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-by." 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-by."
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 Cintre, "you DID 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 Cintre. "What is it? how did they use it?"
"My mother commanded," said Madame de Cintre.
"Commanded you to give me up — I see. And you obey — I see. But why do you obey?" asked Newman.
Madame de Cintre 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 Cintre; 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 portiere 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."
"Is THAT 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."