Evidently he startled the Bellegardes, and they had not their grand behavior immediately in hand.Newman hurried past them, guided only by the desire to get out of the convent walls and into the street.The gate opened itself at his approach;he strode over the threshold and it closed behind him.
A carriage which appeared to have been standing there, was just turning away from the sidewalk.Newman looked at it for a moment, blankly; then he became conscious, through the dusky mist that swam before his eyes, that a lady seated in it was bowing to him.The vehicle had turned away before he recognized her;it was an ancient landau with one half the cover lowered.
The lady's bow was very positive and accompanied with a smile;a little girl was seated beside her.He raised his hat, and then the lady bade the coachman stop.The carriage halted again beside the pavement, and she sat there and beckoned to Newman--beckoned with the demonstrative grace of Madame Urbain de Bellegarde.
Newman hesitated a moment before he obeyed her summons, during this moment he had time to curse his stupidity for letting the others escape him.He had been wondering how he could get at them;fool that he was for not stopping them then and there!
What better place than beneath the very prison walls to which they had consigned the promise of his joy? He had been too bewildered to stop them, but now he felt ready to wait for them at the gate.
Madame Urbain, with a certain attractive petulance, beckoned to him again, and this time he went over to the carriage.
She leaned out and gave him her hand, looking at him kindly, and smiling.
"Ah, monsieur," she said, "you don't include me in your wrath?
I had nothing to do with it."
"Oh, I don't suppose YOU could have prevented it!"Newman answered in a tone which was not that of studied gallantry.
"What you say is too true for me to resent the small account it makes of my influence.I forgive you, at any rate, because you look as if you had seen a ghost.""I have!" said Newman.
"I am glad, then, I didn't go in with Madame de Bellegarde and my husband.
You must have seen them, eh? Was the meeting affectionate? Did you hear the chanting? They say it's like the lamentations of the damned.
I wouldn't go in: one is certain to hear that soon enough.
Poor Claire--in a white shroud and a big brown cloak!
That's the toilette of the Carmelites, you know.Well, she was always fond of long, loose things.But I must not speak of her to you;only I must say that I am very sorry for you, that if I could have helped you I would, and that I think every one has been very shabby.
I was afraid of it, you know; I felt it in the air for a fortnight before it came.When I saw you at my mother-in-law's ball, taking it all so easily, I felt as if you were dancing on your grave.
But what could I do? I wish you all the good I can think of.
You will say that isn't much! Yes; they have been very shabby;I am not a bit afraid to say it; I assure you every one thinks so.
We are not all like that.I am sorry I am not going to see you again;you know I think you very good company.I would prove it by asking you to get into the carriage and drive with me for a quarter of an hour, while I wait for my mother-in-law.Only if we were seen--considering what has passed, and every one knows you have been turned away--it might be thought I was going a little too far, even for me.
But I shall see you sometimes--somewhere, eh? You know"--this was said in English--"we have a plan for a little amusement."Newman stood there with his hand on the carriage-door listening to this consolatory murmur with an unlighted eye.
He hardly knew what Madame de Bellegarde was saying;he was only conscious that she was chattering ineffectively.
But suddenly it occurred to him that, with her pretty professions, there was a way of making her effective;she might help him to get at the old woman and the marquis.
"They are coming back soon--your companions?" he said.
"You are waiting for them?"
"They will hear the mass out; there is nothing to keep them longer.
Claire has refused to see them."
"I want to speak to them," said Newman; "and you can help me, you can do me a favor.Delay your return for five minutes and give me a chance at them.
I will wait for them here."
Madame de Bellegarde clasped her hands with a tender grimace.
"My poor friend, what do you want to do to them?
To beg them to come back to you? It will be wasted words.
They will never come back!"
"I want to speak to them, all the same.Pray do what I ask you.
Stay away and leave them to me for five minutes; you needn't be afraid;I shall not be violent; I am very quiet.""Yes, you look very quiet! If they had le coeur tendre you would move them.
But they haven't! However, I will do better for you than what you propose.
The understanding is not that I shall come back for them.
I am going into the Parc Monceau with my little girl to give her a walk, and my mother-in-law, who comes so rarely into this quarter, is to profit by the same opportunity to take the air.We are to wait for her in the park, where my husband is to bring her to us.
Follow me now; just within the gates I shall get out of my carriage.
Sit down on a chair in some quiet corner and I will bring them near you.
There's devotion for you! Le reste vous regarde."This proposal seemed to Newman extremely felicitous; it revived his drooping spirit, and he reflected that Madame Urbain was not such a goose as she seemed.He promised immediately to overtake her, and the carriage drove away.
The Parc Monceau is a very pretty piece of landscape-gardening, but Newman, passing into it, bestowed little attention upon its elegant vegetation, which was full of the freshness of spring.
He found Madame de Bellegarde promptly, seated in one of the quiet corners of which she had spoken, while before her, in the alley, her little girl, attended by the footman and the lap-dog, walked up and down as if she were taking a lesson in deportment.
