The American

“For my mother,” said Bellegarde, now with intense gravity, “I have the highest admiration. She is a very extraordinary woman. You cannot approach her without perceiving it.”

“She is the daughter, I believe, of an English nobleman.”

“Of the Earl of St. Dunstan’s.”

“Is the Earl of St. Dunstan’s a very old family?”

“So-so; the sixteenth century. It is on my father’s side that we go back—back, back, back. The family antiquaries themselves lose breath. At last they stop, panting and fanning themselves, somewhere in the ninth century, under Charlemagne. That is where we begin.”

“There is no mistake about it?” said Newman.

“I’m sure I hope not. We have been mistaken at least for several centuries.”

“And you have always married into old families?”

“As a rule; though in so long a stretch of time there have been some exceptions. Three or four Bellegardes, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, took wives out of the bourgeoisie—married lawyers’ daughters.”

“A lawyer’s daughter; that’s very bad, is it?” asked Newman.

“Horrible! one of us, in the Middle Ages, did better: he married a beggar-maid, like King Cophetua. That was really better; it was like marrying a bird or a monkey; one didn’t have to think about her family at all. Our women have always done well; they have never even gone into the petite noblesse. There is, I believe, not a case on record of a misalliance among the women.”

Newman turned this over for a while, and, then at last he said, “You offered, the first time you came to see me to render me any service you could. I told you that some time I would mention something you might do. Do you remember?”

“Remember? I have been counting the hours.”

“Very well; here’s your chance. Do what you can to make your sister think well of me.”

Bellegarde stared, with a smile. “Why, I’m sure she thinks as well of you as possible, already.”

“An opinion founded on seeing me three or four times? That is putting me off with very little. I want something more. I have been thinking of it a good deal, and at last I have decided to tell you. I should like very much to marry Madame de Cintré.”

Bellegarde had been looking at him with quickened expectancy, and with the smile with which he had greeted Newman’s allusion to his promised request. At this last announcement he continued to gaze; but his smile went through two or three curious phases. It felt, apparently, a momentary impulse to broaden; but this it immediately checked. Then it remained for some instants taking counsel with itself, at the end of which it decreed a retreat. It slowly effaced itself and left a look of seriousness modified by the desire not to be rude. Extreme surprise had come into the Count Valentin’s face; but he had reflected that it would be uncivil to leave it there. And yet, what the deuce was he to do with it? He got up, in his agitation, and stood before the chimney-piece, still looking at Newman. He was a longer time thinking what to say than one would have expected.

“If you can’t render me the service I ask,” said Newman, “say it out!”

“Let me hear it again, distinctly,” said Bellegarde. “It’s very important, you know. I shall plead your cause with my sister, because you want—you want to marry her? That’s it, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t say plead my cause, exactly; I shall try and do that myself. But say a good word for me, now and then—let her know that you think well of me.”

At this, Bellegarde gave a little light laugh.

“What I want chiefly, after all,” Newman went on, “is just to let you know what I have in mind. I suppose that is what you expect, isn’t it? I want to do what is customary over here. If there is anything particular to be done, let me know and I will do it. I wouldn’t for the world approach Madame de Cintré without all the proper forms. If I ought to go and tell your mother, why I will go and tell her. I will go and tell your brother, even. I will go and tell anyone you please. As I don’t know anyone else, I begin by telling you. But that, if it is a social obligation, is a pleasure as well.”

“Yes, I see—I see,” said Bellegarde, lightly stroking his chin. “You have a very right feeling about it, but I’m glad you have begun with me.” He paused, hesitated, and then turned away and walked slowly the length of the room. Newman got up and stood leaning against the mantel-shelf, with his hands in his pockets, watching Bellegarde’s promenade. The young Frenchman came back and stopped in front of him. “I give it up,” he said; “I will not pretend I am not surprised. I am—hugely! Ouf! It’s a relief.”

“That sort of news is always a surprise,” said Newman. “No matter what you have done, people are never prepared. But if you are so surprised, I hope at least you are pleased.”

“Come!” said Bellegarde. “I am going to be tremendously frank. I don’t know whether I am pleased or horrified.”

“If you are pleased, I shall be glad,” said Newman, “and I shall be—encouraged. If you are horrified, I shall be sorry, but I shall not be discouraged. You must make the best of it.”

“That is quite right—that is your only possible attitude. You are perfectly serious?”

“Am I a Frenchman, that I should not be?” asked Newman. “But why is it, by the bye, that you should be horrified?”

Bellegarde raised his hand to the back of his head and rubbed his hair quickly up and down, thrusting out the tip of his tongue as he did so. “Why, you are not noble, for instance,” he said.

“The devil I am not!” exclaimed Newman.

“Oh,” said Bellegarde a little more seriously, “I did not know you had a title.”

“A title? What do you mean by a title?” asked Newman. “A count, a duke, a marquis? I don’t know anything about that, I don’t know who is and who is not. But I say I am noble. I don’t exactly know what you mean by it, but it’s a fine word and a fine idea; I put in a claim to it.”

“But what have you to show, my dear fellow, what proofs?”

“Anything you please! But you don’t suppose I am going to undertake to prove that I am noble. It is for you to prove the contrary.”

“That’s easily done. You have manufactured wash-tubs.”

Newman stared a moment. “Therefore I am not noble? I don’t see it. Tell me something I have not done—something I cannot do.”

“You cannot marry a woman like Madame de Cintré for the asking.”

“I believe you mean,” said Newman slowly, “that I am not good enough.”

“Brutally speaking—yes!”

Bellegarde had hesitated a moment, and while he hesitated Newman’s attentive glance had grown somewhat eager. In answer to these last words he for a moment said nothing. He simply blushed a little. Then he raised his eyes to the ceiling and stood looking at one of the rosy cherubs that was painted upon it. “Of course I don’t expect to marry any woman for the asking,” he said at last; “I expect first to make myself acceptable to her. She must like me, to begin with. But that I am not good enough to make a trial is rather a surprise.”

Bellegarde wore a look of mingled perplexity, sympathy, and amusement. “You should not hesitate, then, to go up to-morrow and ask a duchess to marry you?”

“Not if I thought she would suit me. But I am very fastidious; she might not at all.”

Bellegarde’s amusement began to prevail. “And you should be surprised if she refused you?”

Newman hesitated a moment. “It sounds conceited to say yes, but nevertheless I think I should. For I should make a very handsome offer.”

“What would it be?”

“Everything she wishes. If I get hold of a woman that comes up to my standard, I shall think nothing too good for her. I have been a long time looking, and I find such women are rare. To combine the qualities I require seems to be difficult, but when the difficulty is vanquished it deserves a reward. My wife shall have a good position, and I’m not afraid to say that I shall be a good husband.”

“And these qualities that you require—what are they?”

“Goodness, beauty, intelligence, a fine education, personal elegance—everything, in a word, that makes a splendid woman.”

“And noble birth, evidently,” said Bellegarde.

“Oh, throw that in, by all means, if it’s there. The more the better!”