by Henry James
CHAPTER XVIII
Newman went the next morning to see Madame de Cintré, timing hisvisit so as to arrive after the noonday breakfast. In the court of the_hôtel_, before the portico, stood Madame de Bellegarde’s old squarecarriage. The servant who opened the door answered Newman’s inquiry witha slightly embarrassed and hesitating murmur, and at the same momentMrs. Bread appeared in the background, dim-visaged as usual, and wearinga large black bonnet and shawl.
“What is the matter?” asked Newman. “Is Madame la Comtesse at home, ornot?”
Mrs. Bread advanced, fixing her eyes upon him: he observed that she helda sealed letter, very delicately, in her fingers. “The countess has lefta message for you, sir; she has left this,” said Mrs. Bread, holding outthe letter, which Newman took.
“Left it? Is she out? Is she gone away?”
“She is going away, sir; she is leaving town,” said Mrs. Bread.
“Leaving town!” exclaimed Newman. “What has happened?”
“It is not for me to say, sir,” said Mrs. Bread, with her eyes on theground. “But I thought it would come.”
“What would come, pray?” Newman demanded. He had broken the seal of theletter, but he still questioned. “She is in the house? She is visible?”
“I don’t think she expected you this morning,” the old waiting-womanreplied. “She was to leave immediately.”
“Where is she going?”
“To Fleurières.”
“To Fleurières? But surely I can see her?”
Mrs. Bread hesitated a moment, and then clasping together her two hands,“I will take you!” she said. And she led the way upstairs. At the topof the staircase she paused and fixed her dry, sad eyes upon Newman. “Bevery easy with her,” she said; “she is most unhappy!” Then she went onto Madame de Cintré’s apartment; Newman, perplexed and alarmed, followedher rapidly. Mrs. Bread threw open the door, and Newman pushed back thecurtain at the farther side of its deep embrasure. In the middle of theroom stood Madame de Cintré; her face was pale and she was dressedfor traveling. Behind her, before the fire-place, stood Urbain deBellegarde, looking at his finger-nails; near the marquis sat hismother, buried in an armchair, and with her eyes immediately fixingthemselves upon Newman. He felt, as soon as he entered the room, that hewas in the presence of something evil; he was startled and pained, as hewould have been by a threatening cry in the stillness of the night. Hewalked straight to Madame de Cintré and seized her by the hand.
“What is the matter?” he asked commandingly; “what is happening?”
Urbain de Bellegarde stared, then left his place and came and leanedupon his mother’s chair, behind. Newman’s sudden irruption had evidentlydiscomposed both mother and son. Madame de Cintré stood silent, withher eyes resting upon Newman’s. She had often looked at him with all hersoul, as it seemed to him; but in this present gaze there was a sort ofbottomless depth. She was in distress; it was the most touching thing hehad ever seen. His heart rose into his throat, and he was on the pointof turning to her companions, with an angry challenge; but she checkedhim, pressing the hand that held her own.
“Something very grave has happened,” she said. “I cannot marry you.”
Newman dropped her hand and stood staring, first at her and then at theothers. “Why not?” he asked, as quietly as possible.
Madame de Cintré almost smiled, but the attempt was strange. “You mustask my mother, you must ask my brother.”
“Why can’t she marry me?” said Newman, looking at them.
Madame de Bellegarde did not move in her place, but she was as pale asher daughter. The marquis looked down at her. She said nothing for somemoments, but she kept her keen, clear eyes upon Newman, bravely. Themarquis drew himself up and looked at the ceiling. “It’s impossible!” hesaid softly.
“It’s improper,” said Madame de Bellegarde.
Newman began to laugh. “Oh, you are fooling!” he exclaimed.
“My sister, you have no time; you are losing your train,” said themarquis.
“Come, is he mad?” asked Newman.
“No; don’t think that,” said Madame de Cintré. “But I am going away.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the country, to Fleurières; to be alone.”
“To leave me?” said Newman, slowly.
“I can’t see you, now,” said Madame de Cintré.
“_Now_--why not?”
“I am ashamed,” said Madame de Cintré, simply.
Newman turned toward the marquis. “What have you done to her--what doesit mean?” he asked with the same effort at calmness, the fruit ofhis constant practice in taking things easily. He was excited, butexcitement with him was only an intenser deliberateness; it was theswimmer stripped.
“It means that I have given you up,” said Madame de Cintré. “It meansthat.”
Her face was too charged with tragic expression not fully to confirm herwords. Newman was profoundly shocked, but he felt as yet no resentmentagainst her. He was amazed, bewildered, and the presence of the oldmarquise and her son seemed to smite his eyes like the glare of awatchman’s lantern. “Can’t I see you alone?” he asked.
“It would be only more painful. I hoped I should not see you--I shouldescape. I wrote to you. Good-bye.” And she put out her hand again.
Newman put both his own into his pockets. “I will go with you,” he said.
She laid her two hands on his arm. “Will you grant me a last request?” and as she looked at him, urging this, her eyes filled with tears. “Letme go alone--let me go in peace. I can’t call it peace--it’s death. Butlet me bury myself. So--good-bye.”
Newman passed his hand into his hair and stood slowly rubbing his headand looking through his keenly-narrowed eyes from one to the other ofthe three persons before him. His lips were compressed, and the twolines which had formed themselves beside his mouth might have madeit appear at a first glance that he was smiling. I have said that hisexcitement was an intenser deliberateness, and now he looked grimlydeliberate. “It seems very much as if you had interfered, marquis,” he said slowly. “I thought you said you wouldn’t interfere. I knowyou don’t like me; but that doesn’t make any difference. I thought youpromised me you wouldn’t interfere. I thought you swore on your honorthat you wouldn’t interfere. Don’t you remember, marquis?”
The marquis lifted his eyebrows; but he was apparently determined to beeven more urbane than usual. He rested his two hands upon the back ofhis mother’s chair and bent forward, as if he were leaning over the edgeof a pulpit or a lecture-desk. He did not smile, but he looked softlygrave. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “I assured you that I would notinfluence my sister’s decision. I adhered, to the letter, to myengagement. Did I not, sister?”
“Don’t appeal, my son,” said the marquise, “your word is sufficient.”
“Yes--she accepted me,” said Newman. “That is very true, I can’t denythat. At least,” he added, in a different tone, turning to Madame deCintré, “you _did_ accept me?”
Something in the tone seemed to move her strongly. She turned away,burying her face in her hands.
“But you have interfered now, haven’t you?” inquired Newman of themarquis.
“Neither then nor now have I attempted to influence my sister. I used nopersuasion then, I have used no persuasion to-day.”
“And what have you used?”
“We have used authority,” said Madame de Bellegarde in a rich, bell-likevoice.
“Ah, you have used authority,” Newman exclaimed. “They have usedauthority,” he went on, turning to Madame de Cintré. “What is it? howdid they use it?”
“My mother commanded,” said Madame de Cintré.
“Commanded you to give me up--I see. And you obey--I see. But why do youobey?” asked Newman.
Madame de Cintré looked across at the old marquise; her eyes slowlymeasured her from head to foot. “I am afraid of my mother,” she said.
Madame de Bellegarde rose with
a certain quickness, crying, “This is amost indecent scene!”
“I have no wish to prolong it,” said Madame de Cintré; and turning tothe door she put out her hand again. “If you can pity me a little, letme go alone.”
Newman shook her hand quietly and firmly. “I’ll come down there,” hesaid. The _portière_ dropped behind her, and Newman sank with a longbreath into the nearest chair. He leaned back in it, resting his handson the knobs of the arms and looking at Madame de Bellegarde and Urbain.There was a long silence. They stood side by side, with their heads highand their handsome eyebrows arched.
“So you make a distinction?” Newman said at last. “You make adistinction between persuading and commanding? It’s very neat. But thedistinction is in favor of commanding. That rather spoils it.”
“We have not the least objection to defining our position,” said M. deBellegarde. “We understand that it should not at first appear to youquite clear. We rather expected, indeed, that you should not do usjustice.”
“Oh, I’ll do you justice,” said Newman. “Don’t be afraid. Pleaseproceed.”
The marquise laid her hand on her son’s arm, as if to deprecate theattempt to define their position. “It is quite useless,” she said, “totry and arrange this matter so as to make it agreeable to you. It cannever be agreeable to you. It is a disappointment, and disappointmentsare unpleasant. I thought it over carefully and tried to arrange itbetter; but I only gave myself a headache and lost my sleep. Say whatwe will, you will think yourself ill-treated, and you will publish yourwrongs among your friends. But we are not afraid of that. Besides, yourfriends are not our friends, and it will not matter. Think of us as youplease. I only beg you not to be violent. I have never in my lifebeen present at a violent scene of any kind, and at my age I can’t beexpected to begin.”
“Is _that_ all you have got to say?” asked Newman, slowly rising outof his chair. “That’s a poor show for a clever lady like you, marquise.Come, try again.”
“My mother goes to the point, with her usual honesty and intrepidity,” said the marquis, toying with his watch-guard. “But it is perhaps wellto say a little more. We of course quite repudiate the charge of havingbroken faith with you. We left you entirely at liberty to make yourselfagreeable to my sister. We left her quite at liberty to entertain yourproposal. When she accepted you we said nothing. We therefore quiteobserved our promise. It was only at a later stage of the affair, andon quite a different basis, as it were, that we determined to speak. Itwould have been better, perhaps, if we had spoken before. But really,you see, nothing has yet been done.”
“Nothing has yet been done?” Newman repeated the words, unconsciousof their comical effect. He had lost the sense of what the marquis wassaying; M. de Bellegarde’s superior style was a mere humming in hisears. All that he understood, in his deep and simple indignation, wasthat the matter was not a violent joke, and that the people before himwere perfectly serious. “Do you suppose I can take this?” he asked.“Do you suppose it can matter to me what you say? Do you suppose I canseriously listen to you? You are simply crazy!”
Madame de Bellegarde gave a rap with her fan in the palm of her hand.“If you don’t take it you can leave it, sir. It matters very little whatyou do. My daughter has given you up.”
“She doesn’t mean it,” Newman declared after a moment.
“I think I can assure you that she does,” said the marquis.
“Poor woman, what damnable thing have you done to her?” cried Newman.
“Gently, gently!” murmured M. de Bellegarde.
“She told you,” said the old lady. “I commanded her.”
Newman shook his head, heavily. “This sort of thing can’t be, you know,” he said. “A man can’t be used in this fashion. You have got no right;you have got no power.”
“My power,” said Madame de Bellegarde, “is in my children’s obedience.”
“In their fear, your daughter said. There is something very strangein it. Why should your daughter be afraid of you?” added Newman, afterlooking a moment at the old lady. “There is some foul play.”
The marquise met his gaze without flinching, and as if she did nothear or heed what he said. “I did my best,” she said, quietly. “I couldendure it no longer.”
“It was a bold experiment!” said the marquis.
Newman felt disposed to walk to him, clutch his neck with his fingersand press his windpipe with his thumb. “I needn’t tell you how youstrike me,” he said; “of course you know that. But I should think youwould be afraid of your friends--all those people you introduced me tothe other night. There were some very nice people among them; you maydepend upon it there were some honest men and women.”
“Our friends approve us,” said M. de Bellegarde, “there is not a familyamong them that would have acted otherwise. And however that may be,we take the cue from no one. The Bellegardes have been used to set theexample, not to wait for it.”
“You would have waited long before anyone would have set you such anexample as this,” exclaimed Newman. “Have I done anything wrong?” hedemanded. “Have I given you reason to change your opinion? Have youfound out anything against me? I can’t imagine.”
“Our opinion,” said Madame de Bellegarde, “is quite the same as atfirst--exactly. We have no ill-will towards yourself; we are very farfrom accusing you of misconduct. Since your relations with us began youhave been, I frankly confess, less--less peculiar than I expected. Itis not your disposition that we object to, it is your antecedents. Wereally cannot reconcile ourselves to a commercial person. We fancied inan evil hour that we could; it was a great misfortune. We determined topersevere to the end, and to give you every advantage. I was resolvedthat you should have no reason to accuse me of want of loyalty. We letthe thing certainly go very far; we introduced you to our friends. Totell the truth, it was that, I think, that broke me down. I succumbedto the scene that took place on Thursday night in these rooms. You mustexcuse me if what I say is disagreeable to you, but we cannot releaseourselves without an explanation.”
“There can be no better proof of our good faith,” said the marquis,“than our committing ourselves to you in the eyes of the world the otherevening. We endeavored to bind ourselves--to tie our hands, as it were.”
“But it was that,” added his mother, “that opened our eyes and broke ourbonds. We should have been most uncomfortable! You know,” she added in amoment, “that you were forewarned. I told you we were very proud.”
Newman took up his hat and began mechanically to smooth it; the veryfierceness of his scorn kept him from speaking. “You are not proudenough,” he observed at last.
“In all this matter,” said the marquis, smiling, “I really see nothingbut our humility.”
“Let us have no more discussion than is necessary,” resumed Madame deBellegarde. “My daughter told you everything when she said she gave youup.”
“I am not satisfied about your daughter,” said Newman; “I want to knowwhat you did to her. It is all very easy talking about authority andsaying you commanded her. She didn’t accept me blindly, and she wouldn’thave given me up blindly. Not that I believe yet she has really given meup; she will talk it over with me. But you have frightened her, you havebullied her, you have _hurt_ her. What was it you did to her?”
“I did very little!” said Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone which gaveNewman a chill when he afterwards remembered it.
“Let me remind you that we offered you these explanations,” the marquisobserved, “with the express understanding that you should abstain fromviolence of language.”
“I am not violent,” Newman answered, “it is you who are violent! But Idon’t know that I have much more to say to you. What you expect ofme, apparently, is to go my way, thanking you for favors received, andpromising never to trouble you again.”
“We expect of you to act like a clever man,” said Madame de Bellegarde.“You have shown yourself that already, and what we have done isaltogether based upon yo
ur being so. When one must submit, one must.Since my daughter absolutely withdraws, what will be the use of yourmaking a noise?”
“It remains to be seen whether your daughter absolutely withdraws. Yourdaughter and I are still very good friends; nothing is changed in that.As I say, I will talk it over with her.”
“That will be of no use,” said the old lady. “I know my daughter wellenough to know that words spoken as she just now spoke to you are final.Besides, she has promised me.”
“I have no doubt her promise is worth a great deal more than your own,” said Newman; “nevertheless I don’t give her up.”
“Just as you please! But if she won’t even see you,--and shewon’t,--your constancy must remain purely Platonic.”
Poor Newman was feigning a greater confidence than he felt. Madame deCintré’s strange intensity had in fact struck a chill to his heart; herface, still impressed upon his vision, had been a terribly vivid imageof renunciation. He felt sick, and suddenly helpless. He turned away andstood for a moment with his hand on the door; then he faced about andafter the briefest hesitation broke out with a different accent. “Come,think of what this must be to me, and let her alone! Why should youobject to me so--what’s the matter with me? I can’t hurt you. I wouldn’tif I could. I’m the most unobjectionable fellow in the world. What ifI am a commercial person? What under the sun do you mean? A commercialperson? I will be any sort of a person you want. I never talked to youabout business. Let her go, and I will ask no questions. I will takeher away, and you shall never see me or hear of me again. I will stay inAmerica if you like. I’ll sign a paper promising never to come back toEurope! All I want is not to lose her!”
Madame de Bellegarde and her son exchanged a glance of lucid irony, andUrbain said, “My dear sir, what you propose is hardly an improvement. Wehave not the slightest objection to seeing you, as an amiable foreigner,and we have every reason for not wishing to be eternally separatedfrom my sister. We object to the marriage; and in that way,” and M. deBellegarde gave a small, thin laugh, “she would be more married thanever.”
“Well, then,” said Newman, “where is this place of yours--Fleurières? Iknow it is near some old city on a hill.”
“Precisely. Poitiers is on a hill,” said Madame de Bellegarde. “I don’tknow how old it is. We are not afraid to tell you.”
“It is Poitiers, is it? Very good,” said Newman. “I shall immediatelyfollow Madame de Cintré.”
“The trains after this hour won’t serve you,” said Urbain.
“I shall hire a special train!”
“That will be a very silly waste of money,” said Madame de Bellegarde.
“It will be time enough to talk about waste three days hence,” Newmananswered; and clapping his hat on his head, he departed.
He did not immediately start for Fleurières; he was too stunned andwounded for consecutive action. He simply walked; he walked straightbefore him, following the river, till he got out of the _enceinte_ ofParis. He had a burning, tingling sense of personal outrage. He hadnever in his life received so absolute a check; he had never been pulledup, or, as he would have said, “let down,” so short; and he found thesensation intolerable; he strode along, tapping the trees and lamp-postsfiercely with his stick and inwardly raging. To lose Madame de Cintréafter he had taken such jubilant and triumphant possession of her was asgreat an affront to his pride as it was an injury to his happiness.And to lose her by the interference and the dictation of others, byan impudent old woman and a pretentious fop stepping in with their“authority”! It was too preposterous, it was too pitiful. Upon what hedeemed the unblushing treachery of the Bellegardes Newman wasted littlethought; he consigned it, once for all, to eternal perdition. But thetreachery of Madame de Cintré herself amazed and confounded him; therewas a key to the mystery, of course, but he groped for it in vain. Onlythree days had elapsed since she stood beside him in the starlight,beautiful and tranquil as the trust with which he had inspired her, andtold him that she was happy in the prospect of their marriage. What wasthe meaning of the change? of what infernal potion had she tasted? PoorNewman had a terrible apprehension that she had really changed. His veryadmiration for her attached the idea of force and weight to her rupture.But he did not rail at her as false, for he was sure she was unhappy.In his walk he had crossed one of the bridges of the Seine, and he stillfollowed, unheedingly, the long, unbroken quay. He had left Paris behindhim, and he was almost in the country; he was in the pleasant suburb ofAuteuil. He stopped at last, looked around him without seeing or caringfor its pleasantness, and then slowly turned and at a slower paceretraced his steps. When he came abreast of the fantastic embankmentknown as the Trocadero, he reflected, through his throbbing pain,that he was near Mrs. Tristram’s dwelling, and that Mrs. Tristram, onparticular occasions, had much of a woman’s kindness in her utterance.He felt that he needed to pour out his ire and he took the road toher house. Mrs. Tristram was at home and alone, and as soon as she hadlooked at him, on his entering the room, she told him that she knew whathe had come for. Newman sat down heavily, in silence, looking at her.
“They have backed out!” she said. “Well, you may think it strange, butI felt something the other night in the air.” Presently he told her hisstory; she listened, with her eyes fixed on him. When he had finishedshe said quietly, “They want her to marry Lord Deepmere.” Newman stared.He did not know that she knew anything about Lord Deepmere. “But I don’tthink she will,” Mrs. Tristram added.
“_She_ marry that poor little cub!” cried Newman. “Oh, Lord! And yet,why did she refuse me?”
“But that isn’t the only thing,” said Mrs. Tristram. “They reallycouldn’t endure you any longer. They had overrated their courage. I mustsay, to give the devil his due, that there is something rather finein that. It was your commercial quality in the abstract they couldn’tswallow. That is really aristocratic. They wanted your money, but theyhave given you up for an idea.”
Newman frowned most ruefully, and took up his hat again. “I thought youwould encourage me!” he said, with almost childlike sadness.
“Excuse me,” she answered very gently. “I feel none the less sorryfor you, especially as I am at the bottom of your troubles. I have notforgotten that I suggested the marriage to you. I don’t believe thatMadame de Cintré has any intention of marrying Lord Deepmere. It is truehe is not younger than she, as he looks. He is thirty-three years old; Ilooked in the Peerage. But no--I can’t believe her so horribly, cruellyfalse.”
“Please say nothing against her,” said Newman.
“Poor woman, she _is_ cruel. But of course you will go after her and youwill plead powerfully. Do you know that as you are now,” Mrs. Tristrampursued, with characteristic audacity of comment, “you are extremelyeloquent, even without speaking? To resist you a woman must have a veryfixed idea in her head. I wish I had done you a wrong, that you mightcome to me in that fine fashion! But go to Madame de Cintré at any rate,and tell her that she is a puzzle even to me. I am very curious to seehow far family discipline will go.”
Newman sat a while longer, leaning his elbows on his knees and hishead in his hands, and Mrs. Tristram continued to temper charity withphilosophy and compassion with criticism. At last she inquired, “Andwhat does the Count Valentin say to it?” Newman started; he had notthought of Valentin and his errand on the Swiss frontier since themorning. The reflection made him restless again, and he took hisleave. He went straight to his apartment, where, upon the table of thevestibule, he found a telegram. It ran (with the date and place) asfollows: “I am seriously ill; please to come to me as soon as possible.V. B.” Newman groaned at this miserable news, and at the necessity ofdeferring his journey to the Château de Fleurières. But he wrote toMadame de Cintré these few lines; they were all he had time for:--
“I don’t give you up, and I don’t really believe you give me up. I don’tunderstand it, but we shall clear it up together. I can’t follow youto-day, as I am called to see a friend at a distance who
is very ill,perhaps dying. But I shall come to you as soon as I can leave my friend.Why shouldn’t I say that he is your brother? C. N.”
After this he had only time to catch the night express to Geneva.