“No; don’t think that,” said Madame de Cintre.  “But I am going away.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the country, to Fleurieres; to be alone.”

“To leave me?” said Newman, slowly.

“I can’t see you, now,” said Madame de Cintre.

“Now—­why not?”

“I am ashamed,” said Madame de Cintre, simply.

Newman turned toward the marquis.  “What have you done to her—­what does it mean?” he asked with the same effort at calmness, the fruit of his constant practice in taking things easily.  He was excited, but excitement with him was only an intenser deliberateness; it was the swimmer stripped.

“It means that I have given you up,” said Madame de Cintre.  “It means that.”

Her face was too charged with tragic expression not fully to confirm her words.  Newman was profoundly shocked, but he felt as yet no resentment against her.  He was amazed, bewildered, and the presence of the old marquise and her son seemed to smite his eyes like the glare of a watchman’s lantern.  “Can’t I see you alone?” he asked.

“It would be only more painful.  I hoped I should not see you—­I should escape.  I wrote to you.  Good-by.”  And she put out her hand again.

Newman put both his own into his pockets.  “I will go with you,” he said.

She laid her two hands on his arm.  “Will you grant me a last request?” and as she looked at him, urging this, her eyes filled with tears.  “Let me go alone—­let me go in peace.  I can’t call it peace—­it’s death.  But let me bury myself.  So—­good-by.”

Newman passed his hand into his hair and stood slowly rubbing his head and looking through his keenly-narrowed eyes from one to the other of the three persons before him.  His lips were compressed, and the two lines which had formed themselves beside his mouth might have made it appear at a first glance that he was smiling.  I have said that his excitement was an intenser deliberateness, and now he looked grimly deliberate.  “It seems very much as if you had interfered, marquis,” he said slowly.  “I thought you said you wouldn’t interfere.  I know you don’t like me; but that doesn’t make any difference.  I thought you promised me you wouldn’t interfere.  I thought you swore on your honor that you wouldn’t interfere.  Don’t you remember, marquis?”

The marquis lifted his eyebrows; but he was apparently determined to be even more urbane than usual.  He rested his two hands upon the back of his mother’s chair and bent forward, as if he were leaning over the edge of a pulpit or a lecture-desk.  He did not smile, but he looked softly grave.  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “I assured you that I would not influence my sister’s decision.  I adhered, to the letter, to my engagement.  Did I not, sister?”

“Don’t appeal, my son,” said the marquise, “your word is sufficient.”

“Yes—­she accepted me,” said Newman.  “That is very true, I can’t deny that.  At least,” he added, in a different tone, turning to Madame de Cintre, “you did accept me?”