Newman went the next morning to see Madame de Cintre, timing his visit so as to arrive after the noonday breakfast. In the court of the hotel, 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."
"Where is she going?"
"To Fleurieres? 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 Cintre'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 Cintre; 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 arm-chair, 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre 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 Cintre. "But I am going away."
"Where are you going?"
"To the country, to Fleurieres; to be alone."
"To leave me?" said Newman, slowly.
"I can't see you, now," said Madame de Cintre.
"NOW — why not?"
"I am ashamed," said Madame de Cintre, 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 Cintre. "It means that."