One day Mrs. Tristram told him that her beautiful friend, Madame de Cintré, had returned from the country; that she had met her three days before, coming out of the Church of St. Sulpice; she herself having journeyed to that distant quarter in quest of an obscure lace-mender, of whose skill she had heard high praise.
And how were those eyes? Newman asked.
Those eyes were red with weeping, if you please! said Mrs. Tristram. She had been to confession.
It doesnt tally with your account of her, said Newman, that she should have sins to confess.
They were not sins; they were sufferings.
How do you know that?
She asked me to come and see her; I went this morning.
And what does she suffer from?
I didnt ask her. With her, somehow, one is very discreet. But I guessed, easily enough. She suffers from her wicked old mother and her Grand Turk of a brother. They persecute her. But I can almost forgive them, because, as I told you, she is a saint, and a persecution is all that she needs to bring out her saintliness and make her perfect.
Thats a comfortable theory for her. I hope you will never impart it to the old folks. Why does she let them bully her? Is she not her own mistress?
Legally, yes, I suppose; but morally, no. In France you must never say nay to your mother, whatever she requires of you. She may be the most abominable old woman in the world, and make your life a purgatory; but, after all, she is ma mère, and you have no right to judge her. You have simply to obey. The thing has a fine side to it. Madame de Cintré bows her head and folds her wings.
Cant she at least make her brother leave off?
Her brother is the chef de la famille, as they say; he is the head of the clan. With those people the family is everything; you must act, not for your own pleasure, but for the advantage of the family.
I wonder what my family would like me to do! exclaimed Tristram.
I wish you had one! said his wife.
But what do they want to get out of that poor lady? Newman asked.
Another marriage. They are not rich, and they want to bring more money into the family.
Theres your chance, my boy! said Tristram.
And Madame de Cintré objects, Newman continued.
She has been sold once; she naturally objects to being sold again. It appears that the first time they made rather a poor bargain; M. de Cintré left a scanty property.
And to whom do they want to marry her now?
I thought it best not to ask; but you may be sure it is to some horrid old nabob, or to some dissipated little duke.
Theres Mrs. Tristram, as large as life! cried her husband. Observe the richness of her imagination. She has not a single questionits vulgar to ask questionsand yet she knows everything. She has the history of Madame de Cintrés marriage at her fingers ends. She has seen the lovely Claire on her knees, with loosened tresses and streaming eyes, and the rest of them standing over her with spikes and goads and red-hot irons, ready to come down on her if she refuses the tipsy duke. The simple truth is that they made a fuss about her milliners bill or refused her an opera-box.
Newman looked from Tristram to his wife with a certain mistrust in each direction. Do you really mean, he asked of Mrs. Tristram, that your friend is being forced into an unhappy marriage?
I think it extremely probable. Those people are very capable of that sort of thing.
It is like something in a play, said Newman; that dark old house over there looks as if wicked things had been done in it, and might be done again.
They have a still darker old house in the country Madame de Cintré tells me, and there, during the summer this scheme must have been hatched.
Must have been; mind that! said Tristram.
After all, suggested Newman, after a silence, she may be in trouble about something else.
If it is something else, then it is something worse, said Mrs. Tristram, with rich decision.
Newman was silent a while, and seemed lost in meditation. Is it possible, he asked at last, that they do that sort of thing over here? that helpless women are bullied into marrying men they hate?
Helpless women, all over the world, have a hard time of it, said Mrs. Tristram. There is plenty of bullying everywhere.
A great deal of that kind of thing goes on in New York, said Tristram. Girls are bullied or coaxed or bribed, or all three together, into marrying nasty fellows. There is no end of that always going on in the Fifth Avenue, and other bad things besides. The Mysteries of the Fifth Avenue! Someone ought to show them up.
I dont believe it! said Newman, very gravely. I dont believe that, in America, girls are ever subjected to compulsion. I dont believe there have been a dozen cases of it since the country began.
Listen to the voice of the spread eagle! cried Tristram.
The spread eagle ought to use his wings, said Mrs. Tristram. Fly to the rescue of Madame de Cintré!
To her rescue?
Pounce down, seize her in your talons, and carry her off. Marry her yourself.
Newman, for some moments, answered nothing; but presently, I should suppose she had heard enough of marrying, he said. The kindest way to treat her would be to admire her, and yet never to speak of it. But that sort of thing is infamous, he added; it makes me feel savage to hear of it.
He heard of it, however, more than once afterward. Mrs. Tristram again saw Madame de Cintré, and again found her looking very sad. But on these occasions there had been no tears; her beautiful eyes were clear and still. She is cold, calm, and hopeless, Mrs. Tristram declared, and she added that on her mentioning that her friend Mr. Newman was again in Paris and was faithful in his desire to make Madame de Cintrés acquaintance, this lovely woman had found a smile in her despair, and declared that she was sorry to have missed his visit in the spring and that she hoped he had not lost courage. I told her something about you, said Mrs. Tristram.
Thats a comfort, said Newman, placidly. I like people to know about me.
A few days after this, one dusky autumn afternoon, he went again to the Rue de lUniversité. The early evening had closed in as he applied for admittance at the stoutly guarded Hôtel de Bellegarde. He was told that Madame de Cintré was at home; he crossed the court, entered the farther door, and was conducted through a vestibule, vast, dim, and cold, up a broad stone staircase with an ancient iron balustrade, to an apartment on the second floor. Announced and ushered in, he found himself in a sort of paneled boudoir, at one end of which a lady and gentleman were seated before the fire. The gentleman was smoking a cigarette; there was no light in the room save that of a couple of candles and the glow from the hearth. Both persons rose to welcome Newman, who, in the firelight, recognized Madame de Cintré. She gave him her hand with a smile which seemed in itself an illumination, and, pointing to her companion, said softly, My brother. The gentleman offered Newman a frank, friendly greeting, and our hero then perceived him to be the young man who had spoken to him in the court of the hotel on his former visit and who had struck him as a good fellow.
Mrs. Tristram has spoken to me a great deal of you, said Madame de Cintré gently, as she resumed her former place.
Newman, after he had seated himself, began to consider what, in truth, was his errand. He had an unusual, unexpected sense of having wandered into a strange corner of the world. He was not given, as a general thing, to anticipating danger, or forecasting disaster, and he had had no social tremors on this particular occasion. He was not timid and he was not impudent. He felt too kindly toward himself to be the one, and too good-naturedly toward the rest of the world to be the other. But his native shrewdness sometimes placed his ease of temper at its mercy; with every disposition to take things simply, it was obliged to perceive that some things were not so simple as others. He felt as one does in missing a step, in an ascent, where one expected to find it. This strange, pretty woman, sitting in fire-side talk with her brother, in the gray depths of her inhospitable-looking housewhat had he to say to her? She seemed enveloped in a sort of fantastic privacy; on what grounds had he pulled away the curtain? For a moment he felt as if he had plunged into some medium as deep as the ocean, and as if he must exert himself to keep from sinking. Meanwhile he was looking at Madame de Cintré, and she was settling herself in her chair and drawing in her long dress and turning her face towards him. Their eyes met; a moment afterwards she looked away and motioned to her brother to put a log on the fire. But the moment, and the glance which traversed it, had been sufficient to relieve Newman of the first and the last fit of personal embarrassment he was ever to know. He performed the movement which was so frequent with him, and which was always a sort of symbol of his taking mental possession of a scenehe extended his legs. The impression Madame de Cintré had made upon him on their first meeting came back in an instant; it had been deeper than he knew. She was pleasing, she was interesting; he had opened a book and the first lines held his attention.
She asked him several questions: how lately he had seen Mrs. Tristram, how long he had been in Paris, how long he expected to remain there, how he liked it. She spoke English without an accent, or rather with that distinctively British accent which, on his arrival in Europe, had struck Newman as an altogether foreign tongue, but which, in women, he had come to like extremely. Here and there Madame de Cintrés utterance had a faint shade of strangeness but at the end of ten minutes Newman found himself waiting for these soft roughnesses. He enjoyed them, and he marveled to see that gross thing, error, brought down to so fine a point.
You have a beautiful country, said Madame de Cintré, presently.
Oh, magnificent! said Newman. You ought to see it.
I shall never see it, said Madame de Cintré with a smile.
Why not? asked Newman.
I dont travel; especially so far.
But you go away sometimes; you are not always here?
I go away in summer, a little way, to the country.
Newman wanted to ask her something more, something personal, he hardly knew what. Dont you find it ratherrather quiet here? he said; so far from the street? Rather gloomy, he was going to say, but he reflected that that would be impolite.
Yes, it is very quiet, said Madame de Cintré; but we like that.
Ah, you like that, repeated Newman, slowly.
Besides, I have lived here all my life.
Lived here all your life, said Newman, in the same way.
I was born here, and my father was born here before me, and my grandfather, and my great-grandfathers. Were they not, Valentin? and she appealed to her brother.
Yes, its a family habit to be born here! the young man said with a laugh, and rose and threw the remnant of his cigarette into the fire, and then remained leaning against the chimney-piece. An observer would have perceived that he wished to take a better look at Newman, whom he covertly examined, while he stood stroking his moustache.
Your house is tremendously old, then, said Newman.
How old is it, brother? asked Madame de Cintré.
The young man took the two candles from the mantel-shelf, lifted one high in each hand, and looked up toward the cornice of the room, above the chimney-piece. This latter feature of the apartment was of white marble, and in the familiar rococo style of the last century; but above it was a paneling of an earlier date, quaintly carved, painted white, and gilded here and there. The white had turned to yellow, and the gilding was tarnished. On the top, the figures ranged themselves into a sort of shield, on which an armorial device was cut. Above it, in relief, was a date1627. There you have it, said the young man. That is old or new, according to your point of view.
Well, over here, said Newman, ones point of view gets shifted round considerably. And he threw back his head and looked about the room. Your house is of a very curious style of architecture, he said.
Are you interested in architecture? asked the young man at the chimney-piece.
Well, I took the trouble, this summer, said Newman, to examineas well as I can calculatesome four hundred and seventy churches. Do you call that interested?
Perhaps you are interested in theology, said the young man.
Not particularly. Are you a Roman Catholic, madam? And he turned to Madame de Cintré.
Yes, sir, she answered, gravely.
Newman was struck with the gravity of her tone; he threw back his head and began to look round the room again. Had you never noticed that number up there? he presently asked.
She hesitated a moment, and then, In former years, she said.
Her brother had been watching Newmans movement. Perhaps you would like to examine the house, he said.
Newman slowly brought down his eyes and looked at him; he had a vague impression that the young man at the chimney-piece was inclined to irony. He was a handsome fellow, his face wore a smile, his moustaches were curled up at the ends, and there was a little dancing gleam in his eye. Damn his French impudence! Newman was on the point of saying to himself. What the deuce is he grinning at? He glanced at Madame de Cintré; she was sitting with her eyes fixed on the floor. She raised them, they met his, and she looked at her brother. Newman turned again to this young man and observed that he strikingly resembled his sister. This was in his favor, and our heros first impression of the Count Valentin, moreover, had been agreeable. His mistrust expired, and he said he would be very glad to see the house.
The young man gave a frank laugh, and laid his hand on one of the candlesticks. Good, good! he exclaimed. Come, then.
But Madame de Cintré rose quickly and grasped his arm, Ah, Valentin! she said. What do you mean to do?
To show Mr. Newman the house. It will be very amusing.
She kept her hand on his arm, and turned to Newman with a smile. Dont let him take you, she said; you will not find it amusing. It is a musty old house, like any other.
It is full of curious things, said the count, resisting. Besides, I want to do it; it is a rare chance.
You are very wicked, brother, Madame de Cintré answered.
Nothing venture, nothing have! cried the young man. Will you come?
Madame de Cintré stepped toward Newman, gently clasping her hands and smiling softly. Would you not prefer my society, here, by my fire, to stumbling about dark passages after my brother?
A hundred times! said Newman. We will see the house some other day.
The young man put down his candlestick with mock solemnity, and, shaking his head, Ah, you have defeated a great scheme, sir! he said.