“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,” said
Bellegarde. “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 as
have not been seen since Orestes and Electra. You have seen her; you
know what she is: tall, thin, light, imposing, and gentle, half a
_grande dame_ and half an angel; a mixture of pride and humility, of
the eagle 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
and blood, to wear white capes and long trains. All I can say is that
she really possesses every merit that her face, her glance, her smile,
the tone of her voice, lead you to expect; it is saying a great deal.
As a general thing, when a woman seems very charming, I should say
‘Beware!’ But in proportion as Claire seems charming you may fold your
arms and let 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 has
everything; that is all I can say about her. There!” Bellegarde
concluded; “I told you I should rhapsodize.”
Newman was silent a while, as if he were turning over his companion’s
words. “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, with
something 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 of
follies to get it.”
“I did not say she was too fond!” Bellegarde exclaimed. “Heaven forbid
I should say anything so idiotic. She is not _too_ anything! If I were
to say she was ugly, I should not mean she was too ugly. She is fond of
pleasing, and if you are pleased she is grateful. If you are not
pleased, she lets it pass and thinks the worst neither of you nor of
herself. I imagine, though, she hopes the saints in heaven are, for I
am sure she is incapable of trying to please by any means of which they
would disapprove.”
“Is she grave or gay?” asked Newman.
“She is both; not alternately, for she is always the same. There is
gravity in her gaiety, and gaiety in her gravity. But there is no
reason why she should be particularly gay.”
“Is she unhappy?”
“I won’t say that, for unhappiness is according as one takes things,
and Claire takes them according to some receipt communicated to her by
the Blessed Virgin in a vision. To be unhappy is to be disagreeable,
which, for her, is out of the question. So she has arranged her
circumstances so 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 dear
fellow, if I go into the history of my family I shall give you more
than you 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. She made
at eighteen a marriage that was expected to be brilliant, but that
turned out like a lamp that goes out; all smoke and bad smell. M. de
Cintré was sixty years old, and an odious old gentleman. He lived,
however, but a short time, and after his death his family pounced upon
his money, brought a lawsuit against his widow, and pushed things very
hard. Their case was a good one, for M. de Cintré, who had been trustee
for some of his relatives, appeared to have been guilty of some very
irregular practices. In the course of the suit some revelations were
made as to his private history which my sister found so displeasing
that she ceased to defend herself and washed her hands of the property.
This required some pluck, for she was between two fires, her husband’s
family opposing her and her own family forcing her. My mother and my
brother wished her to cleave to what they regarded as her rights. But
she resisted firmly, and at last bought her freedom—obtained my
mother’s assent 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 of
her—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,” Newman
continued, “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
a month before the wedding, after everything, to the minutest detail,
had been arranged. She turned white when she looked at him, and white
she remained till her wedding-day. The evening before the ceremony she
swooned away, and she spent the whole night in sobs. My mother sat
holding her two hands, and my brother walked up and down the room. I
declared it was revolting and told my sister publicly that if she would
refuse, downright, I would stand by her. I was told to go about my
business, and she became Comtesse de Cintré.”
“Your brother,” said Newman, reflectively, “must be a very nice young
man.”
“He is very nice, though he is not young. He is upward of fifty,
fifteen years my senior. He has been a father to my sister and me. He
is a very remarkable man; he has the best manners in France. He is
extremely clever; indeed he is very learned. He is writing a history of
The Princesses of France Who Never Married.” This was said by
Bellegarde with extreme gravity, looking straight at Newman, and with
an eye that betokened no mental reservation; or that, at least, almost
betokened none.
Newman perhaps discovered there what little there was, for he presently
said, “You don’t love your brother.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Bellegarde, ceremoniously; “well-bred people
always 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 have the
highest admiration. She is a very extraordinary woman. You cannot
approach 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 go
back—back, back, back. The family antiquaries themselves lose breath.
At last they stop, panting and fanning themselves, somewhere in the
ninth 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 several
centuries.”
“And you have always married into old families?”
“As a rule; though in so long a stretch of time there have been some
exceptions. Three or four Bellegardes, in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, 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 a
beggar-maid, like King Cophetua. That was really better; it was like
marrying a bird or a monkey; one didn’t have to think about her family
at all. Our women have always done well; they have never even gone into
the _petite noblesse_. There is, I believe, not a case on record of a
misalliance among the women.”
Newman turned this over for a while, and, then at last he said, “You
offered, the first time you came to see me to render me any service you
could. 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 sister
think well of me.”
Bellegarde stared, with a smile. “Why, I’m sure she thinks as well of
you as possible, already.”
“An opinion founded on seeing me three or four times? That is putting
me off with very little. I want something more. I have been thinking of
it a good deal, and at last I have decided to tell you. I should like
very much to marry Madame de Cintré.”
Bellegarde had been looking at him with quickened expectancy, and with
the smile with which he had greeted Newman’s allusion to his promised
request. At this last announcement he continued to gaze; but his smile
went through two or three curious phases. It felt, apparently, a
momentary impulse to broaden; but this it immediately checked. Then it
remained for some instants taking counsel with itself, at the end of
which it decreed a retreat. It slowly effaced itself and left a look of
seriousness modified by the desire not to be rude. Extreme surprise had
come into the Count Valentin’s face; but he had reflected that it would
be uncivil to leave it there. And yet, what the deuce was he to do with
it? 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 than
one 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 very
important, you know. I shall plead your cause with my sister, because
you want—you want to marry her? That’s it, eh?”
“Oh, I don’t say plead my cause, exactly; I shall try and do that
myself. But say a good word for me, now and then—let her know that you
think well of me.”
At this, Bellegarde gave a little light laugh.
“What I want chiefly, after all,” Newman went on, “is just to let you
know what I have in mind. I suppose that is what you expect, isn’t it?
I want to do what is customary over here. If there is anything
particular to be done, let me know and I will do it. I wouldn’t for the
world approach Madame de Cintré without all the proper forms. If I
ought to go and tell your mother, why I will go and tell her. I will go
and tell your brother, even. I will go and tell anyone you please. As I
don’t know anyone else, I begin by telling you. But that, if it is a
social obligation, is a pleasure as well.”
“Yes, I see—I see,” said Bellegarde, lightly stroking his chin. “You
have a very right feeling about it, but I’m glad you have begun with
me.” He paused, hesitated, and then turned away and walked slowly the
length of the room. Newman got up and stood leaning against the
mantel-shelf, with his hands in his pockets, watching Bellegarde’s
promenade. 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. I
am—hugely! _Ouf!_ It’s a relief.”
“That sort of news is always a surprise,” said Newman. “No matter what
you have done, people are never prepared. But if you are so surprised,
I hope at least you are pleased.”
“Come!” said Bellegarde. “I am going to be tremendously frank. I don’t
know whether I am pleased or horrified.”
“If you are pleased, I shall be glad,” said Newman, “and I shall
be—encouraged. If you are horrified, I shall be sorry, but I shall not
be discouraged. You must make the best of it.”
“That is quite right—that is your only possible attitude. You are
perfectly 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 hair
quickly 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
a title.”
“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
who is 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 to
prove 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. Tell
me 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’s
attentive glance had grown somewhat eager. In answer to these last
words he for a moment said nothing. He simply blushed a little. Then he
raised his eyes to the ceiling and stood looking at one of the rosy
cherubs that was painted upon it. “Of course I don’t expect to marry
any woman for the asking,” he said at last; “I expect first to make
myself acceptable to her. She must like me, to begin with. But that I
am not good 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 to
marry you?”
“Not if I thought she would suit me. But I am very fastidious; she
might not at all.”
Bellegarde’s amusement began to prevail. “And you should be surprised
if she refused you?”
Newman hesitated a moment. “It sounds conceited to say yes, but
nevertheless 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 my
standard, I shall think nothing too good for her. I have been a long
time looking, and I find such women are rare. To combine the qualities
I require seems to be difficult, but when the difficulty is vanquished
it deserves a reward. My wife shall have a good position, and I’m not
afraid to say that I shall be a good husband.”
“And these qualities that you require—what are they?”
“Goodness, beauty, intelligence, a fine education, personal
elegance—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 at him
with his head on one side, from head to foot, and then, with a loud
laugh, and shaking the other hand in the air, turned away. He walked
again the length of the room, and again he came back and stationed
himself in front of Newman. “All this is very interesting—it is very
curious. In what I said just now I was speaking, not for myself, but
for my tradition, my superstitions. For myself, really, your proposal
tickles me. It startled me at first, but the more I think of it the
more I see in it. It’s no use attempting to explain anything; you won’t
understand 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 proceed
with my eyes open. I will do my best to understand.”
“No,” said Bellegarde, “it’s disagreeable to me; I give it up. I liked
you the first time I saw you, and I will abide by that. It would be
quite odious for me to come talking to you as if I could patronize you.
I have told you before that I envy you; _vous m’imposez_, as we say. I
didn’t know you much until within five minutes. So we will let things
go, 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 which
he alluded, Bellegarde felt that he was doing something very generous.
If so, he was not rewarded; his generosity was not appreciated. Newman
quite failed to recognize the young Frenchman’s power to wound his
feelings, 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
your family and your friends will turn up their noses at me. I have
never thought much about the reasons that make it proper for people to
turn up their noses, and so I can only decide the question off-hand.
Looking at it in that way I can’t see anything in it. I simply think,
if you want to know, that I’m as good as the best. Who the best are, I
don’t pretend to say. I have never thought much about that either. To
tell the truth, I have always had rather a good opinion of myself; a
man who is successful can’t help it. But I will admit that I was
conceited. What I 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 must remember you began it yourself. I should never have
dreamed that I was on the defensive, or that I had to justify myself;
but if your people will have it so, I will do my best.”
“But you offered, a while ago, to make your court as we say, to my
mother and my brother.”
“Damn it!” cried Newman, “I want to be polite.”
“Good!” rejoined Bellegarde; “this will go far, it will be very
entertaining. Excuse my speaking of it in that cold-blooded fashion,
but the matter must, of necessity, be for me something of a spectacle.
It’s positively exciting. But apart from that I sympathize with you,
and I shall be actor, so far as I can, as well as spectator. You are a
capital fellow; I believe in you and I back you. The simple fact that
you appreciate my sister will serve as the proof I was asking for. All
men are equal—especially men of taste!”
“Do you think,” asked Newman presently, “that Madame de Cintré is
determined not to marry?”
“That is my impression. But that is not against you; it’s for you to
make 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 a
widow should ever marry again. She has gained the benefits of
matrimony—freedom and consideration—and she has got rid of the
drawbacks. Why should she put her head into the noose again? Her usual
motive is ambition: if a man can offer her a great position, make her a
princess 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
to say all that she is or all that she is not. I think she might be
touched by the prospect of becoming the wife of a great man. But in a
certain way, I believe, whatever she does will be the _improbable_.
Don’t be too confident, but don’t absolutely doubt. Your best chance
for success will be precisely in being, to her mind, unusual,
unexpected, original. Don’t try to be anyone else; be simply yourself,
out and out. Something or other 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
added with 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 to
dislocate my jaw, and declaring that there was nothing new under the
sun! If it isn’t new to see you come into the family as a suitor, I am
very much mistaken. Let me say that, my dear fellow; I won’t call it
anything else, bad or good; I will simply call it _new_.” And overcome
with a sense of the novelty thus foreshadowed, Valentin de Bellegarde
threw 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 you don’t know just what I am doing.”
“Oh,” said Newman, laughing, “don’t do anything wrong. Leave me to
myself, rather, or defy me, out and out. I wouldn’t lay any load on
your conscience.”
Bellegarde sprang up again; he was evidently excited; there was a
warmer spark even than usual in his eye. “You never will understand—you
never will know,” he said; “and if you succeed, and I turn out to have
helped you, 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 he broke into an extravagant laugh. “You look puzzled,” he added;
“you look almost frightened.”
“It _is_ a pity,” said Newman, “that I don’t understand you. I shall
lose some very good jokes.”
“I told you, you remember, that we were very strange people,”
Bellegarde went on. “I give you warning again. We are! My mother is
strange, my brother is strange, and I verily believe that I am stranger
than either. You will even find my sister a little strange. Old trees
have crooked branches, 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 Europe
for. You come into my programme.”
“_Touchez-là_, then,” said Bellegarde, putting out his hand. “It’s a
bargain: I accept you; I espouse your cause. It’s because I like you,
in a great measure; but that is not the only reason!” And he stood
holding Newman’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!_ “Old
races have strange secrets!” he said. “Put yourself into motion, come
and see my sister, and be assured of my sympathy!” And on this he took
his leave.
Newman dropped into a chair before his fire, and sat a long time
staring into the blaze.