“Madame de la Rochefidele says that she is convinced that she must have seen Americans without knowing it,” Madame de Cintre explained.  Newman thought it probable she had seen a great many things without knowing it; and the old lady, again addressing herself to utterance, declared—­as interpreted by Madame de Cintre—­that she wished she had known it.

At this moment the old gentleman who had been talking to the elder Madame de Bellegarde drew near, leading the marquise on his arm.  His wife pointed out Newman to him, apparently explaining his remarkable origin.  M. de la Rochefidele, whose old age was rosy and rotund, spoke very neatly and clearly, almost as prettily, Newman thought, as M. Nioche.  When he had been enlightened, he turned to Newman with an inimitable elderly grace.

“Monsieur is by no means the first American that I have seen,” he said.  “Almost the first person I ever saw—­to notice him—­was an American.”

“Ah?” said Newman, sympathetically.

“The great Dr. Franklin,” said M. de la Rochefidele.  “Of course I was very young.  He was received very well in our monde.”

“Not better than Mr. Newman,” said Madame de Bellegarde.  “I beg he will offer his arm into the other room.  I could have offered no higher privilege to Dr. Franklin.”

Newman, complying with Madame de Bellegarde’s request, perceived that her two sons had returned to the drawing-room.  He scanned their faces an instant for traces of the scene that had followed his separation from them, but the marquise seemed neither more nor less frigidly grand than usual, and Valentin was kissing ladies’ hands with at least his habitual air of self-abandonment to the act.  Madame de Bellegarde gave a glance at her eldest son, and by the time she had crossed the threshold of her boudoir he was at her side.  The room was now empty and offered a sufficient degree of privacy.  The old lady disengaged herself from Newman’s arm and rested her hand on the arm of the marquis; and in this position she stood a moment, holding her head high and biting her small under-lip.  I am afraid the picture was lost upon Newman, but Madame de Bellegarde was, in fact, at this moment a striking image of the dignity which—­even in the case of a little time-shrunken old lady—­may reside in the habit of unquestioned authority and the absoluteness of a social theory favorable to yourself.

“My son has spoken to you as I desired,” she said, “and you understand that we shall not interfere.  The rest will lie with yourself.”

“M. de Bellegarde told me several things I didn’t understand,” said Newman, “but I made out that.  You will leave me open field.  I am much obliged.”

“I wish to add a word that my son probably did not feel at liberty to say,” the marquise rejoined.  “I must say it for my own peace of mind.  We are stretching a point; we are doing you a great favor.”

“Oh, your son said it very well; didn’t you?” said Newman.