by Henry James
CHAPTER IX
He went to see Madame de Cintré the next day, and was informed by theservant that she was at home. He passed as usual up the large, coldstaircase and through a spacious vestibule above, where the walls seemedall composed of small door panels, touched with long-faded gilding;whence he was ushered into the sitting-room in which he had already beenreceived. It was empty, and the servant told him that Madame la Comtessewould presently appear. He had time, while he waited, to wonder whetherBellegarde had seen his sister since the evening before, and whetherin this case he had spoken to her of their talk. In this case Madamede Cintré’s receiving him was an encouragement. He felt a certaintrepidation as he reflected that she might come in with the knowledgeof his supreme admiration and of the project he had built upon it in hereyes; but the feeling was not disagreeable. Her face could wear nolook that would make it less beautiful, and he was sure beforehand thathowever she might take the proposal he had in reserve, she would nottake it in scorn or in irony. He had a feeling that if she could onlyread the bottom of his heart and measure the extent of his good willtoward her, she would be entirely kind.
She came in at last, after so long an interval that he wondered whethershe had been hesitating. She smiled with her usual frankness, and heldout her hand; she looked at him straight with her soft and luminouseyes, and said, without a tremor in her voice, that she was glad to seehim and that she hoped he was well. He found in her what he had foundbefore--that faint perfume of a personal shyness worn away by contactwith the world, but the more perceptible the more closely you approachedher. This lingering diffidence seemed to give a peculiar value towhat was definite and assured in her manner; it made it seem like anaccomplishment, a beautiful talent, something that one might compareto an exquisite touch in a pianist. It was, in fact, Madame de Cintré’s“authority,” as they say of artists, that especially impressed andfascinated Newman; he always came back to the feeling that when heshould complete himself by taking a wife, that was the way he shouldlike his wife to interpret him to the world. The only trouble, indeed,was that when the instrument was so perfect it seemed to interpose toomuch between you and the genius that used it. Madame de Cintré gaveNewman the sense of an elaborate education, of her having passed throughmysterious ceremonies and processes of culture in her youth, of herhaving been fashioned and made flexible to certain exalted social needs.All this, as I have affirmed, made her seem rare and precious--a veryexpensive article, as he would have said, and one which a man with anambition to have everything about him of the best would find it highlyagreeable to possess. But looking at the matter with an eye to privatefelicity, Newman wondered where, in so exquisite a compound, nature andart showed their dividing line. Where did the special intention separatefrom the habit of good manners? Where did urbanity end and sinceritybegin? Newman asked himself these questions even while he stood ready toaccept the admired object in all its complexity; he felt that he coulddo so in profound security, and examine its mechanism afterwards, atleisure.
“I am very glad to find you alone,” he said. “You know I have never hadsuch good luck before.”
“But you have seemed before very well contented with your luck,” saidMadame de Cintré. “You have sat and watched my visitors with an air ofquiet amusement. What have you thought of them?”
“Oh, I have thought the ladies were very elegant and very graceful, andwonderfully quick at repartee. But what I have chiefly thought hasbeen that they only helped me to admire you.” This was not gallantry onNewman’s part--an art in which he was quite unversed. It was simply theinstinct of the practical man, who had made up his mind what he wanted,and was now beginning to take active steps to obtain it.
Madame de Cintré started slightly, and raised her eyebrows; she hadevidently not expected so fervid a compliment. “Oh, in that case,” shesaid with a laugh, “your finding me alone is not good luck for me. Ihope someone will come in quickly.”
“I hope not,” said Newman. “I have something particular to say to you.Have you seen your brother?”
“Yes, I saw him an hour ago.”
“Did he tell you that he had seen me last night?”
“He said so.”
“And did he tell you what we had talked about?”
Madame de Cintré hesitated a moment. As Newman asked these questionsshe had grown a little pale, as if she regarded what was coming asnecessary, but not as agreeable. “Did you give him a message to me?” sheasked.
“It was not exactly a message--I asked him to render me a service.”
“The service was to sing your praises, was it not?” And she accompaniedthis question with a little smile, as if to make it easier to herself.
“Yes, that is what it really amounts to,” said Newman. “Did he sing mypraises?”
“He spoke very well of you. But when I know that it was by your specialrequest, of course I must take his eulogy with a grain of salt.”
“Oh, that makes no difference,” said Newman. “Your brother would nothave spoken well of me unless he believed what he was saying. He is toohonest for that.”
“Are you very deep?” said Madame de Cintré. “Are you trying to please meby praising my brother? I confess it is a good way.”
“For me, any way that succeeds will be good. I will praise your brotherall day, if that will help me. He is a noble little fellow. He has mademe feel, in promising to do what he can to help me, that I can dependupon him.”
“Don’t make too much of that,” said Madame de Cintré. “He can help youvery little.”
“Of course I must work my way myself. I know that very well; I only wanta chance to. In consenting to see me, after what he told you, you almostseem to be giving me a chance.”
“I am seeing you,” said Madame de Cintré, slowly and gravely, “because Ipromised my brother I would.”
“Blessings on your brother’s head!” cried Newman. “What I told him lastevening was this: that I admired you more than any woman I had everseen, and that I should like immensely to make you my wife.” He utteredthese words with great directness and firmness, and without any sense ofconfusion. He was full of his idea, he had completely mastered it,and he seemed to look down on Madame de Cintré, with all her gatheredelegance, from the height of his bracing good conscience. It is probablethat this particular tone and manner were the very best he could havehit upon. Yet the light, just visibly forced smile with which hiscompanion had listened to him died away, and she sat looking at himwith her lips parted and her face as solemn as a tragic mask. There wasevidently something very painful to her in the scene to which he wassubjecting her, and yet her impatience of it found no angry voice.Newman wondered whether he was hurting her; he could not imagine why theliberal devotion he meant to express should be disagreeable. He got upand stood before her, leaning one hand on the chimney-piece. “I know Ihave seen you very little to say this,” he said, “so little that it maymake what I say seem disrespectful. That is my misfortune! I could havesaid it the first time I saw you. Really, I had seen you before; I hadseen you in imagination you seemed almost an old friend. So what I sayis not mere gallantry and compliments and nonsense--I can’t talk thatway, I don’t know how, and I wouldn’t, to you, if I could. It’s asserious as such words can be. I feel as if I knew you and knew what abeautiful, admirable woman you are. I shall know better, perhaps, someday, but I have a general notion now. You are just the woman I havebeen looking for, except that you are far more perfect. I won’t make anyprotestations and vows, but you can trust me. It is very soon, I know,to say all this; it is almost offensive. But why not gain time if onecan? And if you want time to reflect--of course you do--the sooner youbegin, the better for me. I don’t know what you think of me; but thereis no great mystery about me; you see what I am. Your brother told methat my antecedents and occupations were against me; that your familystands, somehow, on a higher level than I do. That is an idea which ofcourse I don’t understand and don’t accept. But you don’t care anythingabout that. I can assu
re you that I am a very solid fellow, and that ifI give my mind to it I can arrange things so that in a very few years Ishall not need to waste time in explaining who I am and what I am. Youwill decide for yourself whether you like me or not. What there isyou see before you. I honestly believe I have no hidden vices or nastytricks. I am kind, kind, kind! Everything that a man can give a woman Iwill give you. I have a large fortune, a very large fortune; some day,if you will allow me, I will go into details. If you want brilliancy,everything in the way of brilliancy that money can give you, you shallhave. And as regards anything you may give up, don’t take for grantedtoo much that its place cannot be filled. Leave that to me; I’ll takecare of you; I shall know what you need. Energy and ingenuity canarrange everything. I’m a strong man! There, I have said what I hadon my heart! It was better to get it off. I am very sorry if it’sdisagreeable to you; but think how much better it is that things shouldbe clear. Don’t answer me now, if you don’t wish it. Think about it,think about it as slowly as you please. Of course I haven’t said, Ican’t say, half I mean, especially about my admiration for you. But takea favorable view of me; it will only be just.”
During this speech, the longest that Newman had ever made, Madame deCintré kept her gaze fixed upon him, and it expanded at the last into asort of fascinated stare. When he ceased speaking she lowered her eyesand sat for some moments looking down and straight before her. Then sheslowly rose to her feet, and a pair of exceptionally keen eyes wouldhave perceived that she was trembling a little in the movement. Shestill looked extremely serious. “I am very much obliged to you foryour offer,” she said. “It seems very strange, but I am glad youspoke without waiting any longer. It is better the subject should bedismissed. I appreciate all you say; you do me great honor. But I havedecided not to marry.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” cried Newman, in a tone absolutely _naïf_ fromits pleading and caressing cadence. She had turned away, and it made herstop a moment with her back to him. “Think better of that. You aretoo young, too beautiful, too much made to be happy and to make othershappy. If you are afraid of losing your freedom, I can assure you thatthis freedom here, this life you now lead, is a dreary bondage to whatI will offer you. You shall do things that I don’t think you have everthought of. I will take you anywhere in the wide world that you propose.Are you unhappy? You give me a feeling that you _are_ unhappy. You haveno right to be, or to be made so. Let me come in and put an end to it.”
Madame de Cintré stood there a moment longer, looking away from him.If she was touched by the way he spoke, the thing was conceivable. Hisvoice, always very mild and interrogative, gradually became as softand as tenderly argumentative as if he had been talking to a much-lovedchild. He stood watching her, and she presently turned round again, butthis time she did not look at him, and she spoke in a quietness in whichthere was a visible trace of effort.
“There are a great many reasons why I should not marry,” she said, “morethan I can explain to you. As for my happiness, I am very happy. Youroffer seems strange to me, for more reasons also than I can say. Ofcourse you have a perfect right to make it. But I cannot accept it--itis impossible. Please never speak of this matter again. If you cannotpromise me this, I must ask you not to come back.”
“Why is it impossible?” Newman demanded. “You may think it is, at first,without its really being so. I didn’t expect you to be pleased at first,but I do believe that if you will think of it a good while, you may besatisfied.”
“I don’t know you,” said Madame de Cintré. “Think how little I knowyou.”
“Very little, of course, and therefore I don’t ask for your ultimatum onthe spot. I only ask you not to say no, and to let me hope. I will waitas long as you desire. Meanwhile you can see more of me and know mebetter, look at me as a possible husband--as a candidate--and make upyour mind.”
Something was going on, rapidly, in Madame de Cintré’s thoughts; shewas weighing a question there, beneath Newman’s eyes, weighing it anddeciding it. “From the moment I don’t very respectfully beg you to leavethe house and never return,” she said, “I listen to you, I seem to giveyou hope. I _have_ listened to you--against my judgment. It is becauseyou are eloquent. If I had been told this morning that I shouldconsent to consider you as a possible husband, I should have thoughtmy informant a little crazy. I _am_ listening to you, you see!” And shethrew her hands out for a moment and let them drop with a gesture inwhich there was just the slightest expression of appealing weakness.
“Well, as far as saying goes, I have said everything,” said Newman. “Ibelieve in you, without restriction, and I think all the good of youthat it is possible to think of a human creature. I firmly believe thatin marrying me you will be _safe_. As I said just now,” he went on witha smile, “I have no bad ways. I can _do_ so much for you. And if you areafraid that I am not what you have been accustomed to, not refined anddelicate and punctilious, you may easily carry that too far. I _am_delicate! You shall see!”
Madame de Cintré walked some distance away, and paused before a greatplant, an azalea, which was flourishing in a porcelain tub before herwindow. She plucked off one of the flowers and, twisting it in herfingers, retraced her steps. Then she sat down in silence, and herattitude seemed to be a consent that Newman should say more.
“Why should you say it is impossible you should marry?” he continued.“The only thing that could make it really impossible would be your beingalready married. Is it because you have been unhappy in marriage? Thatis all the more reason! Is it because your family exert a pressure uponyou, interfere with you, annoy you? That is still another reason youought to be perfectly free, and marriage will make you so. I don’t sayanything against your family--understand that!” added Newman, withan eagerness which might have made a perspicacious observer smile.“Whatever way you feel toward them is the right way, and anything thatyou should wish me to do to make myself agreeable to them I will do aswell as I know how. Depend upon that!”
Madame de Cintré rose again and came toward the fireplace, near whichNewman was standing. The expression of pain and embarrassment had passedout of her face, and it was illuminated with something which, this timeat least, Newman need not have been perplexed whether to attribute tohabit or to intention, to art or to nature. She had the air of a womanwho has stepped across the frontier of friendship and, looking aroundher, finds the region vast. A certain checked and controlled exaltationseemed mingled with the usual level radiance of her glance. “I will notrefuse to see you again,” she said, “because much of what you have saidhas given me pleasure. But I will see you only on this condition: thatyou say nothing more in the same way for a long time.”
“For how long?”
“For six months. It must be a solemn promise.”
“Very well, I promise.”
“Good-bye, then,” she said, and extended her hand.
He held it a moment, as if he were going to say something more. But heonly looked at her; then he took his departure.
That evening, on the Boulevard, he met Valentin de Bellegarde. Afterthey had exchanged greetings, Newman told him that he had seen Madame deCintré a few hours before.
“I know it,” said Bellegarde. “I dined in the Rue de l’Université.” And then, for some moments, both men were silent. Newman wished to askBellegarde what visible impression his visit had made and the CountValentin had a question of his own. Bellegarde spoke first.
“It’s none of my business, but what the deuce did you say to my sister?”
“I am willing to tell you,” said Newman, “that I made her an offer ofmarriage.”
“Already!” And the young man gave a whistle. “‘Time is money!’ Isthat what you say in America? And Madame de Cintré?” he added, with aninterrogative inflection.
“She did not accept my offer.”
“She couldn’t, you know, in that way.”
“But I’m to see her again,” said Newman.
“Oh, the strangeness of woman!” exclaimed Bellegar
de. Then he stopped,and held Newman off at arms’-length. “I look at you with respect!” he exclaimed. “You have achieved what we call a personal success!Immediately, now, I must present you to my brother.”
“Whenever you please!” said Newman.