Chapter XXI

by Henry James

　　There is a pretty public walk at Poitiers, laid out uponthe crest of the high hill around which the little city clusters,planted with thick trees and looking down upon the fertile fieldsin which the old English princes fought for their right and held it.Newman paced up and down this quiet promenade for the greater partof the next day and let his eyes wander over the historic prospect;but he would have been sadly at a loss to tell you afterwardswhether the latter was made up of coal-fields or of vineyards.He was wholly given up to his grievance, or which reflectionby no means diminished the weight. He feared that Madamede Cintre was irretrievably lost; and yet, as he would havesaid himself, he didn't see his way clear to giving her up.He found it impossible to turn his back upon Fleurieresand its inhabitants; it seemed to him that some germ of hopeor reparation must lurk there somewhere, if he could only stretchhis arm out far enough to pluck it. It was as if he had his handon a door-knob and were closing his clenched fist upon it:he had thumped, he had called, he had pressed the doorwith his powerful knee and shaken it with all his strength,and dead, damning silence had answered him. And yet somethingheld him there--something hardened the grasp of his fingers.Newman's satisfaction had been too intense, his whole plan toodeliberate and mature, his prospect of happiness too rich andcomprehensive for this fine moral fabric to crumble at a stroke.The very foundation seemed fatally injured, and yet he felta 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 himwas 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 patronizedand satirized and have consented to take it as one ofthe conditions of the bargain--to have done this, and doneit all for nothing, surely gave one a right to protest.And to be turned off because one was a commercial person!As if he had ever talked or dreamt of the commercialsince his connection with the Bellegardes began--as if he had made the least circumstance of the commercial--as if he would not have consented to confound the commercialfifty times a day, if it might have increased by a hair'sbreadth the chance of the Bellegardes' not playing him a trick!Granted that being commercial was fair ground for having a trickplayed upon one, how little they knew about the class so designedand its enterprising way of not standing upon trifles!It was in the light of his injury that the weight of Newman'spast endurance seemed so heavy; his actual irritation had notbeen so great, merged as it was in his vision of the cloudlessblue that overarched his immediate wooing. But now his senseof outrage was deep, rancorous, and ever present; he felt thathe was a good fellow wronged. As for Madame de Cintre's conduct,it struck him with a kind of awe, and the fact that he waspowerless to understand it or feel the reality of its motivesonly deepened the force with which he had attached himself to her.He had never let the fact of her Catholicism trouble him;Catholicism to him was nothing but a name, and to expressa mistrust of the form in which her religious feelingshad moulded themselves would have seemed to him on his ownpart a rather pretentious affectation of Protestant zeal.If such superb white flowers as that could bloom in Catholic soil,the soil was not insalubrious. But it was one thingto be a Catholic, and another to turn nun--on your hand!There was something lugubriously comical in the way Newman'sthoroughly contemporaneous optimism was confronted with thisdusky old-world expedient. To see a woman made for him and formotherhood 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 whichhe had embraced Madame de Cintre. He remembered her wordsand her looks; he turned them over and tried to shake the mysteryout 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 religionof which her implacable little mother was the high priestess.Twist the thing about as her generosity would, the onecertain fact was that they had used force against her.Her generosity had tried to screen them, but Newman's heart roseinto his throat at the thought that they should go scot-free.

　　The twenty-four hours wore themselves away, and the next morningNewman sprang to his feet with the resolution to return toFleurieres and demand another interview with Madame de Bellegardeand her son. He lost no time in putting it into practice.As he rolled swiftly over the excellent road in the littlecaleche furnished him at the inn at Poitiers, he drew forth,as it were, from the very safe place in his mind to which he hadconsigned 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.This was of course not the first time, lately, that Newmanhad 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 apowerful instrument, though he could not be said to have placedthe handle very securely within his grasp. But if he had not reallytold 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 suspectedshe 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 imageof 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 atFleurieres 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 terrorand take to hiding, and Madame de Cintre, left to herself,would surely come back to him. Give her a chanceand she would rise to the surface, return to the light.How could she fail to perceive that his house would be muchthe most comfortable sort of convent?

　　Newman, as he had done before, left his conveyance at the innand walked the short remaining distance to the chateau.When he reached the gate, however, a singular feeling tookpossession of him--a feeling which, strange as it may seem,had its source in its unfathomable good nature. He stood therea while, looking through the bars at the large, time-stained faceof the edifice, and wondering to what crime it was that the darkold house, with its flowery name, had given convenient occasion.It had given occasion, first and last, to tyrannies andsufferings enough, Newman said to himself; it was an evil-lookingplace to live in. Then, suddenly, came the reflection--What a horrible rubbish-heap of iniquity to fumble in! The attitudeof inquisitor turned its ignobler face, and with the same movementNewman 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 bridgeon the moat. The door was opened before he had reached it,and, as if to put his clemency to rout with the suggestionof a richer opportunity, Mrs. Bread stood there awaiting him.Her face, as usual, looked as hopelessly blank as the tide-smoothedsea-sand, and her black garments seemed of an intenser sable.Newman had already learned that her strange inexpressiveness couldbe a vehicle for emotion, and he was not surprised at the muffledvivacity 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."

　　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 marquisis mostly with her."

　　"Please then tell them--one or the other, or both--that I amhere 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'tknow this--that Madame de Cintre returned this morning to Paris."

　　"Ah, she's gone!" And Newman, groaning, smote the pavementwith 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 Christendomthe 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 hislife he was hardly out of my arms; I taught him to speak.And the count spoke so well, sir! He always spoke well tohis poor old Bread. When he grew up and took his pleasurehe 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'tbelieve that, sir! And was he in great pain?"

　　"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. Breadlooked for a moment at his open palm, and then, as if fascinatedby 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 mein 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 hadalready made acquaintance, and retired to execute his commands.Newman waited a long time; at last he was on the point ofringing and repeating his request. He was looking round himfor a bell when the marquis came in with his mother on his arm.It will be seen that Newman had a logical mind when Isay that he declared to himself, in perfect good faith,as a result of Valentin's dark hints, that his adversarieslooked 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 soncertainly 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 theyhad disposed of, it was not natural that they should have anyvery 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 suddenlybeen opened, and the damp darkness were being exhaled.

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

　　"It would be ridiculous," said M. de Bellegarde, "to pretend that we are gladto see you or that we don't question the taste of your visit."

　　"Oh, don't talk about taste," said Newman, with a laugh, "or that willbring us round to yours! If I consulted my taste I certainly shouldn'tcome to see you. Besides, I will make as short work as you please.Promise me to raise the blockade--to set Madame de Cintre at liberty--and I will retire instantly."

　　"We hesitated as to whether we would see you," said Madamede Bellegarde; "and we were on the point of declining the honor.But it seemed to me that we should act with civility,as we have always done, and I wished to have the satisfactionof informing you that there are certain weaknesses that peopleof our way of feeling can be guilty of but once."

　　"You may be weak but once, but you will be audacious many times, madam,''Newman answered. "I didn't come however, for conversational purposes.I came to say this, simply: that if you will write immediatelyto your daughter that you withdraw your opposition to her marriage,I will take care of the rest. You don't want her to turn nun--you know more about the horrors of it than I do. Marrying a commercialperson is better than that. Give me a letter to her, signed and sealed,saying you retract and that she may marry me with your blessing,and I will take it to her at the convent and bring her out.There's your chance--I call those easy terms."

　　"We look at the matter otherwise, you know.We call them very hard terms," said Urbain de Bellegarde.They had all remained standing rigidly in the middle of the room."I think my mother will tell you that she would rather herdaughter should become Soeur Catherine than Mrs. Newman."

　　But the old lady, with the serenity of supreme power,let her son make her epigrams for her. She only smiled,almost sweetly, shaking her head and repeating, "But once,Mr. Newman; but once!"

　　Nothing that Newman had ever seen or heard gave him such a senseof marble hardness as this movement and the tone that accompanied it."Could anything compel you?" he asked. "Do you know of anythingthat would force you?"

　　"This language, sir," said the marquis, "addressed to peoplein bereavement and grief is beyond all qualification."

　　"In most cases," Newman answered, "your objection would havesome weight, even admitting that Madame de Cintre's present intentionsmake time precious. But I have thought of what you speak of,and I have come here to-day without scruple simply because Iconsider your brother and you two very different parties.I see no connection between you. Your brother was ashamed of you.Lying there wounded and dying, the poor fellow apologized to mefor your conduct. He apologized to me for that of his mother."

　　For a moment the effect of these words was as if Newman had strucka physical blow. A quick flush leaped into the faces of Madame deBellegarde and her son, and they exchanged a glance like a twinkleof steel. Urbain uttered two words which Newman but half heard,but of which the sense came to him as it were in the reverberationof the sound, "Le miserable!"

　　"You show little respect for the living," said Madame de Bellegarde,"but at least respect the dead. Don't profane--don't insult--the memory of my innocent son."

　　"I speak the simple truth," Newman declared, "and I speak it for a purpose.I repeat it--distinctly. Your son was utterly disgusted--your son apologized."

　　Urbain de Bellegarde was frowning portentously, and Newman supposed he wasfrowning at poor Valentin's invidious image. Taken by surprise, his scantaffection for his brother had made a momentary concession to dishonor.But not for an appreciable instant did his mother lower her flag."You are immensely mistaken, sir," she said. "My son was sometimes light,but he was never indecent. He died faithful to his name."

　　"You simply misunderstood him," said the marquis, beginning to rally."You affirm the impossible!"

　　"Oh, I don't care for poor Valentin's apology," said Newman."It was far more painful than pleasant to me. This atrociousthing was not his fault; he never hurt me, or any one else;he was the soul of honor. But it shows how he took it."

　　"If you wish to prove that my poor brother, in hislast moments, was out of his head, we can only say that underthe melancholy circumstances nothing was more possible.But confine yourself to that."

　　"He was quite in his right mind," said Newman, with gentle butdangerous doggedness; "I have never seen him so bright and clever.It was terrible to see that witty, capable fellow dying such a death.You know I was very fond of your brother. And I have further proofof his sanity," Newman concluded.

　　The marquise gathered herself together majestically."This is too gross!" she cried. "We decline to acceptyour story, sir--we repudiate it. Urbain, open the door."She turned away, with an imperious motion to her son,and passed rapidly down the length of the room.The marquis went with her and held the door open.Newman was left standing.

　　He lifted his finger, as a sign to M. de Bellegarde,who closed the door behind his mother and stood waiting.Newman slowly advanced, more silent, for the moment, than life.The two men stood face to face. Then Newman had a singular sensation;he felt his sense of injury almost brimming over into jocularity."Come," he said, "you don't treat me well; at least admit that."

　　M. de Bellegarde looked at him from head to foot, and then, in themost delicate, best-bred voice, "I detest you, personally," he said.

　　"That's the way I feel to you, but for politeness sake Idon't say it," said Newman. "It's singular I should wantso much to be your brother-in-law, but I can't give it up.Let me try once more." And he paused a moment."You have a secret--you have a skeleton in the closet."M. de Bellegarde continued to look at him hard, but Newmancould not see whether his eyes betrayed anything; the lookof his eyes was always so strange. Newman paused again,and then went on. "You and your mother have committed a crime."At this M. de Bellegarde's eyes certainly did change;they seemed to flicker, like blown candles. Newman couldsee that he was profoundly startled; but there was somethingadmirable in his self-control.

　　"Continue," said M. de Bellegarde.

　　Newman lifted a finger and made it waver a little in the air."Need I continue? You are trembling."

　　"Pray where did you obtain this interesting information?"M. de Bellegarde asked, very softly.

　　"I shall be strictly accurate," said Newman. "I won't pretendto know more than I do. At present that is all I know.You have done something that you must hide, something that woulddamn you if it were known, something that would disgrace the nameyou are so proud of. I don't know what it is, but I can find out.Persist in your present course and I will find out. Change it,let your sister go in peace, and I will leave you alone.It's a bargain?"

　　The marquis almost succeeded in looking untroubled; the breaking up of the icein his handsome countenance was an operation that was necessarily gradual.But Newman's mildly-syllabled argumentation seemed to press, and press,and presently he averted his eyes. He stood some moments, reflecting.

　　"My brother told you this," he said, looking up.

　　Newman hesitated a moment. "Yes, your brother told me."

　　The marquis smiled, handsomely. "Didn't I say that he was out of his mind?"

　　"He was out of his mind if I don't find out. He was very muchin it if I do."

　　M. de Bellegarde gave a shrug. "Eh, sir, find out or not,as you please."

　　"I don't frighten you?" demanded Newman.

　　"That's for you to judge."

　　"No, it's for you to judge, at your leisure. Think it over,feel yourself all round. I will give you an hour or two.I can't give you more, for how do we know how fast they may bemaking Madame de Cintre a nun? Talk it over with your mother;let her judge whether she is frightened. I don't believe sheis as easily frightened, in general, as you; but you will see.I will go and wait in the village, at the inn, and I beg youto let me know as soon as possible. Say by three o'clock. Asimple yes or no on paper will do. Only, you know, in case of ayes I shall expect you, this time, to stick to your bargain."And with this Newman opened the door and let himself out.The marquis did not move, and Newman, retiring, gave himanother look. "At the inn, in the village," he repeated.Then he turned away altogether and passed out of the house.

　　He was extremely excited by what he had been doing, for it wasinevitable that there should be a certain emotion in calling upthe spectre of dishonor before a family a thousand years old.But he went back to the inn and contrived to wait there,deliberately, for the next two hours. He thought it more thanprobable that Urbain de Bellegarde would give no sign; for an answerto his challenge, in either sense, would be a confession of guilt.What he most expected was silence--in other words defiance.But he prayed that, as he imagined it, his shot might bring them down.It did bring, by three o'clock, a note, delivered by a footman;a note addressed in Urbain de Bellegarde's handsome English hand.It ran as follows:--

　　"I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of letting you know that I returnto Paris, to-morrow, with my mother, in order that we may see my sisterand confirm her in the resolution which is the most effectual replyto your audacious pertinacity.

　　#p align="right"> Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde."

　　Newman put the letter into his pocket, and continuedhis walk up and down the inn-parlor. He had spent mostof his time, for the past week, in walking up and down.He continued to measure the length of the little salleof the Armes de Prance until the day began to wane,when he went out to keep his rendezvous with Mrs. Bread.The path which led up the hill to the ruin was easy to find,and Newman in a short time had followed it to the top.He passed beneath the rugged arch of the castle wall,and looked about him in the early dusk for an old woman in black.The castle yard was empty, but the door of the church was open.Newman went into the little nave and of course found a deeper duskthan without. A couple of tapers, however, twinkled on the altar andjust enabled him to perceive a figure seated by one of the pillars.Closer inspection helped him to recognize Mrs. Bread, in spiteof the fact that she was dressed with unwonted splendor.She wore a large black silk bonnet, with imposing bows of crape,and an old black satin dress disposed itself in vaguelylustrous folds about her person. She had judged it properto the occasion to appear in her stateliest apparel.She had been sitting with her eyes fixed upon the ground,but when Newman passed before her she looked up at him,and then she rose.

　　"Are you a Catholic, Mrs. Bread?" he asked.

　　"No, sir; I'm a good Church-of-England woman, very Low," she answered."But I thought I should be safer in here than outside.I was never out in the evening before, sir."

　　"We shall be safer," said Newman, "where no one can hear us."And he led the way back into the castle court and thenfollowed a path beside the church, which he was sure mustlead into another part of the ruin. He was not deceived.It wandered along the crest of the hill and terminatedbefore a fragment of wall pierced by a rough aperturewhich had once been a door. Through this aperture Newmanpassed and found himself in a nook peculiarly favorableto quiet conversation, as probably many an earnest couple,otherwise assorted than our friends, had assured themselves.The hill sloped abruptly away, and on the remnant of itscrest were scattered two or three fragments of stone.Beneath, over the plain, lay the gathered twilight, through which,in the near distance, gleamed two or three lights from the chateau.Mrs. Bread rustled slowly after her guide, and Newman,satisfying himself that one of the fallen stones was steady,proposed to her to sit upon it. She cautiously complied,and he placed himself upon another, near her.