Valentin moaned gaspingly, as if his wound were throbbing.  “Broken faith, broken faith!” he murmured.  “And my sister—­my sister?”

“Your sister is very unhappy; she has consented to give me up.  I don’t know why.  I don’t know what they have done to her; it must be something pretty bad.  In justice to her you ought to know it.  They have made her suffer.  I haven’t seen her alone, but only before them!  We had an interview yesterday morning.  They came out, flat, in so many words.  They told me to go about my business.  It seems to me a very bad case.  I’m angry, I’m sore, I’m sick.”

Valentin lay there staring, with his eyes more brilliantly lighted, his lips soundlessly parted, and a flush of color in his pale face.  Newman had never before uttered so many words in the plaintive key, but now, in speaking to Valentin in the poor fellow’s extremity, he had a feeling that he was making his complaint somewhere within the presence of the power that men pray to in trouble; he felt his outgush of resentment as a sort of spiritual privilege.

“And Claire,”—­said Bellegarde,—­“Claire?  She has given you up?”

“I don’t really believe it,” said Newman.

“No.  Don’t believe it, don’t believe it.  She is gaining time; excuse her.”

“I pity her!” said Newman.

“Poor Claire!” murmured Valentin.  “But they—­but they”—­and he paused again.  “You saw them; they dismissed you, face to face?”

“Face to face.  They were very explicit.”

“What did they say?”

“They said they couldn’t stand a commercial person.”

Valentin put out his hand and laid it upon Newman’s arm.  “And about their promise—­their engagement with you?”

“They made a distinction.  They said it was to hold good only until Madame de Cintre accepted me.”

Valentin lay staring a while, and his flush died away.  “Don’t tell me any more,” he said at last.  “I’m ashamed.”

“You?  You are the soul of honor,” said Newman simply.

Valentin groaned and turned away his head.  For some time nothing more was said.  Then Valentin turned back again and found a certain force to press Newman’s arm.  “It’s very bad—­very bad.  When my people—­when my race—­come to that, it is time for me to withdraw.  I believe in my sister; she will explain.  Excuse her.  If she can’t—­if she can’t, forgive her.  She has suffered.  But for the others it is very bad—­very bad.  You take it very hard?  No, it’s a shame to make you say so.”  He closed his eyes and again there was a silence.  Newman felt almost awed; he had evoked a more solemn spirit than he expected.  Presently Valentin looked at him again, removing his hand from his arm.  “I apologize,” he said.  “Do you understand?  Here on my death-bed.  I apologize for my family.  For my mother.  For my brother.  For the ancient house of Bellegarde.  Voila!” he added, softly.