Newman for an answer took his hand and pressed it with a world of kindness.  Valentin remained quiet, and at the end of half an hour the doctor softly came in.  Behind him, through the half-open door, Newman saw the two questioning faces of mm. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux.  The doctor laid his hand on Valentin’s wrist and sat looking at him.  He gave no sign and the two gentlemen came in, M. Ledoux having first beckoned to some one outside.  This was M. le cure, who carried in his hand an object unknown to Newman, and covered with a white napkin.  M. le cure was short, round, and red:  he advanced, pulling off his little black cap to Newman, and deposited his burden on the table; and then he sat down in the best arm-chair, with his hands folded across his person.  The other gentlemen had exchanged glances which expressed unanimity as to the timeliness of their presence.  But for a long time Valentin neither spoke nor moved.  It was Newman’s belief, afterwards, that M. le cure went to sleep.  At last abruptly, Valentin pronounced Newman’s name.  His friend went to him, and he said in French, “You are not alone.  I want to speak to you alone.”  Newman looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at the cure, who looked back at him; and then the doctor and the cure, together, gave a shrug.  “Alone—­for five minutes,” Valentin repeated.  “Please leave us.”

The cure took up his burden again and led the way out, followed by his companions.  Newman closed the door behind them and came back to Valentin’s bedside.  Bellegarde had watched all this intently.

“It’s very bad, it’s very bad,” he said, after Newman had seated himself close to him.  “The more I think of it the worse it is.”

“Oh, don’t think of it,” said Newman.

But Valentin went on, without heeding him.  “Even if they should come round again, the shame—­the baseness—­is there.”

“Oh, they won’t come round!” said Newman.

“Well, you can make them.”

“Make them?”

“I can tell you something—­a great secret—­an immense secret.  You can use it against them—­frighten them, force them.”

“A secret!” Newman repeated.  The idea of letting Valentin, on his death-bed, confide him an “immense secret” shocked him, for the moment, and made him draw back.  It seemed an illicit way of arriving at information, and even had a vague analogy with listening at a key-hole.  Then, suddenly, the thought of “forcing” Madame de Bellegarde and her son became attractive, and Newman bent his head closer to Valentin’s lips.  For some time, however, the dying man said nothing more.  He only lay and looked at his friend with his kindled, expanded, troubled eye, and Newman began to believe that he had spoken in delirium.  But at last he said,—­

“There was something done—­something done at Fleurieres.  It was foul play.  My father—­something happened to him.  I don’t know; I have been ashamed—­afraid to know.  But I know there is something.  My mother knows—­Urbain knows.”