegardeconcluded; “I told you I should rhapsodize.”
Newman was silent a while, as if he were turning over his companion’swords. “She is very good, eh?” he repeated at last.
“Divinely good!”
“Kind, charitable, gentle, generous?”
“Generosity itself; kindness double-distilled!”
“Is she clever?”
“She is the most intelligent woman I know. Try her, some day, withsomething difficult, and you will see.”
“Is she fond of admiration?”
“_Parbleu!_” cried Bellegarde; “what woman is not?”
“Ah, when they are too fond of admiration they commit all kinds offollies to get it.”
“I did not say she was too fond!” Bellegarde exclaimed. “Heaven forbid Ishould say anything so idiotic. She is not _too_ anything! If I wereto say she was ugly, I should not mean she was too ugly. She is fondof pleasing, and if you are pleased she is grateful. If you are notpleased, she lets it pass and thinks the worst neither of you nor ofherself. I imagine, though, she hopes the saints in heaven are, for Iam sure she is incapable of trying to please by any means of which theywould disapprove.”
“Is she grave or gay?” asked Newman.
“She is both; not alternately, for she is always the same. There isgravity in her gaiety, and gaiety in her gravity. But there is no reasonwhy she should be particularly gay.”
“Is she unhappy?”
“I won’t say that, for unhappiness is according as one takes things, andClaire takes them according to some receipt communicated to her by theBlessed Virgin in a vision. To be unhappy is to be disagreeable, which,for her, is out of the question. So she has arranged her circumstancesso as to be happy in them.”
“She is a philosopher,” said Newman.
“No, she is simply a very nice woman.”
“Her circumstances, at any rate, have been disagreeable?”
Bellegarde hesitated a moment--a thing he very rarely did. “Oh, my dearfellow, if I go into the history of my family I shall give you more thanyou bargain for.”
“No, on the contrary, I bargain for that,” said Newman.
“We shall have to appoint a special séance, then, beginning early.Suffice it for the present that Claire has not slept on roses. Shemade at eighteen a marriage that was expected to be brilliant, but thatturned out like a lamp that goes out; all smoke and bad smell. M. deCintré was sixty years old, and an odious old gentleman. He lived,however, but a short time, and after his death his family pounced uponhis money, brought a lawsuit against his widow, and pushed things veryhard. Their case was a good one, for M. de Cintré, who had been trusteefor some of his relatives, appeared to have been guilty of some veryirregular practices. In the course of the suit some revelations weremade as to his private history which my sister found so displeasing thatshe ceased to defend herself and washed her hands of the property. Thisrequired some pluck, for she was between two fires, her husband’s familyopposing her and her own family forcing her. My mother and my brotherwished her to cleave to what they regarded as her rights. But sheresisted firmly, and at last bought her freedom--obtained my mother’sassent to dropping the suit at the price of a promise.”
“What was the promise?”
“To do anything else, for the next ten years, that was asked ofher--anything, that is, but marry.”
“She had disliked her husband very much?”
“No one knows how much!”
“The marriage had been made in your horrible French way,” Newmancontinued, “made by the two families, without her having any voice?”
“It was a chapter for a novel. She saw M. de Cintré for the first time amonth before the wedding, after everything, to the minutest detail, hadbeen arranged. She turned white when she looked at him, and white sheremained till her wedding-day. The evening before the ceremony sheswooned away, and she spent the whole night in sobs. My mother satholding her two hands, and my brother walked up and down the room. Ideclared it was revolting and told my sister publicly that if she wouldrefuse, downright, I would stand by her. I was told to go about mybusiness, and she became Comtesse de Cintré.”
“Your brother,” said Newman, reflectively, “must be a very nice youngman.”
“He is very nice, though he is not young. He is upward of fifty, fifteenyears my senior. He has been a father to my sister and me. He is avery remarkable man; he has the best manners in France. He is extremelyclever; indeed he is very learned. He is writing a history of ThePrincesses of France Who Never Married.” This was said by Bellegardewith extreme gravity, looking straight at Newman, and with an eye thatbetokened no mental reservation or that, at least, almost betokenednone.
Newman perhaps discovered there what little there was, for he presentlysaid, “You don’t love your brother.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Bellegarde, ceremoniously; “well-bred peoplealways love their brothers.”
“Well, I don’t love him, then!” Newman answered.
“Wait till you know him!” rejoined Bellegarde, and this time he smiled.
“Is your mother also very remarkable?” Newman asked, after a pause.
“For my mother,” said Bellegarde, now with intense gravity, “I havethe highest admiration. She is a very extraordinary woman. You cannotapproach her without perceiving it.”
“She is the daughter, I believe, of an English nobleman.”
“Of the Earl of St. Dunstan’s.”
“Is the Earl of St. Dunstan’s a very old family?”
“So-so; the sixteenth century. It is on my father’s side that we goback--back, back, back. The family antiquaries themselves lose breath.At last they stop, panting and fanning themselves, somewhere in theninth century, under Charlemagne. That is where we begin.”
“There is no mistake about it?” said Newman.
“I’m sure I hope not. We have been mistaken at least for severalcenturies.”
“And you have always married into old families?”
“As a rule; though in so long a stretch of time there have been someexceptions. Three or four Bellegardes, in the seventeenth and eighteenthcenturies, took wives out of the _bourgeoisie_--married lawyers’daughters.”
“A lawyer’s daughter; that’s very bad, is it?” asked Newman.
“Horrible! one of us, in the Middle Ages, did better: he married abeggar-maid, like King Cophetua. That was really better; it was likemarrying a bird or a monkey; one didn’t have to think about her familyat all. Our women have always done well; they have never even gone intothe _petite noblesse_. There is, I believe, not a case on record of amisalliance among the women.”
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Newman turned this over for a while, and, then at last he said, “Youoffered, the first time you came to see me to render me any service youcould. I told you that some time I would mention something you might do.Do you remember?”
“Remember? I have been counting the hours.”
“Very well; here’s your chance. Do what you can to make your sisterthink well of me.”
Bellegarde stared, with a smile. “Why, I’m sure she thinks as well ofyou as possible, already.”
“An opinion founded on seeing me three or four times? That is putting meoff with very little. I want something more. I have been thinking of ita good deal, and at last I have decided to tell you. I should like verymuch to marry Madame de Cintré.”
Bellegarde had been looking at him with quickened expectancy, and withthe smile with which he had greeted Newman’s allusion to his promisedrequest. At this last announcement he continued to gaze; but hissmile went through two or three curious phases. It felt, apparently, amomentary impulse to broaden; but this it immediately checked. Then itremained for some instants taking counsel with itself, at the end ofwhich it decreed a retreat. It slowly effaced itself and left a look ofseriousness modified by the desire not to be rude. Extreme surprise hadcome into the Count Valentin’s face; but he had reflected that it wouldbe uncivil to leave it there. And yet, what the deuce was he to do withit? He got up, in his agitation, and stood before the chimney-piece,still looking at Newman. He was a longer time thinking what to say thanone would have expected.
“If you can’t render me the service I ask,” said Newman, “say it out!”
“Let me hear it again, distinctly,” said Bellegarde. “It’s veryimportant, you know. I shall plead your cause with my sister, becauseyou want--you want to marry her? That’s it, eh?”
“Oh, I don’t say plead my cause, exactly; I shall try and do thatmyself. But say a good word for me, now and then--let her know that youthink well of me.”
At this, Bellegarde gave a little light laugh.
“What I want chiefly, after all,” Newman went on, “is just to let youknow what I have in mind. I suppose that is what you expect, isn’t it? Iwant to do what is customary over here. If there is anything particularto be done, let me know and I will do it. I wouldn’t for the worldapproach Madame de Cintré without all the proper forms. If I ought togo and tell your mother, why I will go and tell her. I will go and tellyour brother, even. I will go and tell anyone you please. As I don’tknow anyone else, I begin by telling you. But that, if it is a socialobligation, is a pleasure as well.”
“Yes, I see--I see,” said Bellegarde, lightly stroking his chin. “Youhave a very right feeling about it, but I’m glad you have begun withme.” He paused, hesitated, and then turned away and walked slowlythe length of the room. Newman got up and stood leaning against themantel-shelf, with his hands in his pockets, watching Bellegarde’spromenade. The young Frenchman came back and stopped in front of him.“I give it up,” he said; “I will not pretend I am not surprised. Iam--hugely! _Ouf!_ It’s a relief.”
“That sort of news is always a surprise,” said Newman. “No matter whatyou have done, people are never prepared. But if you are so surprised, Ihope at least you are pleased.”
“Come!” said Bellegarde. “I am going to be tremendously frank. I don’tknow whether I am pleased or horrified.”
“If you are pleased, I shall be glad,” said Newman, “and I shallbe--encouraged. If you are horrified, I shall be sorry, but I shall notbe discouraged. You must make the best of it.”
“That is quite right--that is your only possible attitude. You areperfectly serious?”
“Am I a Frenchman, that I should not be?” asked Newman. “But why is it,by the bye, that you should be horrified?”
Bellegarde raised his hand to the back of his head and rubbed his hairquickly up and down, thrusting out the tip of his tongue as he did so.“Why, you are not noble, for instance,” he said.
“The devil I am not!” exclaimed Newman.
“Oh,” said Bellegarde a little more seriously, “I did not know you had atitle.”
“A title? What do you mean by a title?” asked Newman. “A count, a duke,a marquis? I don’t know anything about that, I don’t know who is and whois not. But I say I am noble. I don’t exactly know what you mean by it,but it’s a fine word and a fine idea; I put in a claim to it.”
“But what have you to show, my dear fellow, what proofs?”
“Anything you please! But you don’t suppose I am going to undertake toprove that I am noble. It is for you to prove the contrary.”
“That’s easily done. You have manufactured wash-tubs.”
Newman stared a moment. “Therefore I am not noble? I don’t see it. Tellme something I have _not_ done--something I cannot do.”
“You cannot marry a woman like Madame de Cintré for the asking.”
“I believe you mean,” said Newman slowly, “that I am not good enough.”
“Brutally speaking--yes!”
Bellegarde had hesitated a moment, and while he hesitated Newman’sattentive glance had grown somewhat eager. In answer to these last wordshe for a moment said nothing. He simply blushed a little. Then he raisedhis eyes to the ceiling and stood looking at one of the rosy cherubsthat was painted upon it. “Of course I don’t expect to marry anywoman for the asking,” he said at last; “I expect first to make myselfacceptable to her. She must like me, to begin with. But that I am notgood enough to make a trial is rather a surprise.”
Bellegarde wore a look of mingled perplexity, sympathy, and amusement.“You should not hesitate, then, to go up to-morrow and ask a duchess tomarry you?”
“Not if I thought she would suit me. But I am very fastidious; she mightnot at all.”
Bellegarde’s amusement began to prevail. “And you should be surprised ifshe refused you?”
Newman hesitated a moment. “It sounds conceited to say yes, butnevertheless I think I should. For I should make a very handsome offer.”
“What would it be?”
“Everything she wishes. If I get hold of a woman that comes up to mystandard, I shall think nothing too good for her. I have been a longtime looking, and I find such women are rare. To combine the qualities Irequire seems to be difficult, but when the difficulty is vanquishedit deserves a reward. My wife shall have a good position, and I’m notafraid to say that I shall be a good husband.”
“And these qualities that you require--what are they?”
“Goodness, beauty, intelligence, a fine education, personalelegance--everything, in a word, that makes a splendid woman.”
“And noble birth, evidently,” said Bellegarde.
“Oh, throw that in, by all means, if it’s there. The more the better!”
“And my sister seems to you to have all these things?”
“She is exactly what I have been looking for. She is my dream realized.”
“And you would make her a very good husband?”
“That is what I wanted you to tell her.”
Bellegarde laid his hand on his companion’s arm a moment, looked athim with his head on one side, from head to foot, and then, with a loudlaugh, and shaking the other hand in the air, turned away. He walkedagain the length of the room, and again he came back and stationedhimself in front of Newman. “All this is very interesting--it is verycurious. In what I said just now I was speaking, not for myself, butfor my tradition, my superstitions. For myself, really, your proposaltickles me. It startled me at first, but the more I think of it themore I see in it. It’s no use attempting to explain anything; you won’tunderstand me. After all, I don’t see why you need; it’s no great loss.”
“Oh, if there is anything more to explain, try it! I want to proceedwith my eyes open. I will do my best to understand.”
“No,” said Bellegarde, “it’s disagreeable to me; I give it up. I likedyou the first time I saw you, and I will abide by that. It would bequite odious for me to come talking to you as if I could patroni
ze you.I have told you before that I envy you; _vous m’imposez_, as we say. Ididn’t know you much until within five minutes. So we will let thingsgo, and I will say nothing to you that, if our positions were reversed,you would not say to me.”
I do not know whether in renouncing the mysterious opportunity to whichhe alluded, Bellegarde felt that he was doing something very generous.If so, he was not rewarded; his generosity was not appreciated. Newmanquite failed to recognize the young Frenchman’s power to wound hisfeelings, and he had now no sense of escaping or coming off easily.He did not thank his companion even with a glance. “My eyes are open,though,” he said, “so far as that you have practically told me that yourfamily and your friends will turn up their noses at me. I have neverthought much about the reasons that make it proper for people to turn uptheir noses, and so I can only decide the question off-hand. Looking atit in that way I can’t see anything in it. I simply think, if you wantto know, that I’m as good as the best. Who the best are, I don’t pretendto say. I have never thought much about that either. To tell thetruth, I have always had rather a good opinion of myself; a man who issuccessful can’t help it. But I will admit that I was conceited. WhatI don’t say yes to is that I don’t stand high--as high as anyone else.This is a line of speculation I should not have chosen, but you mustremember you began it yourself. I should never have dreamed that I wason the defensive, or that I had to justify myself; but if your peoplewill have it so, I will do my best.”
“But you offered, a while ago, to make your court as we say, to mymother and my brother.”
“Damn it!” cried Newman, “I want to be polite.”
“Good!” rejoined Bellegarde; “this will go far, it will be veryentertaining. Excuse my speaking of it in that cold-blooded fashion, butthe matter must, of necessity, be for me something of a spectacle. It’spositively exciting. But apart from that I sympathize with you, and Ishall be actor, so far as I can, as well as spectator. You are a capitalfellow; I believe in you and I back you. The simple fact that youappreciate my sister will serve as the proof I was asking for. All menare equal--especially men of taste!”
“Do you think,” asked Newman presently, “that Madame de Cintré isdetermined not to marry?”
“That is my impression. But that is not against you; it’s for you tomake her change her mind.”
“I am afraid it will be hard,” said Newman, gravely.
“I don’t think it will be easy. In a general way I don’t see why awidow should ever marry again. She has gained the benefits ofmatrimony--freedom and consideration--and she has got rid of thedrawbacks. Why should she put her head into the noose again? Her usualmotive is ambition: if a man can offer her a great position, make her aprincess or an ambassadress she may think the compensation sufficient.”
“And--in that way--is Madame de Cintré ambitious?”
“Who knows?” said Bellegarde, with a profound shrug. “I don’t pretend tosay all that she is or all that she is not. I think she might be touchedby the prospect of becoming the wife of a great man. But in a certainway, I believe, whatever she does will be the _improbable_. Don’t be tooconfident, but don’t absolutely doubt. Your best chance for success willbe precisely in being, to her mind, unusual, unexpected, original. Don’ttry to be anyone else; be simply yourself, out and out. Something orother can’t fail to come of it; I am very curious to see what.”
“I am much obliged to you for your advice,” said Newman. “And,” he addedwith a smile, “I am glad, for your sake, I am going to be so amusing.”
“It will be more than amusing,” said Bellegarde; “it will be inspiring.I look at it from my point of view, and you from yours. After all,anything for a change! And only yesterday I was yawning so as todislocate my jaw, and declaring that there was nothing new under thesun! If it isn’t new to see you come into the family as a suitor, I amvery much mistaken. Let me say that, my dear fellow; I won’t call itanything else, bad or good; I will simply call it _new_.” And overcomewith a sense of the novelty thus foreshadowed, Valentin de Bellegardethrew himself into a deep armchair before the fire, and, with a fixed,intense smile, seemed to read a vision of it in the flame of the logs.After a while he looked up. “Go ahead, my boy; you have my good wishes,” he said. “But it is really a pity you don’t understand me, that youdon’t know just what I am doing.”
“Oh,” said Newman, laughing, “don’t do anything wrong. Leave me tomyself, rather, or defy me, out and out. I wouldn’t lay any load on yourconscience.”
Bellegarde sprang up again; he was evidently excited; there was a warmerspark even than usual in his eye. “You never will understand--you neverwill know,” he said; “and if you succeed, and I turn out to have helpedyou, you will never be grateful, not as I shall deserve you should be.You will be an excellent fellow always, but you will not be grateful.But it doesn’t matter, for I shall get my own fun out of it.” And hebroke into an extravagant laugh. “You look puzzled,” he added; “you lookalmost frightened.”
“It _is_ a pity,” said Newman, “that I don’t understand you. I shalllose some very good jokes.”
“I told you, you remember, that we were very strange people,” Bellegardewent on. “I give you warning again. We are! My mother is strange, mybrother is strange, and I verily believe that I am stranger than either.You will even find my sister a little strange. Old trees have crookedbranches, old houses have queer cracks, old races have odd secrets.Remember that we are eight hundred years old!”
“Very good,” said Newman; “that’s the sort of thing I came to Europefor. You come into my programme.”
“_Touchez-là_, then,” said Bellegarde, putting out his hand. “It’s abargain: I accept you; I espouse your cause. It’s because I like you, ina great measure; but that is not the only reason!” And he stood holdingNewman’s hand and looking at him askance.
“What is the other one?”
“I am in the Opposition. I dislike someone else.”
“Your brother?” asked Newman, in his unmodulated voice.
Bellegarde laid his fingers upon his lips with a whispered _hush!_ “Oldraces have strange secrets!” he said. “Put yourself into motion, comeand see my sister, and be assured of my sympathy!” And on this he tookhis leave.
Newman dropped into a chair before his fire, and sat a long time staringinto the blaze.