“I don’t think she expected you this morning,” the old waiting-woman replied.  “She was to leave immediately.”

“Where is she going?”

“To Fleurieres.”

“To Fleurieres?  But surely I can see her?”

Mrs. Bread hesitated a moment, and then clasping together her two hands, “I will take you!” she said.  And she led the way upstairs.  At the top of the staircase she paused and fixed her dry, sad eyes upon Newman.  “Be very easy with her,” she said; “she is most unhappy!” Then she went on to Madame de Cintre’s apartment; Newman, perplexed and alarmed, followed her rapidly.  Mrs. Bread threw open the door, and Newman pushed back the curtain at the farther side of its deep embrasure.  In the middle of the room stood Madame de Cintre; her face was pale and she was dressed for traveling.  Behind her, before the fire-place, stood Urbain de Bellegarde, looking at his finger-nails; near the marquis sat his mother, buried in an arm-chair, and with her eyes immediately fixing themselves upon Newman.  He felt, as soon as he entered the room, that he was in the presence of something evil; he was startled and pained, as he would have been by a threatening cry in the stillness of the night.  He walked straight to Madame de Cintre and seized her by the hand.

“What is the matter?” he asked, commandingly; “what is happening?”

Urbain de Bellegarde stared, then left his place and came and leaned upon his mother’s chair, behind.  Newman’s sudden irruption had evidently discomposed both mother and son.  Madame de Cintre stood silent, with her eyes resting upon Newman’s.  She had often looked at him with all her soul, as it seemed to him; but in this present gaze there was a sort of bottomless depth.  She was in distress; it was the most touching thing he had ever seen.  His heart rose into his throat, and he was on the point of turning to her companions, with an angry challenge; but she checked him, pressing the hand that held her own.

“Something very grave has happened,” she said.  “I cannot marry you.”

Newman dropped her hand and stood staring, first at her and then at the others.  “Why not?” he asked, as quietly as possible.

Madame de Cintre almost smiled, but the attempt was strange.  “You must ask my mother, you must ask my brother.”

“Why can’t she marry me?” said Newman, looking at them.

Madame de Bellegarde did not move in her place, but she was as pale as her daughter.  The marquis looked down at her.  She said nothing for some moments, but she kept her keen, clear eyes upon Newman, bravely.  The marquis drew himself up and looked at the ceiling.  “It’s impossible!” he said softly.

“It’s improper,” said Madame de Bellegarde.

Newman began to laugh.  “Oh, you are fooling!” he exclaimed.

“My sister, you have no time; you are losing your train,” said the marquis.

“Come, is he mad?” asked Newman.