Henry James - Henry James - The Complete Novels (The Greatest Novelists of All Time – Book 10)

“I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of letting you know that I return to Paris, to-morrow, with my mother, in order that we may see my sister and confirm her in the resolution which is the most effectual reply to your audacious pertinacity.

HENRI-URBAIN DE BELLEGARDE.”

Newman put the letter into his pocket, and continued his walk up and down the inn-parlor. He had spent most of his time, for the past week, in walking up and down. He continued to measure the length of the little salle of the Armes de Prance until the day began to wane, when he went out to keep his rendezvous with Mrs. Bread. The path which led up the hill to the ruin was easy to find, and Newman in a short time had followed it to the top. He passed beneath the rugged arch of the castle wall, and looked about him in the early dusk for an old woman in black. The castle yard was empty, but the door of the church was open. Newman went into the little nave and of course found a deeper dusk than without. A couple of tapers, however, twinkled on the altar and just enabled him to perceive a figure seated by one of the pillars. Closer inspection helped him to recognize Mrs. Bread, in spite of the fact that she was dressed with unwonted splendor. She wore a large black silk bonnet, with imposing bows of crape, and an old black satin dress disposed itself in vaguely lustrous folds about her person. She had judged it proper to the occasion to appear in her stateliest apparel. She had been sitting with her eyes fixed upon the ground, but when Newman passed before her she looked up at him, and then she rose.

“Are you a Catholic, Mrs. Bread?” he asked.

“No, sir; I’m a good Church-of-England woman, very Low,” she answered. “But I thought I should be safer in here than outside. I was never out in the evening before, sir.”

“We shall be safer,” said Newman, “where no one can hear us.” And he led the way back into the castle court and then followed a path beside the church, which he was sure must lead into another part of the ruin. He was not deceived. It wandered along the crest of the hill and terminated before a fragment of wall pierced by a rough aperture which had once been a door. Through this aperture Newman passed and found himself in a nook peculiarly favorable to quiet conversation, as probably many an earnest couple, otherwise assorted than our friends, had assured themselves. The hill sloped abruptly away, and on the remnant of its crest were scattered two or three fragments of stone. Beneath, over the plain, lay the gathered twilight, through which, in the near distance, gleamed two or three lights from the chateau. Mrs. Bread rustled slowly after her guide, and Newman, satisfying himself that one of the fallen stones was steady, proposed to her to sit upon it. She cautiously complied, and he placed himself upon another, near her.

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I am very much obliged to you for coming,” Newman said. “I hope it won’t get you into trouble.”

“I don’t think I shall be missed. My lady, in these days, is not fond of having me about her.” This was said with a certain fluttered eagerness which increased Newman’s sense of having inspired the old woman with confidence.

“From the first, you know,” he answered, “you took an interest in my prospects. You were on my side. That gratified me, I assure you. And now that you know what they have done to me, I am sure you are with me all the more.”

“They have not done well — I must say it,” said Mrs. Bread. “But you mustn’t blame the poor countess; they pressed her hard.”

“I would give a million of dollars to know what they did to her!” cried Newman.

Mrs. Bread sat with a dull, oblique gaze fixed upon the lights of the chateau. “They worked on her feelings; they knew that was the way. She is a delicate creature. They made her feel wicked. She is only too good.”

“Ah, they made her feel wicked,” said Newman, slowly; and then he repeated it. “They made her feel wicked — they made her feel wicked.” The words seemed to him for the moment a vivid description of infernal ingenuity.

“It was because she was so good that she gave up — poor sweet lady!” added Mrs. Bread.

“But she was better to them than to me,” said Newman.

“She was afraid,” said Mrs. Bread, very confidently; “she has always been afraid, or at least for a long time. That was the real trouble, sir. She was like a fair peach, I may say, with just one little speck. She had one little sad spot. You pushed her into the sunshine, sir, and it almost disappeared. Then they pulled her back into the shade and in a moment it began to spread. Before we knew it she was gone. She was a delicate creature.”

This singular attestation of Madame de Cintre’s delicacy, for all its singularity, set Newman’s wound aching afresh. “I see,” he presently said; “she knew something bad about her mother.”

“No, sir, she knew nothing,” said Mrs. Bread, holding her head very stiff and keeping her eyes fixed upon the glimmering windows of the chateau.

“She guessed something, then, or suspected it.”

“She was afraid to know,” said Mrs. Bread.

“But YOU know, at any rate,” said Newman.

She slowly turned her vague eyes upon Newman, squeezing her hands together in her lap. “You are not quite faithful, sir. I thought it was to tell me about Mr. Valentin you asked me to come here.”

“Oh, the more we talk of Mr. Valentin the better,” said Newman. “That’s exactly what I want. I was with him, as I told you, in his last hour. He was in a great deal of pain, but he was quite himself. You know what that means; he was bright and lively and clever.”

“Oh, he would always be clever, sir,” said Mrs. Bread. “And did he know of your trouble?”

“Yes, he guessed it of himself.”

“And what did he say to it?”

“He said it was a disgrace to his name — but it was not the first.”

“Lord, Lord!” murmured Mrs. Bread.

“He said that his mother and his brother had once put their heads together and invented something even worse.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to that, sir.”

“Perhaps not. But I DID listen, and I don’t forget it. Now I want to know what it is they did.”

Mrs. Bread gave a soft moan. “And you have enticed me up into this strange place to tell you?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Newman. “I won’t say a word that shall be disagreeable to you. Tell me as it suits you, and when it suits you. Only remember that it was Mr. Valentin’s last wish that you should.”

“Did he say that?”

“He said it with his last breath —‘Tell Mrs. Bread I told you to ask her.’”

“Why didn’t he tell you himself?”

“It was too long a story for a dying man; he had no breath left in his body. He could only say that he wanted me to know — that, wronged as I was, it was my right to know.”

“But how will it help you, sir?” said Mrs. Bread.

“That’s for me to decide. Mr. Valentin believed it would, and that’s why he told me. Your name was almost the last word he spoke.”

Mrs. Bread was evidently awe-struck by this statement; she shook her clasped hands slowly up and down. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, “if I take a great liberty. Is it the solemn truth you are speaking? I MUST ask you that; must I not, sir?”

“There’s no offense. It is the solemn truth; I solemnly swear it. Mr. Valentin himself would certainly have told me more if he had been able.”

“Oh, sir, if he knew more!”

“Don’t you suppose he did?”

“There’s no saying what he knew about anything,” said Mrs. Bread, with a mild head-shake. “He was so mightily clever. He could make you believe he knew things that he didn’t, and that he didn’t know others that he had better not have known.”