Chapter XVIII

by Henry James

　　Newman went the next morning to see Madame de Cintre, timing his visitso as to arrive after the noonday breakfast. In the court of the hotel,before the portico, stood Madame de Bellegarde's old square carriage.The servant who opened the door answered Newman's inquiry with a slightlyembarrassed and hesitating murmur, and at the same moment Mrs. Breadappeared in the background, dim-visaged as usual, and wearing a largeblack bonnet and shawl.

　　"What is the matter?" asked Newman. "Is Madame la Comtesseat home, or not?"

　　Mrs. Bread advanced, fixing her eyes upon him: he observedthat she held a sealed letter, very delicately, in her fingers."The countess has left a message for you, sir; she has left this,"said Mrs. Bread, holding out the 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 the ground."But I thought it would come."

　　"What would come, pray?" Newman demanded. He had broken the sealof the letter, but he still questioned. "She is in the house?She is visible?"

　　"I don't think she expected you this morning," the old waiting-woman replied."She was to leave immediately."

　　"Where is she going?"

　　"To Fleurieres."

　　"To Fleurieres? 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."Be very easy with her," she said; "she is most unhappy!" Then shewent on to Madame de Cintre's apartment; Newman, perplexed and alarmed,followed her rapidly. Mrs. Bread threw open the door, and Newmanpushed back the curtain at the farther side of its deep embrasure.In the middle of the room stood Madame de Cintre; her face was paleand she was dressed for traveling. Behind her, before the fire-place,stood Urbain de Bellegarde, looking at his finger-nails; near the marquissat his mother, buried in an arm-chair, and with her eyes immediatelyfixing themselves upon Newman. He felt, as soon as he entered the room,that he was in the presence of something evil; he was startled and pained,as he would have been by a threatening cry in the stillness of the night.He walked straight to Madame de Cintre 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 cameand leaned upon his mother's chair, behind. Newman's suddenirruption had evidently discomposed both mother and son.Madame de Cintre stood silent, with her eyes resting upon Newman's.She had often looked at him with all her soul, as it seemed to him;but in this present gaze there was a sort of bottomless depth.She was in distress; it was the most touching thing he had ever seen.His heart rose into his throat, and he was on the point of turningto her companions, with an angry challenge; but she checked him,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 thenat the others. "Why not?" he asked, as quietly as possible.

　　Madame de Cintre almost smiled, but the attempt was strange."You must ask 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 wasas pale as her daughter. The marquis looked down at her.She said nothing for some moments, but she kept her keen,clear eyes upon Newman, bravely. The marquis drew himself upand looked at the ceiling. "It's impossible!" he said 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 the marquis.

　　"Come, is he mad?" asked Newman.

　　"No; don't think that," said Madame de Cintre. "But I am going away."

　　"Where are you going?"

　　"To the country, to Fleurieres; to be alone."

　　"To leave me?" said Newman, slowly.

　　"I can't see you, now," said Madame de Cintre.

　　"Now--why not?"

　　"I am ashamed," said Madame de Cintre, simply.

　　Newman turned toward the marquis. "What have you done to her--what does it mean?" he asked with the same effort at calmness,the fruit of his constant practice in taking things easily.He was excited, but excitement with him was only an intenser deliberateness;it was the swimmer stripped.

　　"It means that I have given you up," said Madame de Cintre."It means that."

　　Her face was too charged with tragic expression not fully to confirmher words. Newman was profoundly shocked, but he felt as yet no resentmentagainst her. He was amazed, bewildered, and the presence of the old marquiseand her son seemed to smite his eyes like the glare of a watchman's lantern."Can't I see you alone?" he asked.

　　"It would be only more painful. I hoped I should not see you--I should escape. I wrote to you. Good-by." And she put outher 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."Let me go alone--let me go in peace. I can't call it peace--it's death.But let me bury myself. So--good-by."

　　Newman passed his hand into his hair and stood slowlyrubbing his head and looking through his keenly-narrowedeyes from one to the other of the three persons before him.His lips were compressed, and the two lines which had formedthemselves beside his mouth might have made it appear at a firstglance that he was smiling. I have said that his excitement wasan intenser deliberateness, and now he looked grimly deliberate."It seems very much as if you had interfered, marquis,"he said slowly. "I thought you said you wouldn't interfere.I know you don't like me; but that doesn't make any difference.I thought you promised me you wouldn't interfere.I thought you swore on your honor that 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 of hismother's chair and bent forward, as if he were leaning over the edge of apulpit or a lecture-desk. He did not smile, but he looked softly grave."Excuse me, sir," he said, "I assured you that I would not influencemy sister's decision. I adhered, to the letter, to my engagement.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 deny that.At least," he added, in a different tone, turning to Madame de Cintre,"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 Newmanof the marquis.

　　"Neither then nor now have I attempted to influence my sister.I used no persuasion then, I have used no persuasion to-day."

　　"And what have you used?"

　　"We have used authority,"' said Madame de Bellegarde ina rich, bell-like voice.

　　"Ah, you have used authority," Newman exclaimed. "They haveused authority," he went on, turning to Madame de Cintre."What is it? how did they use it?"

　　"My mother commanded," said Madame de Cintre.

　　"Commanded you to give me up--I see. And you obey--I see.But why do you obey?" asked Newman.

　　Madame de Cintre looked across at the old marquise;her eyes slowly measured her from head to foot."I am afraid of my mother," she said.

　　Madame de Bellegarde rose with a certain quickness, crying, "This isa most indecent scene!"

　　"I have no wish to prolong it," said Madame de Cintre;and turning to the door she put out her hand again."If you can pity me a little, let me go alone."

　　Newman shook her hand quietly and firmly. "I'll come down there," he said.The portiere dropped behind her, and Newman sank with a long breathinto the nearest chair. He leaned back in it, resting his hands onthe knobs of the arms and looking at Madame de Bellegarde and Urbain.There was a long silence. They stood side by side, with their headshigh and their handsome eyebrows arched.

　　"So you make a distinction?" Newman said at last."You make a distinction between persuading and commanding?It's very neat. But the distinction is in favor of commanding.That rather spoils it."

　　"We have not the least objection to defining our position,"said M. de Bellegarde. "We understand that it should not at firstappear to you quite clear. We rather expected, indeed, that youshould not do us justice."

　　"Oh, I'll do you justice," said Newman. "Don't be afraid.Please proceed."

　　The marquise laid her hand on her son's arm, as if to deprecatethe attempt to define their position. "It is quite useless,"she said, "to try and arrange this matter so as to makeit agreeable to you. It can never be agreeable to you.It is a disappointment, and disappointments are unpleasant.I thought it over carefully and tried to arrange it better;but I only gave myself a headache and lost my sleep.Say what we will, you will think yourself ill-treated,and you will publish your wrongs among your friends.But we are not afraid of that. Besides, your friends are notour friends, and it will not matter. Think of us as you please.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 Ican't be expected to begin."

　　"Is that all you have got to say?" asked Newman, slowly risingout of his chair. "That's a poor show for a clever ladylike 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 isperhaps well to say a little more. We of course quite repudiatethe charge of having broken faith with you. We left youentirely at liberty to make yourself agreeable to my sister.We left her quite at liberty to entertain your proposal.When she accepted you we said nothing. We therefore quite observedour promise. It was only at a later stage of the affair, and onquite a different basis, as it were, that we determined to speak.It would 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, unconscious of theircomical effect. He had lost the sense of what the marquis was saying;M. de Bellegarde's superior style was a mere humming in his ears. All thathe understood, in his deep and simple indignation, was that the matter wasnot a violent joke, and that the people before him were perfectly serious."Do you suppose I can take this?" he asked. "Do you suppose it can matterto me what you say? Do you suppose I can seriously 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 littlewhat you 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 verystrange in it. Why should your daughter be afraid of you?"added Newman, after looking 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 could endure it no longer."

　　"It was a bold experiment!" said the marquis.

　　Newman felt disposed to walk to him, clutch his neck with hisfingers and press his windpipe with his thumb. "I needn't tellyou how you strike me," he said; "of course you know that.But I should think you would be afraid of your friends--all those people you introduced me to the other night.There were some very nice people among them; you may dependupon it there were some honest men and women."

　　"Our friends approve us," said M. de Bellegarde, "there isnot a family among 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 the example not towait for it."

　　"You would have waited long before any one would have set you suchan example as this," exclaimed Newman. "Have I done anything wrong?"he demanded. "Have I given you reason to change your opinion?Have you found out anything against me? I can't imagine."

　　"Our opinion," said Madame de Bellegarde, "is quite the same asat first--exactly. We have no ill-will towards yourself; we are very farfrom accusing you of misconduct. Since your relations with us beganyou have been, I frankly confess, less--less peculiar than I expected.It is not your disposition that we object to, it is your antecedents.We really cannot reconcile ourselves to a commercial person.We fancied in an evil hour that we could; it was a great misfortune.We determined to persevere to the end, and to give you every advantage. I wasresolved that you should have no reason to accuse me of want of loyalty.We let the thing certainly go very far; we introduced you to our friends.To tell the truth, it was that, I think, that broke me down.I succumbed to the scene that took place on Thursday night in these rooms.You must excuse me if what I say is disagreeable to you, but we cannotrelease ourselves without an explanation."

　　"There can be no better proof of our good faith," said the marquis, "than ourcommitting ourselves to you in the eyes of the world the other evening.We endeavored to bind ourselves--to tie our hands, as it were."

　　"But it was that," added his mother, "that opened our eyesand broke our bonds. We should have been most uncomfortable!You know," she added in a moment, "that you were forewarned.I told you we were very proud."

　　Newman took up his hat and began mechanically to smooth it;the very fierceness of his scorn kept him from speaking."You are not proud enough," he observed at last.

　　"In all this matter," said the marquis, smiling, "I really seenothing but our humility."

　　"Let us have no more discussion than is necessary," resumed Madamede Bellegarde. "My daughter told you everything when she said shegave you up."

　　"I am not satisfied about your daughter," said Newman; "I want to knowwhat you did to her. It is all very easy talking about authorityand saying you commanded her. She didn't accept me blindly,and she wouldn't have given me up blindly. Not that I believeyet she has really given me up; she will talk it over with me.But you have frightened her, you have bullied 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 marquis observed, "with the express understanding that youshould abstain from violence of language."

　　"I am not violent," Newman answered, "it is you who are violent!But I don't know that I have much more to say to you.What you expect of me, apparently, is to go my way, thanking youfor favors received, and promising 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 your 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.Your daughter 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 she won't,--your constancy must remain purely Platonic."

　　Poor Newman was feigning a greater confidence than he felt.Madame de Cintre's strange intensity had in fact struck a chillto his heart; her face, still impressed upon his vision,had been a terribly vivid image of renunciation. He felt sick,and suddenly helpless. He turned away and stood for a momentwith his hand on the door; then he faced about and afterthe briefest hesitation broke out with a different accent."Come, think of what this must be to me, and let her alone!Why should you object to me so--what's the matter with me?I can't hurt you. I wouldn't if I could. I'm the most unobjectionablefellow in the world. What if I am a commercial person?What under the sun do you mean? A commercial person?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 take her away, and you shall never see me or hearof me again. I will stay in America if you like.I'll sign a paper promising never to come back to Europe!All I want is not to lose her!"

　　Madame de Bellegarde and her son exchanged a glance of lucid irony,and Urbain said, "My dear sir, what you propose is hardly an improvement.We have not the slightest objection to seeing you, as an amiable foreigner,and we have every reason for not wishing to be eternally separated frommy sister. We object to the marriage; and in that way," and M. de Bellegardegave a small, thin laugh, "she would be more married than ever."

　　"Well, then," said Newman, "where is this place of yours--Fleurieres?I know it is near some old city on a hill."

　　"Precisely. Poitiers is on a hill," said Madame de Bellegarde."I don't know how old it is. We are not afraid to tell you."

　　"It is Poitiers, is it? Very good," said Newman."I shall immediately follow Madame de Cintre."

　　"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,"Newman answered; and clapping his hat on his head, he departed.

　　He did not immediately start for Fleurieres; he was too stunned andwounded for consecutive action. He simply walked; he walked straightbefore him, following the river, till he got out of the enceinteof Paris. He had a burning, tingling sense of personal outrage.He had never in his life received so absolute a check; he had neverbeen pulled up, or, as he would have said, "let down," so short;and he found the sensation intolerable; he strode along, tapping thetrees and lamp-posts fiercely with his stick and inwardly raging.To lose Madame de Cintre after he had taken such jubilant and triumphantpossession of her was as great an affront to his pride as it was an injuryto his happiness. And to lose her by the interference and the dictationof others, by an impudent old woman and a pretentious fop steppingin with their "authority"! It was too preposterous, it was too pitiful.Upon what he deemed the unblushing treachery of the Bellegardes Newmanwasted little thought; he consigned it, once for all, to eternal perdition.But the treachery of Madame de Cintre herself amazed and confounded him;there was a key to the mystery, of course, but he groped for it in vain.Only three days had elapsed since she stood beside him in the starlight,beautiful and tranquil as the trust with which he had inspired her,and told him that she was happy in the prospect of their marriage.What was the meaning of the change? of what infernal potion had she tasted?Poor Newman had a terrible apprehension that she had really changed.His very admiration for her attached the idea of force and weightto her rupture. But he did not rail at her as false, for he was sureshe was unhappy. In his walk he had crossed one of the bridges ofthe Seine, and he still followed, unheedingly, the long, unbroken quay.He had left Paris behind him, and he was almost in the country; he wasin the pleasant suburb of Auteuil. He stopped at last, looked around himwithout seeing or caring for its pleasantness, and then slowly turned and ata slower pace retraced his steps. When he came abreast of the fantasticembankment known as the Trocadero, he reflected, through his throbbing pain,that he was near Mrs. Tristram's dwelling, and that Mrs. Tristram,on particular 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 to her house.Mrs. Tristram was at home and alone, and as soon as she had looked at him,on his entering the room, she told him that she knew what he had come for.Newman sat down heavily, in silence, looking at her.

　　"They have backed out!" she said. "Well, you may thinkit strange, but I felt something the other night in the air."Presently he told her his story; she listened, with hereyes fixed on him. When he had finished she 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't think 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 really couldn'tendure you any longer. They had overrated their courage. I must say,to give the devil his due, that there is something rather fine in that.It was your commercial quality in the abstract they couldn't swallow.That is really aristocratic. They wanted your money, but they have givenyou up for an idea."

　　Newman frowned most ruefully, and took up his hat again. "I thoughtyou would encourage me!" he said, with almost childlike sadness.

　　"Excuse me," she answered very gently. "I feel none the lesssorry for you, especially as I am at the bottom of your troubles.I have not forgotten that I suggested the marriage to you.I don't believe that Madame de Cintre has any intention of marryingLord Deepmere. It is true he is not younger than she, as he looks.He is thirty-three years old; I looked in the Peerage.But no--I can't believe her so horribly, cruelly false."

　　"Please say nothing against her," said Newman.

　　"Poor woman, she is cruel. But of course you will go after herand you will plead powerfully. Do you know that as you are now,"Mrs. Tristram pursued, with characteristic audacity of comment,"you are extremely eloquent, even without speaking?To resist you a woman must have a very fixed idea in her head.I wish I had done you a wrong, that you might come to mein that fine fashion! But go to Madame de Cintre atany rate, and tell her that she is a puzzle even to me.I am very curious to see how far family discipline will go."

　　Newman sat a while longer, leaning his elbows on his kneesand his head in his hands, and Mrs. Tristram continued to tempercharity with philosophy and compassion with criticism.At last she inquired, "And what does the Count Valentin say to it?"Newman started; he had not thought of Valentin and his errandon the Swiss frontier since the morning. The reflection madehim restless again, and he took his leave. He went straightto his apartment, where, upon the table of the vestibule,he found a telegram. It ran (with the date and place) as follows:"I am seriously ill; please to come to me as soon as possible.V. B." Newman groaned at this miserable news, and at the necessityof deferring his journey to the Chateau de Fleurieres.But he wrote to Madame de Cintre these few lines; they wereall he had time for:--

　　"I don't give you up, and I don't really believe you give me up.I don't understand it, but we shall clear it up together.I can't follow you to-day, as I am called to seea 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.