The American

“My suspense came to an end yesterday,” said Newman.

“And how long was mine to have lasted?” said the marquise to her daughter. She spoke without irritation; with a sort of cold, noble displeasure.

Madame de Cintré stood silent, with her eyes on the ground. “It is over now,” she said.

“Where is my son—where is Urbain?” asked the marquise. “Send for your brother and inform him.”

Young Madame de Bellegarde laid her hand on the bell-rope. “He was to make some visits with me, and I was to go and knock—very softly, very softly—at the door of his study. But he can come to me!” She pulled the bell, and in a few moments Mrs. Bread appeared, with a face of calm inquiry.

“Send for your brother,” said the old lady.

But Newman felt an irresistible impulse to speak, and to speak in a certain way. “Tell the marquis we want him,” he said to Mrs. Bread, who quietly retired.

Young Madame de Bellegarde went to her sister-in-law and embraced her. Then she turned to Newman, with an intense smile. “She is charming. I congratulate you.”

“I congratulate you, sir,” said Madame de Bellegarde, with extreme solemnity. “My daughter is an extraordinarily good woman. She may have faults, but I don’t know them.”

“My mother does not often make jokes,” said Madame de Cintré; “but when she does they are terrible.”

“She is ravishing,” the Marquise Urbain resumed, looking at her sister-in-law, with her head on one side. “Yes, I congratulate you.”

Madame de Cintré turned away, and, taking up a piece of tapestry, began to ply the needle. Some minutes of silence elapsed, which were interrupted by the arrival of M. de Bellegarde. He came in with his hat in his hand, gloved, and was followed by his brother Valentin, who appeared to have just entered the house. M. de Bellegarde looked around the circle and greeted Newman with his usual finely-measured courtesy. Valentin saluted his mother and his sisters, and, as he shook hands with Newman, gave him a glance of acute interrogation.

“Arrivez donc, messieurs!” cried young Madame de Bellegarde. “We have great news for you.”

“Speak to your brother, my daughter,” said the old lady.

Madame de Cintré had been looking at her tapestry. She raised her eyes to her brother. “I have accepted Mr. Newman.”

“Your sister has consented,” said Newman. “You see after all, I knew what I was about.”

“I am charmed!” said M. de Bellegarde, with superior benignity.

“So am I,” said Valentin to Newman. “The marquis and I are charmed. I can’t marry, myself, but I can understand it. I can’t stand on my head, but I can applaud a clever acrobat. My dear sister, I bless your union.”

The marquis stood looking for a while into the crown of his hat. “We have been prepared,” he said at last “but it is inevitable that in face of the event one should experience a certain emotion.” And he gave a most unhilarious smile.

“I feel no emotion that I was not perfectly prepared for,” said his mother.

“I can’t say that for myself,” said Newman, smiling but differently from the marquis. “I am happier than I expected to be. I suppose it’s the sight of your happiness!”

“Don’t exaggerate that,” said Madame de Bellegarde, getting up and laying her hand upon her daughter’s arm. “You can’t expect an honest old woman to thank you for taking away her beautiful, only daughter.”

“You forgot me, dear madame,” said the young marquise demurely.

“Yes, she is very beautiful,” said Newman.

“And when is the wedding, pray?” asked young Madame de Bellegarde; “I must have a month to think over a dress.”

“That must be discussed,” said the marquise.

“Oh, we will discuss it, and let you know!” Newman exclaimed.

“I have no doubt we shall agree,” said Urbain.

“If you don’t agree with Madame de Cintré, you will be very unreasonable.”

“Come, come, Urbain,” said young Madame de Bellegarde, “I must go straight to my tailor’s.”

The old lady had been standing with her hand on her daughter’s arm, looking at her fixedly. She gave a little sigh, and murmured, “No, I did not expect it! You are a fortunate man,” she added, turning to Newman, with an expressive nod.

“Oh, I know that!” he answered. “I feel tremendously proud. I feel like crying it on the housetops,—like stopping people in the street to tell them.”

Madame de Bellegarde narrowed her lips. “Pray don’t,” she said.

“The more people that know it, the better,” Newman declared. “I haven’t yet announced it here, but I telegraphed it this morning to America.”

“Telegraphed it to America?” the old lady murmured.

“To New York, to St. Louis, and to San Francisco; those are the principal cities, you know. To-morrow I shall tell my friends here.”

“Have you many?” asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone of which I am afraid that Newman but partly measured the impertinence.

“Enough to bring me a great many hand-shakes and congratulations. To say nothing,” he added, in a moment, “of those I shall receive from your friends.”

“They will not use the telegraph,” said the marquise, taking her departure.

M. de Bellegarde, whose wife, her imagination having apparently taken flight to the tailor’s, was fluttering her silken wings in emulation, shook hands with Newman, and said with a more persuasive accent than the latter had ever heard him use, “You may count upon me.” Then his wife led him away.

Valentin stood looking from his sister to our hero. “I hope you both reflected seriously,” he said.

Madame de Cintré smiled. “We have neither your powers of reflection nor your depth of seriousness; but we have done our best.”

“Well, I have a great regard for each of you,” Valentin continued. “You are charming young people. But I am not satisfied, on the whole, that you belong to that small and superior class—that exquisite group composed of persons who are worthy to remain unmarried. These are rare souls; they are the salt of the earth. But I don’t mean to be invidious; the marrying people are often very nice.”

“Valentin holds that women should marry, and that men should not,” said Madame de Cintré. “I don’t know how he arranges it.”

“I arrange it by adoring you, my sister,” said Valentin ardently. “Good-bye.”

“Adore someone whom you can marry,” said Newman. “I will arrange that for you some day. I foresee that I am going to turn apostle.”

Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment with a face that had turned grave. “I adore someone I can’t marry!” he said. And he dropped the portière and departed.

“They don’t like it,” said Newman, standing alone before Madame de Cintré.

“No,” she said, after a moment; “they don’t like it.”

“Well, now, do you mind that?” asked Newman.