“You would have waited long before any one would have set you such an example as this,” exclaimed Newman.  “Have I done anything wrong?” he demanded.  “Have I given you reason to change your opinion?  Have you found out anything against me?  I can’t imagine.”

“Our opinion,” said Madame de Bellegarde, “is quite the same as at first—­exactly.  We have no ill-will towards yourself; we are very far from accusing you of misconduct.  Since your relations with us began you have been, I frankly confess, less—­less peculiar than I expected.  It is not your disposition that we object to, it is your antecedents.  We really cannot reconcile ourselves to a commercial person.  We fancied in an evil hour that we could; it was a great misfortune.  We determined to persevere to the end, and to give you every advantage.  I was resolved that you should have no reason to accuse me of want of loyalty.  We let the thing certainly go very far; we introduced you to our friends.  To tell the truth, it was that, I think, that broke me down.  I succumbed to the scene that took place on Thursday night in these rooms.  You must excuse me if what I say is disagreeable to you, but we cannot release ourselves without an explanation.”

“There can be no better proof of our good faith,” said the marquis, “than our committing ourselves to you in the eyes of the world the other evening.  We endeavored to bind ourselves—­to tie our hands, as it were.”

“But it was that,” added his mother, “that opened our eyes and broke our bonds.  We should have been most uncomfortable!  You know,” she added in a moment, “that you were forewarned.  I told you we were very proud.”

Newman took up his hat and began mechanically to smooth it; the very fierceness of his scorn kept him from speaking.  “You are not proud enough,” he observed at last.

“In all this matter,” said the marquis, smiling, “I really see nothing but our humility.”

“Let us have no more discussion than is necessary,” resumed Madame de Bellegarde.  “My daughter told you everything when she said she gave you up.”

“I am not satisfied about your daughter,” said Newman; “I want to know what you did to her.  It is all very easy talking about authority and saying you commanded her.  She didn’t accept me blindly, and she wouldn’t have given me up blindly.  Not that I believe yet she has really given me up; she will talk it over with me.  But you have frightened her, you have bullied her, you have hurt her.  What was it you did to her?”

“I did very little! said Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone which gave Newman a chill when he afterwards remembered it.

“Let me remind you that we offered you these explanations,” the marquis observed, “with the express understanding that you should abstain from violence of language.”

“I am not violent,” Newman answered, “it is you who are violent!  But I don’t know that I have much more to say to you.  What you expect of me, apparently, is to go my way, thanking you for favors received, and promising never to trouble you again.”