But the old lady, with the serenity of supreme power, let her son make her epigrams for her.  She only smiled, almost sweetly, shaking her head and repeating, “But once, Mr. Newman; but once!”

Nothing that Newman had ever seen or heard gave him such a sense of marble hardness as this movement and the tone that accompanied it.  “Could anything compel you?” he asked.  “Do you know of anything that would force you?”

“This language, sir,” said the marquis, “addressed to people in bereavement and grief is beyond all qualification.”

“In most cases,” Newman answered, “your objection would have some weight, even admitting that Madame de Cintre’s present intentions make time precious.  But I have thought of what you speak of, and I have come here to-day without scruple simply because I consider your brother and you two very different parties.  I see no connection between you.  Your brother was ashamed of you.  Lying there wounded and dying, the poor fellow apologized to me for your conduct.  He apologized to me for that of his mother.”

For a moment the effect of these words was as if Newman had struck a physical blow.  A quick flush leaped into the faces of Madame de Bellegarde and her son, and they exchanged a glance like a twinkle of steel.  Urbain uttered two words which Newman but half heard, but of which the sense came to him as it were in the reverberation of the sound, “Le miserable!”

“You show little respect for the living,” said Madame de Bellegarde, “but at least respect the dead.  Don’t profane—­don’t insult—­the memory of my innocent son.”

“I speak the simple truth,” Newman declared, “and I speak it for a purpose.  I repeat it—­distinctly.  Your son was utterly disgusted—­your son apologized.”

Urbain de Bellegarde was frowning portentously, and Newman supposed he was frowning at poor Valentin’s invidious image.  Taken by surprise, his scant affection for his brother had made a momentary concession to dishonor.  But not for an appreciable instant did his mother lower her flag.  “You are immensely mistaken, sir,” she said.  “My son was sometimes light, but he was never indecent.  He died faithful to his name.”

“You simply misunderstood him,” said the marquis, beginning to rally.  “You affirm the impossible!”

“Oh, I don’t care for poor Valentin’s apology,” said Newman.  “It was far more painful than pleasant to me.  This atrocious thing was not his fault; he never hurt me, or any one else; he was the soul of honor.  But it shows how he took it.”

“If you wish to prove that my poor brother, in his last moments, was out of his head, we can only say that under the melancholy circumstances nothing was more possible.  But confine yourself to that.”

“He was quite in his right mind,” said Newman, with gentle but dangerous doggedness; “I have never seen him so bright and clever.  It was terrible to see that witty, capable fellow dying such a death.  You know I was very fond of your brother.  And I have further proof of his sanity,” Newman concluded.