Chapter XXII

by Henry James

　　I am very much obliged to you for coming," Newman said."I hope it won't get you into trouble."

　　"I don't think I shall be missed. My lady, in, these days,is not fond of having me about her." This was said with a certainfluttered eagerness which increased Newman's sense of havinginspired the old woman with confidence.

　　"From the first, you know," he answered, "you took an interest inmy prospects. You were on my side. That gratified me, I assure you.And now that you know what they have done to me, I am sure you arewith me all the more."

　　"They have not done well--I must say it," said Mrs. Bread."But you mustn't blame the poor countess; they pressed her hard."

　　"I would give a million of dollars to know what they didto her!" cried Newman.

　　Mrs. Bread sat with a dull, oblique gaze fixed upon the lights ofthe chateau. "They worked on her feelings; they knew that was the way.She is a delicate creature. They made her feel wicked.She is only too good."

　　"Ah, they made her feel wicked," said Newman, slowly; and thenhe repeated it. "They made her feel wicked,--they made her feel wicked."The words seemed to him for the moment a vivid descriptionof infernal ingenuity.

　　"It was because she was so good that she gave up--poor sweet lady!"added Mrs. Bread.

　　"But she was better to them than to me," said Newman.

　　"She was afraid," said Mrs. Bread, very confidently;"she has always been afraid, or at least for a long time.That was the real trouble, sir. She was like a fair peach,I may say, with just one little speck. She had one little sad spot.You pushed her into the sunshine, sir, and it almost disappeared.Then they pulled her back into the shade and in a momentit began to spread. Before we knew it she was gone.She was a delicate creature."

　　This singular attestation of Madame de Cintre's delicacy,for all its singularity, set Newman's wound aching afresh."I see," he presently said; "she knew something badabout her mother."

　　"No, sir, she knew nothing," said Mrs. Bread, holding her head very stiffand keeping her eyes fixed upon the glimmering windows of the chateau.

　　"She guessed something, then, or suspected it."

　　"She was afraid to know," said Mrs. Bread.

　　"But you know, at any rate," said Newman.

　　She slowly turned her vague eyes upon Newman, squeezing herhands together in her lap. "You are not quite faithful, sir.I thought it was to tell me about Mr. Valentin you asked meto come here."

　　"Oh, the more we talk of Mr. Valentin the better," said Newman."That's exactly what I want. I was with him, as I told you, in hislast hour. He was in a great deal of pain, but he was quite himself.You know what that means; he was bright and lively and clever."

　　"Oh, he would always be clever, sir," said Mrs. Bread."And did he know of your trouble?"

　　"Yes, he guessed it of himself."

　　"And what did he say to it?"

　　"He said it was a disgrace to his name--but it was not the first."

　　"Lord, Lord!" murmured Mrs. Bread.

　　"He said that his mother and his brother had once put their headstogether and invented something even worse."

　　"You shouldn't have listened to that, sir."

　　"Perhaps not. But I did listen, and I don't forget it.Now I want to know what it is they did."

　　Mrs. Bread gave a soft moan. "And you have enticed me up into thisstrange place to tell you?"

　　"Don't be alarmed," said Newman. "I won't say a word that shall bedisagreeable to you. Tell me as it suits you, and when it suits you.Only remember that it was Mr. Valentin's last wish that you should."

　　"Did he say that?"

　　"He said it with his last breath--'Tell Mrs. Bread I told youto ask her.' "

　　"Why didn't he tell you himself?"

　　"It was too long a story for a dying man; he had no breath left in his body.He could only say that he wanted me to know--that, wronged as I was,it was my right to know."

　　"But how will it help you, sir?" said Mrs. Bread.

　　"That's for me to decide. Mr. Valentin believed it would,and that's why he told me. Your name was almost the lastword he spoke."

　　Mrs. Bread was evidently awe-struck by this statement;she shook her clasped hands slowly up and down."Excuse me, sir," she said, "if I take a great liberty.Is it the solemn truth you are speaking? I must ask you that;must I not, sir?"

　　"There's no offense. It is the solemn truth; I solemnly swear it.Mr. Valentin himself would certainly have told me more if he had been able."

　　"Oh, sir, if he knew more!"

　　"Don't you suppose he did?"

　　"There's no saying what he knew about anything," said Mrs. Bread,with a mild head-shake. "He was so mightily clever.He could make you believe he knew things that he didn't, andthat he didn't know others that he had better not have known."

　　"I suspect he knew something about his brother that kept the marquiscivil to him," Newman propounded; "he made the marquis feel him.What he wanted now was to put me in his place; he wanted to give mea chance to make the marquis feel me."

　　"Mercy on us!" cried the old waiting-woman, "how wicked we all are!"

　　"I don't know," said Newman; "some of us are wicked, certainly.I am very angry, I am very sore, and I am very bitter, but Idon't know that I am wicked. I have been cruelly injured.They have hurt me, and I want to hurt them. I don't deny that;on the contrary, I tell you plainly that it is the use I wantto make of your secret."

　　Mrs. Bread seemed to hold her breath. "You want to publish them--you want to shame them?"

　　"I want to bring them down,--down, down, down! I want to turnthe tables upon them--I want to mortify them as they mortified me.They took me up into a high place and made me stand there for allthe world to see me, and then they stole behind me and pushed meinto this bottomless pit, where I lie howling and gnashing my teeth!I made a fool of myself before all their friends; but I shall makesomething worse of them."

　　This passionate sally, which Newman uttered with the greaterfervor that it was the first time he had had a chance to say allthis aloud, kindled two small sparks in Mrs. Bread's fixed eyes."I suppose you have a right to your anger, sir; but thinkof the dishonor you will draw down on Madame de Cintre."

　　"Madame de Cintre is buried alive," cried Newman."What are honor or dishonor to her? The door of the tombis at this moment closing behind her."

　　"Yes, it's most awful," moaned Mrs. Bread.

　　"She has moved off, like her brother Valentin, to give me room to work.It's as if it were done on purpose."

　　"Surely," said Mrs. Bread, apparently impressed by the ingenuityof this reflection. She was silent for some moments; then she added,"And would you bring my lady before the courts?"

　　"The courts care nothing for my lady," Newman replied."If she has committed a crime, she will be nothing for the courtsbut a wicked old woman."

　　"And will they hang her, Sir?"

　　"That depends upon what she has done." And Newman eyed Mrs. Bread intently.

　　"It would break up the family most terribly, sir!"

　　"It's time such a family should be broken up!" said Newman,with a laugh.

　　"And me at my age out of place, sir!" sighed Mrs. Bread.

　　"Oh, I will take care of you! You shall come and live with me.You shall be my housekeeper, or anything you like.I will pension you for life."

　　"Dear, dear, sir, you think of everything." And she seemedto fall a-brooding.

　　Newman watched her a while, and then he said suddenly."Ah, Mrs. Bread, you are too fond of my lady!"

　　She looked at him as quickly. "I wouldn't have you say that, sir.I don't think it any part of my duty to be fond of my lady.I have served her faithfully this many a year; but if she were to dieto-morrow, I believe, before Heaven I shouldn't shed a tear for her."Then, after a pause, "I have no reason to love her!" Mrs. Bread added."The most she has done for me has been not to turn me out of the house."Newman felt that decidedly his companion was more and more confidential--that if luxury is corrupting, Mrs. Bread's conservative habits werealready relaxed by the spiritual comfort of this preconcerted interview,in a remarkable locality, with a free-spoken millionaire.All his native shrewdness admonished him that his part was simplyto let her take her time--let the charm of the occasion work.So he said nothing; he only looked at her kindly. Mrs. Bread satnursing her lean elbows. "My lady once did me a great wrong,"she went on at last. "She has a terrible tongue when she is vexed.It was many a year ago, but I have never forgotten it. I have nevermentioned it to a human creature; I have kept my grudge to myself.I dare say I have been wicked, but my grudge has grown old with me.It has grown good for nothing, too, I dare say; but it has lived along,as I have lived. It will die when I die,--not before!"

　　"And what is your grudge?" Newman asked.

　　Mrs. Bread dropped her eyes and hesitated."If I were a foreigner, sir, I should make less oftelling you; it comes harder to a decent Englishwoman.But I sometimes think I have picked up too many foreign ways.What I was telling you belongs to a time when I was muchyounger and very different looking to what I am now.I had a very high color, sir, if you can believe it, indeed Iwas a very smart lass. My lady was younger, too, and the latemarquis was youngest of all--I mean in the way he went on, sir;he had a very high spirit; he was a magnificent man.He was fond of his pleasure, like most foreigners, and it mustbe owned that he sometimes went rather below him to take it.My lady was often jealous, and, if you'll believe it, sir, she didme the honor to be jealous of me. One day I had a red ribbon inmy cap, and my lady flew out at me and ordered me to take it off.She accused me of putting it on to make the marquis look at me.I don't know that I was impertinent, but I spoke up like anhonest girl and didn't count my words. A red ribbon indeed!As if it was my ribbons the marquis looked at! My lady knewafterwards that I was perfectly respectable, but she never saida word to show that she believed it. But the marquis did!"Mrs. Bread presently added, "I took off my red ribbon and putit away in a drawer, where I have kept it to this day.It's faded now, it's a very pale pink; but there it lies.My grudge has faded, too; the red has all gone out of it; but itlies here yet." And Mrs. Bread stroked her black satin bodice.

　　Newman listened with interest to this decent narrative, which seemedto have opened up the deeps of memory to his companion. Then, as sheremained silent, and seemed to be losing herself in retrospectivemeditation upon her perfect respectability, he ventured upon a shortcut to his goal. "So Madame de Bellegarde was jealous; I see.And M. de Bellegarde admired pretty women, without distinction of class.I suppose one mustn't be hard upon him, for they probably didn'tall behave so properly as you. But years afterwards it could hardlyhave been jealousy that turned Madame de Bellegarde into a criminal."

　　Mrs. Bread gave a weary sigh. "We are using dreadful words,sir, but I don't care now. I see you have your idea, and Ihave no will of my own. My will was the will of my children,as I called them; but I have lost my children now. They are dead--I may say it of both of them; and what should I care for the living?What is any one in the house to me now--what am I to them?My lady objects to me--she has objected to me these thirty years.I should have been glad to be something to young Madamede Bellegarde, though I never was nurse to the present marquis.When he was a baby I was too young; they wouldn't trust me with him.But his wife told her own maid, Mamselle Clarisse, the opinionshe had of me. Perhaps you would like to hear it, sir."

　　"Oh, immensely," said Newman.

　　"She said that if I would sit in her children's schoolroom Ishould do very well for a penwiper! When things have cometo that I don't think I need stand upon ceremony."

　　"Decidedly not," said Newman. "Go on, Mrs. Bread."

　　Mrs. Bread, however, relapsed again into troubled dumbness,and all Newman could do was to fold his arms and wait.But at last she appeared to have set her memories in order."It was when the late marquis was an old man and his eldestson had been two years married. It was when the time cameon for marrying Mademoiselle Claire; that's the way they talkof it here, you know, sir. The marquis's health was bad;he was very much broken down. My lady had picked outM. de Cintre, for no good reason that I could see.But there are reasons, I very well know, that are beyond me,and you must be high in the world to understand them.Old M. de Cintre was very high, and my lady thought himalmost as good as herself; that's saying a good deal.Mr. Urbain took sides with his mother, as he always did.The trouble, I believe, was that my lady would give verylittle money, and all the other gentlemen asked more.It was only M. de Cintre that was satisfied. The Lord willed ithe should have that one soft spot; it was the only one he had.He may have been very grand in his birth, and he certainly wasvery grand in his bows and speeches; but that was all the grandeurhe had. I think he was like what I have heard of comedians;not that I have ever seen one. But I know he painted his face.He might paint it all he would; he could never make me like it!The marquis couldn't abide him, and declared that sooner than takesuch a husband as that Mademoiselle Claire should take none at all.He and my lady had a great scene; it came even to our earsin the servants' hall. It was not their first quarrel,if the truth must be told. They were not a loving couple,but they didn't often come to words, because, I think,neither of them thought the other's doings worth the trouble.My lady had long ago got over her jealousy, and she had takento indifference. In this, I must say, they were well matched.The marquis was very easy-going; he had a most gentlemanly temper.He got angry only once a year, but then it was very bad.He always took to bed directly afterwards. This time I speakof he took to bed as usual, but he never got up again.I'm afraid the poor gentleman was paying for his dissipation;isn't it true they mostly do, sir, when they get old?My lady and Mr. Urbain kept quiet, but I know my lady wrote lettersto M. de Cintre. The marquis got worse and the doctors gave him up.My lady, she gave him up too, and if the truth must be told,she gave up gladly. When once he was out of the way she coulddo what she pleased with her daughter, and it was all arrangedthat my poor innocent child should be handed over to M. de Cintre.You don't know what Mademoiselle was in those days, sir; she wasthe sweetest young creature in France, and knew as little ofwhat was going on around her as the lamb does of the butcher.I used to nurse the marquis, and I was always in his room.It was here at Fleurieres, in the autumn. We had a doctorfrom Paris, who came and stayed two or three weeks in the house.Then there came two others, and there was a consultation,and these two others, as I said, declared that the marquiscouldn't be saved. After this they went off, pocketingtheir fees, but the other one stayed and did what he could.The marquis himself kept crying out that he wouldn't die,that he didn't want to die, that he would live and lookafter his daughter. Mademoiselle Claire and the viscount--that was Mr. Valentin, you know--were both in the house.The doctor was a clever man,--that I could see myself,--and I think he believed that the marquis might get well.We took good care of him, he and I, between us, and one day,when my lady had almost ordered her mourning, my patient suddenlybegan to mend. He got better and better, till the doctor saidhe was out of danger. What was killing him was the dreadfulfits of pain in his stomach. But little by little they stopped,and the poor marquis began to make his jokes again.The doctor found something that gave him great comfort--some whitestuff that we kept in a great bottle on the chimney-piece. Iused to give it to the marquis through a glass tube; it alwaysmade him easier. Then the doctor went away, after tellingme to keep on giving him the mixture whenever he was bad.After that there was a little doctor from Poitiers,who came every day. So we were alone in the house--my lady and her poor husband and their three children.Young Madame de Bellegarde had gone away, with her little girl,to her mothers. You know she is very lively, and her maidtold me that she didn't like to be where people were dying."Mrs. Bread paused a moment, and then she went on with the samequiet consistency. "I think you have guessed, sir, that whenthe marquis began to turn my lady was disappointed."And she paused again, bending upon Newman a face which seemedto grow whiter as the darkness settled down upon them.

　　Newman had listened eagerly--with an eagerness greatereven than that with which he had bent his ear to Valentinde Bellegarde's last words. Every now and then, as hiscompanion looked up at him, she reminded him of an ancienttabby cat, protracting the enjoyment of a dish of milk.Even her triumph was measured and decorous; the faculty ofexultation had been chilled by disuse. She presently continued."Late one night I was sitting by the marquis in his room,the great red room in the west tower. He had been complaininga little, and I gave him a spoonful of the doctor's dose.My lady had been there in the early part of the evening; she sat farmore than an hour by his bed. Then she went away and left me alone.After midnight she came back, and her eldest son was with her.They went to the bed and looked at the marquis, and my lady tookhold of his hand. Then she turned to me and said he was notso well; I remember how the marquis, without saying anything,lay staring at her. I can see his white face, at this moment,in the great black square between the bed-curtains. I said Ididn't think he was very bad; and she told me to go to bed--she would sit a while with him. When the marquis saw me goinghe gave a sort of groan, and called out to me not to leave him;but Mr. Urbain opened the door for me and pointed the way out.The present marquis--perhaps you have noticed, sir--has a veryproud way of giving orders, and I was there to take orders.I went to my room, but I wasn't easy; I couldn't tell you why.I didn't undress; I sat there waiting and listening.For what, would you have said, sir? I couldn't have told you;for surely a poor gentleman might be comfortable with his wifeand his son. It was as if I expected to hear the marquismoaning after me again. I listened, but I heard nothing.It was a very still night; I never knew a night so still.At last the very stillness itself seemed to frighten me,and I came out of my room and went very softly down-stairs.In the anteroom, outside of the marquis's chamber,I found Mr. Urbain walking up and down. He asked mewhat I wanted, and I said I came back to relieve my lady.He said he would relieve my lady, and ordered me back to bed;but as I stood there, unwilling to turn away, the door of the roomopened and my lady came out. I noticed she was very pale;she was very strange. She looked a moment at the countand at me, and then she held out her arms to the count.He went to her, and she fell upon him and hid her face.I went quickly past her into the room and to the marquis's bed.He was lying there, very white, with his eyes shut, like a corpse.I took hold of his hand and spoke to him, and he felt to me like adead man. Then I turned round; my lady and Mr. Urbain were there.'My poor Bread,' said my lady, 'M. le Marquis is gone.'Mr. Urbain knelt down by the bed and said softly, 'Mon pere,mon pere.' I thought it wonderful strange, and asked my ladywhat in the world had happened, and why she hadn't called me.She said nothing had happened; that she had only beensitting there with the marquis, very quiet. She had closedher eyes, thinking she might sleep, and she had slept,she didn't know how long. When she woke up he was dead.'It's death, my son, It's death,' she said to the count.Mr. Urbain said they must have the doctor, immediately,from Poitiers, and that he would ride off and fetch him.He kissed his father's face, and then he kissed his motherand went away. My lady and I stood there at the bedside.As I looked at the poor marquis it came into my headthat he was not dead, that he was in a kind of swoon.And then my lady repeated, 'My poor Bread, it's death,it's death;' and I said, 'Yes, my lady, it's certainly death.'I said just the opposite to what I believed; it was my notion.Then my lady said we must wait for the doctor, and we sat thereand waited. It was a long time; the poor marquis neitherstirred nor changed. 'I have seen death before,' said my lady,'and it's terribly like this.' 'Yes please, my lady,'said I; and I kept thinking. The night wore away withoutthe count's coming back, and my lady began to be frightened.She was afraid he had had an accident in the dark, or metwith some wild people. At last she got so restless that shewent below to watch in the court for her son's return.I sat there alone and the marquis never stirred."

　　Here Mrs. Bread paused again, and the most artistic ofromancers could not have been more effective. Newman madea movement as if he were turning over the page of a novel."So he was dead!" he exclaimed.

　　"Three days afterwards he was in his grave,"said Mrs. Bread, sententiously. "In a little while I wentaway to the front of the house and looked out into the court,and there, before long, I saw Mr. Urbain ride in alone.I waited a bit, to hear him come upstairs with his mother,but they stayed below, and I went back to the marquis's room.I went to the bed and held up the light to him,but I don't know why I didn't let the candlestick fall.The marquis's eyes were open--open wide! they were staring at me.I knelt down beside him and took his hands, and begged himto tell me, in the name of wonder, whether he was alive or dead.Still he looked at me a long time, and then he made me a signto put my ear close to him: 'I am dead,' he said, 'I am dead.The marquise has killed me.' I was all in a tremble;I didn't understand him. He seemed both a man and a corpse,if you can fancy, sir. 'But you'll get well now, sir,' I said.And then he whispered again, ever so weak; 'I wouldn't getwell for a kingdom. I wouldn't be that woman's husband again.'And then he said more; he said she had murdered him.I asked him what she had done to him, but he only replied,'Murder, murder. And she'll kill my daughter,' he said;'my poor unhappy child.' And he begged me to prevent that,and then he said that he was dying, that he was dead.I was afraid to move or to leave him; I was almost dead myself.All of a sudden he asked me to get a pencil and write for him;and then I had to tell him that I couldn't manage a pencil.He asked me to hold him up in bed while he wrote himself,and I said he could never, never do such a thing.But he seemed to have a kind of terror that gave him strength.I found a pencil in the room and a piece of paper and a book,and I put the paper on the book and the pencil intohis hand, and moved the candle near him. You will thinkall this very strange, sir; and very strange it was.The strangest part of it was that I believed he was dying,and that I was eager to help him to write. I sat on the bedand put my arm round him, and held him up. I felt very strong;I believe I could have lifted him and carried him.It was a wonder how he wrote, but he did write, in a bigscratching hand; he almost covered one side of the paper.It seemed a long time; I suppose it was three or four minutes.He was groaning, terribly, all the while. Then he said itwas ended, and I let him down upon his pillows and he gave methe paper and told me to fold it, and hide it, and give itto those who would act upon it. 'Whom do you mean?' I said.'Who are those who will act upon it?' But he only groaned,for an answer; he couldn't speak, for weakness. In a few minuteshe told me to go and look at the bottle on the chimney-piece.I knew the bottle he meant; the white stuff that was goodfor his stomach. I went and looked at it, but it was empty.When I came back his eyes were open and he was staringat me; but soon he closed them and he said no more.I hid the paper in my dress; I didn't look at what waswritten upon it, though I can read very well, sir, if Ihaven't any handwriting. I sat down near the bed, but itwas nearly half an hour before my lady and the count came in.The marquis looked as he did when they left him, and I neversaid a word about his having been otherwise. Mr. Urbain saidthat the doctor had been called to a person in child-birth,but that he promised to set out for Fleurieres immediately.In another half hour he arrived, and as soon as he hadexamined the marquis he said that we had had a false alarm.The poor gentleman was very low, but he was still living.I watched my lady and her son when he said this, to see if theylooked at each other, and I am obliged to admit that theydidn't. The doctor said there was no reason he should die;he had been going on so well. And then he wanted to knowhow he had suddenly fallen off; he had left him so very hearty.My lady told her little story again--what she had told Mr. Urbainand me--and the doctor looked at her and said nothing.He stayed all the next day at the chateau, and hardly leftthe marquis. I was always there. Mademoiselle and Mr. Valentincame and looked at their father, but he never stirred.It was a strange, deathly stupor. My lady was always about;her face was as white as her husband's, and she looked very proud,as I had seen her look when her orders or her wishes hadbeen disobeyed. It was as if the poor marquis had defied her;and the way she took it made me afraid of her. The apothecaryfrom Poitiers kept the marquis along through the day, and wewaited for the other doctor from Paris, who, as I told you,had been staying at Fleurieres. They had telegraphed forhim early in the morning, and in the evening he arrived.He talked a bit outside with the doctor from Poitiers, and thenthey came in to see the marquis together. I was with him,and so was Mr. Urbain. My lady had been to receive the doctorfrom Paris, and she didn't come back with him into the room.He sat down by the marquis; I can see him there now, with hishand on the marquis's wrist, and Mr. Urbain watching him witha little looking-glass in his hand. 'I'm sure he's better,'said the little doctor from Poitiers; 'I'm sure he'll come back.'A few moments after he had said this the marquis opened his eyes,as if he were waking up, and looked at us, from one to the other.I saw him look at me, very softly, as you'd say.At the same moment my lady came in on tiptoe; she came upto the bed and put in her head between me and the count.The marquis saw her and gave a long, most wonderful moan.He said something we couldn't understand, and he seemedto have a kind of spasm. He shook all over and then closedhis eyes, and the doctor jumped up and took hold of my lady.He held her for a moment a bit roughly. The marquis was stone dead!This time there were those there that knew."

　　Newman felt as if he had been reading by starlight the reportof highly important evidence in a great murder case."And the paper--the paper!" he said, excitedly. "What waswritten upon it?"

　　"I can't tell you, sir," answered Mrs. Bread. "I couldn't read it;it was in French."

　　"But could no one else read it?"

　　"I never asked a human creature."

　　"No one has ever seen it?"

　　"If you see it you'll be the first."

　　Newman seized the old woman's hand in both his own and pressedit vigorously. "I thank you ever so much for that," he cried."I want to be the first, I want it to be my property and no one else's!You're the wisest old woman in Europe. And what did you do with the paper?"This information had made him feel extraordinarily strong."Give it to me quick!"

　　Mrs. Bread got up with a certain majesty. "It is not so easy as that, sir.If you want the paper, you must wait."

　　"But waiting is horrible, you know," urged Newman.

　　"I am sure I have waited; I have waited these many years,"said Mrs. Bread.

　　"That is very true. You have waited for me. I won't forget it.And yet, how comes it you didn't do as M. de Bellegarde said,show the paper to some one?"

　　"To whom should I show it?" answered Mrs. Bread, mournfully."It was not easy to know, and many's the night I havelain awake thinking of it. Six months afterwards,when they married Mademoiselle to her vicious old husband,I was very near bringing it out. I thought it was my dutyto do something with it, and yet I was mightily afraid.I didn't know what was written on the paper or how bad itmight be, and there was no one I could trust enough to ask.And it seemed to me a cruel kindness to do that sweet young creature,letting her know that her father had written her mother downso shamefully; for that's what he did, I suppose. I thought shewould rather be unhappy with her husband than be unhappy that way.It was for her and for my dear Mr. Valentin I kept quiet.Quiet I call it, but for me it was a weary quietness.It worried me terribly, and it changed me altogether.But for others I held my tongue, and no one, to this hour,knows what passed between the poor marquis and me."

　　"But evidently there were suspicions," said Newman."Where did Mr. Valentin get his ideas?"

　　"It was the little doctor from Poitiers. He was very ill-satisfied, andhe made a great talk. He was a sharp Frenchman, and coming to the house,as he did day after day, I suppose he saw more than he seemed to see.And indeed the way the poor marquis went off as soon as his eyes fellon my lady was a most shocking sight for anyone. The medical gentlemanfrom Paris was much more accommodating, and he hushed up the other.But for all he could do Mr. Valentin and Mademoiselle heard something;they knew their father's death was somehow against nature.Of course they couldn't accuse their mother, and, as I tell you,I was as dumb as that stone. Mr. Valentin used to look at me sometimes,and his eyes seemed to shine, as if he were thinking of asking me something.I was dreadfully afraid he would speak, and I always looked away and wentabout my business. If I were to tell him, I was sure he would hateme afterwards, and that I could never have borne. Once I went up to him andtook a great liberty; I kissed him, as I had kissed him when he was a child.'You oughtn't to look so sad, sir,' I said; 'believe your poor old Bread.Such a gallant, handsome young man can have nothing to be sad about.'And I think he understood me; he understood that I was begging off,and he made up his mind in his own way. He went about with his unaskedquestion in his mind, as I did with my untold tale; we were both afraid ofbringing dishonor on a great house. And it was the same with Mademoiselle.She didn't know what happened; she wouldn't know. My lady and Mr. Urbainasked me no questions because they had no reason. I was as still as a mouse.When I was younger my lady thought me a hussy, and now she thought me a fool.How should I have any ideas?"

　　"But you say the little doctor from Poitiers made a talk," said Newman."Did no one take it up?"

　　"I heard nothing of it, sir. They are always talkingscandal in these foreign countries you may have noticed--and I suppose they shook their heads over Madame de Bellegarde.But after all, what could they say? The marquis had been ill,and the marquis had died; he had as good a right to die as any one.The doctor couldn't say he had not come honestly by his cramps.The next year the little doctor left the place and bought a practicein Bordeaux, and if there has been any gossip it died out.And I don't think there could have been much gossip about my ladythat any one would listen to. My lady is so very respectable."

　　Newman, at this last affirmation, broke into an immense, resounding laugh.Mrs. Bread had begun to move away from the spot where they were sitting,and he helped her through the aperture in the wall and along thehomeward path. "Yes," he said, "my lady's respectability is delicious;it will be a great crash!" They reached the empty space in frontof the church, where they stopped a moment, looking at each other withsomething of an air of closer fellowship--like two sociable conspirators."But what was it," said Newman, "what was it she did to her husband?She didn't stab him or poison him."

　　"I don't know, sir; no one saw it."

　　"Unless it was Mr. Urbain. You say he was walking up and down,outside the room. Perhaps he looked through the keyhole.But no; I think that with his mother he would take it on trust."

　　"You may be sure I have often thought of it," said Mrs. Bread."I am sure she didn't touch him with her hands.I saw nothing on him, anywhere. I believe it was in this way.He had a fit of his great pain, and he asked her for his medicine.Instead of giving it to him she went and poured it away,before his eyes. Then he saw what she meant, and, weak andhelpless as he was, he was frightened, he was terrified.'You want to kill me,' he said. 'Yes, M. le Marquis, I want tokill you,' says my lady, and sits down and fixes her eyes upon him.You know my lady's eyes, I think, sir; it was with them she killed him;it was with the terrible strong will she put into them.It was like a frost on flowers."

　　"Well, you are a very intelligent woman; you have shown great discretion,"said Newman. "I shall value your services as housekeeper extremely."

　　They had begun to descend the hill, and Mrs. Bread said nothinguntil they reached the foot. Newman strolled lightly beside her;his head was thrown back and he was gazing at all the stars;he seemed to himself to be riding his vengeance along the Milky Way."So you are serious, sir, about that?" said Mrs. Bread, softly.

　　"About your living with me? Why of course I will take care of youto the end of your days. You can't live with those people any longer.And you oughtn't to, you know, after this. You give me the paper,and you move away."

　　"It seems very flighty in me to be taking a new place at this time of life,"observed Mrs. Bread, lugubriously. "But if you are going to turn the houseupside down, I would rather be out of it."

　　"Oh," said Newman, in the cheerful tone of a man who feels richin alternatives. "I don't think I shall bring in the constables,if that's what you mean. Whatever Madame de Bellegarde did,I am afraid the law can't take hold of it. But I am glad of that;it leaves it altogether to me!"

　　"You are a mighty bold gentleman, sir," murmured Mrs. Bread,looking at him round the edge of her great bonnet.

　　He walked with her back to the chateau; the curfew had tolled for thelaborious villagers of Fleurieres, and the street was unlighted and empty.She promised him that he should have the marquis's manuscript in halfan hour. Mrs. Bread choosing not to go in by the great gate, they passedround by a winding lane to a door in the wall of the park, of which shehad the key, and which would enable her to enter the chateau from behind.Newman arranged with her that he should await outside the wall her returnwith the coveted document.

　　She went in, and his half hour in the dusky lane seemed very long.But he had plenty to think about. At last the door in the wallopened and Mrs. Bread stood there, with one hand on the latchand the other holding out a scrap of white paper, folded small.In a moment he was master of it, and it had passed into his waistcoat pocket."Come and see me in Paris," he said; "we are to settle your future,you know; and I will translate poor M. de Bellegarde's French to you."Never had he felt so grateful as at this moment for M. Nioche's instructions.

　　Mrs. Bread's dull eyes had followed the disappearance of the paper,and she gave a heavy sigh. "Well, you have done what you would with me,sir, and I suppose you will do it again. You must take care of me now.You are a terribly positive gentleman."

　　"Just now," said Newman, "I'm a terribly impatient gentleman!"And he bade her good-night and walked rapidly back to the inn.He ordered his vehicle to be prepared for his return to Poitiers,and then he shut the door of the common salle and strode towardthe solitary lamp on the chimney-piece. He pulled out the paperand quickly unfolded it. It was covered with pencil-marks,which at first, in the feeble light, seemed indistinct.But Newman's fierce curiosity forced a meaning from the tremulous signs.The English of them was as follows:--

　　"My wife has tried to kill me, and she has done it; I am dying,dying horribly. It is to marry my dear daughter to M. de Cintre.With all my soul I protest,--I forbid it. I am not insane,--ask the doctors, ask Mrs. B----. It was alone with me here, to-night;she attacked me and put me to death. It is murder, if murder ever was.Ask the doctors.

　　"Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde"