1868 年，五月的一个晴朗的一天，一位绅士悠闲地躺在一张巨大的圆形沙发上，这张沙发当时占据了卢浮宫博物馆卡雷沙龙的中心。这个宽敞的脚凳后来被移走了，令所有膝盖无力的美术爱好者感到极度遗憾，但这位绅士却平静地占据了它最柔软的地方，他的头向后仰，双腿伸直，凝视着穆里略美丽的月亮圣母像，深深地享受着他的姿势。他摘下帽子，把一本红色的小旅游指南和一面望远镜扔到身旁。天气很暖和；他走路很热，不停地用手帕捂住额头，动作有些疲倦。但他显然不是一个容易疲劳的人。他身材修长、精瘦、肌肉发达，给人一种通常被称为“坚韧”的活力。但他在这一天的努力是不寻常的，他表现出了伟大的体力壮举，这让他比在卢浮宫安静地漫步时更不感到疲惫。他在他的巴德克尔的那些令人敬畏的精美印刷页中查阅了所有贴有星号的图片；他的注意力很紧张，眼睛很刺眼，他坐下来时感到审美头痛。此外，他不仅看了所有的画作，还看了所有在这些画作周围流传的复制品，这些复制品是在那些在无可挑剔的厕所里、在法国致力于传播杰作的无数年轻女性手中的。如果说实话，他对复制品的欣赏往往比原作还要多。从他的相貌上就足以看出他是一个精明能干的人，事实上他常常为了一堆毛骨悚然的账目彻夜不眠，闻鸡啼而不打哈欠。但拉斐尔、提香和鲁本斯是一种新的算术，他们生平第一次给我们的朋友带来了一种模糊的自我不信任感。

一个对民族类型有洞察力的观察者会毫不费力地确定这个未发展的鉴赏家的当地出身，事实上，这样的观察者可能会对他填写民族模型的近乎理想的完整性感到某种幽默的品味。 。 沙发上的那位绅士是典型的美国人。 但他不仅是一个优秀的美国人，而且是一个优秀的美国人。首先，从身体上来说，他是一个好人。 他似乎拥有那种健康和力量，当发现完美时，这是最令人印象深刻的——主人无需采取任何措施来“维持”的物质资本。如果他是一个肌肉发达的基督徒，那是完全不自知的。 如果需要走到一个偏僻的地方，他就步行，但他从来不知道自己要“锻炼身体”。他对冷水浴或印度俱乐部的使用没有任何理论；他既不是划桨手、步枪手，也不是击剑手——他从来没有时间进行这些娱乐——而且他完全不知道马鞍适合治疗某些形式的消化不良。 他生性温和，性格温和。但在参观卢浮宫的前一晚，他在英国咖啡馆吃过晚饭——有人告诉他，这是一次不容错过的经历——但他仍然睡得正直。 他平时的态度和举止都是一种比较轻松闲适的样子，但当受到特殊的启发时，他挺直了身子，就像是阅兵中的掷弹兵。 他从不抽烟。 有人向他保证——据说是这样——雪茄对健康很有好处，他完全有能力相信这一点。但他对烟草的了解和对顺势疗法的了解一样少。 他的头部形状非常匀称，额叶和枕骨发育匀称、对称，还有大量直而干燥的棕色头发。 他的肤色是棕色的，鼻子有一个明显的拱形。 他的眼睛是清澈的、冷灰色的，除了相当浓密的小胡子外，他的胡子刮得干干净净。 他有着扁平的下巴和强健的脖子，这在美国类型中很常见。但民族血统的痕迹更多地是一种表达，而不是特征，正是在这一点上，我们的朋友的表情极其雄辩。 然而，我们一直假设的有辨别力的观察者可能完美地测量了它的表现力，但却不知如何描述它。 它有一种典型的模糊，但不是空虚，那种空白，不是简单，那种不致力于任何具体事情的样子，对生活中的机会采取普遍热情好客的态度，非常任由自己支配，所以许多美国人面孔的特征。 我们朋友的故事主要是通过他的眼睛来讲述的。一双纯真与经验奇妙地融合在一起的眼睛。 它充满了矛盾的暗示，虽然它绝不是浪漫英雄的发光球体，但你几乎可以在其中找到你想要的任何东西。 冷漠而友好，坦率而谨慎，精明而轻信，积极而多疑，自信而腼腆，聪明而幽默，让步中隐约带着挑衅，矜持中又让人深感安心。 这位绅士的小胡子的剪裁，脸颊上方有两条过早的皱纹，以及他服装的款式，其中暴露的衬衫前襟和一条蔚蓝色的领带也许起到了引人注目的作用，完成了他身份的条件。 也许我们是在一个不太有利的时刻接近他的。他绝不是坐着欣赏自己的肖像。 但当他懒洋洋地躺在那里时，他对美学问题相当困惑，并犯下了将艺术家的优点与他的作品的优点混为一谈的该死的错误（正如我们最近发现的那样）（因为他欣赏斜视的圣母玛利亚）。那位留着孩子气发型的小姐，因为他认为这位小姐本人的发型不寻常），他是一个很有前途的熟人。

当小个子抄写员继续她的工作时，她时不时地向她的仰慕者投去回应的一瞥。在她看来，美术的培养似乎需要大量的副戏，双臂交叉，头左右低垂，用有酒窝的手抚摸有酒窝的下巴，叹息和皱眉。拍着脚，在​​乱糟糟的头发中摸索着寻找飘散的发夹。这些表演伴随着不安的目光，这种目光在我们所描述的这位绅士身上停留的时间比其他地方更长。最后他突然站起来，戴上帽子，走到了那位年轻女士面前。他站在她的照片前，看了一会儿，期间她假装完全没有注意到他的目光。然后，用构成他法语词汇力量的一个词对她说话，并以一种在他看来似乎要阐明他的意思的方式举起一根手指，“怎么样？“他突然问道。

艺术家凝视了一会儿，微微撅起嘴，耸耸肩，放下调色板和画笔，站在那里搓着手。

“多少？”我们的朋友用英语说。 “怎么样？=

“先生要买吗？”年轻女士用法语问道。

“很漂亮， 辉煌。康比恩？”美国人重复道。

“先生，我的小照片，你满意吗？这是一个非常美丽的主题，”这位年轻女士说道。

“麦当娜，是的；我不是天主教徒，但我想买它。 怎么样？ 写在这里吧。”他从口袋里掏出一支铅笔，给她看了他的旅游手册的扉页。她站在那里看着他，用铅笔挠着下巴。 “不是卖的吗？”他问。当她仍然站在那里沉思时，尽管她希望将这种热心的赞助视为一个非常古老的故事，但她的眼睛看着他，却流露出一种几乎令人感动的怀疑，他担心自己冒犯了她。她只是想表现得漠不关心，并想知道自己能走多远。 “我没有犯错——侮辱， 不？”她的对话者继续说道。 “你不懂一点英语吗？”

这位年轻女士在短时间内发挥作用的能力非常出色。她用她有意识、敏锐的眼睛盯着他，问他是否不会说法语。然后， ”唐尼兹！“她简短地说了一句，然后拿起打开的旅游指南。她在扉页的上角画了一个数字，字迹分明，而且极其工整。然后她把书还了回去，又拿起了调色板。

我们的朋友读到了这个数字：“2,000 法郎。”他一时间什么也没说，只是站在那里看着那幅画，而抄写员则开始积极地尝试她的颜料。 “买一份，不是很划算吗？”他最后问道。 “是不是很漂亮？=

年轻女士抬起眼睛，从头到脚打量了他一眼，最后以令人钦佩的睿智找到了正确的答案。 “是的，这是一笔很好的交易。但我的副本具有非凡的品质，它的价值毫不逊色。”

我们感兴趣的那位先生不懂法语，但我说过他很聪明，现在是证明这一点的好机会。他本能地理解了这位年轻女子话中的意思，想到她如此诚实，他感到很欣慰。美貌、才华、德行；她结合了一切！ “但你必须完成它，”他说。 “完， 你知道;”他指着人物未上漆的手。

“噢，一切都会完美地完成；完美中的完美！”小姐喊道；为了证实她的诺言，她在麦当娜的脸颊中央涂了一个玫瑰色斑点。

但美国人却皱起了眉头。 “啊，太红了，太红了！”他重新加入。 “她的肤色，”指着穆里略，“更加娇嫩。”

“精美的？哦，这会很精致，先生；像塞夫尔一样精致 biscuit。我将淡化这一点；我知道我的艺术的所有秘密。您允许我们将其发送给您吗？你的地址？”

“我的地址？哦是的！”那位绅士从口袋里掏出一张卡片，在上面写了一些东西。然后他犹豫了一会儿说：“如果它完成后我不喜欢它，你知道，我没有义务接受它。”

这位年轻女士看起来和他一样善于猜测。 “哦，我很确定先生不是任性的。”她顽皮地笑道。

“任性？”听到这里，先生开始笑了。 “哦，不，我并不任性。我非常忠诚。我很坚定。 康普雷兹？=

“先生始终如一；我完全理解。这是一种罕见的美德。作为补偿，您将在第一天收到您的照片；下周——等天气干了。我会拿走先生的名片。”她接过它并念出他的名字：“克里斯托弗·纽曼。”然后她试着大声重复一遍，并嘲笑她的糟糕口音。 “你的英文名字真滑稽！”

“滑稽？”纽曼先生也笑着说道。 “你听说过克里斯托弗·哥伦布吗？”

“当然！ 他发明了美国；一个非常伟大的人。他是你的赞助人吗？

“我的赞助人？”

“你的守护神，在日历上。”

“哦，正是如此；我的父母以他的名字给我命名。”

“先生是美国人吗？”

“你没看到吗？”先生问道。

“你打算把我的小照片带到那边去吗？”她用一个手势解释了她的话。

“哦，我的意思是买很多照片——博库普, 博库普，”克里斯托弗·纽曼说。

“对我来说，这份荣誉并不少，”年轻的女士回答道，“因为我相信先生很有品味。”

“但是你必须把你的名片给我，”纽曼说。 “你的卡，你知道的。”

小姐神色一愣，道：“我父亲会伺候你的。”

但这一次纽曼先生的占卜能力出了问题。 “你的卡，你的地址，”他简单地重复道。

“我的地址？”小姐说。然后耸耸肩，“你很幸运，你是美国人！这是我第一次把名片送给一位绅士。”然后，她从口袋里掏出一张相当油腻的门牌，从中取出一张小釉面名片，并将后者交给她的赞助人。上面用铅笔工整地刻着，上面有很多花饰：“女士。”诺埃米·尼奥什。”但纽曼先生与他的同伴不同，读这个名字时非常严肃。所有法国名字对他来说都同样滑稽。

“准确地说，这是我的父亲，他来护送我回家。”诺埃米小姐说道。 “他说英语。他会帮你安排的。”她转身欢迎一位小老绅士，他拖着脚步走过来，透过眼镜凝视着纽曼。

尼奥什先生戴着一顶光亮的假发，颜色不自然，遮住了他那张温顺、苍白、茫然的小脸，与理发店橱窗里展示这些物品的平淡无奇的木板相比，它几乎没有什么表现力。他是一个破旧的绅士形象。他那件做工粗糙的外套，拼命地刷过，他那副破旧的手套，他那双擦得锃亮的靴子，他那顶生锈的、形状优美的帽子，讲述了一个“遭受过损失”的人的故事，他坚持良好习惯的精神，尽管这封信已被无望地抹去。除此之外，尼奥什先生已经失去了勇气。逆境不仅毁掉了他，还让他感到恐惧，他显然正在踮着脚尖度过余生，生怕唤醒敌对的命运。如果这位奇怪的绅士对他的女儿说了任何不恰当的话，尼奥什先生就会沙哑地恳求他，以示特殊的恩惠，请他不要再说了。但他同时也承认，他要求特别的好处是非常冒昧的。

“先生买了我的照片，”诺埃米小姐说。 “完成后，你可以用出租车把它带给他。”

“在出租车里！”尼奥什先生叫道。他茫然地凝视着，仿佛看到了午夜的太阳升起。

“您是小姐的父亲吗？”纽曼说。 “我想她说你会说英语。”

“说英语——是的，”老人慢慢地搓着手说道。 “我会用出租车把它带来。”

“那么，说点什么吧，”他的女儿喊道。 “稍微感谢他一下——不过分。”

“一点点，我的女儿，一点点吗？”尼奥什先生困惑地说。 “多少？”

“两千！”诺埃米小姐说。 “别大惊小怪，否则他会收回他的话。”

“两千！”老人喊道，开始摸索他的鼻烟壶。他从头到脚打量了纽曼。他看看他的女儿，然后又看看照片。 “小心别弄坏了！”他几乎庄严地哭了。

“我们必须回家了，”诺埃米小姐说。 “这是美好的一天的工作。请注意携带方式！”她开始收拾餐具。

“我该如何感谢你呢？”尼奥什先生说。 “我的英语还不够。”

“我希望我也会说法语，”纽曼和蔼地说。 “你女儿很聪明。”

“哦，先生！”尼奥什先生泪流满面地看着他的眼镜，悲伤地点了好几次头。 “她受过教育——超级超级！ 什么都没有幸免。粉彩课十法郎一课，油画课十二法郎一课。那时我没有看法郎。她是一个 艺术家，是吗？

“我理解你的意思是你遇到了挫折吗？”纽曼问道。

“逆转？哦，先生，不幸——太可怕了。”

“生意不成功吧？”

“非常不成功，先生。”

“哦，别害怕，你会再次站起来的，”纽曼高兴地说。

老者侧着头，一脸痛苦地看着他，仿佛这是一个绝情的玩笑。

“他说什么？”诺埃米小姐问道。

尼奥什先生吸了一口鼻烟。 “他说我会再次发财。”

“也许他会帮助你。还有什么？”

“他说你很聪明。”

“这很有可能。你自己也相信吗，我的父亲？”

“我的女儿，你相信吗？有这个证据！”老人重新转过身来，带着好奇的目光盯着画架上大胆的涂抹。

“那就问问他愿不愿意学法语吧。”

“学法语？”

“去上课。”

“女儿，去上课吗？从你那里来的？

“来自你！”

“我的孩子？该怎么上课呢？”

“理由！ 赶紧去问他！”诺埃米小姐轻声简洁地说。

尼奥什先生惊呆了，但在女儿的注视下，他恢复了理智，并尽力摆出令人愉快的微笑，执行了她的命令。 “您愿意接受我们美丽语言的指导吗？”他问道，带着迷人的颤抖声。

“学习法语？”纽曼盯着看，问道。

尼奥什先生将指尖按在一起，慢慢地抬起肩膀。 “稍微聊聊！”

“对话——就是这样！”听到这个词的诺埃米小姐低声说道。 “最好的社会的对话。”

“你知道，我们的法语对话很有名，”尼奥什先生大胆地继续说道。 “这是一个很棒的天赋。”

“但这不是非常困难吗？”纽曼非常简单地问道。

“不是对一个男人来说 ESPRIT，就像先生一样，是各种形式的美的崇拜者！”尼奥什先生意味深长地看了他女儿的圣母像一眼。

“我无法想象自己在说法语！”纽曼笑着说道。 “然而，我认为一个人知道的越多越好。”

“先生非常高兴地表达了这一点。 海拉斯，哎呀！=

“我想，去巴黎逛逛、了解当地语言会对我有很大帮助。”

“啊，先生有很多话想说：困难的事情！”

“我想说的一切都很困难。但你教课吗？”

可怜的尼奥什先生感到很尴尬。他笑起来更迷人了。 “我不是一名普通的教授，”他承认。 “但我不能告诉他我是一名教授，”他对女儿说。

“告诉他这是一个非常难得的机会，”诺埃米小姐回答道。 “一个 世界之人——一位绅士与另一位绅士交谈！记住你现在是什么——你曾经是什么！”

“两种情况都不是语言老师！以前多了，今天就少了！如果他问课程的价格呢？”

“他不会问这个，”诺埃米小姐说。

“我可以说他喜欢什么？”

“绝不！这是糟糕的风格。”

“如果他问了，那么呢？”

诺埃米小姐已经戴上帽子，正在系丝带。她把它们抚平，柔软的小下巴向前挺着。 “十法郎，”她很快地说。

“噢，我的女儿！我永远不敢。”

“那就不敢了！直到课程结束他才会问，然后我会结帐。”

尼奥什先生又转向那位倾心吐露的外国人，站在那里搓着双手，一副认罪的样子，但这种神情之所以更加强烈，只是因为它习惯性地如此引人注目。纽曼从来没有想过要他保证自己的教学能力；他当然认为尼奥什先生懂他自己的语言，而他那令人着迷的孤独正是美国人出于某种模糊的原因总是与所有上了年纪的外国人联系在一起的完美表现。纽曼从未反思过语言学过程。对于在巴黎这座非凡的城市中流行的他熟悉的英语词汇的神秘关联，他的主要印象是，这只是他自己的大量不寻常且相当荒谬的肌肉努力的问题。 “你是怎么学习英语？”他向老人问道。

“当我年轻的时候，在我遭受苦难之前。哦，那时我很清醒。我的父亲是一位伟大的 commerçant;他让我在英国的一家会计室工作了一年。其中一些让我难以忘怀；另一些则让我难以忘怀。但我已经忘记很多了！”

“我一个月能学到多少法语？”

“他说什么？”诺埃米小姐问道。

尼奥什先生解释道。

“他会像天使一样说话！”他的女儿说。

但是尼奥什先生为了确保商业繁荣而徒劳地发挥的与生俱来的正直又再次闪烁起来。 “贵妇人，先生！”他回答道。 “我能教给你的都是！”然后，在女儿的示意下，他恢复了平静，“我会在你的酒店等你。”

“哦，是的，我想学法语，”纽曼带着民主的自信继续说道。 “如果我想到了的话，就绞死我吧！我理所当然地认为这是不可能的。但如果你学会了我的语言，为什么我不应该学你的语言呢？”他坦率、友好的笑声消除了笑话中的刺痛。 “只是，如果我们要交谈，你知道，你必须想出一些令人愉快的话题来交谈。”

“您非常好，先生；我已经克服了！”尼奥什先生摊开双手说道。 “但你有两个人的快乐和幸福！”

“哦不，”纽曼更严肃地说。 “你一定要开朗、活泼；这是交易的一部分。”

尼奥什先生把手放在胸前，鞠了一躬。 “很好，先生；你已经让我变得活泼起来了。”

“那过来把我的照片拿给我吧；我会付钱给你，我们会讨论这个问题。这将是一个令人愉快的话题！”

诺埃米小姐已经收集了她的配饰，并将负责的珍贵圣母玛利亚交给了她的父亲，后者向后退到看不见的地方，与它保持一定的距离，并重申了他的顶礼膜拜。这位年轻的女士像一个完美的巴黎女人一样，用披肩裹住了自己，她带着巴黎女人的微笑向她的赞助人告别。

他漫步回到长沙发，坐在另一边，眼前是保罗·委罗内塞描绘迦纳婚宴的大画布。尽管他很疲倦，但他发现这幅画很有趣。这对他来说是一种幻觉；这满足了他雄心勃勃的关于一场盛大宴会的构想。照片的左角是一位年轻女子，留着黄色的头发，戴着金色的头饰。她弯下身子，面带晚宴上迷人女人的微笑，倾听着邻居的讲话。纽曼在人群中发现了她，很欣赏她，并意识到她也有她忠实的抄写员——一个头发直立的年轻人。突然，他意识到“收藏家”狂热的萌芽；他已经迈出了第一步；他为什么不应该继续下去呢？就在二十分钟前，他买下了人生中的第一幅画，现在他已经将艺术赞助视为一项令人着迷的追求。他的思考加速了他的好心情，他正准备向年轻人走近另一个“怎么样？这种关系中的两三个事实是值得注意的，尽管连接它们的逻辑链可能看起来不完美。他知道尼奥什小姐的要求太多了；但他知道。他对她的行为并无怨恨，并且决定付给这个年轻人正确的金额。然而此时，他的注意力被一位来自房间另一处的绅士吸引了，他的态度就像是画廊的陌生人，尽管他既没有携带指南书，也没有配备望远镜。他撑着一把白色遮阳伞，内衬蓝色丝绸，他在保罗·委罗内塞的画作前漫步，模模糊糊地看着它，但距离太近，除了画布的纹理之外什么也看不到。在克里斯托弗·纽曼的对面，他停下来转过身来，然后我们的朋友一直在观察他，有机会证实他的脸部不完美所引起的怀疑。经过更仔细的审视，他立即站了起来，大步穿过房间，伸出手，抓住了那位打着蓝线雨伞的绅士。后者盯着看，但还是冒险伸出了手。他身材肥胖，面色红润，脸上长着漂亮的亚麻色胡须，中间仔细地分开，两边向外梳，虽然表情并不显眼，但看起来像是一个愿意握手的人。和任何人。我不知道纽曼对他的脸有何看法，但他发现自己的手中缺乏回应。

“哦，来吧，来吧，”他笑着说道。 “现在，别说你不认识我——如果我认识的话 不能 有一把白色的阳伞！”

他的声音催动了对方的记忆，他的脸也张得最大了，他也笑了起来。 “哎呀，纽曼——我要大吃一惊了！我敢说，世界上的哪个地方谁会想到呢？你知道你已经改变了。”

“你没有！”纽曼说。

“毫无疑问，这并不是为了更好。你什么时候到的？”

“三天前。”

“你为什么不让我知道？”

“我不知道 您 都在这里。”

“我已经在这里六年了。”

“我们见面已经八九点了。”

“类似的事情。我们还很年轻。”

“那是在战争期间的圣路易斯。你曾经在军队里。”

“哦，不，不是我！但你确实是。”

“我相信我是。”

“你出来了还好吗？”

“我的腿和手臂都出来了，而且很满意。这一切看起来都很遥远。”

“你来欧洲多久了？”

“十七天。”

“第一次？”

“是的，非常如此。”

“你创造了永恒的财富吗？”

克里斯托弗·纽曼沉默了一会儿，然后带着平静的微笑回答：“是的。”

“然后来巴黎消费，嗯？”

“好吧，我们拭目以待。所以他们带着阳伞来到这里——男人们？”

“他们当然知道。它们是很棒的东西。他们了解这里的舒适感。”

“你在哪里买的？”

“任何地方，任何地方。”

“好吧，崔斯特瑞姆，我很高兴能找到你。你可以给我指点迷津。我想你对巴黎了如指掌。”

崔斯特瑞姆先生露出一抹自得其乐的柔和微笑。 “好吧，我想能向我展示很多东西的男人并不多。我会照顾你的。”

“很遗憾你几分钟前不在。我刚买了一张照片。你可能已经帮我把事情办好了。”

“买了照片？”崔斯特瑞姆先生说，茫然地环顾四周的墙壁。 “怎么，他们卖吗？”

“我是说一份副本。”

“我懂了。这些，”特里斯特瑞姆先生一边说，一边对提香和范戴克夫妇点点头，“我想，这些都是原创的。”

“我希望如此，”纽曼喊道。 “我不想要一份副本。”

“啊，”崔斯特瑞姆先生神秘地说，“你永远也说不出来。你知道，他们模仿得非常好。就像珠宝商用假宝石一样。走进皇宫，那里；你会在一半的窗户上看到“模仿”。你知道，法律要求他们坚持下去；但你无法区分这些事物。说实话，”崔斯特瑞姆先生苦着脸继续说道，“我在摄影方面做得不多。我把这件事留给我的妻子。”

“啊，你有老婆了？”

“我不是提过吗？她是一个非常好的女人；你一定认识她。她就在耶纳大道上。”

“所以你会定期得到固定——房子、孩子等等。”

“是的，一栋顶级房子和几个年轻人。”

“好吧，”克里斯托弗·纽曼说，稍微伸展了一下双臂，叹了口气，“我羡慕你。”

“不好了！你不！崔斯特瑞姆先生回答道，用阳伞轻轻戳了一下他。

“请再说一遍;我愿意！”

“好吧，那么，当——当——”

“你不会是说我什么时候见过你的店吧？”

“当你见过巴黎时，我的孩子。你想在这里成为自己的主人。”

“唉，我这辈子都是自己做主了，我已经厌倦了。”

“好吧，试试巴黎。你今年多大？”

“三十六。”

“这就是贝尔阿吉，正如他们在这里所说的那样。”

“这意味着什么？”

“这意味着一个人在吃饱之前不应该把盘子送走。”

“这一切？我刚刚安排好上法语课。”

“哦，你不想上课。你会把它捡起来。我从来没有拿过任何东西。”

“我想你会说法语和英语吧？”

“更好的！”崔斯特瑞姆先生斩钉截铁地说。 “这是一种美妙的语言。你可以在里面说出各种美好的事情。”

“但我想，”克里斯托弗·纽曼热切地渴望获得信息，“你一开始就必须很聪明。”

“一点也没有；这就是它的美妙之处。”

当这两个朋友交换这些话时，他们仍然站在他们见面的地方，靠在保护照片的栏杆上。崔斯特瑞姆先生最后宣称他已经疲惫不堪，应该很高兴坐下来。纽曼以最高的评价推荐了他刚才闲逛的大沙发，然后他们准备坐下。 “这是一个好地方;不是吗？纽曼热情地说。

“好地方，好地方。世界上最好的东西。”然后，突然，崔斯特瑞姆先生犹豫了一下，环顾四周。 “我想他们不会让你在这里抽烟的。”

纽曼凝视着。 “抽烟？我确信我不知道。你比我更了解规则。”

“我？我以前从来没有来过这里！”

“绝不！六年后？”

“我相信我们第一次来巴黎时，我妻子曾把我拖到这里来，但我再也没有找到回去的路。”

“但你说你很了解巴黎！”

“我不把这里称为巴黎！”崔斯特瑞姆先生自信地喊道。 “来;我们去皇宫抽根烟吧。”

“我不抽烟，”纽曼说。

“那就喝一杯吧。”

崔斯特瑞姆先生带着他的同伴离开了。他们穿过卢浮宫辉煌的大厅，走下楼梯，沿着凉爽昏暗的雕塑画廊，来到巨大的庭院。纽曼边走边环顾四周，但没有发表任何评论，直到他们最后出现在露天时，他才对他的朋友说：“在我看来，如果是在你的位置上，我应该每年来这里一次。”星期。”

“哦，不，你不会的！”崔斯特瑞姆先生说。 “你是这么想的，但你不会。你本来就没有时间。你总是想去，但你永远不会去。在巴黎，还有比这更好的乐趣。意大利是看照片的地方；等到你到达那里。你必须去那里；你不能做任何其他事情。这是一个可怕的国家；你买不到一支像样的雪茄。我不知道今天为什么要进去；我一边漫步，一边兴致勃勃地寻找乐趣。当我路过卢浮宫时，我注意到了卢浮宫，我想我应该进去看看发生了什么。但如果我没有在那儿找到你，我就会觉得自己被卖掉了。挂了吧，我不喜欢图片；我更喜欢现实！”崔斯特瑞姆先生抛弃了这个令人愉快的公式，并保证众多遭受“文化”过量之苦的人可能会羡慕他。

两位绅士沿着里沃利路进入皇家宫殿，在咖啡馆门口的一张小桌子旁坐下，咖啡馆的门伸向宽敞的四合院。这个地方挤满了人，喷泉在喷水，乐队在演奏，所有的椴树下都聚集着一排排椅子，丰满的、戴着白帽的护士坐在长凳上，正在为他们的婴儿提供最充足的食物。营养设施。整个场景充满了一种轻松、亲切的欢乐气氛，克里斯托弗·纽曼觉得这是最具巴黎特色的。

“现在，”当他们测试了他为他们准备的汤剂后，崔斯特瑞姆先生开始说道，“现在请你自我介绍一下。你有什么想法，你有什么计划，你从哪里来，要去哪里？首先，你住在哪里？”

“在大饭店，”纽曼说。

崔斯特瑞姆先生皱起了胖乎乎的脸。 “那不行！你必须改变。”

“改变？”纽曼问道。 “为什么，这是我住过的最好的酒店。”

“你想要的不是‘好’酒店；而是‘好’酒店。”你想要一个小而安静、优雅的地方，你的门铃会被应答，你——你的人会被认出来。”

纽曼说：“他们一直跑来看看我在按门铃之前是否按过门，而至于我本人，他们总是向它鞠躬并刮擦。”

“我想你总是给他们小费。这是非常糟糕的风格。”

“总是？绝不是。昨天有一个男人给我带来了一些东西，然后就以乞讨的方式站在那里游手好闲。我给他一把椅子，问他是否不坐下。这样的风格很糟糕吗？”

“非常！”

“但他立刻就逃跑了。无论如何，这个地方让我很有趣。保持你的优雅，如果它让我厌烦的话。昨晚我在圆山大饭店的庭院里坐到凌晨两点，看着人来人往、敲门声。”

“你很容易高兴。但你可以按照你的选择去做——一个站在你立场上的人。你赚了不少钱吧？”

“我已经赚够了。”

“能说出这句话的人幸福吗？够了做什么？”

“足以休息一会儿，忘记那些令人困惑的事情，环顾四周，看看这个世界，享受美好时光，提高我的思想，如果我愿意的话，可以娶个妻子。”纽曼说话很慢，口音有些干巴巴，而且时常停顿。这是他惯用的说话方式，但在我刚才引用的那句话中表现得尤为明显。

“木星！有节目了！”崔斯特瑞姆先生喊道。 “当然，一切都需要钱，尤其是妻子；除非她真的给了它，就像我的那样。故事是怎样的？你是怎么做到的？

纽曼把帽子从额头上推到后面，抱起双臂，伸展双腿。他听着音乐，环顾四周熙熙攘攘的人群、喷水的喷泉、护士和婴儿。 “我已经工作了！”他终于回答了。

崔斯特瑞姆看了他一会儿，用平静的目光衡量着他朋友慷慨的经度，落在他舒适沉思的脸上。 “你从事什么工作？”他问。

“哦，有几件事。”

“我想你是个聪明人，嗯？”

纽曼继续看着护士和婴儿。他们给场景带来了一种原始的、田园般的质朴。 “是的，”他最后说道，“我想是的。”然后，在回答同伴的询问时，他简单地讲述了自上次见面以来的经历。 这是一个浓郁的西方故事，涉及企业，无需向读者详细介绍。 纽曼在战争结束时获得了准将的称号，在这种情况下，这一荣誉——没有令人反感的比较——已经落在了完全有能力承担这一责任的肩膀上。 尽管纽曼在需要的时候能够打架，但他却非常不喜欢这项工作。四年的军旅生活让他有一种愤怒而痛苦的感觉，觉得宝贵的东西被浪费了——生命、时间、金钱、“聪明”和早期的新鲜目标；他以满腔的热情和精力致力于和平的追求。 当然，当他摘下肩带时，就像戴上肩带时一样，他身无分文，他唯一可以支配的资本就是他顽强的决心和他对目的和手段的敏锐洞察力。 对他来说，用力和行动就像呼吸一样自然。一个更健康的凡人从未踏过西方富有弹性的土壤。 而且，他的经验和他的能力一样广泛。当他十四岁的时候，生活必需品抓住他年轻苗条的肩膀，把他推到街上，以赚取当晚的晚餐。 这些钱不是他赚来的，而是他赚到了第二天晚上的钱，而后来，每当他一无所获时，那是因为他没有赚到这些钱，而是把这些钱用在了其他事情上，一种更强烈的快乐或更丰厚的利润。 他用自己的双手和大脑做了很多事情。从杰出的意义上来说，他一直很有进取心。他富有冒险精神，甚至鲁莽，他经历过惨痛的失败，也经历过辉煌的成功。但他是一个天生的实验主义者，他总能在迫不得已的压力下找到一些可以享受的东西，即使它像中世纪僧侣的毛布衬衫一样令人恼火。 曾经有一段时间，失败似乎是他无情的命运。厄运与他同床共枕，凡是他碰过的东西，都不是化为金子，而是化为灰烬。 当这种持续不断的不幸达到顶峰时，他对世界事务中超自然因素的最生动的认识出现了。在他看来，生活中似乎有某种比他自己的意志更强大的东西。 但那神秘的东西只能是魔鬼，他因此对这种无礼的力量产生了强烈的个人仇恨。 他知道自己的信用完全耗尽，无法筹集到一美元，并在夜幕降临时发现自己身处一个陌生的城市，却没有一分钱来缓解这种陌生感，这是什么感觉。 正是在这种情况下，他进入了旧金山，随后，他最幸福的命运就发生在旧金山。 如果他不这样做，就像博士一样。 费城的富兰克林，一边嚼着便士面包一边沿街游行，只是因为他没有表演所需的便士面包。 在他最黑暗的日子里，他只有一种简单而实际的冲动——用他自己的话说，就是希望把事情搞清楚。 他终于如愿以偿，一帆风顺，赚了很多钱。 必须承认，克里斯托弗·纽曼的唯一人生目标就是赚钱，这一点相当赤裸裸。在他看来，他来到这个世界只是为了从不畏机遇的机会中攫取财富，而且越大越好。 这个想法完全填满了他的视野，满足了他的想象力。 对于金钱的用途，对于成功地注入了黄金之流的人可以如何度过一生，他在三十五岁之前都没有进行过很少的反思。 生活对他来说是一场开放的游戏，他赌的是高额赌注。 他终于赢了，带走了他的奖金。现在他该拿它们做什么呢？ 他是这样一个人，迟早肯定会向他提出这个问题，而答案就属于我们的故事。

“我必须承认，”他随即继续说道，“在这里我感觉一点儿也不聪明。我卓越的才能似乎毫无用处。我觉得自己就像一个小孩子一样单纯，一个小孩子可能会牵着我的手，带着我到处走。”

“哦，我会成为你的小孩子，”崔斯特瑞姆高兴地说。 “我会牵着你的手。相信我吧。”

“我是一个好工人，”纽曼继续说道，“但我宁愿认为我是一个可怜的游手好闲者。我到国外来是为了自娱自乐，但我怀疑我是否懂得如何。”

“噢，这个很容易学。”

“嗯，也许我可以学会，但恐怕我永远不会死记硬背。我对此有着世界上最好的意愿，但我的天才并不在于那个方向。作为一个懒汉，我永远不会是原创的，就像我认为你一样。”

“是的，”崔斯特瑞姆说，“我想我是有原创性的；就像卢浮宫里那些不道德的画一样。”

“此外，”纽曼继续说道，“我不想在快乐中工作，就像我不想在工作中玩耍一样。我想轻松地接受它。我感到非常懒惰，我想像现在一样度过六个月的时光，坐在树下听乐队演奏。只有一件事；我想听一些好听的音乐。”

“音乐和图片！主啊，多么高雅的品味啊！你就是我妻子所说的知识分子。我不是，一点点。但我们可以为您找到比坐在树下更好的事情。首先，你必须来俱乐部。”

“什么俱乐部？”

“西方人。你会在那里看到所有的美国人；至少，他们都是最好的。你当然会玩扑克吗？”

“哦，我说，”纽曼精力充沛地喊道，“你不会把我关在俱乐部里，然后把我按在牌桌上！我大老远过来可不是为了这个。”

“这到底是怎么回事？ 已可以选用 你来找！我记得，当你把我赶出去时，你很高兴能在圣路易斯玩扑克。”

“我来欧洲是为了尽我所能地充分利用它。我想看到所有伟大的事情，并做聪明人所做的事情。”

“聪明人？多谢。那你就把我当成傻瓜了？”

纽曼侧坐在椅子上，手肘放在椅背上，头靠在手上。他一动不动地看了他的同伴一会儿，脸上带着干巴巴的、戒备的、半高深莫测的、但又完全是善意的微笑。 “给我介绍一下你的妻子吧！”他最后说道。

崔斯特瑞姆在椅子上弹来弹去。 “我保证，我不会。她不需要任何帮助来对我嗤之以鼻，你也不想！”

“我不会对你嗤之以鼻，我亲爱的朋友；也不针对任何人或任何事。我不骄傲，我向你保证我不骄傲。这就是为什么我愿意以聪明人为榜样。”

“好吧，如果我不是玫瑰，就像这里人们所说的那样，我就住在它附近。我也可以向你展示一些聪明的人。你知道帕卡德将军吗？你知道CP哈奇吗？你认识基蒂·厄普约翰小姐吗？

“我很高兴认识他们；我想培育社会。”

崔斯特瑞姆显得焦躁不安、多疑。他斜视着他的朋友，然后问道：“你到底想做什么？”他问道。 “你要写一本书吗？”

克里斯托弗·纽曼沉默地扭了扭胡子一端，最后做出了回答。 “几个月前的一天，我身上发生了一件非常奇怪的事情。我来纽约是为了一些重要的事情。这是一个相当长的故事——一个在股票市场上以某种特定方式领先于另一方的问题。对方曾经对我玩过一个非常卑鄙的把戏。我欠他一个仇，当时我觉得自己很野蛮，我发誓，当我有机会时，我会打断他的鼻子。这涉及到大约六万美元的问题。如果我不妨碍他，那家伙就会受到打击，他真的不应该受到任何惩罚。我跳进了一个黑客并开始了我的生意，正是在这个黑客——这个不朽的、历史性的黑客——中，我所说的奇怪的事情发生了。它和其他的黑客一样，只是稍微脏一点，土褐色的垫子顶部有一条油腻的线条，好像它曾被用于许多爱尔兰葬礼。可能是我小睡了；我整晚都在旅行，虽然我对我的差事感到兴奋，但我还是感到想要睡觉。无论如何，我突然从睡梦中或从某种遐想中醒来，带着世界上最不寻常的感觉——对我要做的事情感到极度厌恶。它降临到我身上就像 那！”他打了个响指——“就像旧伤口开始疼痛一样突然。我无法说出它的含义；我只觉得我厌恶这整件事，想甩手不管。失去那六万美元，让它彻底溜走，然后再也不会听到它的消息，这个想法似乎是世界上最甜蜜的事情。而这一切的发生完全不以我的意志为转移，我坐在那儿观看，就像在剧院看一场戏剧一样。我能感觉到它在我内心发生。你可以相信，我们内心深处发生着一些我们知之甚少的事情。”

“木星！你让我浑身起鸡皮疙瘩！”崔斯特瑞姆喊道。 “当你坐在你的小屋里，看你所说的那出戏时，另一个人走了进来，拿走了你的六万美元？”

“我一点也不知道。我希望如此，可怜的魔鬼！但我从来没有发现。我们在华尔街我要去的地方前面停下来，但我坐在马车里一动不动，最后司机从座位上爬下来，看看他的马车是不是变成了灵车。我无法出去，就像我是一具尸体一样。我到底怎么了？你会说，这只是一时的白痴。我想离开的是华尔街。我告诉那个人开车到布鲁克林渡轮并过河。当我们结束后，我告诉他开车送我去乡下。正如我最初告诉他的那样，为了亲爱的生活而开车进城，我想他认为我疯了。也许我是，但那样的话我还是疯了。我花了一上午的时间观察长岛第一片绿叶。我厌倦了生意；我想把这一切都扔掉，然后停下来；我有足够的钱，或者如果我没有的话我应该有。我似乎感觉到我的旧皮肤里有一个新人，我渴望一个新世界。当你非常想要一件东西时，你最好善待自己。我不明白这件事，一点也不明白。但我给了这匹老马缰绳，让他找到了路。当我退出比赛后，我就乘船前往欧洲。这就是我坐在这里的原因。”

“你应该买下那个黑客，”崔斯特瑞姆说。 “这不是一辆安全的车辆。那么你真的已经卖完了；你已经从商界退休了吗？”

“我已经把我的手交给了一位朋友；当我感觉准备好了时，我可以再次拿起卡片。我敢说，十二个月后，这一行动将会逆转。钟摆将再次摆回来。我将坐在贡多拉或单峰骆驼上，突然间我想要离开。但目前我完全自由了。我什至讨价还价说我不会收到任何商业信函。”

“哦，这真是一个 王子随想曲，”崔斯特瑞姆说。 “我退出；像我这样的可怜虫无法帮助你度过如此美妙的闲暇时光。你应该被介绍给那些加冕的首脑。”

纽曼看了他一会儿，然后带着轻松的微笑问道：“如何做到这一点？”他问。

“来吧，我喜欢！”崔斯特瑞姆喊道。 “这说明你是认真的。”

“我当然是认真的。我不是说过我要最好的吗？我知道光靠钱是买不到最好的东西的，但我更认为钱会做很多事情。另外，我愿意承担很多麻烦。”

“你并不害羞吧？”

“我一点也不知道。我想要一个男人能得到的最大的娱乐。人、地方、艺术、自然，一切！我想看到最高的山脉、最蓝的湖泊、最美丽的图画、最漂亮的教堂、最著名的男人和最美丽的女人。”

“那就在巴黎定居吧。据我所知，这里没有山脉，唯一的湖泊位于布洛涅森林，而且不是特别蓝。但还有其他一切：大量的照片和教堂，无数的名人，还有几个美丽的女人。”

“但这个季节我无法在巴黎安顿下来，因为夏天即将来临。”

“哦，夏天去特鲁维尔吧。”

“特鲁维尔是什么？”

“法国纽波特。一半的美国人都去了。”

“有靠近阿尔卑斯山的地方吗？”

“大约和纽波特到落基山脉的距离一样近。”

“哦，我想去看看勃朗峰，”纽曼说，“还有阿姆斯特丹、莱茵河，还有很多地方。尤其是威尼斯。我对威尼斯有很好的想法。”

“啊，”崔斯特瑞姆先生站起身来，“看来我得把你介绍给我的妻子了！”

第二天，他举行了这个仪式，克里斯托弗·纽曼按照预约去和他一起吃饭。崔斯特瑞姆夫妇住在一栋粉笔色的外墙后面，这些外墙装饰着奥斯曼男爵在凯旋门附近建造的宽阔大道，同样浮夸。他们的公寓配备了丰富的现代化便利设施，崔斯特瑞姆不失时机地提醒来访者注意他们的主要家居财宝：煤气灯和炉孔。 “每当你想家的时候，”他说，“你一定要来这里。我们会把你放在收银台前，在一个很好的大燃烧器下，然后——”

“你很快就会克服思乡之情，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。

她的丈夫凝视着；他妻子的语气常常让他觉得难以捉摸，他一辈子都分不清她是在开玩笑还是认真的。事实上，环境在很大程度上培养了崔斯特瑞姆夫人明显的讽刺倾向。她在很多方面的品味与她丈夫不同，虽然她经常做出让步，但必须承认她的让步并不总是优雅的。它们是建立在一个模糊的计划之上的，她希望有一天能做一些非常积极、有点热情的事情。她根本不可能告诉你她打算做什么；她只是想告诉你。但与此同时，她还是用分期付款的方式买下了一份良心。

应该立即补充一点，以免产生误解，即她的独立独立计划并不一定需要另一个异性的帮助；她并不是在积攒美德来支付调情的费用。 这有多种原因。 本来她的脸就很朴素，对自己的容貌完全不抱任何幻想。 她已经把事情衡量到了毫发无伤的程度，她知道最坏的和最好的，她已经接受了自己。 事实上，这并非没有经过斗争。 当她还是个小女孩的时候，她曾几个小时背对着镜子，哭得眼睛都肿了。后来，出于绝望和虚张声势，她养成了宣称自己是最不受宠的女人的习惯，以便她可能——因为通常的礼貌是不可避免的——受到反驳和放心。 自从她来到欧洲生活后，她开始以哲学的方式看待这个问题。 她的观察在这里得到了敏锐的运用，她发现女人的首要职责不是美丽，而是取悦，她遇到了很多不美丽而取悦的女人，她开始觉得自己已经找到了自己的使命。 她曾经听到一位热情的音乐家对一个才华横溢的笨蛋失去了耐心，宣称良好的声音确实是正确唱歌的障碍；她突然想到，也许同样正确的是，美丽的面孔是获得迷人举止的障碍。 太太。 于是，崔斯特瑞姆表现得非常和蔼可亲，她对这项任务表现出了令人感动的奉献精神。 我无法说她会取得多大的成功；不幸的是她中途断了。 她自己的借口是在她的圈子里缺乏鼓励。 但我倾向于认为她在这方面没有真正的天才，否则她会为自己追求迷人的艺术。 这位可怜的女士非常不完整。 她完全理解了厕所的和谐，并满足于完美的着装。 她住在巴黎，她假装厌恶巴黎，因为只有在巴黎才能找到最适合自己肤色的东西。 除了离开巴黎之外，要买十粒扣的手套总是或多或少的麻烦。 当她抱怨这个服务周到的城市时，你问她更愿意住在哪里，她给出了一些非常出乎意料的答案。 她会说在哥本哈根，或者在巴塞罗那；在欧洲之旅中，我在这些地方都呆了几天。 总的来说，当你认识她时，她那富有诗意的长发和那张畸形而聪明的小脸，绝对是一个有趣的女人。 她生性腼腆，如果她是天生丽质的话，她（没有虚荣心）很可能会一直害羞。 现在，她既羞怯又固执。有时对朋友极其保守，但对陌生人却异常开放。 她鄙视她的丈夫；她太瞧不起他了，因为她完全可以自由地不嫁给他。 她爱上了一个聪明的男人，却轻视了她，她嫁给了一个傻瓜，希望这个忘恩负义的聪明人反思后会得出结论，认为她不懂得欣赏别人的优点，而他认为自己是在自以为是。她关心他自己的。 她焦躁不安，不满，有远见，没有个人野心，但有一定的想象力，正如我之前所说，她是一个非常不完整的人。

纽曼在任何情况下都喜欢女性社会，现在他脱离了自己的本性并被剥夺了惯常的兴趣，他转向女性社会来寻求补偿。他非常喜欢崔斯特瑞姆夫人。她坦率地报答了，他们第一次见面后，他在她的客厅里度过了很多个小时。经过两三次谈话后，他们成了好朋友。纽曼对待女性的方式很奇特，女士们需要一些聪明才智才能发现他钦佩她。他没有通常意义上的英勇。没有赞美，没有恩典，没有演讲。他非常喜欢所谓的调侃，在与男人打交道时，每当他发现自己坐在沙发上，身边有一个软弱的男人时，他都会感到极其严肃。他并不害羞，就与害羞的斗争中产生的尴尬而言，他并不尴尬；他并不害羞。他严肃、细心、顺从，常常保持沉默，他只是沉浸在一种尊重的狂喜之中。这种情感根本不是理论上的，甚至不是高度感性的。他很少考虑女性的“地位”，而且他对穿着衬裙的总统形象并不熟悉。他的态度只是他善良本性的结晶，也是他本能地、真正民主地假设每个人都有权过上安逸生活的一部分。如果一个蓬头垢面的穷人有吃住、吃住、工资和选举权的权利，那么，当然，比穷人弱的妇女，她们的身体组织本身就是一种吸引力，应该在情感上以公共费用来维持。纽曼愿意为此目的纳税，很大程度上是按照他的收入比例。此外，许多关于女性的共同传统对他来说都是新鲜的个人印象。他从来没有读过小说！他们的敏锐、​​微妙、机智和判断力的准确给他留下了深刻的印象。在他看来，他们组织得井井有条。如果一个人确实必须在自己的作品中始终有一种宗教，或者至少是某种理想，那么纽曼就在对某个光明的女性眉毛的最终责任的模糊接受中找到了他的形而上学灵感。

他花了很多时间听取崔斯特瑞姆夫人的建议。必须补充一点，他从未要求过这些建议。他不可能要求它，因为他没有意识到困难，因此对补救措施也没有好奇心。他周围复杂的巴黎世界似乎非常简单。这是一个巨大而令人惊叹的奇观，但它既没有激发他的想象力，也没有激起他的好奇心。他双手插在口袋里，心情愉快地看着，不想错过任何重要的事情，对很多事情都观察得很仔细，从不回复自己。崔斯特瑞姆夫人的“建议”是节目的一部分，并且在她丰富的八卦中比其他人更有趣。他喜欢她谈论他自己。这似乎是她美丽的聪明才智的一部分。但他从来没有应用过她所说的任何话，或者当他离开她时也没有记住它。为了她自己，她占有了他；为了她自己，她占有了他；为了她自己，她占有了他。他是她这一个月来想到的最有趣的事情。她想和他一起做点什么——她几乎不知道做什么。他的身上有太多的东西；他是如此富有，如此健壮，如此随和，友好，好脾气，以至于他让她的幻想时刻保持警惕。目前，她唯一能做的就是喜欢他。她告诉他，他是“可怕的西方人”，但在这种赞美中，副词带有不真诚的色彩。她带着他四处走动，把他介绍给五十个人，并对她的征服感到极度满足。纽曼接受了每一个建议，普遍地、随意地握手，似乎既不熟悉恐惧，也不熟悉兴奋。汤姆·崔斯特瑞姆抱怨他妻子的热情，并宣称他永远无法与他的朋友度过愉快的五分钟。如果他知道事情会怎样发展，他绝对不会带他去耶纳大道。这两个人以前并不亲密，但纽曼记得他早些时候对主人的印象，特里斯特瑞姆夫人也记得，她从来没有把他当成她的秘密，但他很快发现了她的秘密，公正地承认：她的丈夫是一个相当堕落的凡人。二十五岁时，他一直是个好人，在这方面他没有改变。但对于他这个年纪的人来说，人们的期望还不止于此。人们说他善于交际，但这就像海绵沾水膨胀一样，是理所当然的事。这并不是一种高级的社交活动。他是个爱八卦、爱说闲话的人，如果能引起人们的笑声，他年迈母亲的名声就难免受到损害。纽曼对过去的记忆很友善，但他发现不可能不注意到崔斯特瑞姆如今已经变得很轻了。他唯一的愿望是坚持打扑克，在他的俱乐部里，知道所有球员的名字 科科特，到处握手，用松露和香槟填满他玫瑰色的食道，并在美国殖民地的组成原子之间制造令人不舒服的漩涡和障碍。他游手好闲、无精打采、感性、势利，可耻。他暗指自己祖国的语气激怒了我们的朋友，纽曼不明白为什么美国对崔斯特瑞姆先生来说不够好。他从来都不是一个非常有意识的爱国者，但看到他们的待遇比他朋友鼻孔里的粗俗气味好不了多少，他感到很恼火，他终于爆发了，发誓他们是世界上最伟大的国家，他们可以把整个欧洲都被装进了他们的裤子口袋里，而一个说他们坏话的美国人应该被戴上镣铐带回家，并被迫住在波士顿。 （纽曼的说法非常具有报复性。） 崔斯特瑞姆是一个很容易被冷落的人，他没有恶意，他继续坚持让纽曼在西方俱乐部结束他的夜晚。

克里斯托弗·纽曼 (Christopher Newman) 在耶纳大道 (Avenue d'Iéna) 吃过几次饭，他的主人总是建议提前休会。崔斯特瑞姆夫人提出抗议，并声称她的丈夫为了让她不高兴而用尽了他的聪明才智。

“哦，不，我从来没有尝试过，亲爱的，”他回答道。 “我知道当我抓住机会的时候，你已经够讨厌我了。”

纽曼讨厌看到这样的夫妻，他确信他们中的一个一定非常不高兴。他知道这不是崔斯特瑞姆。崔斯特瑞姆夫人的窗前有一个阳台，六月的夜晚，她喜欢坐在阳台上，纽曼坦率地说，比起俱乐部，他更喜欢阳台。它的盆里有一圈散发着芳香的植物，你可以抬头望向宽阔的街道，看到凯旋门在夏日的星光下隐约聚集着英雄的雕塑。有时纽曼会遵守诺言，在半小时内跟随崔斯特瑞姆先生到达西方航空公司，有时他会忘记这一点。他的女主人问了他很多关于他自己的问题，但在这个问题上他却漠不关心。他并不是那种所谓主观的人，尽管当他觉得她的兴趣是真诚的时候，他做出了近乎英雄主义的尝试。他告诉她他做过的很多事情，并给她讲述西方生活的轶事。她来自费城，在巴黎生活了八年，自称是一个慵懒的东方人。但故事中的英雄始终是其他人，但并不总是对他有利。纽曼自己的情绪也很少被记录下来。她特别想知道他是否曾经恋爱过——认真的、热烈的——但她未能从他的暗示中得到任何满足，最后她直接询问了。他犹豫了一会儿，最后说道：“不！”她宣称她很高兴听到这个消息，因为这证实了她私下里的信念，即他是一个没有感情的人。

“真的吗？”他非常严肃地问道。 “你也这么认为吗？怎样才能认出一个有感情的人呢？”

“我分不清，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说，“你到底是很简单，还是很深奥。”

“我的心很深。这是事实。”

“我相信，如果我用某种你没有感觉的神情告诉你，你一定会相信我的。”

“某种空气？”纽曼说。 “试试看吧。”

“你会相信我，但你不会在乎，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。

“你全都错了。我应该非常关心，但我不应该相信你。事实是我从来没有时间去感受事物。我不得不 do 他们，让我感受到。”

“我可以想象，有时你可能会做得非常出色。”

“是的，这没有任何错误。”

“当你处于愤怒之中时，它不会令人愉快。”

“我从来不生气。”

“那么生气，或者不高兴。”

“我从来不生气，而且我已经很久没有生气了，我都忘记了。”

“我不相信，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说，“你从来不生气。男人有时候就应该生气，你既不够好，也不够坏，不能总是控制自己的脾气。”

“我可能五年就会失去一次。”

“那么，时间快到了，”女主人说。 “在我认识你六个月之前，我就会看到你勃然大怒。”

“你的意思是要把我纳入其中吗？”

“我不应该感到抱歉。你对事情太冷静了。这让我很恼火。然后你就太幸福了。你拥有的一定是世界上最令人愉快的事情，即意识到你已经预先购买了你的快乐并为此付出了代价。你没有一天会当着你的面算账。你的算计已经结束了。”

“嗯，我想我很高兴，”纽曼若有所思地说。

“你真是太成功了。”

纽曼说：“在铜矿方面取得了成功，在铁路方面则马马虎虎，而在石油方面却毫无希望地失败了。”

“了解美国人如何赚钱是非常令人不舒服的。现在你已经拥有了世界。你只需要享受。”

“哦，我想我过得很好，”纽曼说。 “只是我厌倦了别人把它扔给我。此外，还有几个缺点。我不是知识分子。”

“人们不会对你抱有这样的期望，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人回答道。过了一会儿，“而且，你也是！”

“好吧，我的意思是要玩得开心，无论是否，”纽曼说。 “我没有教养，我什至没有受过教育；我对历史、艺术、外语或任何其他学问一无所知。但我也不是傻瓜，等我了解完欧洲之后，我将承诺对欧洲有所了解。我感觉到我的肋骨下面有某种东西，”他随即补充道，“我无法解释——一种强烈的渴望，一种想要伸展和收紧的欲望。”

“太棒了！”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说：“那很好。你是伟大的西方野蛮人，以他的纯真和力量向前迈进，凝视了这个可怜而衰弱的旧世界一会儿，然后俯冲下来。”

“哦，来吧，”纽曼说。 “我绝对不是野蛮人。我恰恰相反。我见过野蛮人；我知道它们是什么。”

“我并不是说你是科曼奇酋长，或者你穿着毯子和羽毛。有不同的色调。”

“我是一个非常文明的人，”纽曼说。 “我坚持这一点。如果你不相信，我想证明给你看。”

崔斯特瑞姆夫人沉默了一会儿。 “我想让你证明这一点，”她最后说道。 “我想让你陷入困境。”

“请这样做，”纽曼说。

“这听起来有点自负啊！”他的同伴重新加入。

“哦，”纽曼说，“我对自己的评价非常好。”

“我希望我能对其进行测试。给我时间，我会的。”崔斯特瑞姆夫人此后沉默了一会儿，似乎在努力履行自己的诺言。那天晚上她似乎并没有成功。但当他起身告辞时，她突然从无情的嘲讽语气变成了近乎颤抖的同情，这是她很容易做到的。 “说实话，”她说，“我相信你，纽曼先生。你这是在恭维我的爱国精神。”

“你的爱国心？”克里斯托弗问道。

“即使是这样。解释起来太长了，你可能也听不懂。此外，你可能会认为它是一个声明。但这与你个人无关；这就是你所代表的。幸好你不知道这一切，否则你的自负就会变得难以忍受。”

纽曼站在那里凝视着，想知道他在阳光下“代表着什么”。

“请原谅我所有多管闲事的闲聊，忘记我的建议。我愿意告诉你该怎么做，这对我来说是非常愚蠢的。当你感到尴尬的时候，做你认为最好的事情，你会做得很好。当你遇到困难的时候，你要自己判断。”

“我会记住你告诉我的一切，”纽曼说。 “这里有这么多的形式和仪式——”

“当然，我指的是形式和仪式。”

“啊，但我想观察它们，”纽曼说。 “我难道没有和其他人一样好的权利吗？它们不会吓到我，你也不必允许我侵犯它们。我不会接受的。”

“我不是这个意思。我的意思是，用你自己的方式观察它们。为自己解决好问题。剪断结还是解开结，由你选择。”

“哦，我确信我永远不会摸索它！”纽曼说。

下一次他在耶纳大道用餐是在周日，这一天崔斯特瑞姆先生没有洗牌，所以晚上阳台上就出现了三人组。谈话涉及很多事情，最后崔斯特瑞姆夫人突然对克里斯托弗·纽曼说，现在是他应该娶妻的时候了。

“听她的;她有这个胆量！”崔斯特瑞姆说，他在周日晚上总是很尖刻。

“我想你还没有下定决心不结婚吧？”崔斯特瑞姆夫人继续说道。

“天不遂人愿！”纽曼喊道。 “我对此有坚定的决心。”

“这很容易，”崔斯特瑞姆说。 “太简单了！”

“那么，我想你不会想等到五十岁。”

“相反，我很着急。”

“人们永远不会想到这一点。你希望有一位女士来向你求婚吗？”

“不;我愿意提议。我对此想了很多。”

“说说你的一些想法吧。”

“好吧，”纽曼慢慢地说，“我想嫁得很好。”

“那就娶个六十岁的女人吧，”崔斯特瑞姆说。

“‘嗯’是什么意思？”

“从任何意义上来说。我将很难取悦。”

“你必须记住，正如法国谚语所说，世界上最美丽的女孩所能给予的只是她所拥有的。”

“既然你问我，”纽曼说，“我就坦白地说，我非常想结婚。首先，是时候了：不知不觉间我就四十岁了。然后我就感到孤独、无助、迟钝。但如果我现在结婚，只要不是二十岁的时候仓促结婚，我就必须睁着眼睛去做。我想以帅气的方式做这件事。我不仅希望不犯错误，而且希望取得巨大成功。我想自己选择。我的妻子一定是一位伟大的女人。”

“瞧，我们见面了！“崔斯特瑞姆夫人叫道。

“哦，我想了很多。”

“或许是你想太多了。最好的事情就是坠入爱河。”

“当我找到令我满意的女人时，我就会足够爱她。我的妻子会很舒服。”

“你太棒了！优秀的女性还有机会。”

“你不公平。”纽曼重新加入。 “你把一个人拉出来，让他措手不及，然后你就嘲笑他。”

“我向你保证，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说，“我是很认真的。为了证明这一点，我将向你提出一个建议。你应该像这里所说的那样，喜欢我嫁给你吗？”

“给我找个老婆？”

“她已经被发现了。我会把你们带到一起的。”

“哦，来吧，”崔斯特瑞姆说，“我们没有婚姻办公室。他会认为你想要佣金。”

“把我介绍给一个符合我想法的女人，”纽曼说，“我明天就会娶她。”

“你的语气很奇怪，我不太明白你的意思。没想到你竟然如此冷血，如此精于算计。”

纽曼沉默了一会儿。 “好吧，”他最后说道，“我想要一个伟大的女人。我坚持这一点。这是我的一件事 能够 善待自己，如果要得到，我就一定要得到。这些年我还为了什么而辛苦、奋斗呢？我已经成功了，现在我该怎么办？在我看来，为了使它完美，必须有一个美丽的女人栖息在堆上，就像纪念碑上的雕像一样。她必须既美丽又善良，又聪明又善良。我可以给我的妻子一个很好的条件，所以我也不怕自己要求一个很好的条件。她将拥有一个女人想要的一切；我什至不会反对她对我太好；她可能比我能理解的更聪明、更有智慧，我只会更高兴。总之，我想拥有市场上最好的文章。”

“你为什么不一开始就把这一切告诉别人呢？”崔斯特瑞姆问道。 “我一直在努力让你喜欢 我！=

“这很有趣，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。 “我喜欢看到一个人知道自己的想法。”

“我很早就知道我的情况了，”纽曼继续说道。 “我很早就下定决心，一个美丽的妻子是最值得拥有的，就在下面。这是对环境的最大胜利。当我说美丽时，我指的是思想上、举止上以及个人上的美丽。这是每个人都享有平等权利的事情；如果可以的话，他可能会得到它。他不必生来就具有某些能力，这是故意的；他只需要成为一个男人就可以了。然后他只需要运用他的意志和他所拥有的智慧，并尝试一下。”

“我觉得你的婚姻完全是出于虚荣。”

“嗯，可以肯定的是，”纽曼说，“如果人们注意到我的妻子并钦佩她，我会非常高兴。”

“从此之后，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人喊道，“任何人都可以称得上谦虚！”

“但他们中没有人会像我一样崇拜她。”

“我看你对辉煌很有品味。”

纽曼犹豫了一下；然后，“我真的相信我有！”他说。

“我想你已经经常审视自己了。”

“根据机会，很划算。”

“那你还没有看到什么令你满意的东西吗？”

“不，”纽曼半不情愿地说，“我必须诚实地说，我没有看到任何真正令我满意的东西。”

“你让我想起了法国浪漫主义诗人罗拉和福尔图尼奥的英雄，以及所有其他贪得无厌的绅士，对他们来说，这个世界上没有什么是足够英俊的。但我看你是认真的，我很乐意帮助你。”

“亲爱的，你到底要找谁来对付他？”崔斯特瑞姆哭了。 “谢天谢地，我们认识很多漂亮女孩，但出色的女性并不常见。”

“你对外国人有什么异议吗？”他的妻子继续对纽曼说话，纽曼把椅子向后倾斜，脚踩在阳台栏杆上，双手插在口袋里，正在仰望星空。

“爱尔兰人不需要申请，”崔斯特瑞姆说。

纽曼沉思了一会儿。 “作为一个外国人，不，”他最后说道。 “我没有偏见。”

“我亲爱的朋友，你没有任何怀疑！”崔斯特瑞姆喊道。 “你不知道这些外国女人是多么糟糕的顾客；尤其是“宏伟”的。你会喜欢一个腰带上插着匕首的美丽切尔克斯人吗？”

纽曼用力拍了一下膝盖。 “如果我高兴的话，我会嫁给一个日本人，”他肯定道。

“我们最好把自己限制在欧洲，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。 “那么，唯一的问题就是这个人本身符合你的口味吗？”

“她将为你提供一个不受赏识的家庭教师！”崔斯特瑞姆呻吟着。

” “当然。我不否认，在其他条件相同的情况下，我应该更喜欢我自己的同胞之一。我们应该说相同的语言，那将是一种安慰。但我不怕外国人。此外，我也很喜欢去欧洲的想法。它扩大了选择范围。当你从更多的数量中进行选择时，你可以将你的选择做到更精细！”

“你说话像萨达纳帕鲁斯！”崔斯特瑞姆惊呼道。

“你对正确的人说这一切，”纽曼的女主人说。 “我碰巧把我的朋友列为世界上最可爱的女人。不多也不少。我并不是说一个非常有魅力的人或者一个非常值得尊敬的女人或者一个非常美丽的人；我只是说世界上最可爱的女人。”

“平局！”崔斯特瑞姆喊道，“你对她一直保持沉默。你怕我吗？”

“你见过她，”他的妻子说，“但你没有意识到克莱尔的优点。”

“啊，她叫克莱尔？我放弃了。”

“你的朋友想结婚吗？”纽曼问道。

“一点也不。你要让她改变主意。没那么简单;她有过一个丈夫，但他对这个物种的评价很低。”

“哦，那么她是个寡妇吗？”纽曼说。

“你已经害怕了吗？她十八岁时，父母以法国方式嫁给了一位令人讨厌的老人。但几年后他就死了，而她现在二十五岁了。”

“所以她是法国人？”

“她父亲学法语，母亲学英语。她确实更像英国人而不是法国人，而且她的英语说得和你我一样好——或者说更好。正如他们所说，她属于篮子的最顶端。她的家人都非常古老。她的母亲是一位英国天主教伯爵的女儿。她的父亲去世了，自从守寡以来，她一直与母亲和已婚的兄弟住在一起。还有一个弟弟，比我小，我相信他很狂野。他们在大学街有一家老旅馆，但他们的财产不多，为了经济起见，他们组成了一个普通的家庭。当我还是个女孩的时候，我被送进修道院接受教育，而我的父亲则环游欧洲。这对我来说是一件愚蠢的事情，但它的好处是它让我认识了克莱尔·德·贝勒加德。她比我年轻，但我们成了好朋友。我非常喜欢她，她也尽可能地回报了我的热情。他们对她的控制非常严格，她几乎无能为力，当我离开修道院时，她不得不放弃我。我不属于她 世界;我现在也不是，但我们有时会见面。他们是可怕的人——她 世界;它们都骑在一英里高的高跷上，血统比例也很长。这是老牛奶的脱脂 贵族。你知道什么是正统主义者，什么是极端主义者吗？某个下午五点钟走进德·辛特雷夫人的客厅，您会看到保存最完好的标本。我说走吧，但凡不能出示五十枚硬币的人都不会被录取。”

“这就是你向我求婚的那位女士吗？”纽曼问道。 “一个我根本无法接近的女士？”

“但你刚才说你不认为有任何障碍。”

纽曼抚摸着自己的小胡子，看了崔斯特瑞姆夫人一会儿。 “她是个美女吗？”他问道。

“没有。”

“哦，那就没有用了——”

“她不是美女，但她很漂亮，这是两个截然不同的东西。美女的脸上没有缺点，美丽的女人的脸上可能有缺点，只会加深她的魅力。”

“我现在记得德·辛特雷夫人了，”崔斯特瑞姆说。 “她就像一根长矛杆一样朴素。男人不会多看她两眼。”

“这么说来 he “我不会多看她两眼，我丈夫已经充分描述了她，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人回答道。

“她好吗？她聪明吗？纽曼问道。

“她是完美的！我不会说更多。当你向另一个认识的人赞扬一个人时，详细说明是不好的策略。我不会夸大其词。我只是推荐她。在我认识的所有女性中，她是独一无二的；她是由不同的粘土制成的。”

“我想见见她，”纽曼简单地说。

“我会尽力管理它。唯一的办法就是请她吃饭。我以前从来没有邀请过她，也不知道她会来。她的母亲是一位封建伯爵夫人，用铁腕统治着这个家庭，除了她自己选择的之外，没有任何朋友，并且只能在某个神圣的圈子里拜访。但我至少可以问问她。”

这时，崔斯特瑞姆夫人被打断了。一名仆人走到阳台上，宣布客厅里有客人。当纽曼的女主人进去接待她的朋友时，汤姆·崔斯特瑞姆走近他的客人。

“不要把你的脚伸进 Free Introduction，我的孩子，”他说着，吐出了最后一口雪茄。 “里面什么都没有！”

纽曼好奇地斜视着他。 “你再讲一个故事，嗯？”

“我简单地说，德·辛特雷夫人是一个伟大的白色女人娃娃，她培养着安静的傲慢。”

“啊，她很傲慢吧？”

“她看着你就好像你是那么稀薄的空气，并且同样关心你。”

“她很自豪，嗯？”

“自豪的？我既骄傲又谦虚。”

“而且不好看？”

崔斯特瑞姆耸耸肩：“你一定是一种美。” 知识分子 去理解。但我必须进去让大家开心。”

过了一段时间，纽曼才跟着他的朋友们走进客厅。当他最后出现在那里时，他只停留了很短的时间，在此期间，他完全安静地坐着，听着特里斯特瑞姆夫人立即向他介绍的一位女士，她不停地喋喋不休，充满了异常高亢的声音。纽曼注视着并参与其中。不久他过来向崔斯特瑞姆夫人道晚安。

“那位女士是谁？”他问。

“多拉·芬奇小姐。你觉得她怎么样？”

“她太吵了。”

“她被认为很聪明！当然，你很挑剔。”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。

纽曼站了一会儿，犹豫着。最后，“别忘了你的朋友，”他说，“女士，她叫什么名字？骄傲的美丽。请她吃饭，并提前通知我。”说完他就离开了。

几天后他回来了。那是在下午。他在特里斯特瑞姆夫人的客厅里找到了她。和她一起来的是一位访客，一位年轻漂亮、身穿白衣的女人。两位女士已经起身，来访者显然正在告辞。当纽曼走近时，崔斯特瑞姆夫人向他投来了一个意味深长的目光，但他无法立即理解这一目光。

“这是我们的好朋友，”她转向她的同伴，“先生。”克里斯托弗·纽曼。我已经跟他谈起过你，他非常想认识你。如果你同意来吃饭，我就应该给他一个机会。”

陌生人把脸转向纽曼，微笑着。他并不感到尴尬，因为他无意识地 桑弗里德 是无边无际的；但当他意识到这就是骄傲而美丽的德·辛特雷夫人，世界上最可爱的女人，承诺的完美，提出的理想时，他本能地集中了自己的智慧。通过这种轻微的专注，他感觉到一张长而白皙的脸，以及两只明亮而温和的眼睛。

“我应该感到非常高兴，”德辛特雷夫人说。 “不幸的是，正如我一直告诉崔斯特瑞姆夫人的那样，我周一要去乡下。”

纽曼庄严地鞠了一躬。 “我非常抱歉，”他说。

“巴黎变得太热了，”德·辛特雷夫人补充道，再次握住她朋友的手告别。

崔斯特瑞姆夫人似乎突然做出了一个有点冒险的决定，她笑得更灿烂了，就像女人做出这样的决定时一样。 “我想让纽曼先生认识你，”她说，把头偏向一侧，看着德·辛特雷夫人的帽子丝带。

克里斯托弗·纽曼严肃地站着，一言不发，而他天生的洞察力则在告诫他。崔斯特瑞姆夫人决心强迫她的朋友对他说一句鼓励的话，而这不仅仅是一种常见的礼貌用语。如果说她是出于慈善事业，那也是从家庭开始的慈善事业。德辛特雷夫人是她最亲爱的克莱尔，也是她特别钦佩的人，但德辛特雷夫人发现不可能和她一起吃饭，德辛特雷夫人应该这一次被迫温和地向崔斯特瑞姆夫人致敬。

“这会让我非常高兴，”她看着崔斯特瑞姆夫人说道。

“德·辛特雷夫人说的，”后者喊道，“这是一件大事！”

“我非常感谢你，”纽曼说。 “太太。崔斯特瑞姆能为我说话，比我为自己说话还要好。”

德·辛特雷夫人再次看着他，目光同样柔和。 “你要在巴黎待很久吗？”她问。

“我们会留下他，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。

“但是你一直在 我！”德辛特雷夫人握着她朋友的手。

“再等一下，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。

德·辛特雷夫人又看了看纽曼。这次没有她的笑容。她的目光停留了片刻。 “你会来看我吗？”她问。

崔斯特瑞姆夫人吻了她。纽曼表达了谢意，然后她就告辞了。女主人陪她走到门口，留下纽曼独自呆了一会儿。不久她回来了，搓着手。 “这是一个幸运的机会，”她说。 “她是来拒绝我的邀请的。你当场就胜利了，三分钟后她就邀请你去她家。”

“是你胜利了，”纽曼说。 “你不能对她太严厉。”

崔斯特瑞姆夫人凝视着。 “你是什么意思？”

“我觉得她并不那么骄傲。我应该说她很害羞。”

“你很有歧视性。那你觉得她的脸怎么样？”

“真帅啊！”纽曼说。

“我应该认为是吧！你当然会去看她。”

“明天！”纽曼喊道。

“不，明天不行；明天不行。”第二天。那是星期日；她周一离开巴黎。如果你没有看到她；这至少将是一个开始。”她给了他德辛特雷夫人的地址。

夏日午后，他穿过塞纳河，穿过圣日耳曼郊区那些灰色而寂静的街道，那里的房屋向外界呈现出一张冷漠的面孔，暗示着内部隐私的集中。东部后宫的空白墙壁。纽曼认为富人的生活方式很奇怪。他理想中的宏伟是一个华丽的外观，同时也向外散发光彩，散发出热情好客的气息。他被引导到的那栋房子有一扇漆黑、布满灰尘的大门，随着他的铃声而打开。他进入了一个宽阔的、铺着碎石的庭院，庭院的三面都关着窗户，门口面向街道，需要三级台阶才能到达，上面有一个锡制天篷。这个地方全都在阴凉处。它符合纽曼的修道院概念。女门童无法告诉他德·辛特雷夫人是否可见。他愿意到较远的门口去申请。他穿过球场；一位绅士没戴帽子，坐在门廊的台阶上，玩着一支漂亮的教鞭。当纽曼走近时，他站了起来，当他把手放在门铃上时，他用英语微笑着说，他担心纽曼会一直等下去；但他没有这么做。仆人们四散而去，他自己也一直在按铃，他不知道他们到底是怎么回事。他是个年轻人，英语流利，笑容很率真。纽曼念出德辛特雷夫人的名字。

“我想，”年轻人说，“我的妹妹是可见的。进来吧，如果你愿意给我你的名片，我会亲自拿给她。”

纽曼在执行他目前的任务时伴随着一种轻微的情绪，我不会说是蔑视——准备进攻或防御，因为它们可能被证明是必要的——而是反思，幽默的怀疑。当他站在门廊上时，他从口袋里拿出一张卡片，上面在他的名字下写着“旧金山”几个字，当他递出卡片时，他警惕地看着他的对话者。他的目光格外令人安心。他喜欢这个年轻人的脸；它与德·辛特雷夫人的非常相似。他显然是她的哥哥。身旁的年轻人迅速打量了纽曼的身形。他接过卡，正要带着它进屋，门槛上又出现了一个人影——一个穿着晚礼服、仪表堂堂的老人。他认真地看着纽曼，纽曼也看着他。 “德辛特雷夫人，”年轻人重复道，作为对来访者的介绍。另一个人从他手里接过卡片，快速地看了一眼，又从头到脚打量了纽曼，犹豫了一会儿，然后严肃而彬彬有礼地说：“德·辛特雷夫人不在家。”

年轻人做了个手势，然后转向纽曼，“我很抱歉，先生，”他说。

纽曼友好地向他点了点头，表示对他没有恶意，然后又原路返回。在门房的小屋里，他停了下来。两个人仍然站在门廊上。

“带狗的那位先生是谁？”他向再次出现的老妇人询问。他已经开始学习法语。

“那是伯爵先生。”

“和另一个？”

“那是侯爵先生。”

“侯爵？”克里斯托弗用英语说道，幸好老妇人听不懂。 “哦，那他就不是管家了！”

一天清晨，克里斯托弗·纽曼还没穿好衣服，一位小老头就被领进了他的公寓，后面跟着一位穿着衬衫的年轻人，手里拿着一张装在精美相框里的照片。纽曼在巴黎的喧嚣中忘记了尼奥什先生和他多才多艺的女儿。但这是一个有效的提醒。

“恐怕您已经放弃了我，先生。”在多次道歉和致意后，老人说道。 “我们让你等了这么多天了。也许你指责我们反复无常、不守信用。但终于看到我了！还有美丽的麦当娜。我的朋友，把它放在椅子上，光线充足的地方，以便先生欣赏。”尼奥什先生向他的同伴讲话，帮助他处理了这件艺术品。

它涂了一层一英寸厚的清漆，框架上有精美的图案，至少有一英尺宽。它在晨光中闪闪发光，在纽曼眼中显得异常辉煌和珍贵。对他来说，这是一次非常愉快的购买，拥有它让他感到很富有。他站在那里，得意地看着它，一边继续上厕所，尼奥什先生已经打发了自己的侍从，在附近徘徊，微笑着搓着双手。

“它有美妙的 灵巧”他轻柔地低声说道。 “这里那里都有奇妙的触感，你可能察觉到了，先生。当我们走过时，它在林荫大道上引起了极大的关注。然后是色调渐变！这就是懂得如何绘画。我这么说并不是因为我是她的父亲，先生；但作为一个有品味的人向另一个人讲话时，我不禁注意到你那里有一件精美的作品。产生这样的东西并不得不放弃它们是很困难的。如果我们的财力允许我们奢侈地保留它就好了！我真的可以说，先生——”尼奥什先生微弱地笑了一声——“我真的可以说，我羡慕你！你看，”他随即补充道，“我们冒昧地为你提供了一个框架。它会稍微增加工作的价值，而且会省去你去商店讨价还价的烦恼——这对你这样一个精致的人来说真是太好了。”

尼奥什先生所说的语言是一种独特的复合语言，我不敢尝试完整地再现它。他显然曾经掌握过一定的英语知识，他的口音奇怪地带有英国大都市的伦敦腔。但他的学识因闲置而变得生锈，他的词汇也有缺陷且反复无常。他用大量的法语、通过他自己的方法将单词英语化的单词以及按字面翻译的本土习语对其进行了修复。他以谦虚的态度呈现出来的结果，读者几乎无法理解，因此我冒险对其进行了修剪和筛选。纽曼只听懂了一半，但这让他感到好笑，而老人体面的孤独感激发了他的民主本能。假设他会在痛苦中死去，这总是会激怒他坚强的善良本性——这几乎是唯一这样做的事情；他感到有一种冲动，想要用自己的繁荣来消灭它。然而，诺埃米小姐的爸爸这次显然受到了大力的灌输，他表现出了某种颤抖的渴望，渴望创造意想不到的机会。

“那么，这个框架我欠你多少钱？”纽曼问道。

“总共可以赚三千法郎。”老人愉快地微笑着说道，但双手交叉，露出本能的恳求。

“你可以给我一张收据吗？”

“我带来了一个，”尼奥什先生说。 “我冒昧地起草了这份文件，以防先生碰巧想要偿还他的债务。”他从口袋里掏出一张纸，递给他的赞助人。这份文件的书写速度非常快，书写得非常出色，并且采用了最精挑细选的语言。

纽曼放下钱，尼奥什先生郑重而充满爱意地把拿破仑一件一件地放进一个旧皮包里。

“那你的小姐怎么样了？”纽曼问道。 “她给我留下了深刻的印象。”

“一个印象？先生人很好。先生很欣赏她的容貌？”

“当然，她非常漂亮。”

“唉，是啊，她很漂亮！”

“她长得漂亮有什么坏处呢？”

尼奥什先生盯着地毯上的一个地方，摇了摇头。然后抬头看着纽曼，目光似乎变得明亮而开阔，“先生知道巴黎是什么。当美丽没有灵魂时，她对美丽来说是危险的。”

“啊，但你女儿的情况并非如此。她现在很有钱了。”

“非常正确；我们已经富有了六个月。但如果我的女儿是个普通女孩，我还是应该睡得更好。”

“你害怕那些年轻人吗？”

“年轻人和老年人！”

“她应该找个丈夫。”

“啊，先生，一个人不是白白得到一个丈夫的。她的丈夫必须接受她本来的样子；我不能给她一苏。但年轻人并没有用那只眼睛去看。”

“哦，”纽曼说，“她的才华本身就是一份嫁妆。”

“啊，先生，需要先兑换成货币！”尼奥什先生温柔地拍了拍他的钱包，然后把它收了起来。 “手术并不是每天都进行。”

“嗯，你们的年轻人很破旧，”纽曼说。 “我只能说这么多。他们应该为你女儿付钱，而不是自己要钱。”

“这些都是非常崇高的想法，先生；但你会得到什么呢？它们不是这个国家的想法。我们想知道当我们结婚时我们会做什么。”

“你女儿想要多大份？”

尼奥什先生凝视着，仿佛想知道接下来会发生什么。但他很快就恢复过来，冒险回答说，他认识一个非常好的年轻人，受雇于一家保险公司，只要一万五千法郎就可以满足。

“让你女儿给我画六幅画，她就会得到嫁妆。”

“六张照片——她的嫁妆！先生这话是不是很失礼啊？”

纽曼说：“如果她愿意在卢浮宫为我制作六到八本像麦当娜一样漂亮的作品，我就会付给她同样的价格。”

可怜的尼奥什先生一时间说不出话来，既惊讶又感激，然后他抓住纽曼的手，用自己的十根手指夹住，用水汪汪的眼睛看着他。 “有那么漂亮吗？它们将美丽一千倍——它们将宏伟、崇高。啊，如果我自己会画画就好了，先生，这样我就可以伸出援手了！我能做什么来感谢你呢？ 航海者！”他按着额头，努力思考着什么。

“哦，你已经足够感谢我了，”纽曼说。

“啊，在这里，先生！”尼奥什先生喊道。 “为了表达我的谢意，我不会向您收取法语会话课程的费用。”

“教训？我已经完全忘记了他们。听你的英语，”纽曼笑着补充道，“几乎就像一堂法语课。”

“啊，我当然不自称教英语，”尼奥什先生说。 “但为了我自己令人钦佩的舌头，我仍然愿意为你服务。”

“既然你来了，那么，”纽曼说，“我们就开始吧。这是一个非常好的时刻。我要去喝咖啡了；每天早上九点半来，把你的和我一起吃。”

“先生也请我喝咖啡吗？”尼奥什先生喊道。 “说实话，我的 情人 正在回来。”

“来吧，”纽曼说，“让我们开始吧。咖啡非常热。这句话用法语怎么说？

接下来的三周里，尼奥什先生那令人尊敬的人物每天都会在纽曼早晨喝的饮料的芳香中出现，伴随着一系列小小的询问和歉意的鞠躬。我不知道我们的朋友学了多少法语，但是，正如他自己所说，如果这种尝试对他没有好处，那么至少不会对他造成任何伤害。这让他觉得好笑。它满足了他天性中不规则的社交一面，这种一面总是表现在对不合语法的谈话的兴趣中，即使在他忙碌而全神贯注的日子里，这也常常使他坐在西部年轻城镇的铁栅栏上，在暮色中，在与幽默的游手好闲者和默默无闻的求财者之间的八卦几乎不亚于兄弟般的关系。无论走到哪里，他都有与当地人交谈的想法。他确信，出国旅行了解这个国家的生活是一件极好的事情，他的判断也批准了这个建议。尼奥什先生是个土生土长的人，尽管他的生活可能并不特别值得研究，但在风景如画的巴黎文明中，他是一个明显而圆润的整体，为我们的英雄提供了如此多的轻松娱乐，并提出了如此多奇怪的问题以他的好奇和务实的头脑。纽曼喜欢统计。他喜欢知道事情是如何完成的；他很高兴地了解到缴纳了哪些税款，获得了哪些利润，盛行什么商业习惯，以及如何进行生命之战。尼奥什先生，作为一个堕落的资本家，熟悉这些考虑因素，他制定了他的信息，他很自豪能够以尽可能简洁的术语，用手指和拇指捏一撮鼻烟来传达这些信息。作为一个法国人——与纽曼的拿破仑截然不同——M.尼奥什喜欢交谈，即使在他衰弱的时候，他的彬彬有礼也没有变得生锈。作为一个法国人，他也可以对事物做出清晰的解释，而且——仍然作为一个法国人——当他的知识有缺陷时，他可以用最方便和巧妙的假设来弥补它的缺陷。这位瘦小的金融家非常高兴有人问他问题，他通过节俭的过程收集信息，并在他那油腻的小本子上记下可能让他慷慨的朋友感兴趣的事件。他在码头的书摊上阅读旧年历，并开始经常光顾另一家书店。 咖啡，更多的报纸被拿走，他的餐后 德米塔斯 额外花费了他一便士，他常常在破烂的床单上骗取好奇的轶事、自然的怪异和奇怪的巧合。第二天早上，他会郑重地讲述最近在波尔多死亡的一名五岁儿童的事件，他的大脑被发现重达六十盎司——拿破仑或华盛顿的大脑！或者那个P夫人—— 熟食店 在克利希街上，她在一件旧衬裙的填充物里发现了三百六十法郎，这是她五年前丢失的。他的发音非常清晰、响亮，纽曼向他保证，他处理法语的方式比他在其他人嘴里听到的令人困惑的喋喋不休要优越得多。尼奥什先生的口音变得比以往任何时候都更加尖刻，他主动提出朗读拉马丁的摘录，他抗议说，尽管他确实根据自己微弱的光芒努力培养措辞的精致，先生，如果他想要真实的东西，应该去法国剧院。

纽曼对法国的节俭很感兴趣，并对巴黎的经济产生了强烈的钦佩。他自己的经济天才完全是为了更大规模的经营，而且，为了轻松地行动，他迫切需要巨大风险和巨大回报的感觉，以至于他在聚集所创造的财富奇观中找到了一种毫不吝惜的娱乐。铜币，以及劳动和利润的微小细分。他向尼奥什先生询问了他自己的生活方式，并对尼奥什先生的精致节俭的叙述感到一种友好的同情和尊重。这位可敬的人告诉他，在某个时期，他和他的女儿是如何靠十五苏的总和舒适地维持生活的。 每日津贴;最近，在成功地将他的财富残骸中最后漂浮的碎片拖上岸后，他的预算稍微充裕了一些。但他们仍然必须非常狭隘地计算他们的苏，尼奥什先生叹了口气，暗示诺埃米小姐没有为这项任务带来人们可能期望的热心合作。

“但是你会得到什么呢？”他富有哲理地问道。 “一个人年轻，一个人漂亮，一个人需要新衣服和新手套；一个人不能在卢浮宫的金碧辉煌中穿着破旧的礼服。”

“但你女儿的收入足以买她自己的衣服，”纽曼说。

尼奥什先生用虚弱而不确定的眼神看着他。他本来希望能够说他女儿的才华受到了赞赏，她那歪歪扭扭的小涂鸦占据了市场；但滥用这个自由自在的陌生人的轻信似乎是一个丑闻，而这个陌生人毫无怀疑或疑问地承认他享有平等的社会权利。他妥协了，并宣称，虽然诺埃米小姐对古代大师的复制品显然只会让人垂涎，但考虑到它们完全奇特的完成程度，她觉得有必要保留它们的价格。购买者保持一定的距离。 “可怜的小家伙！”尼奥什先生叹了口气说道。 “可惜她的作品如此完美！画得少一点才符合她的利益。”

“但是，如果诺埃米小姐对她的艺术如此热爱，”纽曼曾经评论道，“你为什么要为她担心你前几天谈到的那些事情呢？”

尼奥什先生沉思道：他的立场不一致；这让他长期感到不舒服。尽管他并不想毁掉金蛋鹅——纽曼的仁慈信心——但他还是有一种颤抖的冲动，想要说出自己所有的烦恼。 “啊，亲爱的先生，她无疑是一位艺术家，”他宣称。 “但是，说实话，她也是一个 弗朗什风骚。我很遗憾地说，”他随即补充道，带着一种无伤大雅的痛苦摇着头，“她是诚实地做到了。她的母亲就是她之前的一位！”

“你对你的妻子不满意吗？”纽曼问道。

尼奥什先生轻轻地向后摇了六下头。 “她是我的炼狱，先生！”

“她骗你了？”

“在我眼皮底下，年复一年。我太傻了，诱惑太大了。但我最后还是发现了她。我一生中只做过一次让人害怕的人；我很清楚这一点；就在那个时候！尽管如此，我还是不愿意去想它。我爱她——我无法告诉你有多爱她。她是个坏女人。”

“她已经不在人世了？”

“她已经转到她的账户了。”

“那么，她对你女儿的影响，”纽曼鼓励地说，“不用担心。”

“她对女儿的关心就像对鞋底的关心一样！但诺埃米不需要影响力。她自己就足够了。她比我强。”

“她不听你的话，嗯？”

“她不能服从，先生，因为我不发号施令。会有什么用呢？这只会激怒她并驱使她去做一些事情 政变。她很聪明，就像她的母亲一样；她不会为此浪费时间。当我还是个孩子的时候——当我很快乐的时候，或者我以为我很快乐的时候——她和一流的教授一起学习绘画，他们向我保证她有天赋。我很高兴地相信这一点，当我步入社会时，我常常把她的照片放在一个文件夹里，然后交给公司。我记得有一次，一位女士以为我在出售它们，我对此感到非常不舒服。我们不知道我们会遇到什么！然后是我的黑暗日子，以及我和尼奥什夫人的爆发。诺埃米不再上二十法郎的课了；但随着时间的推移，当她长大了，她应该做一些有助于让我们活下去的事情变得非常有利，她开始考虑她的调色板和画笔。我们的一些朋友在 的Quartier 宣称这个想法太棒了：他们建议她尝试制作帽子，在商店里获得一个职位，或者——如果她更有野心——为一个地方做广告 圣母院。她确实做了广告，一位老太太给她写了一封信，请她来看她。老太太很喜欢她，愿意为她提供生活费和每年​​六百法郎。但诺埃米发现，她在扶手椅上度过了一生，只有两个访客，她的告解神父和她的侄子：告解神父非常严格，而侄子是一个五十岁的男人，鼻子骨折，在政府文员职位上有两千法郎。她把老太太推倒在地，买了一个颜料盒、一块画布和一件新衣服，然后去卢浮宫把画架架起来。她在一处又一处度过了过去的两年。我不能说它让我们成为了百万富翁。但诺埃米告诉我，罗马不是一天建成的，她正在取得巨大进步，我必须让她自行其是。事实上，在不影响她天才的情况下，她根本不知道要活埋自己。她喜欢看世界，也喜欢被人看到。她自己说，她不能在黑暗中工作。就她的外表而言，这是非常自然的。只是，我忍不住担心、颤抖，想知道她独自一人，日复一日，在陌生人的来来往往中，会发生什么。我不能一直陪在她身边。早上我和她一起去，我来接她走，但她不让我在她身边；她说我让她紧张。好像没有她陪伴我一整天都不会感到紧张！啊，要是她出了什么事就好了！” “尼奥什先生叫道，他握紧两只拳头，又向后仰了仰头，一副不祥的样子。

“哦，我想什么也不会发生，”纽曼说。

“我觉得我应该开枪射杀她！”老者郑重的说道。

“哦，我们会娶她，”纽曼说，“因为这就是你处理事情的方式；明天我会去卢浮宫看她，并挑选出她要为我临摹的画作。”

尼奥什先生给纽曼带来了他女儿的口信，表示接受他的伟大委托，这位年轻的女士宣称自己是他最忠实的仆人，承诺她将尽最大的努力，但遗憾的是，礼节不允许她亲自来感谢他。谈话结束后的第二天早上，纽曼又恢复了在卢浮宫会见诺埃米小姐的打算。尼奥什先生显得全神贯注，并没有打开他的轶事预算。他吸了很多鼻烟，并向他那魁梧的学生投来了一些斜视、恳求的目光。最后，当他离开时，他用印花布手帕擦亮了帽子，站了一会儿，用他那双苍白的小眼睛奇怪地盯着纽曼。

“怎么了？”我们的英雄问道。

“恕父心之牵挂！”尼奥什先生说。 “你给了我无限的信心，但我也忍不住要给你一个警告。毕竟，你是一个男人，你还年轻，而且很自由。那么，请您尊重尼奥什小姐的清白！”

纽曼想知道接下来会发生什么，听到这里他突然笑了起来。他正要宣称自己的清白更加暴露，但他满足于承诺对这个年轻女孩充满敬意。他发现她正坐在卡雷沙龙的大沙发上等他。她没有穿着工作日的服装，但戴着帽子和手套，并带着阳伞，以纪念这一场合。这些文章都是经过精心挑选的，呈现出一种青春机敏、谨慎谨慎的清新、漂亮的形象，这是不可想象的。她向纽曼行了最恭敬的屈膝礼，并以极其优雅的简短讲话表达了对他慷慨的感激之情。一个迷人的年轻女孩站在那里向他表示感谢，这让他很恼火，而想到这个完美的年轻女士，举止优雅，语调优美，简直就是他的报酬，这让他感到不舒服。他用他能用的法语向她保证，这件事不值得一提，他认为她的服务是一个很大的帮助。

“那么，只要您愿意，我们就会通过审查。”诺埃米小姐说道。

他们在房间里慢慢地走来走去，然后又走进其他人的房间里，走了半个小时。诺埃米小姐显然对自己的处境很满意，并不想结束对这位外表引人注目的赞助人的公开采访。纽曼认为繁荣与她相符。上次见面时，她对父亲说话时那种薄唇、专横的神情，现在已经被最缠绵和爱抚的语气所取代。

“你想要什么样的照片？”她问。 “神圣的，还是亵渎的？”

“哦，每样都有一些，”纽曼说。 “但我想要一些明亮而快乐的东西。”

“有同性恋的事吗？这座庄严古老的卢浮宫里并没有什么令人愉快的地方。但我们会看看我们能找到什么。你今天说法语真是太有魅力了。我的父亲创造了奇迹。”

“哦，我是一个坏主题，”纽曼说。 “我已经太老了，学不了语言了。”

“太老？ 奎尔福利！“诺埃米小姐大声喊道，笑声清脆刺耳。 “你是一个非常年轻的人。那你觉得我父亲怎么样？”

“他是一位非常和善的老先生。他从不嘲笑我的错误。”

“他很 COMME IL faut，我的爸爸，”诺埃米小姐说，“而且和今天一样诚实。哦，非凡的正直！你可以相信他有数百万美元。”

“你总是服从他吗？”纽曼问道。

“服从他？”

“你会按照他的吩咐去做吗？”

年轻的女孩停下来看着他。她的脸颊上有一点红斑，而她富有表现力的法式眼眸，虽然显得过于突出，无法达到完美的美感，但也闪烁着一丝大胆的光芒。 “你为什么问我这个？”她问道。

“因为我想知道。”

“你认为我是个坏女孩？”她露出了一个奇怪的微笑。

纽曼看了她一会儿。他看到她很漂亮，但他一点也不眼花缭乱。他记得可怜的尼奥什先生对她“清白”的关心，当他的目光与她相遇时，他笑了。她的脸是青春与成熟的最奇怪的混合体，在她坦率的眉毛下，她那探寻的小微笑似乎包含着一个充满暧昧意图的世界。她很漂亮，这肯定会让她父亲感到紧张。但是，至于她的清白，纽曼当场就准备好确认她从未放弃过。她根本就没有拥有过任何东西。她从十岁起就开始看这个世界，他本来就是个聪明人，有什么秘密都能告诉她。在卢浮宫的漫长早晨里，她不仅研究了圣母和圣约翰，还研究了圣母和圣约翰的作品。她密切关注着周围各种不同的人性，并得出了自己的结论。从某种意义上说，在纽曼看来，尼奥什先生可能处于休息状态。他的女儿可能会做一些非常大胆的事情，但她绝不会做任何愚蠢的事情。纽曼的笑容悠长、悠闲，说话平稳、不紧不慢，在精神上总是从容不迫。现在他问自己，她为什么这样看着他。他有一个想法，她希望他承认他确实认为她是一个坏女孩。

“哦，不，”他最后说道。 “这样评价你对我来说是非常不礼貌的。我不认识你。”

“但是我父亲向你抱怨过，”诺埃米小姐说。

“他说你是个卖弄风骚的人。”

“他不应该对先生们说这样的话！但你不相信？”

“不，”纽曼严肃地说，“我不相信。”

她又看了他一眼，耸耸肩，微笑了一下，然后指着一张意大利小画，《圣凯瑟琳的婚礼》。 “你应该怎样喜欢呢？”她问。

“这让我不高兴，”纽曼说。 “那个穿黄裙子的小姐不漂亮。”

“啊，你真是一位伟大的鉴赏家，”诺埃米小姐低声说道。

“在照片里？不好了;我对他们知之甚少。”

“那么，在漂亮女人身上。”

“在这一点上我也好不到哪去。”

“那你对此有何看法？”年轻女孩指着一幅精美的意大利女士肖像问道。 “我会在较小的规模上为你做。”

“规模较小？为什么不像原来的那么大？”

诺埃米小姐看了一眼威尼斯杰作的光彩，轻轻摇了摇头。 “我不喜欢那个女人。她看上去很蠢。”

“我确实喜欢她，”纽曼说。 “我决定，一定要拥有她，就像生命一样重要。就像她在那里一样愚蠢。”

少女再次将目光落在了他的身上，脸上带着嘲讽的笑容：“要让她显得愚蠢，我当然是轻而易举的事！”她说。

“你是什么意思？”纽曼疑惑地问道。

她又耸了耸肩。 “那么说真的，你想要那幅肖像——金色的头发，紫色的缎子，珍珠项链，两条华丽的手臂？”

“一切——就这样。”

“没有别的办法可以代替吗？”

“哦，我想要一些其他的东西，但我也想要那个。”

诺埃米小姐转过身去，走到大厅的另一边，站在那里，茫然地环顾四周。最后她回来了。 “能够以这样的价格订购照片一定很迷人。威尼斯肖像，栩栩如生！你去吧 王子。你打算这样去欧洲旅行吗？”

“是的，我想去旅行，”纽曼说。

“订、买、花钱？”

“我当然要花点钱。”

“你很高兴拥有它。那么你就完全自由了吗？”

“你说免费是什么意思？”

“没有什么可以打扰你——没有家人，没有妻子，没有 未婚妻？=

“是的，我还算自由。”

“你很高兴，”诺埃米小姐严肃地说。

“Je le veux bien！”纽曼说道，这证明他学到的法语比他承认的要多。

“那你要在巴黎待多久？”年轻女孩继续说道。

“只剩几天了。”

“你为什么要走？”

“天气越来越热了，我必须去瑞士。”

“去瑞士？那是一个很好的国家。我会把我的新遮阳伞给你看看！湖泊和山脉，浪漫的山谷和冰冷的山峰！哦，我祝贺你。与此同时，我将坐在这里度过整个炎热的夏天，涂抹你的画。”

“哦，慢慢来，”纽曼说。 “在你方便的时候做。”

他们又往前走，又看了十几样东西。纽曼指出了令他高兴的事情，而诺埃米小姐则普遍批评了这一点，并提出了其他建议。然后她突然岔开话题，开始谈论一些私人问题。

“那天你在 Carré 沙龙跟我说话的原因是什么？”她突然问道。

“我很欣赏你的照片。”

“可是你犹豫了很久。”

“哦，我不会鲁莽行事，”纽曼说。

“是的，我看到你在看着我。但我从没想过你会跟我说话。我做梦也没想到今天我会和你一起在这里散步。非常好奇。”

“这很自然，”纽曼说。

“哦，请原谅；不适合我。你认为我风骚，但我以前从来没有和一位绅士一起在公共场合走来走去。当我父亲同意接受我们的采访时，他在想什么？”

“他正在为自己的不公正指控悔改，”纽曼回答道。

诺埃米小姐保持沉默。最后她坐到了座位上。 “那么，对于这五个人来说，这是固定的，”她说。 “我尽我所能制作五份尽可能绚丽美丽的副本。我们还有一个可以选择。您难道不应该喜欢鲁本斯的伟大作品之一——玛丽·德·美第奇的婚姻吗？看看它，看看它有多帅。”

“哦是的;我应该喜欢这样，”纽曼说。 “就这样结束吧。”

“就这样结束吧——好！”她笑了。她坐了一会儿，看着他，然后突然站起来，站在他面前，双手垂在身前。 “我不明白你的意思，”她微笑着说。 “我不明白一个人怎么会如此无知。”

“哦，我确实无知，”纽曼把手插进口袋说道。

“太荒谬了！我不会画画。”

“你不知道怎么办？”

“我像猫一样画画；我无法画直线。我从来没有卖过一幅画，直到有一天你买了那幅画。”当她提供这个令人惊讶的信息时，她继续微笑。

纽曼突然大笑起来。 “你为什么告诉我这个？”他问。

“因为看到一个聪明人犯这样的错误让我很恼火。我的照片很怪诞。”

“而我拥有的那个——”

“那个比平常更糟糕。”

“好吧，”纽曼说，“我还是喜欢它！”

她斜眼看着他。 “这话说得非常漂亮，”她回答道。 “但我有责任在你走得更远之前警告你。你知道，你的这个命令是不可能的。你当我是什么？这是十个人的工作。你在卢浮宫挑选了六幅最难的画，然后你期望我去上班，就像我坐下来给一打口袋手帕缝边一样。我倒要看看你能走多远。”

纽曼有些困惑地看着少女。尽管他犯下了可笑的错误，但他远不是一个傻瓜，他强烈怀疑诺埃米小姐突然的坦白本质上并不比她让他犯错误更诚实。她正在玩游戏；她不仅仅是同情他的审美青翠。她期望赢得什么？赌注很高，风险也很大；因此，奖励一定是相称的。但即使承认这个奖项可能很丰厚，纽曼还是忍不住对他同伴的勇敢表示钦佩。她一只手扔掉了一大笔钱，不管她想用另一只手做什么。

“你是在开玩笑，”他说，“还是认真的？”

“噢，说真的！”诺埃米小姐喊道，脸上却带着非凡的微笑。

“我对图画或它们是如何绘制的知之甚少。如果你不能做到这一切，那你当然不能。那就尽力吧。”

“这将非常糟糕，”诺埃米小姐说。

“哦，”纽曼笑着说，“如果你决定事情会很糟糕，那当然会很糟糕。但为什么你还是画得很糟糕呢？”

“我无能为力；我没有真正的天赋。”

“那你就是在欺骗你的父亲。”

少女犹豫了片刻。 “他很清楚！”

“不，”纽曼断言。 “我确信他相信你。”

“他害怕我。正如你所说，我继续画得很糟糕，因为我想学习。无论如何，我喜欢它。我喜欢待在这里；这是一个每天都要去的地方；这比坐在一个又黑又湿的小房间里、在球场上，或者在柜台上卖纽扣和鲸鱼骨要好。”

“当然，这更有趣，”纽曼说。 “但是对于一个贫穷的女孩来说，这不是一种相当昂贵的娱乐吗？”

“哦，我错了，这是毫无疑问的，”诺埃米小姐说。 “但我不会像一些女孩那样谋生——在小黑洞里，在外面的世界里用针辛苦劳作——我宁愿跳进塞纳河。”

“没有必要，”纽曼回答道。 “你父亲告诉你我的提议了？”

“您的报价？”

“他想让你结婚，我告诉他我会给你一个机会来赢得你的 点设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

“他告诉了我这一切，你也看到了我的叙述！你为什么对我的婚姻这么感兴趣？”

“我对你父亲感兴趣。我坚持我的提议；尽你所能，我就买你画的东西。”

她站了一会儿，眼睛盯着地面，沉思着。最后，抬起头来：“一万二千法郎能娶到什么样的丈夫？”她问。

“你父亲告诉我他认识一些非常优秀的年轻人。”

“杂货店、肉店和小商店 咖啡馆老板！ 如果我嫁不好，我根本就不会结婚。”

“我建议你不要太挑剔，”纽曼说。 “这就是我能给你的所有建议。”

“我对我所说的话感到非常恼火！”年轻女孩叫道。 “这对我没有任何好处。但我无能为力。”

“你指望这对你有什么好处？”

“我根本无法控制。”

纽曼看了她一会儿。 “好吧，你的照片可能很糟糕，”他说，“但无论如何，你对我来说太聪明了。我不明白你的意思。再见！”他伸出了手。

她没有回应，也没有向他告别。她转过身，侧坐在长凳上，头靠在手背上，手紧握着画前的栏杆。纽曼站了一会儿，然后转身向后退去。他比他承认的更了解她。这一奇特的场景是对她父亲关于她是一个坦率的卖弄风情的说法的实际评论。

当纽曼与夫人发生关系时 崔斯特瑞姆拜访德·辛特雷夫人毫无成果，她劝他不要气馁，要在夏天执行他“游览欧洲”的计划，秋天返回巴黎，舒适地安顿下来过冬。 “德·辛特雷夫人会留下来，”她说。 “她不是一个一天到晚都要结婚的女人。”纽曼没有明确表示他会回到巴黎；他甚至谈到了罗马和尼罗河，并没有对德·辛特雷夫人的持续守寡表示任何特别的兴趣。 这种情况与他惯常的坦率格格不入，也许可以被视为那种激情的萌芽阶段的特征，这种激情尤其被称为神秘的激情。 事实上，他的记忆中，那双既明亮又温和的眼睛的表情已经非常熟悉，他不会轻易放弃自己不再看它们的前景。 他与夫人沟通。 崔斯特瑞姆还有许多其他事实，无论重要性多少，由你选择；但在这一点上他保留了自己的意见。 他亲切地向M告别。 尼奥什向他保证，就他而言，穿蓝斗篷的麦当娜本人可能会出席他与诺埃米小姐的会面；留下老人捂着胸前的口袋，沉浸在一种狂喜之中，即使是最严重的不幸也无法驱散这种狂喜。 然后纽曼开始了他的旅行，带着他一贯的悠闲漫步的样子，以及他本质上的直接和强烈的目标。 没有人比他更匆忙，但也没有人在短时间内取得更多成就。 他有一定的实用本能，这对他的旅游业很有帮助。 他通过占卜在外国城市找到了出路，一旦他的注意力得到了真诚的关注，他的记忆力就非常出色，并且他从外语对话中走出来，在形式上，他完全不明白其中的一个词。他想要确定的具体事实。 他对事实的胃口很大，尽管他所记录的许多事实对于普通的多愁善感的旅行者来说似乎是可悲的枯燥无味，但仔细检查清单会表明他在想象力方面有一个软肋。 在迷人的布鲁塞尔市——他离开巴黎后的第一站——他问了很多关于有轨电车的问题，并对这个熟悉的美国文明象征的再现感到极其满意；但市政厅美丽的哥特式塔楼也给他留下了深刻的印象，并想知道在旧金山是否不可能“建立”类似的建筑。

刚离开巴黎时，他的好奇心并不强烈。香榭丽舍大街和剧院里的被动娱乐似乎与他对自己的期望一样多，尽管正如他对崔斯特瑞姆所说的那样，他想看到神秘的、令人满意的 世界上最好的他的良心一点也没有参加过盛大的旅行，也不愿意盘问当时的娱乐活动。他相信欧洲是为他而生，而不是他为欧洲而生。他曾说过他想提高自己的心智，但如果他发现自己在理智地照镜子，他就会感到某种尴尬、某种羞耻，甚至——可能是一种虚假的羞耻。无论是在这方面还是在其他方面，纽曼都没有高度的责任感。他的首要信念是，一个人的生活应该是轻松的，他应该能够将特权视为理所当然的事情。在他看来，世界就是一个大集市，人们可以在那里闲逛，购买漂亮的东西。但就个人而言，他并没有意识到社会压力，就像他承认强制购买这种东西的存在一样。他不仅不喜欢，而且有一种道德上的不信任，有不舒服的想法，觉得自己必须以标准来衡量，这既令人不舒服，又有点可鄙。一个人的标准是一个人自己心情愉快的繁荣的理想，这种繁荣使一个人能够给予和索取。纽曼最明确的生活计划是，不费吹灰之力地扩展自己的生活，一方面没有无能的胆怯，另一方面也没有喋喋不休的渴望，从而获得他所谓的“愉快”的经历。他一向讨厌赶火车，但他总能赶上。正因为如此，对“文化”的过分关心似乎是一种在车站愚蠢地磨磨蹭蹭的行为，这种行为只限于妇女、外国人和其他不切实际的人。所有这些都承认，纽曼很享受他的旅程，一旦他完全融入潮流，就像最热心的人一样深刻 Dilettante。毕竟，一个人的理论并不重要。幽默才是最伟大的事情。我们的朋友很聪明，他无法控制这一点。他闲逛穿过比利时、荷兰和莱茵兰，穿过瑞士和意大利北部，没有任何计划，但却看到了一切。指南和 代客泊车 发现他是一个很好的主题。他总是很平易近人，因为他非常喜欢站在旅馆的前厅和门廊里，而且他很少利用欧洲为携带长钱包旅行的绅士们提供的令人印象深刻的隐居机会。当有人向他提议去一次短途旅行、去教堂、画廊、废墟时，纽曼通常做的第一件事是，在默默地从头到脚地审视了他的提议者之后，在一张小桌子旁坐下来，点了一些饮料。 。在此过程中，西塞罗尼通常会恭敬地后退一段距离。否则我不确定纽曼不会请他坐下来也喝一杯，并作为一个诚实的人告诉他他的教堂或画廊是否真的值得一个人去麻烦。最后他站起来，伸展他的长腿，向这位纪念碑之人招手，看了看手表，盯着他的对手。 “它是什么？”他问。 “多远？”而无论答案是什么，虽然他有时显得有些犹豫，但他从来没有拒绝过。他走进一辆敞篷出租车，让售票员坐在他旁边回答问题，并吩咐司机开快点（他特别讨厌慢速驾驶），然后很可能穿过尘土飞扬的郊区，驶向朝圣的目标。如果进球令人失望，如果教堂简陋，或者废墟变成一堆垃圾，纽曼从不抗议或斥责他的cicerone;他以公正的眼光审视着大大小小的纪念碑，让导游背诵他的课，虔诚地听着，询问附近是否还有什么可看的，然后又以嘎嘎的速度开车回去。令人担心的是，他对好建筑和坏建筑之间差异的认识并不敏锐，有时人们可能会看到他以一种应受谴责的平静态度凝视着劣质建筑。丑陋的教堂和美丽的教堂都是他在欧洲消遣的一部分，他的旅行完全是一种消遣。但有时候，没有什么比这些没有想象力的人的想象力更好的了，而纽曼，时不时地，在一个陌生的城市里，在无人引导的漫步中，在一座孤独的、悲伤的塔楼教堂前，或者在一些棱角分明的形象前，描绘了公民的形象。在一段不为人知的过去服役期间，我感到了一种奇异的内心颤抖。这并不是一种兴奋或困惑；而是一种兴奋。这是一种平静、深不可测的消遣感。

他在荷兰偶然遇到了一位年轻的美国人，一度与他建立了一种旅行者般的伙伴关系。他们的性格截然不同，但每个人都以自己的方式表现得非常好，至少在几周的时间里，分享路上的机会似乎是一件令人愉快的事情。纽曼的同志名叫巴布科克，是一位年轻的一神论牧师，身材矮小，身材瘦削，衣着整洁，相貌坦率得惊人。他是马萨诸塞州多切斯特人，在新英格兰大都市的另一个郊区负责一个小教会的精神管理。他的消化能力很弱，主要以全麦面包和玉米粥为生——他对这种养生方式如此着迷，以至于在他登陆欧洲大陆时，他发现这些美味佳肴在他的指导下并没有蓬勃发展，他的旅行似乎注定要失败。这 桌子d'hôte 系统。在巴黎，他在一家自称是美国代理机构的机构购买了一袋玉米粥，纽约的插图报纸也在那里购买，他随身携带着它，在办公室里表现出了极度的平静和毅力。有点微妙的情况是，在他连续访问的酒店里，为他准备了玉米粥，并在不正常的时间提供。有一次，纽曼因公出差，在巴布科克先生的出生地度过了一个上午，由于一些过于隐秘而无法展开的原因，他对那里的访问总是在他的脑海中呈现出一种玩笑的气氛。为了实现他的笑话（只要不加以解释，这个笑话肯定显得很糟糕），他经常称呼他的同伴为“多切斯特”。旅伴很快就变得亲密起来，但在家里，这些极其不同的角色不太可能找到任何非常方便的接触点。事实上，他们是尽可能不同的。纽曼从来没有反思过这些问题，他平静地接受了这种情况，但巴布科克却常常私下沉思。事实上，他经常在晚上早些时候回到自己的房间，明确的目的是认真、公正地考虑这一问题。他不确定与我们的英雄交往对他来说是不是一件好事，因为他的生活方式与他自己的生活方式相差甚远。纽曼是一个优秀、慷慨的人。巴布科克先生有时对自己说，他是一个 高贵 伙计，当然，不喜欢他是不可能的。但是，尝试对他施加影响，尝试提高他的道德生活并增强他的责任感难道不是可取的吗？他喜欢一切，他接受一切，他从一切中找到乐趣；他没有歧视，语气也不高。这位来自多切斯特的年轻人指责纽曼犯了一个他认为非常严重的错误，他尽力避免这种错误：他称之为缺乏“道德反应”。可怜的巴布科克先生非常喜欢绘画和教堂，并把詹姆森夫人的作品放在行李箱里。他热衷于审美分析，并从他所看到的一切中获得奇特的印象。但尽管如此，在他内心深处，他厌恶欧洲，他感到一种令人恼火的需要抗议纽曼粗俗的知识分子热情好客。巴布科克先生的道德 全身乏力恐怕，比我的任何定义都更深。他不信任欧洲人的气质，他受欧洲气候的影响，他讨厌欧洲人的晚餐时间；他讨厌欧洲人的晚餐时间。在他看来，欧洲的生活是不道德和不纯洁的。然而他却有一种敏锐的美感；由于美常常与上述令人不快的状况密不可分，因为他首先希望公正和冷静，而且因为他极其致力于“文化”，所以他无法让自己断定欧洲是非常糟糕。但他认为这确实很糟糕，而他与纽曼的争吵是，这位不受监管的享乐主义者对坏事的认识不足。巴布科克本人对世界上任何一个角落的坏事都知之甚少，作为一个哺乳婴儿，他对邪恶最生动的认识是发现他的一位在巴黎学习建筑的大学同学与一位年轻女子没想到他会娶她。巴布科克向纽曼讲述了这件事，我们的英雄对这个年轻女孩使用了一个不讨人喜欢的绰号。第二天，他的同伴问他是否确信自己用了正确的词来形容这位年轻建筑师的情妇。纽曼盯着看，笑了。 “有很多词可以表达这个想法，”他说。 “你可以选择！”

“哦，我的意思是，”巴布科克说，“难道她不应该被从不同的角度来考虑吗？你不觉得她 真 还指望他娶她？”

“我确信我不知道，”纽曼说。 “她很可能做到了；我毫不怀疑她是一位伟大的女性。”他又开始笑了。

“我也不是这个意思，”巴布科克说，“我只是担心昨天的我似乎不记得——不考虑；好吧，我想我会写信给珀西瓦尔谈谈这件事。”

他写信给珀西瓦尔（珀西瓦尔以一种非常无礼的方式回答了他），他反映了纽曼以那种不经意的方式认为巴黎的年轻女子可能是“伟大的”，这在某种程度上是原始和鲁莽的。 ”纽曼的简短判断常常令他感到震惊和不安。他有一种方法，可以在没有进一步上诉的情况下诅咒人们，或者在面对不舒服的症状时宣布他们为资本公司，这对于一个良心受到良好培养的人来说似乎是不值得的。然而可怜的巴布科克喜欢他，并记得即使他有时令人困惑和痛苦，但这也不是放弃他的理由。歌德建议以最多样的形式看待人性，巴布科克先生认为歌德非常出色。他经常试图在奇怪的半小时谈话中向纽曼注入一点他自己的精神淀粉，但纽曼的个人质地太松散，不允许僵化。他的头脑无法容纳原则，就像筛子无法容纳水一样。他极其崇尚原则，并认为巴布科克是一个非常优秀的小家伙，因为他拥有如此多的原则。他接受了他高度紧张的同伴向他提供的一切，并将它们存放在他认为非常安全的地方。但可怜的巴布科克后来再也没有在纽曼日常使用的物品中认出他的天赋。

他们一起穿越德国进入瑞士，在那里他们艰难地翻过山口，在蓝色的湖泊上闲逛了三四个星期。最后他们渡过辛普朗河，前往威尼斯。巴布科克先生的脸色变得阴郁，甚至有些烦躁。他看上去情绪低落、心不在焉、心事重重。他把自己的计划搞得一团糟，一会儿说要做一件事，一会儿又说做另一件事。纽曼过着平常的生活，结交了一些朋友，在画廊和教堂里悠闲地闲逛，花了不合理的时间在圣马可广场上散步，买了很多糟糕的画，在威尼斯度过了两周的时间。一天晚上，他回到客栈，发现巴布科克在客栈旁边的小花园里等他。年轻人走到他面前，表情十分沮丧，伸出手，郑重地说，他恐怕他们要分开了。纽曼表达了他的惊讶和遗憾，并询问为什么必须分开。 “别担心我厌倦了你，”他说。

“你不厌倦我吗？”巴布科克用他清澈的灰色眼睛盯着他问道。

“为什么我应该是平局呢？你是一个非常勇敢的人。而且，我不会对事情感到厌倦。”

“我们彼此不理解，”年轻的部长说。

“我不明白你的意思吗？”纽曼喊道。 “为什么，我希望我做到了。但如果我不这样做怎么办？坏处在哪里？”

“我不明白 您，”巴布科克说。他坐下来，用手托着头，悲伤地抬头看着他那不可估量的朋友。

“主啊，我不介意！”纽曼笑着喊道。

“但这对我来说非常痛苦。这让我一直处于不安的状态。这让我很恼火；我什么也解决不了我不认为这对我有好处。”

“你担心太多了; “这就是你的问题所在，”纽曼说。

“当然，对你来说肯定是这样。你认为我把事情看得太难，而我认为你把事情看得太容易。我们永远无法达成一致。”

“但我们一直以来都达成了很好的共识。”

“不，我还没有同意，”巴布科克摇着头说道。 “我很不舒服。我一个月前就应该和你分开的。”

“噢，恐怖啊！什么事情我都会同意！”纽曼喊道。

巴布科克先生用双手埋着头。最后抬起头来，“我认为你不欣赏我的立场，”他说。 “我试图找出一切的真相。然后你就走得太快了。对我来说，你太热情，太奢侈。我觉得我应该独自一人，再次走遍我们走过的这片土地。我恐怕犯了很多错误。”

“哦，你不必给出这么多理由，”纽曼说。 “你只是厌倦了我的陪伴。你有充分的权利这样做。”

“不不不，我不累！”被纠缠的年轻神人喊道。 “累是非常错误的。”

“我放弃了！”纽曼笑道。 “但是，继续犯错误当然是不行的。无论如何，走你的路。我会想念你的；但你已经看到我很容易交朋友。你自己也会孤独；但如果你愿意的话，请给我写信，我会在任何地方等你。”

“我想我会回到米兰。恐怕我没有公平对待卢伊尼。”

“可怜的卢伊尼！”纽曼说。

“我的意思是，我恐怕高估了他。我不认为他是一流的画家。”

“露伊尼？”纽曼惊呼道； “为什么，他很迷人——他很伟大！他的天才里有一种东西就像一个美丽的女人。它给人同样的感觉。”

巴布科克先生皱起了眉头，畏缩了一下。必须补充的是，对于纽曼来说，这是一次不同寻常的形而上学飞行。但在路过米兰时，他非常喜欢这位画家。 “你又来了！”巴布科克先生说。 “是啊，我们还是分开吧。”第二天，他又原路返回，开始淡化对这位伟大的伦巴第艺术家的印象。

几天后，纽曼收到了他已故同伴的一张纸条，内容如下：

我亲爱的纽曼先生，恐怕一周前我在威尼斯的行为对您来说是奇怪和忘恩负义的，我想解释一下我的立场，正如我当时所说的那样，我认为您不理解我的立场。我早就想提出分手，而这一步其实并不像看上去那么突然。首先，你知道，我在欧洲旅行是靠我的会众提供的资金，他们好心地为我提供了一个假期和一个机会，让我可以通过旧世界的自然和艺术宝藏来丰富我的思想。因此，我觉得我应该充分利用我的时间。我有高度的责任感。你似乎只关心当下的快乐，并且你以一种我承认我无法效仿的暴力程度投入其中。我觉得我必须得出一些结论，并在某些点上坚定我的信念。在我看来，艺术和生活是非常严肃的事情，在我们的欧洲旅行中，我们应该特别记住艺术的巨大严肃性。你似乎认为，如果一件事让你一时感到有趣，那就是你所需要的，而且你对纯粹娱乐的兴趣也比我高得多。然而，你对自己的快乐充满了一种鲁莽的自信，我承认，有时，我觉得——我应该这么说吗？——几乎是愤世嫉俗的。无论如何，你的方式不是我的方式，我们再试图团结起来是不明智的。然而，让我补充一点，我知道对于你的方式有很多话要说。我在你们的社会中强烈地感受到了它的吸引力。要不是为了这个，我早就该离开你了。但我却很困惑。我希望我没有做错事。我觉得我失去了很多时间来弥补。我请求你按照我的意思来理解这一切，天知道，这并不是令人反感的。我对你怀有极大的个人敬意，希望有一天，当我恢复平衡时，我们会再次见面。我希望你能继续享受你的旅行，只是 do 记住生活与艺术 ，那恭喜你， 极其严重。相信我，你真诚的朋友和祝福者，

本杰明·巴布科克

PS 我对 Luini 感到非常困惑。

这封信在纽曼的心中产生了一种奇异的兴奋和敬畏的混合体。起初，巴布科克先生温柔的良心对他来说似乎是一场彻头彻尾的闹剧，而他返回米兰的旅程却陷入了更深的混乱，作为他迂腐的回报，似乎是精致而可笑的正义。然后纽曼反思，这些都是巨大的谜团，他自己可能确实是那个恶毒的、几乎不值得一提的东西，一个愤世嫉俗的人，他考虑艺术宝藏和生活特权的方式可能是非常卑鄙和不道德的。纽曼对不道德行为非常蔑视，那天晚上，整整半个小时，当他坐在温暖的亚得里亚海上观看星光时，他感到受到责备和沮丧。他不知道如何回复巴布科克的信。他善良的本性抑制住了他对这位年轻部长的崇高告诫的怨恨，而他强硬而缺乏弹性的幽默感却使他无法认真对待这些告诫。他根本没有写任何答复，但一两天后，他在一家古玩店里发现了一尊十六世纪的怪异象牙小雕像，他没有评论就把它寄给了巴布科克。它描绘的是一位面容憔悴、苦行僧般的僧侣，穿着破烂的长袍和斗篷，双手合十跪在地上，拉着一张可怕的长脸。这是一件极其精致的雕刻品，刹那间，透过他长袍的一处裂口，你看到了和尚腰间挂着一只肥胖的阉鸡。在纽曼的意图中，这个人物象征着什么？这是否意味着他打算像僧侣一开始看起来那样“高调”，但他担心自己的成功不会比修道士（经过仔细观察）更成功？不可能认为他有意讽刺巴布科克自己的禁欲主义，因为这确实是一种愤世嫉俗的举动。无论如何，他给了他已故的同伴一份非常有价值的小礼物。

纽曼离开威尼斯后，穿过蒂罗尔河到达维也纳，然后向西返回，穿过德国南部。 秋天他来到巴登巴登，在那里呆了几个星期。 这个地方很迷人，他并不急于离开。此外，他还在环顾四周，决定冬天要做什么。 他的夏天过得很充实，他坐在流过巴登花坛的小河边的大树下，慢慢地翻找着。 他见识了很多，做了很多，享受了很多，观察了很多。他感觉自己老了，但同时也感觉年轻了。 他想起了先生。 巴布科克和他得出结论的愿望，他还记得他的朋友劝诫他培养同样值得尊敬的习惯，但他并没有得到什么好处。 难道他就不能总结出一些结论吗？ 巴登巴登是他见过的最美丽的地方，晚上星空下的管弦乐无疑是一个很棒的机构。 这就是他的结论之一！ 但他接着反思说，他撤资出国是非常明智的做法。这种看待世界的方式是一件非常有趣的事情。 他学到了很多东西。他说不上来是什么，但他把它放在帽带下面。 他已经做了他想做的事；他见过伟大的事情，如果愿意的话，他给了自己的思想一个“改进”的机会。 他高兴地相信情况有所改善。 是的，这样的见识世界是很愉快的，他愿意多做一点。 尽管他已经三十六岁了，但他的人生还很美好，他不需要开始计算自己的日子。 接下来他应该带世界走向何方？ 我说过他记得他在夫人身上发现的那位女士的眼睛。 崔斯特瑞姆的客厅；四个月过去了，他还没有忘记它们。 在此期间，他曾注视过——他特意注视过——许多其他的眼睛，但现在他只想到德·辛特雷夫人的眼睛。 如果他想看到更多的世界，他应该在德·辛特雷夫人的眼睛里找到它吗？ 他肯定会在那里找到一些东西，称之为今世或来世。 在这些相当无形的冥想中，他有时会想起自己的前世和漫长的岁月（他们开始得这么早），在这些岁月里，他脑子里除了“进取心”之外什么都没有。现在他们似乎已经很遥远了，因为他现在的态度不仅仅是度假，几乎是决裂。 他告诉崔斯特瑞姆钟摆正在向后摆动，而且向后摆动似乎还没有结束。 另一个季度结束的“进取心”在不同的时间给他带来了不同的感觉。 随之而来的是一千个被遗忘的情节涌入他的记忆。 他在其中一些人的脸上显得十分得意；另一些人则显得十分得意。他避开了一些人的头。 它们是过去的努力、过去的功绩、“聪明”和锐利的过时例子。 当他看着他们时，他们中的一些人让他感到无比自豪；另一些则让他感到自豪。他欣赏自己，就好像他在看另一个人一样。 事实上，成就伟大事业的许多品质都在那里：决策、决心、勇气、敏捷、清晰的眼睛和有力的手。 对于某些其他成就，如果说他为这些成就感到羞耻，那就太过分了，因为纽曼从来不喜欢肮脏的工作。 他有一种天生的冲动，想用直接、无理的打击来毁掉诱惑的美丽容颜。 当然，任何人缺乏正直都是不可原谅的。 纽曼一眼就能看出什么是歪的，什么是正的，而前者让他从始至终都经历了很多令人厌恶的时刻。 但尽管如此，他的一些记忆现在似乎显得相当粗鲁和肮脏，他突然意识到，如果他从未做过任何非常丑陋的事情，那么另一方面，他也从未做过任何特别美丽的事情。 他多年来一直在不懈地努力增加数千人的收入，而现在，他已经远远置身事外，赚钱的生意似乎变得枯燥乏味。 在你口袋里装满了钱之后，嘲笑赚钱是很好的做法，也许有人会说，纽曼应该更早地开始如此微妙地进行道德说教。 对此，可以回答说，如果他愿意的话，他可能会再发一笔财富。我们应该补充一点，他并不完全是在说教。

在巴登巴登逗留期间，他收到了崔斯特瑞姆夫人的一封信，信中责备他向耶纳大道的朋友们传达的消息太少，并请求明确告知他并没有为他策划任何可怕的计划。在边远地区过冬，但很快就会神智清醒地回到世界上最舒适的城市。纽曼的回答如下：——

“我以为你知道我是一个糟糕的写信人，并且对我没有任何期望。我想我一生中没有写过二十封纯友谊的信；在美国，我完全通过电报进行通信。这是一封纯真的友谊信；你已经有了好奇心，我希望你能珍惜它。你想知道我这三个月发生的一切。我想，告诉你的最好方法就是寄给你我的六本旅游指南，页边空白处有我的铅笔标记。无论您在哪里发现划痕、十字或“美丽！”或“太对了！”或“太瘦了！”你可能知道我有某种感觉。自从我离开你以来，这就是我的历史。比利时、荷兰、瑞士、德国、意大利——我已经浏览了整个名单，我认为我并没有因此而变得更糟。我对麦当娜和教堂尖塔的了解比任何人都多。我看到了一些非常美丽的东西，也许今年冬天我会在你的炉边谈论它们。你看，我的脸并不完全反对巴黎。我曾经有过各种各样的计划和愿景，但你的信让其中大部分都化为泡影。 'L'appétit vient en mangeant” 法国谚语说，我发现我对这个世界了解得越多，我就越想了解。既然我已经在竖井里了，为什么我不应该小跑到终点呢？有时我会想起远东，嘴里不断念叨着东方城市的名字：大马士革和巴格达，麦地那和麦加。上个月，我在一位归来的传教士的陪伴下度过了一周，他告诉我，当那里有如此大的事情可看时，我应该为在欧洲闲逛而感到羞耻。我确实想探索，但我想我宁愿在大学街探索。你有收到那位漂亮女士的来信吗？如果你能让她答应我下次打电话时她会在家，我会直接回巴黎。我现在的心情比以往任何时候都好，就像我告诉过你那天晚上的事一样。我想要一个一流的妻子。我一直关注着今年夏天遇到的所有漂亮女孩，但没有一个达到我的想法，或者接近我的想法。如果刚才提到的那位女士在我身边，我应该会更加享受这一切。离她最近的一位来自波士顿的一神论牧师，由于脾气不合，他很快就要求分居。他告诉我，我思想低俗，不道德，是一个“为艺术而艺术”的信徒——不管那是什么：所有这些都让我非常痛苦，因为他真的是一个可爱的小家伙。但不久之后，我遇到了一个英国人，我和他结识了，起初似乎很有希望——一个非常聪明的人，在伦敦报纸上撰文，对巴黎的了解几乎和崔斯特瑞姆一样。我们一起闲逛了一个星期，但他很快就厌恶地放弃了我。我太贤惠了一半；我是一个过于严厉的道德家。他友好地告诉我，我受到了良心的诅咒；我像卫理公会教徒一样判断事物，像老太太一样谈论它们。这实在是令人费解。我应该相信我的两个批评者中的哪一个？我并不担心，很快就认定他们都是白痴。但有一件事，没有人会厚颜无耻地假装我错了，那就是，作为你忠实的朋友，

“中国”

纽曼在秋天结束前放弃了大马士革和巴格达，回到了巴黎。他在汤姆·崔斯特瑞姆根据汤姆对他所谓的社会地位的估计为他选择的一些房间里安顿下来。当纽曼得知自己的社会地位要受到考虑时，他承认自己完全无能，并恳求崔斯特瑞姆免除对他的照顾。 “我不知道自己有社会地位，”他说，“即使有，我也根本不知道它是什么。认识两三千人，请他们吃饭不就是一个社会地位吗？我认识你和你的妻子，还有尼奥什小老先生，他去年春天给我上了法语课。我可以请你们吃饭来见见吗？如果可以的话，你明天一定要来。”

“这对我来说并不是很感激，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说，“去年我把你介绍给了我所认识的每一个生物。”

“所以你做到了；我已经完全忘记了。但我以为你想让我忘记，”纽曼说道，语气中经常带有他说话时的那种简单而从容的语气，旁观者不知道这种语气是表达一种出于无知的神秘幽默感，还是一种对知识的谦虚渴望； “你告诉我你不喜欢他们所有人。”

“啊，你还记得我说的话，至少很讨人喜欢。但在未来，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人补充道，“祈祷忘记所有邪恶的事情，只记住美好的事情。这很容易完成，而且不会疲劳你的记忆。但我预先警告你，如果你相信我丈夫会挑选你的房间，你就会遇到可怕的事情。”

“丑陋吗，亲爱的？”崔斯特瑞姆喊道。

“今天我不能说任何恶毒的话；否则我应该使用更强硬的语言。”

“你认为她会说什么，纽曼？”崔斯特瑞姆问道。 “如果她真的尝试过，现在呢？她可以用两三种语言滔滔不绝地表达不满；这就是知识分子。这让她完全了解了我，因为我一辈子都不能发誓，除了用英语。当我生气时，我必须求助于我们亲爱的古老母语。毕竟，没有什么比这更好的了。”

纽曼宣称他对桌子和椅子一无所知，并且他会闭着眼睛接受崔斯特瑞姆向他提供的任何住宿。这部分是我们英雄的诚实，但也有部分是慈善。他知道，探查房间、让人打开窗户、用拐杖戳沙发、与女房东闲聊、询问谁住在楼上、谁住在楼下——他知道这是所有消遣中最令人喜爱的事情。崔斯特瑞姆的心，他觉得更愿意以自己的方式去对待它，因为他意识到，对于他乐于助人的朋友，他所遭受的古老友好友谊的温暖有所减弱。此外，他对室内装潢没有兴趣。他甚至没有非常精致的舒适感或方便感。他热衷于奢华和辉煌，但却用相当粗俗的装置来满足。他几乎分不清椅子是硬的还是软的，而且他有伸展双腿的天赋，这完全不需要额外的设施。他对舒适的理解是住在非常大的房间里，拥有很多房间，并意识到它们拥有许多专利机械设备——其中有一半是他永远不应该使用的。公寓应该明亮、明亮、高大；他曾经说过，他喜欢那些让人想戴上帽子的房间。至于其他方面，他对任何受人尊敬的人保证一切都很“漂亮”感到满意。因此，崔斯特瑞姆为他安排了一套公寓，这个绰号可以用在这个公寓上。它位于奥斯曼大道的一楼，由一系列房间组成，从地板到天花板镀金一英尺厚，覆盖着各种浅色缎子，主要配有镜子和时钟。纽曼认为它们很华丽，衷心感谢崔斯特瑞姆，立即拥有了其中一个箱子，并将其中一个箱子在他的客厅里放了三个月。

有一天，崔斯特瑞姆夫人告诉他，她美丽的朋友德·辛特雷夫人从乡下回来了。三天前，她从圣叙尔比斯教堂里遇见了她；她本人曾前往那个遥远的地方寻找一位默默无闻的花边修理工，她的技艺她曾受到高度赞扬。

“那双眼睛怎么样？”纽曼问道。

“那双眼睛哭得通红，拜托了！”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。 “她去忏悔了。”

“这与你对她的描述不符，”纽曼说，“她应该承认有罪。”

“它们不是罪；它们是罪”。他们是苦难。”

“你怎么知道？”

“她让我去看她；我今天早上就去了。”

“那她得了什么病呢？”

“我没有问她。和她在一起，不知何故，一个人非常谨慎。但我猜想，这很容易。她受到她邪恶的老母亲和她的大特克兄弟的折磨。他们迫害她。但我几乎可以原谅他们，因为，正如我告诉过你的，她是一位圣人，她所需要的只是迫害，以展现她的圣洁并使她完美。”

“这对她来说是一个令人舒服的理论。我希望你永远不要把它传给老人。她凭什么让他们欺负她？她不是自己的情妇吗？”

“从法律上讲，是的，我想；但从道德上来说，不。在法国，无论母亲对你有什么要求，你都不能拒绝。她可能是世界上最可恶的老太婆，让你的生活变成炼狱；但毕竟她是 我的母亲，你没有权利评判她。你只需服从即可。这件事也有好的一面。德辛特雷夫人低下头，收起翅膀。”

“她至少不能让她哥哥离开吗？”

“她的哥哥是 家庭主厨， 像他们说的那样;他是氏族的族长。对于这些人来说，家庭就是一切；你必须采取行动，不是为了自己的快乐，而是为了家族的利益。”

“我想知道 my 家人希望我这么做！”崔斯特瑞姆惊呼道。

“我希望你也有一个！”他的妻子说。

“但是他们想从那位可怜的女士那里得到什么呢？”纽曼问道。

“另一场婚姻。他们并不富有，但他们想给家里带来更多的钱。”

“你的机会来了，我的孩子！”崔斯特瑞姆说。

“德辛特雷夫人反对，”纽曼继续说道。

“她被卖过一次；她自然反对再次被出售。看来他们第一次讨价还价相当糟糕；德·辛特雷先生留下了很少的财产。”

“那么他们现在想把她嫁给谁呢？”

“我认为最好不要问；但你可以确定这是给某个可怕的老大佬，或者给某个放荡的小公爵的。”

“崔斯特瑞姆夫人就在那里，她就像生命一样伟大！”她的丈夫喊道。 “观察她丰富的想象力。她没有一个问题——问问题很粗俗——但她却什么都知道。她对德辛特雷夫人的婚姻史了如指掌。她看到可爱的克莱尔跪在地上，头发松散，眼睛流泪，其他人拿着尖刺、木棍和烧红的烙铁站在她身边，准备在她拒绝喝醉的公爵时对她下手。简单的事实是，他们对她的女帽制造商的账单大惊小怪，或者拒绝给她购买歌剧包厢。”

纽曼看看崔斯特瑞姆，又看看他的妻子，每个方向都带着某种不信任。 “你的意思是，”他问崔斯特瑞姆夫人，“你的朋友被迫经历了一段不幸福的婚姻吗？”

“我认为这极有可能。这些人非常有能力做这种事情。”

“这就像戏剧中的情节，”纽曼说。 “那边那座黑暗的老房子看起来好像里面曾经做过邪恶的事情，而且可能会再次发生。”

“德·辛特雷夫人告诉我，他们在乡下有一栋更暗的老房子，夏天的时候，这个计划一定是在那里策划的。”

“必须 已经;请介意！”崔斯特瑞姆说。

“毕竟，”沉默过后，纽曼建议道，“她可能因为其他事情遇到了麻烦。”

“如果是别的事情，那就更糟糕了。”崔斯特瑞姆夫人果断地说。

纽曼沉默了一会儿，似乎陷入了沉思。 “他们有可能在这里做那种事吗？”他最后问道。无助的女性被迫嫁给她们讨厌的男人？”

“全世界无助的女性都过着艰难的日子，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。 “到处都有很多欺凌行为。”

“纽约发生了很多这样的事情，”崔斯特瑞姆说。 “女孩们被欺负、哄骗、贿赂，或者三者兼而有之，嫁给了讨厌的家伙。第五大道上这种事总是没完没了地发生，此外还有其他糟糕的事情。第五大道的秘密！应该有人把它们展示出来。”

“我不相信！”纽曼非常严肃地说。 “我不相信在美国，女孩会受到强迫。我不相信自建国以来已经出现过十几起这样的病例。”

“听听展鹰的声音！”崔斯特瑞姆喊道。

“张开的鹰应该使用他的翅膀，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。 “飞去营救德辛特雷夫人！”

“为了救她？”

“扑下来，用爪子抓住她，把她带走。你自己娶她吧。”

纽曼有一段时间没有回答。但现在，“我想她已经听够了结婚的事，”他说。 “对待她最仁慈的方式就是钦佩她，但永远不要谈论它。但这种事情是臭名昭著的，”他补充道。 “听到这个消息让我感到很野蛮。”

然而，此后他不止一次听说过这件事。崔斯特瑞姆夫人再次见到德·辛特雷夫人，再次发现她看上去非常悲伤。但在这些场合，没有人流泪。她美丽的眼睛清澈而平静。 “她冷漠、平静、绝望，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人宣称，她补充说，当她提到她的朋友纽曼先生再次来到巴黎并忠实于结识德辛特雷夫人的愿望时，这个可爱的女人她在绝望中找到了微笑，并表示她很遗憾错过了他春天的来访，并希望他没有失去勇气。 “我告诉了她一些关于你的事情，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。

“这是一种安慰，”纽曼平静地说。 “我喜欢人们了解我。”

几天后，一个秋日昏暗的下午，他再次来到大学街。当他申请进入戒备森严的监狱时，傍晚已经临近了。 贝勒加德酒店。有人告诉他德·辛特雷夫人在家；他穿过庭院，进入远处的门，被引导穿过一个宽敞、昏暗、寒冷的门厅，登上带有古老铁栏杆的宽阔石梯，来到二楼的一间公寓。被宣布并被引导进来后，他发现自己身处一间镶有镶板的闺房中，在闺房的一端，一位女士和一位先生坐在火炉前。这位先生正在抽烟；房间里没有任何灯光，只有几根蜡烛和壁炉发出的光。两人起身欢迎纽曼，纽曼在火光下认出了德辛特雷夫人。她伸出手来，微笑着向他伸出手，笑容本身就充满了光明，然后指着她的同伴，轻声说道：“我的兄弟。”这位绅士向纽曼进行了坦率、友好的问候，我们的英雄随后认出他就是上次访问时在酒店庭院里与他交谈过的那个年轻人，他给他留下了一个好人的印象。

“太太。崔斯特瑞姆跟我谈了很多关于你的事。”德·辛特雷夫人回到原来的位置，温柔地说。

纽曼坐下后，开始考虑他的使命到底是什么。他有一种不寻常的、出乎意料的感觉，感觉自己走进了世界的一个陌生的角落。一般来说，他并不热衷于预见危险或预测灾难，而且在这个特殊场合他也没有出现社交震动。他并不胆怯，也不鲁莽。他对自己太过仁慈，不可能是其中之一；他对世界其他地方也太仁慈，不可能是另一个。但他与生俱来的精明有时却让他的脾气变得很暴躁。凡是想把事情简单化的人，都必须认识到有些事情并不像其他事情那么简单。他的感觉就像一个人在攀登时错过了一步，而他却期望能找到它。这个陌生而美丽的女人，在她看起来荒凉的房子的灰色深处，坐在火边与她的兄弟交谈——他该对她说什么？她似乎被一种奇妙的隐私所笼罩着。他凭什么拉开窗帘？有那么一刻，他感觉自己好像掉进了某种深如海洋的介质中，似乎必须竭尽全力才能不下沉。与此同时，他看着德辛特雷夫人，她正坐在椅子上，穿上长裙，把脸转向他。他们的目光相遇了；过了一会儿，她把目光移开，示意她哥哥在火上放一根木头。但这一刻，以及扫过它的一瞥，足以让纽曼摆脱他所经历的第一次也是最后一次个人尴尬。他做出了他经常做的动作，这始终是他在精神上占据场景的一种象征——他伸出双腿。德·辛特雷夫人第一次见面时给他留下的印象立刻又回来了。它比他想象的还要深。她很讨人喜欢，她很有趣；他打开了一本书，第一行吸引了他的注意力。

她问了他几个问题：他最近多久见到崔斯特瑞姆夫人，他在巴黎呆了多久，他预计在那里待多久，他喜欢那里。她说英语时没有口音，或者更确切地说，带有一种独特的英国口音，纽曼刚到欧洲时，就觉得这种口音完全是外语，但对于女人来说，他却非常喜欢这种口音。德·辛特雷夫人的话语时不时地带有一丝奇怪的味道，但十分钟后，纽曼发现自己在等待这些柔和的粗糙感。他很喜欢它们，而且他很惊讶地看到错误这个粗俗的事情竟然被降到了如此微妙的地步。

“你们有一个美丽的国家，”德辛特雷夫人立即说道。

“噢，太棒了！”纽曼说。 “你应该看看。”

“我永远也见不到它了，”德·辛特雷夫人微笑着说道。

“为什么不？”纽曼问道。

“我不旅行；尤其是到目前为止。”

“但你有时会离开；你不是一直都在吗？”

“夏天我会离开，走一段路，去乡下。”

纽曼想问她更多的事情，一些私人的事情，但他几乎不知道要问什么。 “你不觉得这里相当——相当安静吗？”他说; “离街道那么远？”他本来想说的是“郁闷”，但他认为那是不礼貌的。

“是的，非常安静，”德·辛特雷夫人说。 “但我们喜欢这样。”

“啊，你喜欢那样，”纽曼慢慢地重复道。

“而且，我一生都住在这里。”

“你一生都住在这里，”纽曼以同样的方式说道。

“我出生在这里，我的父亲、我的祖父和我的曾祖父都出生在这里。他们不是吗，瓦伦丁？她向她哥哥求助。

“是的，出生在这里就是家族的习惯！”年轻人笑着说道，然后站起来，把剩下的香烟扔进了火里，然后仍然靠在烟囱上。旁观者会察觉到他希望更好地观察纽曼，他站在那里抚摸着自己的小胡子，偷偷地审视着纽曼。

“那么，你的房子非常旧了，”纽曼说。

“哥哥今年几岁了？”德辛特雷夫人问道。

年轻人从壁炉架上拿起两支蜡烛，每只手高高举起一支，抬头看向房间的檐口，烟囱上方。公寓的后一个特征是白色大理石，具有上世纪熟悉的洛可可风格。但上面是一块较早时期的镶板，雕刻精美，漆成白色，各处镀金。白色变成了黄色，镀金也失去了光泽。在顶部，人物排列成一种盾牌，上面刻有纹章图案。上面浮雕着一个日期——1627 年。 “给你，”年轻人说。 “根据你的观点，这是旧的还是新的。”

“嗯，在这里，”纽曼说，“一个人的观点发生了很大的转变。”他仰起头，环视房间。 “你的房子的建筑风格非常奇特，”他说。

“你对建筑感兴趣吗？”烟囱旁的年轻人问道。

“嗯，今年夏天，我不辞辛劳，”纽曼说，“据我所知，检查了大约四百七十座教堂。你管这叫兴趣吗？”

“也许你对神学感兴趣，”年轻人说。

“不是特别。女士，您是罗马天主教徒吗？他转向德辛特雷夫人。

“是的，先生。”她严肃地回答。

纽曼对她严肃的语气感到震惊。他仰起头，再次环顾房间。 “你从来没有注意到上面那个数字吗？”他立即问道。

她犹豫了一会儿，然后说道：“以前，”她说。

她哥哥一直在注视着纽曼的一举一动。 “也许你想检查一下房子，”他说。

纽曼缓缓垂下眼睛，看着他。他隐隐约约觉得壁炉旁的年轻人很爱讽刺。他是个英俊的小伙子，脸上挂着笑容，小胡子末端卷曲着，眼眸里闪烁着点点舞动的光芒。 “该死的法国人的厚颜无耻！”纽曼正要对自己说。 “他到底在笑什么？”他看了一眼德·辛特雷夫人。她坐在那儿，眼睛盯着地板。她抚养他们，他们遇见了他的兄弟，她看着她的兄弟。纽曼再次转向这个年轻人，发现他与他的妹妹惊人地相似。这对他有利，而且我们的英雄对瓦伦丁伯爵的第一印象也很不错。他的不信任感消失了，他说他会很高兴看到这所房子。

年轻人坦率地笑了一声，将手放在其中一个烛台上。 “好好！”他惊呼道。 “那就来吧。”

但德·辛特雷夫人迅速站起来，抓住了他的手臂，“啊，瓦伦丁！”她说。 “你想做什么？”

“带纽曼先生参观房子。这将会非常有趣。”

她把手放在他的手臂上，微笑着转向纽曼。 “别让他带走你，”她说。 “你不会觉得这很有趣。这是一座发霉的老房子，和其他房子一样。”

“里面充满了奇怪的东西，”伯爵抗拒地说。 “而且，我也想做；这是一个难得的机会。”

“你太邪恶了，兄弟，”德·辛特雷夫人回答道。

“没有冒险，就没有拥有！”年轻人喊道。 “你会来吗？”

德·辛特雷夫人走向纽曼，轻轻地握着双手，温柔地微笑着。 “你难道不喜欢我的陪伴，在这里，在我的火边，而不是在黑暗的通道里跌跌撞撞地追随我的兄弟吗？”

“一百次！”纽曼说。 “改天我们会去看房子。”

年轻人故作严肃地放下烛台，摇头道：“啊，先生，你挫败了一个伟大的阴谋！”他说。

“一个计划？我不明白，”纽曼说。

“你本来可以更好地发挥自己的作用。也许有一天我会有机会解释一下。”

“安静点，按铃喝茶。”德·辛特雷夫人说。

年轻人遵命而去，不一会儿，一个仆人把茶端了进来，把托盘放在小桌上，就走了。德·辛特雷夫人在自己的地方忙着做这件事。她才刚开始，门就被推开，一位女士冲了进来，发出沙沙的响声。她盯着纽曼，轻轻点了点头，喊了一声“先生！”然后迅速走近德·辛特雷夫人，伸出她的额头让他亲吻。德辛特雷夫人向她行了个礼，然后继续泡茶。在纽曼看来，新来的人年轻又漂亮。她戴着帽子，穿着斗篷，穿着皇家比例的裙裾。她开始用法语说得很快。 “哦，看在上帝的份上，给我一杯茶吧，我美丽的茶！我已经筋疲力尽、心碎、被屠杀了。”纽曼发现自己完全无法跟上她。她说话的清晰度远不如尼奥什先生。

“那是我的嫂子，”瓦伦丁伯爵靠向他说道。

“她非常漂亮，”纽曼说。

“太棒了，”年轻人回答道，这一次，纽曼再次怀疑他是在讽刺。

他的嫂子绕到火的另一边，手里拿着一杯茶，把茶举到一臂远的地方，免得茶洒在衣服上，同时发出小声的惊呼。她把杯子放在壁炉架上，开始解开面纱，脱下手套，同时看着纽曼。

“我亲爱的女士，有什么可以为您效劳的吗？”瓦伦丁伯爵用一种假装爱抚的语气问道。

“先生，”他的嫂子说道。

年轻人回答道：“先生。”新人！”

“先生，我不能向您客气，否则我会把茶洒出来。”那位女士说道。 “所以克莱尔接待陌生人就是这样的吗？”她用法语低声对她姐夫补充道。

“显然！”他微笑着回答。纽曼站了一会儿，然后走向德·辛特雷夫人。她抬头看着他，似乎在思考着什么。但她似乎什么也没想；所以她只是微笑。他在她旁边坐下，她递给他一杯茶。他们谈论了一会儿，同时他看着她。他记得崔斯特瑞姆夫人告诉他她的“完美”，以及她拥有他梦想找到的所有辉煌的东西。这使他在观察她时不仅没有怀疑，而且没有不安的猜测。从他第一眼看到她的那一刻起，他的假设就对她有利。然而，即使她很漂亮，也不是那种令人眼花缭乱的美人。她身材高挑，线条修长。她有一头浓密的金发，宽阔的额头，五官有一种和谐的不规则性。她清澈的灰色眼睛非常富有表现力。他们既温柔又聪明，纽曼非常喜欢他们。但它们没有那些光辉的深处——那些色彩斑斓的光芒——照亮了著名美女的眉毛。德·辛特雷夫人相当瘦弱，看上去比实际年龄要年轻。她整个人有一种青春又含蓄，纤细又丰满，安静又羞涩的感觉。一种不成熟与平静、纯真与尊严的混合体。纽曼想知道，崔斯特瑞姆称她为骄傲是什么意思？她现在对他来说当然不感到骄傲；如果她是，那也没有用，他已经失去了。如果她希望他介意的话，她就必须把它堆得更高一些。她是一个美丽的女人，和她相处很容易。她是伯爵夫人吗？ 侯爵夫人，一种历史形成？纽曼很少听说过这些词，也从来没有费力地给它们赋予任何特定的形象。但现在他想起了这些，似乎充满了某种悠扬的含义。它们象征着某种公平、柔和、明亮的东西，动作轻松，说话也很讨人喜欢。

“你在巴黎有很多朋友吗？你出去吗？德·辛特雷夫人问道，她终于想到了该说的话。

“你的意思是我会跳舞之类的吗？”

“你有去 在世界 ，正如我们所说？”

“我见过很多人。崔斯特瑞姆夫人带我四处逛逛。她让我做什么我就做什么。”

“你一个人，不喜欢娱乐吗？”

“哦，是的，某种意义上。我不喜欢跳舞之类的；我太老了，清醒了。但我想被逗乐；我就是为了这个才来到欧洲的。”

“但在美国你也可以感到有趣。”

“我不能；”我一直在工作。但毕竟那是我的乐趣。”

这时，德·贝勒加德夫人在瓦伦丁伯爵的陪同下又回来喝了一杯茶。德·辛特雷夫人招待完她后，又开始与纽曼交谈，回忆起他上次说的话：“在你自己的国家，你很忙吗？”她问。

“我是在做生意。我从十五岁起就开始做生意了。”

“那你是做什么的？”德·贝勒加德夫人问道，她显然没有德·辛特雷夫人漂亮。

“我什么都经历过，”纽曼说。 “我曾经卖过皮革；有一次我制造了洗衣盆。”

德·贝勒加德夫人做了个鬼脸。 “皮革？我不喜欢那样。洗脸盆比较好。我更喜欢肥皂的味道。我希望至少他们让你发了财。”她滔滔不绝地讲着这句话，语气带着浓重的法国口音，就像一个以能想到什么就说什么而闻名的女人一样。

纽曼语气愉快而严肃，但德·贝勒加德夫人的语气让他在沉思片刻后继续说下去，带着某种淡淡的、冷酷的玩笑。 “不，我在洗衣盆上赔了钱，但在皮革上我的表现相当不错。”

“毕竟，我已经下定决心，”德·贝勒加德夫人说，“最重要的是——你怎么称呼它？——坦诚相待。我向金钱屈服；我不否认。如果你有的话，我不会问任何问题。为此，我是一个真正的民主主义者——就像您一样，先生。德·辛特雷夫人非常自豪；但我发现，如果一个人不离得太近，在这种悲伤的生活中会得到更多的乐趣。”

“天哪，亲爱的夫人，你做得怎么样，”瓦伦丁伯爵压低了声音说道。

“我想他是一个可以交谈的人，因为我姐姐接待了他，”那位女士回答道。 “而且，这是千真万确的；这些是我的想法。”

“啊，你管这叫想法。”年轻人低声说道。

“但是崔斯特瑞姆夫人告诉我你曾参军——参加过你的战争，”德辛特雷夫人说。

“是的，但这不是生意！”纽曼说。

“非常正确！”德·贝勒加德先生说。 “不然我也许不会身无分文。”

“你真的这么骄傲吗？”纽曼立刻问道。我已经听到了。”

德·辛特雷夫人微笑着。 “你也这么认为我吗？”

“哦，”纽曼说，“我不是法官。如果你为我感到骄傲，你就必须告诉我。不然我不会知道。”

德·辛特雷夫人开始大笑。 “这将是在悲伤的处境中感到自豪！”她说。

“部分原因是，”纽曼继续说道，“因为我不应该想知道这一点。我希望你能对我好一点。”

德·辛特雷夫人已经停止了笑声，半侧着头看着他，仿佛害怕他会说什么。

“太太。崔斯特瑞姆告诉了你真正的真相，”他继续说道。 “我非常想认识你。我今天来这里不仅仅是为了打电话；我来是希望你能邀请我再来。”

“噢，请常来，”德·辛特雷夫人说。

“但是你会在家吗？”纽曼坚持说。即使对他自己来说，他也显得有点“催促”，但事实上，他有点兴奋。

“但愿如此！”德·辛特雷夫人说。

纽曼站了起来。 “好吧，我们拭目以待吧，”他用外套袖口抚平帽子说道。

“兄弟，”德·辛特雷夫人说道，“请纽曼先生再来吧。”

瓦伦丁伯爵带着他奇特的微笑从头到脚地打量着我们的英雄，脸上的厚颜无耻和彬彬有礼似乎令人困惑地混合在一起。 “你是一个勇敢的人吗？”他斜眼看着他问道。

“好吧，我希望如此，”纽曼说。

“我更怀疑是这样。既然如此，那就再来吧。”

“啊，多么好的邀请啊！”德·辛特雷夫人低声说道，笑容中带着一丝痛苦。

“哦，我特别希望纽曼先生来，”年轻人说。 “这将给我带来极大的乐趣。如果我错过了他的一次来访，我就会感到沮丧。但我坚持他必须勇敢。先生有一颗坚强的心！”他向纽曼伸出了手。

“我不会来看你；我要去见德·辛特雷夫人。”纽曼说道。

“你将需要更多的勇气。”

“啊，瓦伦丁！”德辛特雷夫人恳求地说。

“确实如此，”德·贝勒加德夫人喊道，“我是这里唯一能说客气话的人！来见我;你不需要勇气，”她说。

纽曼笑了笑，但并不完全表示同意，然后就离开了。德·辛特雷夫人没有接受姐姐的挑战，表现得和蔼可亲，但她带着某种不安的神情看着这位渐行渐远的客人。

一天晚上很晚，也就是他拜访德·辛特雷夫人一周后，纽曼的仆人给他带来了一张卡片。那是年轻的德·贝勒加德先生的声音。几分钟后，当他去接待他的访客时，他发现他站在他那间镀金的大客厅中央，从檐口到地毯都在打量着它。在纽曼看来，德·贝勒加德先生的脸上流露出一种活泼的娱乐感。 “他现在到底在笑什么？”我们的英雄问自己。但他问这个问题时并没有尖酸刻薄，因为他觉得德·辛特雷夫人的兄弟是个好人，他有预感，在这种良好友谊的基础上，他们注定会互相理解。只是，如果有什么好笑的，他也想看一眼。

“首先，”年轻人伸出手说道，“我是不是来得太晚了？”

“太晚了怎么办？”纽曼问道。

“和你一起抽雪茄。”

“你必须早点来才能做到这一点，”纽曼说。 “我不抽烟。”

“啊，你真是个强者啊！”

“但我保留雪茄，”纽曼补充道。 “坐下。”

“当然，我不能在这里抽烟，”德贝勒加德先生说。

“什么事？房间太小了吗？”

“它太大了。这就像在舞厅或教堂里吸烟一样。”

“你刚才笑的就是这个？”纽曼问道； “我的房间有多大？”

“这不仅仅是尺寸，”德·贝勒加德先生回答说，“还有辉煌、和谐和细节之美。那是一种钦佩的微笑。”

纽曼看了他一会儿，然后说道：“所以 is 十分难看？”他问道。

“丑陋吗，亲爱的先生？真是太棒了。”

“我想这是同样的事情，”纽曼说。 “让自己舒服。我认为你来看我是一种友谊的表现。你没有义务这么做。因此，如果这里有任何事情让你感到高兴，那一切都会以一种愉快的方式进行。尽情地笑吧；我喜欢看到我的访客兴高采烈。只是，我必须提出这个要求：你一会说话就给我解释这个笑话。我不想失去任何东西，我自己。”

德·贝勒加德先生凝视着，脸上带着一种无怨无悔的困惑表情。他把手放在纽曼的袖子上，似乎想说什么，但他突然克制住了自己，靠在椅子上，吸了一口雪茄。然而最后，他打破了沉默——“当然，”他说，“我来看你是出于友谊。尽管如此，我在某种程度上还是不得不这样做。姐姐叫我来，姐姐的要求对我来说就是法律。我在你附近，我观察到了我认为是你的房间里的灯光。这不是一个隆重的打电话时间，但我并不后悔做一些事情来表明我不只是在进行一个仪式。”

“好吧，我在这里就像生命一样大，”纽曼说着，伸出了双腿。

“我不明白你的意思，”年轻人继续说道，“让我无限地笑。当然，我很爱笑，笑得太多总比笑得太少要好。但我可以说，我并不是为了让我们一起笑——或者单独笑——我才来认识你的。以近乎无礼的坦率说话，我对你很感兴趣！”德·贝勒加德先生说这一切时，尽管英语说得很好，但语气却像法国人一样，带着一种圆滑的语气。但纽曼在坐下来注意到其和谐的流动的同时，意识到这不仅仅是机械的文雅。毫无疑问，这位来访者身上有一些他喜欢的地方。德·贝勒加德先生是个彻头彻尾的外国人，如果纽曼在西部大草原上遇见他，他会觉得用“你好，莫塞尔？”来称呼他是合适的。但他的相貌中有些东西似乎在种族差异造成的不可逾越的鸿沟上架起了一座空中桥梁。他身高中等以下，身材健壮敏捷。纽曼事后得知，瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德非常害怕稳健性会超过敏捷性。他害怕变胖；正如他所说，他太矮了，买不起肚子。他以不懈的热情骑马、击剑和练习体操，如果你向他打招呼说“你看起来多么好”，他就会吓一跳，脸色变得苍白。在你的 好 他读了一个更粗俗的单音节词。他有一个圆圆的头，高过耳朵，一头浓密而柔滑的头发，宽而低的前额，短鼻子，带有讽刺和探究的味道，而不是教条或敏感的造型，还有精致的小胡子。就像浪漫故事中的一页一样。他不像他的妹妹，倒不是长相，而是那双清澈明亮、毫无内省的眼神，还有他微笑的样子。他脸上最重要的一点是，它充满了活力——坦率、热情、英勇地充满活力。它的样子就像是一只铃铛，其把手可能就在年轻人的灵魂里：一触把手，它就会发出响亮的银色声音。他那双敏捷的浅棕色眼睛里有某种东西，让你确信他并没有浪费自己的意识。他住在其中的一个角落并不是为了节省其他人的家具。他在中心安营扎寨，并保持开放。当他微笑时，就像一个人倒空杯子时将杯子倒过来的动作：他把最后一滴快乐都给了你。他对纽曼的启发，与我们的英雄早年对那些能够表演奇怪而巧妙的把戏的同伴所感受到的仁慈一样——让他们的关节在奇怪的地方断裂，或者在嘴里吹口哨。

“我姐姐告诉我，”德·贝勒加德先生继续说道，“我应该来消除我费尽心机给你留下的印象；我是个疯子的印象。你有没有觉得我那天的行为很奇怪？”

“确实如此，”纽曼说。

“是我姐姐告诉我的。”德·贝勒加德先生透过烟雾环注视着他的主人。 “如果是这样的话，我认为我们最好就这样维持下去。我根本不想让你觉得我是个疯子；我只是想让你觉得我是个疯子。相反，我想给人留下好印象。但如果说我最终出丑了，那也是上天的旨意。我会因过多的抗议而伤害自己，因为我似乎提出了一种智慧的主张，而在我们相识的后续过程中，我决无法证明这一点。把我当成一个偶尔神智清醒的疯子。”

“哦，我想你知道自己在做什么，”纽曼说。

“当我神志清醒时，我非常神志清醒；我承认，”德·贝勒加德先生回答道。 “但我来这里并不是为了谈论我自己。我想问你几个问题。你允许我吗？”

“给我一个样本，”纽曼说。

“你一个人住在这里吗？”

“绝对地。我应该和谁住在一起？”

“目前，”德贝勒加德先生微笑着说，“我只是在问问题，而不是在回答问题。你来巴黎是为了好玩吗？”

纽曼沉默了一会儿。最后，“每个人都问我这个问题！”他语气缓慢地说。 “这听起来太愚蠢了。”

“但无论如何，你都有理由。”

“哦，我是来高兴的！”纽曼说。 “虽然很愚蠢，但却是事实。”

“你很享受吗？”

和其他善良的美国人一样，纽曼认为最好不要向外国人屈服。 “哦，马马虎虎，”他回答道。

德·贝勒加德先生默默地又吸了一口雪茄。 “就我个人而言，”他最后说道，“我完全愿意为您服务。任何我能为你做的事我都会非常乐意做。方便的时候给我打电话。有没有你想认识的人——有什么你想见的人吗？遗憾的是你不应该享受巴黎。”

“哦，我很享受！”纽曼和善地说。 “我非常感谢你。”

“老实说，”德·贝勒加德先生继续说道，“听到我自己向你提出这些提议，我觉得有些荒谬。它们代表了很大的善意，但除此之外几乎没有其他意义。你是一个成功的人，而我是一个失败的人，而我说得好像我可以向你伸出援助之手，这是一种扭转局面。”

“你在哪方面是失败的？”纽曼问道。

“哦，我不是一个悲惨的失败者！”年轻人笑着喊道。 “我从高处坠落，我的惨败没有发出任何声音。显然，你是成功的。你赚了一笔钱，你建立了一座大厦，你是一个金融、商业强国，你可以环游世界，直到找到一个你最喜欢的地方，然后躺在里面，意识到你已经得到了休息。难道不是这样吗？好吧，想象一下这一切的完全相反，你就有了我。我什么也没做——我什么也做不了！”

“为什么不？”

“说来话长。有一天我会告诉你。同时，我是对的，嗯？你是成功者吗？你发财了吗？这不关我的事，不过，总之，你很有钱？”

“这又是一件听起来很愚蠢的事情，”纽曼说。 “行了吧，没有人是有钱的！”

“我听哲学家断言，”德·贝勒加德先生笑着说，“没有人是穷人；他们都是穷人。”但你的公式让我觉得是一种进步。我承认，总的来说，我不喜欢成功的人，而且我觉得那些发了大财的聪明人非常令人反感。他们踩在我的脚趾上；他们让我不舒服。但一看到你，我就对自己说。 “啊，有一个人我可以和他相处。”他具有成功的良好本性，并且没有任何 傲气;他没有我们法国人那令人惊慌的虚荣心。总而言之，我看上了你。我确信我们非常不同；我不相信我们在某个问题上有相同的想法或感觉。但我宁愿认为我们应该继续相处，因为你知道，有这样一种事情，那就是差异太大而不能争吵。”

“哦，我从不吵架，”纽曼说。

“绝不！有时这是一种责任——或者至少是一种乐趣。哦，我这一天有过两三次愉快的争吵！”回忆起这些事件，德·贝勒加德先生英俊的笑容呈现出近乎性感的强烈笑容。

他在上述对话片段中包含了序言，对我们的英雄进行了一次长时间的拜访。当两个人坐在纽曼发光的壁炉上时，他们听到远处钟楼里的凌晨钟声越来越大。瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德自己承认，他在任何时候都是一个喋喋不休的人，而这次他显然处于一种特别喋喋不休的心情。他的种族有一个传统，即同族人总是用微笑来给予恩惠，而他的热情却很少见，而他的礼貌却始终如一，因此他有双重理由不怀疑他的友谊会被坚持下去。此外，尽管他是古老茎上的花朵，传统（因为我使用了这个词）在他的气质中没有任何令人不快的僵化。它充满了社交性和温文尔雅，就像一位戴着蕾丝和珍珠串的老太后。瓦伦丁在法国被称为 庆大霉素，最纯粹的来源，他的生活规则，就其明确而言，就是扮演一个角色 庆大霉素。在他看来，这对于一个普通的年轻人来说已经足够舒服了。但他的一切都是出于本能，而不是理论，他的性格是如此的和蔼可亲，以至于某些贵族美德，在某些方面似乎相当脆弱和尖锐，在他的运用中获得了极端的和蔼可亲。在他年轻的时候，他被怀疑品味低下，他的母亲非常担心他会在高速公路的泥泞中滑倒，弄脏家族的盾牌。因此，他接受了超出他应得的教育和训练，但他的教练并没有成功地把他踩在高跷上。他们不能破坏他安全的自发性，他仍然是年轻贵族中最不谨慎、最幸运的一个。他年轻时被一根如此短的绳子拴着，现在他对家训怀有不共戴天的怨恨。大家都知道，他曾说过，在家族的范围内，尽管他头脑昏昏沉沉，但这个名字的荣誉在他手中比在其他一些成员手中更安全，而且如果有一天真的到来的话尝试一下，他们应该看看。他的谈话奇怪地混合着近乎孩子气的喋喋不休和世人的矜持和谨慎，在纽曼看来，就像后来拉丁种族的年轻成员经常在他看来一样，他现在显得很有趣，现在又成熟得令人震惊。纽曼反思道，在美国，二十五岁和三十岁的小伙子头脑老，心年轻，或者至少道德年轻。在这里，他们有着年轻的头脑和非常衰老的心灵，道德已经变得斑白和皱纹。

“我羡慕你的是你的自由，”德·贝勒加德先生评论道，“你的范围广泛，你来去自由，你没有很多人，他们非常认真地对待自己，对你有所期待。我生活在我令人敬佩的母亲的眼前，”他叹了口气补充道。

“这是你自己的错；是什么阻碍了你的测距？”纽曼说。

“这句话有一种令人愉快的简单性！一切都是为了阻碍我。首先，我一分钱都没有。”

“当我开始测距时，我一分钱都没有。”

“啊，但是你的贫穷就是你的资本。作为一个美国人，你不可能保持你出生时的样子，而出身贫穷——我明白吗？——因此你不可避免地应该变得富有。你所处的位置让人垂涎欲滴；你环顾四周，发现这个世界充满了你只需走近并抓住的东西。当我二十岁的时候，我环顾四周，看到了一个一切都贴有“放手！”的世界。其原因是这张票似乎只适合我。我无法经商，无法赚钱，因为我是贝勒加德人。我无法从政，因为我是贝勒加德人——贝勒加德人不承认波拿巴人。我无法进入文学领域，因为我是个笨蛋。我不能娶一个有钱的女孩，因为贝勒加德从来没有娶过一个有钱的女孩 罗蒂里耶尔，而我开始是不合适的。但我们还是得谈到这一点。适婚的女继承人， 巴黎圣母院，不是白白得到的；必须以名还名，以福还福。我唯一能做的就是去为教皇而战。我一丝不苟地照做了，并在卡斯尔菲达尔多受了使徒的肉伤。我所看到的这对教宗和我都没有任何好处。在卡里古拉时代，罗马无疑是一个非常有趣的地方，但遗憾的是，从那以后它就衰落了。我在圣安吉洛城堡度过了三年，然后还俗了。

“所以你没有职业——你什么也不做，”纽曼说。

“我什么都不做！我应该自娱自乐，说实话，我已经自娱自乐了。只要知道如何做，就可以。但你不能永远保持这种状态。也许我还能再活五年，但我预见在那之后我会失去胃口。那我该怎么办呢？我想我应该出家为僧。说真的，我想我应该在腰上系一根绳子，然后走进一座修道院。这是一个古老的习俗，而且古老的习俗非常好。人们和我们一样理解生活。他们把锅一直煮到破裂，然后把它完全放在架子上。”

“你很虔诚吗？”纽曼问道，他的语气让这个询问产生了怪诞的效果。

德·贝勒加德先生显然很欣赏这个问题中的滑稽成分，但他用极其清醒的目光看了纽曼一会儿。 “我是一个非常好的天主教徒。我尊重教会。我崇拜圣母。我害怕魔鬼。”

“那么，”纽曼说，“你已经好了。你在当下得到快乐，在未来得到宗教；你抱怨什么？

“抱怨是一个人快乐的一部分。你自己的情况有些让我恼火。你是我第一个羡慕的男人。虽然很独特，但也确实如此。我认识很多人，除了我可能拥有的任何人为的优势之外，他们还有金钱和头脑。但不知何故，他们从未扰乱我的好心情。但你有一些我应该喜欢的东西。这不是金钱，甚至不是头脑——尽管毫无疑问你的头脑很优秀。这不是你的六英尺高，尽管我宁愿长高几英寸。这是一种让你在这个世界上感到完全自在的空气。当我还是个孩子的时候，我的父亲告诉我，正是通过这样的神态，人们才认出贝勒加德。他提请我注意这一点。他并没有建议我去培养它；他只是建议我去培养它。他说，随着我们的成长，它总是自然而然地出现。我想它已经降临到我身上了，因为我想我一直都有这种感觉。我在生活中的位置是为我而定的，而且似乎很容易占据它。但据我所知，你已经拥有了自己的位置，正如你前几天告诉我们的那样，你制造了洗衣盆——不知何故，你给我的印象是，你是一个安逸地站立着的人，看着从高处看的东西。我想象你像一个拥有大量股票的人在铁路上旅行一样周游世界。你让我感觉好像我错过了什么。它是什么？”

“这是一种诚实劳动的自豪意识——制造了几个洗衣盆，”纽曼既幽默又严肃地说道。

“不好了;我见过做得更多的人，他们不仅制造了洗衣盆，还制造了肥皂——气味浓烈的黄色肥皂，大块的；他们从来没有让我感到最不舒服。”

“那么这就是作为美国公民的特权，”纽曼说。 “这会让一个人振作起来。”

“有可能，”德·贝勒加德先生回答道。 “但我不得不说，我见过很多美国公民，他们看起来根本不像大股东。我从来没有羡慕过他们。我倒觉得这件事是你自己的成就。”

“哦，来吧，”纽曼说，“你会让我感到骄傲！”

“不，我不会。你与骄傲或谦卑无关——这是你这种轻松态度的一部分。人只有在失去一些东西的时候才会骄傲，只有在得到一些东西的时候才会谦卑。”

“我不知道我会失去什么，”纽曼说，“但我肯定会得到一些东西。”

“它是什么？”他的访客问道。

纽曼犹豫了一下。 “当我更了解你的时候我会告诉你。”

“我希望那会很快！那么，如果我能帮助你获得它，我会很高兴。”

“也许你可以，”纽曼说。

“那么，请不要忘记我是您的仆人。”德·贝勒加德先生回答道。不久之后他就离开了。

在接下来的三周内，纽曼多次见到贝勒加德，在没有正式宣誓永远友谊的情况下，两人建立了某种同志关系。对于纽曼来说，贝勒加德是理想的法国人，传统和浪漫的法国人，就我们的英雄关心这些神秘的影响而言。英勇、豪爽、风趣，他自己对自己所产生的效果比他所为的那些人（即使他们很高兴）更满意；一个所有独特的社会美德的大师和所有令人愉快的感觉的拥护者；一个神秘而神圣的事物的奉献者，他偶尔会用比他谈到最后一位漂亮女人时更令人欣喜若狂的措辞来暗示，而这只是美丽的，但有些过时的形象。 兑现;他具有不可抗拒的娱乐性和活力，他塑造了一种纽曼曾经能够公正地对待他的性格，尽管他不太可能在思考我们人类成分的可能混合物时，在精神上已经预示了。贝勒加德丝毫没有让他改变他的必要前提，即所有法国人都是泡沫和不可估量的物质；他只是提醒他，轻质材料可以被打碎成最合适的化合物。没有两个同伴的差异如此之大，但他们的差异构成了友谊的资本基础，而这种友谊的显着特点是对每个人来说都非常有趣。

瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德 (Valentin de Bellegarde) 住在圣奥诺雷街 (Rue d'Anjou St. Honoré) 一座老房子的地下室里，他的小公寓位于房子的庭院和庭院后面的一个古老花园之间——那些大的、没有阳光的潮湿花园之一你从后窗意外地看到巴黎，想知道他们如何在勉强的居住地中找到自己的空间。当纽曼回访贝勒加德时，他暗示说 他的 住宿至少和他自己的住宿一样是一件可笑的事情。但它的怪异之处与我们英雄奥斯曼大道上的镀金轿车不同：这个地方低矮、昏暗、狭小，挤满了好奇的小摆设。贝勒加德虽然身无分文，却是一位贪得无厌的收藏家，他的墙壁上挂满了生锈的扶手和古老的镶板和盘子，门口挂着褪色的挂毯，地板上铺满了兽皮。法国的室内装饰艺术如此多产，到处都有一种对优雅的令人不安的致敬。窗帘凹处有一块镜子，在阴影中你什么也看不见；一张长沙发，上面有花饰和毛绒，你不能坐在上面；壁炉的垂饰、荷叶边和褶边完全隔绝了火。年轻人的财产乱七八糟，他的公寓里弥漫着雪茄的气味，还夹杂着更加神秘的香水味。纽曼认为这是一个潮湿、阴暗的居住地，并对家具的阻碍性和碎片性感到困惑。

贝勒加德按照本国的习惯，非常慷慨地谈论自己，并毫不留情地揭开了他的私人历史之谜。不可避免地，他对女性有很多话要说，而且他经常沉溺于对这些描述他的欢乐和悲伤的作者的感伤和讽刺的撇号。 “哦，那些女人，那些女人，还有她们让我做的事情！”他会用闪亮的眼睛大声喊道。 “这是最好的，在我为他们犯下的所有愚蠢行为中，我不会错过任何一个！”在这个问题上，纽曼保持着习惯性的保留。在他看来，对它进行大量的阐述总是隐约类似于鸽子的咕咕声和猴子的喋喋不休，甚至与完全发展的人类性格不一致。但贝勒加德的吐露让他非常高兴，而且很少让他不高兴，因为这位慷慨的年轻法国人并不是一个愤世嫉俗的人。 “我真的认为，”他曾经说过，“我并不比大多数同时代人更加堕落。我的同代人，他们实在是太堕落了！”他对他的女性朋友说了很多美好的话，尽管她们数量众多、种类繁多，但他宣称，总的来说，她们的好处多于坏处。 “但你不能将此视为建议，”他补充道。 “作为一个权威，我非常不值得信任。我对他们抱有偏见；我是一个 理想主义者！纽曼面带公正的微笑听着他的讲话，为他自己着想，他很高兴他的感情很好。但他心里否认法国人发现了他自己并不怀疑的和蔼可亲的性别的任何优点。然而，德贝勒加德先生并没有将他的谈话局限于自传渠道。他主要向我们的英雄询问他自己生活中的事件，纽曼给他讲了一些比贝勒加德预算中的故事更好的故事。事实上，他从一开始就讲述了他的职业生涯，经历了所有的变化，每当他的同伴的轻信，或者他的绅士习惯出现抗议时，他都会以增强这一情节的色彩为乐。纽曼曾与西方幽默家坐在圆圆的铸铁炉子里，看着“高大”的故事越长越高，而不会倒塌，他自己的想象力也学会了堆积一致奇迹的技巧。贝勒加德一贯的态度终于变成了笑着自卫。为了维持他作为一个无所不知的法国人的声誉，他对一切都怀疑。结果是纽曼发现无法让他相信某些历史悠久的真理。

“但细节并不重要，”德贝勒加德先生说。 “你显然经历过一些令人惊讶的冒险；你看到了生活中一些奇怪的一面，当我在林荫大道上走来走去时，你已经在整个大陆上来回旋转了。你是一个有复仇心的世人！你度过了一些极其无聊的时光，也做过一些极其令人讨厌的事情：小时候你铲过沙子当晚饭，你在淘金者的营地里吃过烤狗。你一次站着算十个小时的数字，你坐着听卫理公会的布道，只是为了看看另一个座位上的漂亮女孩。正如我们所说，所有这些都相当僵硬。但无论如何，你已经做了一些事情，你就是一个了不起的人；你运用了你的意志，你创造了你的财富。你没有用放荡来愚弄自己，也没有把你的财产抵押给社会便利。你对待事情很容易，你的偏见甚至比我还少，我假装没有，但实际上有三四个。快乐的人，你很坚强，你很自由​​。但到底是什么，”年轻人总结道，“你打算利用这些优势做什么？真正要使用它们，你需要一个比这更好的世界。这里没有什么值得你花时间的。”

“哦，我认为有一些东西，”纽曼说。

“它是什么？”

“好吧，”纽曼低声说道，“我改天再告诉你！”

就这样，我们的英雄日复一日地拖延着提出一个他非常关心的话题。然而，与此同时，他对它也越来越熟悉了。换句话说，他又拜访了德·辛特雷夫人三次。其中只有两次他在家里找到了她，而且每一次她都有其他访客。她的访客人数众多，而且非常健谈，他们引起了女主人的注意。不过，她还是抽出时间，偶尔给纽曼一个含糊的微笑，给他一点点的帮助，这种含糊的微笑让他很高兴，让他在当时和事后都在心里填写了这些含义。他最高兴的是。他坐在一旁，一言不发，看着辛特雷夫人的访客的出入口、问候声和闲聊声。他觉得自己好像正在看戏，而他自己的讲话似乎会成为一种干扰。有时他希望自己有一本书，以便能够跟上对话。他一半期望看到一个戴着白帽子、系着粉红丝带的女人过来，以两法郎的价格给他买一顶。有些女士很严厉地看着他——或者很温柔地看着他，随你便。其他人似乎完全没有意识到他的存在。男人们只看着德辛特雷夫人。这是不可避免的。因为无论你说她美丽与否，她都占据了你的视野，充满了你的视野，就像悦耳的声音充满了你的耳朵。纽曼与她只说了二十句话，但他给人留下的印象是庄严的承诺所无法比拟的。她和她的同伴一样，都是他所观看的戏剧的一部分。但她是多么充满舞台，而且她做得多么好！无论她站起来还是坐下；她是否和即将离去的朋友一起走到门口，在他们走出去时掀起厚重的窗帘，站了一会儿，望着他们，最后向他们点了点头？或者她是否靠在椅子上，双臂交叉，眼睛休息，倾听并微笑？她给纽曼一种感觉，他希望她总是在他面前，沿着富有表现力的热情好客的整个范围缓慢地来回走动。如果可能是 至 他，那就好；如果可能的话 他，那就更好了！她那么高大却又那么轻盈，那么活跃又那么平静，那么优雅又那么朴素，那么率真又那么神秘！纽曼最感兴趣的是这个谜团——可以说，这就是她在舞台下的样子。他不可能告诉你他有什么理由谈论神秘事件；如果他习惯用诗意的形象来表达自己，他可能会说，在观察德·辛特雷夫人时，他似乎看到了有时伴随着部分填充的月盘的模糊圆圈。这并不是因为她矜持，而是因为她很矜持。相反，她坦率如流水。但他确信她拥有她自己没有怀疑过的品质。

由于多种原因，他没有向贝勒加德说出其中一些话。原因之一是，在采取任何行动之前，他总是谨慎、推测、沉思。他没有什么急切的精神，因为他觉得每当他真正开始行动时，他都会迈着大步走。然后，他很高兴不说话——这让他忙碌，让他兴奋。但有一天，贝勒加德和他在一家餐馆吃饭，他们坐了很长时间。起床后，贝勒加德提议，为了帮助他们度过今晚剩下的时间，他们应该去看看丹德拉夫人。丹德拉夫人是一位意大利小贵妇，嫁给了一位法国人，而法国人却是个浪子、畜生，是她一生的折磨。她的丈夫花光了她所有的钱，然后，由于缺乏获得更昂贵的快乐的手段，他在无聊的时候开始殴打她。她在某个地方有一个蓝色的斑点，她把它拿给几个人看，其中包括贝勒加德。她与丈夫分居，收集了她所剩无几的财产（非常微薄），来到巴黎居住，住在一家 加尼酒店。她总是在寻找公寓，并探询地拜访其他人的公寓。她很漂亮，很孩子气，说话也很非同寻常。贝勒加德认识了她，根据他自己的说法，他对她感兴趣的根源是对她的未来感到好奇。 “她很穷，她很漂亮，但她很傻，”他说，“在我看来，她只能走一条路。可惜，却也无可奈何。我会给她六个月的时间。她没有什么可害怕的，但我正在观察这个过程。我很好奇事情会如何发展。是的，我知道你要说什么：这个可怕的巴黎让人的心变得刚硬。但它可以提高人的智慧，最终教会人们一种敏锐的观察力！现在，对我来说，看到这个小女人的小戏剧上演，是一种智力上的乐趣。”

“如果她要自杀，”纽曼说，“你应该阻止她。”

“阻止她？怎么阻止她？”

“和她说话；给她一些好的建议。”

贝勒加德笑了。 “上天保佑我们俩吧！想象一下情况吧！你自己去劝劝她吧。”

就在这之后，纽曼和贝勒加德一起去见丹德拉夫人。当他们离开时，贝勒加德责备了他的同伴。 “你著名的建议在哪里？”他问。 “我一个字也没听到。”

“哦，我放弃了，”纽曼简单地说。

“那你就和我一样坏了！”贝勒加德说。

“不，因为我不会从她未来的冒险中获得‘智力上的快乐’。我一点也不想看到她走下坡路。我宁愿另眼相看。但是，”他立刻问道，“为什么你不让你妹妹去看她呢？”

贝勒加德凝视着。 “去见丹德拉夫人——我的妹妹？”

“她可能会出于很好的目的与她交谈。”

贝勒加德突然严肃地摇了摇头。 “我姐姐看不到那种人。丹德拉夫人什么也不是；他们永远不会见面。”

“我想，”纽曼说，“你姐姐可能会见她想见的人。”他私下决定，等他对德·辛特雷夫人有了更多的了解后，他就请德·辛特雷夫人去跟那个愚蠢的意大利小女人谈谈。

在我提到的那次与贝勒加德共进晚餐后，他拒绝了同伴的提议，即他们应该再去听丹德拉尔夫人描述她的悲伤和瘀伤。

“我有更好的想法，”他说。 “和我一起回家，在生火前的晚上完成任务。”

贝勒加德总是欢迎长时间交谈的前景，不久之后，两人就坐在一起，看着大火在纽曼舞厅的高级装饰上散布着闪烁的光芒。

“告诉我一些关于你妹妹的事，”纽曼突然开始说道。

贝勒加德转身快速看了他一眼。 “现在想起来，你还从来没有问过我关于她的问题。”

“我很清楚这一点。”

“如果是因为你不信任我，那你说得很对，”贝勒加德说。 “我无法理性地谈论她。我太佩服她了。”

“尽你所能地谈论她，”纽曼回答道。 “放自己走。”

“嗯，我们是很好的朋友；我们是自俄瑞斯忒斯和厄勒克特拉以来从未见过的兄弟姐妹。你见过她；你知道她是什么样的：高、瘦、轻、气势、温柔，半个 贵妇人 和半个天使；骄傲与谦卑、鹰与鸽子的混合体。她看起来就像一尊雕像，像石头一样失败，屈服于其严重的缺陷，并像血肉一样复活，穿着白色的斗篷和长长的裙裾。我只能说，她确实拥有她的脸、她的眼神、她的微笑、她的语气所让人期待的一切优点；它说了很多。一般来说，当一个女人看起来很迷人时，我应该说“小心！”但随着克莱尔看起来迷人，你可能会交叉双臂，让自己随波逐流；你很安全。她太好了！我从未见过一个女人如此完美或如此完美。她拥有一切；关于她我只能说这么多。那里！”贝勒加德总结道： “我告诉过你我应该狂想。”

纽曼沉默了一会儿，似乎在翻阅同伴的话。 “她很好，嗯？”他最后重复了一遍。

“太好了！”

“善良、仁慈、温柔、慷慨？”

“慷慨本身；善意双蒸！”

“她聪明吗？”

“她是我认识的最聪明的女人。有一天，尝试一下她，做一些困难的事情，你就会看到结果。”

“她喜欢被人仰慕吗？”

“帕布尔！”贝勒加德喊道； “哪个女人不是？”

“啊，当他们太喜欢钦佩时，他们就会为了得到它而做出各种愚蠢的事情。”

“我没说她太喜欢了！”贝勒加德惊呼道。 “老天爷不允许我说这么白痴的话。她不是 也有 任何事物！如果我说她丑，我并不是说她太丑了。她喜欢取悦你，如果你取悦她，她会感激不已。如果你不高兴，她就会让它过去，不会把你和她自己想得最坏。不过，我想她希望天堂的圣徒们也是如此，因为我确信她无法以任何方式取悦他们，因为他们会不同意。”

“她是严肃的还是同性恋的？”纽曼问道。

“她两者都是；不是交替，因为她始终如一。她的欢乐中有严肃，严肃中有欢乐。但没有理由说她应该特别同性恋。”

“她不高兴吗？”

“我不会这么说，因为不幸取决于一个人接受事物的方式，而克莱尔则根据圣母在异象中向她传达的某种收据来接受它们。不快乐就是不愉快，这对她来说是不可能的。所以她安排了自己的处境，以便在其中感到快乐。”

“她是一位哲学家，”纽曼说。

“不，她只是一个非常好的女人。”

“无论如何，她的处境并不令人愉快？”

贝勒加德犹豫了一会儿——他很少这样做。 “哦，我亲爱的朋友，如果我了解我家族的历史，我会给你比你讨价还价的更多的东西。”

“不，相反，我讨价还价，”纽曼说。

“那么，我们必须任命一次特别的降神会，尽早开始。目前克莱尔还没有睡在玫瑰上就足够了。她十八岁时缔结了一场本以为会很美好的婚姻，结果却像一盏灯熄灭了；所有的烟雾和难闻的气味。德·辛特雷先生六十岁了，是一位令人厌恶的老绅士。然而，他活了很短的时间，死后，他的家人抢走了他的钱，对他的遗孀提起诉讼，并极力推动事情发展。他们的案子是一个很好的案子，因为德辛特雷先生曾担任他一些亲戚的受托人，他似乎犯下了一些非常不正常的行为。在诉讼过程中，他的一些私人历史被揭露，我姐姐对此感到非常不快，以至于她不再为自己辩护，并放弃了财产。这需要一些勇气，因为她正处于两场大火之间，丈夫的家人反对她，而她自己的家人则强迫她。我的母亲和我的兄弟希望她坚持他们认为是她的权利。但她坚决反抗，最终换来了自由——以承诺为代价，得到了我母亲的同意放弃诉讼。”

“承诺是什么？”

“在接下来的十年里，她被要求做任何其他事情——任何事情，除了结婚。”

“她很不喜欢她的丈夫？”

“没人知道有多少！”

“这场婚姻是以你们可怕的法国方式缔结的，”纽曼继续说道，“由两个家庭缔结的，而她却没有任何发言权？”

“这是一本小说的一章。婚礼前一个月，她第一次见到德·辛特雷先生，一切都已安排妥当。当她看着他时，她的脸色变得苍白，直到结婚那天她一直都是苍白的。仪式前一天晚上，她昏倒了，整个晚上都在抽泣。我母亲坐着，握着两只手，我哥哥在房间里走来走去。我宣称这是令人反感的，并公开告诉我姐姐，如果她拒绝，我会坚决支持她。我被告知去忙我的事，她就成了德辛特雷伯爵夫人。”

“你的兄弟，”纽曼若有所思地说，“一定是个非常好的年轻人。”

“他人很好，虽然年纪不小了。他已经五十多岁了，比我大十五岁。他是我和我妹妹的父亲。他是一个非常了不起的人；他有法国最好的礼貌。他非常聪明；他确实很有学问。他正在写一部《从未结婚的法国公主》的历史。”贝勒加德说这句话时语气极其严肃，他直视着纽曼，眼神中没有任何精神上的保留。或者说，至少，几乎没有任何迹象。

纽曼也许发现了这一点，因为他很快就说：“你不爱你的兄弟。”

“请您原谅，”贝勒加德郑重地说。 “有教养的人总是爱他们的兄弟。”

“那我就不爱他了！”纽曼回答道。

“等你认识他了！”贝勒加德重新加入，这次他微笑了。

“你妈妈也很了不起吗？”纽曼停顿了一下后问道。

“对于我的母亲，”贝勒加德神情严肃地说，“我怀有最高的钦佩之情。她是一位非常非凡的女性。你无法在没有察觉的情况下接近她。”

“我相信她是一位英国贵族的女儿。”

“圣邓斯坦伯爵的。”

“圣邓斯坦伯爵是一个很古老的家族吗？”

“一般般;十六世纪。我们是在我父亲这边回去的——回去，回去，回去。家族古董商们自己都屏住了呼吸。最后，他们停了下来，气喘吁吁，扇着扇子，时间是在九世纪查理曼统治下的某个地方。这就是我们开始的地方。”

“没有什么错误吧？”纽曼说。

“我确信我希望不会。至少几个世纪以来，我们一直在犯错误。”

“那你一直都是嫁入老门第吗？”

“一般来说；尽管在这么长的一段时间内也有一些例外。十七、十八世纪，有三四个贝勒加德从外地娶妻。 资产阶级——嫁给了律师的女儿。”

“律师的女儿；这很糟糕，是吗？”纽曼问道。

“可怕！中世纪的我们中的一个人做得更好：他娶了一位乞丐女仆，就像科菲图亚国王一样。那真的更好了；这就像嫁给一只鸟或一只猴子；一个人根本不需要考虑她的家人。我们的女性一直做得很好；他们甚至从未进入过 娇小的贵族。我相信，没有任何关于妇女之间不通婚的记录。”

纽曼把它翻了一会儿，最后他说：“你第一次来看我时就提出要为我提供任何你能做的服务。我告诉过你，有时我会提到你可能会做的事情。你是否记得？”

“记住？我一直在数着时间。”

“很好;这是你的机会。尽你所能，让你姐姐对我有好感。”

贝勒加德微笑着凝视着。 “哎呀，我确信她已经非常看好你了。”

“见我三四次就得出这样的意见？这让我感到厌烦。我想要更多的东西。我想了很久，最后还是决定告诉你。我非常想娶德·辛特雷夫人为妻。”

贝勒加德一直用一种期待的目光看着他，他微笑着迎接纽曼暗示他答应过的请求。听到这最后的宣布，他继续凝视着。但他的笑容经历了两三个奇怪的阶段。显然，它一时冲动想要扩大范围。但它立即检查了这一点。然后它停留了片刻进行自我商议，最后决定撤退。它慢慢地消失了，留下了一种严肃的表情，但又不想表现得粗鲁。瓦伦丁伯爵的脸上露出了极度的惊讶。但他认为把它留在那里是不文明的行为。然而，他到底能拿这件事做什么呢？他激动地站起来，站在烟囱前，仍然看着纽曼。他思考该说什么的时间比人们预期的要长。

“如果你不能为我提供我要求的服务，”纽曼说，“就说出来！”

“让我再听一遍，听清楚，”贝勒加德说。 “这非常重要，你知道。我会向我姐姐辩护，因为你想——你想娶她吗？就这样吧？”

“哦，确切地说，我并不是说为我的事业辩护；我会尝试自己做这件事。但时不时地为我说几句好话——让她知道你对我评价不错。”

听到这里，贝勒加德轻轻一笑。

“毕竟，我主要想要的，”纽曼继续说道，“只是让你知道我的想法。我想这就是你所期望的，不是吗？我想做这里的惯例。如果有什么特别的事情要做，请告诉我，我会做的。如果没有所有适当的形式，我绝对不会接近德辛特雷夫人。如果我应该去告诉你妈妈，为什么我会去告诉她。我什至会去告诉你哥哥。我会去告诉任何你愿意的人。因为我不认识其他人，所以我先告诉你。但如果这是一项社会义务，那也是一种乐趣。”

“是的，我明白了——我明白了，”贝勒加德轻轻地抚摸着下巴说道。 “你对此的感觉非常正确，但我很高兴你和我一起开始。”他停顿了一下，犹豫了一下，然后转身，慢慢地沿着房间走去。纽曼站起来，靠在壁炉架上，双手插在口袋里，看着贝勒加德的散步。年轻的法国人回来了，停在他面前。 “我放弃了，”他说。 “我不会假装我并不感到惊讶。我是——非常大！ 呼！ 这是一种解脱。”

“这类消息总是令人惊讶，”纽曼说。 “无论你做了什么，人们永远都没有准备好。但如果你如此惊讶，我希望至少你感到高兴。”

“来！”贝勒加德说。 “我将非常坦白地说。我不知道我是高兴还是害怕。”

“如果你高兴，我会很高兴，”纽曼说，“而且我会受到——鼓励。如果你感到害怕，我会很抱歉，但我不会灰心。你必须充分利用它。”

“说得对，这是你唯一可能的态度。你是认真的吗？”

“我是法国人吗？我不应该是法国人吗？”纽曼问道。 “但是，顺便说一句，你为什么会感到害怕呢？”

贝勒加德把手举到后脑勺，快速地上下揉搓着头发，同时伸出了舌尖。 “比如说，你并不高贵，”他说。

“我不是恶魔！”纽曼惊呼道。

“哦，”贝勒加德严肃了一些，“我不知道你有头衔。”

“一个标题？你说的标题是什么意思？”纽曼问道。 “伯爵、公爵、侯爵？我对此一无所知，我不知道谁是谁不是。但我说我是高贵的。我不太明白你的意思，但这是一个好词，一个好主意；我对此提出了索赔。”

“但是你要出示什么，我亲爱的朋友，什么证据呢？”

“随你便吧！但你不会认为我会承诺证明我是高尚的。你要证明事实恰恰相反。”

“这很容易做到。你们制造了洗衣盆。”

纽曼凝视了一会儿。 “所以我就不高贵了？我没看到。告诉我一些我有的东西 不能 完成了——这是我做不到的事情。”

“你不能随便娶一个像德·辛特雷夫人这样的女人。”

“我相信你的意思是，”纽曼慢慢地说，“我不够好。”

“残酷地说——是的！”

贝勒加德犹豫了一会儿，在他犹豫的同时，纽曼专注的目光变得有些热切。对于这最后一句话，他一时什么也没说。他只是脸红了一点。然后他抬起眼睛看着天花板，站在那里看着画在上面的一个玫瑰色小天使。 “当然，我不会因为任何女人的要求而娶她为妻，”他最后说道。 “我希望首先让自己能够被她接受。首先她一定喜欢我。但我的实力不足以参加审判，这实在是令人惊讶。”

贝勒加德的表情混杂着困惑、同情和有趣。 “那么，你应该毫不犹豫地明天去向一位公爵夫人求婚吗？”

“如果我认为她适合我的话就不会。但我很挑剔；她可能根本不会。”

贝勒加德开始感到好笑。 “如果她拒绝你，你应该感到惊讶吗？”

纽曼犹豫了一下。 “说‘是’听起来有些自负，但我认为我应该这么做。因为我应该提出一个非常丰厚的报价。”

“那会是什么？”

“她想要的一切。如果我遇到一个符合我标准的女人，我不会认为对她有什么好处。我找了很久，发现这样的女人很少见。将我所需要的品质结合起来似乎很困难，但是当困难被克服时，它就应该得到奖励。我的妻子将会有一个很好的地位，我也不怕说我会是一个好丈夫。”

“那么你需要的这些品质是什么？”

“善良、美丽、智慧、良好的教育、个人的优雅——总而言之，一切都造就了一个出色的女人。”

“显然，出身高贵，”贝勒加德说。

“哦，如果有的话，无论如何，把它扔进去。越多越好！”

“你觉得我姐姐拥有所有这些东西吗？”

“她正是我一直在寻找的人。她是我梦想的实现。”

“你会让她成为一个很好的丈夫吗？”

“这就是我想让你告诉她的。”

贝勒加德把手放在同伴的手臂上一会儿，侧着头从头到脚地打量着他，然后大笑着，在空中摇晃另一只手，转过身去。他再次走过房间，然后又回来站在纽曼面前。 “这一切都非常有趣——非常好奇。我刚才所说的话，不是为我自己说的，而是为我的传统、我的迷信说的。对于我自己来说，真的，你的提议让我很高兴。起初我很惊讶，但我越想，就越明白其中的道理。试图解释什么是没有用的；你不会理解我的。毕竟，我不明白你为什么需要；这并不是什么大损失。”

“哦，如果还有什么需要解释的，那就试试吧！我想睁着眼睛继续。我会尽力去理解。”

“不，”贝勒加德说，“这对我来说很不舒服；我放弃了。我第一次见到你就喜欢你，我会遵守这一点。如果我来和你说话，就好像我可以光顾你一样，那就太可恶了。我以前就说过我羡慕你； 你我强加，正如我们所说。不到五分钟我就不太了解你了。所以我们就让事情过去吧，我不会对你说任何话，如果我们的立场对调，你就不会告诉我了。”

我不知道贝勒加德在放弃他所提到的神秘机会时是否觉得自己做了一件非常慷慨的事情。如果是这样，他就没有得到奖励；他的慷慨并未得到赞赏。纽曼完全没有意识到这个年轻的法国人有能力伤害他的感情，他现在没有任何逃避或轻易摆脱的感觉。他连一眼都没有感谢他的同伴。 “不过，我的眼睛是睁开的，”他说，“到目前为止，你几乎已经告诉我，你的家人和你的朋友会对我嗤之以鼻。我从来没有思考过为什么人们会嗤之以鼻，所以我只能即兴决定这个问题。以这种方式看它，我看不到任何东西。我只是认为，如果你想知道的话，我和最好的一样好。谁是最好的，我不会假装说。我也从来没有想太多。说实话，我对自己的评价一直都不错；一个成功的人是无法控制的。但我承认我很自负。我不承认的是，我没有站得那么高——和其他人一样高。这是我不应该选择的猜测，但你必须记住你自己开始了它。我绝对不会想到我会处于守势，或者我必须为自己辩护；但如果你们的人民愿意的话，我会尽力而为。”

“但不久前，正如我们所说，你提出向我的母亲和兄弟求情。”

“该死的！”纽曼喊道：“我想保持礼貌。”

“好的！”重新加入贝勒加德； “这会走得很远，会非常有趣。请原谅我以如此冷血的方式谈论这件事，但这件事对我来说必然是一个奇观。这确实令人兴奋。但除此之外，我对你表示同情，我将尽我所能，既当演员又当观众。你是个资本家；我相信你并且支持你。你欣赏我姐姐这个简单的事实就可以作为我所要求的证据。人人平等——尤其是有品位的人！”

“你认为，”纽曼不久问道，“德辛特雷夫人决心不结婚吗？”

“这是我的印象。但这并不反对你；是你让她改变主意的。”

“恐怕这会很困难，”纽曼严肃地说。

“我认为这并不容易。总的来说，我不明白为什么寡妇应该再婚。她获得了婚姻的好处——自由和体贴——同时也摆脱了婚姻的弊端。为什么她要把头再伸进绞索里？她通常的动机是野心：如果一个男人能给她一个很好的职位，让她成为公主或大使，她可能会认为报酬足够了。”

“这么说来，德·辛特雷夫人是不是雄心勃勃？”

“谁知道？”贝勒加德耸耸肩说道。 “我不会假装说出她的全部或不全部。我想她可能会因为成为一个伟人的妻子而感动。但在某种程度上，我相信，无论她做什么，都会是 难以置信。不要太自信，但也不要绝对怀疑。在她看来，你成功的最佳机会恰恰是成为不寻常的、出乎意料的、原创的。不要试图成为别人；做你自己，彻头彻尾。某事或其他事不可能不发生；我很好奇想看看是什么。”

“我非常感谢你的建议，”纽曼说。 “而且，”他微笑着补充道，“我很高兴，为了你，我会变得如此有趣。”

“这将不仅仅是有趣，”贝勒加德说。 “这将是鼓舞人心的。我从我的角度看问题，你从你的角度看问题。毕竟，什么都可以改变！就在昨天，我还打哈欠，下巴脱臼，还说太阳底下无新鲜事！如果说看到你作为追求者进入这个家庭并不新鲜的话，那我就大错特错了。让我这么说吧，我亲爱的朋友；我不会用任何其他名称来称呼它，无论是坏的还是好的；我将简单地称之为 新”。瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德被一种预示着的新奇感所征服，他一屁股坐在火前的一张深扶手椅上，脸上带着坚定而强烈的微笑，似乎在原木的火焰中读出了它的景象。过了一会儿，他抬起头来。 “继续吧，我的孩子；你有我良好的祝愿，”他说。 “但遗憾的是，你不了解我，不知道我在做什么。”

“哦，”纽曼笑着说，“别做错事。相反，让我独自一人，或者彻底地反抗我。我不会让你的良心承受任何负担。”

贝勒加德再次站了起来。他显然很兴奋。他的眼中闪烁着比平常更加温暖的光芒。 “你永远不会明白——你永远不会知道，”他说； “如果你成功了，而我确实帮助了你，你将永远不会感激，而不是我应得的。你将永远是一个优秀的人，但你不会感恩。不过没关系，我会从中得到自己的乐趣。”他突然放声大笑。 “你看起来很困惑，”他补充道。 “你看起来几乎被吓坏了。”

“它 is 遗憾的是，”纽曼说，“我不明白你的意思。我会失去一些很好的笑话。”

“我告诉过你，你记得，我们是非常奇怪的人，”贝勒加德继续说道。 “我再次警告你。我们是！我的母亲很奇怪，我的兄弟很奇怪，我确信我比他们都更奇怪。你甚至会觉得我妹妹有点奇怪。老树有弯曲的树枝，老房子有奇怪的裂缝，古老的种族有奇怪的秘密。请记住，我们已经八百年了！”

“很好，”纽曼说。 “这就是我来欧洲的目的。你就进入我的计划吧。”

“塔奇兹拉那么，”贝勒加德伸出手说道。 “这是一笔交易：我接受你；我支持你的事业。这是因为我非常喜欢你；但这不是唯一的原因！”他握着纽曼的手站在那里，斜视着他。

“另一件是什么？”

“我是反对党。我不喜欢别人。”

“你的兄弟？”纽曼用他未经调制的声音问道。

贝勒加德将手指放在嘴唇上，低声说道 嘘！ “古老的种族有着奇异的秘密！”他说。 “行动起来，来看看我姐姐，放心得到我的同情！”于是他就告辞了。

纽曼在火堆前的一张椅子上坐下，凝视着火焰，良久。

第二天他去看望德·辛特雷夫人，仆人告诉他她在家。他像往常一样走上冰冷的大楼梯，穿过上面宽敞的前厅，那里的墙壁似乎都是由小门板组成的，上面覆盖着早已褪色的镀金；从那里他被领进了已经接待过他的客厅。里面是空的，仆人告诉他伯爵夫人马上就会出现。在等待的同时，他有时间想知道贝勒加德是否从前一天晚上就见过他的妹妹，以及在这种情况下，他是否向她讲述了他们的谈话。在这种情况下，德·辛特雷夫人的接待对他来说是一种鼓励。当他想到她可能会带着对他至高无上的钦佩以及他在她眼中建立的计划的了解而进来时，他感到某种恐惧；但这种感觉并不令人不快。她的脸上没有任何表情会显得不那么美丽，他事先就确信，无论她如何接受他所保留的提议，她都不会轻蔑或讽刺地接受。他有一种感觉，只要她能读懂他的心底，衡量他对她的好感程度，她就会完全善良。

过了这么久，她终于进来了，他不知道她是否一直在犹豫。她一如既往地坦率地微笑着，伸出了手。她用柔和而明亮的眼睛直视着他，声音没有颤抖，说她很高兴见到他，希望他一切都好。他在她身上找到了他以前发现的东西——一种因与世界接触而消失的个人羞涩的淡淡香气，但你离她越近，就越容易察觉。这种挥之不去的羞怯似乎给她的态度中明确而自信的东西赋予了特殊的价值。这使它看起来像是一种成就，一种美丽的天赋，可以与钢琴家精湛的触感相比较。事实上，正是德·辛特雷夫人的“权威”（正如人们所说的艺术家）给纽曼留下了特别深刻的印象和着迷。他总是回想起这样的感觉：当他应该通过娶一个妻子来完善自己时，他应该希望妻子向世界解释他的方式。事实上，唯一的麻烦是，当这个工具如此完美时，它似乎在你和使用它的天才之间插入了太多的东西。德·辛特雷夫人给了纽曼一种精心教育的感觉，她在年轻时经历了神秘的仪式和文化进程，她被塑造并灵活地适应某些崇高的社会需求。正如我所确认的，所有这一切都使她显得稀有而珍贵——正如他所说，这是一件非常昂贵的物品，而一个渴望拥有自己最好的一切的男人会发现拥有它是非常令人愉快的。但从个人幸福的角度来看，纽曼想知道，在如此精致的建筑中，自然与艺术的分界线在哪里。特殊的意图与良好举止的习惯在哪里分开？彬彬有礼和真诚从哪里开始？即使纽曼准备好接受这件令人钦佩的物品的复杂性，他还是问自己这些问题；他觉得自己可以非常安全地这样做，然后在闲暇时检查其机制。

“我很高兴找到你一个人，”他说。 “你知道我从来没有这么好的运气。”

“但你以前似乎对自己的运气很满意，”德·辛特雷夫人说。 “你坐着看着我的来访者，带着一种安静的乐趣。你对他们有什么看法？”

“噢，我觉得那些女士们非常优雅、非常优雅，而且妙语连珠。但我主要认为它们只是让我更加钦佩你。”这对纽曼来说并不是一种殷勤——他对这种艺术并不精通。这只是务实之人的本能，他已经决定了自己想要的东西，现在开始采取积极的步骤来获得它。

德·辛特雷夫人微微一惊，扬起了眉毛。她显然没想到会得到如此热烈的赞美。 “哦，既然如此，”她笑道，“你单独找到我，对我来说可不是什么好运气。我希望有人能尽快进来。”

“我希望不会，”纽曼说。 “我有一些特别的事情要对你说。你见过你哥哥吗？”

“是的，我一个小时前就见过他了。”

“他有没有告诉你他昨晚见过我？”

“他是这么说的。”

“他告诉你我们谈了什么吗？”

德辛特雷夫人犹豫了一会儿。当纽曼问这些问题时，她的脸色变得有点苍白，似乎她认为即将发生的事情是必要的，但并不那么令人愉快。 “你给他捎信给我了吗？”她问。

“这不完全是一条信息——我请他为我提供服务。”

“这项服务是为了歌颂你，不是吗？”她带着一点微笑回答这个问题，好像是为了让自己更容易回答。

“是的，这就是它真正的意义，”纽曼说。 “他有歌颂我吗？”

“他对你说得很好。但当我知道这是你的特殊要求时，我当然要对他的悼词持保留态度。”

“哦，这没什么区别，”纽曼说。 “你哥哥如果不相信他所说的话，就不会说我的好话。他太诚实了，不会这么做。”

“你的心很深吗？”德·辛特雷夫人说。 “你是想通过夸奖我哥哥来取悦我吗？我承认这是一个好办法。”

“对我来说，任何成功的方式都是好的。如果这对我有帮助的话，我会整天赞美你的兄弟。他是一个高贵的小家伙。他承诺尽其所能帮助我，让我觉得我可以依赖他。”

“别把这件事看得太重，”德·辛特雷夫人说。 “他能帮助你的很少。”

“当然，我必须自己努力。我很清楚这一点；我只是想要一个机会。在他告诉你这些之后，你同意见我，就好像给了我一个机会。”

“我正在见到你，”德·辛特雷夫人缓慢而严肃地说，“因为我答应过我的兄弟我会的。”

“祝福你兄弟的头上！”纽曼喊道。 “昨晚我告诉他的是：我比我见过的任何女人都更钦佩你，我非常想娶你为我的妻子。”他说这句话的时候非常的直接和坚定，没有任何的混乱感。 他满脑子都是他的想法，他已经完全掌握了它，他似乎从他的良心的高度看不起德·辛特雷夫人，她充满了优雅。 这种特殊的语气和态度很可能是他所能想到的最好的。 然而，他的同伴听他讲话时脸上那抹浅浅的、明显勉强的微笑消失了，她坐着看着他，嘴唇张开，脸色严肃得像一张悲惨的面具。 显然，他让她经历的场景让她感到非常痛苦，但她对此感到不耐烦，却没有发现愤怒的声音。 纽曼想知道他是否伤害了她；他无法想象为什么他想要表达的自由主义奉献精神会令人不快。 他起身站在她面前，一只手靠在烟囱上。 “我知道我很少见到你说这些，”他说，“太少了，以至于我说的话可能会显得不尊重。 这就是我的不幸！ 我第一次见到你时就可以这么说。 真的，我以前见过你；我在想象中见过你；你看起来几乎是一个老朋友了。 所以我所说的不仅仅是殷勤、恭维和废话——我不能那样说话，我不知道如何说话，如果可以的话，我也不会那样对你说话。 这句话是多么严肃啊。 我觉得我好像认识你，知道你是一个多么美丽、令人钦佩的女人。 也许有一天我会更清楚，但我现在有了一个总体概念。 你就是我一直在寻找的女人，只是你更加完美。 我不会做出任何抗议和誓言，但你可以相信我。 我知道，要说这一切还为时尚早。这几乎是令人反感的。 但如果可以的话，为什么不争取时间呢？ 如果你想要时间反思——当然你需要——越早开始，对我来说越好。 我不知道你对我的看法；但我并没有什么大秘密；你看到我是什么了。 你哥哥告诉我，我的出身和职业对我不利；你的家人在某种程度上比我处于更高的水平。 我当然不理解也不接受这种想法。 但你对此并不关心。 我可以向你保证，我是一个非常踏实的人，如果我下定决心，我可以安排好事情，这样在几年之内我就不需要浪费时间来解释我是谁和我是什么。 你会自己决定是否喜欢我。 你所看到的就在你面前。 老实说，我相信我没有隐藏的恶习或肮脏的伎俩。 我很善良，善良，善良！ 男人能给女人的一切我都会给你。 我有一大笔财产，非常大的财产；有一天，如果您允许的话，我会详细说明。 如果你想要辉煌，金钱可以给你的一切辉煌，你都会拥有。 至于你可能放弃的任何东西，不要想当然地认为它的位置无法填补。 交给我吧；我会照顾你的;我会知道你需要什么。 精力和聪明才智可以安排一切。 我是一个坚强的人！ 到这里，我已经说出了我的心里话！ 最好还是把它取下来。 如果令您不愉快，我深表歉意；但想一想，如果事情都清楚了该多好。 如果你不愿意的话，现在就不要回答我。 想一想，尽可能慢慢地想。 当然我没有说，我不能说，我的意思是一半，尤其是我对你的钦佩。

在这次纽曼最长的演讲中，德·辛特雷夫人的目光一直盯着他，最后变成了一种着迷的目光。当他停止说话时，她垂下眼睛，坐了一会儿，低头直视前方。然后她缓缓站了起来，一双异常敏锐的眼睛会察觉到她的动作有些颤抖。她的表情依然极其严肃。 “我非常感谢你的提议，”她说。 “这看起来很奇怪，但我很高兴你没有等太久就开口了。最好将这个话题驳回。我很欣赏你所说的一切；你给了我莫大的荣幸。但我已经决定不结婚了。”

“哦，别这么说！”纽曼大声喊道，语气绝对 幼稚 从它恳求和爱抚的节奏中。她转过身去，背对着他，这让她停了下来。 “想得更好一点。你太年轻，太美丽，太生不逢时，无法让自己快乐，也无法让别人快乐。如果你害怕失去自由，我可以向你保证，这里的自由，你现在过的生活，是对我将提供给你的东西的沉闷束缚。你将会做一些我认为你从未想过的事情。我会带你去你想去的广阔世界的任何地方。你不开心吗？你给我的感觉是你 ，那恭喜你， 不高兴。你没有权利成为这样的人，也没有权利被人塑造成这样。让我进来结束这一切吧。”

德·辛特雷夫人又站了一会儿，目光从他身上移开。如果她被他说话的语气感动了，那事情就可想而知了。他的声音一向很温和，带着疑问，渐渐变得温柔又温柔，仿佛在跟一个心爱的孩子说话。他站在那里看着她，她很快又转过身来，但这一次她没有看他，说话的声音很平静，其中有明显的努力痕迹。

“我不应该结婚的原因有很多，”她说，“我无法向你解释。至于我的幸福，我很幸福。你的提议对我来说似乎很奇怪，其原因我也无法说出。当然，您完全有权利这样做。但我不能接受——这是不可能的。请不要再提这件事了。如果你不能答应我这个，我就请你不要回来了。”

“为什么不可能？”纽曼问道。 “一开始你可能会认为是这样，但事实并非如此。我一开始没想到你会高兴，但我相信，如果你想一想，你可能会满意。”

“我不认识你，”德辛特雷夫人说。 “想想我对你的了解是多么少。”

“当然，很少，因此我不会当场要求你下最后通牒。我只请求你不要拒绝，让我充满希望。只要你愿意，我都会等。与此同时，你可以更多地了解我，更好地了解我，把我视为一个可能的丈夫——作为一个候选人——并做出决定。”

德·辛特雷夫人的脑子里正在迅速地发生着一些事情。她正在纽曼的眼前权衡一个问题，权衡并做出决定。 “从我不太恭敬地恳求你离开家，永远不要回来的那一刻起，”她说，“我听你的话，我似乎给了你希望。我 已可以选用 听了你的话——违背了我的判断。那是因为你能言善道。如果今天早上我被告知我应该同意考虑你作为可能的丈夫，我会认为我的线人有点疯狂。我 am 听你这么一说，你就知道了！”她伸出双手，然后又垂了下来，动作中流露出一丝吸引人的软弱。

“好吧，就俗话而言，我已经说了一切，”纽曼说。 “我相信你，没有任何限制，我认为你有可能想到一个人类，这对你来说是好事。我坚信嫁给我你就会 安全。正如我刚才所说的，”他微笑着继续说道，“我没有什么不好的办法。我可以 do 就这么多了。如果你担心我不是你所习惯的那样，不文雅、精致、一丝不苟，你可能很容易就走得太远了。我 am 精美的！你会看到的！

德·辛特雷夫人走了一段距离，在一株巨大的杜鹃花前停了下来，这株杜鹃花在她窗前的瓷盆里盛开。她摘下一朵花，用手指捻着，又原路返回。然后她默默地坐下来，她的态度似乎是同意纽曼多说一些。

“你为什么说你不可能结婚呢？”他继续。 “唯一能让这件事变得不可能的是你已经结婚了。是因为婚姻不幸福吗？更何况这个理由！是因为家人给你压力、干扰你、惹恼你吗？这还有一个原因；你应该完全自由，而婚姻会让你如此。我没有说任何反对你家人的话——明白这一点！”纽曼补充道，他的急切心情可能会让敏锐的观察者微笑。 “无论你对他们的感觉如何，都是正确的方式，并且你希望我做的任何事情，以使我自己对他们感到满意，我都会尽力而为。就靠这个了！”

德·辛特雷夫人再次站起身来，朝壁炉走去，纽曼就站在壁炉旁边。痛苦和尴尬的表情从她脸上消失了，脸上露出了某种东西，至少这一次，纽曼不必困惑是归因于习惯还是意图，归因于艺术还是自然。她的气质就像一个跨过友谊边界的女人，环顾四周，发现这个领域广阔无边。她目光中一贯的平静光芒中似乎混杂着某种抑制住的兴奋。 “我不会拒绝再次见到你，”她说，“因为你所说的很多话都让我很高兴。但我见你的条件只有一个：你必须在很长一段时间内不再以同样的方式说话。”

“多长时间？”

“六个月了。这一定是一个庄严的承诺。”

“很好，我保证。”

“那么，再见，”她说着，伸出了手。

他沉默了片刻，似乎还想再说什么。但他只是看着她；然后他就离开了。

那天晚上，在林荫大道上，他遇见了瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德。他们寒暄之后，纽曼告诉他，几个小时前他见过德·辛特雷夫人。

“我知道，”贝勒加德说。 “我在大学街吃过饭。”然后，有一会儿，两个人都沉默了。纽曼想问贝勒加德他的访问给他留下了什么明显的印象，而瓦伦丁伯爵也有自己的问题。贝勒加德首先发言。

“不关我的事，不过你到底对我妹妹说了什么？”

“我愿意告诉你，”纽曼说，“我向她求婚了。”

“已经！”年轻人吹了一声口哨。 “'时间就是金钱！'你在美国也是这么说的吗？德辛特雷夫人呢？他用疑问的语气补充道。

“她没有接受我的提议。”

“你知道，她不能那样做。”

“但我会再次见到她，”纽曼说。

“哦，女人真是奇怪啊！”贝勒加德喊道。然后他停了下来，与纽曼保持一臂距离。 “我看你的眼神充满敬意！”他惊呼道。 “你已经取得了我们所说的个人成功！现在，我必须立即把你介绍给我的兄弟。”

“只要你愿意，什么时候都可以！”纽曼说。

纽曼继续频繁地与他的朋友崔斯特瑞姆一家见面，不过如果你听过崔斯特瑞姆夫人对此事的叙述，你会认为他们是为了更进一步的了解而被冷嘲热讽地拒绝的。 “只要没有对手，我们就都很好——总比没有好。但现在你已经成为时尚，每天都有三张晚餐邀请函可供你挑选，我们就被扔到了角落里。我确信您每个月来看我们一次真是太好了；我想知道你不把你的卡片装在信封里寄给我们。当你这样做时，祈祷它们有黑边；这是为了破灭我最后的幻想。”正是在这种尖锐的语气中，崔斯特瑞姆夫人对纽曼所谓的忽视进行了道德说教，而这实际上是一种最堪称典范的坚定。当然，她是在开玩笑，但她的笑话里总有一些讽刺的成分，就像她严肃中总有一些滑稽的成分一样。

“我知道没有什么比你对我的性格如此自由的事实更能证明我对你很好了，”纽曼说。 熟悉会招致轻视；我把自己变得太廉价了。 如果我有一点适当的骄傲，我会离开一段时间，当你请我吃饭时，说我要去波瑞尔斯卡公主家。 但就我的快乐而言，我没有任何骄傲，并且为了让你保持幽默感来见我——如果你必须见我只是为了骂我——我会同意你选择的任何事情；我承认我是巴黎最大的势利小人。”事实上，纽曼拒绝了博瑞尔斯卡公主亲自发出的邀请，这位博瑞尔斯卡公主是一位好奇的波兰女士，他被介绍给他，理由是那天他总是在纽曼夫人那里用餐。 崔斯特瑞姆的；他对早年的友谊不忠，这只是他的耶纳大道女主人的一个温柔而反常的理论。 她需要这个理论来解释她经常受到的某种道德刺激。不过，如果这种解释不合理，那么必须有比我更深入的分析师给出正确的解释。 当我们的英雄被推上急流时，她似乎对它的速度感到有点高兴。 她太成功了；她已经成功了。她的游戏玩得太聪明了，她想把牌搞混。 纽曼在适当的时候告诉她，她的朋友“令人满意”。这个绰号并不浪漫，但夫人。 崔斯特瑞姆毫不费力地察觉到，本质上，隐藏在它下面的感觉是这样的。 事实上，这句话的温和、宽广、简洁，以及当纽曼把头靠在椅背上时，他半闭着的眼睛里发出的一种既吸引人又难以理解的表情，在她看来是最有说服力的。这是她从未遇到过的成熟情感的证明。 按照法国人的说法，纽曼只是在她自己的意义上充满了热情，但他的温和的狂喜对她自己几个月前如此自由地表现出来的热情产生了奇异的影响。 她现在似乎倾向于对德·辛特雷夫人采取纯粹批判性的看法，并希望人们明白，她根本没有回答说她是所有美德的概括。 “没有哪个女人像那个女人看起来那么好，”她说。 “记住莎士比亚所说的苔丝狄蒙娜； “一个超级微妙的威尼斯人。”德·辛特雷夫人是一位极其微妙的巴黎人。 她是一个风姿绰约的女子，有五百功德；但你最好记住这一点。”是夫人。 崔斯特瑞姆只是发现她嫉妒塞纳河对岸的亲爱的朋友，并且在为纽曼提供一个理想的妻子时她过于依赖自己的无私？ 我们或许可以对此表示怀疑。 耶纳大道上这位性格反复无常的小女士，在理智上有着无法克服的改变自己地位的需要。 她的想象力很丰富，在某些时候，她能够想象出她最珍视的信念的直接反面，其生动程度比信念更强烈。 她厌倦了正确思考。但这并没有什么严重的坏处，因为她同样厌倦了错误的思考。 在她神秘的反常行为中，她却闪现出令人钦佩的正义之光。 其中之一发生在纽曼告诉她他已向德辛特雷夫人正式求婚时。 他用几句话重复了他说过的话，并用很多话重复了她的回答。 太太。

“但毕竟，”纽曼说，“没有什么值得祝贺的。这不是胜利。”

“请您原谅，”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说道。 “这是一次伟大的胜利。她没有在第一句话就让你沉默，并要求你永远不要再和她说话，这是一个巨大的胜利。”

“我不这么认为，”纽曼评论道。

“你当然不知道；老天爷不允许你这样做！当我告诉你走你自己的路，做你想到的事情时，我不知道你会这么快就走过去。我做梦也没想到你会在五六次叫醒后主动提出来。到目前为止，你做了什么让她喜欢你？你只是坐着——不是坐得很直——盯着她。但她确实喜欢你。”

“这还有待观察。”

“不，这已经被证明了。其结果还有待观察。她绝对不会想到你会毫不费力地向她求婚。当你说话时，你几乎无法想象她脑子里在想什么。如果她真的嫁给了你，这桩婚事将体现出人类对女性一贯的公正态度。你会认为你对她的看法很宽容；事实上，你对她的看法很宽容。但你永远不会知道，在她接受你之前，她经历了多么奇怪的感情海洋。有一天，当她站在你面前时，她就陷入了困境。她说“为什么不呢？”几个小时前，这是不可思议的事情。她像在一个枢轴上一样转动着一千种聚集的偏见和传统，看向她迄今为止从未看过的地方。当我想到这一点时——当我想到克莱尔·德·辛特雷和她所代表的一切时，我觉得其中有一些非常美好的东西。当我建议你和她一起碰碰运气时，我当然对你有好感，尽管你犯了罪，我仍然这么认为。但我承认我不太明白你是什么人，你做了什么，让这样一个女人为你做这种事。”

“哦，里面有东西，真是太好了！”纽曼笑着重复了一遍她的话。听到里面有好东西，他感到非常满意。他本人对此毫不怀疑，但他已经开始重视全世界对德·辛特雷夫人的钦佩，认为这会增加未来拥有的荣耀。

就在这次谈话之后，瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德立即来把他的朋友带到大学街，把他介绍给他的其他家庭成员。 “你已经被介绍了，”他说，“人们也开始谈论你了。我姐姐提到过你多次拜访我母亲，而我母亲却没有出席，这纯属意外。我说你是一个拥有巨大财富的美国人，也是世界上最好的人，正在寻找一位非常优秀的妻子。”

“你认为，”纽曼问道，“德·辛特雷夫人是否向你母亲讲述了我与她的最后一次谈话？”

“我非常确定她没有；她会保留自己的忠告。与此同时，你必须与家人一起前行。关于你，我们了解得很多：你在贸易中赚了一大笔钱，你有点古怪，而且你坦率地钦佩我们亲爱的克莱尔。你记得在德·辛特雷夫人的客厅里见过我的嫂子，看来她很喜欢你。她形容你有 美誉。因此，我妈妈很想见到你。”

“她希望嘲笑我，嗯？”纽曼说。

“她从不笑。如果她不喜欢你，不要指望通过搞笑来博取好感。接受我的警告吧！”

这次谈话发生在晚上，半小时后，瓦伦丁带着他的同伴走进了大学街的一间公寓，他还没有进入，那是贝勒加德侯爵夫人的沙龙。这是一间宽敞、高大的房间，有着精致而笨重的装饰线条，沿着墙壁和天花板的上部漆成灰白色。门口和椅背上有大量褪色但经过精心修复的挂毯；地板上铺着浅色的土耳其地毯，尽管年代久远，但仍然柔软而深沉，贝勒加德夫人的每个孩子十岁时的肖像都悬挂在旧的红色丝绸屏风上。房间里有六支蜡烛，它们被放置在奇怪的角落，相距很远，照明充足，足以进行交谈。靠近火炉的一把深扶手椅上坐着一位身穿黑衣的老太太。在房间的另一端，另一个人坐在钢琴前，弹奏着一首非常富有表现力的华尔兹。纽曼在后者身上认出了年轻的贝勒加德侯爵夫人。

瓦伦丁介绍了他的朋友，纽曼走到火炉边的老太太跟前，与她握手。很快他的印象就是一张白皙、精致、苍老的脸，高高的额头，一张小嘴，一双冰冷的蓝眼睛，保留了很多青春的新鲜感。德·贝勒加德夫人认真地看着他，用一种英国式的积极态度回应了他的握手，这让他想起她是圣邓斯坦伯爵的女儿。儿媳妇停止了玩耍，给了他一个和蔼可亲的微笑。纽曼坐下来环顾四周，瓦伦丁走过去亲吻年轻侯爵夫人的手。

“我早该见过你的。”贝勒加德夫人说。 “你来过我女儿好几次了。”

“哦，是的，”纽曼微笑着说道。 “德辛特雷夫人和我现在已经是老朋友了。”

“你走得太快了，”贝勒加德夫人说。

“没有我希望的那么快，”纽曼勇敢地说。

“哦，你很有野心。”老太太回答道。

“是的，我承认我是，”纽曼微笑着说。

德·贝勒加德夫人用冰冷的细眸看着他，他也回视着她，反映出她是一个可能的对手，并试图衡量她。他们的目光持续接触了一会儿。然后德·贝勒加德夫人把目光移开，脸上没有笑容，说道：“我也很有雄心。”

纽曼觉得衡量她的标准并不容易。她是一个令人敬畏、难以捉摸的小女人。她很像她的女儿，但又完全不像她。辛特雷夫人的肤色也是如此，她的眉毛和鼻子的高度精致是遗传的。但她的脸更大、更自由，尤其是她的嘴，与那个保守的孔口有着令人愉快的分歧，一双小嘴唇既丰满又紧闭，合上时看起来好像无法张开得比吞咽更宽。醋栗或发出“哦，亲爱的，不！”这可能被认为是四十年前在几本《美丽之书》中所描绘的艾米琳·阿瑟林女士的贵族美丽的点睛之笔。在纽曼看来，德·辛特雷夫人的脸上有一系列令人愉悦的表情，就像西部草原上风吹过、云朵斑驳的远方一样。但她母亲苍白、严肃、令人尊敬的面容、严肃的目光和含蓄的微笑，暗示着一份签署并盖章的文件；一种由羊皮纸、墨水和格线组成的东西。 “她是个守规矩、讲礼仪的女人。”他看着她，自言自语道。 “她的世界是一成不变的事物的世界。但她对这里感到多么自在，她发现这里是多么美好的天堂啊。她在里面走来走去，仿佛这里是一座鲜花盛开的公园，一座伊甸园；当她看到里程碑上写着“这是优雅的”或“这是不恰当的”时，她会欣喜若狂地停下来，就像在听夜莺或闻玫瑰花一样。贝勒加德夫人戴着一顶黑色天鹅绒小兜帽，系在下巴下，身上裹着一条旧的黑色羊绒披肩。

“你是美国人？”她马上说道。 “我见过几个美国人。”

“巴黎有好几个，”纽曼开玩笑地说。

“哦真的吗？”德·贝勒加德夫人说道。 “我是在英国或其他地方看到这些；不在巴黎。我想它一定是在很多年前的比利牛斯山脉。我听说你们的女士们非常漂亮。其中一位女士非常漂亮！肤色真好！她给了我一张某人的介绍信——我忘记了是谁——她还寄了一张她自己的信。后来我把她的信保存了很长时间，它的表达方式很奇怪。我曾经背过一些短语。但现在我已经忘记了，那是很多年前的事了。从那以后我就再也没有见过美国人。我想我的儿媳妇有；她是个很热闹的人，她见到每个人。”

这时，年轻女子窸窸窣窣地走上前来，掐着纤细的腰肢，漫不经心地扫了一眼自己那件显然是为舞会设计的裙子。她以一种独特的方式，既丑陋又美丽。她的眼睛突出，嘴唇红得出奇。她让纽曼想起了他的朋友尼奥什小姐。这正是那位备受阻碍的年轻女士所希望的。瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德远远地走在她身后，跳来跳去，以避开她那飘散的裙裾。

“你应该更多地露出你的肩膀，”他非常严肃地说。 “你不妨穿一件直立的领子那样的衣服。”

年轻女子背对着烟囱上方的镜子，看了一眼身后，以证实瓦伦丁的说法。镜子落得很低，但它只映出一大片裸露的肉体表面。年轻的侯爵夫人双手放在身后，将裙子的腰部向下拉。 “你的意思是这样？”她问。

“这样好一点了，”贝勒加德用同样的语气说道，“但还有很多不足之处。”

“哦，我从不走极端，”他的嫂子说。然后，转向贝勒加德夫人，“您刚才叫我什么，夫人？”

“我说你是个爱热闹的人。”老太太说。 “但我也可能会叫你别的名字。”

“热闹？多么难听的一个词啊！这是什么意思？”

“一个非常美丽的人，”纽曼看到是法语，就大胆地说。

“这是一个很好的赞美，但翻译得很糟糕，”年轻的侯爵夫人说。然后，看了他一会儿，“你跳舞吗？”

“一步也没有。”

“你错了，”她简单地说。又看了一眼镜子里自己的背影，她转过身去。

“你喜欢巴黎吗？”老太太问道，她显然想知道与美国人交谈的正确方式是什么。

“是的，更确切地说，”纽曼说。然后他用友好的语气补充道：“不是吗？”

“我不能说我知道。我了解我的房子，我了解我的朋友，但我不了解巴黎。”

“哦，你失去了很多，”纽曼同情地说。

德·贝勒加德夫人凝视着。这大概是她第一次因自己的损失而受到哀悼。

“我对我所拥有的感到满意，”她尊严地说。

此时，纽曼的目光在房间里扫视，他觉得房间相当悲伤和破旧。从高高的窗窗，窗玻璃又小又厚，窗框之间挂着两三幅蜡笔画的蜡黄色调肖像。显然，他应该回答说，女主人的满足是很自然的——她有很多；她有很多东西。但在接下来的一段时间里，他并没有想到这个想法。

“好吧，我亲爱的妈妈，”瓦伦丁走过来靠在烟囱上说道，“你觉得我亲爱的朋友纽曼怎么样？他不是我跟你说的那个优秀的家伙吗？”

“我和纽曼先生的认识还不算太远，”德·贝勒加德夫人说。 “我至今只能欣赏他的礼貌。”

“我母亲对这些事情很有判断力，”瓦伦丁对纽曼说。 “如果你让她满意了，那就是胜利了。”

“我希望有一天我能让你满意，”纽曼看着老太太说道。 “我还什么都没做呢。”

“你不许听我儿子的话；他会给你带来麻烦。他是个可悲的、散漫的人。”

“哦，我喜欢他——我喜欢他，”纽曼和蔼地说。

“他让你觉得有趣，嗯？”

“是的，完美。”

“你听到了吗，瓦伦丁？”德·贝勒加德夫人说道。 “你让纽曼先生觉得很有趣。”

“也许我们都会这么做！”瓦伦丁惊呼道。

“你必须见见我的另一个儿子，”德·贝勒加德夫人说道。 “他比这个要好得多。但他不会逗你开心。”

“我不知道——我不知道！”瓦伦丁若有所思地低声说道。 “但我们很快就会看到。来了 先生 mon frère设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

门刚刚打开，一位绅士走了进来，纽曼记得他的脸。当我们的英雄第一次试图向德·辛特雷夫人展示自己时，他就是造成他沮丧的原因。瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德去见他的兄弟，看了他一会儿，然后抓住他的手臂，把他带到纽曼身边。

“这是我的好朋友纽曼先生，”他非常温和地说。 “你一定认识他。”

“我很高兴认识纽曼先生，”侯爵低着头说道，但没有伸出手。

“他就是二手的老太婆，”纽曼一边自言自语地回答德·贝勒加德先生的问候。在他看来，这就是一个推测性理论的起点，即已故的侯爵是一位非常和蔼可亲的外国人，有一种过着轻松生活的倾向，并且感觉这位高傲的小女士的丈夫很难过上幸福的生活。火这样做。但是，如果说他从妻子身上得到了一点安慰的话，那么他却在两个年幼的孩子身上得到了很多安慰，他们是合他心意的，而贝勒加德夫人则与她的长子配对。

“我哥哥跟我谈起过你，”德·贝勒加德先生说。 “既然你也认识我妹妹，那么我们也该见面了。”他转向母亲，殷勤地弯下腰，用嘴唇触碰她的手，然后在烟囱前摆出一个姿势。他有着又长又瘦的脸、高高的鼻梁和不透明的小眼睛，看起来很像一个英国人。他的胡须金黄而有光泽，英俊的下巴中间有一个明显是英国血统的大酒窝。他的指甲尖都十分“尊贵”，他那优美、垂直的人的一举一动都是高贵而威严的。纽曼还从未遇到过如此认真对待自我的艺术化身。他有一种想要后退一步的冲动，就像你想要看到宏伟的正面一样。

“乌尔班，”年轻的德·贝勒加德夫人说道，她显然一直在等待她丈夫带她去参加舞会，“我请您注意我穿好了衣服。”

“这是个好主意，”瓦伦丁低声说道。

“我听从你的命令，我亲爱的朋友，”德·贝勒加德先生说。 “只是，你必须先让我有幸与纽曼先生聊聊。”

“哦，如果你要去参加一个聚会，别让我留住你，”纽曼反对道。 “我非常确定我们会再次见面。事实上，如果您愿意与我交谈，我很乐意指定一个小时。”他急于让人们知道他会乐意回答所有问题并满足所有要求。

德·贝勒加德先生在火炉前保持着平衡的姿势，用一只白皙的手抚摸着一根白皙的胡须，半斜视着纽曼，眼睛里透出一种特殊的观察力。一般无意义的微笑。 “你提出这样的提议真是太好了，”他说。 “如果我没记错的话，你的职业会让你的时间变得宝贵。正如我们所说，你处于——a——状态， 事务部设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

“你是说在生意上？哦不，我现在已经把生意抛在脑后了。我正在“闲逛”，因为 we 说。我的时间完全属于我自己。”

“啊，你正在度假，”德·贝勒加德先生回答道。 “‘闲逛。’是的，我听到过这个说法。”

“先生。纽曼是美国人，”贝勒加德夫人说。

“我的兄弟是一位伟大的民族学家，”瓦伦丁说。

“民族学家？”纽曼说。 “啊，你收集黑人的头骨之类的东西。”

侯爵认真地看着他的兄弟，开始抚摸他的另一根胡须。然后，以持续的礼貌转向纽曼，“你旅行是为了快乐吗？”他问。'

“哦，我正敲门去捡一件又一件的东西。当然，我从中得到了很多乐趣。”

“你对什么特别感兴趣？”侯爵问道。

“嗯，一切都让我感兴趣，”纽曼说。 “我并不特别。制造是我最关心的。”

“那是你的专长？”

“我不能说我有什么特长。我的专长是在最短的时间内赚到最大的财富。”纽曼非常有意地说了这最后一句话。如果有必要，他希望为他的手段的权威陈述开辟道路。

德·贝勒加德先生愉快地笑了。 “我希望你成功了，”他说。

“是的，我在合理的时间内发了财。我还没那么老，你看。”

“巴黎是一个非常值得花钱的地方。我祝你玩得开心。”德·贝勒加德先生掏出手套开始戴上。

纽曼看了一会儿他把白皙的双手滑进白人小孩身上，当他这样做时，他的感情发生了奇异的转变。德·贝勒加德先生的美好祝愿似乎伴随着雪花的轻柔、分散的运动，从他崇高宁静的白色广阔天地中飘落下来。然而纽曼并没有被激怒。他并不觉得自己受到了居高临下的对待；他并没有意识到自己有什么特别的冲动要在如此崇高的和谐中引入不和谐。只是他感觉自己突然与他的朋友瓦伦丁告诉他必须与之抗衡的力量产生了个人接触，并且他开始意识到这些力量的强度。他希望做出一些回应的表现，以自己的长度伸展自己，在最末端发出一个音符。 他的 规模。必须补充的是，如果这种冲动不是恶毒或恶意的话，它也绝不是没有幽默的期待。如果他的东道主碰巧感到震惊，纽曼已经准备好发挥他那随意的微笑，因为他远非故意计划让他们感到震惊。

“对于游手好闲的人来说，巴黎是一个非常好的地方，”他说，“或者，如果你的家人在这里定居了很长时间，并且你已经结识了一些熟人和你的亲戚，那么它就是一个非常好的地方;或者如果你有一个像这样的好大房子，有妻子、孩子、母亲和妹妹，一切都很舒适。我不喜欢那种住在彼此相邻的房间里的生活方式。但我也不是闲人。我试图做到这一点，但我做不到；这与谷物的本质背道而驰。我的生意习惯太根深蒂固了。然后，我就没有任何属于自己的房子，也没有任何有家庭意义的东西。我的姐妹们远在五千里之外，我的母亲在我很小的时候就去世了，我没有妻子；我希望我有！所以，你看，我完全不知道自己该怎么办。先生，我不像你那样喜欢读书，而且我厌倦了外出就餐和去看歌剧院。我想念我的商业活动。你看，当我还是个婴儿的时候，我就开始谋生，直到几个月前，我的手从未离开过犁。优雅休闲来之不易。”

演讲结束后，纽曼的表演者们陷入了一段深深的沉默。瓦伦丁站在那里，双手插在口袋里，目不转睛地看着他，然后他半侧身子慢慢地出了门。侯爵继续戴上手套，露出和善的微笑。

“你还是个婴儿的时候就开始谋生了吗？”侯爵夫人说。

“仅此而已——一个小男孩。”

“你说你不喜欢读书，”德·贝勒加德先生说。 “但你必须公平地记住，你的学业很早就被中断了。”

“确实如此；在我十岁生日那天，我不再去上学了。我认为这是保留它的好方法。但后来我得到了一些信息，”纽曼安慰道。

“你有姐妹吗？”老贝勒加德夫人问道。

“是的，两个姐妹。伟大的女人！”

“我希望对他们来说，生活的艰辛能早点开始。”

“他们很早就结婚了，如果你把这称为困难的话，就像我们西方国家的女孩那样。其中一位嫁给了西方最大的印度橡胶房子的主人。”

“啊，你也用印度橡胶做房子吗？”侯爵夫人问道。

“随着你的家庭成员增多，你可以把它们拉长，”年轻的德·贝勒加德夫人说道，她用一条长长的白色围巾裹住自己。

纽曼大笑起来，并解释说他姐夫住的房子是一座大型木结构建筑，但他却大规模生产和销售印度橡胶。

“我的孩子们有一些印度小橡胶鞋，潮湿的天气里去杜伊勒里宫玩耍时他们会穿上这些鞋，”年轻的侯爵夫人说。 “我想知道它们是不是你姐夫做的。”

“很有可能，”纽曼说。 “如果他这样做了，你可能会非常确定它们制作精良。”

“好吧，你一定不要灰心，”德·贝勒加德先生带着含糊的客气说道。

“哦，我不是故意的。我有一个项目可以让我思考很多，那就是我的职业。”然后纽曼沉默了一会儿，犹豫着，但思考很快。他想表达自己的观点，但这样做却迫使他以一种令他不愉快的方式说出自己的观点。尽管如此，他还是对老贝勒加德夫人说道：“我会告诉你我的计划；也许你可以帮助我。我想娶个老婆。”

“这是一个很好的项目，但我不是媒人。”老太太说。

纽曼看了她一眼，然后非常真诚地说道：“我早该想到你是这样的，”他宣称。

德·贝勒加德夫人似乎认为他太真诚了。她用法语尖声地说了一句什么，然后眼睛盯着儿子。就在这时，房间的门被推开，瓦伦丁快步出现了。

“我有话要告诉你，”他对嫂子说。 “克莱尔让我请求你不要开始参加舞会。她会和你一起去。”

“克莱尔跟我们一起去吧！”年轻的侯爵夫人喊道。 “瞧，新人！=

“她改变了主意；她半小时前就决定了，现在她正在把最后一颗钻石粘在头发上。”瓦伦丁说道。

“我女儿被什么占据了？”德·贝勒加德夫人严厉地问道。 “她已经三年没有踏入这个世界了。她会在半小时前通知我，并且没有咨询我就采取这样的措施吗？”

“五分钟后，亲爱的母亲，她向我咨询了，”瓦伦丁说，“我告诉她，这样一个美丽的女人——她很美丽，你会看到的——没有权利活埋自己。”

“你应该把克莱尔转介给她的母亲，我的兄弟，”德贝勒加德先生用法语说道。 “这很奇怪。”

“我把她介绍给整个公司！”瓦伦丁说。 “她来了！”他走到敞开的门前，在门槛上遇见了德·辛特雷夫人，拉着她的手，领她进了房间。她穿着白色衣服；但一件几乎垂到脚边的蓝色长斗篷用银扣扣在肩上。然而她已经把它扔了回去，她修长白皙的手臂裸露在外。她浓密的金发上镶嵌着十几颗钻石，闪闪发光。纽曼想，她看上去很严肃，而且脸色相当苍白。但她环顾四周，当她看到他时，微笑着伸出了手。他觉得她非常英俊。他有机会正视她的脸，因为她在房间中央站了一会儿，显然在犹豫她应该做什么，没有与他的目光对视。然后她走到母亲身边，她母亲坐在火炉旁的深椅子上，几乎是凶狠地看着德·辛特雷夫人。德·辛特雷夫人背对着其他人，把斗篷掀开，露出裙子。

“你觉得我怎么样？”她问。

“我认为你很大胆，”侯爵夫人说。 “就在三天前，当我请你去吕西尼昂公爵夫人家做客时，你告诉我你哪儿也不去，而且必须始终如一。这就是你的一贯性吗？为什么要区分罗比诺夫人？今晚你想取悦谁？

“我希望取悦自己，亲爱的母亲，”德·辛特雷夫人说。她弯下腰，吻了老太太。

“我不喜欢惊喜，我的妹妹，”乌尔班·德·贝勒加德说。 “尤其是当一个人即将进入客厅时。”

纽曼此时有灵感发言。 “哦，如果你要和德·辛特雷夫人一起走进一个房间，你就不用担心自己会被注意到！”

德·贝勒加德先生转向他的妹妹，脸上的笑容太强烈了，令人难以平静。 “我希望你能欣赏以你兄弟为代价而得到的赞美，”他说。 “来来来，夫人。”他伸出手臂，领着德·辛特雷夫人迅速走出了房间。瓦伦丁也为年轻的德贝勒加德夫人提供了同样的服务，她显然一直在反思她嫂子的舞会礼服远不如她自己的华丽，但并没有从这种反思中获得绝对的安慰。 。她带着告别的微笑，在这位美国访客的眼中寻求安慰，并在他们的眼中察觉到某种神秘的光彩，她可能会沾沾自喜，因为她找到了这种光彩。

只剩下纽曼和老贝勒加德夫人在一起，他在她面前沉默了一会儿。 “你的女儿非常漂亮，”他最后说道。

“她很奇怪，”贝勒加德夫人说。

“我很高兴听到这个消息，”纽曼微笑着回答道。 “这让我充满希望。”

“希望什么？”

“有一天，她会同意嫁给我。”

老太太缓缓站了起来。 “那这真的是你的项目吗？”

“是的;你会赞成吗？

“喜欢吗？”德·贝勒加德夫人看了他一会儿，然后摇了摇头。 “不！”她轻声说道。

“那你会受苦吗？你会让它过去吗？”

“你不知道你在问什么。我是一个非常骄傲、爱管闲事的老太婆。”

“嗯，我非常富有，”纽曼说。

德·贝勒加德夫人的眼睛盯着地板，纽曼认为她可能正在权衡支持对这句话的残酷性表示不满的原因。但最后，她抬起头，简单地说：“多有钱？”

纽曼用整数表示他的收入，这听起来就像大量美元兑换成法郎时发出的美妙声音。他添加了一些有关财务的评论，从而完成了对他的资源的足够引人注目的介绍。

德·贝勒加德夫人默默地听着。 “你很坦率，”她最后说道。 “我也会一样。总的来说，我宁愿偏爱你，也不愿让你受苦。会更容易。”

“我很感谢任何条件，”纽曼说。 “但是，就目前而言，你已经让我受够了。晚安！”然后他就告辞了。

纽曼回到巴黎后，并没有继续与尼奥什先生学习法语对话。他发现他的时间有太多其他用途。然而，尼奥什先生很快就来见他，他通过一个神秘的过程得知了他的下落，但他的赞助人从未获得过钥匙。那个萎缩的小资本家不止一次地重复了他的来访。他似乎被一种被多付的耻辱感所压抑，显然希望通过小额分期提供语法和统计信息来偿还他的债务。他的表情和几个月前一样忧郁得体。多几个月的刷牙对他的外套和帽子的古色古香的光泽几乎没有什么影响。但可怜的老人的精神却更加疲惫不堪。它似乎在夏天受到了一些严重的摩擦。纽曼饶有兴趣地询问了诺埃米小姐的情况。起初，尼奥什先生只是含着泪水默默地看着他，寻求回答。

“别问我，先生，”他最后说道。 “我坐着看着她，但我无能为力。”

“你的意思是她行为不当？”

“我不知道，但我确定。我无法追随她。我不明白她。她脑子里有东西；我不知道她想做什么。她对我来说太深奥了。”

“她还会继续去卢浮宫吗？她有给我复印过这些副本吗？”

“她去了卢浮宫，但我没有看到任何复制品。她的画架上有一些东西；我想这是您订购的其中一张照片。如此宏伟的命令，应该给她灵巧的手指。但她并不认真。我不能对她说什么；我害怕她。去年夏天的一个晚上，当我带她去香榭丽舍大街散步时，她对我说了一些让我害怕的话。”

“他们是什么？”

“请原谅一位不高兴的父亲告诉你，”尼奥什先生一边说，一边展开他的印花布手帕。

纽曼答应自己再次去卢浮宫拜访诺埃米小姐。他很好奇自己的副本进展如何，但必须补充的是，他更好奇的是小姐本人的进展。一天下午，他去了一座伟大的博物馆，在几个房间里徘徊，寻找她，但没有结果。他正弯着脚步走向意大利大师的长廊，突然发现自己与瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德面对面。这位年轻的法国人热情地迎接他，并向他保证他是天赐之物。他自己心情很差，他希望有人反驳。

“在这些美丽的事物面前心情不好？”纽曼说。 “我以为你很喜欢照片，尤其是那些古老的黑色照片。这里有两三个应该能让你精神振奋。”

“哦，今天，”瓦伦丁回答道，“我没有心情看画，而且它们越漂亮我就越不喜欢它们。他们瞪大的眼睛和固定的姿势让我很恼火。我感觉自己好像在参加一场盛大而沉闷的聚会，房间里挤满了我不想与之交谈的人。我该怎样保养她们的美丽呢？这是令人厌烦的，更糟糕​​的是，这是一种责备。我有很多 厌倦;我感觉很恶毒。”

“如果卢浮宫给你带来的安慰如此之少，你到底为什么来这里？”纽曼问道。

“那是我的一个 厌倦。我来见我的表弟——一个可怕的英国表弟，我母亲的家庭成员——她在巴黎为她的丈夫待了一个星期，她希望我指出“主要的美丽”。想象一下，一个女人在十二月戴着绿色的绉纱帽子，带子从她那没完没了的靴子的脚踝处伸出来！我母亲恳求我做点什么来满足他们。我已经承诺要玩 代客泊车 今天下午。他们原定两点钟在这儿与我会面，我已经等了他们二十分钟了。她为什么还不来？她至少有一双脚可以支撑她。我不知道是该对他们欺骗我而感到愤怒，还是为逃脱了他们而感到高兴。”

“我想如果是你的话，我会感到愤怒，”纽曼说，“因为他们可能还没有到来，到那时你的愤怒仍然对你有用。然而，如果你很高兴，而他们随后出现，你可能不知道如何处理你的喜悦。”

“你给了我很好的建议，我已经感觉好多了。我会愤怒；我会让他们去平分，我自己也会和你一起去——除非碰巧你也有约会。”

“这并不完全是一次约会，”纽曼说。 “但我其实是来看一个人，而不是一张照片。”

“大概是个女人吧？”

“一位年轻女士。”

“好吧，”瓦伦丁说，“我衷心希望你，她没有穿着绿色薄纱，她的脚也没有太失焦。”

“我不太了解她的脚，但她有一双非常漂亮的手。”

瓦伦丁叹了口气。 “就凭这个保证我就必须和你分手吗？”

“我不确定能否找到我的年轻女士，”纽曼说，“而且我也不太准备好失去你们的公司。我并不觉得特别想把你介绍给她，但我更想听听你对她的看法。”

“她漂亮吗？”

“我猜你也会这么想。”

贝勒加德将手臂伸进同伴的手臂里。 “立刻带我去见她！让一个漂亮女人等待我的判决，我应该感到羞耻。”

纽曼任由自己被轻轻地推向他刚才行走的方向，但他的脚步并不快。他心里正在翻腾着什么。两人走进了意大利大师的长廊，纽曼扫视了一会儿其辉煌的景色后，转向左边的同一所学校专用的较小公寓。里面的人很少，但在它的另一端坐着尼奥什小姐，在她的画架前。她没有在工作；她的调色板和画笔放在她身边，双手交叉放在腿上，她靠在椅子上，专注地看着大厅另一边的两位女士，她们背对着她，停在其中一张照片前。这些女士显然都是高级时尚人士。她们穿着华丽，长长的丝绸裙裾和毛皮裙铺在抛光的地板上。诺埃米小姐正在看她们的衣服，尽管我无法说出她在想什么。我冒昧地猜测，她是在对自己说，能够在光滑的地板上拖着这样一列火车是一种值得不惜任何代价的幸福。无论如何，纽曼和他的同伴的到来扰乱了她的思考。她飞快地扫了一眼，然后稍微涂了一下颜色，站起身来，站在画架前。

“我是特意来这里见你的，”纽曼用蹩脚的法语说道，并主动提出握手。然后，他像一个善良的美国人一样，正式介绍了瓦伦丁：“请允许我让您认识一下瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德伯爵。”

瓦伦丁鞠了一躬，诺埃米小姐一定认为这与他令人印象深刻的头衔非常一致，但她自己优雅简洁的回应并没有让步，让她感到惊讶。她转向纽曼，双手抚平头发，抚平粗糙的头发。然后，她迅速地将画架上的画布翻转过来。 “你没有忘记我吧？”她问。

“我永远不会忘记你，”纽曼说。 “你可能确信这一点。”

“哦，”年轻女孩说，“记住一个人的方式有很多种。”她直视着瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德，当人们期待他做出“裁决”时，他正像一位绅士一样看着她。

“你有给我画过什么吗？”纽曼说。 “你勤奋过吗？”

“不，我什么也没做。”她拿起调色板，开始冒险混合颜色。

“但你父亲告诉我你经常来这里。”

“我没有别的地方可去！至少在这里，整个夏天都很凉爽。”

“那么，”纽曼说，“你可能已经尝试过一些事情。”

“我之前告诉过你，”她轻声回答，“我不会画画。”

“但是现在你的画架上有一些迷人的东西，”瓦伦丁说，“如果你能让我看看它就好了。”

她摊开两只手，手指张开，放在画布的背面——纽曼称这双手漂亮，尽管有几处油漆污渍，瓦伦丁现在仍能欣赏这双手。 “我的画并不迷人，”她说。

“那么，小姐，这是你身上唯一不是的东西，”瓦伦丁殷勤地说。

她拿起自己的小画布，默默地递给了他。他看了一眼，过了一会儿，她说道：“我确信你是一名法官。”

“是的，”他回答，“我是。”

“那么你知道，那是非常糟糕的。”

“上帝”，瓦伦丁耸耸肩说道，“让我们来区分一下。”

“你知道我不应该尝试画画，”年轻女孩继续说道。

“那么，坦白说，小姐，我认为你不应该这样做。”

她又开始审视两位美丽女士的衣着——在这一点上，在冒了一个猜想的风险之后，我想我可能会冒另一个猜想的风险。当她看着女士们时，她看到了瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德。无论如何，他正在见她。他放下粗略涂抹的画布，用舌头轻轻地咔哒一声，同时扬起眉毛，对纽曼说道。

“这几个月你去哪儿了？”诺埃米小姐问我们的英雄。 “你经历了那些伟大的旅程，你玩得很开心吗？”

“哦，是的，”纽曼说。 “我已经自娱自乐了。”

“我很高兴，”诺埃米小姐极其温柔地说，然后她又开始涉足她的色彩。她长得异常漂亮，脸上流露出严肃的同情之色。

瓦伦丁趁着她低垂的眼神再次给他的同伴打了电报。他重新开始了神秘的面相游戏，同时用手指在空中快速颤抖着。显然，他觉得诺埃米小姐非常有趣。蓝魔们已经离开，空旷的场地上空了。

“告诉我一些关于你旅行的事情吧。”年轻女孩低声说道。

“哦，我去了瑞士，去了日内瓦、采尔马特和苏黎世以及所有你知道的地方；一直到威尼斯，穿过德国，沿着莱茵河，进入荷兰和比利时——这是常规回合。你用法语怎么说——常规回合？”纽曼问瓦伦丁。

尼奥什小姐立即将目光定格在贝勒加德身上，然后微微一笑，“先生，我不明白，”她说，“他一下子说了这么多。你能帮我翻译一下吗？”

“我宁愿用我自己的头脑跟你说话，”瓦伦丁宣称。

“不，”纽曼严肃地说，仍然用着蹩脚的法语，“你不能和尼奥什小姐说话，因为你会说一些令人沮丧的话。你应该告诉她要努力，要坚持。”

“小姐，我们法国人，”瓦伦丁说，“被指责为虚假的阿谀奉承者！”

“我不需要任何奉承，我只想要真相。但我知道真相。”

“我想说的是，我怀疑有些事情可以比绘画做得更好，”瓦伦丁说。

“我知道真相——我知道真相，”诺埃米小姐重复道。然后，她将画笔浸入一团红色颜料中，在未完成的画上画了一个巨大的水平涂抹。

“那是什么？”纽曼问道。

她没有回答，又在画布中间垂直方向画了一条长长的深红色涂抹，就这样，一会儿，就完成了一个十字的粗略指示。 “这是真理的标志，”她最后说道。

两个人对视一眼，瓦伦丁又开始了一场面相上的雄辩。 “你毁了你的照片，”纽曼说。

“我很清楚这一点。这是唯一与之相关的事情。我一整天都坐在那儿看着它，却没有碰它。我开始讨厌它了。在我看来，似乎有事情要发生。”

“我比以前更喜欢这种方式，”瓦伦丁说。 “现在更有趣了。它讲述了一个故事。有卖吗？”

“我拥有的一切都可以出售，”诺埃米小姐说。

“这东西多少钱？”

“一万法郎。”年轻女孩面无笑容地说。

“尼奥什小姐目前可能做的一切都是我预先决定的，”纽曼说道。 “这是我几个月前给她的订单的一部分。所以你不能拥有这个。”

“先生不会因此而失去任何东西，”年轻女孩看着瓦伦丁说道。她开始收拾餐具。

“我将会获得迷人的记忆力，”瓦伦丁说。 “你要走吗？你的一天结束了吗？”

“我父亲来接我了，”诺埃米小姐说。

她刚说话，尼奥什先生就从她身后的门中出现了，门通向卢浮宫的一个巨大的白色石阶。他像往常一样平稳、耐心地拖着脚步走进来，向站在女儿画架前的两位先生低声行礼。纽曼肌肉发达地友好地与他握手，瓦伦丁则以极其尊重的态度回应了他的问候。当老人站在那里等待诺埃米把她的工具包裹起来时，他用温和而斜视的目光徘徊在贝勒加德身上，贝勒加德正在看着诺埃米小姐戴上帽子和斗篷。瓦伦丁毫不掩饰他的审视。他看着一个漂亮的女孩，就像在听一首音乐。在每种情况下，关注都是简单的良好举止。尼奥什先生最后一手拿起女儿的颜料盒，另一只手拿起那张装饰过的画布，严肃而困惑地看了一眼，然后带路向门口走去。诺埃米小姐向年轻人行了公爵夫人的行礼，然后跟着她的父亲走了。

“那么，”纽曼说，“你觉得她怎么样？”

“她非常了不起。 可恶，可恶，可恶！”德·贝勒加德先生若有所思地重复道。 “她非常了不起。”

“我担心她是一个悲伤的小冒险家，”纽曼说。

“不是一个小人物——而是一个伟大的人物。她有材料。”瓦伦丁开始慢慢走开，模模糊糊地看着墙上的画，眼中闪烁着若有所思的光芒。没有什么比一位拥有尼奥什小姐的“素材”的年轻女士可能的冒险更能吸引他的想象力了。 “她非常有趣，”他继续说道。 “她是一个美丽的类型。”

“漂亮的类型？你到底是什么意思？纽曼问道。

“我的意思是从艺术的角度来看。她是一位艺术家——除了她的画作之外，这显然是令人憎恶的。”

“但她并不美丽。我什至不觉得她很漂亮。”

“对于她的目的而言，她相当漂亮，从一张脸和身材上可以看出一切。如果她更漂亮的话，她的智力就会降低，而她的智力是她魅力的一半。”

纽曼对他的同伴对尼奥什小姐的直接哲学思考感到非常好笑，问道：“她的智慧在哪方面让你觉得如此非凡？”

“她衡量了生命，并决心 be 某事——不惜一切代价取得成功。当然，她的画只是为了赢得时间而采取的伎俩。她正在等待机会；她希望推出自己，并且做得很好。她了解她的巴黎。就单纯的野心而言，她是五万人中的一员。但我非常确信，就决心和能力而言，她是罕见的。在一项天赋中——完美的无情——我可以保证她是无与伦比的。她的心还没有针尖那么大。这是一种巨大的美德。是的，她是未来的名人之一。”

“愿上帝帮助我们！”纽曼说：“艺术观点可以带一个人走多远！但在这种情况下，我必须请求你不要让它带你走得太远。在一刻钟内，您已经对诺埃米小姐有了很多了解。这样就足够了；不要跟进你的研究。”

“我亲爱的朋友，”贝勒加德热情地喊道，“我希望我有礼貌，不会打扰你。”

“你没有打扰。那个女孩对我来说什么都不是。其实我比较不喜欢她。但我喜欢她可怜的老父亲，为了他，我请求你不要试图验证你的理论。”

“为了那个来接她的破旧老先生？”瓦伦丁突然停下来问道。在纽曼同意后，“啊不，啊不，”他微笑着继续说道。 “你完全错了，我亲爱的朋友；你不用理他。”

“我确实相信，你是在指责这位可怜的绅士能够为他女儿的耻辱而幸灾乐祸。”

“航海者！”瓦伦丁说； “他是谁？他是什么？”

“他就是这个样子：穷得像只老鼠，但语气却很高。”

“确切地。我完全注意到了他。确保我公正地对待他。他有过损失， 疾病，正如我们所说。他的精神十分低落，女儿对他来说太过分了。他是受人尊敬的粉红，他有六十年的诚实。这一切我都非常欣赏。但我了解我的同胞和巴黎同胞，我会和你们做一笔交易。”纽曼听从了他的讨价还价，然后继续前进。 “他宁愿他的女儿是一个好女孩，也不愿是一个坏女孩，但如果最坏的情况发生，老人不会做维吉尼乌斯所做的事情。成功证明一切都是合理的。如果诺埃米小姐能做出身材，她的爸爸就会感到——好吧，我们称之为松了口气。她会做出一个数字。老先生的未来是有保障的。”

“我不知道维吉尼厄斯做了什么，但尼奥什先生会射杀诺埃米小姐，”纽曼说。 “在那之后，我想他的未来将在某个舒适的监狱里得到保证。”

“我不是一个愤世嫉俗者；我只是一个观察者，”瓦伦丁回答道。 “诺埃米小姐让我感兴趣；她非常了不起。如果有一个充分的理由，无论是出于荣誉还是体面，我都愿意将她永远从我的脑海中剔除。你对爸爸情感的估计是一个很好的理由，直到它被推翻。我保证你不会再看那个年轻女孩，直到你告诉我你对爸爸改变了主意。当他给出了作为哲学家的明确证据时，你就会提出你的禁令。你同意吗？

“你是想贿赂他吗？”

“哦，那你承认他是受贿的？不，他会要求太多，而且这不太公平。我的意思只是等待。我想你会继续去看这对有趣的夫妇，然后你自己告诉我这个消息。”

“好吧，”纽曼说，“如果这个老人是个骗子，你可以做你想做的事。我不再管这件事了。对于女孩本身来说，你可以放心。我不知道她会对我造成什么伤害，但我肯定不能伤害她。在我看来，”纽曼说，“你们非常般配。你们都是难缠的人，我相信尼奥什先生和我是巴黎唯一有道德的人。”

不久之后，德·贝勒加德先生因为他的轻率而受到了惩罚，他的背部被一个尖头的工具狠狠地戳了一下。他猛地转身，发现凶器是一位戴绿纱帽的女士所挥舞的阳伞。瓦伦丁的英国表兄弟一直在无人驾驶的情况下漂流，显然认为他们有怨气。纽曼任凭他们摆布，但对他为自己辩护的能力抱有无限的信心。

纽曼在结识德·辛特雷夫人的家人三天后，傍晚时分回来，发现桌上有一张德·贝勒加德侯爵的名片。第二天，他收到一张纸条，通知他贝勒加德侯爵夫人将非常感谢有幸陪伴他共进晚餐。

他当然去了，尽管他必须打破另一次约定才能做到这一点。他被带进了贝勒加德夫人以前接待过他的房间，在这里他发现了他可敬的女主人，周围全是她的家人。房间里只有噼啪作响的火光照亮了房间，火光照亮了一位坐在矮椅子上的女士的粉色小拖鞋，她正把脚趾伸在椅子前。这位女士就是年轻的德·贝勒加德夫人。德·辛特雷夫人坐在房间的另一端，膝盖上抱着一个小女孩，她是她哥哥乌尔班的孩子，她显然正在向乌尔班讲述一个精彩的故事。瓦伦丁坐在雪茄上，靠近他的嫂子，他肯定在向她的耳朵里提炼出最美妙的废话。侯爵站在火堆前，昂着头，双手放在身后，一副正式期待的姿态。

老贝勒加德夫人站起来向纽曼致意，从​​她这样做的方式中可以看出她屈尊俯就的程度。 “我们都很孤独，你看，我们没有问过其他人，”她严肃地说。

“我很高兴你没有这么做；这更具社交性，”纽曼说。 “晚上好，先生。”他向侯爵伸出了手。

德·贝勒加德先生和蔼可亲，但尽管他很尊严，但他却焦躁不安。他开始在房间里来回踱步，从长长的窗户往外看，拿起书又放下。年轻的德贝勒加德夫人向纽曼伸出了手，没有动，也没有看他。

“你可能认为那是冷漠，”瓦伦丁喊道。 “但其实不是，而是温暖。这表明她把你当作亲密的人。现在她讨厌我了，但她却总是看着我。”

“老是看着你，难怪我会讨厌你！”那位女士叫道。 “如果纽曼先生不喜欢我的握手方式，我会再这样做。”

但我们的英雄却失去了这种迷人的特权，他已经穿过房间走向德·辛特雷夫人了。她握手时看着他，但她继续讲她给小侄女讲的故事。她只有两三句话要补充，但显然都是很重要的时刻。她微笑着压低了声音，小女孩睁着圆圆的眼睛看着她。

“但最终年轻的王子娶了美丽的弗洛拉贝拉，”德·辛特雷夫人说道，“并把她带到粉红天空之国和他一起生活。在那里，她高兴得忘记了一切烦恼，每天都坐着一辆由五百只小白鼠拉着的象牙马车出去兜风。可怜的弗洛拉贝拉，”她对纽曼喊道，“遭受了极大的痛苦。”

“她已经六个月没吃东西了，”小布兰奇说。

“是的，但是六个月结束后，她得到了一个和那个脚凳一样大的李子蛋糕，”德辛特雷夫人说。 “这让她再次振奋起来。”

“多么曲折的职业啊！”纽曼说。 “你很喜欢孩子吗？”他确信她是，但他想让她说出来。

“我喜欢和他们聊天，”她回答道。 “我们可以比与成年人更严肃地与他们交谈。我一直对布兰奇说的这些都是胡言乱语，但这比我们在社会上所说的大多数话要严肃得多。”

“那么，我希望你能跟我说话，就好像我是布兰奇的年纪一样，”纽曼笑着说。 “那天晚上你在舞会上开心吗？”

“欣喜若狂！”

“现在你在说我们在社会上说的废话，”纽曼说。 “我不相信。”

“如果我不快乐，那是我自己的错。舞会非常漂亮，每个人都非常和蔼可亲。”

“凭良心说，”纽曼说，“你惹恼了你的母亲和兄弟。”

德辛特雷夫人看了他一会儿，没有回答。 “确实如此，”她最后回答道。 “我承担的事情超出了我的能力范围。我的勇气很小；我不是女主角。”她说这话的时候语气里带着某种轻柔的强调。但随后，她改变了语气，“我永远不可能经历美丽的弗洛拉贝拉的痛苦，”她补充道，即使是为了她预期的回报。

晚餐宣布了，纽曼走到老贝勒加德夫人身边。 餐厅位于寒冷走廊的尽头，宽敞而阴暗。晚餐简单而精致。 纽曼想知道德·辛特雷夫人是否与点餐有关，并非常希望她与此有关。 当贝勒加德古老家族的各个成员围坐在餐桌旁时，他问自己自己的立场意味着什么。 老太太对他的示好有回应吗？ 他是一位孤独的客人，这一事实是增加了他的信誉还是减少了他的信誉？ 他们是羞于向其他人展示他，还是希望给他一个突然接受他们最后的青睐的迹象？ 纽曼保持警惕。他很警惕，也很善于推测。但同时他又表现出隐约的冷漠。 无论他们给他一根长绳还是短绳，他现在都在那里，而德·辛特雷夫人就在他对面。 她的两侧各有一个高高的烛台。接下来的一个小时她会坐在那里，这就足够了。 晚宴极其隆重、有节制。他想知道“老家庭”是否总是这样。德·贝勒加德夫人把头昂得高高的，眼睛盯着那张布满皱纹的白皙小脸，显得格外锐利，全神贯注地看着餐桌上的服务。 侯爵似乎认为美术提供了一个安全的谈话主题，因为不会导致令人震惊的个人启示。 从纽曼那里得知他参观过欧洲的博物馆后，他时不时地对鲁本斯的肉色和桑索维诺的高雅品味说出一些优美的格言。 他的举止似乎表现出一种微妙而紧张的​​恐惧，担心如果气氛没有被完全优越的演员的暗示所净化，可能会发生一些不愉快的事情。 “男人到底怕什么？”纽曼问自己。 “他认为我会提出与他交换折刀吗？”即使他对侯爵极其不喜欢这一事实视而不见，也是没有用的。 他从来都不是一个有强烈个人厌恶感的人。他的神经并没有受到邻居神秘品质的摆布。 但他却不可抗拒地反对这个人。一个有形式、措辞和姿势的人；一个可能充满无礼和背叛的人。 M. 德贝勒加德让他感觉自己好像赤脚站在大理石地板上；然而，为了实现他的愿望，纽曼觉得自己完全可以站起来。 他想知道德·辛特雷夫人对他被接受有何感想（如果真的被接受的话）。 从她的脸上看不出任何判断，她的表情只是表达了一种希望以一种尽可能不需要明确承认的方式表现出仁慈的愿望。 年轻的贝勒加德夫人始终保持着同样的举止。她总是全神贯注，心不在焉，什么都听，什么也听不见，看着她的衣服、戒指、指甲，看起来相当无聊，却又让你困惑不解，她理想的社交消遣是什么。 纽曼后来对这一点有所认识。 就连瓦伦丁似乎也不太能掌握自己的智慧。他的活泼是时断时续、勉强的，但纽曼观察到，在他谈话的间隙中，他显得很兴奋。 他的眼眸里闪烁着比平常更加强烈的光芒。

晚饭后，德·贝勒加德先生向他的客人提议，他们应该去吸烟室，然后他带路走向一间有点发霉的小公寓，公寓的墙壁上装饰着旧的印花皮革挂饰和生锈武器的奖杯。 。纽曼拒绝抽雪茄，但他坐在一张长沙发上，而侯爵则在壁炉前吸着自己的大麻，瓦伦丁坐着，透过香烟的淡淡烟雾，从一张沙发上看向另一张。

“我不能再保持沉默了，”瓦伦丁最后说道。 “我必须告诉你这个消息并祝贺你。我的兄弟似乎无法切入主题；他围绕着他的宣告，就像牧师围绕着祭坛一样。你被接受为我们姐姐的候选人。”

“瓦伦丁，你得规矩一点！”侯爵低声说道，他的高鼻梁上露出一种极其微妙的恼怒表情。

“有一个家庭委员会，”年轻人继续说道。 “我的母亲和乌尔班已经集思广益，甚至我的证词也没有被完全排除。我母亲和侯爵坐在一张铺着绿布的桌子旁。我和嫂子坐在靠墙的长凳上。它就像立法军团的一个委员会。我们被一个接一个地叫去作证。我们对你的评价非常好。德·贝勒加德夫人说，如果她不知道你是谁，她会以为你是一位公爵——一位美国公爵，加利福尼亚公爵。我说过，我可以保证你对最小的恩惠表示感激——谦虚、谦虚、谦逊。我确信您始终知道自己的位置，并且永远不会让我们有机会提醒您某些差异。毕竟，如果你不是公爵，你也没办法。你们国家没有；但如果有的话，可以肯定的是，尽管你很聪明、很活跃，但你一定会选择这些头衔。这时我被命令坐下，但我想我给你留下了有利的印象。”

德·贝勒加德先生用危险的冷漠看着他的兄弟，露出了刀锋般薄弱的微笑。然后他从外套袖子上擦掉一点雪茄烟灰。他的目光在房间的檐口上看了一会儿，最后他把一只白皙的手伸进了背心的胸前。 “我必须为我兄弟令人遗憾的轻率向你道歉，”他说，“我必须通知你，这可能不是他最后一次因为他的不机智而给你带来严重的尴尬。”

“不，我承认我不够机智，”瓦伦丁说。 “纽曼，你的尴尬真的很痛苦吗？侯爵会再次纠正你的错误；他自己的触感非常细腻。”

“瓦伦丁，我很遗憾地说，”侯爵继续说道，“从来没有像他这个职位上的年轻人那样的语气和态度。这对他非常喜欢古老传统的母亲来说是一个巨大的痛苦。但你必须记住，他只代表他自己说话。”

“哦，我不介意他，先生，”纽曼幽默地说。 “我知道他是什么身份。”

“在过去的美好时光，”瓦伦丁说，“侯爵和伯爵常常任命他们的小丑和小丑，为他们讲笑话。如今，我们看到一位身材魁梧的伟大民主党人一直在暗中揣测自己是在装傻。这是一个很好的情况，但我确实很堕落。”

德·贝勒加德先生的眼睛盯着地板看了一会儿。 “我母亲告诉我，”他不久说道，“那天晚上你向她宣布的消息。”

“我想娶你妹妹？”纽曼说。

“你想与我的妹妹辛特雷伯爵夫人结婚，”侯爵缓缓地说。这个提议很严肃​​，需要我母亲深思熟虑。她自然地接受了我的建议，我也对这个话题给予了最热心的关注。有很多事情需要考虑；比你想象的还要多。我们从各个方面审视了这个问题，我们权衡了一件事与另一件事。我们的结论是支持你方诉讼。我母亲希望我通知您我们的决定。她将有幸亲自就这个话题向您说几句话。与此同时，我们这些一家之主，已经接受了你。”

纽曼站起来，走近侯爵。 “你不会做任何事来妨碍我，并且会尽力帮助我，嗯？”

“我会推荐我姐姐接受你。”

纽曼用手捂住脸，在眼睛上按了一会儿。这个承诺听起来很美好，但他从中得到的快乐却因为必须站在那里从德·贝勒加德先生手中接过护照而感到痛苦。让这位绅士与他的求爱和婚礼混在一起的想法越来越让他感到不舒服。但纽曼已经决定要经历磨坊，正如他所想象的那样，他不会在车轮转动第一圈时就大喊大叫。他沉默了一会儿，然后带着某种干巴巴的语气说道，瓦伦丁事后告诉他，这是一种非常伟大的神气，“我非常感谢你。”

“我记下了这个承诺，”瓦伦丁说道，“我登记了这个誓言。”

德·贝勒加德先生又开始凝视檐口。他显然还有话要说。 “我必须公正地对待我的母亲，”他继续说道，“我也必须公正地对待我自己，说我们的决定并不容易。这样的安排并不是我们所期望的。我姐姐应该嫁给一位绅士——啊——在商界，这个想法有点新鲜。”

“所以我告诉过你，你知道，”瓦伦丁对纽曼举起手指说道。

“我承认，新鲜感还没有完全消失，”侯爵继续说道。 “也许它永远不会，完全。但也许这并不完全是遗憾。”他又露出浅浅的微笑。 “也许我们应该对新颖性做出一些让步的时候了。我们家已经很多年没有新奇的东西了。我向母亲提出了这一看法，她很荣幸地承认这值得关注。”

“我亲爱的兄弟，”瓦伦丁打断道，“你的记忆难道没有让你误入歧途吗？我可以说，我们的母亲因其对抽象推理的小小的尊重而闻名。你确信她以你所描述的优雅的方式回应了你惊人的提议吗？你知道她有时是多么的敏锐。相反，她难道没有荣幸地对你说：“你的措辞简直就是胡言乱语！”还有比这更好的理由吗？”

“还讨论了其他原因。”侯爵说，没有看瓦伦丁，但声音里带着明显的颤抖。 “其中一些可能更好。纽曼先生，我们是保守派，但我们也不是偏执狂。我们对此事的判断是自由的。我们坚信一切都会很舒服。”

纽曼抱着双臂站在那里听着这些话，眼睛紧盯着德·贝勒加德先生，“舒服吗？”他用一种冷酷平淡的语调说道。 “为什么我们不应该舒服一点呢？如果你不这样做，那就是你自己的错；我有一切要做 me 所以。”

“我哥哥的意思是，随着时间的推移，你可能会习惯这种变化”——瓦伦丁停了下来，又点了一支烟。

“什么变化？”纽曼用同样的语气问道。

“乌尔班，”瓦伦丁非常严肃地说，“恐怕纽曼先生还没有完全意识到这一变化。我们应该坚持这一点。”

“我哥哥太过分了，”德贝勒加德先生说。 “这又是他致命的缺乏机智。我母亲的愿望，也是我的愿望，不应该有这样的暗示。祈祷永远不要自己做。我们更愿意假设被接受为我姐姐可能的丈夫的人是我们中的一员，并且他不应该做出任何解释。我认为，只要双方都谨慎行事，一切都会很容易。这正是我想说的——我们非常理解我们所做的事情，并且您可以相信我们会遵守我们的决议。”

瓦伦丁在空中握了握双手，然后把脸埋在了手中。 “毫无疑问，我的机智不如我应有的；但是哦，我的兄弟，如果你知道你自己在说什么就好了！”他长长地笑了一声。

德·贝勒加德先生的脸有点红，但他把头抬得更高，仿佛要否认这种对庸俗烦躁的让步。 “我相信你理解我，”他对纽曼说。

“哦，不，我根本不明白你的意思，”纽曼说。 “但你不必介意这一点。我不在乎。事实上，我想我最好不要理解你。我可能不喜欢它。那根本不适合我，你知道。我想娶你妹妹，仅此而已；尽可能快地去做，并且不挑任何毛病。我不在乎我怎么做。我不会嫁给你，你知道，先生。我已经得到了休假，这就是我想要的。”

“你最好听听我母亲的最后一句话。”侯爵说道。

“非常好; “我去拿。”纽曼说。他准备返回客厅。

德·贝勒加德先生示意他先过去，纽曼出去后，他和瓦伦丁一起把自己关在房间里。纽曼对弟弟的大胆讽刺感到有点困惑，他不需要它的帮助来指出德·贝勒加德先生超凡的赞助的寓意。他有足够的智慧来欣赏礼貌的力量，这种礼貌可以让你注意避免无礼的行为。但瓦伦丁兄弟般的不敬背后隐藏着对自己的微妙同情，他对此深感亲切，他最不愿意他的朋友为此纳税。走了几步后，他在走廊里停了一会儿，期待听到德·贝勒加德先生不满的声音。但他只发现一片寂静。寂静本身似乎有点不祥。然而，他反思自己没有权利站着听，然后他就回到了沙龙。他不在的时候，有几个人进来了。他们三五成群地分散在房间里，其中两三个人走进了客厅旁边的一个小闺​​房，客厅现在已经亮着灯并打开了。老德·贝勒加德夫人坐在火边的位置上，正在与一位戴着假发、穿着 1820 年流行的白色领巾的老绅士交谈。大概是那位戴围巾的老绅士的妻子，一位穿着红色缎子连衣裙和貂皮斗篷的老太太，额头上戴着一条镶有黄玉的带子。当纽曼进来时，年轻的德·贝勒加德夫人离开了她所坐的一些人，回到了晚饭前她所坐的位置。然后她轻轻推了一下站在她身边的泡芙，看了一眼纽曼，似乎表明她已经把它放在了适合他的位置。他去占有了它。侯爵夫人让他又好笑又困惑。

“我知道你的秘密，”她用蹩脚但迷人的英语说道。 “你不必对此感到神秘。你想娶我嫂子。 这是一个美丽的选择。像你这样的男人应该娶一个又高又瘦的女人。你一定知道我说过对你有利的；你欠我一个著名的锥度！”

“你和德·辛特雷夫人谈过了吗？”纽曼说。

“噢，不，不是那个。你可能会觉得奇怪，但我和嫂子并没有那么亲密。不;我和我的丈夫和岳母谈过；我说过我确信我们可以和你一起做我们选择的事情。”

“我非常感谢你，”纽曼笑着说道。 “但你不能。”

“我很清楚这一点；我一个字也不信。但我想让你进屋去；我想我们应该成为朋友。”

“我对此非常确定，”纽曼说。

“别太确定。如果你这么喜欢德辛特雷夫人，也许你不会喜欢我。我们就像蓝色和粉色一样不同。但你和我有一些共同点。我是通过婚姻来到这个家庭的；你想以同样的方式参与其中。”

“哦，不，我不！”纽曼打断道。 “我只想把德·辛特雷夫人从这件事中除掉。”

“嗯，要撒网，你必须下水。我们的立场很相似；我们将能够交换意见。你觉得我丈夫怎么样？这是一个奇怪的问题，不是吗？但我还要问你一些更奇怪的问题。”

“也许陌生人会更容易回答，”纽曼说。 “你可以试试我。”

“哦，你过得很好；那边的老伯爵拉罗什菲代尔做得再好不过了。我告诉他们，如果我们只给你一个机会，你就会成为一个完美的人 红爪。我对男人有些了解。更何况，你我是同一阵营的。我是一个凶猛的民主主义者。从出生起我就是 旧罗什;法国历史的很大一部分就是我家族的历史。哦，你当然没有听说过我们！ 这就是荣耀！ 无论如何，我们比贝勒加德夫妇要好得多。但我不在乎我的血统；我不在乎。我想属于我的时代。我是一个革命者，一个激进分子，一个时代的孩子！我确信我超越了你。我喜欢聪明的人，无论他们来自哪里，无论我发现什么，我都会从中得到乐趣。我不会对帝国发脾气；全世界都对帝国嗤之以鼻。当然，我必须注意我所说的话；但我希望能和你一起报仇。”德·贝勒加德夫人在这种富有同情心的语气中又讲了一会儿，语气里充满了热切，这似乎表明她揭示自己深奥哲学的机会确实很少见。她希望纽曼永远不会害怕她，不管他可能和其他人在一起，因为，说实话，她确实走得很远。 “强者”——勒根斯堡——在她看来，全世界都是平等的。纽曼全神贯注地听她说话，既迷惑又恼怒。他想知道她到底想做什么，希望他不会害怕她和她对平等的抗议。就他对她的理解而言，她是错的。一个愚蠢、喋喋不休的女人肯定比不上一个明智、充满野心的男人。德·贝勒加德夫人突然停了下来，目光锐利地看着他，摇动着手中的扇子。 “我看你不相信我，”她说，“你太警惕了。你们不会结成联盟，进攻还是防守？你就大错特错了；我可以帮你。”

纽曼回答说他非常感激，并且他一定会寻求帮助；她应该看到。 “但首先，”他说，“我必须帮助自己。”他去见了德·辛特雷夫人。

“我一直告诉德拉罗什菲代尔夫人，你是美国人，”当他走上前来时，她说道。 “这让她很感兴趣。上个世纪，她父亲随法国军队一起去帮助你们打仗，因此，她一直非常想见到一个美国人。但直到今晚她还没有成功。据她所知，你是她第一个看过的人。”

德拉罗什菲代尔夫人有一张苍老而苍白的脸，下颌下垂，使她无法合拢嘴唇，谈话时只能用一连串令人印象深刻但不清晰的喉音。她举起一副镶有精致银饰的古董眼镜，从头到脚打量着纽曼。然后她说了一些话，他恭敬地听着，但他完全听不懂。

“德拉罗什菲代尔夫人说，她确信她一定在不知情的情况下见过美国人，”德辛特雷夫人解释道。纽曼认为她很可能在不知情的情况下看到了很多东西。老太太再次开口说道——正如德·辛特雷夫人的解释——她希望自己早知道这一点。

这时，正在和老贝勒加德夫人说话的老先生走近了，挽着侯爵夫人。他的妻子向他指出了纽曼，显然是在解释他非凡的出身。德拉·罗什菲代尔先生年老时脸色红润、圆润，说话非常干净利落，纽曼认为，几乎和尼奥什先生一样漂亮。当他受到启发后，他以一种老年人无法模仿的优雅态度转向纽曼。

“先生绝不是我见过的第一个美国人，”他说。 “我见过的第一个人——注意到他——几乎是一个美国人。”

“啊？”纽曼同情地说。

“伟大的富兰克林博士，”德拉罗什菲代尔先生说道。 “当然，我当时还很年轻。他在我们公司受到了很好的接待 的世界。=

“并不比纽曼先生好，”德·贝勒加德夫人说。 “我请求他将手臂伸进另一个房间。我无法给予富兰克林博士更高的特权。”

纽曼按照贝勒加德夫人的要求，发现她的两个儿子已经回到了客厅。他扫视了他们的脸一眼，寻找他与他们分离后的情景的痕迹，但侯爵看起来并不比平时更加​​庄严，也不那么冷漠，而瓦伦丁正在亲吻女士们的手，至少带着他惯常的自我放弃的神情。法案。贝勒加德夫人看了一眼她的大儿子，当她跨进闺房的门槛时，他就来到了她的身边。房间现在空了，提供了足够的隐私。老太太从纽曼的手臂上挣脱出来，把手搭在侯爵的手臂上。她就这样站了一会儿，昂着头，咬着小下唇。恐怕纽曼已经忘记了这张照片，但事实上，此时此刻，德·贝勒加德夫人是一个引人注目的尊严形象，即使对于一位随着时间的流逝而萎缩的老太太来说，这种尊严也可能存在于毫无疑问的习惯中。对自己有利的社会理论的权威性和绝对性。

“我儿子已经按照我的意愿和你说话了，”她说，“你明白我们不会干涉。剩下的就交给你自己了。”

“M。德贝勒加德告诉了我一些我不明白的事情，”纽曼说，“但我明白了。你会给我留下一片空地。我非常感激。”

“我想补充一句我儿子可能觉得无权说的话，”侯爵夫人回答道。 “为了我自己内心的平静，我必须这么说。我们夸大了一点；我们帮了你一个大忙。”

“呵呵，你儿子说得很好，你不是吗？纽曼说。

“不如我母亲，”侯爵宣称。

“我只能重复一遍——我非常感激。”

“我应该告诉你，”德·贝勒加德夫人继续说道，“我非常自豪，我昂首挺胸。我可能错了，但我已经太老了，无法改变。至少我知道这一点，而且我不会假装什么。别自以为我女儿不骄傲。她以自己的方式感到自豪——与我的方式有些不同。你必须同意这一点。如果你触碰了正确的位置，或者错误的位置，即使是瓦伦丁也会感到自豪。乌尔班自豪；你自己看到的。有时我觉得他有点太骄傲了；但我不会改变他。他是我的孩子中最好的；他依附于他的老母亲。但我已经说了足够多的话，足以让你们知道我们都感到自豪。最好你应该了解一下你所接触的是什么样的人。”

“好吧，”纽曼说，“我只能说，作为回报，我是 不能 自豪的;我不介意你！但你说话的语气就好像你故意惹人不快似的。”

“我不会喜欢让我的女儿嫁给你，我也不会假装喜欢。如果你不介意的话，那就更好了。”

“如果你坚持自己的合同，我们就不会争吵；这就是我对你的全部要求。”纽曼说。 “把手拿开，给我一块空地。我非常认真，没有丝毫灰心或退缩的危险。你的眼前永远有我；如果你不喜欢它，我为你感到抱歉。如果你的女儿接受我，我会为她做一个男人能为女人做的一切。我很高兴地告诉你这一点，作为一个承诺——一个保证。我认为你向我做出了同等的承诺。你不会退缩的，嗯？”

“我不知道你说的‘退出’是什么意思，”侯爵夫人说。 “我认为贝勒加德从未参与过一场运动。”

“我们的话就是我们的话，”乌尔班说。 “我们已经给了。”

“好吧，现在，”纽曼说，“我很高兴你如此自豪。这让我相信你会保留它。”

侯爵夫人沉默了一会儿，然后突然说道：“纽曼先生，我会永远对你有礼貌，”她宣称，“但是，我绝对不会喜欢你。”

“别太确定，”纽曼笑着说。

“我确信我会请你带我回到我的扶手椅上，而不用担心我的情绪会因为你为我提供的服务而改变。”贝勒加德夫人挽着他的手臂，回到客厅，回到她常去的地方。

德拉·罗什菲代尔先生和他的妻子正准备告辞，德·辛特雷夫人对这位咕哝着的老太太的会见也结束了。当纽曼向她走来时，她站在那里环顾四周，问自己，显然她接下来应该跟谁说话。

“你母亲非常郑重地允许我经常来这里，”他说。 “我的意思是经常来。”

“我很高兴见到你，”她简单地回答。然后，过了一会儿：“你可能觉得很奇怪，正如你所说，你的到来竟然如此庄严。”

“嗯，是;我倒是愿意。”

“你还记得你第一次来看我时我哥哥瓦伦丁说的话——我们是一个非常非常奇怪的家庭吗？”

“这不是我第一次来，而是第二次，”纽曼说。

“非常正确。瓦伦丁当时惹恼了我，但现在我更了解你了，我可以告诉你他是对的。如果你经常来，你就会看到！”德辛特雷夫人转过身去。

纽曼看了她一会儿，与其他人交谈，然后就离开了。他最后与瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德握手，瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德和他一起来到楼梯顶上。 “好吧，你已经拿到了许可证，”瓦伦丁说。 “我希望你喜欢这个过程。”

“我比以前更喜欢你姐姐了。但为了我，别再担心你的兄弟了，”纽曼补充道。 “我不介意他。恐怕我出去之后，他在吸烟室里对你下手了。”

“当我哥哥向我扑倒时，”瓦伦丁说，“他摔得很厉害。我接待他的方式很奇特。我必须说，”他继续说道，“他们达到目标的时间比我预期的要早得多。我不明白，他们一定要把螺丝拧得很紧。这是对你们数百万人的致敬。”

“嗯，这是他们收到的最珍贵的一件，”纽曼说。

当瓦伦丁拦住他时，他正转身走开，用一种明亮而温和的愤世嫉俗的眼神看着他。 “我想知道，几天之内，您是否见过您尊敬的朋友尼奥什先生。”

“他昨天在我的房间，”纽曼回答道。

“他跟你说什么了？”

“没什么特别的。”

“你没看到他口袋里伸出的手枪枪口吗？”

“你开什么车？”纽曼问道。 “我觉得他看起来对他很高兴。”

瓦伦丁大笑起来。 “我很高兴听到这个消息！我赌赢了。正如我们所说，诺埃米小姐已经把她的帽子扔到了磨坊上。她已经离开了父亲的住所。她出动了！尼奥什先生相当高兴——为了他！ 不要以这种速度挥舞你的战斧；自从那天在卢浮宫之后，我就没有见过她，也没有和她交流过。安德洛墨达发现了另一个比我更强的珀尔修斯。我的信息是准确的；在此类问题上，情况总是如此。我想现在你会提出抗议。”

“我的抗议被绞死！”纽曼厌恶地低声说道。

但瓦伦丁把手放在门上，准备返回母亲的公寓时，他的语气却没有引起共鸣：“但我现在就要见到她了！她非常了不起——她非常了不起！”

纽曼兑现了他的诺言，或者说是他的威胁，经常去大学街，在接下来的六周里，他见到德辛特雷夫人的次数多得数不胜数。他自以为自己没有恋爱，但他的传记作者可能应该更清楚。至少，他没有要求任何浪漫激情的豁免和报酬。他相信爱情会愚弄人，而他现在的情感不是愚蠢而是智慧。智慧声音，平静，方向良好。他感受到的是一种强烈的、全身心的温柔，它的对象是一位极其优雅、精致，同时又令人印象深刻的女人，她住在塞纳河左岸的一栋灰色大房子里。这种温柔常常变成一种积极的心痛。当然，纽曼应该在这一迹象中读到科学赋予他的情感的称谓。当心脏承受着沉重的重量时，无论这个重量是金的还是铅的，都无关紧要。无论如何，当幸福进入与痛苦相同的地方时，一个人可能会承认智慧的统治暂时中止了。纽曼对德·辛特雷夫人的祝福如此之深，以至于他想不出将来为她做的任何事都达到了他目前心情所设定的高标准。在他看来，她是如此幸福的自然和环境的产物，以至于他的发明，在思考未来的组合时，不断地喘着气，担心她美丽的个人和谐会受到某种残酷的压缩或破坏。这就是我所说的纽曼的温柔：德·辛特雷夫人让他如此高兴，正如她本人一样，他渴望介入她和生活的烦恼，就像一位年轻母亲渴望保护她第一个孩子的睡眠一样孩子。纽曼简直被迷住了，他处理自己的魅力就好像它是一个音乐盒，只要摇动它就会停止。没有比这更好的证据来证明每个人的性情中都隐藏着对享乐的渴望，等待着某个神圣同盟发出的信号，让他可以安全地窥视。纽曼终于享受到了，纯粹、自由、深刻。德·辛特雷夫人的某些个人品质——她的眼睛明亮而甜美，她的脸庞精致动人，她的声音深沉流畅——充满了他的全部意识。一位头戴玫瑰王冠的古希腊人，凝视着一位大理石女神，他的全部明亮智慧都满足于这一行为，这简直是在享受安静的和谐中迷失的智慧的更完整的体现。

他没有对她做出猛烈的爱——没有伤感的言语。他从未侵犯过她让他明白的目前的禁地。但尽管如此，他还是有一种舒服的感觉，她越来越清楚他有多么钦佩她。虽然总的来说他不怎么健谈，但他话很多，并且完美地让她说了很多话。他不怕让她厌烦，无论是他的谈话还是他的沉默。不管他是否偶尔让她厌烦，总的来说，她很可能因为他没有令人尴尬的顾忌而更喜欢他。纽曼坐在那里的时候，她的访客经常进来，发现一个高大、瘦削、沉默寡言的男人，半躺着的态度，有时当没有人故意搞笑时，他会大笑起来，在有计划的俏皮话出现时，他会保持严肃。他显然没有正确的文化欣赏。

必须承认，纽曼没有想法的主题数量非常多，而且必须补充一点，对于那些他没有想法的主题，他也完全没有言语。他的谈话内容很少有细微的变化，他的现成公式和短语也是最少的。另一方面，他有足够的注意力可以给予，他对某个话题重要性的估计并不取决于他能就此说出多少聪明的话。他本人几乎从不感到无聊，如果认为沉默意味着不高兴，那就大错特错了。然而，在他的一些无言以对的谈话中，到底是什么让他感到高兴，我必须承认自己无法确定。我们大体上知道，很多对很多人来说都是老故事的事情，对他来说却有新奇的魅力，但如果把他的新印象完整地列出来，可能会给我们带来很多惊喜。他给德·辛特雷夫人讲了一百个长篇故事。他在谈论美国时向她解释了当地各种机构的运作和商业习俗。从续集来看，她很感兴趣，但事先无法确定。至于她自己的演讲，纽曼非常确信她自己很喜欢它：这是对崔斯特瑞姆夫人为她画的肖像的一种修正。他发现她天生就充满欢乐。起初他说她害羞是对的。她的害羞，对于一个环境和宁静的美丽为有礼貌的坚强提供一切便利的女人来说，只是一种魅力。对于纽曼来说，它已经持续了一段时间，即使它消失了，它也留下了一些东西，在一段时间内发挥着同样的作用。这就是崔斯特瑞姆夫人所瞥见的令人泪流满面的秘密吗？鉴于她朋友的矜持、她的高教养和她的深刻，她对这个秘密做了一个概述，其轮廓也许太沉重了。 ？纽曼是这么认为的，但他发现自己每天都不再想知道辛特雷夫人的秘密可能是什么，而是更加确信秘密本身对她来说是可恨的事情。她是一个追求光明的女人，而不是一个追求阴影的女人。她的本性并不是如画般的矜持和神秘的忧郁，而是坦率、欢乐、出色的行动，带有必要的冥想，一点也不多。如此看来，他已经成功地把她带回来了。他自己觉得自己是压抑秘密的解毒剂。事实上，他为她提供的最重要的是一种巨大的、阳光明媚的豁免权，使她无需拥有任何东西。

当德·辛特雷夫人如此指定时，他经常在德·贝勒加德夫人寒冷的炉边度过夜晚，满足于通过眯起的眼睑看着房间另一边的情妇，她总是在家人面前提出一个观点，与别人交谈。德·贝勒加德夫人坐在火边，与任何走近她的人整齐而冷漠地交谈，用她慢慢不安的眼睛扫视房间，当它照在他身上时，纽曼的感觉与突然爆发的感觉相同。潮湿的空气。当他与她握手时，他总是笑着问她是否可以在另一个晚上“忍受他”，而她面无笑容地回答说，感谢上帝，她一直都能尽到自己的职责。纽曼有一次与特里斯特瑞姆夫人谈到侯爵夫人时说，毕竟和她相处起来很容易。和不折不扣的流氓相处总是很容易的。

“你就是用这个优雅的术语来称呼贝勒加德侯爵夫人的吗？”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说道。

“好吧，”纽曼说，“她很邪恶，她是个老罪人。”

“她犯了什么罪？”崔斯特瑞姆夫人问道。

“我不应该怀疑她是否谋杀了某人——当然，这一切都是出于责任感。”

“你怎么可以这么可怕？”崔斯特瑞姆夫人叹了口气。

“我并不可怕。我说的是她的好话。”

“请问，当你想要严厉的时候，你会说什么？”

“我会为了别人——为了侯爵，保持严厉。有一个人我咽不下去，随我便调酒。”

“还有什么 he 完毕？”

“我不太明白；这是一件非常糟糕的事情，一件卑鄙而卑鄙的事情，并且不能像他母亲的轻罪那样通过大胆来弥补。如果他从未犯过谋杀罪，那么他至少在其他人犯下谋杀罪时转身看向别处。”

尽管这种令人反感的假设只不过是“美国幽默”反复无常的一个例子，纽曼还是尽力与 M 保持着轻松友好的沟通方式。 德贝勒加德。 只要他与他极其不喜欢的人进行个人接触，他就可以用任何东西来原谅他们，并且他能够做出大量意想不到的想象力努力（为了他自己的个人舒适）暂时假设他们是好伙伴们。 他尽力与侯爵为一；而且，他真诚地相信，从道理上讲，他不可能像他看上去那样是个愚蠢的傻瓜。 纽曼的熟悉感从来都不是强求的。他的人类平等意识不是一种侵略性的品味或审美理论，而是一种自然而有机的东西，就像身体的欲望一样，从来没有被给予过少的津贴，因此没有不优雅的渴望。 他对自己在社会阶层中的地位的相对性表现得平静而毫无戒心，这可能令 M 感到恼火。 德贝勒加德，他看到自己以一种粗糙而无色的形式反映在他潜在的姐夫的脑海中，与投射在他自己的智力镜子上的令人印象深刻的形象令人不快地不同。 他一刻也没有忘记自己，并以机械的礼貌回应了他一定认为是纽曼的“示好”。 纽曼经常忘记自己，沉迷于无限量的不负责任的询问和猜测，时不时地发现自己面对的是主人有意识的、讽刺的微笑。 什么是平局M。 德贝勒加德微笑着，他不知所措。 M. 德贝勒加德的微笑对他本人来说可能是多种情感之间的妥协。 只要他笑了，他就是有礼貌的，而且他应该有礼貌。 此外，微笑让他只表现出礼貌，而且礼貌的程度也模糊得令人愉快。 微笑也既不是异议（太严重了），也不是同意，否则可能会带来可怕的并发症。 然后，微笑掩盖了他自己的个人尊严，在这种危急的情况下，他决心保持其完美无瑕。他家族的辉煌黯然失色，这已经足够了。 在他和纽曼之间，他的整个态度似乎表明不能交换意见。他屏住呼吸，以免吸入民主的气味。 纽曼远非精通欧洲政治，但他喜欢对自己的情况有一个大致的了解，因此他向 M. 德贝勒加德对公共事务的看法数倍于他。 M. 德·贝勒加德温和而简洁地回答说，他对他们的看法是尽可能的恶劣，他们的情况每况愈下，这个时代已经腐烂到了骨子里。 这让纽曼暂时对侯爵产生了近乎友善的感觉。他同情这个世界如此冷漠的人，当他下次见到M时。 德贝勒加德试图让他注意当时的一些辉煌特征。 侯爵很快回答说，他只有一个政治信念，这对他来说就足够了：他相信波旁王朝的亨利（他的名字的第五位）对法国王位的神圣权利。 纽曼盯着看，此后他不再与 M 谈论政治。 德贝勒加德。 他既没有感到惊恐，也没有感到愤慨，甚至没有感到好笑。他的感觉就像他在M身上发现的那样应该有的感觉。 德·贝勒加德 (de Bellegarde) 喜欢某些奇怪的饮食；例如，对鱼刺或坚果壳的食欲。

一天下午，纽曼去拜访德辛特雷夫人时，仆人要求他稍等片刻，因为他的女主人没有时间。他在房间里走了一会儿，拿起她的书，闻着她的花香，看着她的印刷品和照片（他认为它们非常漂亮），最后他听到了他背对着的门打开的声音。门口站着一位老妇人，他记得进出房子时曾见过她好几次。她身材高大挺拔，穿着黑色衣服，戴着一顶帽子，如果纽曼开始了解这样的神秘事物，就足以证明她不是法国女人；但如果纽曼知道她是法国人，那么她就不会再相信她了。纯正英国成分的帽子。她有一张苍白、得体、忧郁的脸，还有一双清澈、呆滞的英国式眼睛。她专注又胆怯地看了纽曼一会儿，然后行了一个简短的、笔直的英式屈膝礼。

“德·辛特雷夫人恳求您耐心等待，”她说。 “她刚进来；她很快就会穿好衣服。”

“哦，只要她愿意，我就会等，”纽曼说。 “请告诉她不要着急。”

“谢谢您，先生。”女人轻声说道。然后，她并没有带着信息离开，而是走进了房间。她环顾四周，然后走到一张桌子旁，开始整理一些书籍和小摆设。纽曼对她高贵的外表感到震惊。他不敢称呼她为仆人。她忙了一会儿把桌子整理好，拉直窗帘，而纽曼则慢慢地来回走动。当他经过时，他终于从镜子里的她的倒影中看出，她的双手闲着，正专注地看着他。她显然想说什么，纽曼察觉到了，就帮她开口。

“你是英国人？”他问。

“是的，先生，请。”她快速而轻柔地回答。 “我出生在威尔特郡。”

“那你觉得巴黎怎么样？”

“哦，我不想巴黎，先生，”她用同样的语气说。 “我已经很久没有来这里了。”

“啊，你来这里很久了？”

“四十多年了，先生。我和艾米琳女士一起过来的。”

“你是说和老贝勒加德夫人在一起吗？”

“是的先生。她结婚的时候我就跟着她去了。我是我夫人的女人。”

“从那以后你就一直和她在一起了？”

“从那时起我就一直呆在房子里。我的女士带了一个年轻的人。你看我已经很老了。我现在什么都不做。但我还是坚持下去。”

“你看起来非常强壮，身体很好，”纽曼说，观察着她挺拔的身形和脸颊上某种令人尊敬的红润。

“感谢上帝，我没有生病，先生；我希望我非常清楚自己的职责，不会在房子里气喘吁吁、咳嗽不止。但我是一位老妇人，先生，我冒昧地以一位老妇人的身份与您说话。”

“哦，说出来，”纽曼好奇地说。 “你不用怕我。”

“是的先生。我觉得你很善良。我以前见过你。”

“你是说在楼梯上？”

“是的先生。当你来看望伯爵夫人时。我冒昧地注意到你经常来。”

“哦是的;我经常来，”纽曼笑着说。 “你不必非常清醒地注意到这一点。”

“我很高兴地注意到了这一点，先生，”老妇人严肃地说。她站在那儿看着纽曼，脸上的表情很奇怪。古老的顺从和谦逊的本能依然存在。体面的自我谦虚和了解自己“自己的位置”的习惯。但其中夹杂着某种温和的大胆，这种大胆可能源于纽曼前所未有的平易近人的场合和感觉，除此之外，还有对旧礼节的模糊冷漠；仿佛我夫人的自己的女人终于开始反思，既然我夫人已经娶了另一个人，她自己就拥有了轻微的归还财产。

“你对这个家庭很感兴趣吗？”纽曼说。

“有浓厚的兴趣，先生。尤其是伯爵夫人。”

“我对此感到高兴，”纽曼说。过了一会儿，他微笑着补充道：“我也是！”

“我想是这样，先生。我们情不自禁地注意到这些事情并产生我们的想法；我们可以吗，先生？

“你是说作为仆人？”纽曼说。

“啊，就是这里，先生。我担心，当我让自己的思想介入这些事情时，我就不再是一个仆人了。但我对伯爵夫人是如此忠诚；如果她是我自己的孩子，我就不能更爱她了。这就是为什么我变得如此大胆，先生。他们说你想娶她。”

纽曼看着他的对话者，确信她不是一个爱八卦的人，而是一个狂热分子。她看上去焦虑、迷人、谨慎。 “这是千真万确的，”他说。 “我想娶德辛特雷夫人。”

“然后带她去美国？”

“我会带她去任何她想去的地方。”

“先生，离得越远越好！”老妇人突然大声喊道。但她检查了一下自己，然后拿起一个马赛克镇纸，开始用黑色围裙擦拭它。 “我无意反对这座房子或这个家庭，先生。但我认为一个巨大的改变会对可怜的伯爵夫人有好处。这里非常悲伤。”

“是的，不太热闹，”纽曼说。 “但德·辛特雷夫人本身就是同性恋。”

“她就是一切美好的事物。你不会因为听到她在过去的几个月里比以前的许多天更加快乐而感到烦恼。”

纽曼很高兴能收集到这些证明他的西装成功的证据，但他压抑了所有强烈的兴奋情绪。 “德·辛特雷夫人之前心情不好吗？”他问。

“可怜的女士，她有充分的理由。德·辛特雷先生不是这样一位可爱的年轻女士的丈夫。然后，正如我所说，这是一座悲伤的房子。以我的愚见，她最好不要这么做。所以，如果你能原谅我这么说的话，我希望她能嫁给你。”

“我希望她会！”纽曼说。

“但是，如果她不立即下定决心，先生，您一定不要失去勇气。这就是我想求你的，先生。别放弃，先生。如果我说这对任何女士来说在任何时候都是一个巨大的风险，你不会感到难过；当她摆脱了一笔糟糕的交易时，情况更是如此。但如果她能嫁给一个善良、善良、值得尊敬的绅士，我想她最好下定决心。先生，家里的人都对你说得很好，如果你允许我这么说的话，我喜欢你的脸。你的外貌与已故的伯爵截然不同，他不到五英尺高。他们说你的财富超越一切。这没有什么坏处。因此，先生，我恳请您保持耐心，等待时机。先生，如果我不对您说这句话，也许没有人会说。当然，这不是我能做出的任何承诺。我无话可说。但我认为你的机会还不错，先生。我只不过是安静角落里一个疲惫的老妇人，但一个女人能理解另一个女人，我想我认出了伯爵夫人。当她来到这个世界时，我把她抱在怀里，她的第一天结婚那天是我一生中最悲伤的一天。她应该向我展示另一幅更明亮的作品。如果你坚持下去，先生——而且你看起来好像你会坚持——我想我们可能会看到它。”

“我非常感谢你的鼓励，”纽曼衷心地说。 “一个人不能拥有太多。我的意思是要坚持下去。如果德辛特雷夫人嫁给了我，你就必须来和她住在一起。”

老妇人奇怪地看着他，目光柔和，毫无生气。 “先生，当一个人在一所房子里呆了四十年的时候，说这句话似乎是一件无情的事，但我可以告诉你，我想离开这个地方。”

“哎呀，现在正是说出来的时候，”纽曼热切地说。 “四十年后，人们想要改变。”

“您真是太好了，先生；”这位忠实的仆人又行了一个屈膝礼，似乎准备告辞了。但她犹豫了一会儿，露出了一丝胆怯、毫无喜悦的微笑。纽曼很失望，他的手指半害羞半烦躁地伸进背心口袋里。他的线人注意到了这个动静。 “感谢上帝，我不是法国女人，”她说。 “如果我是，我会厚颜无耻地傻笑地告诉你，尽管我已经这么老了，如果你愿意的话，先生，我的信息很有价值。让我用我自己得体的英语方式告诉你。它 is 值得一些东西。”

“请问多少钱？”纽曼说。

“简单来说就是：保证不会向伯爵夫人暗示我说过这些话。”

“如果这就是全部，你就拥有了，”纽曼说。

“仅此而已，先生。谢谢你，先生。美好的一天，先生。”老妇人再次滑进她那件单薄的衬裙里，然后就离开了。与此同时，德辛特雷夫人从对面的门进来了。她注意到对方的动作 门廊 并问纽曼谁一直在招待他。

“英国女人！”纽曼说。 “一位穿着黑色连衣裙、戴着帽子的老太太，上下行屈膝礼，表达得非常好。”

“一个行屈膝礼并表达自己意思的老太太？……啊，你是说可怜的面包太太。我碰巧知道你已经征服了她。”

“太太。蛋糕，她应该被称为，”纽曼说。 “她很可爱。她是一位可爱的老妇人。”

德辛特雷夫人看了他一会儿。 “她能对你说什么？她是一个优秀的人，但我们认为她相当惨淡。”

“我想，”纽曼很快回答道，“我喜欢她是因为她在你附近住了这么久。从你出生起，她就告诉我了。”

“是的，”德辛特雷夫人简单地说。 “她非常忠诚；我可以相信她。”

纽曼从未向这位女士对她的母亲和她的兄弟乌尔班表达过任何想法。没有透露他们给他留下的印象。但是，仿佛她已经猜到了他的想法，她似乎很小心地避免让他说出这些想法。她从未提及她母亲的家政法令；她从来没有引用过侯爵的意见。然而，他们谈到了瓦伦丁，而她毫不掩饰自己对弟弟的极度喜爱。纽曼有时会带着某种无伤大雅的嫉妒来倾听。他本想将她的一些温柔的暗示转移到他自己身上。有一次，德·辛特雷夫人带着一点胜利的神气告诉他，瓦伦丁做了一件她认为非常尊重他的事。这是他为家里的一位老朋友提供的服务。比瓦伦丁通常认为的更“严肃”的事情。纽曼说他很高兴听到这个消息，然后开始谈论他自己的心事。德辛特雷夫人听了，但过了一会儿她说：“我不喜欢你谈论我兄弟瓦伦丁的方式。”纽曼对此感到惊讶，他说他从来没有以友善的方式谈论过他。

“这太仁慈了，”德·辛特雷夫人说。 “这是一种不花钱的善意；这是你对孩子表现出的善意。就好像你不尊重他一样。”

“尊重他？为什么我认为我这样做。”

“您认为？如果你不确定，那是不尊重。”

“你尊重他吗？”纽曼说。 “如果你愿意，我也愿意。”

“如果一个人爱一个人，这是一个没有义务回答的问题，”德辛特雷夫人说。

“那么你不应该问我这个问题。我很喜欢你弟弟。”

“他逗你开心。但你不会想像他的。”

“我不应该喜欢模仿任何人。与自己相似的工作已经够辛苦的了。”

“你说的‘相似’是什么意思？”德·辛特雷夫人问道。

“为什么，做人们所期望的事情。尽自己的职责。”

“但那只是当一个人非常优秀的时候。”

“嗯，很多人都是好人，”纽曼说。 “瓦伦丁对我来说已经足够好了。”

德辛特雷夫人沉默了一会儿。 “他配不上我，”她最后说道。 “我希望他能做点什么。”

“他能做什么？”纽曼问道。

“没有什么。不过他很聪明。”

纽曼说：“不做任何事情就能快乐，这是聪明的证明。”

“事实上，我认为瓦伦丁并不快乐。他聪明、慷慨、勇敢；但这有什么可证明的呢？对我来说，他的生活中有一些悲伤的事情，有时我对他有一种不祥的预感。我不知道为什么，但我想他会遇到一些大麻烦——也许是一个不愉快的结局。”

“哦，把他交给我吧，”纽曼高兴地说。 “我会守护他，不让他受到伤害。”

一天晚上，在贝勒加德夫人的沙龙里，谈话明显地陷入了停滞。侯爵默默地走来走去，就像某个礼节城堡门口的哨兵一样。他的母亲坐在那儿盯着炉火。年轻的德·贝勒加德夫人在一个巨大的挂毯乐队中工作。通常会有三四个游客，但这一次，一场猛烈的风暴足以导致即使是最忠实的常客也缺席。在漫长的寂静中，风的呼啸声和雨的敲击声清晰可闻。纽曼一动不动地坐着，看着时钟，决定待到十一点敲响，但一刻也不能再多。德·辛特雷夫人背对着圆圈，在升起的窗帘内站了一会儿，额头靠在窗玻璃上，凝视着外面淹没的黑暗。突然，她转过身来，看向她的嫂子。

“看在上帝的份上，”她带着一种特别的热切说道，“去弹钢琴吧。”

贝勒加德夫人举起挂毯，指着一朵小白花。 “别让我留下这个。我正处于一部杰作之中。我的花闻起来很香；我用这金色丝绸来添加气味。我屏住呼吸；我不能离开。自己玩点东西吧。”

“当你在场的时候，我去演奏是荒谬的，”德辛特雷夫人说。但下一刻她走到钢琴前，开始用力地敲击琴键。她弹了一会儿，弹得又快又精彩。当她停下来时，纽曼走到钢琴前，请她重新开始。她摇摇头，在他的坚持下，她说：“我不是在为你演奏；我是在为你演奏。”我一直在为自己打球。”她又回到窗边向外看了看，不久就离开了房间。当纽曼离开时，乌尔班·德·贝勒加德一如既往地陪伴着他，下了楼梯仅三步。最下面站着一个穿着大衣的仆人。他刚穿上它，就看到德·辛特雷夫人穿过前厅向他走来。

“周五你在家吗？”纽曼问道。

她看了他一会儿才回答他的问题。 “你不喜欢我的母亲和我的兄弟，”她说。

他犹豫了片刻，轻声道：“没有。”

她把手搭在栏杆上，准备上楼梯，眼睛盯着第一级台阶。

“是的，周五我会在家。”她走上宽阔的昏暗楼梯。

星期五，他一进来，她就请他告诉她为什么他不喜欢她的家人。

“不喜欢你的家人吗？”他惊呼道。 “那声音听起来很可怕。我没这么说吧？我不是故意的，如果我是这么想的话。”

“我希望你能告诉我你对他们的看法，”德辛特雷夫人说。

“除了你，我不想他们中的任何一个。”

“那是因为你不喜欢他们。说实话;你不能冒犯我。”

“嗯，我并不完全爱你的兄弟，”纽曼说。 “我想起来了。但我这样说有什么用呢？我已经忘记了。”

“你脾气太好了，”德·辛特雷夫人严肃地说。然后，似乎是为了避免让他显得在邀请他说侯爵的坏话，她转过身去，示意他坐下。

但他仍然站在她面前，过了一会儿说道：“更重要的是，他们不喜欢我。”

“不——他们不这样做，”她说。

“你不觉得他们错了吗？”纽曼问道。 “我不相信我是一个不受欢迎的人。”

“我想，一个人可能会被人喜欢，也可能会被人讨厌。我的兄弟——我的母亲，”她补充道，“没有让你生气吗？”

“是的，有时。”

“你从来没有表现出来。”

“这样更好。”

“是的，这样就更好了。他们认为他们对你很好。”

“我毫不怀疑他们可能会更粗暴地对待我，”纽曼说。 “我非常感谢他们。诚实地。”

“你很慷慨，”德·辛特雷夫人说。 “这是一个令人不快的立场。”

“你的意思是，对于他们来说。不适合我。”

“对我来说，”德·辛特雷夫人说。

“当他们的罪被宽恕时就不会了！”纽曼说。 “他们认为我不如他们。我愿意。但我们不会为此争吵。”

“如果不说一些听起来令人不快的话，我什至无法同意你的观点。这个推定对你不利。你可能不明白。”

纽曼坐下来，看了她一会儿。 “我想我并没有真正理解它。但你一说，我就信了。”

“这个理由很糟糕，”德·辛特雷夫人微笑着说。

“不，这是一件非常好的事情。你有高尚的精神，高标准；但和你在一起一切都是自然的、不做作的；你似乎并没有把头伸进虎钳里，就好像你是在坐着拍照。你认为我是一个除了赚钱和讨价还价之外对生活一无所知的人。这是对我的合理描述，但这并不是故事的全部。一个人应该关心其他事情，尽管我不知道具体是什么。我关心赚钱，但我从来不特别关心钱。没有别的事情可做，不可能闲着。我对别人很宽容，对自己也很宽容。人们问我的大部分事情我都做了——我不是指流氓。至于你的母亲和你的兄弟，”纽曼补充道，“只有一点我觉得我可能会与他们争吵。我不要求他们为你歌功颂德，但我要求他们别打扰你。如果我认为他们对你说我的坏话，我就应该打击他们。”

“正如你所说，他们让我独自一人。他们没有说你坏话。”

“既然如此，”纽曼喊道，“我宣布他们对这个世界来说太好了！”

德·辛特雷夫人似乎从他的感叹中发现了一些令人吃惊的东西。她也许会回答，但就在这时，门被推开，乌尔班·德·贝勒加德跨进了门槛。他对找到纽曼显得很惊讶，但他的惊讶只不过是一种不寻常的快乐表面上的短暂阴影。纽曼从未见过侯爵如此兴奋。他苍白、暗淡的面容有一种消瘦的变形。他打开门，让其他人进来，不久，老德·贝勒加德夫人就出现了，她靠在一位纽曼以前从未见过的绅士的手臂上。他已经站了起来，德·辛特雷夫人也站了起来，就像她在母亲面前总是做的那样。侯爵几乎是亲切地向纽曼打招呼，现在他站到一边，慢慢地搓着双手。他的母亲带着她的同伴走上前来。她向纽曼庄重地点了点头，然后松开了这位奇怪的绅士，让他向她的女儿鞠躬。

“我的女儿，”她说，“我给你带来了一位不知名的亲戚，迪普米尔勋爵。迪普米尔大人是我们的表弟，但他今天才做了他早就应该做的事——来认识我们。”

德·辛特雷夫人微笑着，向迪普米尔勋爵伸出了手。 “这真是太不寻常了，”这位高贵的落后者说，“但这是我第一次在巴黎呆超过三四个星期。”

“那你来这里多久了？”德辛特雷夫人问道。

“噢，过去两个月了，”迪普米尔勋爵说道。

这两句话可能构成无礼；但只要看一眼迪普米尔勋爵的脸，你就会感到满意，就像德·辛特雷夫人显然感到满意一样，他们只是一个 奈韦特。当他的同伴们就座时，纽曼没有参与谈话，而是专注于观察新来者。然而，对于迪普米尔勋爵这个人的观察；范围不大。他是个身材瘦小的男人，大约三三十岁左右，秃头，鼻子短，上颌没有门牙。他有一双圆溜溜的蓝眼睛，下巴上长着几个疙瘩。他显然很害羞，而且经常大笑，喘着粗气，发出一种奇怪的、令人吃惊的声音，这是对休息最方便的模仿。他的相貌表明他非常简单，有一定程度的残忍，并且过去可能未能利用罕见的教育优势。他说巴黎非常热闹，但对于真正的、彻底节奏的娱乐来说，都柏林就不算什么了。与伦敦相比，他甚至更喜欢都柏林。德·辛特雷夫人去过都柏林吗？有一天他们一定会到那里去，他会向他们展示一些爱尔兰运动。他总是去爱尔兰钓鱼，而他来巴黎是为了奥芬巴赫的新事物。他们总是在都柏林把它们带出来，但他等不及了。他已经九次来听《巴黎苹果》了。德·辛特雷夫人向后靠去，双臂交叉，看着迪普米尔勋爵，脸上的表情比平时在社交场合表现得更加困惑。德·贝勒加德夫人则相反，脸上挂着坚定的微笑。侯爵说，在轻歌剧中，他最喜欢的是《Gazza Ladra》。侯爵夫人随后开始一系列询问有关公爵和红衣主教、老伯爵夫人和芭芭拉夫人的情况，听完这些询问，再加上迪普米尔勋爵有些不敬的回答，纽曼在一刻钟的时间里起身告辞。侯爵随他三步进殿。

“他是爱尔兰人吗？”纽曼问道，向来访者的方向点点头。

“他的母亲是菲努肯勋爵的女儿，”侯爵说道。 “他拥有伟大的爱尔兰庄园。在完全没有男性继承人的情况下，无论是直系继承人还是旁系继承人——这是一种最不寻常的情况——布丽吉特夫人承担了一切。但迪普米尔勋爵的头衔是英国的，他的英国财产也是巨大的。他是一个很有魅力的年轻人。”

纽曼没有回答，但当侯爵开始优雅地退去时，他扣留了他。 “现在是我感谢你的好时机，”他说，“感谢你如此一丝不苟地遵守我们的约定，为我和你妹妹的相处提供了这么多帮助。”

侯爵凝视着。 “说实话，我没有做过任何值得夸耀的事情，”他说。

“哦，别谦虚了，”纽曼笑着回答。 “我不能自以为仅仅靠自己的能力就做得这么好。也替我谢谢你妈妈！”他转身走开，留下德·贝勒加德先生照顾他。

当纽曼下次来到大学街时，他很幸运地单独找到了德·辛特雷夫人。他来的目的很明确，并且不失时机地执行。此外，她的表情被他热切地解读为期待。

“我来看你已经六个月了，”他说，“我从来没有和你说过第二次结婚的事。这就是你问我的；我服从了。还有人能做得更好吗？”

“你的举动非常谨慎，”德·辛特雷夫人说。

“好吧，我现在要改变，”纽曼说。 “我并不是说我会变得不雅；但我要回到我开始的地方。我 am 回到那里。我已经绕了一圈了。或者说，我从来没有离开过这里。我从未停止想要我当时想要的东西。直到现在我才更加确定，如果可能的话；我对自己更加有信心，对你也更加有信心。我更了解你了，尽管我不知道三个月前我不相信的事情。你就是一切——你超越一切——我可以想象或渴望。你现在认识我了；你 必须 认识我。我不会说你见过最好的，但你见过最坏的。我希望你一直在思考。你一定看出我只是在等待；你不能认为我正在改变。现在你要对我说什么？说一切都清楚合理，而且我一直很有耐心和体贴，值得我的奖励。然后把手给我。德·辛特雷夫人就是这样做的。做吧。”

“我知道你只是在等待，”她说。 “我非常确定这一天会到来。我想了很多。起初我有点害怕。但我现在不害怕了。”她停顿了一下，然后补充道：“这让我松了口气。”

她坐在一张矮椅子上，纽曼坐在她附近的一张脚凳上。他微微倾身，握住了她的手，她暂时放开了他的手。 “这意味着我没有等待任何事情，”他说。她看了他一会儿，他看到她的眼里充满了泪水。 “和我在一起，”他继续说道，“你会一样安全——一样安全”——即使在他的热情中，他也犹豫了片刻进行比较——“一样安全，”他带着一种简单的庄严说道，“一样安全”。在你父亲的怀里。”

她仍然看着他，眼泪越来越多。然后，她突然把脸埋在椅子旁边沙发的软垫扶手上，无声地抽泣起来。 “我很弱——我很弱，”他听到她说。

“你更有理由把自己交给我，”他回答道。 “你为什么烦恼？除了幸福，什么也没有。这有那么难相信吗？”

“对你来说，一切似乎都很简单，”她抬起头说道。 “但事情并非如此。我非常喜欢你。六个月前我喜欢你，现在我确定了，就像你说的确定一样。但仅仅为了这个，决定嫁给你并不容易。有很多事情需要思考。”

“应该只考虑一件事——我们彼此相爱，”纽曼说。见她保持沉默，他很快补充道：“很好，如果你不能接受，就不要告诉我。”

“我应该很高兴什么也没想到，”她最后说道。 “根本不去想；只能闭上双眼自首。但我不能。我冷，我老，我胆小；我从来没有想过我应该再结婚，而且我觉得很奇怪我竟然听了你的话。当我作为一个女孩思考如果我要根据自己的选择自由结婚时我应该做什么时，我想到的是一个与你截然不同的男人。”

“这对我来说并不是什么坏事，”纽曼满面笑容地说。 “你的品味还没有形成。”

他的微笑让德·辛特雷夫人也笑了。 “你已经成型了吗？”她问。然后她用不同的语气问道：“你想住在哪里？”

“世界上任何你喜欢的地方。我们可以轻松解决这个问题。”

“我不知道为什么要问你，”她接着说道。 “我很少关心。我想如果我嫁给你我几乎可以住在任何地方。你对我有一些错误的看法；你认为我需要很多东西——我必须拥有辉煌的、世俗的生活。我相信你已经准备好不辞辛劳地给我这样的东西了。但这是非常武断的；我没有做任何事来证明这一点。”她又停了下来，看着他，她的声音和沉默混合在一起，对他来说是如此甜蜜，以至于他不想催促她，就像他不想催促金色的日出一样。 “你是如此与众不同，一开始这似乎是一种困难，一种麻烦，有一天开始对我来说似乎是一种快乐，一种巨大的快乐。我很高兴你与众不同。然而，如果我这么说，没有人会理解我；我不仅仅指的是我的家人。”

“他们会说我是个奇怪的怪物，嗯？”纽曼说。

“他们会说我永远不会对你感到满意——你太与众不同了；我会说这只是 因为 你如此不同，我可能会感到高兴。但他们会给出比我更好的理由。我唯一的理由”——她又停了下来。

但这一次，在金色的日出之中，纽曼感到了想要抓住一朵玫瑰色云彩的冲动。 “你唯一的理由就是爱我！”他用一种雄辩的姿态低声说道，由于没有更好的理由，德·辛特雷夫人也就同意了。

纽曼第二天回来了，在前厅，当他进屋时，他遇到了他的朋友面包太太。她正在悠闲地闲逛，当他的目光落在她身上时，她向他行了一个屈膝礼。然后她转向接待他的仆人，带着她天生的优越感和粗犷的英国口音说道，“你可以退休了；你可以回去了。”我将有幸担任先生的指挥。”然而，尽管如此，纽曼觉得她的声音有轻微的颤抖，似乎命令的语气不习惯。男人无礼地看了她一眼，但他慢慢走开了，她领着纽曼上了楼。楼梯走到一半时拐了一个弯，形成了一个小平台。墙角立着一尊冷漠的十八世纪仙女雕像，面带微笑，脸色蜡黄，裂纹不断。面包太太说到这里停了下来，用羞涩的善意看着她的同伴。

“我知道这个好消息，先生，”她低声说道。

“你有权利第一个知道它，”纽曼说。 “你表现出了如此友好的兴趣。”

面包夫人转过身去，开始吹掉雕像上的灰尘，仿佛这可能是一种嘲弄。

“我想你是想祝贺我，”纽曼说。 “我非常感激。”然后他补充道：“那天你给了我很多快乐。”

她转过身来，显然是放心了。 “你别以为我被告知了任何事情，”她说。 “我只是猜测。但当你进来时我看着你，我确信我猜对了。”

“你非常敏锐，”纽曼说。 “我确信，以你安静的方式，你会看到一切。”

“我不是傻子，先生，感谢上帝。 “除此之外，我还猜到了一些别的东西。”面包太太说道。

“那是什么？”

“我不必告诉你，先生；我想你不会相信的。无论如何，这不会让你高兴。”

“哦，除了让我高兴的事情之外什么都不告诉我，”纽曼笑道。 “这就是你开始的方式。”

“好吧，先生，我想您不会因为一切都结束得越快越好而感到烦恼。”

“你是说我们越早结婚越好？当然，这对我来说更好。”

“对每个人都更好。”

“也许对你来说更好。你知道你要来和我们住在一起，”纽曼说。

“我非常感谢你，先生，但我想到的并不是我自己。如果可以冒昧的话，我只是想建议你抓紧时间。”

“你怕谁？”

面包夫人向上看了看楼梯，然后又向下看了看，然后她看着那个没有沾染灰尘的仙女，仿佛她可能有有知觉的耳朵。 “我害怕每个人，”她说。

“这是一种多么不舒服的心态啊！”纽曼说。 “‘所有人’都想阻止我结婚吗？”

“我恐怕已经说得太多了，”面包太太回答道。 “我不会收回，但我也不会再说了。”她又走上楼梯，带他走进德·辛特雷夫人的沙龙。

当纽曼发现德·辛特雷夫人并不孤单时，他陷入了短暂而无声的咒骂之中。和她一起坐着的是她的母亲，房间中央站着年轻的德·贝勒加德夫人，戴着帽子，穿着斗篷。老侯爵夫人靠在椅子上，一只手紧握着手臂的把手，一动不动地看着他。她似乎几乎没有意识到他的问候。她似乎在专心地沉思。纽曼自言自语地说，她的女儿已经宣布订婚了，老太太觉得这口饭难以下咽。但德·辛特雷夫人在向他伸出手的同时，也看了他一眼，似乎是在暗示他应该明白一些事情。这是警告还是请求？她想禁止说话还是保持沉默？他很困惑，年轻的德贝勒加德夫人美丽的笑容没有给他任何信息。

“我还没有告诉我母亲，”德·辛特雷夫人看着他，突然说道。

“告诉我什么？”侯爵夫人问道。 “你告诉我的太少了；你应该告诉我一切。”

“这就是我所做的，”乌尔班夫人笑着说。

“让 me 告诉你妈妈，”纽曼说。

老太太又看了他一眼，然后转向女儿。 “你要嫁给他？”她轻声叫道。

“噢，妈妈，”德·辛特雷夫人说。

“你的女儿已经同意了，我非常高兴，”纽曼说。

“这个安排是什么时候做的？”德·贝勒加德夫人问道。 “我好像是偶然得到这个消息的！”

“我的悬念昨天结束了，”纽曼说。

“我的还能坚持多久？”侯爵夫人对女儿说道。她说话时没有任何恼怒。带着一种冷漠、高贵的不悦。

德辛特雷夫人静静地站着，眼睛盯着地面。 “现在一切都结束了，”她说。

“我的儿子在哪里——乌尔班在哪里？”侯爵夫人问道。 “派人去叫你哥哥来，通知他一声。”

年轻的贝勒加德夫人把手放在铃绳上。 “他要来拜访我，我要去敲——非常轻柔地——敲他书房的门。但他可以来找我！”她拉响了门铃，不一会儿，面包太太就出现了，脸上带着平静的询问。

“派人去叫你哥哥来吧，”老太太说道。

但纽曼感到一种不可抗拒的冲动，想要说话，并且以某种方式说话。 “告诉侯爵我们想要他，”他对悄然退休的面包夫人说道。

年轻的贝勒加德夫人走向她的嫂子，拥抱了她。然后她转向纽曼，脸上带着强烈的微笑。 “她很迷人。我祝贺你。”

“我向您表示祝贺，先生，”德·贝勒加德夫人极其严肃地说。 “我的女儿是一个非常好的女人。她可能有缺点，但我不知道。”

“我母亲不常开玩笑，”德·辛特雷夫人说。 “但当她这么做的时候，他们就很糟糕了。”

“她真是令人着迷。”乌尔班侯爵夫人继续说道，她的头偏向一侧，看着她的嫂子。 “是的，我恭喜你。”

德·辛特雷夫人转过身去，拿起一块挂毯，开始缝针。几分钟的沉默过去了，但被德·贝勒加德先生的到来打断了。他进来时手里拿着帽子，戴着手套，后面跟着他的兄弟瓦伦丁，他似乎刚刚进屋。德·贝勒加德先生环顾四周，以一贯的礼貌礼貌向纽曼打招呼。瓦伦丁向他的母亲和姐妹们致敬，并在与纽曼握手时，用尖锐审问的目光看了他一眼。

“先生到了，先生们！“年轻的德·贝勒加德夫人喊道。 “我们有好消息告诉你。”

“女儿，和你哥哥说吧。”老太太说道。

德·辛特雷夫人一直在看着她的挂毯。她抬起眼睛看向她的哥哥。 “我已经接受了纽曼先生。”

“你姐姐已经同意了，”纽曼说。 “你看，我毕竟知道自己在做什么。”

“我被迷住了！”德·贝勒加德先生极其仁慈地说道。

“我也是，”瓦伦丁对纽曼说。 “我和侯爵都被迷住了。我自己无法结婚，但我可以理解。我不能倒立，但我可以为聪明的杂技演员鼓掌。我亲爱的妹妹，我祝福你们的结合。”

侯爵站在那里，向帽冠里看了一会儿。 “我们已经做好了准备，”他最后说道，“但面对这一事件，难免会产生某种情绪。”他露出了一个最不搞笑的笑容。

“我感受到的任何情绪都是我没有做好充分准备的，”他的母亲说。

“我自己不能这么说，”纽曼微笑着说道，但与侯爵不同。 “我比我预想的更快乐。我想这就是你的幸福吧！”

“不要夸大这一点，”德·贝勒加德夫人站起来，把手放在女儿的手臂上。 “你不能指望一个诚实的老妇人会感谢你带走了她美丽的独生女儿。”

“你忘了我，亲爱的夫人，”年轻的侯爵夫人端庄地说。

“是的，她非常漂亮，”纽曼说。

“请问婚礼什么时候举行？”年轻的贝勒加德夫人问道； “我必须有一个月的时间来考虑一件衣服。”

“这必须讨论一下，”侯爵夫人说。

“哦，我们会讨论一下，然后通知你！”纽曼惊呼道。

“我毫不怀疑我们会同意，”乌尔班说。

“如果你不同意德·辛特雷夫人的观点，那你就太无理取闹了。”

“来吧，来吧，乌尔班，”年轻的德·贝勒加德夫人说，“我得直接去我的裁缝店。”

老太太一直站在那里，手搭在女儿的胳膊上，目光定定地看着她。她轻轻叹了口气，低声说道：“不，我做到了。” 不能 期待吧！你是一个幸运的人，”她转向纽曼，富有表现力地点点头，补充道。

“噢，我知道了！”他回答道。 “我感到无比自豪。我真想在屋顶上哭泣，就像在街上拦住人们告诉他们一样。”

德·贝勒加德夫人抿紧了嘴唇。 “请不要这样做，”她说。

“知道的人越多越好，”纽曼宣称。 “我还没有在这里宣布，但我今天早上把它电报给了美国。”

“电报给美国？”老太太低声说道。

“去纽约、去圣路易斯、去旧金山；你知道，这些是主要城市。明天我会告诉这里的朋友们。”

“你有很多吗？”德·贝勒加德夫人问道，纽曼的语气恐怕有些失礼了。

“足以给我带来很多次握手和祝贺。更不用说，”他随即补充道，“我将从你的朋友那里收到的东西。”

“他们不会使用电报，”侯爵夫人离开时说道。

德·贝勒加德先生的妻子，她的想象力显然已经飞到了裁缝的身上，她模仿着拍打着丝绸翅膀，与纽曼握手，并用纽曼从未听过的更有说服力的口音说：“你可以指望我吧。”然后他的妻子把他带走了。

瓦伦丁站在那里，目光从他的妹妹转向我们的英雄。 “我希望你们俩认真反思，”他说。

德·辛特雷夫人微笑着。 “我们既没有你的思考能力，也没有你的认真程度；但我们已经尽力了。”

“好吧，我非常尊重你们每个人，”瓦伦丁继续说道。 “你们是迷人的年轻人。但总的来说，我不满意你属于那个小而优越的阶层——那个由值得保持未婚的人组成的精致群体。这些都是稀有的灵魂；他们是地球之盐。但我并不是有意要引起别人的反感。结婚的人往往都很友善。”

“瓦伦丁认为女性应该结婚，男性不应该结婚，”德辛特雷夫人说。 “不知道他是怎么安排的。”

“我是因为崇拜你才安排的，我的妹妹，”瓦伦丁热切地说。 “再见。”

“崇拜一个你可以结婚的人，”纽曼说。 “有一天我会为你安排的。我预见我将成为使徒。”

瓦伦丁就在门口。他回头看了一眼，脸色变得严肃起来。 “我爱上了一个我无法结婚的人！”他说。他放下了 门廊 然后就离开了。

“他们不喜欢这样，”纽曼独自站在德辛特雷夫人面前说道。

“不，”过了一会儿她说道。 “他们不喜欢这样。”

“好吧，现在，你介意吗？”纽曼问道。

“是的！”又过了一会儿，她说道。

“那是一个错误。”

“我没办法。”我更希望妈妈高兴。”

“为什么，”纽曼问道，“她不高兴吗？她准许你嫁给我。”

“非常正确；我不明白。但正如你所说，我确实“介意”。你会说这是迷信。”

“这取决于你让它困扰你的程度。那我就称其为“可怕的无聊”。

“我会保守秘密的，”德·辛特雷夫人说，“这不会打扰你的。”然后他们谈到了结婚的日子，德·辛特雷夫人毫无保留地同意了纽曼希望尽早确定结婚日期的愿望。

纽曼的电报得到了饶有兴趣的答复。他只发出了三封电报，却收到了不下八封的贺信。他把它们放进口袋里，下次遇到德·贝勒加德老夫人时，他就把它们拿出来展示给她看。必须承认，这是一次略带恶意的攻击。读者必须判断这种冒犯的程度是轻微的。纽曼知道侯爵夫人不喜欢他的电报，尽管他看不出有充分的理由。另一方面，德·辛特雷夫人却很喜欢这些作品，而且大多数作品都很幽默，她会无节制地嘲笑它们，并探究它们作者的性格。纽曼既然获奖了，他就有一种特殊的愿望，希望他的胜利能够得到体现。他非常怀疑贝勒加德家族对此保持沉默，并允许它在他们选定的圈子中产生有限的共鸣；他很高兴地想到，如果他肯花功夫，用他的话来说，他可能会打破所有的窗户。没有人喜欢被否定，但纽曼，如果不是受宠若惊，也没有完全被冒犯。他没有这个好借口来表达自己有点咄咄逼人的冲动，想要宣扬自己的幸福。他的情绪是另一种品质。他想这一次为贝勒加德家族制作头像 感觉 他;他不知道什么时候才能再有一次机会。在过去的六个月里，他一直有一种感觉，老太太和她的儿子正直视着他的头顶，现在他决定让他们在脚趾上画一个记号，他会给自己画一个满意的记号。

“这就像当酒倒得太慢时看到瓶子被倒空一样，”他对崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。 “他们让我想扭动他们的肘部，迫使他们把酒洒出来。”

对此，崔斯特瑞姆夫人回答说，他最好别打扰他们，让他们按照自己的方式做事。 “你必须体谅他们，”她说。 “他们应该稍微挂火，这是很自然的。当您提出申请时，他们认为他们接受了您；但他们不是有想象力的人，他们无法将自己投射到未来，现在他们必须重新开始。但他们 ，那恭喜你， 有荣誉感的人，他们会做任何必要的事情。”

纽曼眯着眼睛沉思了一会儿。 “我对他们并不严厉，”他随即说道，“为了证明这一点，我将邀请他们所有人参加一个节日。”

“去参加节日吗？”

“整个冬天你都在嘲笑我金色的大房间；我会告诉你它们是有好处的。我会举办一个聚会。在这里能做的最伟大的事情是什么？我将聘请歌剧院所有伟大的歌手，以及法国剧院的所有第一批人员，我将提供一场娱乐活动。”

“那你会邀请谁呢？”

“首先是你。然后是老太太和她的儿子。然后是我在她家或其他地方遇到的她朋友中的每一个人，每一个对我表现出最低限度礼貌的人，他们中的每一位公爵和他的妻子。然后是我所有的朋友，无一例外：基蒂·厄普约翰小姐、多拉·芬奇小姐、帕卡德将军、C·P·哈奇以及所有其他人。每个人都应该知道这是关于什么的，那就是庆祝我与德辛特雷伯爵夫人订婚。你觉得这个主意怎么样？

“我觉得这很可恶！”崔斯特瑞姆夫人说。过了一会儿：“我觉得很好吃！”

第二天晚上，纽曼来到了贝勒加德夫人的沙龙，在那里他发现她被她的孩子们包围着，并邀请她在两周后的某个晚上出现在他可怜的住所上。

侯爵夫人凝视了一会儿。 “亲爱的先生，”她喊道，“你想对我做什么？”

“让你认识几个人，然后让你坐在一张非常安乐的椅子上，请你听弗雷佐里尼夫人的歌声。”

“你的意思是举办一场音乐会？”

“那种东西。”

“还有一群人吗？”

“我所有的朋友们，我希望你们和你们女儿也有一些朋友们。我想庆祝我的订婚。”

纽曼觉得贝勒加德夫人脸色变得苍白。她打开手中的扇子，一把精美的上个世纪的旧彩扇，看着那幅画，画上画着一个 香槟酒会——一位拿着吉他的女士，正在唱歌，一群舞者围着戴着花环的爱马仕。

“自从我可怜的父亲去世后，我们就很少出去了，”侯爵低声说道。

“但是， my 我的朋友，亲爱的父亲还活着。”他的妻子说道。 “我只是在等待我的邀请来接受它，”她带着和蔼可亲的自信看了纽曼一眼。 “这将是伟大的；我对此非常确定。”

我很遗憾地说，这位女士的邀请不是当时当场发出的，这有损纽曼的英勇。他把所有的注意力都集中在老侯爵夫人身上。她终于抬起头来，微笑着。 “我无法想象让你为我提供一场盛宴，”她说，“除非我为你提供了一场盛宴。我们想把您介绍给我们的朋友；我们将邀请他们所有人。我们非常重视它。我们必须按顺序做事。 25号左右来找我；我会立即通知您确切的日期。我们不会有像弗雷佐里尼夫人这样优秀的人，但我们会有一些非常好的人。之后你就可以谈论你自己的节日了。”老太太说话时带着某种急切的急切，一边说一边笑得更愉快了。

在纽曼看来，这是一个很漂亮的提议，而这样的提议总是触动他善良的本性。他对德·贝勒加德夫人说，他应该很高兴 25 日或任何其他日子来，无论他是在她家还是在自己家见到朋友，都无关紧要。我已经说过纽曼很细心，但必须承认，这一次他没有注意到贝勒加德夫人和侯爵之间掠过的某种微妙的眼神，我们可以认为这是对表现出的纯真的评论。他演讲的后一句。

那天晚上，瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德和纽曼一起离开了，当他们离开大学路一段距离时，他若有所思地说：“我的母亲非常坚强——非常坚强。”然后，为了回答纽曼的疑问动作，他继续说道：“她被逼到了墙边，但你永远不会想到这一点。她的25日庆祝活动是当时的一个发明。她不知道要举办一场盛宴，但发现这是你的提议中唯一的问题，她直视剂量——请原谅这个表达——然后把它拧开，正如你所看到的，没有眨眼。她非常坚强。”

“亲爱的我！”纽曼说道，他的心情分为津津有味和同情心。 “我不在乎她的欢宴，我愿意以意志换行动。”

“不，不，”瓦伦丁说道，语气中带着一丝不合时宜的家庭自豪感。 “这件事现在就要完成，而且要做得漂亮。”

瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德宣布尼奥什小姐脱离了她父亲的住所，并对这位焦急的父母在如此严重的灾难中的态度做出了不敬的反思，这受到了实际的评论，因为尼奥什先生迟迟没有寻求与他的父亲再次面谈。迟到的学生。纽曼被迫同意瓦伦丁对老人哲学的有些愤世嫉俗的解释，这让纽曼感到有些厌恶，而且，尽管情况似乎表明他并没有陷入崇高的绝望，纽曼认为他很可能正在遭受痛苦。比表面上表现得更加敏锐。尼奥什先生习惯于每隔两三周就对他进行一次恭敬的拜访，而他的缺席既可以证明他极度沮丧，也可以证明他想掩盖自己成功地弥补了悲伤。纽曼不久后从瓦伦丁那里得知了有关诺埃米小姐职业生涯新阶段的一些细节。

“我告诉过你她很了不起，”这位毫不畏缩的观察家宣称，“她的表现方式证明了这一点。她还有其他机会，但她决心只抓住最好的机会。她让你很荣幸地思考了一会儿，你可能就是这样一个机会。你不是;于是她鼓足了耐心，又等了一会儿。终于到了她的机会，她睁大了眼睛做出了动作。我非常确定她并没有失去纯真，但她拥有所有的尊严。尽管你认为她是个可疑的小姑娘，但她却牢牢地抓住了这一点；没有任何证据可以证明对她不利，她决心在得到同等的声誉之前不会放弃自己的名誉。对于她的同等地位，她有很高的想法。看来她的理想已经实现了。五十岁了，秃头，聋子，但对钱却很容易。”

“那么，”纽曼问道，“你是从哪里获得这些有价值的信息的？”

“谈话中。记住我那些轻浮的习惯。与一位从事手套清洁行业的年轻女子交谈，她在圣罗奇街开了一家小店。尼奥什先生住在同一栋房子里，爬上六对楼梯，穿过球场，过去五年来，诺埃米小姐一直在那间脏兮兮的门口进进出出。小个子清洁手套的人是老熟人了。她曾经是我一个朋友的朋友，他已经结婚并失去了这样的朋友。我经常在他的社交场合看到她。当我在透明的小窗玻璃后面看到她时，我就想起了她。我戴着一双干净得一尘不染的手套，但我走进去，举起双手，对她说：“亲爱的小姐，你要我做什么来清洗这些手套？” “亲爱的伯爵，”她立即回答，“我会免费为您清理它们。”她立刻就认出了我，我不得不听听她过去六年的经历。但在那之后，我把她放在了她邻居的位置上。她认识并钦佩诺埃米，她告诉了我刚才重复的话。”

一个月过去了，尼奥什先生没有再出现，而纽曼每天早上都会在报纸上读到两三篇自杀的文章。 费加罗报“，开始怀疑，他的屈辱是顽固的，他在塞纳河的水中为他受伤的自尊心寻找一种安慰。他的皮夹里记着尼奥什先生的地址，有一天他发现自己在 的Quartier，他决心尽其所能，消除心中的疑虑。他回到圣罗奇街的那栋房子，那里有记录的号码，在邻近的地下室里，在一排悬挂着的整齐的充气手套后面，观察到贝勒加德的线人——一个穿着晨衣的蜡黄人——凝视着他的面容。她走到街上，仿佛在等待那位和蔼可亲的贵族再次经过。但纽曼申请的并不是她；而是她。他只是问看门女尼奥什先生是否在家。女门童回答说，正如女门童总是回答的那样，她的房客仅仅三分钟前就出去了；她的房客在三分钟前就出去了。但随后，通过她小屋窗户的小方孔，测量了纽曼的财富，并看到它们，通过一个未指定的过程，刷新了法院五楼居住者的干燥地方，她补充说，尼奥什先生将他刚好有时间到达位于左边第二个拐角处的 Café de la Patrie 咖啡馆，他经常在那里度过下午时光。纽曼感谢她提供的信息，在第二个路口左转，到达了 Café de la Patrie。他有一瞬间犹豫要不要进去。以这种速度“跟踪”可怜的老尼奥什不是太卑鄙了吗？但他的视野中掠过这样一个画面：一个憔悴的七十多岁小老人，细细地抿了一杯糖和水，却发现它们根本无法让他的孤独变得甜蜜。他打开门走了进去，一开始除了浓浓的烟草烟雾之外什么也看不见。然而，在对面的一个角落里，他很快就看到了尼奥什先生的身影，他正在搅拌一只深玻璃杯中的东西，一位女士坐在他面前。那位女士背对着纽曼，但尼奥什先生很快就察觉并认出了他的访客。纽曼已经朝他走来，老人慢慢地站起来，用比平常更加沮丧的表情看着他。

“如果你喝的是热潘趣酒，”纽曼说，“我想你还没有死。没关系。别动。”

尼奥什先生呆呆地站着，下巴垂下来，不敢伸出手。坐在他对面的那位女士也原地转过身来，精神抖擞地抬头看了一眼，展现出他女儿的和蔼可亲的容貌。她敏锐地看着纽曼，想看看他是怎么看她的，然后——我不知道她发现了什么——她和蔼地说：“你好吗，先生？你不来我们的小角落吗？”

“你来了吗——你来之后 我？“尼奥什先生非常轻声地问道。

“我去你家看看你怎么样了。我以为你可能病了，”纽曼说。

“一如既往，你真是太好了。”老人说道。 “不，我身体不太好。我是 寻求设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

“请先生坐下，”尼奥什小姐说道。 “加尔松，拿把椅子来。”

“您能让我们荣幸地 座位？“尼奥什先生胆怯地说，带着双重外国口音。

纽曼对自己说，他最好把这件事解决掉，然后他在桌子末端拿了一把椅子，尼奥什小姐坐在他的左边，她的父亲坐在另一边。 “当然，你会拿点东西，”诺埃米小姐一边喝着一杯马德拉酒一边说道。纽曼说他不相信，然后她微笑着转向她的爸爸。 “多么荣幸，嗯？他只是为了我们而来。”尼奥什先生一口气喝干了刺鼻的酒杯，结果眼睛里的泪水更加多了。 “但你不是来找我的，嗯？”诺埃米小姐继续说道。 “没想到会在这里找到我？”

纽曼观察到她外表的变化。她比以前更加优雅、美丽。她看起来老了一两岁，而且很明显，从表面上看，她只是赢得了尊重。她看起来“像个淑女”。她穿着淡雅的衣服，穿着昂贵的、不显眼的厕所，带着一种可能来自多年练习的优雅。她现在的冷静和 沉思 纽曼觉得他真的很地狱，他倾向于同意瓦伦丁·德·贝勒加德的观点，即这位年轻女士非常了不起。 “不，说实话，我不是来找你的，”他说，“我也没想到会找到你。我被告知，”他随即补充道，“你已经离开了你的父亲。”

“Quelle horreur！” cried Mademoiselle Nioche with a smile. “Does one leave one’s father? You have the proof of the contrary.”

“Yes, convincing proof,” said Newman glancing at M. Nioche. The old man caught his glance obliquely, with his faded, deprecating eye, and then, lifting his empty glass, pretended to drink again.

“Who told you that?” Noémie demanded. “I know very well. It was M. de Bellegarde. Why don’t you say yes? You are not polite.”

“I am embarrassed,” said Newman.

“I set you a better example. I know M. de Bellegarde told you. He knows a great deal about me—or he thinks he does. He has taken a great deal of trouble to find out, but half of it isn’t true. In the first place, I haven’t left my father; I am much too fond of him. Isn’t it so, little father? M. de Bellegarde is a charming young man; it is impossible to be cleverer. I know a good deal about him too; you can tell him that when you next see him.”

“No,” said Newman, with a sturdy grin; “I won’t carry any messages for you.”

“Just as you please,” said Mademoiselle Nioche, “I don’t depend upon you, nor does M. de Bellegarde either. He is very much interested in me; he can be left to his own devices. He is a contrast to you.”

“Oh, he is a great contrast to me, I have no doubt” said Newman. “But I don’t exactly know how you mean it.”

“I mean it in this way. First of all, he never offered to help me to a 点 and a husband.” And Mademoiselle Nioche paused, smiling. “I won’t say that is in his favor, for I do you justice. What led you, by the way, to make me such a queer offer? You didn’t care for me.”

“Oh yes, I did,” said Newman.

“为何如此？”

“It would have given me real pleasure to see you married to a respectable young fellow.”

“With six thousand francs of income!” cried Mademoiselle Nioche. “Do you call that caring for me? I’m afraid you know little about women. You were not 戈蓝; you were not what you might have been.”

Newman flushed a trifle fiercely. “Come!” he exclaimed “that’s rather strong. I had no idea I had been so shabby.”

Mademoiselle Nioche smiled as she took up her muff. “It is something, at any rate, to have made you angry.”

Her father had leaned both his elbows on the table, and his head, bent forward, was supported in his hands, the thin white fingers of which were pressed over his ears. In his position he was staring fixedly at the bottom of his empty glass, and Newman supposed he was not hearing. Mademoiselle Noémie buttoned her furred jacket and pushed back her chair, casting a glance charged with the consciousness of an expensive appearance first down over her flounces and then up at Newman.

“You had better have remained an honest girl,” Newman said quietly.

M. Nioche continued to stare at the bottom of his glass, and his daughter got up, still bravely smiling. “You mean that I look so much like one? That’s more than most women do nowadays. Don’t judge me yet awhile,” she added. “I mean to succeed; that’s what I mean to do. I leave you; I don’t mean to be seen in cafés, for one thing. I can’t think what you want of my poor father; he’s very comfortable now. It isn’t his fault, either. 再见, little father.” And she tapped the old man on the head with her muff. Then she stopped a minute, looking at Newman. “Tell M. de Bellegarde, when he wants news of me, to come and get it from 我！” And she turned and departed, the white-aproned waiter, with a bow, holding the door wide open for her.

M. Nioche sat motionless, and Newman hardly knew what to say to him. The old man looked dismally foolish. “So you determined not to shoot her, after all,” Newman said presently.

M. Nioche, without moving, raised his eyes and gave him a long, peculiar look. It seemed to confess everything, and yet not to ask for pity, nor to pretend, on the other hand, to a rugged ability to do without it. It might have expressed the state of mind of an innocuous insect, flat in shape and conscious of the impending pressure of a boot-sole, and reflecting that he was perhaps too flat to be crushed. M. Nioche’s gaze was a profession of moral flatness. “You despise me terribly,” he said, in the weakest possible voice.

“Oh no,” said Newman, “it is none of my business. It’s a good plan to take things easily.”

“I made you too many fine speeches,” M. Nioche added. “I meant them at the time.”

“I am sure I am very glad you didn’t shoot her,” said Newman. “I was afraid you might have shot yourself. That is why I came to look you up.” And he began to button his coat.

“Neither,” said M. Nioche. “You despise me, and I can’t explain to you. I hoped I shouldn’t see you again.”

“Why, that’s rather shabby,” said Newman. “You shouldn’t drop your friends that way. Besides, the last time you came to see me I thought you particularly jolly.”

“Yes, I remember,” said M. Nioche musingly; “I was in a fever. I didn’t know what I said, what I did. It was delirium.”

“Ah, well, you are quieter now.”

M. Nioche was silent a moment. “As quiet as the grave,” he whispered softly.

“你很不开心吗？”

M. Nioche rubbed his forehead slowly, and even pushed back his wig a little, looking askance at his empty glass. “Yes—yes. But that’s an old story. I have always been unhappy. My daughter does what she will with me. I take what she gives me, good or bad. I have no spirit, and when you have no spirit you must keep quiet. I shan’t trouble you any more.”

“Well,” said Newman, rather disgusted at the smooth operation of the old man’s philosophy, “that’s as you please.”

M. Nioche seemed to have been prepared to be despised but nevertheless he made a feeble movement of appeal from Newman’s faint praise. “After all,” he said, “she is my daughter, and I can still look after her. If she will do wrong, why she will. But there are many different paths, there are degrees. I can give her the benefit—give her the benefit”—and M. Nioche paused, staring vaguely at Newman, who began to suspect that his brain had softened—“the benefit of my experience,” M. Nioche added.

“Your experience?” inquired Newman, both amused and amazed.

“My experience of business,” said M. Nioche, gravely.

“Ah, yes,” said Newman, laughing, “that will be a great advantage to her!” And then he said good-bye, and offered the poor, foolish old man his hand.

M. Nioche took it and leaned back against the wall, holding it a moment and looking up at him. “I suppose you think my wits are going,” he said. “Very likely; I have always a pain in my head. That’s why I can’t explain, I can’t tell you. And she’s so strong, she makes me walk as she will, anywhere! But there’s this—there’s this.” And he stopped, still staring up at Newman. His little white eyes expanded and glittered for a moment like those of a cat in the dark. “It’s not as it seems. I haven’t forgiven her. Oh, no!”

“That’s right; don’t,” said Newman. “She’s a bad case.”

“It’s horrible, it’s horrible,” said M. Nioche; “but do you want to know the truth? I hate her! I take what she gives me, and I hate her more. To-day she brought me three hundred francs; they are here in my waistcoat pocket. Now I hate her almost cruelly. No, I haven’t forgiven her.”

“Why did you accept the money?” Newman asked.

“If I hadn’t,” said M. Nioche, “I should have hated her still more. That’s what misery is. No, I haven’t forgiven her.”

“Take care you don’t hurt her!” said Newman, laughing again. And with this he took his leave. As he passed along the glazed side of the café, on reaching the street, he saw the old man motioning the waiter, with a melancholy gesture, to replenish his glass.

One day, a week after his visit to the Café de la Patrie, he called upon Valentin de Bellegarde, and by good fortune found him at home. Newman spoke of his interview with M. Nioche and his daughter, and said he was afraid Valentin had judged the old man correctly. He had found the couple hobnobbing together in all amity; the old gentleman’s rigor was purely theoretic. Newman confessed that he was disappointed; he should have expected to see M. Nioche take high ground.

“High ground, my dear fellow,” said Valentin, laughing; “there is no high ground for him to take. The only perceptible eminence in M. Nioche’s horizon is Montmartre, which is not an edifying quarter. You can’t go mountaineering in a flat country.”

“He remarked, indeed,” said Newman, “that he has not forgiven her. But she’ll never find it out.”

“We must do him the justice to suppose he doesn’t like the thing,” Valentin rejoined. “Mademoiselle Nioche is like the great artists whose biographies we read, who at the beginning of their career have suffered opposition in the domestic circle. Their vocation has not been recognized by their families, but the world has done it justice. Mademoiselle Nioche has a vocation.”

“Oh, come,” said Newman, impatiently, “you take the little baggage too seriously.”

“I know I do; but when one has nothing to think about, one must think of little baggages. I suppose it is better to be serious about light things than not to be serious at all. This little baggage entertains me.”

“Oh, she has discovered that. She knows you have been hunting her up and asking questions about her. She is very much tickled by it. That’s rather annoying.”

“Annoying, my dear fellow,” laughed Valentin; “not the least!”

“Hanged if I should want to have a greedy little adventuress like that know I was giving myself such pains about her!” said Newman.

“A pretty woman is always worth one’s pains,” objected Valentin. “Mademoiselle Nioche is welcome to be tickled by my curiosity, and to know that I am tickled that she is tickled. She is not so much tickled, by the way.”

“You had better go and tell her,” Newman rejoined. “She gave me a message for you of some such drift.”

“Bless your quiet imagination,” said Valentin, “I have been to see her—three times in five days. She is a charming hostess; we talk of Shakespeare and the musical glasses. She is extremely clever and a very curious type; not at all coarse or wanting to be coarse; determined not to be. She means to take very good care of herself. She is extremely perfect; she is as hard and clear-cut as some little figure of a sea-nymph in an antique intaglio, and I will warrant that she has not a grain more of sentiment or heart than if she was scooped out of a big amethyst. You can’t scratch her even with a diamond. Extremely pretty,—really, when you know her, she is wonderfully pretty,—intelligent, determined, ambitious, unscrupulous, capable of looking at a man strangled without changing color, she is upon my honor, extremely entertaining.”

“It’s a fine list of attractions,” said Newman; “they would serve as a police-detective’s description of a favorite criminal. I should sum them up by another word than ‘entertaining.’”

“Why, that is just the word to use. I don’t say she is laudable or lovable. I don’t want her as my wife or my sister. But she is a very curious and ingenious piece of machinery; I like to see it in operation.”

“Well, I have seen some very curious machines too,” said Newman; “and once, in a needle factory, I saw a gentleman from the city, who had stopped too near one of them, picked up as neatly as if he had been prodded by a fork, swallowed down straight, and ground into small pieces.”

Re-entering his domicile, late in the evening, three days after Madame de Bellegarde had made her bargain with him—the expression is sufficiently correct—touching the entertainment at which she was to present him to the world, he found on his table a card of goodly dimensions bearing an announcement that this lady would be at home on the 27th of the month, at ten o’clock in the evening. He stuck it into the frame of his mirror and eyed it with some complacency; it seemed an agreeable emblem of triumph, documentary evidence that his prize was gained. Stretched out in a chair, he was looking at it lovingly, when Valentin de Bellegarde was shown into the room. Valentin’s glance presently followed the direction of Newman’s, and he perceived his mother’s invitation.

“And what have they put into the corner?” he asked. “Not the customary ‘music,’ ‘dancing,’ or ‘tableaux vivants’? They ought at least to put ‘An American.’”

“Oh, there are to be several of us,” said Newman. “Mrs. Tristram told me to-day that she had received a card and sent an acceptance.”

“Ah, then, with Mrs. Tristram and her husband you will have support. My mother might have put on her card ‘Three Americans.’ But I suspect you will not lack amusement. You will see a great many of the best people in France. I mean the long pedigrees and the high noses, and all that. Some of them are awful idiots; I advise you to take them up cautiously.”

“Oh, I guess I shall like them,” said Newman. “I am prepared to like every one and everything in these days; I am in high good-humor.”

Valentin looked at him a moment in silence and then dropped himself into a chair with an unwonted air of weariness.

“Happy man!” he said with a sigh. “Take care you don’t become offensive.”

“If anyone chooses to take offense, he may. I have a good conscience,” said Newman.

“So you are really in love with my sister.”

“Yes, sir!” said Newman, after a pause.

“And she also?”

“I guess she likes me,” said Newman.

“What is the witchcraft you have used?” Valentin asked. “How do 您 make love?”

“Oh, I haven’t any general rules,” said Newman. “In any way that seems acceptable.”

“I suspect that, if one knew it,” said Valentin, laughing, “you are a terrible customer. You walk in seven-league boots.”

“There is something the matter with you to-night,” Newman said in response to this. “You are vicious. Spare me all discordant sounds until after my marriage. Then, when I have settled down for life, I shall be better able to take things as they come.”

“And when does your marriage take place?”

“About six weeks hence.”

Valentin was silent a while, and then he said, “And you feel very confident about the future?”

“Confident. I knew what I wanted, exactly, and I know what I have got.”

“You are sure you are going to be happy?”

“Sure?” said Newman. “So foolish a question deserves a foolish answer. Yes!”

“You are not afraid of anything?”

“What should I be afraid of? You can’t hurt me unless you kill me by some violent means. That I should indeed consider a tremendous sell. I want to live and I mean to live. I can’t die of illness, I am too ridiculously tough; and the time for dying of old age won’t come round yet a while. I can’t lose my wife, I shall take too good care of her. I may lose my money, or a large part of it; but that won’t matter, for I shall make twice as much again. So what have I to be afraid of?”

“You are not afraid it may be rather a mistake for an American man of business to marry a French countess?”

“For the countess, possibly; but not for the man of business, if you mean me! But my countess shall not be disappointed; I answer for her happiness!” And as if he felt the impulse to celebrate his happy certitude by a bonfire, he got up to throw a couple of logs upon the already blazing hearth. Valentin watched for a few moments the quickened flame, and then, with his head leaning on his hand, gave a melancholy sigh. “Got a headache?” Newman asked.

“我伤心,” said Valentin, with Gallic simplicity.

“You are sad, eh? It is about the lady you said the other night that you adored and that you couldn’t marry?”

“Did I really say that? It seemed to me afterwards that the words had escaped me. Before Claire it was bad taste. But I felt gloomy as I spoke, and I feel gloomy still. Why did you ever introduce me to that girl?”

“Oh, it’s Noémie, is it? Lord deliver us! You don’t mean to say you are lovesick about her?”

“Lovesick, no; it’s not a grand passion. But the cold-blooded little demon sticks in my thoughts; she has bitten me with those even little teeth of hers; I feel as if I might turn rabid and do something crazy in consequence. It’s very low, it’s disgustingly low. She’s the most mercenary little jade in Europe. Yet she really affects my peace of mind; she is always running in my head. It’s a striking contrast to your noble and virtuous attachment—a vile contrast! It is rather pitiful that it should be the best I am able to do for myself at my present respectable age. I am a nice young man, eh, en somme? You can’t warrant my future, as you do your own.”

“Drop that girl, short,” said Newman; “don’t go near her again, and your future will do. Come over to America and I will get you a place in a bank.”

“It is easy to say drop her,” said Valentin, with a light laugh. “You can’t drop a pretty woman like that. One must be polite, even with Noémie. Besides, I’ll not have her suppose I am afraid of her.”

“So, between politeness and vanity, you will get deeper into the mud? Keep them both for something better. Remember, too, that I didn’t want to introduce you to her; you insisted. I had a sort of uneasy feeling about it.”

“Oh, I don’t reproach you,” said Valentin. “Heaven forbid! I wouldn’t for the world have missed knowing her. She is really extraordinary. The way she has already spread her wings is amazing. I don’t know when a woman has amused me more. But excuse me,” he added in an instant; “she doesn’t amuse you, at second hand, and the subject is an impure one. Let us talk of something else.” Valentin introduced another topic, but within five minutes Newman observed that, by a bold transition, he had reverted to Mademoiselle Nioche, and was giving pictures of her manners and quoting specimens of her MOTS. These were very witty, and, for a young woman who six months before had been painting the most artless madonnas, startlingly cynical. But at last, abruptly, he stopped, became thoughtful, and for some time afterwards said nothing. When he rose to go it was evident that his thoughts were still running upon Mademoiselle Nioche. “Yes, she’s a frightful little monster!” he said.

The next ten days were the happiest that Newman had ever known. He saw Madame de Cintré every day, and never saw either old Madame de Bellegarde or the elder of his prospective brothers-in-law. Madame de Cintré at last seemed to think it becoming to apologize for their never being present. “They are much taken up,” she said, “with doing the honors of Paris to Lord Deepmere.” There was a smile in her gravity as she made this declaration, and it deepened as she added, “He is our seventh cousin, you know, and blood is thicker than water. And then, he is so interesting!” And with this she laughed.

Newman met young Madame de Bellegarde two or three times, always roaming about with graceful vagueness, as if in search of an unattainable ideal of amusement. She always reminded him of a painted perfume-bottle with a crack in it; but he had grown to have a kindly feeling for her, based on the fact of her owing conjugal allegiance to Urbain de Bellegarde. He pitied M. de Bellegarde’s wife, especially since she was a silly, thirstily-smiling little brunette, with a suggestion of an unregulated heart. The small marquise sometimes looked at him with an intensity too marked not to be innocent, for coquetry is more finely shaded. She apparently wanted to ask him something or tell him something; he wondered what it was. But he was shy of giving her an opportunity, because, if her communication bore upon the aridity of her matrimonial lot, he was at a loss to see how he could help her. He had a fancy, however, of her coming up to him some day and saying (after looking around behind her) with a little passionate hiss, “I know you detest my husband; let me have the pleasure of assuring you for once that you are right. Pity a poor woman who is married to a clock-image in papier-mâché!” Possessing, however, in default of a competent knowledge of the principles of etiquette, a very downright sense of the “meanness” of certain actions, it seemed to him to belong to his position to keep on his guard; he was not going to put it into the power of these people to say that in their house he had done anything unpleasant. As it was, Madame de Bellegarde used to give him news of the dress she meant to wear at his wedding, and which had not yet, in her creative imagination, in spite of many interviews with the tailor, resolved itself into its composite totality. “I told you pale blue bows on the sleeves, at the elbows,” she said. “But to-day I don’t see my blue bows at all. I don’t know what has become of them. To-day I see pink—a tender pink. And then I pass through strange, dull phases in which neither blue nor pink says anything to me. And yet I must have the bows.”

“Have them green or yellow,” said Newman.

“马勒罗！” the little marquise would cry. “Green bows would break your marriage—your children would be illegitimate!”

Madame de Cintré was calmly happy before the world, and Newman had the felicity of fancying that before him, when the world was absent, she was almost agitatedly happy. She said very tender things. “I take no pleasure in you. You never give me a chance to scold you, to correct you. I bargained for that, I expected to enjoy it. But you won’t do anything dreadful; you are dismally inoffensive. It is very stupid; there is no excitement for me; I might as well be marrying someone else.”

“I am afraid it’s the worst I can do,” Newman would say in answer to this. “Kindly overlook the deficiency.” He assured her that he, at least, would never scold her; she was perfectly satisfactory. “If you only knew,” he said, “how exactly you are what I coveted! And I am beginning to understand why I coveted it; the having it makes all the difference that I expected. Never was a man so pleased with his good fortune. You have been holding your head for a week past just as I wanted my wife to hold hers. You say just the things I want her to say. You walk about the room just as I want her to walk. You have just the taste in dress that I want her to have. In short, you come up to the mark, and, I can tell you, my mark was high.”

These observations seemed to make Madame de Cintré rather grave. At last she said, “Depend upon it, I don’t come up to the mark; your mark is too high. I am not all that you suppose; I am a much smaller affair. She is a magnificent woman, your ideal. Pray, how did she come to such perfection?”

“She was never anything else,” Newman said.

“I really believe,” Madame de Cintré went on, “that she is better than my own ideal. Do you know that is a very handsome compliment? Well, sir, I will make her my own!”

Mrs. Tristram came to see her dear Claire after Newman had announced his engagement, and she told our hero the next day that his good fortune was simply absurd. “For the ridiculous part of it is,” she said, “that you are evidently going to be as happy as if you were marrying Miss Smith or Miss Thompson. I call it a brilliant match for you, but you get brilliancy without paying any tax upon it. Those things are usually a compromise, but here you have everything, and nothing crowds anything else out. You will be brilliantly happy as well.” Newman thanked her for her pleasant, encouraging way of saying things; no woman could encourage or discourage better. Tristram’s way of saying things was different; he had been taken by his wife to call upon Madame de Cintré, and he gave an account of the expedition.

“You don’t catch me giving an opinion on your countess this time,” he said; “I put my foot in it once. That’s a d—d underhand thing to do, by the way—coming round to sound a fellow upon the woman you are going to marry. You deserve anything you get. Then of course you rush and tell her, and she takes care to make it pleasant for the poor spiteful wretch the first time he calls. I will do you the justice to say, however, that you don’t seem to have told Madame de Cintré; or if you have, she’s uncommonly magnanimous. She was very nice; she was tremendously polite. She and Lizzie sat on the sofa, pressing each other’s hands and calling each other chère belle, and Madame de Cintré sent me with every third word a magnificent smile, as if to give me to understand that I too was a handsome dear. She quite made up for past neglect, I assure you; she was very pleasant and sociable. Only in an evil hour it came into her head to say that she must present us to her mother—her mother wished to know your friends. I didn’t want to know her mother, and I was on the point of telling Lizzie to go in alone and let me wait for her outside. But Lizzie, with her usual infernal ingenuity, guessed my purpose and reduced me by a glance of her eye. So they marched off arm in arm, and I followed as I could. We found the old lady in her armchair, twiddling her aristocratic thumbs. She looked at Lizzie from head to foot; but at that game Lizzie, to do her justice, was a match for her. My wife told her we were great friends of Mr. Newman. The marquise started a moment, and then said, ‘Oh, Mr. Newman! My daughter has made up her mind to marry a Mr. Newman.’ Then Madame de Cintré began to fondle Lizzie again, and said it was this dear lady that had planned the match and brought them together. ‘Oh, ‘tis you I have to thank for my American son-in-law,’ the old lady said to Mrs. Tristram. ‘It was a very clever thought of yours. Be sure of my gratitude.’ And then she began to look at me and presently said, ‘Pray, are you engaged in some species of manufacture?’ I wanted to say that I manufactured broom-sticks for old witches to ride on, but Lizzie got in ahead of me. ‘My husband, Madame la Marquise,’ she said, ‘belongs to that unfortunate class of persons who have no profession and no business, and do very little good in the world.’ To get her poke at the old woman she didn’t care where she shoved me. ‘Dear me,’ said the marquise, ‘we all have our duties.’ ‘I am sorry mine compel me to take leave of you,’ said Lizzie. And we bundled out again. But you have a mother-in-law, in all the force of the term.”

“Oh,” said Newman, “my mother-in-law desires nothing better than to let me alone.”

Betimes, on the evening of the 27th, he went to Madame de Bellegarde’s ball. The old house in the Rue de l’Université looked strangely brilliant. In the circle of light projected from the outer gate a detachment of the populace stood watching the carriages roll in; the court was illumined with flaring torches and the portico carpeted with crimson. When Newman arrived there were but a few people present. The marquise and her two daughters were at the top of the staircase, where the sallow old nymph in the angle peeped out from a bower of plants. Madame de Bellegarde, in purple and fine laces, looked like an old lady painted by Vandyke; Madame de Cintré was dressed in white. The old lady greeted Newman with majestic formality, and looking round her, called several of the persons who were standing near. They were elderly gentlemen, of what Valentin de Bellegarde had designated as the high-nosed category; two or three of them wore cordons and stars. They approached with measured alertness, and the marquise said that she wished to present them to Mr. Newman, who was going to marry her daughter. Then she introduced successively three dukes, three counts, and a baron. These gentlemen bowed and smiled most agreeably, and Newman indulged in a series of impartial hand-shakes, accompanied by a “Happy to make your acquaintance, sir.” He looked at Madame de Cintré, but she was not looking at him. If his personal self-consciousness had been of a nature to make him constantly refer to her, as the critic before whom, in company, he played his part, he might have found it a flattering proof of her confidence that he never caught her eyes resting upon him. It is a reflection Newman did not make, but we nevertheless risk it, that in spite of this circumstance she probably saw every movement of his little finger. Young Madame de Bellegarde was dressed in an audacious toilet of crimson crape, bestrewn with huge silver moons—thin crescent and full disks.

“You don’t say anything about my dress,” she said to Newman.

“I feel,” he answered, “as if I were looking at you through a telescope. It is very strange.”

“If it is strange it matches the occasion. But I am not a heavenly body.”

“I never saw the sky at midnight that particular shade of crimson,” said Newman.

“That is my originality; anyone could have chosen blue. My sister-in-law would have chosen a lovely shade of blue, with a dozen little delicate moons. But I think crimson is much more amusing. And I give my idea, which is moonshine.”

“Moonshine and bloodshed,” said Newman.

“A murder by moonlight,” laughed Madame de Bellegarde. “What a delicious idea for a toilet! To make it complete, there is the silver dagger, you see, stuck into my hair. But here comes Lord Deepmere,” she added in a moment. “I must find out what he thinks of it.” Lord Deepmere came up, looking very red in the face, and laughing. “Lord Deepmere can’t decide which he prefers, my sister-in-law or me,” said Madame de Bellegarde. “He likes Claire because she is his cousin, and me because I am not. But he has no right to make love to Claire, whereas I am perfectly 可用的. It is very wrong to make love to a woman who is engaged, but it is very wrong not to make love to a woman who is married.”

“Oh, it’s very jolly making love to married women,” said Lord Deepmere, “because they can’t ask you to marry them.”

“Is that what the others do, the spinsters?” Newman inquired.

“Oh dear, yes,” said Lord Deepmere; “in England all the girls ask a fellow to marry them.”

“And a fellow brutally refuses,” said Madame de Bellegarde.

“Why, really, you know, a fellow can’t marry any girl that asks him,” said his lordship.

“Your cousin won’t ask you. She is going to marry Mr. Newman.”

“Oh, that’s a very different thing!” laughed Lord Deepmere.

“You would have accepted 这里, I suppose. That makes me hope that after all you prefer me.”

“Oh, when things are nice I never prefer one to the other,” said the young Englishman. “I take them all.”

“Ah, what a horror! I won’t be taken in that way; I must be kept apart,” cried Madame de Bellegarde. “Mr. Newman is much better; he knows how to choose. Oh, he chooses as if he were threading a needle. He prefers Madame de Cintré to any conceivable creature or thing.”

“Well, you can’t help my being her cousin,” said Lord Deepmere to Newman, with candid hilarity.

“Oh, no, I can’t help that,” said Newman, laughing back; “neither can she!”

“And you can’t help my dancing with her,” said Lord Deepmere, with sturdy simplicity.

“I could prevent that only by dancing with her myself,” said Newman. “But unfortunately I don’t know how to dance.”

“Oh, you may dance without knowing how; may you not, milord?” said Madame de Bellegarde. But to this Lord Deepmere replied that a fellow ought to know how to dance if he didn’t want to make an ass of himself; and at this moment Urbain de Bellegarde joined the group, slow-stepping and with his hands behind him.

“This is a very splendid entertainment,” said Newman, cheerfully. “The old house looks very bright.”

“如果 您 are pleased, we are content,” said the marquis, lifting his shoulders and bending them forward.

“Oh, I suspect everyone is pleased,” said Newman. “How can they help being pleased when the first thing they see as they come in is your sister, standing there as beautiful as an angel?”

“Yes, she is very beautiful,” rejoined the marquis, solemnly. “But that is not so great a source of satisfaction to other people, naturally, as to you.”

“Yes, I am satisfied, marquis, I am satisfied,” said Newman, with his protracted enunciation. “And now tell me,” he added, looking round, “who some of your friends are.”

M. de Bellegarde looked about him in silence, with his head bent and his hand raised to his lower lip, which he slowly rubbed. A stream of people had been pouring into the salon in which Newman stood with his host, the rooms were filling up and the spectacle had become brilliant. It borrowed its splendor chiefly from the shining shoulders and profuse jewels of the women, and from the voluminous elegance of their dresses. There were no uniforms, as Madame de Bellegarde’s door was inexorably closed against the myrmidons of the upstart power which then ruled the fortunes of France, and the great company of smiling and chattering faces was not graced by any very frequent suggestions of harmonious beauty. It is a pity, nevertheless, that Newman had not been a physiognomist, for a great many of the faces were irregularly agreeable, expressive, and suggestive. If the occasion had been different they would hardly have pleased him; he would have thought the women not pretty enough and the men too smirking; but he was now in a humor to receive none but agreeable impressions, and he looked no more narrowly than to perceive that everyone was brilliant, and to feel that the sun of their brilliancy was a part of his credit. “I will present you to some people,” said M. de Bellegarde after a while. “I will make a point of it, in fact. You will allow me?”

“Oh, I will shake hands with anyone you want,” said Newman. “Your mother just introduced me to half a dozen old gentlemen. Take care you don’t pick up the same parties again.”

“Who are the gentlemen to whom my mother presented you?”

“Upon my word, I forgot them,” said Newman, laughing. “The people here look very much alike.”

“I suspect they have not forgotten you,” said the marquis. And he began to walk through the rooms. Newman, to keep near him in the crowd, took his arm; after which for some time, the marquis walked straight along, in silence. At last, reaching the farther end of the suite of reception-rooms, Newman found himself in the presence of a lady of monstrous proportions, seated in a very capacious armchair, with several persons standing in a semicircle round her. This little group had divided as the marquis came up, and M. de Bellegarde stepped forward and stood for an instant silent and obsequious, with his hat raised to his lips, as Newman had seen some gentlemen stand in churches as soon as they entered their pews. The lady, indeed, bore a very fair likeness to a reverend effigy in some idolatrous shrine. She was monumentally stout and imperturbably serene. Her aspect was to Newman almost formidable; he had a troubled consciousness of a triple chin, a small piercing eye, a vast expanse of uncovered bosom, a nodding and twinkling tiara of plumes and gems, and an immense circumference of satin petticoat. With her little circle of beholders this remarkable woman reminded him of the Fat Lady at a fair. She fixed her small, unwinking eyes at the new-comers.

“Dear duchess,” said the marquis, “let me present you our good friend Mr. Newman, of whom you have heard us speak. Wishing to make Mr. Newman known to those who are dear to us, I could not possibly fail to begin with you.”

“Charmed, dear friend; charmed, monsieur,” said the duchess in a voice which, though small and shrill, was not disagreeable, while Newman executed his obeisance. “I came on purpose to see monsieur. I hope he appreciates the compliment. You have only to look at me to do so, sir,” she continued, sweeping her person with a much-encompassing glance. Newman hardly knew what to say, though it seemed that to a duchess who joked about her corpulence one might say almost anything. On hearing that the duchess had come on purpose to see Newman, the gentlemen who surrounded her turned a little and looked at him with sympathetic curiosity. The marquis with supernatural gravity mentioned to him the name of each, while the gentleman who bore it bowed; they were all what are called in France beaux noms. “I wanted extremely to see you,” the duchess went on. “C’est positif. In the first place, I am very fond of the person you are going to marry; she is the most charming creature in France. Mind you treat her well, or you shall hear some news of me. But you look as if you were good. I am told you are very remarkable. I have heard all sorts of extraordinary things about you. 让我们, are they true?”

“I don’t know what you can have heard,” said Newman.

“Oh, you have your 传说. We have heard that you have had a career the most checkered, the most 奇异的. What is that about your having founded a city some ten years ago in the great West, a city which contains to-day half a million of inhabitants? Isn’t it half a million, messieurs? You are exclusive proprietor of this flourishing settlement, and are consequently fabulously rich, and you would be richer still if you didn’t grant lands and houses free of rent to all new-comers who will pledge themselves never to smoke cigars. At this game, in three years, we are told, you are going to be made president of America.”

The duchess recited this amazing “legend” with a smooth self-possession which gave the speech to Newman’s mind, the air of being a bit of amusing dialogue in a play, delivered by a veteran comic actress. Before she had ceased speaking he had burst into loud, irrepressible laughter. “Dear duchess, dear duchess,” the marquis began to murmur, soothingly. Two or three persons came to the door of the room to see who was laughing at the duchess. But the lady continued with the soft, serene assurance of a person who, as a duchess, was certain of being listened to, and, as a garrulous woman, was independent of the pulse of her auditors. “But I know you are very remarkable. You must be, to have endeared yourself to this good marquis and to his admirable world. They are very exacting. I myself am not very sure at this hour of really possessing it. Eh, Bellegarde? To please you, I see, one must be an American millionaire. But your real triumph, my dear sir, is pleasing the countess; she is as difficult as a princess in a fairy tale. Your success is a miracle. What is your secret? I don’t ask you to reveal it before all these gentlemen, but come and see me some day and give me a specimen of your talents.”

“The secret is with Madame de Cintré,” said Newman. “You must ask her for it. It consists in her having a great deal of charity.”

“Very pretty!” said the duchess. “That’s a very nice specimen, to begin with. What, Bellegarde, are you already taking monsieur away?”

“I have a duty to perform, dear friend,” said the marquis, pointing to the other groups.

“Ah, for you I know what that means. Well, I have seen monsieur; that is what I wanted. He can’t persuade me that he isn’t very clever. Farewell.”

As Newman passed on with his host, he asked who the duchess was. “The greatest lady in France,” said the marquis. M. de Bellegarde then presented his prospective brother-in-law to some twenty other persons of both sexes, selected apparently for their typically august character. In some cases this character was written in good round hand upon the countenance of the wearer; in others Newman was thankful for such help as his companion’s impressively brief intimation contributed to the discovery of it. There were large, majestic men, and small demonstrative men; there were ugly ladies in yellow lace and quaint jewels, and pretty ladies with white shoulders from which jewels and everything else were absent. Everyone gave Newman extreme attention, everyone smiled, everyone was charmed to make his acquaintance, everyone looked at him with that soft hardness of good society which puts out its hand but keeps its fingers closed over the coin. If the marquis was going about as a bear-leader, if the fiction of Beauty and the Beast was supposed to have found its companion-piece, the general impression appeared to be that the bear was a very fair imitation of humanity. Newman found his reception among the marquis’s friends very “pleasant;” he could not have said more for it. It was pleasant to be treated with so much explicit politeness; it was pleasant to hear neatly turned civilities, with a flavor of wit, uttered from beneath carefully-shaped moustaches; it was pleasant to see clever Frenchwomen—they all seemed clever—turn their backs to their partners to get a good look at the strange American whom Claire de Cintré was to marry, and reward the object of the exhibition with a charming smile. At last, as he turned away from a battery of smiles and other amenities, Newman caught the eye of the marquis looking at him heavily; and thereupon, for a single instant, he checked himself. “Am I behaving like a d—d fool?” he asked himself. “Am I stepping about like a terrier on his hind legs?” At this moment he perceived Mrs. Tristram at the other side of the room, and he waved his hand in farewell to M. de Bellegarde and made his way toward her.

“Am I holding my head too high?” he asked. “Do I look as if I had the lower end of a pulley fastened to my chin?”

“You look like all happy men, very ridiculous,” said Mrs. Tristram. “It’s the usual thing, neither better nor worse. I have been watching you for the last ten minutes, and I have been watching M. de Bellegarde. He doesn’t like it.”

“The more credit to him for putting it through,” replied Newman. “But I shall be generous. I shan’t trouble him any more. But I am very happy. I can’t stand still here. Please to take my arm and we will go for a walk.”

He led Mrs. Tristram through all the rooms. There were a great many of them, and, decorated for the occasion and filled with a stately crowd, their somewhat tarnished nobleness recovered its lustre. Mrs. Tristram, looking about her, dropped a series of softly-incisive comments upon her fellow-guests. But Newman made vague answers; he hardly heard her, his thoughts were elsewhere. They were lost in a cheerful sense of success, of attainment and victory. His momentary care as to whether he looked like a fool passed away, leaving him simply with a rich contentment. He had got what he wanted. The savor of success had always been highly agreeable to him, and it had been his fortune to know it often. But it had never before been so sweet, been associated with so much that was brilliant and suggestive and entertaining. The lights, the flowers, the music, the crowd, the splendid women, the jewels, the strangeness even of the universal murmur of a clever foreign tongue were all a vivid symbol and assurance of his having grasped his purpose and forced along his groove. If Newman’s smile was larger than usual, it was not tickled vanity that pulled the strings; he had no wish to be shown with the finger or to achieve a personal success. If he could have looked down at the scene, invisible, from a hole in the roof, he would have enjoyed it quite as much. It would have spoken to him about his own prosperity and deepened that easy feeling about life to which, sooner or later, he made all experience contribute. Just now the cup seemed full.

“It is a very pretty party,” said Mrs. Tristram, after they had walked a while. “I have seen nothing objectionable except my husband leaning against the wall and talking to an individual whom I suppose he takes for a duke, but whom I more than suspect to be the functionary who attends to the lamps. Do you think you could separate them? Knock over a lamp!”

I doubt whether Newman, who saw no harm in Tristram’s conversing with an ingenious mechanic, would have complied with this request; but at this moment Valentin de Bellegarde drew near. Newman, some weeks previously, had presented Madame de Cintré’s youngest brother to Mrs. Tristram, for whose merits Valentin professed a discriminating relish and to whom he had paid several visits.

“Did you ever read Keats’s Belle Dame sans Merci?” asked Mrs. Tristram. “You remind me of the hero of the ballad:—

‘Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?’”

“If I am alone, it is because I have been deprived of your society,” said Valentin. “Besides it is good manners for no man except Newman to look happy. This is all to his address. It is not for you and me to go before the curtain.”

“You promised me last spring,” said Newman to Mrs. Tristram, “that six months from that time I should get into a monstrous rage. It seems to me the time’s up, and yet the nearest I can come to doing anything rough now is to offer you a 冰咖啡设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

“I told you we should do things grandly,” said Valentin. “I don’t allude to the cafés glacés. But everyone is here, and my sister told me just now that Urbain had been adorable.”

“He’s a good fellow, he’s a good fellow,” said Newman. “I love him as a brother. That reminds me that I ought to go and say something polite to your mother.”

“Let it be something very polite indeed,” said Valentin. “It may be the last time you will feel so much like it!”

Newman walked away, almost disposed to clasp old Madame de Bellegarde round the waist. He passed through several rooms and at last found the old marquise in the first saloon, seated on a sofa, with her young kinsman, Lord Deepmere, beside her. The young man looked somewhat bored; his hands were thrust into his pockets and his eyes were fixed upon the toes of his shoes, his feet being thrust out in front of him. Madame de Bellegarde appeared to have been talking to him with some intensity and to be waiting for an answer to what she had said, or for some sign of the effect of her words. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was looking at his lordship’s simple physiognomy with an air of politely suppressed irritation.

Lord Deepmere looked up as Newman approached, met his eyes, and changed color.

“I am afraid I disturb an interesting interview,” said Newman.

Madame de Bellegarde rose, and her companion rising at the same time, she put her hand into his arm. She answered nothing for an instant, and then, as he remained silent, she said with a smile, “It would be polite for Lord Deepmere to say it was very interesting.”

“Oh, I’m not polite!” cried his lordship. “But it 是 有趣的。”

“Madame de Bellegarde was giving you some good advice, eh?” said Newman; “toning you down a little?”

“I was giving him some excellent advice,” said the marquise, fixing her fresh, cold eyes upon our hero. “It’s for him to take it.”

“Take it, sir—take it,” Newman exclaimed. “Any advice the marquise gives you to-night must be good. For to-night, marquise, you must speak from a cheerful, comfortable spirit, and that makes good advice. You see everything going on so brightly and successfully round you. Your party is magnificent; it was a very happy thought. It is much better than that thing of mine would have been.”

“If you are pleased I am satisfied,” said Madame de Bellegarde. “My desire was to please you.”

“Do you want to please me a little more?” said Newman. “Just drop our lordly friend; I am sure he wants to be off and shake his heels a little. Then take my arm and walk through the rooms.”

“My desire was to please you,” the old lady repeated. And she liberated Lord Deepmere, Newman rather wondering at her docility. “If this young man is wise,” she added, “he will go and find my daughter and ask her to dance.”

“I have been endorsing your advice,” said Newman, bending over her and laughing, “I suppose I must swallow that!”

Lord Deepmere wiped his forehead and departed, and Madame de Bellegarde took Newman’s arm. “Yes, it’s a very pleasant, sociable entertainment,” the latter declared, as they proceeded on their circuit. “Everyone seems to know everyone and to be glad to see everyone. The marquis has made me acquainted with ever so many people, and I feel quite like one of the family. It’s an occasion,” Newman continued, wanting to say something thoroughly kind and comfortable, “that I shall always remember, and remember very pleasantly.”

“I think it is an occasion that we shall none of us forget,” said the marquise, with her pure, neat enunciation.

People made way for her as she passed, others turned round and looked at her, and she received a great many greetings and pressings of the hand, all of which she accepted with the most delicate dignity. But though she smiled upon everyone, she said nothing until she reached the last of the rooms, where she found her elder son. Then, “This is enough, sir,” she declared with measured softness to Newman, and turned to the marquis. He put out both his hands and took both hers, drawing her to a seat with an air of the tenderest veneration. It was a most harmonious family group, and Newman discreetly retired. He moved through the rooms for some time longer, circulating freely, overtopping most people by his great height, renewing acquaintance with some of the groups to which Urbain de Bellegarde had presented him, and expending generally the surplus of his equanimity. He continued to find it all extremely agreeable; but the most agreeable things have an end, and the revelry on this occasion began to deepen to a close. The music was sounding its ultimate strains and people were looking for the marquise, to make their farewells. There seemed to be some difficulty in finding her, and Newman heard a report that she had left the ball, feeling faint. “She has succumbed to the emotions of the evening,” he heard a lady say. “Poor, dear marquise; I can imagine all that they may have been for her!” But he learned immediately afterwards that she had recovered herself and was seated in an armchair near the doorway, receiving parting compliments from great ladies who insisted upon her not rising. He himself set out in quest of Madame de Cintré. He had seen her move past him many times in the rapid circles of a waltz, but in accordance with her explicit instructions he had exchanged no words with her since the beginning of the evening. The whole house having been thrown open, the apartments of the 一楼 were also accessible, though a smaller number of persons had gathered there. Newman wandered through them, observing a few scattered couples to whom this comparative seclusion appeared grateful and reached a small conservatory which opened into the garden. The end of the conservatory was formed by a clear sheet of glass, unmasked by plants, and admitting the winter starlight so directly that a person standing there would seem to have passed into the open air. Two persons stood there now, a lady and a gentleman; the lady Newman, from within the room and although she had turned her back to it, immediately recognized as Madame de Cintré. He hesitated as to whether he would advance, but as he did so she looked round, feeling apparently that he was there. She rested her eyes on him a moment and then turned again to her companion.

“It is almost a pity not to tell Mr. Newman,” she said softly, but in a tone that Newman could hear.

“Tell him if you like!” the gentleman answered, in the voice of Lord Deepmere.

“Oh, tell me by all means!” said Newman advancing.

Lord Deepmere, he observed, was very red in the face, and he had twisted his gloves into a tight cord as if he had been squeezing them dry. These, presumably, were tokens of violent emotion, and it seemed to Newman that the traces of corresponding agitation were visible in Madame de Cintré’s face. The two had been talking with much vivacity. “What I should tell you is only to my lord’s credit,” said Madame de Cintré, smiling frankly enough.

“He wouldn’t like it any better for that!” said my lord, with his awkward laugh.

“Come; what’s the mystery?” Newman demanded. “Clear it up. I don’t like mysteries.”

“We must have some things we don’t like, and go without some we do,” said the ruddy young nobleman, laughing still.

“It’s to Lord Deepmere’s credit, but it is not to everyone’s,” said Madam de Cintré. “So I shall say nothing about it. You may be sure,” she added; and she put out her hand to the Englishman, who took it half shyly, half impetuously. “And now go and dance!” she said.

“Oh yes, I feel awfully like dancing!” he answered. “I shall go and get tipsy.” And he walked away with a gloomy guffaw.

“What has happened between you?” Newman asked.

“I can’t tell you—now,” said Madame de Cintré. “Nothing that need make you unhappy.”

“Has the little Englishman been trying to make love to you?”

She hesitated, and then she uttered a grave “No! he’s a very honest little fellow.”

“But you are agitated. Something is the matter.”

“Nothing, I repeat, that need make you unhappy. My agitation is over. Some day I will tell you what it was; not now. I can’t now!”

“Well, I confess,” remarked Newman, “I don’t want to hear anything unpleasant. I am satisfied with everything—most of all with you. I have seen all the ladies and talked with a great many of them; but I am satisfied with you.” Madame de Cintré covered him for a moment with her large, soft glance, and then turned her eyes away into the starry night. So they stood silent a moment, side by side. “Say you are satisfied with me,” said Newman.

He had to wait a moment for the answer; but it came at last, low yet distinct: “I am very happy.”

It was presently followed by a few words from another source, which made them both turn round. “I am sadly afraid Madame de Cintré will take a chill. I have ventured to bring a shawl.” Mrs. Bread stood there softly solicitous, holding a white drapery in her hand.

“Thank you,” said Madame de Cintré, “the sight of those cold stars gives one a sense of frost. I won’t take your shawl, but we will go back into the house.”

She passed back and Newman followed her, Mrs. Bread standing respectfully aside to make way for them. Newman paused an instant before the old woman, and she glanced up at him with a silent greeting. “Oh, yes,” he said, “you must come and live with us.”

“Well then, sir, if you will,” she answered, “you have not seen the last of me!”

Newman was fond of music and went often to the opera. A couple of evenings after Madame de Bellegarde’s ball he sat listening to “Don Giovanni,” having in honor of this work, which he had never yet seen represented, come to occupy his orchestra-chair before the rising of the curtain. Frequently he took a large box and invited a party of his compatriots; this was a mode of recreation to which he was much addicted. He liked making up parties of his friends and conducting them to the theatre, and taking them to drive on high drags or to dine at remote restaurants. He liked doing things which involved his paying for people; the vulgar truth is that he enjoyed “treating” them. This was not because he was what is called purse-proud; handling money in public was on the contrary positively disagreeable to him; he had a sort of personal modesty about it, akin to what he would have felt about making a toilet before spectators. But just as it was a gratification to him to be handsomely dressed, just so it was a private satisfaction to him (he enjoyed it very clandestinely) to have interposed, pecuniarily, in a scheme of pleasure. To set a large group of people in motion and transport them to a distance, to have special conveyances, to charter railway-carriages and steamboats, harmonized with his relish for bold processes, and made hospitality seem more active and more to the purpose. A few evenings before the occasion of which I speak he had invited several ladies and gentlemen to the opera to listen to Madame Alboni—a party which included Miss Dora Finch. It befell, however, that Miss Dora Finch, sitting near Newman in the box, discoursed brilliantly, not only during the entr’actes, but during many of the finest portions of the performance, so that Newman had really come away with an irritated sense that Madame Alboni had a thin, shrill voice, and that her musical phrase was much garnished with a laugh of the giggling order. After this he promised himself to go for a while to the opera alone.

When the curtain had fallen upon the first act of “Don Giovanni” he turned round in his place to observe the house. Presently, in one of the boxes, he perceived Urbain de Bellegarde and his wife. The little marquise was sweeping the house very busily with a glass, and Newman, supposing that she saw him, determined to go and bid her good evening. M. de Bellegarde was leaning against a column, motionless, looking straight in front of him, with one hand in the breast of his white waistcoat and the other resting his hat on his thigh. Newman was about to leave his place when he noticed in that obscure region devoted to the small boxes which in France are called, not inaptly, “bathing-tubs,” a face which even the dim light and the distance could not make wholly indistinct. It was the face of a young and pretty woman, and it was surmounted with a 发型 of pink roses and diamonds. This person was looking round the house, and her fan was moving to and fro with the most practiced grace; when she lowered it, Newman perceived a pair of plump white shoulders and the edge of a rose-colored dress. Beside her, very close to the shoulders and talking, apparently with an earnestness which it pleased her scantily to heed, sat a young man with a red face and a very low shirt-collar. A moment’s gazing left Newman with no doubts; the pretty young woman was Noémie Nioche. He looked hard into the depths of the box, thinking her father might perhaps be in attendance, but from what he could see the young man’s eloquence had no other auditor. Newman at last made his way out, and in doing so he passed beneath the 浴 of Mademoiselle Noémie. She saw him as he approached and gave him a nod and smile which seemed meant as an assurance that she was still a good-natured girl, in spite of her enviable rise in the world. Newman passed into the 家 and walked through it. Suddenly he paused in front of a gentleman seated on one of the divans. The gentleman’s elbows were on his knees; he was leaning forward and staring at the pavement, lost apparently in meditations of a somewhat gloomy cast. But in spite of his bent head Newman recognized him, and in a moment sat down beside him. Then the gentleman looked up and displayed the expressive countenance of Valentin de Bellegarde.

“What in the world are you thinking of so hard?” asked Newman.

“A subject that requires hard thinking to do it justice,” said Valentin. “My immeasurable idiocy.”

“现在怎么了？”

“The matter now is that I am a man again, and no more a fool than usual. But I came within an inch of taking that girl 塞里厄设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

“You mean the young lady below stairs, in a 浴 in a pink dress?” said Newman.

“Did you notice what a brilliant kind of pink it was?” Valentin inquired, by way of answer. “It makes her look as white as new milk.”

“White or black, as you please. But you have stopped going to see her?”

“Oh, bless you, no. Why should I stop? I have changed, but she hasn’t,” said Valentin. “I see she is a vulgar little wretch, after all. But she is as amusing as ever, and one 必须 be amused.”

“Well, I am glad she strikes you so unpleasantly,” Newman rejoiced. “I suppose you have swallowed all those fine words you used about her the other night. You compared her to a sapphire, or a topaz, or an amethyst—some precious stone; what was it?”

“I don’t remember,” said Valentin, “it may have been to a carbuncle! But she won’t make a fool of me now. She has no real charm. It’s an awfully low thing to make a mistake about a person of that sort.”

“I congratulate you,” Newman declared, “upon the scales having fallen from your eyes. It’s a great triumph; it ought to make you feel better.”

“Yes, it makes me feel better!” said Valentin, gaily. Then, checking himself, he looked askance at Newman. “I rather think you are laughing at me. If you were not one of the family I would take it up.”

“Oh, no, I’m not laughing, any more than I am one of the family. You make me feel badly. You are too clever a fellow, you are made of too good stuff, to spend your time in ups and downs over that class of goods. The idea of splitting hairs about Miss Nioche! It seems to me awfully foolish. You say you have given up taking her seriously; but you take her seriously so long as you take her at all.”

Valentin turned round in his place and looked a while at Newman, wrinkling his forehead and rubbing his knees. “Vous parlez d’or. But she has wonderfully pretty arms. Would you believe I didn’t know it till this evening?”

“But she is a vulgar little wretch, remember, all the same,” said Newman.

“Yes; the other day she had the bad taste to begin to abuse her father, to his face, in my presence. I shouldn’t have expected it of her; it was a disappointment; heigho!”

“Why, she cares no more for her father than for her door-mat,” said Newman. “I discovered that the first time I saw her.”

“Oh, that’s another affair; she may think of the poor old beggar what she pleases. But it was low in her to call him bad names; it quite threw me off. It was about a frilled petticoat that he was to have fetched from the washer-woman’s; he appeared to have neglected this graceful duty. She almost boxed his ears. He stood there staring at her with his little blank eyes and smoothing his old hat with his coat-tail. At last he turned round and went out without a word. Then I told her it was in very bad taste to speak so to one’s papa. She said she should be so thankful to me if I would mention it to her whenever her taste was at fault; she had immense confidence in mine. I told her I couldn’t have the bother of forming her manners; I had had an idea they were already formed, after the best models. She had disappointed me. But I shall get over it,” said Valentin, gaily.

“Oh, time’s a great consoler!” Newman answered with humorous sobriety. He was silent a moment, and then he added, in another tone, “I wish you would think of what I said to you the other day. Come over to America with us, and I will put you in the way of doing some business. You have a very good head, if you will only use it.”

Valentin made a genial grimace. “My head is much obliged to you. Do you mean the place in a bank?”

“There are several places, but I suppose you would consider the bank the most aristocratic.”

Valentin burst into a laugh. “My dear fellow, at night all cats are gray! When one derogates there are no degrees.”

Newman answered nothing for a minute. Then, “I think you will find there are degrees in success,” he said with a certain dryness.

Valentin had leaned forward again, with his elbows on his knees, and he was scratching the pavement with his stick. At last he said, looking up, “Do you really think I ought to do something?”

Newman laid his hand on his companion’s arm and looked at him a moment through sagaciously-narrowed eyelids. “Try it and see. You are not good enough for it, but we will stretch a point.”

“Do you really think I can make some money? I should like to see how it feels to have a little.”

“Do what I tell you, and you shall be rich,” said Newman. “Think of it.” And he looked at his watch and prepared to resume his way to Madame de Bellegarde’s box.

“Upon my word I will think of it,” said Valentin. “I will go and listen to Mozart another half hour—I can always think better to music—and profoundly meditate upon it.”

The marquis was with his wife when Newman entered their box; he was bland, remote, and correct as usual; or, as it seemed to Newman, even more than usual.

“What do you think of the opera?” asked our hero. “What do you think of the Don?”

“We all know what Mozart is,” said the marquis; “our impressions don’t date from this evening. Mozart is youth, freshness, brilliancy, facility—a little too great facility, perhaps. But the execution is here and there deplorably rough.”

“I am very curious to see how it ends,” said Newman.

“You speak as if it were a feuilleton ，在 费加罗报“,” observed the marquis. “You have surely seen the opera before?”

“Never,” said Newman. “I am sure I should have remembered it. Donna Elvira reminds me of Madame de Cintré; I don’t mean in her circumstances, but in the music she sings.”

“It is a very nice distinction,” laughed the marquis lightly. “There is no great possibility, I imagine, of Madame de Cintré being forsaken.”

“Not much!” said Newman. “But what becomes of the Don?”

“The devil comes down—or comes up,” said Madame de Bellegarde, “and carries him off. I suppose Zerlina reminds you of me.”

“I will go to the 家 for a few moments,” said the marquis, “and give you a chance to say that the commander—the man of stone—resembles me.” And he passed out of the box.

The little marquise stared an instant at the velvet ledge of the balcony, and then murmured, “Not a man of stone, a man of wood.” Newman had taken her husband’s empty chair. She made no protest, and then she turned suddenly and laid her closed fan upon his arm. “I am very glad you came in,” she said. “I want to ask you a favor. I wanted to do so on Thursday, at my mother-in-law’s ball, but you would give me no chance. You were in such very good spirits that I thought you might grant my little favor then; not that you look particularly doleful now. It is something you must promise me; now is the time to take you; after you are married you will be good for nothing. Come, promise!”

“I never sign a paper without reading it first,” said Newman. “Show me your document.”

“No, you must sign with your eyes shut; I will hold your hand. Come, before you put your head into the noose. You ought to be thankful to me for giving you a chance to do something amusing.”

“If it is so amusing,” said Newman, “it will be in even better season after I am married.”

“In other words,” cried Madame de Bellegarde, “you will not do it at all. You will be afraid of your wife.”

“Oh, if the thing is intrinsically improper,” said Newman, “I won’t go into it. If it is not, I will do it after my marriage.”

“You talk like a treatise on logic, and English logic into the bargain!” exclaimed Madame de Bellegarde. “Promise, then, after you are married. After all, I shall enjoy keeping you to it.”

“Well, then, after I am married,” said Newman serenely.

The little marquise hesitated a moment, looking at him, and he wondered what was coming. “I suppose you know what my life is,” she presently said. “I have no pleasure, I see nothing, I do nothing. I live in Paris as I might live at Poitiers. My mother-in-law calls me—what is the pretty word?—a gad-about? accuses me of going to unheard-of places, and thinks it ought to be joy enough for me to sit at home and count over my ancestors on my fingers. But why should I bother about my ancestors? I am sure they never bothered about me. I don’t propose to live with a green shade on my eyes; I hold that things were made to look at. My husband, you know, has principles, and the first on the list is that the Tuileries are dreadfully vulgar. If the Tuileries are vulgar, his principles are tiresome. If I chose I might have principles quite as well as he. If they grew on one’s family tree I should only have to give mine a shake to bring down a shower of the finest. At any rate, I prefer clever Bonapartes to stupid Bourbons.”

“Oh, I see; you want to go to court,” said Newman, vaguely conjecturing that she might wish him to appeal to the United States legation to smooth her way to the imperial halls.

The marquise gave a little sharp laugh. “You are a thousand miles away. I will take care of the Tuileries myself; the day I decide to go they will be very glad to have me. Sooner or later I shall dance in an imperial quadrille. I know what you are going to say: ‘How will you dare?’ But I 将 dare. I am afraid of my husband; he is soft, smooth, irreproachable; everything that you know; but I am afraid of him—horribly afraid of him. And yet I shall arrive at the Tuileries. But that will not be this winter, nor perhaps next, and meantime I must live. For the moment, I want to go somewhere else; it’s my dream. I want to go to the Bal Bullier.”

“To the Bal Bullier?” repeated Newman, for whom the words at first meant nothing.

“The ball in the Latin Quarter, where the students dance with their mistresses. Don’t tell me you have not heard of it.”

“Oh yes,” said Newman; “I have heard of it; I remember now. I have even been there. And you want to go there?”

“It is silly, it is low, it is anything you please. But I want to go. Some of my friends have been, and they say it is awfully 有趣的. My friends go everywhere; it is only I who sit moping at home.”

“It seems to me you are not at home now,” said Newman, “and I shouldn’t exactly say you were moping.”

“I am bored to death. I have been to the opera twice a week for the last eight years. Whenever I ask for anything my mouth is stopped with that: Pray, madam, haven’t you an opera box? Could a woman of taste want more? In the first place, my opera box was down in my 合同; they have to give it to me. To-night, for instance, I should have preferred a thousand times to go to the Palais Royal. But my husband won’t go to the Palais Royal because the ladies of the court go there so much. You may imagine, then, whether he would take me to Bullier’s; he says it is a mere imitation—and a bad one—of what they do at the Princess Kleinfuss’s. But as I don’t go to the Princess Kleinfuss’s, the next best thing is to go to Bullier’s. It is my dream, at any rate, it’s a fixed idea. All I ask of you is to give me your arm; you are less compromising than anyone else. I don’t know why, but you are. I can arrange it. I shall risk something, but that is my own affair. Besides, fortune favors the bold. Don’t refuse me; it is my dream!”

Newman gave a loud laugh. It seemed to him hardly worth while to be the wife of the Marquis de Bellegarde, a daughter of the crusaders, heiress of six centuries of glories and traditions, to have centred one’s aspirations upon the sight of a couple of hundred young ladies kicking off young men’s hats. It struck him as a theme for the moralist; but he had no time to moralize upon it. The curtain rose again; M. de Bellegarde returned, and Newman went back to his seat.

He observed that Valentin de Bellegarde had taken his place in the 浴 of Mademoiselle Nioche, behind this young lady and her companion, where he was visible only if one carefully looked for him. In the next act Newman met him in the lobby and asked him if he had reflected upon possible emigration. “If you really meant to meditate,” he said, “you might have chosen a better place for it.”

“Oh, the place was not bad,” said Valentin. “I was not thinking of that girl. I listened to the music, and, without thinking of the play or looking at the stage, I turned over your proposal. At first it seemed quite fantastic. And then a certain fiddle in the orchestra—I could distinguish it—began to say as it scraped away, ‘Why not, why not?’ And then, in that rapid movement, all the fiddles took it up and the conductor’s stick seemed to beat it in the air: ‘Why not, why not?’ I’m sure I can’t say! I don’t see why not. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do something. It appears to me really a very bright idea. This sort of thing is certainly very stale. And then I could come back with a trunk full of dollars. Besides, I might possibly find it amusing. They call me a 精制; who knows but that I might discover an unsuspected charm in shop-keeping? It would really have a certain romantic, picturesque side; it would look well in my biography. It would look as if I were a strong man, a first-rate man, a man who dominated circumstances.”

“Never mind how it would look,” said Newman. “It always looks well to have half a million of dollars. There is no reason why you shouldn’t have them if you will mind what I tell you—I alone—and not talk to other parties.” He passed his arm into that of his companion, and the two walked for some time up and down one of the less frequented corridors. Newman’s imagination began to glow with the idea of converting his bright, impracticable friend into a first-class man of business. He felt for the moment a sort of spiritual zeal, the zeal of the propagandist. Its ardor was in part the result of that general discomfort which the sight of all uninvested capital produced in him; so fine an intelligence as Bellegarde’s ought to be dedicated to high uses. The highest uses known to Newman’s experience were certain transcendent sagacities in the handling of railway stock. And then his zeal was quickened by his personal kindness for Valentin; he had a sort of pity for him which he was well aware he never could have made the Comte de Bellegarde understand. He never lost a sense of its being pitiable that Valentin should think it a large life to revolve in varnished boots between the Rue d’Anjou and the Rue de l’Université, taking the Boulevard des Italiens on the way, when over there in America one’s promenade was a continent, and one’s Boulevard stretched from New York to San Francisco. It mortified him, moreover, to think that Valentin lacked money; there was a painful grotesqueness in it. It affected him as the ignorance of a companion, otherwise without reproach, touching some rudimentary branch of learning would have done. There were things that one knew about as a matter of course, he would have said in such a case. Just so, if one pretended to be easy in the world, one had money as a matter of course, one had made it! There was something almost ridiculously anomalous to Newman in the sight of lively pretensions unaccompanied by large investments in railroads; though I may add that he would not have maintained that such investments were in themselves a proper ground for pretensions. “I will make you do something,” he said to Valentin; “I will put you through. I know half a dozen things in which we can make a place for you. You will see some lively work. It will take you a little while to get used to the life, but you will work in before long, and at the end of six months—after you have done a thing or two on your own account—you will like it. And then it will be very pleasant for you, having your sister over there. It will be pleasant for her to have you, too. Yes, Valentin,” continued Newman, pressing his friend’s arm genially, “I think I see just the opening for you. Keep quiet and I’ll push you right in.”

Newman pursued this favoring strain for some time longer. The two men strolled about for a quarter of an hour. Valentin listened and questioned, many of his questions making Newman laugh loud at the 奈韦特 of his ignorance of the vulgar processes of money-getting; smiling himself, too, half ironical and half curious. And yet he was serious; he was fascinated by Newman’s plain prose version of the legend of El Dorado. It is true, however, that though to accept an “opening” in an American mercantile house might be a bold, original, and in its consequences extremely agreeable thing to do, he did not quite see himself objectively doing it. So that when the bell rang to indicate the close of the entr’acte, there was a certain mock-heroism in his saying, with his brilliant smile, “Well, then, put me through; push me in! I make myself over to you. Dip me into the pot and turn me into gold.”

They had passed into the corridor which encircled the row of 浴缸, and Valentin stopped in front of the dusky little box in which Mademoiselle Nioche had bestowed herself, laying his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, come, are you going back there?” asked Newman.

“Mon Dieu, oui,” said Valentin.

“Haven’t you another place?”

“Yes, I have my usual place, in the stalls.”

“You had better go and occupy it, then.”

“I see her very well from there, too,” added Valentin, serenely, “and to-night she is worth seeing. But,” he added in a moment, “I have a particular reason for going back just now.”

“Oh, I give you up,” said Newman. “You are infatuated!”

“No, it is only this. There is a young man in the box whom I shall annoy by going in, and I want to annoy him.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Newman. “Can’t you leave the poor fellow alone?”

“No, he has given me cause. The box is not his. Noémie came in alone and installed herself. I went and spoke to her, and in a few moments she asked me to go and get her fan from the pocket of her cloak, which the 滥用 had carried off. In my absence this gentleman came in and took the chair beside Noémie in which I had been sitting. My reappearance disgusted him, and he had the grossness to show it. He came within an ace of being impertinent. I don’t know who he is; he is some vulgar wretch. I can’t think where she picks up such acquaintances. He has been drinking, too, but he knows what he is about. Just now, in the second act, he was unmannerly again. I shall put in another appearance for ten minutes—time enough to give him an opportunity to commit himself, if he feels inclined. I really can’t let the brute suppose that he is keeping me out of the box.”

“My dear fellow,” said Newman, remonstrantly, “what child’s play! You are not going to pick a quarrel about that girl, I hope.”

“That girl has nothing to do with it, and I have no intention of picking a quarrel. I am not a bully nor a fire-eater. I simply wish to make a point that a gentleman must.”

“Oh, damn your point!” said Newman. “That is the trouble with you Frenchmen; you must be always making points. Well,” he added, “be short. But if you are going in for this kind of thing, we must ship you off to America in advance.”

“Very good,” Valentin answered, “whenever you please. But if I go to America, I must not let this gentleman suppose that it is to run away from him.”

And they separated. At the end of the act Newman observed that Valentin was still in the 浴. He strolled into the corridor again, expecting to meet him, and when he was within a few yards of Mademoiselle Nioche’s box saw his friend pass out, accompanied by the young man who had been seated beside its fair occupant. The two gentlemen walked with some quickness of step to a distant part of the lobby, where Newman perceived them stop and stand talking. The manner of each was perfectly quiet, but the stranger, who looked flushed, had begun to wipe his face very emphatically with his pocket-handkerchief. By this time Newman was abreast of the 浴; the door had been left ajar, and he could see a pink dress inside. He immediately went in. Mademoiselle Nioche turned and greeted him with a brilliant smile.

“Ah, you have at last decided to come and see me?” she exclaimed. “You just save your politeness. You find me in a fine moment. Sit down.” There was a very becoming little flush in her cheek, and her eye had a noticeable spark. You would have said that she had received some very good news.

“Something has happened here!” said Newman, without sitting down.

“You find me in a very fine moment,” she repeated. “Two gentlemen—one of them is M. de Bellegarde, the pleasure of whose acquaintance I owe to you—have just had words about your humble servant. Very big words too. They can’t come off without crossing swords. A duel—that will give me a push!” cried Mademoiselle Noémie clapping her little hands. “C’est ça qui pose une femme!=

“You don’t mean to say that Bellegarde is going to fight about 你！” exclaimed Newman disgustedly.

“Nothing else!” and she looked at him with a hard little smile. “No, no, you are not galant! And if you prevent this affair I shall owe you a grudge—and pay my debt!”

Newman uttered an imprecation which, though brief—it consisted simply of the interjection “Oh!” followed by a geographical, or more correctly, perhaps a theological noun in four letters—had better not be transferred to these pages. He turned his back without more ceremony upon the pink dress and went out of the box. In the corridor he found Valentin and his companion walking towards him. The latter was thrusting a card into his waistcoat pocket. Mademoiselle Noémie’s jealous votary was a tall, robust young man with a thick nose, a prominent blue eye, a Germanic physiognomy, and a massive watch-chain. When they reached the box, Valentin with an emphasized bow made way for him to pass in first. Newman touched Valentin’s arm as a sign that he wished to speak with him, and Bellegarde answered that he would be with him in an instant. Valentin entered the box after the robust young man, but a couple of minutes afterwards he reappeared, largely smiling.

“She is immensely tickled,” he said. “She says we will make her fortune. I don’t want to be fatuous, but I think it is very possible.”

“So you are going to fight?” said Newman.

“My dear fellow, don’t look so mortally disgusted. It was not my choice. The thing is all arranged.”

“I told you so!” groaned Newman.

“我告诉过 他 so,” said Valentin, smiling.

“他对你做了什么？”

“My good friend, it doesn’t matter what. He used an expression—I took it up.”

“But I insist upon knowing; I can’t, as your elder brother, have you rushing into this sort of nonsense.”

“I am very much obliged to you,” said Valentin. “I have nothing to conceal, but I can’t go into particulars now and here.”

“We will leave this place, then. You can tell me outside.”

“Oh no, I can’t leave this place, why should I hurry away? I will go to my orchestra-stall and sit out the opera.”

“You will not enjoy it; you will be preoccupied.”

Valentin looked at him a moment, colored a little, smiled, and patted him on the arm. “You are delightfully simple! Before an affair a man is quiet. The quietest thing I can do is to go straight to my place.”

“Ah,” said Newman, “you want her to see you there—you and your quietness. I am not so simple! It is a poor business.”

Valentin remained, and the two men, in their respective places, sat out the rest of the performance, which was also enjoyed by Mademoiselle Nioche and her truculent admirer. At the end Newman joined Valentin again, and they went into the street together. Valentin shook his head at his friend’s proposal that he should get into Newman’s own vehicle, and stopped on the edge of the pavement. “I must go off alone,” he said; “I must look up a couple of friends who will take charge of this matter.”

“I will take charge of it,” Newman declared. “Put it into my hands.”

“You are very kind, but that is hardly possible. In the first place, you are, as you said just now, almost my brother; you are about to marry my sister. That alone disqualifies you; it casts doubts on your impartiality. And if it didn’t, it would be enough for me that I strongly suspect you of disapproving of the affair. You would try to prevent a meeting.”

“Of course I should,” said Newman. “Whoever your friends are, I hope they will do that.”

“Unquestionably they will. They will urge that excuses be made, proper excuses. But you would be too good-natured. You won’t do.”

Newman was silent a moment. He was keenly annoyed, but he saw it was useless to attempt interference. “When is this precious performance to come off?” he asked.

“The sooner the better,” said Valentin. “The day after to-morrow, I hope.”

“Well,” said Newman, “I have certainly a claim to know the facts. I can’t consent to shut my eyes to the matter.”

“I shall be most happy to tell you the facts,” said Valentin. “They are very simple, and it will be quickly done. But now everything depends on my putting my hands on my friends without delay. I will jump into a cab; you had better drive to my room and wait for me there. I will turn up at the end of an hour.”

Newman assented protestingly, let his friend go, and then betook himself to the picturesque little apartment in the Rue d’Anjou. It was more than an hour before Valentin returned, but when he did so he was able to announce that he had found one of his desired friends, and that this gentleman had taken upon himself the care of securing an associate. Newman had been sitting without lights by Valentin’s faded fire, upon which he had thrown a log; the blaze played over the richly-encumbered little sitting-room and produced fantastic gleams and shadows. He listened in silence to Valentin’s account of what had passed between him and the gentleman whose card he had in his pocket—M. Stanislas Kapp, of Strasbourg—after his return to Mademoiselle Nioche’s box. This hospitable young lady had espied an acquaintance on the other side of the house, and had expressed her displeasure at his not having the civility to come and pay her a visit. “Oh, let him alone!” M. Stanislas Kapp had hereupon exclaimed. “There are too many people in the box already.” And he had fixed his eyes with a demonstrative stare upon M. de Bellegarde. Valentin had promptly retorted that if there were too many people in the box it was easy for M. Kapp to diminish the number. “I shall be most happy to open the door for 你！” M. Kapp exclaimed. “I shall be delighted to fling you into the pit!” Valentin had answered. “Oh, do make a rumpus and get into the papers!” Miss Noémie had gleefully ejaculated. “M. Kapp, turn him out; or, M. de Bellegarde, pitch him into the pit, into the orchestra—anywhere! I don’t care who does which, so long as you make a scene.” Valentin answered that they would make no scene, but that the gentleman would be so good as to step into the corridor with him. In the corridor, after a brief further exchange of words, there had been an exchange of cards. M. Stanislas Kapp was very stiff. He evidently meant to force his offence home.

“The man, no doubt, was insolent,” Newman said; “but if you hadn’t gone back into the box the thing wouldn’t have happened.”

“Why, don’t you see,” Valentin replied, “that the event proves the extreme propriety of my going back into the box? M. Kapp wished to provoke me; he was awaiting his chance. In such a case—that is, when he has been, so to speak, notified—a man must be on hand to receive the provocation. My not returning would simply have been tantamount to my saying to M. Stanislas Kapp, ‘Oh, if you are going to be disagreeable’”— —

“‘You must manage it by yourself; damned if I’ll help you!’ That would have been a thoroughly sensible thing to say. The only attraction for you seems to have been the prospect of M. Kapp’s impertinence,” Newman went on. “You told me you were not going back for that girl.”

“Oh, don’t mention that girl any more,” murmured Valentin. “She’s a bore.”

“With all my heart. But if that is the way you feel about her, why couldn’t you let her alone?”

Valentin shook his head with a fine smile. “I don’t think you quite understand, and I don’t believe I can make you. She understood the situation; she knew what was in the air; she was watching us.”

“A cat may look at a king! What difference does that make?”

“Why, a man can’t back down before a woman.”

“I don’t call her a woman. You said yourself she was a stone,” cried Newman.

“Well,” Valentin rejoined, “there is no disputing about tastes. It’s a matter of feeling; it’s measured by one’s sense of honor.”

“Oh, confound your sense of honor!” cried Newman.

“It is vain talking,” said Valentin; “words have passed, and the thing is settled.”

Newman turned away, taking his hat. Then pausing with his hand on the door, “What are you going to use?” he asked.

“That is for M. Stanislas Kapp, as the challenged party, to decide. My own choice would be a short, light sword. I handle it well. I’m an indifferent shot.”

Newman had put on his hat; he pushed it back, gently scratching his forehead, high up. “I wish it were pistols,” he said. “I could show you how to lodge a bullet!”

Valentin broke into a laugh. “What is it some English poet says about consistency? It’s a flower, or a star, or a jewel. Yours has the beauty of all three!” But he agreed to see Newman again on the morrow, after the details of his meeting with M. Stanislas Kapp should have been arranged.

In the course of the day Newman received three lines from him, saying that it had been decided that he should cross the frontier, with his adversary, and that he was to take the night express to Geneva. He should have time, however, to dine with Newman. In the afternoon Newman called upon Madame de Cintré, but his visit was brief. She was as gracious and sympathetic as he had ever found her, but she was sad, and she confessed, on Newman’s charging her with her red eyes, that she had been crying. Valentin had been with her a couple of hours before, and his visit had left her with a painful impression. He had laughed and gossiped, he had brought her no bad news, he had only been, in his manner, rather more affectionate than usual. His fraternal tenderness had touched her, and on his departure she had burst into tears. She had felt as if something strange and sad were going to happen; she had tried to reason away the fancy, and the effort had only given her a headache. Newman, of course, was perforce tongue-tied about Valentin’s projected duel, and his dramatic talent was not equal to satirizing Madame de Cintré’s presentiment as pointedly as perfect security demanded. Before he went away he asked Madame de Cintré whether Valentin had seen his mother.

“Yes,” she said, “but he didn’t make her cry.”

It was in Newman’s own apartment that Valentin dined, having brought his portmanteau, so that he might adjourn directly to the railway. M. Stanislas Kapp had positively declined to make excuses, and he, on his side, obviously, had none to offer. Valentin had found out with whom he was dealing. M. Stanislas Kapp was the son of and heir of a rich brewer of Strasbourg, a youth of a sanguineous—and sanguinary—temperament. He was making ducks and drakes of the paternal brewery, and although he passed in a general way for a good fellow, he had already been observed to be quarrelsome after dinner. “Que voulez-vous？” said Valentin. “Brought up on beer, he can’t stand champagne.” He had chosen pistols. Valentin, at dinner, had an excellent appetite; he made a point, in view of his long journey, of eating more than usual. He took the liberty of suggesting to Newman a slight modification in the composition of a certain fish-sauce; he thought it would be worth mentioning to the cook. But Newman had no thoughts for fish-sauce; he felt thoroughly discontented. As he sat and watched his amiable and clever companion going through his excellent repast with the delicate deliberation of hereditary epicurism, the folly of so charming a fellow traveling off to expose his agreeable young life for the sake of M. Stanislas and Mademoiselle Noémie struck him with intolerable force. He had grown fond of Valentin, he felt now how fond; and his sense of helplessness only increased his irritation.

“Well, this sort of thing may be all very well,” he cried at last, “but I declare I don’t see it. I can’t stop you, perhaps, but at least I can protest. I do protest, violently.”

“My dear fellow, don’t make a scene,” said Valentin. “Scenes in these cases are in very bad taste.”

“Your duel itself is a scene,” said Newman; “that’s all it is! It’s a wretched theatrical affair. Why don’t you take a band of music with you outright? It’s d—d barbarous and it’s d—d corrupt, both.”

“Oh, I can’t begin, at this time of day, to defend the theory of dueling,” said Valentin. “It is our custom, and I think it is a good thing. Quite apart from the goodness of the cause in which a duel may be fought, it has a kind of picturesque charm which in this age of vile prose seems to me greatly to recommend it. It’s a remnant of a higher-tempered time; one ought to cling to it. Depend upon it, a duel is never amiss.”

“I don’t know what you mean by a higher-tempered time,” said Newman. “Because your great-grandfather was an ass, is that any reason why you should be? For my part I think we had better let our temper take care of itself; it generally seems to me quite high enough; I am not afraid of being too meek. If your great-grandfather were to make himself unpleasant to me, I think I could manage him yet.”

“My dear friend,” said Valentin, smiling, “you can’t invent anything that will take the place of satisfaction for an insult. To demand it and to give it are equally excellent arrangements.”

“Do you call this sort of thing satisfaction?” Newman asked. “Does it satisfy you to receive a present of the carcass of that coarse fop? does it gratify you to make him a present of yours? If a man hits you, hit him back; if a man libels you, haul him up.”

“Haul him up, into court? Oh, that is very nasty!” said Valentin.

“The nastiness is his—not yours. And for that matter, what you are doing is not particularly nice. You are too good for it. I don’t say you are the most useful man in the world, or the cleverest, or the most amiable. But you are too good to go and get your throat cut for a prostitute.”

Valentin flushed a little, but he laughed. “I shan’t get my throat cut if I can help it. Moreover, one’s honor hasn’t two different measures. It only knows that it is hurt; it doesn’t ask when, or how, or where.”

“The more fool it is!” said Newman.

Valentin ceased to laugh; he looked grave. “I beg you not to say any more,” he said. “If you do I shall almost fancy you don’t care about—about”—and he paused.

“关于什么？”

“About that matter—about one’s honor.”

“Fancy what you please,” said Newman. “Fancy while you are at it that I care about 您—though you are not worth it. But come back without damage,” he added in a moment, “and I will forgive you. And then,” he continued, as Valentin was going, “I will ship you straight off to America.”

“Well,” answered Valentin, “if I am to turn over a new page, this may figure as a tail-piece to the old.” And then he lit another cigar and departed.

“Blast that girl!” said Newman as the door closed upon Valentin.

Newman went the next morning to see Madame de Cintré, timing his visit so as to arrive after the noonday breakfast. In the court of the 旅馆, before the portico, stood Madame de Bellegarde’s old square carriage. The servant who opened the door answered Newman’s inquiry with a slightly embarrassed and hesitating murmur, and at the same moment Mrs. Bread appeared in the background, dim-visaged as usual, and wearing a large black bonnet and shawl.

“What is the matter?” asked Newman. “Is Madame la Comtesse at home, or not?”

Mrs. Bread advanced, fixing her eyes upon him: he observed that 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 seal of 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.”

“她去哪？”

“To Fleurières.”

“To Fleurières? 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 top of the staircase she paused and fixed her dry, sad eyes upon Newman. “Be very easy with her,” she said; “she is most unhappy!” Then she went on to Madame de Cintré’s apartment; Newman, perplexed and alarmed, followed her rapidly. Mrs. Bread threw open the door, and Newman pushed back the curtain at the farther side of its deep embrasure. In the middle of the room stood Madame de Cintré; her face was pale and she was dressed for traveling. Behind her, before the fire-place, stood Urbain de Bellegarde, looking at his finger-nails; near the marquis sat his mother, buried in an armchair, and with her eyes immediately fixing 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 Cintré 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 came and leaned upon his mother’s chair, behind. Newman’s sudden irruption had evidently discomposed both mother and son. Madame de Cintré 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 turning to 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 then at the others. “Why not?” he asked, as quietly as possible.

Madame de Cintré 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 was as 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 up and 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 Cintré. “But I am going away.”

“你要去哪里？”

“To the country, to Fleurières; to be alone.”

“To leave me?” said Newman, slowly.

“I can’t see you, now,” said Madame de Cintré.

“现在—why not?”

“I am ashamed,” said Madame de Cintré, 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 Cintré. “It means that.”

Her face was too charged with tragic expression not fully to confirm her words. Newman was profoundly shocked, but he felt as yet no resentment against her. He was amazed, bewildered, and the presence of the old marquise and 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-bye.” And she put out her 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-bye.”

Newman passed his hand into his hair and stood slowly rubbing his head and looking through his keenly-narrowed eyes from one to the other of the three persons before him. His lips were compressed, and the two lines which had formed themselves beside his mouth might have made it appear at a first glance that he was smiling. I have said that his excitement was an 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 be even more urbane than usual. He rested his two hands upon the back of his mother’s chair and bent forward, as if he were leaning over the edge of a pulpit 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 influence my 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 Cintré, “you 做了 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 Newman of 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 in a rich, bell-like voice.

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

“My mother commanded,” said Madame de Cintré.

“Commanded you to give me up—I see. And you obey—I see. But why do you obey?” asked Newman.

Madame de Cintré 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 is a most indecent scene!”

“I have no wish to prolong it,” said Madame de Cintré; 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 门廊 dropped behind her, and Newman sank with a long breath into the nearest chair. He leaned back in it, resting his hands on the knobs of the arms and looking at Madame de Bellegarde and Urbain. There was a long silence. They stood side by side, with their heads high 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 first appear to you quite clear. We rather expected, indeed, that you should 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 deprecate the attempt to define their position. “It is quite useless,” she said, “to try and arrange this matter so as to make it 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 not our 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 life been present at a violent scene of any kind, and at my age I can’t be expected to begin.”

“是 这 all you have got to say?” asked Newman, slowly rising out of his chair. “That’s a poor show for a clever lady like 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 is perhaps well to say a little more. We of course quite repudiate the charge of having broken faith with you. We left you entirely 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 observed our promise. It was only at a later stage of the affair, and on quite 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 their comical 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 that he understood, in his deep and simple indignation, was that the matter was not 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 matter to 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 little what 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 very strange 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 not hear 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 his fingers and press his windpipe with his thumb. “I needn’t tell you 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 depend upon it there were some honest men and women.”

“Our friends approve us,” said M. de Bellegarde, “there is not 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 to wait for it.”

“You would have waited long before anyone would have set you such an 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 as at first—exactly. We have no ill-will towards yourself; we are very far from accusing you of misconduct. Since your relations with us began you 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 was resolved 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 cannot release ourselves without an explanation.”

“There can be no better proof of our good faith,” said the marquis, “than our committing 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 eyes and 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 see nothing but our humility.”

“Let us have no more discussion than is necessary,” resumed Madame de Bellegarde. “My daughter told you everything when she said she gave you up.”

“I am not satisfied about your daughter,” said Newman; “I want to know what you did to her. It is all very easy talking about authority and saying you commanded her. She didn’t accept me blindly, and she wouldn’t have given me up blindly. Not that I believe yet she has really given me up; she will talk it over with me. But you have frightened her, you have bullied her, you have 伤害 her. What was it you did to her?”

“I did very little!” said Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone which gave Newman 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 you should 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 you for 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 is altogether based upon your being so. When one must submit, one must. Since my daughter absolutely withdraws, what will be the use of your making 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 well enough 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 Cintré’s strange intensity had in fact struck a chill to 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 moment with his hand on the door; then he faced about and after the 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 unobjectionable fellow 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 you about business. Let her go, and I will ask no questions. I will take her away, and you shall never see me or hear of 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 from my sister. We object to the marriage; and in that way,” and M. de Bellegarde gave a small, thin laugh, “she would be more married than ever.”

“Well, then,” said Newman, “where is this place of yours—Fleurières? 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 Cintré.”

“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 Fleurières; he was too stunned and wounded for consecutive action. He simply walked; he walked straight before him, following the river, till he got out of the 孕 of Paris. He had a burning, tingling sense of personal outrage. He had never in his life received so absolute a check; he had never been pulled up, or, as he would have said, “let down,” so short; and he found the sensation intolerable; he strode along, tapping the trees and lamp-posts fiercely with his stick and inwardly raging. To lose Madame de Cintré after he had taken such jubilant and triumphant possession of her was as great an affront to his pride as it was an injury to his happiness. And to lose her by the interference and the dictation of others, by an impudent old woman and a pretentious fop stepping in with their “authority”! It was too preposterous, it was too pitiful. Upon what he deemed the unblushing treachery of the Bellegardes Newman wasted little thought; he consigned it, once for all, to eternal perdition. But the treachery of Madame de Cintré 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 weight to her rupture. But he did not rail at her as false, for he was sure she was unhappy. In his walk he had crossed one of the bridges of the Seine, and he still followed, unheedingly, the long, unbroken quay. He had left Paris behind him, and he was almost in the country; he was in the pleasant suburb of Auteuil. He stopped at last, looked around him without seeing or caring for its pleasantness, and then slowly turned and at a slower pace retraced his steps. When he came abreast of the fantastic embankment 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 think it strange, but I felt something the other night in the air.” Presently he told her his story; she listened, with her eyes 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.

“她 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’t endure 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 given you up for an idea.”

Newman frowned most ruefully, and took up his hat again. “I thought you would encourage me!” he said, with almost childlike sadness.

“Excuse me,” she answered very gently. “I feel none the less sorry 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 Cintré has any intention of marrying Lord 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 her and 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 me in that fine fashion! But go to Madame de Cintré at any 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 knees and his head in his hands, and Mrs. Tristram continued to temper charity 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 errand on the Swiss frontier since the morning. The reflection made him restless again, and he took his leave. He went straight to 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 necessity of deferring his journey to the Château de Fleurières. But he wrote to Madame de Cintré these few lines; they were all 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 see a 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.

Newman possessed a remarkable talent for sitting still when it was necessary, and he had an opportunity to use it on his journey to Switzerland. The successive hours of the night brought him no sleep, but he sat motionless in his corner of the railway-carriage, with his eyes closed, and the most observant of his fellow-travelers might have envied him his apparent slumber. Toward morning slumber really came, as an effect of mental rather than of physical fatigue. He slept for a couple of hours, and at last, waking, found his eyes resting upon one of the snow-powdered peaks of the Jura, behind which the sky was just reddening with the dawn. But he saw neither the cold mountain nor the warm sky; his consciousness began to throb again, on the very instant, with a sense of his wrong. He got out of the train half an hour before it reached Geneva, in the cold morning twilight, at the station indicated in Valentin’s telegram. A drowsy station-master was on the platform with a lantern, and the hood of his overcoat over his head, and near him stood a gentleman who advanced to meet Newman. This personage was a man of forty, with a tall lean figure, a sallow face, a dark eye, a neat moustache, and a pair of fresh gloves. He took off his hat, looking very grave, and pronounced Newman’s name. Our hero assented and said, “You are M. de Bellegarde’s friend?”

“I unite with you in claiming that sad honor,” said the gentleman. “I had placed myself at M. de Bellegarde’s service in this melancholy affair, together with M. de Grosjoyaux, who is now at his bedside. M. de Grosjoyaux, I believe, has had the honor of meeting you in Paris, but as he is a better nurse than I he remained with our poor friend. Bellegarde has been eagerly expecting you.”

“And how is Bellegarde?” said Newman. “He was badly hit?”

“The doctor has condemned him; we brought a surgeon with us. But he will die in the best sentiments. I sent last evening for the curé of the nearest French village, who spent an hour with him. The curé was quite satisfied.”

“Heaven forgive us!” groaned Newman. “I would rather the doctor were satisfied! And can he see me—shall he know me?”

“When I left him, half an hour ago, he had fallen asleep after a feverish, wakeful night. But we shall see.” And Newman’s companion proceeded to lead the way out of the station to the village, explaining as he went that the little party was lodged in the humblest of Swiss inns, where, however, they had succeeded in making M. de Bellegarde much more comfortable than could at first have been expected. “We are old companions in arms,” said Valentin’s second; “it is not the first time that one of us has helped the other to lie easily. It is a very nasty wound, and the nastiest thing about it is that Bellegarde’s adversary was not shot. He put his bullet where he could. It took it into its head to walk straight into Bellegarde’s left side, just below the heart.”

As they picked their way in the gray, deceptive dawn, between the manure-heaps of the village street, Newman’s new acquaintance narrated the particulars of the duel. The conditions of the meeting had been that if the first exchange of shots should fail to satisfy one of the two gentlemen, a second should take place. Valentin’s first bullet had done exactly what Newman’s companion was convinced he had intended it to do; it had grazed the arm of M. Stanislas Kapp, just scratching the flesh. M. Kapp’s own projectile, meanwhile, had passed at ten good inches from the person of Valentin. The representatives of M. Stanislas had demanded another shot, which was granted. Valentin had then fired aside and the young Alsatian had done effective execution. “I saw, when we met him on the ground,” said Newman’s informant, “that he was not going to be 马桶. It is a kind of bovine temperament.” Valentin had immediately been installed at the inn, and M. Stanislas and his friends had withdrawn to regions unknown. The police authorities of the canton had waited upon the party at the inn, had been extremely majestic, and had drawn up a long 语言过程; but it was probable that they would wink at so very gentlemanly a bit of bloodshed. Newman asked whether a message had not been sent to Valentin’s family, and learned that up to a late hour on the preceding evening Valentin had opposed it. He had refused to believe his wound was dangerous. But after his interview with the curé he had consented, and a telegram had been dispatched to his mother. “But the marquise had better hurry!” said Newman’s conductor.

“Well, it’s an abominable affair!” said Newman. “That’s all I have to say!” To say this, at least, in a tone of infinite disgust was an irresistible need.

“Ah, you don’t approve?” questioned his conductor, with curious urbanity.

“Approve?” cried Newman. “I wish that when I had him there, night before last, I had locked him up in my cabinet de toilette!=

Valentin’s late second opened his eyes, and shook his head up and down two or three times, gravely, with a little flute-like whistle. But they had reached the inn, and a stout maid-servant in a night-cap was at the door with a lantern, to take Newman’s traveling-bag from the porter who trudged behind him. Valentin was lodged on the ground-floor at the back of the house, and Newman’s companion went along a stone-faced passage and softly opened a door. Then he beckoned to Newman, who advanced and looked into the room, which was lighted by a single shaded candle. Beside the fire sat M. de Grosjoyaux asleep in his dressing-gown—a little plump, fair man whom Newman had seen several times in Valentin’s company. On the bed lay Valentin, pale and still, with his eyes closed—a figure very shocking to Newman, who had seen it hitherto awake to its fingertips. M. de Grosjoyaux’s colleague pointed to an open door beyond, and whispered that the doctor was within, keeping guard. So long as Valentin slept, or seemed to sleep, of course Newman could not approach him; so our hero withdrew for the present, committing himself to the care of the half-waked 保姆. She took him to a room above-stairs, and introduced him to a bed on which a magnified bolster, in yellow calico, figured as a counterpane. Newman lay down, and, in spite of his counterpane, slept for three or four hours. When he awoke, the morning was advanced and the sun was filling his window, and he heard, outside of it, the clucking of hens. While he was dressing there came to his door a messenger from M. de Grosjoyaux and his companion proposing that he should breakfast with them. Presently he went downstairs to the little stone-paved dining-room, where the maid-servant, who had taken off her night-cap, was serving the repast. M. de Grosjoyaux was there, surprisingly fresh for a gentleman who had been playing sick-nurse half the night, rubbing his hands and watching the breakfast table attentively. Newman renewed acquaintance with him, and learned that Valentin was still sleeping; the surgeon, who had had a fairly tranquil night, was at present sitting with him. Before M. de Grosjoyaux’s associate reappeared, Newman learned that his name was M. Ledoux, and that Bellegarde’s acquaintance with him dated from the days when they served together in the Pontifical Zouaves. M. Ledoux was the nephew of a distinguished Ultramontane bishop. At last the bishop’s nephew came in with a toilet in which an ingenious attempt at harmony with the peculiar situation was visible, and with a gravity tempered by a decent deference to the best breakfast that the Croix Helvétique had ever set forth. Valentin’s servant, who was allowed only in scanty measure the honor of watching with his master, had been lending a light Parisian hand in the kitchen. The two Frenchmen did their best to prove that if circumstances might overshadow, they could not really obscure, the national talent for conversation, and M. Ledoux delivered a neat little eulogy on poor Bellegarde, whom he pronounced the most charming Englishman he had ever known.

“Do you call him an Englishman?” Newman asked.

M. Ledoux smiled a moment and then made an epigram. “C’est plus qu’un Anglais—c’est un Anglomane!” Newman said soberly that he had never noticed it; and M. de Grosjoyaux remarked that it was really too soon to deliver a funeral oration upon poor Bellegarde. “Evidently,” said M. Ledoux. “But I couldn’t help observing this morning to Mr. Newman that when a man has taken such excellent measures for his salvation as our dear friend did last evening, it seems almost a pity he should put it in peril again by returning to the world.” M. Ledoux was a great Catholic, and Newman thought him a queer mixture. His countenance, by daylight, had a sort of amiably saturnine cast; he had a very large thin nose, and looked like a Spanish picture. He appeared to think dueling a very perfect arrangement, provided, if one should get hit, one could promptly see the priest. He seemed to take a great satisfaction in Valentin’s interview with the curé, and yet his conversation did not at all indicate a sanctimonious habit of mind. M. Ledoux had evidently a high sense of the becoming, and was prepared to be urbane and tasteful on all points. He was always furnished with a smile (which pushed his moustache up under his nose) and an explanation. 有礼貌—knowing how to live—was his specialty, in which he included knowing how to die; but, as Newman reflected, with a good deal of dumb irritation, he seemed disposed to delegate to others the application of his learning on this latter point. M. de Grosjoyaux was of quite another complexion, and appeared to regard his friend’s theological unction as the sign of an inaccessibly superior mind. He was evidently doing his utmost, with a kind of jovial tenderness, to make life agreeable to Valentin to the last, and help him as little as possible to miss the Boulevard des Italiens; but what chiefly occupied his mind was the mystery of a bungling brewer’s son making so neat a shot. He himself could snuff a candle, etc., and yet he confessed that he could not have done better than this. He hastened to add that on the present occasion he would have made a point of not doing so well. It was not an occasion for that sort of murderous work, que diable! He would have picked out some quiet fleshy spot and just tapped it with a harmless ball. M. Stanislas Kapp had been deplorably heavy-handed; but really, when the world had come to that pass that one granted a meeting to a brewer’s son!… This was M. de Grosjoyaux’s nearest approach to a generalization. He kept looking through the window, over the shoulder of M. Ledoux, at a slender tree which stood at the end of a lane, opposite to the inn, and seemed to be measuring its distance from his extended arm and secretly wishing that, since the subject had been introduced, propriety did not forbid a little speculative pistol-practice.

Newman was in no humor to enjoy good company. He could neither eat nor talk; his soul was sore with grief and anger, and the weight of his double sorrow was intolerable. He sat with his eyes fixed upon his plate, counting the minutes, wishing at one moment that Valentin would see him and leave him free to go in quest of Madame de Cintré and his lost happiness, and mentally calling himself a vile brute the next, for the impatient egotism of the wish. He was very poor company, himself, and even his acute preoccupation and his general lack of the habit of pondering the impression he produced did not prevent him from reflecting that his companions must be puzzled to see how poor Bellegarde came to take such a fancy to this taciturn Yankee that he must needs have him at his death-bed. After breakfast he strolled forth alone into the village and looked at the fountain, the geese, the open barn doors, the brown, bent old women, showing their hugely darned stocking-heels at the ends of their slowly-clicking sabots, and the beautiful view of snowy Alps and purple Jura at either end of the little street. The day was brilliant; early spring was in the air and in the sunshine, and the winter’s damp was trickling out of the cottage eaves. It was birth and brightness for all nature, even for chirping chickens and waddling goslings, and it was to be death and burial for poor, foolish, generous, delightful Bellegarde. Newman walked as far as the village church, and went into the small graveyard beside it, where he sat down and looked at the awkward tablets which were planted around. They were all sordid and hideous, and Newman could feel nothing but the hardness and coldness of death. He got up and came back to the inn, where he found M. Ledoux having coffee and a cigarette at a little green table which he had caused to be carried into the small garden. Newman, learning that the doctor was still sitting with Valentin, asked M. Ledoux if he might not be allowed to relieve him; he had a great desire to be useful to his poor friend. This was easily arranged; the doctor was very glad to go to bed. He was a youthful and rather jaunty practitioner, but he had a clever face, and the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in his buttonhole; Newman listened attentively to the instructions he gave him before retiring, and took mechanically from his hand a small volume which the surgeon recommended as a help to wakefulness, and which turned out to be an old copy of “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.”

Valentin was still lying with his eyes closed, and there was no visible change in his condition. Newman sat down near him, and for a long time narrowly watched him. Then his eyes wandered away with his thoughts upon his own situation, and rested upon the chain of the Alps, disclosed by the drawing of the scant white cotton curtain of the window, through which the sunshine passed and lay in squares upon the red-tiled floor. He tried to interweave his reflections with hope, but he only half succeeded. What had happened to him seemed to have, in its violence and audacity, the force of a real calamity—the strength and insolence of Destiny herself. It was unnatural and monstrous, and he had no arms against it. At last a sound struck upon the stillness, and he heard Valentin’s voice.

“It can’t be about me you are pulling that long face!” He found, when he turned, that Valentin was lying in the same position; but his eyes were open, and he was even trying to smile. It was with a very slender strength that he returned the pressure of Newman’s hand. “I have been watching you for a quarter of an hour,” Valentin went on; “you have been looking as black as thunder. You are greatly disgusted with me, I see. Well, of course! So am I!”

“Oh, I shall not scold you,” said Newman. “I feel too badly. And how are you getting on?”

“Oh, I’m getting off! They have quite settled that; haven’t they?”

“That’s for you to settle; you can get well if you try,” said Newman, with resolute cheerfulness.

“My dear fellow, how can I try? Trying is violent exercise, and that sort of thing isn’t in order for a man with a hole in his side as big as your hat, that begins to bleed if he moves a hair’s-breadth. I knew you would come,” he continued; “I knew I should wake up and find you here; so I’m not surprised. But last night I was very impatient. I didn’t see how I could keep still until you came. It was a matter of keeping still, just like this; as still as a mummy in his case. You talk about trying; I tried that! Well, here I am yet—these twenty hours. It seems like twenty days.” Bellegarde talked slowly and feebly, but distinctly enough. It was visible, however, that he was in extreme pain, and at last he closed his eyes. Newman begged him to remain silent and spare himself; the doctor had left urgent orders. “Oh,” said Valentin, “let us eat and drink, for to-morrow—to-morrow”—and he paused again. “No, not to-morrow, perhaps, but to-day. I can’t eat and drink, but I can talk. What’s to be gained, at this pass, by renun—renunciation? I mustn’t use such big words. I was always a chatterer; Lord, how I have talked in my day!”

“That’s a reason for keeping quiet now,” said Newman. “We know how well you talk, you know.”

But Valentin, without heeding him, went on in the same weak, dying drawl. “I wanted to see you because you have seen my sister. Does she know—will she come?”

Newman was embarrassed. “Yes, by this time she must know.”

“Didn’t you tell her?” Valentin asked. And then, in a moment, “Didn’t you bring me any message from her?” His eyes rested upon Newman’s with a certain soft keenness.

“I didn’t see her after I got your telegram,” said Newman. “I wrote to her.”

“And she sent you no answer?”

Newman was obliged to reply that Madame de Cintré had left Paris. “She went yesterday to Fleurières.”

“Yesterday—to Fleurières? Why did she go to Fleurières? What day is this? What day was yesterday? Ah, then I shan’t see her,” said Valentin sadly. “Fleurières is too far!” And then he closed his eyes again. Newman sat silent, summoning pious invention to his aid, but he was relieved at finding that Valentin was apparently too weak to reason or to be curious. Bellegarde, however, presently went on. “And my mother—and my brother—will they come? Are they at Fleurières?”

“They were in Paris, but I didn’t see them, either,” Newman answered. “If they received your telegram in time, they will have started this morning. Otherwise they will be obliged to wait for the night-express, and they will arrive at the same hour as I did.”

“They won’t thank me—they won’t thank me,” Valentin murmured. “They will pass an atrocious night, and Urbain doesn’t like the early morning air. I don’t remember ever in my life to have seen him before noon—before breakfast. No one ever saw him. We don’t know how he is then. Perhaps he’s different. Who knows? Posterity, perhaps, will know. That’s the time he works, in his 柜, at the history of the Princesses. But I had to send for them—hadn’t I? And then I want to see my mother sit there where you sit, and say good-bye to her. Perhaps, after all, I don’t know her, and she will have some surprise for me. Don’t think you know her yet, yourself; perhaps she may surprise 您. But if I can’t see Claire, I don’t care for anything. I have been thinking of it—and in my dreams, too. Why did she go to Fleurières to-day? She never told me. What has happened? Ah, she ought to have guessed I was here—this way. It is the first time in her life she ever disappointed me. Poor Claire!”

“You know we are not man and wife quite yet,—your sister and I,” said Newman. “She doesn’t yet account to me for all her actions.” And, after a fashion, he smiled.

Valentin looked at him a moment. “Have you quarreled?”

“Never, never, never!” Newman exclaimed.

“How happily you say that!” said Valentin. “You are going to be happy—哇！” In answer to this stroke of irony, none the less powerful for being so unconscious, all poor Newman could do was to give a helpless and transparent stare. Valentin continued to fix him with his own rather over-bright gaze, and presently he said, “But something is the matter with you. I watched you just now; you haven’t a bridegroom’s face.”

“My dear fellow,” said Newman, “how can I show 您 a bridegroom’s face? If you think I enjoy seeing you lie there and not being able to help you”—

“Why, you are just the man to be cheerful; don’t forfeit your rights! I’m a proof of your wisdom. When was a man ever gloomy when he could say, ‘I told you so?’ You told me so, you know. You did what you could about it. You said some very good things; I have thought them over. But, my dear friend, I was right, all the same. This is the regular way.”

“I didn’t do what I ought,” said Newman. “I ought to have done something else.”

“例如？”

“Oh, something or other. I ought to have treated you as a small boy.”

“Well, I’m a very small boy, now,” said Valentin. “I’m rather less than an infant. An infant is helpless, but it’s generally voted promising. I’m not promising, eh? Society can’t lose a less valuable member.”

Newman was strongly moved. He got up and turned his back upon his friend and walked away to the window, where he stood looking out, but only vaguely seeing. “No, I don’t like the look of your back,” Valentin continued. “I have always been an observer of backs; yours is quite out of sorts.”

Newman returned to his bedside and begged him to be quiet. “Be quiet and get well,” he said. “That’s what you must do. Get well and help me.”

“I told you you were in trouble! How can I help you?” Valentin asked.

“I’ll let you know when you are better. You were always curious; there is something to get well for!” Newman answered, with resolute animation.

Valentin closed his eyes and lay a long time without speaking. He seemed even to have fallen asleep. But at the end of half an hour he began to talk again. “I am rather sorry about that place in the bank. Who knows but that I might have become another Rothschild? But I wasn’t meant for a banker; bankers are not so easy to kill. Don’t you think I have been very easy to kill? It’s not like a serious man. It’s really very mortifying. It’s like telling your hostess you must go, when you count upon her begging you to stay, and then finding she does no such thing. ‘Really—so soon? You’ve only just come!’ Life doesn’t make me any such polite little speech.”

Newman for some time said nothing, but at last he broke out. “It’s a bad case—it’s a bad case—it’s the worst case I ever met. I don’t want to say anything unpleasant, but I can’t help it. I’ve seen men dying before—and I’ve seen men shot. But it always seemed more natural; they were not so clever as you. Damnation—damnation! You might have done something better than this. It’s about the meanest winding-up of a man’s affairs that I can imagine!”

Valentin feebly waved his hand to and fro. “Don’t insist—don’t insist! It is mean—decidedly mean. For you see at the bottom—down at the bottom, in a little place as small as the end of a wine funnel—I agree with you!”

A few moments after this the doctor put his head through the half-opened door and, perceiving that Valentin was awake, came in and felt his pulse. He shook his head and declared that he had talked too much—ten times too much. “Nonsense!” said Valentin; “a man sentenced to death can never talk too much. Have you never read an account of an execution in a newspaper? Don’t they always set a lot of people at the prisoner—lawyers, reporters, priests—to make him talk? But it’s not Mr. Newman’s fault; he sits there as mum as a death’s-head.”

The doctor observed that it was time his patient’s wound should be dressed again; MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux, who had already witnessed this delicate operation, taking Newman’s place as assistants. Newman withdrew and learned from his fellow-watchers that they had received a telegram from Urbain de Bellegarde to the effect that their message had been delivered in the Rue de l’Université too late to allow him to take the morning train, but that he would start with his mother in the evening. Newman wandered away into the village again, and walked about restlessly for two or three hours. The day seemed terribly long. At dusk he came back and dined with the doctor and M. Ledoux. The dressing of Valentin’s wound had been a very critical operation; the doctor didn’t really see how he was to endure a repetition of it. He then declared that he must beg of Mr. Newman to deny himself for the present the satisfaction of sitting with M. de Bellegarde; more than anyone else, apparently, he had the flattering but inconvenient privilege of exciting him. M. Ledoux, at this, swallowed a glass of wine in silence; he must have been wondering what the deuce Bellegarde found so exciting in the American.

Newman, after dinner, went up to his room, where he sat for a long time staring at his lighted candle, and thinking that Valentin was dying downstairs. Late, when the candle had burnt low, there came a soft rap at his door. The doctor stood there with a candlestick and a shrug.

“He must amuse himself still!” said Valentin’s medical adviser. “He insists upon seeing you, and I am afraid you must come. I think at this rate, that he will hardly outlast the night.”

Newman went back to Valentin’s room, which he found lighted by a taper on the hearth. Valentin begged him to light a candle. “I want to see your face,” he said. “They say you excite me,” he went on, as Newman complied with this request, “and I confess I do feel excited. But it isn’t you—it’s my own thoughts. I have been thinking—thinking. Sit down there and let me look at you again.” Newman seated himself, folded his arms, and bent a heavy gaze upon his friend. He seemed to be playing a part, mechanically, in a lugubrious comedy. Valentin looked at him for some time. “Yes, this morning I was right; you have something on your mind heavier than Valentin de Bellegarde. Come, I’m a dying man and it’s indecent to deceive me. Something happened after I left Paris. It was not for nothing that my sister started off at this season of the year for Fleurières. Why was it? It sticks in my crop. I have been thinking it over, and if you don’t tell me I shall guess.”

“I had better not tell you,” said Newman. “It won’t do you any good.”

“If you think it will do me any good not to tell me, you are very much mistaken. There is trouble about your marriage.”

“Yes,” said Newman. “There is trouble about my marriage.”

“Good!” And Valentin was silent again. “They have stopped it.”

“They have stopped it,” said Newman. Now that he had spoken out, he found a satisfaction in it which deepened as he went on. “Your mother and brother have broken faith. They have decided that it can’t take place. They have decided that I am not good enough, after all. They have taken back their word. Since you insist, there it is!”

Valentin gave a sort of groan, lifted his hands a moment, and then let them drop.

“I am sorry not to have anything better to tell you about them,” Newman pursued. “But it’s not my fault. I was, indeed, very unhappy when your telegram reached me; I was quite upside down. You may imagine whether I feel any better now.”

Valentin moaned gaspingly, as if his wound were throbbing. “Broken faith, broken faith!” he murmured. “And my sister—my sister?”

“Your sister is very unhappy; she has consented to give me up. I don’t know why. I don’t know what they have done to her; it must be something pretty bad. In justice to her you ought to know it. They have made her suffer. I haven’t seen her alone, but only before them! We had an interview yesterday morning. They came out flat, in so many words. They told me to go about my business. It seems to me a very bad case. I’m angry, I’m sore, I’m sick.”

Valentin lay there staring, with his eyes more brilliantly lighted, his lips soundlessly parted, and a flush of color in his pale face. Newman had never before uttered so many words in the plaintive key, but now, in speaking to Valentin in the poor fellow’s extremity, he had a feeling that he was making his complaint somewhere within the presence of the power that men pray to in trouble; he felt his outgush of resentment as a sort of spiritual privilege.

“And Claire,”—said Bellegarde,—“Claire? She has given you up?”

“I don’t really believe it,” said Newman.

“No. Don’t believe it, don’t believe it. She is gaining time; excuse her.”

“I pity her!” said Newman.

“Poor Claire!” murmured Valentin. “But they—but they”—and he paused again. “You saw them; they dismissed you, face to face?”

“Face to face. They were very explicit.”

“他们说了什么？”

“They said they couldn’t stand a commercial person.”

Valentin put out his hand and laid it upon Newman’s arm. “And about their promise—their engagement with you?”

“They made a distinction. They said it was to hold good only until Madame de Cintré accepted me.”

Valentin lay staring a while, and his flush died away. “Don’t tell me any more,” he said at last. “I’m ashamed.”

“You? You are the soul of honor,” said Newman simply.

Valentin groaned and turned away his head. For some time nothing more was said. Then Valentin turned back again and found a certain force to press Newman’s arm. “It’s very bad—very bad. When my people—when my race—come to that, it is time for me to withdraw. I believe in my sister; she will explain. Excuse her. If she can’t—if she can’t, forgive her. She has suffered. But for the others it is very bad—very bad. You take it very hard? No, it’s a shame to make you say so.” He closed his eyes and again there was a silence. Newman felt almost awed; he had evoked a more solemn spirit than he expected. Presently Valentin looked at him again, removing his hand from his arm. “I apologize,” he said. “Do you understand? Here on my death-bed. I apologize for my family. For my mother. For my brother. For the ancient house of Bellegarde. 瞧！” he added softly.

Newman for an answer took his hand and pressed it with a world of kindness. Valentin remained quiet, and at the end of half an hour the doctor softly came in. Behind him, through the half-open door, Newman saw the two questioning faces of MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux. The doctor laid his hand on Valentin’s wrist and sat looking at him. He gave no sign and the two gentlemen came in, M. Ledoux having first beckoned to someone outside. This was M. le Curé, who carried in his hand an object unknown to Newman, and covered with a white napkin. M. le Curé was short, round, and red: he advanced, pulling off his little black cap to Newman, and deposited his burden on the table; and then he sat down in the best armchair, with his hands folded across his person. The other gentlemen had exchanged glances which expressed unanimity as to the timeliness of their presence. But for a long time Valentin neither spoke nor moved. It was Newman’s belief, afterwards, that M. le Curé went to sleep. At last abruptly, Valentin pronounced Newman’s name. His friend went to him, and he said in French, “You are not alone. I want to speak to you alone.” Newman looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at the curé, who looked back at him; and then the doctor and the curé, together, gave a shrug. “Alone—for five minutes,” Valentin repeated. “Please leave us.”

The curé took up his burden again and led the way out, followed by his companions. Newman closed the door behind them and came back to Valentin’s bedside. Bellegarde had watched all this intently.

“It’s very bad, it’s very bad,” he said, after Newman had seated himself close to him. “The more I think of it the worse it is.”

“Oh, don’t think of it,” said Newman.

But Valentin went on, without heeding him. “Even if they should come round again, the shame—the baseness—is there.”

“Oh, they won’t come round!” said Newman.

“Well, you can make them.”

“Make them?”

“I can tell you something—a great secret—an immense secret. You can use it against them—frighten them, force them.”

“A secret!” Newman repeated. The idea of letting Valentin, on his death-bed, confide him an “immense secret” shocked him, for the moment, and made him draw back. It seemed an illicit way of arriving at information, and even had a vague analogy with listening at a keyhole. Then, suddenly, the thought of “forcing” Madame de Bellegarde and her son became attractive, and Newman bent his head closer to Valentin’s lips. For some time, however, the dying man said nothing more. He only lay and looked at his friend with his kindled, expanded, troubled eye, and Newman began to believe that he had spoken in delirium. But at last he said,—

“There was something done—something done at Fleurières. It was foul play. My father—something happened to him. I don’t know; I have been ashamed—afraid to know. But I know there is something. My mother knows—Urbain knows.”

“Something happened to your father?” said Newman, urgently.

Valentin looked at him, still more wide-eyed. “He didn’t get well.”

“Get well of what?”

But the immense effort which Valentin had made, first to decide to utter these words and then to bring them out, appeared to have taken his last strength. He lapsed again into silence, and Newman sat watching him. “Do you understand?” he began again, presently. “At Fleurières. You can find out. Mrs. Bread knows. Tell her I begged you to ask her. Then tell them that, and see. It may help you. If not, tell everyone. It will—it will”—here Valentin’s voice sank to the feeblest murmur—“it will avenge you!”

The words died away in a long, soft groan. Newman stood up, deeply impressed, not knowing what to say; his heart was beating violently. “Thank you,” he said at last. “I am much obliged.” But Valentin seemed not to hear him, he remained silent, and his silence continued. At last Newman went and opened the door. M. le Curé re-entered, bearing his sacred vessel and followed by the three gentlemen and by Valentin’s servant. It was almost processional.

Valentin de Bellegarde died tranquilly, just as the cold faint March dawn began to illumine the faces of the little knot of friends gathered about his bedside. An hour afterwards Newman left the inn and drove to Geneva; he was naturally unwilling to be present at the arrival of Madame de Bellegarde and her first-born. At Geneva, for the moment, he remained. He was like a man who has had a fall and wants to sit still and count his bruises. He instantly wrote to Madame de Cintré, relating to her the circumstances of her brother’s death—with certain exceptions—and asking her what was the earliest moment at which he might hope that she would consent to see him. M. Ledoux had told him that he had reason to know that Valentin’s will—Bellegarde had a great deal of elegant personal property to dispose of—contained a request that he should be buried near his father in the churchyard of Fleurières, and Newman intended that the state of his own relations with the family should not deprive him of the satisfaction of helping to pay the last earthly honors to the best fellow in the world. He reflected that Valentin’s friendship was older than Urbain’s enmity, and that at a funeral it was easy to escape notice. Madame de Cintré’s answer to his letter enabled him to time his arrival at Fleurières. This answer was very brief; it ran as follows:—

“I thank you for your letter, and for your being with Valentin. It is a most inexpressible sorrow to me that I was not. To see you will be nothing but a distress to me; there is no need, therefore, to wait for what you call brighter days. It is all one now, and I shall have no brighter days. Come when you please; only notify me first. My brother is to be buried here on Friday, and my family is to remain here. C. de C.”

As soon as he received this letter Newman went straight to Paris and to Poitiers. The journey took him far southward, through green Touraine and across the far-shining Loire, into a country where the early spring deepened about him as he went. But he had never made a journey during which he heeded less what he would have called the lay of the land. He obtained lodging at the inn at Poitiers, and the next morning drove in a couple of hours to the village of Fleurières. But here, preoccupied though he was, he could not fail to notice the picturesqueness of the place. It was what the French call a petit bourg; it lay at the base of a sort of huge mound on the summit of which stood the crumbling ruins of a feudal castle, much of whose sturdy material, as well as that of the wall which dropped along the hill to enclose the clustered houses defensively, had been absorbed into the very substance of the village. The church was simply the former chapel of the castle, fronting upon its grass-grown court, which, however, was of generous enough width to have given up its quaintest corner to a little graveyard. Here the very headstones themselves seemed to sleep, as they slanted into the grass; the patient elbow of the rampart held them together on one side, and in front, far beneath their mossy lids, the green plains and blue distances stretched away. The way to church, up the hill, was impracticable to vehicles. It was lined with peasants, two or three rows deep, who stood watching old Madame de Bellegarde slowly ascend it, on the arm of her elder son, behind the pall-bearers of the other. Newman chose to lurk among the common mourners who murmured “Madame la Comtesse” as a tall figure veiled in black passed before them. He stood in the dusky little church while the service was going forward, but at the dismal tomb-side he turned away and walked down the hill. He went back to Poitiers, and spent two days in which patience and impatience were singularly commingled. On the third day he sent Madame de Cintré a note, saying that he would call upon her in the afternoon, and in accordance with this he again took his way to Fleurières. He left his vehicle at the tavern in the village street, and obeyed the simple instructions which were given him for finding the château.

“It is just beyond there,” said the landlord, and pointed to the tree-tops of the park, above the opposite houses. Newman followed the first cross-road to the right—it was bordered with mouldy cottages—and in a few moments saw before him the peaked roofs of the towers. Advancing farther, he found himself before a vast iron gate, rusty and closed; here he paused a moment, looking through the bars. The château was near the road; this was at once its merit and its defect; but its aspect was extremely impressive. Newman learned afterwards, from a guide-book of the province, that it dated from the time of Henry IV. It presented to the wide, paved area which preceded it and which was edged with shabby farm-buildings an immense façade of dark time-stained brick, flanked by two low wings, each of which terminated in a little Dutch-looking pavilion capped with a fantastic roof. Two towers rose behind, and behind the towers was a mass of elms and beeches, now just faintly green.

But the great feature was a wide, green river which washed the foundations of the château. The building rose from an island in the circling stream, so that this formed a perfect moat spanned by a two-arched bridge without a parapet. The dull brick walls, which here and there made a grand, straight sweep; the ugly little cupolas of the wings, the deep-set windows, the long, steep pinnacles of mossy slate, all mirrored themselves in the tranquil river. Newman rang at the gate, and was almost frightened at the tone with which a big rusty bell above his head replied to him. An old woman came out from the gate-house and opened the creaking portal just wide enough for him to pass, and he went in, across the dry, bare court and the little cracked white slabs of the causeway on the moat. At the door of the château he waited for some moments, and this gave him a chance to observe that Fleurières was not “kept up,” and to reflect that it was a melancholy place of residence. “It looks,” said Newman to himself—and I give the comparison for what it is worth—“like a Chinese penitentiary.” At last the door was opened by a servant whom he remembered to have seen in the Rue de l’Université. The man’s dull face brightened as he perceived our hero, for Newman, for indefinable reasons, enjoyed the confidence of the liveried gentry. The footman led the way across a great central vestibule, with a pyramid of plants in tubs in the middle of glass doors all around, to what appeared to be the principal drawing-room of the château. Newman crossed the threshold of a room of superb proportions, which made him feel at first like a tourist with a guide-book and a cicerone awaiting a fee. But when his guide had left him alone, with the observation that he would call Madame la Comtesse, Newman perceived that the salon contained little that was remarkable save a dark ceiling with curiously carved rafters, some curtains of elaborate, antiquated tapestry, and a dark oaken floor, polished like a mirror. He waited some minutes, walking up and down; but at length, as he turned at the end of the room, he saw that Madame de Cintré had come in by a distant door. She wore a black dress, and she stood looking at him. As the length of the immense room lay between them he had time to look at her before they met in the middle of it.

He was dismayed at the change in her appearance. Pale, heavy-browed, almost haggard with a sort of monastic rigidity in her dress, she had little but her pure features in common with the woman whose radiant good grace he had hitherto admired. She let her eyes rest on his own, and she let him take her hand; but her eyes looked like two rainy autumn moons, and her touch was portentously lifeless.

“I was at your brother’s funeral,” Newman said. “Then I waited three days. But I could wait no longer.”

“Nothing can be lost or gained by waiting,” said Madame de Cintré. “But it was very considerate of you to wait, wronged as you have been.”

“I’m glad you think I have been wronged,” said Newman, with that oddly humorous accent with which he often uttered words of the gravest meaning.

“Do I need to say so?” she asked. “I don’t think I have wronged, seriously, many persons; certainly not consciously. To you, to whom I have done this hard and cruel thing, the only reparation I can make is to say, ‘I know it, I feel it!’ The reparation is pitifully small!”

“Oh, it’s a great step forward!” said Newman, with a gracious smile of encouragement. He pushed a chair towards her and held it, looking at her urgently. She sat down, mechanically, and he seated himself near her; but in a moment he got up, restlessly, and stood before her. She remained seated, like a troubled creature who had passed through the stage of restlessness.

“I say nothing is to be gained by my seeing you,” she went on, “and yet I am very glad you came. Now I can tell you what I feel. It is a selfish pleasure, but it is one of the last I shall have.” And she paused, with her great misty eyes fixed upon him. “I know how I have deceived and injured you; I know how cruel and cowardly I have been. I see it as vividly as you do—I feel it to the ends of my fingers.” And she unclasped her hands, which were locked together in her lap, lifted them, and dropped them at her side. “Anything that you may have said of me in your angriest passion is nothing to what I have said to myself.”

“In my angriest passion,” said Newman, “I have said nothing hard of you. The very worst thing I have said of you yet is that you are the loveliest of women.” And he seated himself before her again abruptly.

She flushed a little, but even her flush was pale. “That is because you think I will come back. But I will not come back. It is in that hope you have come here, I know; I am very sorry for you. I would do almost anything for you. To say that, after what I have done, seems simply impudent; but what can I say that will not seem impudent? To wrong you and apologize—that is easy enough. I should not have wronged you.” She stopped a moment, looking at him, and motioned him to let her go on. “I ought never to have listened to you at first; that was the wrong. No good could come of it. I felt it, and yet I listened; that was your fault. I liked you too much; I believed in you.”

“And don’t you believe in me now?”

“More than ever. But now it doesn’t matter. I have given you up.”

Newman gave a powerful thump with his clenched fist upon his knee. “Why, why, why?” he cried. “Give me a reason—a decent reason. You are not a child—you are not a minor, nor an idiot. You are not obliged to drop me because your mother told you to. Such a reason isn’t worthy of you.”

“I know that; it’s not worthy of me. But it’s the only one I have to give. After all,” said Madame de Cintré, throwing out her hands, “think me an idiot and forget me! That will be the simplest way.”

Newman got up and walked away with a crushing sense that his cause was lost, and yet with an equal inability to give up fighting. He went to one of the great windows, and looked out at the stiffly embanked river and the formal gardens which lay beyond it. When he turned round, Madame de Cintré had risen; she stood there silent and passive. “You are not frank,” said Newman; “you are not honest. Instead of saying that you are imbecile, you should say that other people are wicked. Your mother and your brother have been false and cruel; they have been so to me, and I am sure they have been so to you. Why do you try to shield them? Why do you sacrifice me to them? I’m not false; I’m not cruel. You don’t know what you give up; I can tell you that—you don’t. They bully you and plot about you; and I—I”—And he paused, holding out his hands. She turned away and began to leave him. “You told me the other day that you were afraid of your mother,” he said, following her. “What did you mean?”

Madame de Cintré shook her head. “I remember; I was sorry afterwards.”

“You were sorry when she came down and put on the thumbscrews. In God’s name what is it she does to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing that you can understand. And now that I have given you up, I must not complain of her to you.”

“That’s no reasoning!” cried Newman. “Complain of her, on the contrary. Tell me all about it, frankly and trustfully, as you ought, and we will talk it over so satisfactorily that you won’t give me up.”

Madame de Cintré looked down some moments, fixedly; and then, raising her eyes, she said, “One good at least has come of this: I have made you judge me more fairly. You thought of me in a way that did me great honor; I don’t know why you had taken it into your head. But it left me no loophole for escape—no chance to be the common, weak creature I am. It was not my fault; I warned you from the first. But I ought to have warned you more. I ought to have convinced you that I was doomed to disappoint you. But I 是, in a way, too proud. You see what my superiority amounts to, I hope!” she went on, raising her voice with a tremor which even then and there Newman thought beautiful. “I am too proud to be honest, I am not too proud to be faithless. I am timid and cold and selfish. I am afraid of being uncomfortable.”

“And you call marrying me uncomfortable!” said Newman staring.

Madame de Cintré blushed a little and seemed to say that if begging his pardon in words was impudent, she might at least thus mutely express her perfect comprehension of his finding her conduct odious. “It is not marrying you; it is doing all that would go with it. It’s the rupture, the defiance, the insisting upon being happy in my own way. What right have I to be happy when—when”—And she paused.

“When what?” said Newman.

“When others have been most unhappy!”

“What others?” Newman asked. “What have you to do with any others but me? Besides you said just now that you wanted happiness, and that you should find it by obeying your mother. You contradict yourself.”

“Yes, I contradict myself; that shows you that I am not even intelligent.”

“You are laughing at me!” cried Newman. “You are mocking me!”

She looked at him intently, and an observer might have said that she was asking herself whether she might not most quickly end their common pain by confessing that she was mocking him. “No; I am not,” she presently said.

“Granting that you are not intelligent,” he went on, “that you are weak, that you are common, that you are nothing that I have believed you were—what I ask of you is not heroic effort, it is a very common effort. There is a great deal on my side to make it easy. The simple truth is that you don’t care enough about me to make it.”

“I am cold,” said Madame de Cintré, “I am as cold as that flowing river.”

Newman gave a great rap on the floor with his stick, and a long, grim laugh. “Good, good!” he cried. “You go altogether too far—you overshoot the mark. There isn’t a woman in the world as bad as you would make yourself out. I see your game; it’s what I said. You are blackening yourself to whiten others. You don’t want to give me up, at all; you like me—you like me. I know you do; you have shown it, and I have felt it. After that, you may be as cold as you please! They have bullied you, I say; they have tortured you. It’s an outrage, and I insist upon saving you from the extravagance of your own generosity. Would you chop off your hand if your mother requested it?”

Madame de Cintré looked a little frightened. “I spoke of my mother too blindly, the other day. I am my own mistress, by law and by her approval. She can do nothing to me; she has done nothing. She has never alluded to those hard words I used about her.”

“She has made you feel them, I’ll promise you!” said Newman.

“It’s my conscience that makes me feel them.”

“Your conscience seems to me to be rather mixed!” exclaimed Newman, passionately.

“It has been in great trouble, but now it is very clear,” said Madame de Cintré. “I don’t give you up for any worldly advantage or for any worldly happiness.”

“Oh, you don’t give me up for Lord Deepmere, I know,” said Newman. “I won’t pretend, even to provoke you, that I think that. But that’s what your mother and your brother wanted, and your mother, at that villainous ball of hers—I liked it at the time, but the very thought of it now makes me rabid—tried to push him on to make up to you.”

“Who told you this?” said Madame de Cintré softly.

“Not Valentin. I observed it. I guessed it. I didn’t know at the time that I was observing it, but it stuck in my memory. And afterwards, you recollect, I saw Lord Deepmere with you in the conservatory. You said then that you would tell me at another time what he had said to you.”

“That was before—before Free Introduction，”德·辛特雷夫人说。

“It doesn’t matter,” said Newman; “and, besides, I think I know. He’s an honest little Englishman. He came and told you what your mother was up to—that she wanted him to supplant me; not being a commercial person. If he would make you an offer she would undertake to bring you over and give me the slip. Lord Deepmere isn’t very intellectual, so she had to spell it out to him. He said he admired you ‘no end,’ and that he wanted you to know it; but he didn’t like being mixed up with that sort of underhand work, and he came to you and told tales. That was about the amount of it, wasn’t it? And then you said you were perfectly happy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Out of the world?”

“I am going into a convent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Newman made his way out as he could.

There is a pretty public walk at Poitiers, laid out upon the crest of the high hill around which the little city clusters, planted with thick trees and looking down upon the fertile fields in which the old English princes fought for their right and held it. Newman paced up and down this quiet promenade for the greater part of the next day and let his eyes wander over the historic prospect; but he would have been sadly at a loss to tell you afterwards whether the latter was made up of coal-fields or of vineyards. He was wholly given up to his grievance, of which reflection by no means diminished the weight. He feared that Madame de Cintré was irretrievably lost; and yet, as he would have said himself, he didn’t see his way clear to giving her up. He found it impossible to turn his back upon Fleurières and its inhabitants; it seemed to him that some germ of hope or reparation must lurk there somewhere, if he could only stretch his arm out far enough to pluck it. It was as if he had his hand on a door-knob and were closing his clenched fist upon it: he had thumped, he had called, he had pressed the door with his powerful knee and shaken it with all his strength, and dead, damning silence had answered him. And yet something held him there—something hardened the grasp of his fingers. Newman’s satisfaction had been too intense, his whole plan too deliberate and mature, his prospect of happiness too rich and comprehensive for this fine moral fabric to crumble at a stroke. The very foundation seemed fatally injured, and yet he felt a stubborn desire still to try to save the edifice. He was filled with a sorer sense of wrong than he had ever known, or than he had supposed it possible he should know. To accept his injury and walk away without looking behind him was a stretch of good-nature of which he found himself incapable. He looked behind him intently and continually, and what he saw there did not assuage his resentment. He saw himself trustful, generous, liberal, patient, easy, pocketing frequent irritation and furnishing unlimited modesty. To have eaten humble pie, to have been snubbed and patronized and satirized and have consented to take it as one of the conditions of the bargain—to have done this, and done it all for nothing, surely gave one a right to protest. And to be turned off because one was a commercial person! As if he had ever talked or dreamt of the commercial since 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 commercial fifty times a day, if it might have increased by a hair’s breadth the chance of the Bellegardes’ not playing him a trick! Granted that being commercial was fair ground for having a trick played upon one, how little they knew about the class so designed and its enterprising way of not standing upon trifles! It was in the light of his injury that the weight of Newman’s past endurance seemed so heavy; his actual irritation had not been so great, merged as it was in his vision of the cloudless blue that overarched his immediate wooing. But now his sense of outrage was deep, rancorous, and ever present; he felt that he was a good fellow wronged. As for Madame de Cintré’s conduct, it struck him with a kind of awe, and the fact that he was powerless to understand it or feel the reality of its motives only 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 express a mistrust of the form in which her religious feelings had moulded themselves would have seemed to him on his own part 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 thing to be a Catholic, and another to turn nun—on your hand! There was something lugubriously comical in the way Newman’s thoroughly contemporaneous optimism was confronted with this dusky old-world expedient. To see a woman made for him and for motherhood to his children juggled away in this tragic travesty—it was a thing to rub one’s eyes over, a nightmare, an illusion, a hoax. But the hours passed away without disproving the thing, and leaving him only the after-sense of the vehemence with which he had embraced Madame de Cintré. He remembered her words and her looks; he turned them over and tried to shake the mystery out of them and to infuse them with an endurable meaning. What had she meant by her feeling being a kind of religion? It was the religion simply of the family laws, the religion of which her implacable little mother was the high priestess. Twist the thing about as her generosity would, the one certain fact was that they had used force against her.

The twenty-four hours wore themselves away, and the next morning Newman sprang to his feet with the resolution to return to Fleurières and demand another interview with Madame de Bellegarde and her son. He lost no time in putting it into practice. As he rolled swiftly over the excellent road in the little calèche furnished him at the inn at Poitiers, he drew forth, as it were, from the very safe place in his mind to which he had consigned it, the last information given him by poor Valentin. Valentin had told him he could do something with it, and Newman thought it would be well to have it at hand. This was of course not the first time, lately, that Newman had given it his attention. It was information in the rough,—it was dark and puzzling; but Newman was neither helpless nor afraid. Valentin had evidently meant to put him in possession of a powerful instrument, though he could not be said to have placed the handle very securely within his grasp. But if he had not really told him the secret, he had at least given him the clew to it—a clew of which that queer old Mrs. Bread held the other end. Mrs. Bread had always looked to Newman as if she knew secrets; and as he apparently enjoyed her esteem, he suspected she might be induced to share her knowledge with him. So long as there was only Mrs. Bread to deal with, he felt easy. As to what there was to find out, he had only one fear—that it might not be bad enough. Then, when the image of the marquise and her son rose before him again, standing side by side, the old woman’s hand in Urbain’s arm, and the same cold, unsociable fixedness in the eyes of each, he cried out to himself that the fear was groundless. There was blood in the secret at the very least! He arrived at Fleurières almost in a state of elation; he had satisfied himself, logically, that in the presence of his threat of exposure they would, as he mentally phrased it, rattle down like unwound buckets. He remembered indeed that he must first catch his hare—first ascertain what there was to expose; but after that, why shouldn’t his happiness be as good as new again? Mother and son would drop their lovely victim in terror and take to hiding, and Madame de Cintré, left to herself, would surely come back to him. Give her a chance and she would rise to the surface, return to the light. How could she fail to perceive that his house would be much the most comfortable sort of convent?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Newman hesitated a moment. “Everything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It would be a sad pleasure, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I will come, then. I will be bold, for once, for 他设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

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

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

“It would be ridiculous,” said M. de Bellegarde, “to pretend that we are glad to 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 will bring us round to yours! If I consulted my taste I certainly shouldn’t come to see you. Besides, I will make as short work as you please. Promise me to raise the blockade—to set Madame de Cintré at liberty—and I will retire instantly.”

“We hesitated as to whether we would see you,” said Madame de 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 satisfaction of informing you that there are certain weaknesses that people of 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 immediately to 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 commercial person 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 her daughter should become Sœur 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 sense of marble hardness as this movement and the tone that accompanied it. “Could anything compel you?” he asked. “Do you know of anything that would force you?”

“This language, sir,” said the marquis, “addressed to people in bereavement and grief is beyond all qualification.”

“In most cases,” Newman answered, “your objection would have some weight, even admitting that Madame de Cintré’s present intentions make time precious. But I have thought of what you speak of, and I have come here to-day without scruple simply because I consider 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 me for your conduct. He apologized to me for that of his mother.”

For a moment the effect of these words was as if Newman had struck a physical blow. A quick flush leaped into the faces of Madame de Bellegarde and her son, and they exchanged a glance like a twinkle of steel. Urbain uttered two words which Newman but half heard, but of which the sense came to him as it were in the reverberation of the sound, “Le misérable!=

“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 was frowning at poor Valentin’s invidious image. Taken by surprise, his scant affection 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 atrocious thing was not his fault; he never hurt me, or anyone else; he was the soul of honor. But it shows how he took it.”

“If you wish to prove that my poor brother, in his last moments, was out of his head, we can only say that under the melancholy circumstances nothing was more possible. But confine yourself to that.”

“He was quite in his right mind,” said Newman, with gentle but dangerous 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 proof of his sanity,” Newman concluded.

The marquise gathered herself together majestically. “This is too gross!” she cried. “We decline to accept your 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 the most delicate, best-bred voice, “I detest you personally,” he said.

“That’s the way I feel to you, but for politeness sake I don’t say it,” said Newman. “It’s singular I should want so 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 Newman could not see whether his eyes betrayed anything; the look of 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 could see that he was profoundly startled; but there was something admirable 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 pretend to know more than I do. At present that is all I know. You have done something that you must hide, something that would damn you if it were known, something that would disgrace the name you are so proud of. I don’t know what it is, but I can find out. Persist in your present course and I 将 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 ice in 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 much in 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 be making Madame de Cintré a nun? Talk it over with your mother; let her judge whether she is frightened. I don’t believe she is 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 you to let me know as soon as possible. Say by three o’clock. A simple 含 or 没有 on paper will do. Only, you know, in case of a 含 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 him another 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 was inevitable that there should be a certain emotion in calling up the 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 than probable that Urbain de Bellegarde would give no sign; for an answer to 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 return to Paris, to-morrow, with my mother, in order that we may see my sister and confirm her in the resolution which is the most effectual reply to your audacious pertinacity.

“HENRI-URBAIN DE BELLEGARDE.”

Newman put the letter into his pocket, and continued his walk up and down the inn-parlor. He had spent most of his time, for the past week, in walking up and down. He continued to measure the length of the little 大厅 of the Armes de France 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 dusk than without. A couple of tapers, however, twinkled on the altar and just enabled him to perceive a figure seated by one of the pillars. Closer inspection helped him to recognize Mrs. Bread, in spite of 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 vaguely lustrous folds about her person. She had judged it proper to 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 then followed a path beside the church, which he was sure must lead into another part of the ruin. He was not deceived. It wandered along the crest of the hill and terminated before a fragment of wall pierced by a rough aperture which had once been a door. Through this aperture Newman passed and found himself in a nook peculiarly favorable to 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 its crest 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 château. 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.

“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 certain fluttered eagerness which increased Newman’s sense of having inspired the old woman with confidence.

“From the first, you know,” he answered, “you took an interest in my 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 are with 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 did to her!” cried Newman.

Mrs. Bread sat with a dull, oblique gaze fixed upon the lights of the château. “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 then he repeated it. “They made her feel wicked,—they made her feel wicked.” The words seemed to him for the moment a vivid description of 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 moment it began to spread. Before we knew it she was gone. She was a delicate creature.”

This singular attestation of Madame de Cintré’s delicacy, for all its singularity, set Newman’s wound aching afresh. “I see,” he presently said; “she knew something bad about her mother.”

“No, sir, she knew nothing,” said Mrs. Bread, holding her head very stiff and keeping her eyes fixed upon the glimmering windows of the château.

“She guessed something, then, or suspected it.”

“She was afraid to know,” said Mrs. Bread.

“但是， 您 know, at any rate,” said Newman.

She slowly turned her vague eyes upon Newman, squeezing her hands together in her lap. “You are not quite faithful, sir. I thought it was to tell me about Mr. Valentin you asked me to 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 his last 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 heads together and invented something even worse.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to that, sir.”

“Perhaps not. But I 做了 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 this strange place to tell you?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Newman. “I won’t say a word that shall be disagreeable 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.”

“他说了吗？”

“He said it with his last breath—‘Tell Mrs. Bread I told you to ask her.’”

“他为什么不亲自告诉你？”

“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 last word 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 必须 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, and that he didn’t know others that he had better not have known.”

“I suspect he knew something about his brother that kept the marquis civil 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 me a chance to make the marquis feel me设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

“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 I don’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 want to 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 turn the 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 all the world to see me, and then they stole behind me and pushed me into this bottomless pit, where I lie howling and gnashing my teeth! I made a fool of myself before all their friends; but I shall make something worse of them.”

This passionate sally, which Newman uttered with the greater fervor that it was the first time he had had a chance to say all this aloud, kindled two small sparks in Mrs. Bread’s fixed eyes. “I suppose you have a right to your anger, sir; but think of the dishonor you will draw down on Madame de Cintré.”

“Madame de Cintré is buried alive,” cried Newman. “What are honor or dishonor to her? The door of the tomb is 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 ingenuity of 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 courts but 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 seemed to 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 die to-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 were already 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 simply to let her take her time—let the charm of the occasion work. So he said nothing; he only looked at her kindly. Mrs. Bread sat nursing 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 never mentioned 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!”

“还有什么 is your grudge?” Newman asked.

Mrs. Bread dropped her eyes and hesitated. “If I were a foreigner, sir, I should make less of telling 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 much younger and very different looking to what I am now. I had a very high color, sir, if you can believe it, indeed I was a very smart lass. My lady was younger, too, and the late marquis 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 must be owned that he sometimes went rather below him to take it. My lady was often jealous, and, if you’ll believe it, sir, she did me the honor to be jealous of me. One day I had a red ribbon in my 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 an honest girl and didn’t count my words. A red ribbon indeed! As if it was my ribbons the marquis looked at! My lady knew afterwards that I was perfectly respectable, but she never said a word to show that she believed it. But the marquis did!” Mrs. Bread presently added, “I took off my red ribbon and put it 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 it lies here yet.” And Mrs. Bread stroked her black satin bodice.

Newman listened with interest to this decent narrative, which seemed to have opened up the deeps of memory to his companion. Then, as she remained silent, and seemed to be losing herself in retrospective meditation upon her perfect respectability, he ventured upon a short cut 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’t all behave so properly as you. But years afterwards it could hardly have 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 I have 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 anyone 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 Madame de 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 opinion she 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 I should do very well for a penwiper! When things have come to that I don’t think I need stand upon ceremony.”

“Decidedly not,” said Newman. “Go on, Mrs. Bread.”

太太。 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 eldest son had been two years married. It was when the time came on for marrying Mademoiselle Claire; that’s the way they talk of it here, you know, sir. The marquis’s health was bad; he was very much broken down. My lady had picked out M. de Cintré, 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. 老M。 de Cintré was very high, and my lady thought him almost as good as herself; that’s saying a good deal. 先生。 Urbain took sides with his mother, as he always did. The trouble, I believe, was that my lady would give very little money, and all the other gentlemen asked more. It was only M. de Cintré that was satisfied. The Lord willed it he 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 was very grand in his bows and speeches; but that was all the grandeur he 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 take such a husband as that Mademoiselle Claire should take none at all. He and my lady had a great scene; it came even to our ears in 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 taken to 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 speak of 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 letters to M. de Cintré. 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 him up gladly. When once he was out of the way she could do what she pleased with her daughter, and it was all arranged that my poor innocent child should be handed over to M. de Cintré. You don’t know what Mademoiselle was in those days, sir; she was the sweetest young creature in France, and knew as little of what 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 Fleurières, in the autumn. We had a doctor from 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 marquis couldn’t be saved. After this they went off, pocketing their 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 look after 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 suddenly began to mend. He got better and better, till the doctor said he was out of danger. What was killing him was the dreadful fits 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 white stuff that we kept in a great bottle on the chimney-piece. I used to give it to the marquis through a glass tube; it always made him easier. Then the doctor went away, after telling me 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 maid told me that she didn’t like to be where people were dying.” Mrs. Bread paused a moment, and then she went on with the same quiet consistency.

Newman had listened eagerly—with an eagerness greater even than that with which he had bent his ear to Valentin de Bellegarde’s last words. Every now and then, as his companion looked up at him, she reminded him of an ancient tabby cat, protracting the enjoyment of a dish of milk. Even her triumph was measured and decorous; the faculty of exultation 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 complaining a 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 far more 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 took hold of his hand. Then she turned to me and said he was not so 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 I didn’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 going he 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 very proud 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 wife and his son. It was as if I expected to hear the marquis moaning 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 downstairs. In the anteroom, outside of the marquis’s chamber, I found Mr. Urbain walking up and down. He asked me what 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 room opened and my lady came out. I noticed she was very pale; she was very strange. She looked a moment at the count and 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 a dead 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 père, mon père.’ I thought it wonderful strange, and asked my lady what in the world had happened, and why she hadn’t called me. She said nothing had happened; that she had only been sitting there with the marquis, very quiet. She had closed her 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 mother and went away. My lady and I stood there at the bedside. As I looked at the poor marquis it came into my head that 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 there and waited. It was a long time; the poor marquis neither stirred 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 without the count’s coming back, and my lady began to be frightened. She was afraid he had had an accident in the dark, or met with some wild people. At last she got so restless that she went 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 of romancers could not have been more effective. Newman made a movement as if he were turning over the page of a novel. “So he 是 dead!” he exclaimed.

“Three days afterwards he was in his grave,” said Mrs. Bread, sententiously. “In a little while I went away 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 him to 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 sign to 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 get well 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 into his hand, and moved the candle near him. You will think all 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 bed and 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 big scratching 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 it was ended, and I let him down upon his pillows and he gave me the paper and told me to fold it, and hide it, and give it to 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 minutes he told me to go and look at the bottle on the chimney-piece. I knew the bottle he meant; the white stuff that was good for his stomach. I went and looked at it, but it was empty. When I came back his eyes were open and he was staring at me; but soon he closed them and he said no more. I hid the paper in my dress; I didn’t look at what was written upon it, though I can read very well, sir, if I haven’t any handwriting. I sat down near the bed, but it was nearly half an hour before my lady and the count came in. The marquis looked as he did when they left him, and I never said a word about his having been otherwise. 先生。 Urbain said that the doctor had been called to a person in childbirth, but that he promised to set out for Fleurières immediately. In another half hour he arrived, and as soon as he had examined 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 they looked at each other, and I am obliged to admit that they didn’t. The doctor said there was no reason he should die; he had been going on so well. And then he wanted to know how he had suddenly fallen off; he had left him so very hearty. My lady told her little story again—what she had told Mr. Urbain and me—and the doctor looked at her and said nothing. He stayed all the next day at the château, and hardly left the marquis. I was always there. Mademoiselle and Mr. Valentin came 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 had been disobeyed. It was as if the poor marquis had defied her; and the way she took it made me afraid of her. The apothecary from Poitiers kept the marquis along through the day, and we waited for the other doctor from Paris, who, as I told you, had been staying at Fleurières. They had telegraphed for him early in the morning, and in the evening he arrived. He talked a bit outside with the doctor from Poitiers, and then they came in to see the marquis together. I was with him, and so was Mr. 城市的。 My lady had been to receive the doctor from 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 his hand on the marquis’s wrist, and Mr. Urbain watching him with a 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 up to 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 seemed to have a kind of spasm. He shook all over and then closed his 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!

Newman felt as if he had been reading by starlight the report of highly important evidence in a great murder case. “And the paper—the paper!” he said, excitedly. “What was written 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 pressed it 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.

“我相信 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 someone?”

“To whom should I show it?” answered Mrs. Bread, mournfully. “It was not easy to know, and many’s the night I have lain 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 duty to do something with it, and yet I was mightily afraid. I didn’t know what was written on the paper or how bad it might 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 down so shamefully; for that’s what he did, I suppose. I thought she would 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, and he 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 fell on my lady was a most shocking sight for anyone. The medical gentleman from 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 went about my business. If I were to tell him, I was sure he would hate me afterwards, and that I could never have borne. Once I went up to him and took 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 unasked question in his mind, as I did with my untold tale; we were both afraid of bringing 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. Urbain asked 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 talking scandal 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 anyone. 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 practice in Bordeaux, and if there has been any gossip it died out. And I don’t think there could have been much gossip about my lady that anyone 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 the homeward path. “Yes,” he said, “my lady’s respectability is delicious; it will be a great crash!” They reached the empty space in front of the church, where they stopped a moment, looking at each other with something 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 and helpless as he was, he was frightened, he was terrified. ‘You want to kill me,’ he said. ‘Yes, M. le Marquis, I want to kill 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 nothing until 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 you to 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 house upside down, I would rather be out of it.”

“Oh,” said Newman, in the cheerful tone of a man who feels rich in 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 château; the curfew had tolled for the laborious villagers of Fleurières, and the street was unlighted and empty. She promised him that he should have the marquis’s manuscript in half an hour. Mrs. Bread choosing not to go in by the great gate, they passed round by a winding lane to a door in the wall of the park, of which she had the key, and which would enable her to enter the château from behind. Newman arranged with her that he should await outside the wall her return with 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 wall opened and Mrs. Bread stood there, with one hand on the latch and 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 必须 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 toward the solitary lamp on the chimney-piece. He pulled out the paper and 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 Cintré. 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”

Newman returned to Paris the second day after his interview with Mrs. Bread. The morrow he had spent at Poitiers, reading over and over again the little document which he had lodged in his pocket-book, and thinking what he would do in the circumstances and how he would do it. He would not have said that Poitiers was an amusing place; yet the day seemed very short. Domiciled once more in the Boulevard Haussmann, he walked over to the Rue de l’Université and inquired of Madame de Bellegarde’s portress whether the marquise had come back. The portress told him that she had arrived, with M. le Marquis, on the preceding day, and further informed him that if he desired to enter, Madame de Bellegarde and her son were both at home. As she said these words the little white-faced old woman who peered out of the dusky gate-house of the Hôtel de Bellegarde gave a small wicked smile—a smile which seemed to Newman to mean, “Go in if you dare!” She was evidently versed in the current domestic history; she was placed where she could feel the pulse of the house. Newman stood a moment, twisting his moustache and looking at her; then he abruptly turned away. But this was not because he was afraid to go in—though he doubted whether, if he did so, he should be able to make his way, unchallenged, into the presence of Madame de Cintré’s relatives. Confidence—excessive confidence, perhaps—quite as much as timidity prompted his retreat. He was nursing his thunderbolt; he loved it; he was unwilling to part with it. He seemed to be holding it aloft in the rumbling, vaguely-flashing air, directly over the heads of his victims, and he fancied he could see their pale, upturned faces. Few specimens of the human countenance had ever given him such pleasure as these, lighted in the lurid fashion I have hinted at, and he was disposed to sip the cup of contemplative revenge in a leisurely fashion. It must be added, too, that he was at a loss to see exactly how he could arrange to witness the operation of his thunder. To send in his card to Madame de Bellegarde would be a waste of ceremony; she would certainly decline to receive him. On the other hand he could not force his way into her presence. It annoyed him keenly to think that he might be reduced to the blind satisfaction of writing her a letter; but he consoled himself in a measure with the reflection that a letter might lead to an interview. He went home, and feeling rather tired—nursing a vengeance was, it must be confessed, a rather fatiguing process; it took a good deal out of one—flung himself into one of his brocaded fauteuils, stretched his legs, thrust his hands into his pockets, and, while he watched the reflected sunset fading from the ornate house-tops on the opposite side of the Boulevard, began mentally to compose a cool epistle to Madame de Bellegarde. While he was so occupied his servant threw open the door and announced ceremoniously, “Madame Brett!”

Newman roused himself, expectantly, and in a few moments perceived upon his threshold the worthy woman with whom he had conversed to such good purpose on the starlit hill-top of Fleurières. Mrs. Bread had made for this visit the same toilet as for her former expedition. Newman was struck with her distinguished appearance. His lamp was not lit, and as her large, grave face gazed at him through the light dusk from under the shadow of her ample bonnet, he felt the incongruity of such a person presenting herself as a servant. He greeted her with high geniality and bade her come in and sit down and make herself comfortable. There was something which might have touched the springs both of mirth and of melancholy in the ancient maidenliness with which Mrs. Bread endeavored to comply with these directions. She was not playing at being fluttered, which would have been simply ridiculous; she was doing her best to carry herself as a person so humble that, for her, even embarrassment would have been pretentious; but evidently she had never dreamed of its being in her horoscope to pay a visit, at night-fall, to a friendly single gentleman who lived in theatrical-looking rooms on one of the new Boulevards.

“I truly hope I am not forgetting my place, sir,” she murmured.

“Forgetting your place?” cried Newman. “Why, you are remembering it. This is your place, you know. You are already in my service; your wages, as housekeeper, began a fortnight ago. I can tell you my house wants keeping! Why don’t you take off your bonnet and stay?”

“Take off my bonnet?” said Mrs. Bread, with timid literalness. “Oh, sir, I haven’t my cap. And with your leave, sir, I couldn’t keep house in my best gown.”

“Never mind your gown,” said Newman, cheerfully. “You shall have a better gown than that.”

Mrs. Bread stared solemnly and then stretched her hands over her lustreless satin skirt, as if the perilous side of her situation were defining itself. “Oh, sir, I am fond of my own clothes,” she murmured.

“I hope you have left those wicked people, at any rate,” said Newman.

“Well, sir, here I am!” said Mrs. Bread. “That’s all I can tell you. Here I sit, poor Catherine Bread. It’s a strange place for me to be. I don’t know myself; I never supposed I was so bold. But indeed, sir, I have gone as far as my own strength will bear me.”

“Oh, come, Mrs. Bread,” said Newman, almost caressingly, “don’t make yourself uncomfortable. Now’s the time to feel lively, you know.”

She began to speak again with a trembling voice. “I think it would be more respectable if I could—if I could”—and her voice trembled to a pause.

“If you could give up this sort of thing altogether?” said Newman kindly, trying to anticipate her meaning, which he supposed might be a wish to retire from service.

“If I could give up everything, sir! All I should ask is a decent Protestant burial.”

“Burial!” cried Newman, with a burst of laughter. “Why, to bury you now would be a sad piece of extravagance. It’s only rascals who have to be buried to get respectable. Honest folks like you and me can live our time out—and live together. Come! Did you bring your baggage?”

“My box is locked and corded; but I haven’t yet spoken to my lady.”

“Speak to her, then, and have done with it. I should like to have your chance!” cried Newman.

“I would gladly give it you, sir. I have passed some weary hours in my lady’s dressing-room; but this will be one of the longest. She will tax me with ingratitude.”

“Well,” said Newman, “so long as you can tax her with murder—”

“Oh, sir, I can’t; not I,” sighed Mrs. Bread.

“You don’t mean to say anything about it? So much the better. Leave that to me.”

“If she calls me a thankless old woman,” said Mrs. Bread, “I shall have nothing to say. But it is better so,” she softly added. “She shall be my lady to the last. That will be more respectable.”

“And then you will come to me and I shall be your gentleman,” said Newman; “that will be more respectable still!”

Mrs. Bread rose, with lowered eyes, and stood a moment; then, looking up, she rested her eyes upon Newman’s face. The disordered proprieties were somehow settling to rest. She looked at Newman so long and so fixedly, with such a dull, intense devotedness, that he himself might have had a pretext for embarrassment. At last she said gently, “You are not looking well, sir.”

“That’s natural enough,” said Newman. “I have nothing to feel well about. To be very indifferent and very fierce, very dull and very jovial, very sick and very lively, all at once,—why, it rather mixes one up.”

Mrs. Bread gave a noiseless sigh. “I can tell you something that will make you feel duller still, if you want to feel all one way. About Madame de Cintré.”

“What can you tell me?” Newman demanded. “Not that you have seen her?”

She shook her head. “No, indeed, sir, nor ever shall. That’s the dullness of it. Nor my lady. Nor M. de Bellegarde.”

“You mean that she is kept so close.”

“Close, close,” said Mrs. Bread, very softly.

These words, for an instant, seemed to check the beating of Newman’s heart. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the old woman. “They have tried to see her, and she wouldn’t—she couldn’t?”

“She refused—forever! I had it from my lady’s own maid,” said Mrs. Bread, “who had it from my lady. To speak of it to such a person my lady must have felt the shock. Madame de Cintré won’t see them now, and now is her only chance. A while hence she will have no chance.”

“You mean the other women—the mothers, the daughters, the sisters; what is it they call them?—won’t let her?”

“It is what they call the rule of the house,—or of the order, I believe,” said Mrs. Bread. “There is no rule so strict as that of the Carmelites. The bad women in the reformatories are fine ladies to them. They wear old brown cloaks—so the 女佣 told me—that you wouldn’t use for a horse blanket. And the poor countess was so fond of soft-feeling dresses; she would never have anything stiff! They sleep on the ground,” Mrs. Bread went on; “they are no better, no better,”—and she hesitated for a comparison,—“they are no better than tinkers’ wives. They give up everything, down to the very name their poor old nurses called them by. They give up father and mother, brother and sister,—to say nothing of other persons,” Mrs. Bread delicately added. “They wear a shroud under their brown cloaks and a rope round their waists, and they get up on winter nights and go off into cold places to pray to the Virgin Mary. The Virgin Mary is a hard mistress!”

Mrs. Bread, dwelling on these terrible facts, sat dry-eyed and pale, with her hands clasped in her satin lap. Newman gave a melancholy groan and fell forward, leaning his head on his hands. There was a long silence, broken only by the ticking of the great gilded clock on the chimney-piece.

“Where is this place—where is the convent?” Newman asked at last, looking up.

“There are two houses,” said Mrs. Bread. “I found out; I thought you would like to know—though it’s poor comfort, I think. One is in the Avenue de Messine; they have learned that Madame de Cintré is there. The other is in the Rue d’Enfer. That’s a terrible name; I suppose you know what it means.”

Newman got up and walked away to the end of his long room. When he came back Mrs. Bread had got up, and stood by the fire with folded hands. “Tell me this,” he said. “Can I get near her—even if I don’t see her? Can I look through a grating, or some such thing, at the place where she is?”

It is said that all women love a lover, and Mrs. Bread’s sense of the pre-established harmony which kept servants in their “place,” even as planets in their orbits (not that Mrs. Bread had ever consciously likened herself to a planet), barely availed to temper the maternal melancholy with which she leaned her head on one side and gazed at her new employer. She probably felt for the moment as if, forty years before, she had held him also in her arms. “That wouldn’t help you, sir. It would only make her seem farther away.”

“I want to go there, at all events,” said Newman. “Avenue de Messine, you say? And what is it they call themselves?”

“Carmelites,” said Mrs. Bread.

“I shall remember that.”

Mrs. Bread hesitated a moment, and then, “It’s my duty to tell you this, sir,” she went on. “The convent has a chapel, and some people are admitted on Sunday to the mass. You don’t see the poor creatures that are shut up there, but I am told you can hear them sing. It’s a wonder they have any heart for singing! Some Sunday I shall make bold to go. It seems to me I should know 这里 voice in fifty.”

Newman looked at his visitor very gratefully; then he held out his hand and shook hers. “Thank you,” he said. “If anyone can get in, I will.” A moment later Mrs. Bread proposed, deferentially, to retire, but he checked her and put a lighted candle into her hand. “There are half a dozen rooms there I don’t use,” he said, pointing through an open door. “Go and look at them and take your choice. You can live in the one you like best.” From this bewildering opportunity Mrs. Bread at first recoiled; but finally, yielding to Newman’s gentle, reassuring push, she wandered off into the dusk with her tremulous taper. She remained absent a quarter of an hour, during which Newman paced up and down, stopped occasionally to look out of the window at the lights on the Boulevard, and then resumed his walk. Mrs. Bread’s relish for her investigation apparently increased as she proceeded; but at last she reappeared and deposited her candlestick on the chimney-piece.

“Well, have you picked one out?” asked Newman.

“A room, sir? They are all too fine for a dingy old body like me. There isn’t one that hasn’t a bit of gilding.”

“It’s only tinsel, Mrs. Bread,” said Newman. “If you stay there a while it will all peel off of itself.” And he gave a dismal smile.

“Oh, sir, there are things enough peeling off already!” rejoined Mrs. Bread, with a head-shake. “Since I was there I thought I would look about me. I don’t believe you know, sir. The corners are most dreadful. You do want a housekeeper, that you do; you want a tidy Englishwoman that isn’t above taking hold of a broom.”

Newman assured her that he suspected, if he had not measured, his domestic abuses, and that to reform them was a mission worthy of her powers. She held her candlestick aloft again and looked around the salon with compassionate glances; then she intimated that she accepted the mission, and that its sacred character would sustain her in her rupture with Madame de Bellegarde. With this she curtsied herself away.

She came back the next day with her worldly goods, and Newman, going into his drawing-room, found her upon her aged knees before a divan, sewing up some detached fringe. He questioned her as to her leave-taking with her late mistress, and she said it had proved easier than she feared. “I was perfectly civil, sir, but the Lord helped me to remember that a good woman has no call to tremble before a bad one.”

“I should think so!” cried Newman. “And does she know you have come to me?”

“She asked me where I was going, and I mentioned your name,” said Mrs. Bread.

“What did she say to that?”

“She looked at me very hard, and she turned very red. Then she bade me leave her. I was all ready to go, and I had got the coachman, who is an Englishman, to bring down my poor box and to fetch me a cab. But when I went down myself to the gate I found it closed. My lady had sent orders to the porter not to let me pass, and by the same orders the porter’s wife—she is a dreadful sly old body—had gone out in a cab to fetch home M. de Bellegarde from his club.”

Newman slapped his knee. “She is scared! she is scared!” he cried, exultantly.

“I was frightened too, sir,” said Mrs. Bread, “but I was also mightily vexed. I took it very high with the porter and asked him by what right he used violence to an honorable Englishwoman who had lived in the house for thirty years before he was heard of. Oh, sir, I was very grand, and I brought the man down. He drew his bolts and let me out, and I promised the cabman something handsome if he would drive fast. But he was terribly slow; it seemed as if we should never reach your blessed door. I am all of a tremble still; it took me five minutes, just now, to thread my needle.”

Newman told her, with a gleeful laugh, that if she chose she might have a little maid on purpose to thread her needles; and he went away murmuring to himself again that the old woman 是 scared—she 是 scared!

He had not shown Mrs. Tristram the little paper that he carried in his pocket-book, but since his return to Paris he had seen her several times, and she had told him that he seemed to her to be in a strange way—an even stranger way than his sad situation made natural. Had his disappointment gone to his head? He looked like a man who was going to be ill, and yet she had never seen him more restless and active. One day he would sit hanging his head and looking as if he were firmly resolved never to smile again; another he would indulge in laughter that was almost unseemly and make jokes that were bad even for him. If he was trying to carry off his sorrow, he at such times really went too far. She begged him of all things not to be “strange.” Feeling in a measure responsible as she did for the affair which had turned out so ill for him, she could endure anything but his strangeness. He might be melancholy if he would, or he might be stoical; he might be cross and cantankerous with her and ask her why she had ever dared to meddle with his destiny: to this she would submit; for this she would make allowances. Only, for Heaven’s sake, let him not be incoherent. That would be extremely unpleasant. It was like people talking in their sleep; they always frightened her. And Mrs. Tristram intimated that, taking very high ground as regards the moral obligation which events had laid upon her, she proposed not to rest quiet until she should have confronted him with the least inadequate substitute for Madame de Cintré that the two hemispheres contained.

“Oh,” said Newman, “we are even now, and we had better not open a new account! You may bury me some day, but you shall never marry me. It’s too rough. I hope, at any rate,” he added, “that there is nothing incoherent in this—that I want to go next Sunday to the Carmelite chapel in the Avenue de Messine. You know one of the Catholic ministers—an abbé, is that it?—I have seen him here, you know; that motherly old gentleman with the big waistband. Please ask him if I need a special leave to go in, and if I do, beg him to obtain it for me.”

Mrs. Tristram gave expression to the liveliest joy. “I am so glad you have asked me to do something!” she cried. “You shall get into the chapel if the abbé is disfrocked for his share in it.” And two days afterwards she told him that it was all arranged; the abbé was enchanted to serve him, and if he would present himself civilly at the convent gate there would be no difficulty.

Sunday was as yet two days off; but meanwhile, to beguile his impatience, Newman took his way to the Avenue de Messine and got what comfort he could in staring at the blank outer wall of Madame de Cintré’s present residence. The street in question, as some travelers will remember, adjoins the Parc Monceau, which is one of the prettiest corners of Paris. The quarter has an air of modern opulence and convenience which seems at variance with the ascetic institution, and the impression made upon Newman’s gloomily-irritated gaze by the fresh-looking, windowless expanse behind which the woman he loved was perhaps even then pledging herself to pass the rest of her days was less exasperating than he had feared. The place suggested a convent with the modern improvements—an asylum in which privacy, though unbroken, might be not quite identical with privation, and meditation, though monotonous, might be of a cheerful cast. And yet he knew the case was otherwise; only at present it was not a reality to him. It was too strange and too mocking to be real; it was like a page torn out of a romance, with no context in his own experience.

On Sunday morning, at the hour which Mrs. Tristram had indicated, he rang at the gate in the blank wall. It instantly opened and admitted him into a clean, cold-looking court, from beyond which a dull, plain edifice looked down upon him. A robust lay sister with a cheerful complexion emerged from a porter’s lodge, and, on his stating his errand, pointed to the open door of the chapel, an edifice which occupied the right side of the court and was preceded by the high flight of steps. Newman ascended the steps and immediately entered the open door. Service had not yet begun; the place was dimly lighted, and it was some moments before he could distinguish its features. Then he saw it was divided by a large close iron screen into two unequal portions. The altar was on the hither side of the screen, and between it and the entrance were disposed several benches and chairs. Three or four of these were occupied by vague, motionless figures—figures that he presently perceived to be women, deeply absorbed in their devotion. The place seemed to Newman very cold; the smell of the incense itself was cold. Besides this there was a twinkle of tapers and here and there a glow of colored glass. Newman seated himself; the praying women kept still, with their backs turned. He saw they were visitors like himself and he would have liked to see their faces; for he believed that they were the mourning mothers and sisters of other women who had had the same pitiless courage as Madame de Cintré. But they were better off than he, for they at least shared the faith to which the others had sacrificed themselves. Three or four persons came in; two of them were elderly gentlemen. Everyone was very quiet. Newman fastened his eyes upon the screen behind the altar. That was the convent, the real convent, the place where she was. But he could see nothing; no light came through the crevices. He got up and approached the partition very gently, trying to look through. But behind it there was darkness, with nothing stirring. He went back to his place, and after that a priest and two altar boys came in and began to say mass.

Newman watched their genuflections and gyrations with a grim, still enmity; they seemed aids and abettors of Madame de Cintré’s desertion; they were mouthing and droning out their triumph. The priest’s long, dismal intonings acted upon his nerves and deepened his wrath; there was something defiant in his unintelligible drawl; it seemed meant for Newman himself. Suddenly there arose from the depths of the chapel, from behind the inexorable grating, a sound which drew his attention from the altar—the sound of a strange, lugubrious chant, uttered by women’s voices. It began softly, but it presently grew louder, and as it increased it became more of a wail and a dirge. It was the chant of the Carmelite nuns, their only human utterance. It was their dirge over their buried affections and over the vanity of earthly desires. At first Newman was bewildered—almost stunned—by the strangeness of the sound; then, as he comprehended its meaning, he listened intently and his heart began to throb. He listened for Madame de Cintré’s voice, and in the very heart of the tuneless harmony he imagined he made it out. (We are obliged to believe that he was wrong, inasmuch as she had obviously not yet had time to become a member of the invisible sisterhood.) The chant kept on, mechanical and monotonous, with dismal repetitions and despairing cadences. It was hideous, it was horrible; as it continued, Newman felt that he needed all his self-control. He was growing more agitated; he felt tears in his eyes. At last, as in its full force the thought came over him that this confused, impersonal wail was all that either he or the world she had deserted should ever hear of the voice he had found so sweet, he felt that he could bear it no longer. He rose abruptly and made his way out. On the threshold he paused, listened again to the dreary strain, and then hastily descended into the court. As he did so he saw the good sister with the high-colored cheeks and the fanlike frill to her coiffure, who had admitted him, was in conference at the gate with two persons who had just come in. A second glance informed him that these persons were Madame de Bellegarde and her son, and that they were about to avail themselves of that method of approach to Madame de Cintré which Newman had found but a mockery of consolation. As he crossed the court M. de Bellegarde recognized him; the marquis was coming to the steps, leading his mother. The old lady also gave Newman a look, and it resembled that of her son. Both faces expressed a franker perturbation, something more akin to the humbleness of dismay, than Newman had yet seen in them. Evidently he startled the Bellegardes, and they had not their grand behavior immediately in hand. Newman hurried past them, guided only by the desire to get out of the convent walls and into the street. The gate opened itself at his approach; he strode over the threshold and it closed behind him. A carriage which appeared to have been standing there, was just turning away from the sidewalk. Newman looked at it for a moment, blankly; then he became conscious, through the dusky mist that swam before his eyes, that a lady seated in it was bowing to him. The vehicle had turned away before he recognized her; it was an ancient landau with one half the cover lowered. The lady’s bow was very positive and accompanied with a smile; a little girl was seated beside her. He raised his hat, and then the lady bade the coachman stop. The carriage halted again beside the pavement, and she sat there and beckoned to Newman—beckoned with the demonstrative grace of Madame Urbain de Bellegarde. Newman hesitated a moment before he obeyed her summons, during this moment he had time to curse his stupidity for letting the others escape him. He had been wondering how he could get at them; fool that he was for not stopping them then and there! What better place than beneath the very prison walls to which they had consigned the promise of his joy? He had been too bewildered to stop them, but now he felt ready to wait for them at the gate. Madame Urbain, with a certain attractive petulance, beckoned to him again, and this time he went over to the carriage.

“Ah, monsieur,” she said, “you don’t include me in your wrath? I had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose 您 could have prevented it!” Newman answered in a tone which was not that of studied gallantry.

“What you say is too true for me to resent the small account it makes of my influence. I forgive you, at any rate, because you look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“I have!” said Newman.

“I am glad, then, I didn’t go in with Madame de Bellegarde and my husband. You must have seen them, eh? Was the meeting affectionate? Did you hear the chanting? They say it’s like the lamentations of the damned. I wouldn’t go in: one is certain to hear that soon enough. Poor Claire—in a white shroud and a big brown cloak! That’s the 香水 of the Carmelites, you know. Well, she was always fond of long, loose things. But I must not speak of her to you; only I must say that I am very sorry for you, that if I could have helped you I would, and that I think everyone has been very shabby. I was afraid of it, you know; I felt it in the air for a fortnight before it came. When I saw you at my mother-in-law’s ball, taking it all so easily, I felt as if you were dancing on your grave. But what could I do? I wish you all the good I can think of. You will say that isn’t much! Yes; they have been very shabby; I am not a bit afraid to say it; I assure you everyone thinks so. We are not all like that. I am sorry I am not going to see you again; you know I think you very good company. I would prove it by asking you to get into the carriage and drive with me for a quarter of an hour, while I wait for my mother-in-law. Only if we were seen—considering what has passed, and everyone knows you have been turned away—it might be thought I was going a little too far, even for me. But I shall see you sometimes—somewhere, eh? You know”—this was said in English—“we have a plan for a little amusement.”

Newman stood there with his hand on the carriage-door listening to this consolatory murmur with an unlighted eye. He hardly knew what Madame de Bellegarde was saying; he was only conscious that she was chattering ineffectively. But suddenly it occurred to him that, with her pretty professions, there was a way of making her effective; she might help him to get at the old woman and the marquis. “They are coming back soon—your companions?” he said. “You are waiting for them?”

“They will hear the mass out; there is nothing to keep them longer. Claire has refused to see them.”

“I want to speak to them,” said Newman; “and you can help me, you can do me a favor. Delay your return for five minutes and give me a chance at them. I will wait for them here.”

Madame de Bellegarde clasped her hands with a tender grimace. “My poor friend, what do you want to do to them? To beg them to come back to you? It will be wasted words. They will never come back!”

“I want to speak to them, all the same. Pray do what I ask you. Stay away and leave them to me for five minutes; you needn’t be afraid; I shall not be violent; I am very quiet.”

“Yes, you look very quiet! If they had le cœur tendre you would move them. But they haven’t! However, I will do better for you than what you propose. The understanding is not that I shall come back for them. I am going into the Parc Monceau with my little girl to give her a walk, and my mother-in-law, who comes so rarely into this quarter, is to profit by the same opportunity to take the air. We are to wait for her in the park, where my husband is to bring her to us. Follow me now; just within the gates I shall get out of my carriage. Sit down on a chair in some quiet corner and I will bring them near you. There’s devotion for you! Le reste vous regarde设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

This proposal seemed to Newman extremely felicitous; it revived his drooping spirit, and he reflected that Madame Urbain was not such a goose as she seemed. He promised immediately to overtake her, and the carriage drove away.

The Parc Monceau is a very pretty piece of landscape-gardening, but Newman, passing into it, bestowed little attention upon its elegant vegetation, which was full of the freshness of spring. He found Madame de Bellegarde promptly, seated in one of the quiet corners of which she had spoken, while before her, in the alley, her little girl, attended by the footman and the lap-dog, walked up and down as if she were taking a lesson in deportment. Newman sat down beside the mamma, and she talked a great deal, apparently with the design of convincing him that—if he would only see it—poor dear Claire did not belong to the most fascinating type of woman. She was too tall and thin, too stiff and cold; her mouth was too wide and her nose too narrow. She had no dimples anywhere. And then she was eccentric, eccentric in cold blood; she was an Anglaise, after all. Newman was very impatient; he was counting the minutes until his victims should reappear. He sat silent, leaning upon his cane, looking absently and insensibly at the little marquise. At length Madame de Bellegarde said she would walk toward the gate of the park and meet her companions; but before she went she dropped her eyes, and, after playing a moment with the lace of her sleeve, looked up again at Newman.

“Do you remember,” she asked, “the promise you made me three weeks ago?” And then, as Newman, vainly consulting his memory, was obliged to confess that the promise had escaped it, she declared that he had made her, at the time, a very queer answer—an answer at which, viewing it in the light of the sequel, she had fair ground for taking offense. “You promised to take me to Bullier’s after your marriage. After your marriage—you made a great point of that. Three days after that your marriage was broken off. Do you know, when I heard the news, the first thing I said to myself? ‘Oh heaven, now he won’t go with me to Bullier’s!’ And I really began to wonder if you had not been expecting the rupture.”

“Oh, my dear lady,” murmured Newman, looking down the path to see if the others were not coming.

“I shall be good-natured,” said Madame de Bellegarde. “One must not ask too much of a gentleman who is in love with a cloistered nun. Besides, I can’t go to Bullier’s while we are in mourning. But I haven’t given it up for that. The 游戏 is arranged; I have my cavalier. Lord Deepmere, if you please! He has gone back to his dear Dublin; but a few months hence I am to name any evening and he will come over from Ireland, on purpose. That’s what I call gallantry!”

Shortly after this Madame de Bellegarde walked away with her little girl. Newman sat in his place; the time seemed terribly long. He felt how fiercely his quarter of an hour in the convent chapel had raked over the glowing coals of his resentment. Madame de Bellegarde kept him waiting, but she proved as good as her word. At last she reappeared at the end of the path, with her little girl and her footman; beside her slowly walked her husband, with his mother on his arm. They were a long time advancing, during which Newman sat unmoved. Tingling as he was with passion, it was extremely characteristic of him that he was able to moderate his expression of it, as he would have turned down a flaring gas-burner. His native coolness, shrewdness, and deliberateness, his life-long submissiveness to the sentiment that words were acts and acts were steps in life, and that in this matter of taking steps curveting and prancing were exclusively reserved for quadrupeds and foreigners—all this admonished him that rightful wrath had no connection with being a fool and indulging in spectacular violence. So as he rose, when old Madame de Bellegarde and her son were close to him, he only felt very tall and light. He had been sitting beside some shrubbery, in such a way as not to be noticeable at a distance; but M. de Bellegarde had evidently already perceived him. His mother and he were holding their course, but Newman stepped in front of them, and they were obliged to pause. He lifted his hat slightly, and looked at them for a moment; they were pale with amazement and disgust.

“Excuse me for stopping you,” he said in a low tone, “but I must profit by the occasion. I have ten words to say to you. Will you listen to them?”

The marquis glared at him and then turned to his mother. “Can Mr. Newman possibly have anything to say that is worth our listening to?”

“I assure you I have something,” said Newman, “besides, it is my duty to say it. It’s a notification—a warning.”

“Your duty?” said old Madame de Bellegarde, her thin lips curving like scorched paper. “That is your affair, not ours.”

Madame Urbain meanwhile had seized her little girl by the hand, with a gesture of surprise and impatience which struck Newman, intent as he was upon his own words, with its dramatic effectiveness. “If Mr. Newman is going to make a scene in public,” she exclaimed, “I will take my poor child out of the 乱斗. She is too young to see such naughtiness!” and she instantly resumed her walk.

“You had much better listen to me,” Newman went on. “Whether you do or not, things will be disagreeable for you; but at any rate you will be prepared.”

“We have already heard something of your threats,” said the marquis, “and you know what we think of them.”

“You think a good deal more than you admit. A moment,” Newman added in reply to an exclamation of the old lady. “I remember perfectly that we are in a public place, and you see I am very quiet. I am not going to tell your secret to the passers-by; I shall keep it, to begin with, for certain picked listeners. Anyone who observes us will think that we are having a friendly chat, and that I am complimenting you, madam, on your venerable virtues.”

The marquis gave three short sharp raps on the ground with his stick. “I demand of you to step out of our path!” he hissed.

Newman instantly complied, and M. de Bellegarde stepped forward with his mother. Then Newman said, “Half an hour hence Madame de Bellegarde will regret that she didn’t learn exactly what I mean.”

The marquise had taken a few steps, but at these words she paused, looking at Newman with eyes like two scintillating globules of ice. “You are like a peddler with something to sell,” she said, with a little cold laugh which only partially concealed the tremor in her voice.

“Oh, no, not to sell,” Newman rejoined; “I give it to you for nothing.” And he approached nearer to her, looking her straight in the eyes. “You killed your husband,” he said, almost in a whisper. “That is, you tried once and failed, and then, without trying, you succeeded.”

Madame de Bellegarde closed her eyes and gave a little cough, which, as a piece of dissimulation, struck Newman as really heroic. “Dear mother,” said the marquis, “does this stuff amuse you so much?”

“The rest is more amusing,” said Newman. “You had better not lose it.”

Madame de Bellegarde opened her eyes; the scintillations had gone out of them; they were fixed and dead. But she smiled superbly with her narrow little lips, and repeated Newman’s word. “Amusing? Have I killed someone else?”

“I don’t count your daughter,” said Newman, “though I might! Your husband knew what you were doing. I have a proof of it whose existence you have never suspected.” And he turned to the marquis, who was terribly white—whiter than Newman had ever seen anyone out of a picture. “A paper written by the hand, and signed with the name, of Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde. Written after you, madam, had left him for dead, and while you, sir, had gone—not very fast—for the doctor.”

The marquis looked at his mother; she turned away, looking vaguely round her. “I must sit down,” she said in a low tone, going toward the bench on which Newman had been sitting.

“Couldn’t you have spoken to me alone?” said the marquis to Newman, with a strange look.

“Well, yes, if I could have been sure of speaking to your mother alone, too,” Newman answered. “But I have had to take you as I could get you.”

Madame de Bellegarde, with a movement very eloquent of what he would have called her “grit,” her steel-cold pluck and her instinctive appeal to her own personal resources, drew her hand out of her son’s arm and went and seated herself upon the bench. There she remained, with her hands folded in her lap, looking straight at Newman. The expression of her face was such that he fancied at first that she was smiling; but he went and stood in front of her and saw that her elegant features were distorted by agitation. He saw, however, equally, that she was resisting her agitation with all the rigor of her inflexible will, and there was nothing like either fear or submission in her stony stare. She had been startled, but she was not terrified. Newman had an exasperating feeling that she would get the better of him still; he would not have believed it possible that he could so utterly fail to be touched by the sight of a woman (criminal or other) in so tight a place. Madame de Bellegarde gave a glance at her son which seemed tantamount to an injunction to be silent and leave her to her own devices. The marquis stood beside her, with his hands behind him, looking at Newman.

“What paper is this you speak of?” asked the old lady, with an imitation of tranquillity which would have been applauded in a veteran actress.

“Exactly what I have told you,” said Newman. “A paper written by your husband after you had left him for dead, and during the couple of hours before you returned. You see he had the time; you shouldn’t have stayed away so long. It declares distinctly his wife’s murderous intent.”

“I should like to see it,” Madame de Bellegarde observed.

“I thought you might,” said Newman, “and I have taken a copy.” And he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small, folded sheet.

“Give it to my son,” said Madame de Bellegarde. Newman handed it to the marquis, whose mother, glancing at him, said simply, “Look at it.” M. de Bellegarde’s eyes had a pale eagerness which it was useless for him to try to dissimulate; he took the paper in his light-gloved fingers and opened it. There was a silence, during which he read it. He had more than time to read it, but still he said nothing; he stood staring at it. “Where is the original?” asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a voice which was really a consummate negation of impatience.

“In a very safe place. Of course I can’t show you that,” said Newman. “You might want to take hold of it,” he added with conscious quaintness. “But that’s a very correct copy—except, of course, the handwriting. I am keeping the original to show someone else.”

M. de Bellegarde at last looked up, and his eyes were still very eager. “To whom do you mean to show it?”

“Well, I’m thinking of beginning with the duchess,” said Newman; “that stout lady I saw at your ball. She asked me to come and see her, you know. I thought at the moment I shouldn’t have much to say to her; but my little document will give us something to talk about.”

“You had better keep it, my son,” said Madame de Bellegarde.

“By all means,” said Newman; “keep it and show it to your mother when you get home.”

“And after showing it to the duchess?”—asked the marquis, folding the paper and putting it away.

“Well, I’ll take up the dukes,” said Newman. “Then the counts and the barons—all the people you had the cruelty to introduce me to in a character of which you meant immediately to deprive me. I have made out a list.”

For a moment neither Madame de Bellegarde nor her son said a word; the old lady sat with her eyes upon the ground; M. de Bellegarde’s blanched pupils were fixed upon her face. Then, looking at Newman, “Is that all you have to say?” she asked.

“No, I want to say a few words more. I want to say that I hope you quite understand what I’m about. This is my revenge, you know. You have treated me before the world—convened for the express purpose—as if I were not good enough for you. I mean to show the world that, however bad I may be, you are not quite the people to say it.”

Madame de Bellegarde was silent again, and then she broke her silence. Her self-possession continued to be extraordinary. “I needn’t ask you who has been your accomplice. Mrs. Bread told me that you had purchased her services.”

“Don’t accuse Mrs. Bread of venality,” said Newman. “She has kept your secret all these years. She has given you a long respite. It was beneath her eyes your husband wrote that paper; he put it into her hands with a solemn injunction that she was to make it public. She was too good-hearted to make use of it.”

The old lady appeared for an instant to hesitate, and then, “She was my husband’s mistress,” she said, softly. This was the only concession to self-defense that she condescended to make.

“I doubt that,” said Newman.

Madame de Bellegarde got up from her bench. “It was not to your opinions I undertook to listen, and if you have nothing left but them to tell me I think this remarkable interview may terminate.” And turning to the marquis she took his arm again. “My son,” she said, “say something!”

M. de Bellegarde looked down at his mother, passing his hand over his forehead, and then, tenderly, caressingly, “What shall I say?” he asked.

“There is only one thing to say,” said the Marquise. “That it was really not worth while to have interrupted our walk.”

But the marquis thought he could improve this. “Your paper’s a forgery,” he said to Newman.

Newman shook his head a little, with a tranquil smile. “M. de Bellegarde,” he said, “your mother does better. She has done better all along, from the first of my knowing you. You’re a mighty plucky woman, madam,” he continued. “It’s a great pity you have made me your enemy. I should have been one of your greatest admirers.”

“星期一 pauvre ami,” said Madame de Bellegarde to her son in French, and as if she had not heard these words, “you must take me immediately to my carriage.”

Newman stepped back and let them leave him; he watched them a moment and saw Madame Urbain, with her little girl, come out of a by-path to meet them. The old lady stooped and kissed her grandchild. “Damn it, she is plucky!” said Newman, and he walked home with a slight sense of being balked. She was so inexpressively defiant! But on reflection he decided that what he had witnessed was no real sense of security, still less a real innocence. It was only a very superior style of brazen assurance. “Wait till she reads the paper!” he said to himself; and he concluded that he should hear from her soon.

He heard sooner than he expected. The next morning, before midday, when he was about to give orders for his breakfast to be served, M. de Bellegarde’s card was brought to him. “She has read the paper and she has passed a bad night,” said Newman. He instantly admitted his visitor, who came in with the air of the ambassador of a great power meeting the delegate of a barbarous tribe whom an absurd accident had enabled for the moment to be abominably annoying. The ambassador, at all events, had passed a bad night, and his faultlessly careful toilet only threw into relief the frigid rancor in his eyes and the mottled tones of his refined complexion. He stood before Newman a moment, breathing quickly and softly, and shaking his forefinger curtly as his host pointed to a chair.

“What I have come to say is soon said,” he declared “and can only be said without ceremony.”

“I am good for as much or for as little as you desire,” said Newman.

The marquis looked round the room a moment, and then, “On what terms will you part with your scrap of paper?”

“On none!” And while Newman, with his head on one side and his hands behind him sounded the marquis’s turbid gaze with his own, he added, “Certainly, that is not worth sitting down about.”

M. de Bellegarde meditated a moment, as if he had not heard Newman’s refusal. “My mother and I, last evening,” he said, “talked over your story. You will be surprised to learn that we think your little document is—a”—and he held back his word a moment—“is genuine.”

“You forget that with you I am used to surprises!” exclaimed Newman, with a laugh.

“The very smallest amount of respect that we owe to my father’s memory,” the marquis continued, “makes us desire that he should not be held up to the world as the author of so—so infernal an attack upon the reputation of a wife whose only fault was that she had been submissive to accumulated injury.”

“Oh, I see,” said Newman. “It’s for your father’s sake.” And he laughed the laugh in which he indulged when he was most amused—a noiseless laugh, with his lips closed.

But M. de Bellegarde’s gravity held good. “There are a few of my father’s particular friends for whom the knowledge of so—so unfortunate an—inspiration—would be a real grief. Even say we firmly established by medical evidence the presumption of a mind disordered by fever, il en resterait quelque chose. At the best it would look ill in him. Very ill!”

“Don’t try medical evidence,” said Newman. “Don’t touch the doctors and they won’t touch you. I don’t mind your knowing that I have not written to them.”

Newman fancied that he saw signs in M. de Bellegarde’s discolored mask that this information was extremely pertinent. But it may have been merely fancy; for the marquis remained majestically argumentative. “For instance, Madame d’Outreville,” he said, “of whom you spoke yesterday. I can imagine nothing that would shock her more.”

“Oh, I am quite prepared to shock Madame d’Outreville, you know. That’s on the cards. I expect to shock a great many people.”

M. de Bellegarde examined for a moment the stitching on the back of one of his gloves. Then, without looking up, “We don’t offer you money,” he said. “That we supposed to be useless.”

Newman, turning away, took a few turns about the room and then came back. “What do you offer me? By what I can make out, the generosity is all to be on my side.”

The marquis dropped his arms at his side and held his head a little higher. “What we offer you is a chance—a chance that a gentleman should appreciate. A chance to abstain from inflicting a terrible blot upon the memory of a man who certainly had his faults, but who, personally, had done you no wrong.”

“There are two things to say to that,” said Newman. “The first is, as regards appreciating your ‘chance,’ that you don’t consider me a gentleman. That’s your great point you know. It’s a poor rule that won’t work both ways. The second is that—well, in a word, you are talking great nonsense!”

Newman, who in the midst of his bitterness had, as I have said, kept well before his eyes a certain ideal of saying nothing rude, was immediately somewhat regretfully conscious of the sharpness of these words. But he speedily observed that the marquis took them more quietly than might have been expected. M. de Bellegarde, like the stately ambassador that he was, continued the policy of ignoring what was disagreeable in his adversary’s replies. He gazed at the gilded arabesques on the opposite wall, and then presently transferred his glance to Newman, as if he too were a large grotesque in a rather vulgar system of chamber-decoration. “I suppose you know that as regards yourself it won’t do at all.”

“How do you mean it won’t do?”

“Why, of course you damn yourself. But I suppose that’s in your programme. You propose to throw mud at us; you believe, you hope, that some of it may stick. We know, of course, it can’t,” explained the marquis in a tone of conscious lucidity; “but you take the chance, and are willing at any rate to show that you yourself have dirty hands.”

“That’s a good comparison; at least half of it is,” said Newman. “I take the chance of something sticking. But as regards my hands, they are clean. I have taken the matter up with my finger-tips.”

M. de Bellegarde looked a moment into his hat. “All our friends are quite with us,” he said. “They would have done exactly as we have done.”

“I shall believe that when I hear them say it. Meanwhile I shall think better of human nature.”

The marquis looked into his hat again. “Madame de Cintré was extremely fond of her father. If she knew of the existence of the few written words of which you propose to make this scandalous use, she would demand of you proudly for his sake to give it up to her, and she would destroy it without reading it.”

“Very possibly,” Newman rejoined. “But she will not know. I was in that convent yesterday and I know what 她 is doing. Lord deliver us! You can guess whether it made me feel forgiving!”

M. de Bellegarde appeared to have nothing more to suggest; but he continued to stand there, rigid and elegant, as a man who believed that his mere personal presence had an argumentative value. Newman watched him, and, without yielding an inch on the main issue, felt an incongruously good-natured impulse to help him to retreat in good order.

“Your visit’s a failure, you see,” he said. “You offer too little.”

“Propose something yourself,” said the marquis.

“Give me back Madame de Cintré in the same state in which you took her from me.”

M. de Bellegarde threw back his head and his pale face flushed. “Never!” he said.

“你不能！”

“We wouldn’t if we could! In the sentiment which led us to deprecate her marriage nothing is changed.”

“‘Deprecate’ is good!” cried Newman. “It was hardly worth while to come here only to tell me that you are not ashamed of yourselves. I could have guessed that!”

The marquis slowly walked toward the door, and Newman, following, opened it for him. “What you propose to do will be very disagreeable,” M. de Bellegarde said. “That is very evident. But it will be nothing more.”

“As I understand it,” Newman answered, “that will be quite enough!”

M. de Bellegarde stood for a moment looking on the ground, as if he were ransacking his ingenuity to see what else he could do to save his father’s reputation. Then, with a little cold sigh, he seemed to signify that he regretfully surrendered the late marquis to the penalty of his turpitude. He gave a hardly perceptible shrug, took his neat umbrella from the servant in the vestibule, and, with his gentlemanly walk, passed out. Newman stood listening till he heard the door close; then he slowly exclaimed, “Well, I ought to begin to be satisfied now!”

Newman called upon the comical duchess and found her at home. An old gentleman with a high nose and a gold-headed cane was just taking leave of her; he made Newman a protracted obeisance as he retired, and our hero supposed that he was one of the mysterious grandees with whom he had shaken hands at Madame de Bellegarde’s ball. The duchess, in her armchair, from which she did not move, with a great flower-pot on one side of her, a pile of pink-covered novels on the other, and a large piece of tapestry depending from her lap, presented an expansive and imposing front; but her aspect was in the highest degree gracious, and there was nothing in her manner to check the effusion of his confidence. She talked to him about flowers and books, getting launched with marvelous promptitude; about the theatres, about the peculiar institutions of his native country, about the humidity of Paris about the pretty complexions of the American ladies, about his impressions of France and his opinion of its female inhabitants. All this was a brilliant monologue on the part of the duchess, who, like many of her country-women, was a person of an affirmative rather than an interrogative cast of mind, who made MOTS and put them herself into circulation, and who was apt to offer you a present of a convenient little opinion, neatly enveloped in the gilt paper of a happy Gallicism. Newman had come to her with a grievance, but he found himself in an atmosphere in which apparently no cognizance was taken of grievance; an atmosphere into which the chill of discomfort had never penetrated, and which seemed exclusively made up of mild, sweet, stale intellectual perfumes. The feeling with which he had watched Madame d’Outreville at the treacherous festival of the Bellegardes came back to him; she struck him as a wonderful old lady in a comedy, particularly well up in her part. He observed before long that she asked him no questions about their common friends; she made no allusion to the circumstances under which he had been presented to her. She neither feigned ignorance of a change in these circumstances nor pretended to condole with him upon it; but she smiled and discoursed and compared the tender-tinted wools of her tapestry, as if the Bellegardes and their wickedness were not of this world. “She is fighting shy!” said Newman to himself; and, having made the observation, he was prompted to observe, farther, how the duchess would carry off her indifference. She did so in a masterly manner. There was not a gleam of disguised consciousness in those small, clear, demonstrative eyes which constituted her nearest claim to personal loveliness, there was not a symptom of apprehension that Newman would trench upon the ground she proposed to avoid. “Upon my word, she does it very well,” he tacitly commented. “They all hold together bravely, and, whether anyone else can trust them or not, they can certainly trust each other.”

Newman, at this juncture, fell to admiring the duchess for her fine manners. He felt, most accurately, that she was not a grain less urbane than she would have been if his marriage were still in prospect; but he felt also that she was not a particle more urbane. He had come, so reasoned the duchess—Heaven knew why he had come, after what had happened; and for the half hour, therefore, she would be 迷人. But she would never see him again. Finding no ready-made opportunity to tell his story, Newman pondered these things more dispassionately than might have been expected; he stretched his legs, as usual, and even chuckled a little, appreciatively and noiselessly. And then as the duchess went on relating a 电机 with which her mother had snubbed the great Napoleon, it occurred to Newman that her evasion of a chapter of French history more interesting to himself might possibly be the result of an extreme consideration for his feelings. Perhaps it was delicacy on the duchess’s part—not policy. He was on the point of saying something himself, to make the chance which he had determined to give her still better, when the servant announced another visitor. The duchess, on hearing the name—it was that of an Italian prince—gave a little imperceptible pout, and said to Newman, rapidly: “I beg you to remain; I desire this visit to be short.” Newman said to himself, at this, that Madame d’Outreville intended, after all, that they should discuss the Bellegardes together.

The prince was a short, stout man, with a head disproportionately large. He had a dusky complexion and a bushy eyebrow, beneath which his eye wore a fixed and somewhat defiant expression; he seemed to be challenging you to insinuate that he was top-heavy. The duchess, judging from her charge to Newman, regarded him as a bore; but this was not apparent from the unchecked flow of her conversation. She made a fresh series of MOTS, characterized with great felicity the Italian intellect and the taste of the figs at Sorrento, predicted the ultimate future of the Italian kingdom (disgust with the brutal Sardinian rule and complete reversion, throughout the peninsula, to the sacred sway of the Holy Father), and, finally, gave a history of the love affairs of the Princess X——. This narrative provoked some rectifications on the part of the prince, who, as he said, pretended to know something about that matter; and having satisfied himself that Newman was in no laughing mood, either with regard to the size of his head or anything else, he entered into the controversy with an animation for which the duchess, when she set him down as a bore, could not have been prepared. The sentimental vicissitudes of the Princess X—— led to a discussion of the heart history of Florentine nobility in general; the duchess had spent five weeks in Florence and had gathered much information on the subject. This was merged, in turn, in an examination of the Italian heart 本身. The duchess took a brilliantly heterodox view—thought it the least susceptible organ of its kind that she had ever encountered, related examples of its want of susceptibility, and at last declared that for her the Italians were a people of ice. The prince became flame to refute her, and his visit really proved charming. Newman was naturally out of the conversation; he sat with his head a little on one side, watching the interlocutors. The duchess, as she talked, frequently looked at him with a smile, as if to intimate, in the charming manner of her nation, that it lay only with him to say something very much to the point. But he said nothing at all, and at last his thoughts began to wander. A singular feeling came over him—a sudden sense of the folly of his errand. What under the sun had he to say to the duchess, after all? Wherein would it profit him to tell her that the Bellegardes were traitors and that the old lady, into the bargain was a murderess? He seemed morally to have turned a sort of somersault, and to find things looking differently in consequence. He felt a sudden stiffening of his will and quickening of his reserve. What in the world had he been thinking of when he fancied the duchess could help him, and that it would conduce to his comfort to make her think ill of the Bellegardes? What did her opinion of the Bellegardes matter to him? It was only a shade more important than the opinion the Bellegardes entertained of her. The duchess help him—that cold, stout, soft, artificial woman help him?—she who in the last twenty minutes had built up between them a wall of polite conversation in which she evidently flattered herself that he would never find a gate. Had it come to that—that he was asking favors of conceited people, and appealing for sympathy where he had no sympathy to give? He rested his arms on his knees, and sat for some minutes staring into his hat. As he did so his ears tingled—he had come very near being an ass. Whether or no the duchess would hear his story, he wouldn’t tell it. Was he to sit there another half hour for the sake of exposing the Bellegardes? The Bellegardes be hanged! He got up abruptly, and advanced to shake hands with his hostess.

“You can’t stay longer?” she asked very graciously.

“I am afraid not,” he said.

She hesitated a moment, and then, “I had an idea you had something particular to say to me,” she declared.

Newman looked at her; he felt a little dizzy; for the moment he seemed to be turning his somersault again. The little Italian prince came to his help: “Ah, madam, who has not that?” he softly sighed.

“Don’t teach Mr. Newman to say fadaises,” said the duchess. “It is his merit that he doesn’t know how.”

“Yes, I don’t know how to say fadaises,” said Newman, “and I don’t want to say anything unpleasant.”

“I am sure you are very considerate,” said the duchess with a smile; and she gave him a little nod for good-bye with which he took his departure.

Once in the street, he stood for some time on the pavement, wondering whether, after all, he was not an ass not to have discharged his pistol. And then again he decided that to talk to anyone whomsoever about the Bellegardes would be extremely disagreeable to him. The least disagreeable thing, under the circumstances, was to banish them from his mind, and never think of them again. Indecision had not hitherto been one of Newman’s weaknesses, and in this case it was not of long duration. For three days after this he did not, or at least he tried not to, think of the Bellegardes. He dined with Mrs. Tristram, and on her mentioning their name, he begged her almost severely to desist. This gave Tom Tristram a much-coveted opportunity to offer his condolences.

He leaned forward, laying his hand on Newman’s arm compressing his lips and shaking his head. “The fact is my dear fellow, you see, that you ought never to have gone into it. It was not your doing, I know—it was all my wife. If you want to come down on her, I’ll stand off; I give you leave to hit her as hard as you like. You know she has never had a word of reproach from me in her life, and I think she is in need of something of the kind. Why didn’t you listen to 我？ You know I didn’t believe in the thing. I thought it at the best an amiable delusion. I don’t profess to be a Don Juan or a gay Lothario,—that class of man, you know; but I do pretend to know something about the harder sex. I have never disliked a woman in my life that she has not turned out badly. I was not at all deceived in Lizzie, for instance; I always had my doubts about her. Whatever you may think of my present situation, I must at least admit that I got into it with my eyes open. Now suppose you had got into something like this box with Madame de Cintré. You may depend upon it she would have turned out a stiff one. And upon my word I don’t see where you could have found your comfort. Not from the marquis, my dear Newman; he wasn’t a man you could go and talk things over with in a sociable, common-sense way. Did he ever seem to want to have you on the premises—did he ever try to see you alone? Did he ever ask you to come and smoke a cigar with him of an evening, or step in, when you had been calling on the ladies, and take something? I don’t think you would have got much encouragement out of 他. And as for the old lady, she struck one as an uncommonly strong dose. They have a great expression here, you know; they call it ‘sympathetic.’ Everything is sympathetic—or ought to be. Now Madame de Bellegarde is about as sympathetic as that mustard-pot. They’re a d—d cold-blooded lot, any way; I felt it awfully at that ball of theirs. I felt as if I were walking up and down in the Armory, in the Tower of London! My dear boy, don’t think me a vulgar brute for hinting at it, but you may depend upon it, all they wanted was your money. I know something about that; I can tell when people want one’s money! Why they stopped wanting yours I don’t know; I suppose because they could get someone else’s without working so hard for it. It isn’t worth finding out. It may be that it was not Madame de Cintré that backed out first, very likely the old woman put her up to it. I suspect she and her mother are really as thick as thieves, eh? You are well out of it, my boy; make up your mind to that. If I express myself strongly it is all because I love you so much; and from that point of view I may say I should as soon have thought of making up to that piece of pale high-mightiness as I should have thought of making up to the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde.”

Newman sat gazing at Tristram during this harangue with a lack-lustre eye; never yet had he seemed to himself to have outgrown so completely the phase of equal comradeship with Tom Tristram. Mrs. Tristram’s glance at her husband had more of a spark; she turned to Newman with a slightly lurid smile. “You must at least do justice,” she said, “to the felicity with which Mr. Tristram repairs the indiscretions of a too zealous wife.”

But even without the aid of Tom Tristram’s conversational felicities, Newman would have begun to think of the Bellegardes again. He could cease to think of them only when he ceased to think of his loss and privation, and the days had as yet but scantily lightened the weight of this incommodity. In vain Mrs. Tristram begged him to cheer up; she assured him that the sight of his countenance made her miserable.

“How can I help it?” he demanded with a trembling voice. “I feel like a widower—and a widower who has not even the consolation of going to stand beside the grave of his wife—who has not the right to wear so much mourning as a weed on his hat. I feel,” he added in a moment “as if my wife had been murdered and her assassins were still at large.”

Mrs. Tristram made no immediate rejoinder, but at last she said, with a smile which, in so far as it was a forced one, was less successfully simulated than such smiles, on her lips, usually were; “Are you very sure that you would have been happy?”

Newman stared a moment, and then shook his head. “That’s weak,” he said; “that won’t do.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Tristram with a more triumphant bravery, “I don’t believe you would have been happy.”

Newman gave a little laugh. “Say I should have been miserable, then; it’s a misery I should have preferred to any happiness.”

Mrs. Tristram began to muse. “I should have been curious to see; it would have been very strange.”

“Was it from curiosity that you urged me to try and marry her?”

“A little,” said Mrs. Tristram, growing still more audacious. Newman gave her the one angry look he had been destined ever to give her, turned away and took up his hat. She watched him a moment, and then she said, “That sounds very cruel, but it is less so than it sounds. Curiosity has a share in almost everything I do. I wanted very much to see, first, whether such a marriage could actually take place; second, what would happen if it should take place.”

“So you didn’t believe,” said Newman, resentfully.

“Yes, I believed—I believed that it would take place, and that you would be happy. Otherwise I should have been, among my speculations, a very heartless creature. 但是，,” she continued, laying her hand upon Newman’s arm and hazarding a grave smile, “it was the highest flight ever taken by a tolerably bold imagination!”

Shortly after this she recommended him to leave Paris and travel for three months. Change of scene would do him good, and he would forget his misfortune sooner in absence from the objects which had witnessed it. “I really feel,” Newman rejoined, “as if to leave 您, at least, would do me good—and cost me very little effort. You are growing cynical, you shock me and pain me.”

“Very good,” said Mrs. Tristram, good-naturedly or cynically, as may be thought most probable. “I shall certainly see you again.”

Newman was very willing to get away from Paris; the brilliant streets he had walked through in his happier hours, and which then seemed to wear a higher brilliancy in honor of his happiness, appeared now to be in the secret of his defeat and to look down upon it in shining mockery. He would go somewhere; he cared little where; and he made his preparations. Then, one morning, at haphazard, he drove to the train that would transport him to Boulogne and dispatch him thence to the shores of Britain. As he rolled along in the train he asked himself what had become of his revenge, and he was able to say that it was provisionally pigeon-holed in a very safe place; it would keep till called for.

He arrived in London in the midst of what is called “the season,” and it seemed to him at first that he might here put himself in the way of being diverted from his heavy-heartedness. He knew no one in all England, but the spectacle of the mighty metropolis roused him somewhat from his apathy. Anything that was enormous usually found favor with Newman, and the multitudinous energies and industries of England stirred within him a dull vivacity of contemplation. It is on record that the weather, at that moment, was of the finest English quality; he took long walks and explored London in every direction; he sat by the hour in Kensington Gardens and beside the adjoining Drive, watching the people and the horses and the carriages; the rosy English beauties, the wonderful English dandies, and the splendid flunkies. He went to the opera and found it better than in Paris; he went to the theatre and found a surprising charm in listening to dialogue the finest points of which came within the range of his comprehension. He made several excursions into the country, recommended by the waiter at his hotel, with whom, on this and similar points, he had established confidential relations. He watched the deer in Windsor Forest and admired the Thames from Richmond Hill; he ate white-bait and brown-bread and butter at Greenwich, and strolled in the grassy shadow of the cathedral of Canterbury. He also visited the Tower of London and Madame Tussaud’s exhibition. One day he thought he would go to Sheffield, and then, thinking again, he gave it up. Why should he go to Sheffield? He had a feeling that the link which bound him to a possible interest in the manufacture of cutlery was broken. He had no desire for an “inside view” of any successful enterprise whatever, and he would not have given the smallest sum for the privilege of talking over the details of the most “splendid” business with the shrewdest of overseers.

One afternoon he had walked into Hyde Park, and was slowly threading his way through the human maze which edges the Drive. The stream of carriages was no less dense, and Newman, as usual, marveled at the strange, dingy figures which he saw taking the air in some of the stateliest vehicles. They reminded him of what he had read of eastern and southern countries, in which grotesque idols and fetiches were sometimes taken out of their temples and carried abroad in golden chariots to be displayed to the multitude. He saw a great many pretty cheeks beneath high-plumed hats as he squeezed his way through serried waves of crumpled muslin; and sitting on little chairs at the base of the great serious English trees, he observed a number of quiet-eyed maidens who seemed only to remind him afresh that the magic of beauty had gone out of the world with Madame de Cintré: to say nothing of other damsels, whose eyes were not quiet, and who struck him still more as a satire on possible consolation. He had been walking for some time, when, directly in front of him, borne back by the summer breeze, he heard a few words uttered in that bright Parisian idiom from which his ears had begun to alienate themselves. The voice in which the words were spoken made them seem even more like a thing with which he had once been familiar, and as he bent his eyes it lent an identity to the commonplace elegance of the back hair and shoulders of a young lady walking in the same direction as himself. Mademoiselle Nioche, apparently, had come to seek a more rapid advancement in London, and another glance led Newman to suppose that she had found it. A gentleman was strolling beside her, lending a most attentive ear to her conversation and too entranced to open his lips. Newman did not hear his voice, but perceived that he presented the dorsal expression of a well-dressed Englishman. Mademoiselle Nioche was attracting attention: the ladies who passed her turned round to survey the Parisian perfection of her toilet. A great cataract of flounces rolled down from the young lady’s waist to Newman’s feet; he had to step aside to avoid treading upon them. He stepped aside, indeed, with a decision of movement which the occasion scarcely demanded; for even this imperfect glimpse of Miss Noémie had excited his displeasure. She seemed an odious blot upon the face of nature; he wanted to put her out of his sight. He thought of Valentin de Bellegarde, still green in the earth of his burial—his young life clipped by this flourishing impudence. The perfume of the young lady’s finery sickened him; he turned his head and tried to deflect his course; but the pressure of the crowd kept him near her a few minutes longer, so that he heard what she was saying.

“Ah, I am sure he will miss me,” she murmured. “It was very cruel in me to leave him; I am afraid you will think me a very heartless creature. He might perfectly well have come with us. I don’t think he is very well,” she added; “it seemed to me to-day that he was not very gay.”

Newman wondered whom she was talking about, but just then an opening among his neighbors enabled him to turn away, and he said to himself that she was probably paying a tribute to British propriety and playing at tender solicitude about her papa. Was that miserable old man still treading the path of vice in her train? Was he still giving her the benefit of his experience of affairs, and had he crossed the sea to serve as her interpreter? Newman walked some distance farther, and then began to retrace his steps taking care not to traverse again the orbit of Mademoiselle Nioche. At last he looked for a chair under the trees, but he had some difficulty in finding an empty one. He was about to give up the search when he saw a gentleman rise from the seat he had been occupying, leaving Newman to take it without looking at his neighbors. He sat there for some time without heeding them; his attention was lost in the irritation and bitterness produced by his recent glimpse of Miss Noémie’s iniquitous vitality. But at the end of a quarter of an hour, dropping his eyes, he perceived a small pug-dog squatted upon the path near his feet—a diminutive but very perfect specimen of its interesting species. The pug was sniffing at the fashionable world, as it passed him, with his little black muzzle, and was kept from extending his investigation by a large blue ribbon attached to his collar with an enormous rosette and held in the hand of a person seated next to Newman. To this person Newman transferred his attention, and immediately perceived that he was the object of all that of his neighbor, who was staring up at him from a pair of little fixed white eyes. These eyes Newman instantly recognized; he had been sitting for the last quarter of an hour beside M. Nioche. He had vaguely felt that someone was staring at him. M. Nioche continued to stare; he appeared afraid to move, even to the extent of evading Newman’s glance.

“Dear me,” said Newman; “are you here, too?” And he looked at his neighbor’s helplessness more grimly than he knew. M. Nioche had a new hat and a pair of kid gloves; his clothes, too, seemed to belong to a more recent antiquity than of yore. Over his arm was suspended a lady’s mantilla—a light and brilliant tissue, fringed with white lace—which had apparently been committed to his keeping; and the little dog’s blue ribbon was wound tightly round his hand. There was no expression of recognition in his face—or of anything indeed save a sort of feeble, fascinated dread; Newman looked at the pug and the lace mantilla, and then he met the old man’s eyes again. “You know me, I see,” he pursued. “You might have spoken to me before.” M. Nioche still said nothing, but it seemed to Newman that his eyes began faintly to water. “I didn’t expect,” our hero went on, “to meet you so far from—from the Café de la Patrie.” The old man remained silent, but decidedly Newman had touched the source of tears. His neighbor sat staring and Newman added, “What’s the matter, M. Nioche? You used to talk—to talk very prettily. Don’t you remember you even gave lessons in conversation?”

At this M. Nioche decided to change his attitude. He stooped and picked up the pug, lifted it to his face and wiped his eyes on its little soft back. “I’m afraid to speak to you,” he presently said, looking over the puppy’s shoulder. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice me. I should have moved away, but I was afraid that if I moved you would notice me. So I sat very still.”

“I suspect you have a bad conscience, sir,” said Newman.

The old man put down the little dog and held it carefully in his lap. Then he shook his head, with his eyes still fixed upon his interlocutor. “No, Mr. Newman, I have a good conscience,” he murmured.

“Then why should you want to slink away from me?”

“Because—because you don’t understand my position.”

“Oh, I think you once explained it to me,” said Newman. “But it seems improved.”

“Improved!” exclaimed M. Nioche, under his breath. “Do you call this improvement?” And he glanced at the treasures in his arms.

“Why, you are on your travels,” Newman rejoined. “A visit to London in the season is certainly a sign of prosperity.”

M. Nioche, in answer to this cruel piece of irony, lifted the puppy up to his face again, peering at Newman with his small blank eye-holes. There was something almost imbecile in the movement, and Newman hardly knew whether he was taking refuge in a convenient affectation of unreason, or whether he had in fact paid for his dishonor by the loss of his wits. In the latter case, just now, he felt little more tenderly to the foolish old man than in the former. Responsible or not, he was equally an accomplice of his detestably mischievous daughter. Newman was going to leave him abruptly, when a ray of entreaty appeared to disengage itself from the old man’s misty gaze. “Are you going away?” he asked.

“Do you want me to stay?” said Newman.

“I should have left you—from consideration. But my dignity suffers at your leaving me—that way.”

“Have you got anything particular to say to me?”

M. Nioche looked around him to see that no one was listening, and then he said, very softly but distinctly, “I have 不能 forgiven her!”

Newman gave a short laugh, but the old man seemed for the moment not to perceive it; he was gazing away, absently, at some metaphysical image of his implacability. “It doesn’t much matter whether you forgive her or not,” said Newman. “There are other people who won’t, I assure you.”

“What has she done?” M. Nioche softly questioned, turning round again. “I don’t know what she does, you know.”

“She has done a devilish mischief; it doesn’t matter what,” said Newman. “She’s a nuisance; she ought to be stopped.”

M. Nioche stealthily put out his hand and laid it very gently upon Newman’s arm. “Stopped, yes,” he whispered. “That’s it. Stopped short. She is running away—she must be stopped.” Then he paused a moment and looked round him. “I mean to stop her,” he went on. “I am only waiting for my chance.”

“I see,” said Newman, laughing briefly again. “She is running away and you are running after her. You have run a long distance!”

But M. Nioche stared insistently: “I shall stop her!” he softly repeated.

He had hardly spoken when the crowd in front of them separated, as if by the impulse to make way for an important personage. Presently, through the opening, advanced Mademoiselle Nioche, attended by the gentleman whom Newman had lately observed. His face being now presented to our hero, the latter recognized the irregular features, the hardly more regular complexion, and the amiable expression of Lord Deepmere. Noémie, on finding herself suddenly confronted with Newman, who, like M. Nioche, had risen from his seat, faltered for a barely perceptible instant. She gave him a little nod, as if she had seen him yesterday, and then, with a good-natured smile, “天狮, how we keep meeting!” she said. She looked consummately pretty, and the front of her dress was a wonderful work of art. She went up to her father, stretching out her hands for the little dog, which he submissively placed in them, and she began to kiss it and murmur over it: “To think of leaving him all alone,—what a wicked, abominable creature he must believe me! He has been very unwell,” she added, turning and affecting to explain to Newman, with a spark of infernal impudence, fine as a needlepoint, in her eye. “I don’t think the English climate agrees with him.”

“It seems to agree wonderfully well with his mistress,” said Newman.

“Do you mean me? I have never been better, thank you,” Miss Noémie declared. “But with 阁下”—and she gave a brilliant glance at her late companion—“how can one help being well?” She seated herself in the chair from which her father had risen, and began to arrange the little dog’s rosette.

Lord Deepmere carried off such embarrassment as might be incidental to this unexpected encounter with the inferior grace of a male and a Briton. He blushed a good deal, and greeted the object of his late momentary aspiration to rivalry in the favor of a person other than the mistress of the invalid pug with an awkward nod and a rapid ejaculation—an ejaculation to which Newman, who often found it hard to understand the speech of English people, was able to attach no meaning. Then the young man stood there, with his hand on his hip, and with a conscious grin, staring askance at Miss Noémie. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him, and he said, turning to Newman, “Oh, you know her?”

“Yes,” said Newman, “I know her. I don’t believe you do.”

“Oh dear, yes, I do!” said Lord Deepmere, with another grin. “I knew her in Paris—by my poor cousin Bellegarde, you know. He knew her, poor fellow, didn’t he? It was she, you know, who was at the bottom of his affair. Awfully sad, wasn’t it?” continued the young man, talking off his embarrassment as his simple nature permitted. “They got up some story about its being for the Pope; about the other man having said something against the Pope’s morals. They always do that, you know. They put it on the Pope because Bellegarde was once in the Zouaves. But it was about 这里 morals—她 was the Pope!” Lord Deepmere pursued, directing an eye illumined by this pleasantry toward Mademoiselle Nioche, who was bending gracefully over her lap-dog, apparently absorbed in conversation with it. “I dare say you think it rather odd that I should—ah—keep up the acquaintance,” the young man resumed; “but she couldn’t help it, you know, and Bellegarde was only my twentieth cousin. I dare say you think it’s rather cheeky, my showing with her in Hyde Park, but you see she isn’t known yet, and she’s in such very good form——” And Lord Deepmere’s conclusion was lost in the attesting glance which he again directed toward the young lady.

Newman turned away; he was having more of her than he relished. M. Nioche had stepped aside on his daughter’s approach, and he stood there, within a very small compass, looking down hard at the ground. It had never yet, as between him and Newman, been so apposite to place on record the fact that he had not forgiven his daughter. As Newman was moving away he looked up and drew near to him, and Newman, seeing the old man had something particular to say, bent his head for an instant.

“You will see it some day in the papers,” murmured M. Nioche.

Our hero departed to hide his smile, and to this day, though the newspapers form his principal reading, his eyes have not been arrested by any paragraph forming a sequel to this announcement.

In that uninitiated observation of the great spectacle of English life upon which I have touched, it might be supposed that Newman passed a great many dull days. But the dullness of his days pleased him; his melancholy, which was settling into a secondary stage, like a healing wound, had in it a certain acrid, palatable sweetness. He had company in his thoughts, and for the present he wanted no other. He had no desire to make acquaintances, and he left untouched a couple of notes of introduction which had been sent him by Tom Tristram. He thought a great deal of Madame de Cintré—sometimes with a dogged tranquillity which might have seemed, for a quarter of an hour at a time, a near neighbor to forgetfulness. He lived over again the happiest hours he had known—that silver chain of numbered days in which his afternoon visits, tending sensibly to the ideal result, had subtilized his good humor to a sort of spiritual intoxication. He came back to reality, after such reveries, with a somewhat muffled shock; he had begun to feel the need of accepting the unchangeable. At other times the reality became an infamy again and the unchangeable an imposture, and he gave himself up to his angry restlessness till he was weary. But on the whole he fell into a rather reflective mood. Without in the least intending it or knowing it, he attempted to read the moral of his strange misadventure. He asked himself, in his quieter hours, whether perhaps, after all, he 是 more commercial than was pleasant. We know that it was in obedience to a strong reaction against questions exclusively commercial that he had come out to pick up æsthetic entertainment in Europe; it may therefore be understood that he was able to conceive that a man might be too commercial. He was very willing to grant it, but the concession, as to his own case, was not made with any very oppressive sense of shame. If he had been too commercial, he was ready to forget it, for in being so he had done no man any wrong that might not be as easily forgotten. He reflected with sober placidity that at least there were no monuments of his “meanness” scattered about the world. If there was any reason in the nature of things why his connection with business should have cast a shadow upon a connection—even a connection broken—with a woman justly proud, he was willing to sponge it out of his life forever. The thing seemed a possibility; he could not feel it, doubtless, as keenly as some people, and it hardly seemed worth while to flap his wings very hard to rise to the idea; but he could feel it enough to make any sacrifice that still remained to be made. As to what such sacrifice was now to be made to, here Newman stopped short before a blank wall over which there sometimes played a shadowy imagery. He had a fancy of carrying out his life as he would have directed it if Madame de Cintré had been left to him—of making it a religion to do nothing that she would have disliked. In this, certainly, there was no sacrifice; but there was a pale, oblique ray of inspiration. It would be lonely entertainment—a good deal like a man talking to himself in the mirror for want of better company. Yet the idea yielded Newman several half hours’ dumb exaltation as he sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched, over the relics of an expensively poor dinner, in the undying English twilight. If, however, his commercial imagination was dead, he felt no contempt for the surviving actualities begotten by it. He was glad he had been prosperous and had been a great man of business rather than a small one; he was extremely glad he was rich. He felt no impulse to sell all he had and give to the poor, or to retire into meditative economy and asceticism. He was glad he was rich and tolerably young; if it was possible to think too much about buying and selling, it was a gain to have a good slice of life left in which not to think about them. Come, what should he think about now? Again and again Newman could think only of one thing; his thoughts always came back to it, and as they did so, with an emotional rush which seemed physically to express itself in a sudden upward choking, he leaned forward—the waiter having left the room—and, resting his arms on the table, buried his troubled face.

He remained in England till midsummer, and spent a month in the country, wandering about cathedrals, castles, and ruins. Several times, taking a walk from his inn into meadows and parks, he stopped by a well-worn stile, looked across through the early evening at a gray church tower, with its dusky nimbus of thick-circling swallows, and remembered that this might have been part of the entertainment of his honeymoon. He had never been so much alone or indulged so little in accidental dialogue. The period of recreation appointed by Mrs. Tristram had at last expired, and he asked himself what he should do now. Mrs. Tristram had written to him, proposing to him that he should join her in the Pyrenees; but he was not in the humor to return to France. The simplest thing was to repair to Liverpool and embark on the first American steamer. Newman made his way to the great seaport and secured his berth; and the night before sailing he sat in his room at the hotel, staring down, vacantly and wearily, at an open portmanteau. A number of papers were lying upon it, which he had been meaning to look over; some of them might conveniently be destroyed. But at last he shuffled them roughly together, and pushed them into a corner of the valise; they were business papers, and he was in no humor for sifting them. Then he drew forth his pocket-book and took out a paper of smaller size than those he had dismissed. He did not unfold it; he simply sat looking at the back of it. If he had momentarily entertained the idea of destroying it, the idea quickly expired. What the paper suggested was the feeling that lay in his innermost heart and that no reviving cheerfulness could long quench—the feeling that after all and above all he was a good fellow wronged. With it came a hearty hope that the Bellegardes were enjoying their suspense as to what he would do yet. The more it was prolonged the more they would enjoy it! He had hung fire once, yes; perhaps, in his present queer state of mind, he might hang fire again. But he restored the little paper to his pocket-book very tenderly, and felt better for thinking of the suspense of the Bellegardes. He felt better every time he thought of it after that, as he sailed the summer seas. He landed in New York and journeyed across the continent to San Francisco, and nothing that he observed by the way contributed to mitigate his sense of being a good fellow wronged.

He saw a great many other good fellows—his old friends—but he told none of them of the trick that had been played him. He said simply that the lady he was to have married had changed her mind, and when he was asked if he had changed his own, he said, “Suppose we change the subject.” He told his friends that he had brought home no “new ideas” from Europe, and his conduct probably struck them as an eloquent proof of failing invention. He took no interest in chatting about his affairs and manifested no desire to look over his accounts. He asked half a dozen questions which, like those of an eminent physician inquiring for particular symptoms, showed that he still knew what he was talking about; but he made no comments and gave no directions. He not only puzzled the gentlemen on the stock exchange, but he was himself surprised at the extent of his indifference. As it seemed only to increase, he made an effort to combat it; he tried to interest himself and to take up his old occupations. But they appeared unreal to him; do what he would he somehow could not believe in them. Sometimes he began to fear that there was something the matter with his head; that his brain, perhaps, had softened, and that the end of his strong activities had come. This idea came back to him with an exasperating force. A hopeless, helpless loafer, useful to no one and detestable to himself—this was what the treachery of the Bellegardes had made of him. In his restless idleness he came back from San Francisco to New York, and sat for three days in the lobby of his hotel, looking out through a huge wall of plate-glass at the unceasing stream of pretty girls in Parisian-looking dresses, undulating past with little parcels nursed against their neat figures. At the end of three days he returned to San Francisco, and having arrived there he wished he had stayed away. He had nothing to do, his occupation was gone, and it seemed to him that he should never find it again. He had nothing to do 点击此处, he sometimes said to himself; but there was something beyond the ocean that he was still to do; something that he had left undone experimentally and speculatively, to see if it could content itself to remain undone. But it was not content: it kept pulling at his heartstrings and thumping at his reason; it murmured in his ears and hovered perpetually before his eyes. It interposed between all new resolutions and their fulfillment; it seemed like a stubborn ghost, dumbly entreating to be laid. Till that was done he should never be able to do anything else.

One day, toward the end of the winter, after a long interval, he received a letter from Mrs. Tristram, who apparently was animated by a charitable desire to amuse and distract her correspondent. She gave him much Paris gossip, talked of General Packard and Miss Kitty Upjohn, enumerated the new plays at the theatre, and enclosed a note from her husband, who had gone down to spend a month at Nice. Then came her signature, and after this her postscript. The latter consisted of these few lines: “I heard three days since from my friend, the Abbé Aubert, that Madame de Cintré last week took the veil at the Carmelites. It was on her twenty-seventh birthday, and she took the name of her, patroness, St. Veronica. Sister Veronica has a lifetime before her!”

This letter came to Newman in the morning; in the evening he started for Paris. His wound began to ache with its first fierceness, and during his long bleak journey the thought of Madame de Cintré’s “life-time,” passed within prison walls on whose outer side he might stand, kept him perpetual company. Now he would fix himself in Paris forever; he would extort a sort of happiness from the knowledge that if she was not there, at least the stony sepulchre that held her was. He descended, unannounced, upon Mrs. Bread, whom he found keeping lonely watch in his great empty saloons on the Boulevard Haussmann. They were as neat as a Dutch village, Mrs. Bread’s only occupation had been removing individual dust-particles. She made no complaint, however, of her loneliness, for in her philosophy a servant was but a mysteriously projected machine, and it would be as fantastic for a housekeeper to comment upon a gentleman’s absences as for a clock to remark upon not being wound up. No particular clock, Mrs. Bread supposed, went all the time, and no particular servant could enjoy all the sunshine diffused by the career of an exacting master. She ventured, nevertheless, to express a modest hope that Newman meant to remain a while in Paris. Newman laid his hand on hers and shook it gently. “I mean to remain forever,” he said.

He went after this to see Mrs. Tristram, to whom he had telegraphed, and who expected him. She looked at him a moment and shook her head. “This won’t do,” she said; “you have come back too soon.” He sat down and asked about her husband and her children, tried even to inquire about Miss Dora Finch. In the midst of this—“Do you know where she is?” he asked, abruptly.

Mrs. Tristram hesitated a moment; of course he couldn’t mean Miss Dora Finch. Then she answered, properly: “She has gone to the other house—in the Rue d’Enfer.” After Newman had sat a while longer looking very sombre, she went on: “You are not so good a man as I thought. You are more—you are more—”

“More what?” Newman asked.

“More unforgiving.”

“Good God!” cried Newman; “do you expect me to forgive?”

“No, not that. I have forgiven, so of course you can’t. But you might forget! You have a worse temper about it than I should have expected. You look wicked—you look dangerous.”

“I may be dangerous,” he said; “but I am not wicked. No, I am not wicked.” And he got up to go. Mrs. Tristram asked him to come back to dinner; but he answered that he did not feel like pledging himself to be present at an entertainment, even as a solitary guest. Later in the evening, if he should be able, he would come.

He walked away through the city, beside the Seine and over it, and took the direction of the Rue d’Enfer. The day had the softness of early spring; but the weather was gray and humid. Newman found himself in a part of Paris which he little knew—a region of convents and prisons, of streets bordered by long dead walls and traversed by a few wayfarers. At the intersection of two of these streets stood the house of the Carmelites—a dull, plain edifice, with a high-shouldered blank wall all round it. From without Newman could see its upper windows, its steep roof and its chimneys. But these things revealed no symptoms of human life; the place looked dumb, deaf, inanimate. The pale, dead, discolored wall stretched beneath it, far down the empty side street—a vista without a human figure. Newman stood there a long time; there were no passers; he was free to gaze his fill. This seemed the goal of his journey; it was what he had come for. It was a strange satisfaction, and yet it was a satisfaction; the barren stillness of the place seemed to be his own release from ineffectual longing. It told him that the woman within was lost beyond recall, and that the days and years of the future would pile themselves above her like the huge immovable slab of a tomb. These days and years, in this place, would always be just so gray and silent. Suddenly, from the thought of their seeing him stand there, again the charm utterly departed. He would never stand there again; it was gratuitous dreariness. He turned away with a heavy heart, but with a heart lighter than the one he had brought. Everything was over, and he too at last could rest. He walked down through narrow, winding streets to the edge of the Seine again, and there he saw, close above him, the soft, vast towers of Notre Dame. He crossed one of the bridges and stood a moment in the empty place before the great cathedral; then he went in beneath the grossly-imaged portals. He wandered some distance up the nave and sat down in the splendid dimness. He sat a long time; he heard far-away bells chiming off, at long intervals, to the rest of the world. He was very tired; this was the best place he could be in. He said no prayers; he had no prayers to say. He had nothing to be thankful for, and he had nothing to ask; nothing to ask, because now he must take care of himself. But a great cathedral offers a very various hospitality, and Newman sat in his place, because while he was there he was out of the world. The most unpleasant thing that had ever happened to him had reached its formal conclusion, as it were; he could close the book and put it away. He leaned his head for a long time on the chair in front of him; when he took it up he felt that he was himself again. Somewhere in his mind, a tight knot seemed to have loosened. He thought of the Bellegardes; he had almost forgotten them. He remembered them as people he had meant to do something to. He gave a groan as he remembered what he had meant to do; he was annoyed at having meant to do it; the bottom, suddenly, had fallen out of his revenge.

If he had spoken it aloud he would have said that he didn’t want to hurt them. He was ashamed of having wanted to hurt them. They had hurt him, but such things were really not his game. At last he got up and came out of the darkening church; not with the elastic step of a man who had won a victory or taken a resolve, but strolling soberly, like a good-natured man who is still a little ashamed.

Going home, he said to Mrs. Bread that he must trouble her to put back his things into the portmanteau she had unpacked the evening before. His gentle stewardess looked at him through eyes a trifle bedimmed. “Dear me, sir,” she exclaimed, “I thought you said that you were going to stay forever.”

“I meant that I was going to stay away forever,” said Newman kindly. And since his departure from Paris on the following day he has certainly not returned. The gilded apartments I have so often spoken of stand ready to receive him; but they serve only as a spacious residence for Mrs. Bread, who wanders eternally from room to room, adjusting the tassels of the curtains, and keeps her wages, which are regularly brought her by a banker’s clerk, in a great pink Sèvres vase on the drawing-room mantelshelf.

Late in the evening Newman went to Mrs. Tristram’s and found Tom Tristram by the domestic fireside. “I’m glad to see you back in Paris,” this gentleman declared. “You know it’s really the only place for a white man to live.” Mr. Tristram made his friend welcome, according to his own rosy light, and offered him a convenient 总结 of the Franco-American gossip of the last six months. Then at last he got up and said he would go for half an hour to the club. “I suppose a man who has been for six months in California wants a little intellectual conversation. I’ll let my wife have a go at you.”

Newman shook hands heartily with his host, but did not ask him to remain; and then he relapsed into his place on the sofa, opposite to Mrs. Tristram. She presently asked him what he had done after leaving her. “Nothing particular,” said Newman.

“You struck me,” she rejoined, “as a man with a plot in his head. You looked as if you were bent on some sinister errand, and after you had left me I wondered whether I ought to have let you go.”

“I only went over to the other side of the river—to the Carmelites,” said Newman.

Mrs. Tristram looked at him a moment and smiled. “What did you do there? Try to scale the wall?”

“I did nothing. I looked at the place for a few minutes and then came away.”

Mrs. Tristram gave him a sympathetic glance. “You didn’t happen to meet M. de Bellegarde,” she asked, “staring hopelessly at the convent wall as well? I am told he takes his sister’s conduct very hard.”

“No, I didn’t meet him, I am happy to say,” Newman answered, after a pause.

“They are in the country,” Mrs. Tristram went on; “at—what is the name of the place?—Fleurières. They returned there at the time you left Paris and have been spending the year in extreme seclusion. The little marquise must enjoy it; I expect to hear that she has eloped with her daughter’s music-master!”

Newman was looking at the light wood-fire; but he listened to this with extreme interest. At last he spoke: “I mean never to mention the name of those people again, and I don’t want to hear anything more about them.” And then he took out his pocket-book and drew forth a scrap of paper. He looked at it an instant, then got up and stood by the fire. “I am going to burn them up,” he said. “I am glad to have you as a witness. There they go!” And he tossed the paper into the flame.

Mrs. Tristram sat with her embroidery needle suspended. “What is that paper?” she asked.

Newman leaning against the fireplace, stretched his arms and drew a longer breath than usual. Then after a moment, “I can tell you now,” he said. “It was a paper containing a secret of the Bellegardes—something which would damn them if it were known.”

Mrs. Tristram dropped her embroidery with a reproachful moan. “Ah, why didn’t you show it to me?”

“I thought of showing it to you—I thought of showing it to everyone. I thought of paying my debt to the Bellegardes that way. So I told them, and I frightened them. They have been staying in the country as you tell me, to keep out of the explosion. But I have given it up.”

Mrs. Tristram began to take slow stitches again. “Have you quite given it up?”

“哦，是的。”

“Is it very bad, this secret?”

“Yes, very bad.”

“For myself,” said Mrs. Tristram, “I am sorry you have given it up. I should have liked immensely to see your paper. They have wronged me too, you know, as your sponsor and guarantee, and it would have served for my revenge as well. How did you come into possession of your secret?”

“It’s a long story. But honestly, at any rate.”

“And they knew you were master of it?”

“Oh, I told them.”

“Dear me, how interesting!” cried Mrs. Tristram. “And you humbled them at your feet?”

Newman was silent a moment. “No, not at all. They pretended not to care—not to be afraid. But I know they did care—they were afraid.”

“你非常确定？”

Newman stared a moment. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Mrs. Tristram resumed her slow stitches. “They defied you, eh?”

“Yes,” said Newman, “it was about that.”

“You tried by the threat of exposure to make them retract?” Mrs. Tristram pursued.

“Yes, but they wouldn’t. I gave them their choice, and they chose to take their chance of bluffing off the charge and convicting me of fraud. But they 为 frightened,” Newman added, “and I have had all the vengeance I want.”

“It is most provoking,” said Mrs. Tristram, “to hear you talk of the ‘charge’ when the charge is burnt up. Is it quite consumed?” she asked, glancing at the fire.

Newman assured her that there was nothing left of it. “Well then,” she said, “I suppose there is no harm in saying that you probably did not make them so very uncomfortable. My impression would be that since, as you say, they defied you, it was because they believed that, after all, you would never really come to the point. Their confidence, after counsel taken of each other, was not in their innocence, nor in their talent for bluffing things off; it was in your remarkable good nature! You see they were right.”

Newman instinctively turned to see if the little paper was in fact consumed; but there was nothing left of it.