Part 47 (2/2)

”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.”

”What did they say?”

”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 Cintre 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. Voila!” 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 some one outside. This was M. le cure, who carried in his hand an object unknown to Newman, and covered with a white napkin. M. le cure 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 arm-chair, 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 cure went to sleep. At last abruptly, Valentin p.r.o.nounced 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 cure, who looked back at him; and then the doctor and the cure, together, gave a shrug. ”Alone--for five minutes,” Valentin repeated.

”Please leave us.”

The cure 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.”

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