The American

“Well, over here,” said Newman, “one’s point of view gets shifted round considerably.” And he threw back his head and looked about the room. “Your house is of a very curious style of architecture,” he said.

“Are you interested in architecture?” asked the young man at the chimney-piece.

“Well, I took the trouble, this summer,” said Newman, “to examine—as well as I can calculate—some four hundred and seventy churches. Do you call that interested?”

“Perhaps you are interested in theology,” said the young man.

“Not particularly. Are you a Roman Catholic, madam?” And he turned to Madame de Cintre.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, gravely.

Newman was struck with the gravity of her tone; he threw back his head and began to look round the room again. “Had you never noticed that number up there?” he presently asked.

She hesitated a moment, and then, “In former years,” she said.

Her brother had been watching Newman’s movement. “Perhaps you would like to examine the house,” he said.

Newman slowly brought down his eyes and looked at him; he had a vague impression that the young man at the chimney-piece was inclined to irony. He was a handsome fellow, his face wore a smile, his mustaches were curled up at the ends, and there was a little dancing gleam in his eye. “Damn his French impudence!” Newman was on the point of saying to himself. “What the deuce is he grinning at?” He glanced at Madame de Cintre; she was sitting with her eyes fixed on the floor. She raised them, they met his, and she looked at her brother. Newman turned again to this young man and observed that he strikingly resembled his sister. This was in his favor, and our hero’s first impression of the Count Valentin, moreover, had been agreeable. His mistrust expired, and he said he would be very glad to see the house.

The young man gave a frank laugh, and laid his hand on one of the candlesticks. “Good, good!” he exclaimed. “Come, then.”

But Madame de Cintre rose quickly and grasped his arm, “Ah, Valentin!” she said. “What do you mean to do?”

“To show Mr. Newman the house. It will be very amusing.”

She kept her hand on his arm, and turned to Newman with a smile. “Don’t let him take you,” she said; “you will not find it amusing. It is a musty old house, like any other.”

“It is full of curious things,” said the count, resisting. “Besides, I want to do it; it is a rare chance.”

“You are very wicked, brother,” Madame de Cintre answered.

“Nothing venture, nothing have!” cried the young man. “Will you come?”

Madame de Cintre stepped toward Newman, gently clasping her hands and smiling softly. “Would you not prefer my society, here, by my fire, to stumbling about dark passages after my brother?”

“A hundred times!” said Newman. “We will see the house some other day.”

The young man put down his candlestick with mock solemnity, and, shaking his head, “Ah, you have defeated a great scheme, sir!” he said.

“A scheme? I don’t understand,” said Newman.

“You would have played your part in it all the better. Perhaps some day I shall have a chance to explain it.”

“Be quiet, and ring for the tea,” said Madame de Cintre.

The young man obeyed, and presently a servant brought in the tea, placed the tray on a small table, and departed. Madame de Cintre, from her place, busied herself with making it. She had but just begun when the door was thrown open and a lady rushed in, making a loud rustling sound. She stared at Newman, gave a little nod and a “Monsieur!” and then quickly approached Madame de Cintre and presented her forehead to be kissed. Madame de Cintre saluted her, and continued to make tea. The new-comer was young and pretty, it seemed to Newman; she wore her bonnet and cloak, and a train of royal proportions. She began to talk rapidly in French. “Oh, give me some tea, my beautiful one, for the love of God! I’m exhausted, mangled, massacred.” Newman found himself quite unable to follow her; she spoke much less distinctly than M. Nioche.

“That is my sister-in-law,” said the Count Valentin, leaning towards him.

“She is very pretty,” said Newman.

“Exquisite,” answered the young man, and this time, again, Newman suspected him of irony.

His sister-in-law came round to the other side of the fire with her cup of tea in her hand, holding it out at arm’s-length, so that she might not spill it on her dress, and uttering little cries of alarm. She placed the cup on the mantel-shelf and begun to unpin her veil and pull off her gloves, looking meanwhile at Newman.

“Is there any thing I can do for you, my dear lady?” the Count Valentin asked, in a sort of mock-caressing tone.

“Present monsieur,” said his sister-in-law.

The young man answered, “Mr. Newman!”

“I can’t courtesy to you, monsieur, or I shall spill my tea,” said the lady. “So Claire receives strangers, like that?” she added, in a low voice, in French, to her brother-in-law.

“Apparently!” he answered with a smile. Newman stood a moment, and then he approached Madame de Cintre. She looked up at him as if she were thinking of something to say. But she seemed to think of nothing; so she simply smiled. He sat down near her and she handed him a cup of tea. For a few moments they talked about that, and meanwhile he looked at her. He remembered what Mrs. Tristram had told him of her “perfection” and of her having, in combination, all the brilliant things that he dreamed of finding. This made him observe her not only without mistrust, but without uneasy conjectures; the presumption, from the first moment he looked at her, had been in her favor. And yet, if she was beautiful, it was not a dazzling beauty. She was tall and moulded in long lines; she had thick fair hair, a wide forehead, and features with a sort of harmonious irregularity. Her clear gray eyes were strikingly expressive; they were both gentle and intelligent, and Newman liked them immensely; but they had not those depths of splendor—those many-colored rays—which illumine the brows of famous beauties. Madame de Cintre was rather thin, and she looked younger than probably she was. In her whole person there was something both youthful and subdued, slender and yet ample, tranquil yet shy; a mixture of immaturity and repose, of innocence and dignity. What had Tristram meant, Newman wondered, by calling her proud? She was certainly not proud now, to him; or if she was, it was of no use, it was lost upon him; she must pile it up higher if she expected him to mind it. She was a beautiful woman, and it was very easy to get on with her. Was she a countess, a marquise, a kind of historical formation? Newman, who had rarely heard these words used, had never been at pains to attach any particular image to them; but they occurred to him now and seemed charged with a sort of melodious meaning. They signified something fair and softly bright, that had easy motions and spoke very agreeably.

“Have you many friends in Paris; do you go out?” asked Madame de Cintre, who had at last thought of something to say.

“Do you mean do I dance, and all that?”

“Do you go dans le monde, as we say?”

“I have seen a good many people. Mrs. Tristram has taken me about. I do whatever she tells me.”

“By yourself, you are not fond of amusements?”

“Oh yes, of some sorts. I am not fond of dancing, and that sort of thing; I am too old and sober. But I want to be amused; I came to Europe for that.”

“But you can be amused in America, too.”

“I couldn’t; I was always at work. But after all, that was my amusement.”

At this moment Madame de Bellegarde came back for another cup of tea, accompanied by the Count Valentin. Madame de Cintre, when she had served her, began to talk again with Newman, and recalling what he had last said, “In your own country you were very much occupied?” she asked.

“I was in business. I have been in business since I was fifteen years old.”

“And what was your business?” asked Madame de Bellegarde, who was decidedly not so pretty as Madame de Cintre.

“I have been in everything,” said Newman. “At one time I sold leather; at one time I manufactured wash-tubs.”

Madame de Bellegarde made a little grimace. “Leather? I don’t like that. Wash-tubs are better. I prefer the smell of soap. I hope at least they made your fortune.” She rattled this off with the air of a woman who had the reputation of saying everything that came into her head, and with a strong French accent.

Newman had spoken with cheerful seriousness, but Madame de Bellegarde’s tone made him go on, after a meditative pause, with a certain light grimness of jocularity. “No, I lost money on wash-tubs, but I came out pretty square on leather.”

“I have made up my mind, after all,” said Madame de Bellegarde, “that the great point is—how do you call it?—to come out square. I am on my knees to money; I don’t deny it. If you have it, I ask no questions. For that I am a real democrat—like you, monsieur. Madame de Cintre is very proud; but I find that one gets much more pleasure in this sad life if one doesn’t look too close.”

“Just Heaven, dear madam, how you go at it,” said the Count Valentin, lowering his voice.

“He’s a man one can speak to, I suppose, since my sister receives him,” the lady answered. “Besides, it’s very true; those are my ideas.”