feelings had moulded themselves would have seemed to him on his own part a rather pretentious affectation of Protestant zeal.  If such superb white flowers as that could bloom in Catholic soil, the soil was not insalubrious.  But it was one thing to be a Catholic, and another to turn nun—­on your hand!  There was something lugubriously comical in the way Newman’s thoroughly contemporaneous optimism was confronted with this dusky old-world expedient.  To see a woman made for him and for motherhood to his children juggled away in this tragic travesty—­it was a thing to rub one’s eyes over, a nightmare, an illusion, a hoax.  But the hours passed away without disproving the thing, and leaving him only the after-sense of the vehemence with which he had embraced Madame de Cintre.  He remembered her words and her looks; he turned them over and tried to shake the mystery out of them and to infuse them with an endurable meaning.  What had she meant by her feeling being a kind of religion?  It was the religion simply of the family laws, the religion of which her implacable little mother was the high priestess.  Twist the thing about as her generosity would, the one certain fact was that they had used force against her.  Her generosity had tried to screen them, but Newman’s heart rose into his throat at the thought that they should go scot-free.

The twenty-four hours wore themselves away, and the next morning Newman sprang to his feet with the resolution to return to Fleurieres and demand another interview with Madame de Bellegarde and her son.  He lost no time in putting it into practice.  As he rolled swiftly over the excellent road in the little caleche furnished him at the inn at Poitiers, he drew forth, as it were, from the very safe place in his mind to which he had consigned it, the last information given him by poor Valentin.  Valentin had told him he could do something with it, and Newman thought it would be well to have it at hand.  This was of course not the first time, lately, that Newman had given it his attention.  It was information in the rough,—­it was dark and puzzling; but Newman was neither helpless nor afraid.  Valentin had evidently meant to put him in possession of a powerful instrument, though he could not be said to have placed the handle very securely within his grasp.  But if he had not really told him the secret, he had at least given him the clew to it—­a clew of which that queer old Mrs. Bread held the other end.  Mrs. Bread had always looked to Newman as if she knew secrets; and as he apparently enjoyed her esteem, he suspected she might be induced to share her knowledge with him.  So long as there was only Mrs. Bread to deal with, he felt easy.  As to what there was to find out, he had only one fear—­that it might not be bad enough.  Then, when the image of the marquise and her son rose before him again, standing side by side, the old woman’s hand in Urbain’s arm, and the same cold, unsociable fixedness in the eyes of each, he cried out to himself