You are a wise, kind old woman, Mrs. Bread,” said Newman. “I hoped I might see you with my own children in your arms. Perhaps I shall, yet.” And he put out his hand. Mrs. Bread looked for a moment at his open palm, and then, as if fascinated by the novelty of the gesture, extended her own ladylike fingers. Newman held her hand firmly and deliberately, fixing his eyes upon her. “You want to know all about Mr. Valentin?” he said.

“It would be a sad pleasure, sir.”

“I can tell you everything. Can you sometimes leave this place?”

“The chateau, sir? I really don’t know. I never tried.”

“Try, then; try hard. Try this evening, at dusk. Come to me in the old ruin there on the hill, in the court before the church. I will wait for you there; I have something very important to tell you. An old woman like you can do as she pleases.”

Mrs. Bread stared, wondering, with parted lips. “Is it from the count, sir?” she asked.

“From the count–from his death-bed,” said Newman.

“I will come, then. I will be bold, for once, for HIM.”

She led Newman into the great drawing-room with which he had already made acquaintance, and retired to execute his commands. Newman waited a long time; at last he was on the point of ringing and repeating his request. He was looking round him for a bell when the marquis came in with his mother on his arm. It will be seen that Newman had a logical mind when I say that he declared to himself, in perfect good faith, as a result of Valentin’s dark hints, that his adversaries looked grossly wicked. “There is no mistake about it now,” he said to himself as they advanced. “They’re a bad lot; they have pulled off the mask.” Madame de Bellegarde and her son certainly bore in their faces the signs of extreme perturbation; they looked like people who had passed a sleepless night. Confronted, moreover, with an annoyance which they hoped they had disposed of, it was not natural that they should have any very tender glances to bestow upon Newman. He stood before them, and such eye-beams as they found available they leveled at him; Newman feeling as if the door of a sepulchre had suddenly been opened, and the damp darkness were being exhaled.

“You see I have come back,” he said. “I have come to try again.”

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Mrs. Bread looked at him opaquely. “I wish you well sir; but it’s vain wishing now.”

“You know, then, how they have treated me?”

“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Bread, dryly, I know everything.”

Newman hesitated a moment. “Everything?”

Mrs. Bread gave him a glance somewhat more lucent. “I know at least too much, sir.”

“One can never know too much. I congratulate you. I have come to see Madame de Bellegarde and her son,” Newman added. “Are they at home? If they are not, I will wait.”

“My lady is always at home,” Mrs. Bread replied, “and the marquis is mostly with her.”

“Please then tell them–one or the other, or both–that I am here and that I desire to see them.”

Mrs. Bread hesitated. “May I take a great liberty, sir?”

“You have never taken a liberty but you have justified it,” said Newman, with diplomatic urbanity.

Mrs. Bread dropped her wrinkled eyelids as if she were curtseying; but the curtsey stopped there; the occasion was too grave. “You have come to plead with them again, sir? Perhaps you don’t know this–that Madame de Cintre returned this morning to Paris.”

“Ah, she’s gone!” And Newman, groaning, smote the pavement with his stick.

“She has gone straight to the convent–the Carmelites they call it. I see you know, sir. My lady and the marquis take it very ill. It was only last night she told them.”

“Ah, she had kept it back, then?” cried Newman. “Good, good! And they are very fierce?”

“They are not pleased,” said Mrs. Bread. “But they may well dislike it. They tell me it’s most dreadful, sir; of all the nuns in Christendom the Carmelites are the worst. You may say they are really not human, sir; they make you give up everything–forever. And to think of HER there! If I was one that cried, sir, I could cry.”

Newman looked at her an instant. “We mustn’t cry, Mrs. Bread; we must act. Go and call them!” And he made a movement to enter farther.

But Mrs. Bread gently checked him. “May I take another liberty? I am told you were with my dearest Mr. Valentin, in his last hours. If you would tell me a word about him! The poor count was my own boy, sir; for the first year of his life he was hardly out of my arms; I taught him to speak. And the count spoke so well, sir! He always spoke well to his poor old Bread. When he grew up and took his pleasure he always had a kind word for me. And to die in that wild way! They have a story that he fought with a wine-merchant. I can’t believe that, sir! And was he in great pain?”

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Newman, as he had done before, left his conveyance at the inn and walked the short remaining distance to the chateau. When he reached the gate, however, a singular feeling took possession of him–a feeling which, strange as it may seem, had its source in its unfathomable good nature. He stood there a while, looking through the bars at the large, time-stained face of the edifice, and wondering to what crime it was that the dark old house, with its flowery name, had given convenient occasion. It had given occasion, first and last, to tyrannies and sufferings enough, Newman said to himself; it was an evil-looking place to live in. Then, suddenly, came the reflection–What a horrible rubbish-heap of iniquity to fumble in! The attitude of inquisitor turned its ignobler face, and with the same movement Newman declared that the Bellegardes should have another chance. He would appeal once more directly to their sense of fairness, and not to their fear, and if they should be accessible to reason, he need know nothing worse about them than what he already knew. That was bad enough.

The gate-keeper let him in through the same stiff crevice as before, and he passed through the court and over the little rustic bridge on the moat. The door was opened before he had reached it, and, as if to put his clemency to rout with the suggestion of a richer opportunity, Mrs. Bread stood there awaiting him. Her face, as usual, looked as hopelessly blank as the tide-smoothed sea-sand, and her black garments seemed of an intenser sable. Newman had already learned that her strange inexpressiveness could be a vehicle for emotion, and he was not surprised at the muffled vivacity with which she whispered, “I thought you would try again, sir. I was looking out for you.”

“I am glad to see you,” said Newman; “I think you are my friend.”

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This was of course not the first time, lately, that Newman had given it his attention. It was information in the rough,–it was dark and puzzling; but Newman was neither helpless nor afraid. Valentin had evidently meant to put him in possession of a powerful instrument, though he could not be said to have placed the handle very securely within his grasp. But if he had not really told him the secret, he had at least given him the clew to it–a clew of which that queer old Mrs. Bread held the other end. Mrs. Bread had always looked to Newman as if she knew secrets; and as he apparently enjoyed her esteem, he suspected she might be induced to share her knowledge with him. So long as there was only Mrs. Bread to deal with, he felt easy. As to what there was to find out, he had only one fear–that it might not be bad enough. Then, when the image of the marquise and her son rose before him again, standing side by side, the old woman’s hand in Urbain’s arm, and the same cold, unsociable fixedness in the eyes of each, he cried out to himself that the fear was groundless. There was blood in the secret at the very last! He arrived at Fleurieres almost in a state of elation; he had satisfied himself, logically, that in the presence of his threat of exposure they would, as he mentally phrased it, rattle down like unwound buckets. He remembered indeed that he must first catch his hare–first ascertain what there was to expose; but after that, why shouldn’t his happiness be as good as new again? Mother and son would drop their lovely victim in terror and take to hiding, and Madame de Cintre, left to herself, would surely come back to him. Give her a chance and she would rise to the surface, return to the light. How could she fail to perceive that his house would be much the most comfortable sort of convent?

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If such superb white flowers as that could bloom in Catholic soil, the soil was not insalubrious. But it was one thing to be a Catholic, and another to turn nun–on your hand! There was something lugubriously comical in the way Newman’s thoroughly contemporaneous optimism was confronted with this dusky old-world expedient. To see a woman made for him and for motherhood to his children juggled away in this tragic travesty–it was a thing to rub one’s eyes over, a nightmare, an illusion, a hoax. But the hours passed away without disproving the thing, and leaving him only the after-sense of the vehemence with which he had embraced Madame de Cintre. He remembered her words and her looks; he turned them over and tried to shake the mystery out of them and to infuse them with an endurable meaning. What had she meant by her feeling being a kind of religion? It was the religion simply of the family laws, the religion of which her implacable little mother was the high priestess. Twist the thing about as her generosity would, the one certain fact was that they had used force against her. Her generosity had tried to screen them, but Newman’s heart rose into his throat at the thought that they should go scot-free.

The twenty-four hours wore themselves away, and the next morning Newman sprang to his feet with the resolution to return to Fleurieres and demand another interview with Madame de Bellegarde and her son. He lost no time in putting it into practice. As he rolled swiftly over the excellent road in the little caleche furnished him at the inn at Poitiers, he drew forth, as it were, from the very safe place in his mind to which he had consigned it, the last information given him by poor Valentin. Valentin had told him he could do something with it, and Newman thought it would be well to have it at hand

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He was wholly given up to his grievance, or which reflection by no means diminished the weight. He feared that Madame de Cintre was irretrievably lost; and yet, as he would have said himself, he didn’t see his way clear to giving her up. He found it impossible to turn his back upon Fleurieres and its inhabitants; it seemed to him that some germ of hope or reparation must lurk there somewhere, if he could only stretch his arm out far enough to pluck it. It was as if he had his hand on a door-knob and were closing his clenched fist upon it: he had thumped, he had called, he had pressed the door with his powerful knee and shaken it with all his strength, and dead, damning silence had answered him. And yet something held him there–something hardened the grasp of his fingers. Newman’s satisfaction had been too intense, his whole plan too deliberate and mature, his prospect of happiness too rich and comprehensive for this fine moral fabric to crumble at a stroke. The very foundation seemed fatally injured, and yet he felt a stubborn desire still to try to save the edifice. He was filled with a sorer sense of wrong than he had ever known, or than he had supposed it possible he should know. To accept his injury and walk away without looking behind him was a stretch of good-nature of which he found himself incapable. He looked behind him intently and continually, and what he saw there did not assuage his resentment. He saw himself trustful, generous, liberal, patient, easy, pocketing frequent irritation and furnishing unlimited modesty. To have eaten humble pie, to have been snubbed and patronized and satirized and have consented to take it as one of the conditions of the bargain–to have done this, and done it all for nothing, surely gave one a right to protest

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Newman dropped into a chair and sat looking at her with a long, inarticulate murmur. That this superb woman, in whom he had seen all human grace and household force, should turn from him and all the brightness that he offered her–him and his future and his fortune and his fidelity–to muffle herself in ascetic rags and entomb herself in a cell was a confounding combination of the inexorable and the grotesque. As the image deepened before him the grotesque seemed to expand and overspread it; it was a reduction to the absurd of the trial to which he was subjected. “You–you a nun!” he exclaimed; “you with your beauty defaced–you behind locks and bars! Never, never, if I can prevent it!” And he sprang to his feet with a violent laugh.

“You can’t prevent it,” said Madame de Cintre, “and it ought–a little–to satisfy you. Do you suppose I will go on living in the world, still beside you, and yet not with you? It is all arranged. Good-by, good-by.”

This time he took her hand, took it in both his own. “Forever?” he said. Her lips made an inaudible movement and his own uttered a deep imprecation. She closed her eyes, as if with the pain of hearing it; then he drew her towards him and clasped her to his breast. He kissed her white face; for an instant she resisted and for a moment she submitted; then, with force, she disengaged herself and hurried away over the long shining floor. The next moment the door closed behind her.

Newman made his way out as he could.

CHAPTER XXI

There is a pretty public walk at Poitiers, laid out upon the crest of the high hill around which the little city clusters, planted with thick trees and looking down upon the fertile fields in which the old English princes fought for their right and held it. Newman paced up and down this quiet promenade for the greater part of the next day and let his eyes wander over the historic prospect; but he would have been sadly at a loss to tell you afterwards whether the latter was made up of coal-fields or of vineyards.

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I don’t care for that!” cried Newman. “You are cruel–you are terribly cruel. God forgive you! You may have the best reasons and the finest feelings in the world; that makes no difference. You are a mystery to me; I don’t see how such hardness can go with such loveliness.”

Madame de Cintre fixed him a moment with her swimming eyes. “You believe I am hard, then?”

Newman answered her look, and then broke out, “You are a perfect, faultless creature! Stay by me!”

“Of course I am hard,” she went on. “Whenever we give pain we are hard. And we MUST give pain; that’s the world,–the hateful, miserable world! Ah!” and she gave a long, deep sigh, “I can’t even say I am glad to have known you–though I am. That too is to wrong you. I can say nothing that is not cruel. Therefore let us part, without more of this. Good-by!” And she put out her hand.

Newman stood and looked at it without taking it, and raised his eyes to her face. He felt, himself, like shedding tears of rage. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Where are you going?”

“Where I shall give no more pain and suspect no more evil. I am going out of the world.”

“Out of the world?”

“I am going into a convent.”

“Into a convent!” Newman repeated the words with the deepest dismay; it was as if she had said she was going into an hospital. “Into a convent–YOU!”

“I told you that it was not for my worldly advantage or pleasure I was leaving you.”

But still Newman hardly understood. “You are going to be a nun,” he went on, “in a cell–for life–with a gown and white veil?”

“A nun–a Carmelite nun,” said Madame de Cintre. “For life, with God’s leave.”

The idea struck Newman as too dark and horrible for belief, and made him feel as he would have done if she had told him that she was going to mutilate her beautiful face, or drink some potion that would make her mad. He clasped his hands and began to tremble, visibly.

“Madame de Cintre, don’t, don’t!” he said. “I beseech you! On my knees, if you like, I’ll beseech you.”

She laid her hand upon his arm, with a tender, pitying, almost reassuring gesture. “You don’t understand,” she said. “You have wrong ideas. It’s nothing horrible. It is only peace and safety. It is to be out of the world, where such troubles as this come to the innocent, to the best. And for life–that’s the blessing of it! They can’t begin again.”

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No. I was not right–I am not cold! I believe that if I am doing what seems so bad, it is not mere weakness and falseness. Mr. Newman, it’s like a religion. I can’t tell you–I can’t! It’s cruel of you to insist. I don’t see why I shouldn’t ask you to believe me–and pity me. It’s like a religion. There’s a curse upon the house; I don’t know what–I don’t know why–don’t ask me. We must all bear it. I have been too selfish; I wanted to escape from it. You offered me a great chance–besides my liking you. It seemed good to change completely, to break, to go away. And then I admired you. But I can’t–it has overtaken and come back to me.” Her self-control had now completely abandoned her, and her words were broken with long sobs. “Why do such dreadful things happen to us–why is my brother Valentin killed, like a beast in the midst of his youth and his gayety and his brightness and all that we loved him for? Why are there things I can’t ask about–that I am afraid to know? Why are there places I can’t look at, sounds I can’t hear? Why is it given to me to choose, to decide, in a case so hard and so terrible as this? I am not meant for that–I am not made for boldness and defiance. I was made to be happy in a quiet, natural way.” At this Newman gave a most expressive groan, but Madame de Cintre went on. “I was made to do gladly and gratefully what is expected of me. My mother has always been very good to me; that’s all I can say. I must not judge her; I must not criticize her. If I did, it would come back to me. I can’t change!”

“No,” said Newman, bitterly; “I must change–if I break in two in the effort!”

“You are different. You are a man; you will get over it. You have all kinds of consolation. You were born–you were trained, to changes. Besides–besides, I shall always think of you.”

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I don’t see why we should talk of Lord Deepmere,” said Madame de Cintre. “It was not for that you came here. And about my mother, it doesn’t matter what you suspect and what you know. When once my mind has been made up, as it is now, I should not discuss these things. Discussing anything, now, is very idle. We must try and live each as we can. I believe you will be happy again; even, sometimes, when you think of me. When you do so, think this–that it was not easy, and that I did the best I could. I have things to reckon with that you don’t know. I mean I have feelings. I must do as they force me–I must, I must. They would haunt me otherwise,” she cried, with vehemence; “they would kill me!”

“I know what your feelings are: they are superstitions! They are the feeling that, after all, though I AM a good fellow, I have been in business; the feeling that your mother’s looks are law and your brother’s words are gospel; that you all hang together, and that it’s a part of the everlasting proprieties that they should have a hand in everything you do. It makes my blood boil. That is cold; you are right. And what I feel here,” and Newman struck his heart and became more poetical than he knew, “is a glowing fire!”

A spectator less preoccupied than Madame de Cintre’s distracted wooer would have felt sure from the first that her appealing calm of manner was the result of violent effort, in spite of which the tide of agitation was rapidly rising. On these last words of Newman’s it overflowed, though at first she spoke low, for fear of her voice betraying her. ”

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