he would speak, and I always looked away and went about my business.  If I were to tell him, I was sure he would hate me afterwards, and that I could never have borne.  Once I went up to him and took a great liberty; I kissed him, as I had kissed him when he was a child.  ’You oughtn’t to look so sad, sir,’ I said; ’believe your poor old Bread.  Such a gallant, handsome young man can have nothing to be sad about.’  And I think he understood me; he understood that I was begging off, and he made up his mind in his own way.  He went about with his unasked question in his mind, as I did with my untold tale; we were both afraid of bringing dishonor on a great house.  And it was the same with Mademoiselle.  She didn’t know what happened; she wouldn’t know.  My lady and Mr. Urbain asked me no questions because they had no reason.  I was as still as a mouse.  When I was younger my lady thought me a hussy, and now she thought me a fool.  How should I have any ideas?”

“But you say the little doctor from Poitiers made a talk,” said Newman.  “Did no one take it up?”

“I heard nothing of it, sir.  They are always talking scandal in these foreign countries you may have noticed—­and I suppose they shook their heads over Madame de Bellegarde.  But after all, what could they say?  The marquis had been ill, and the marquis had died; he had as good a right to die as any one.  The doctor couldn’t say he had not come honestly by his cramps.  The next year the little doctor left the place and bought a practice in Bordeaux, and if there has been any gossip it died out.  And I don’t think there could have been much gossip about my lady that any one would listen to.  My lady is so very respectable.”

Newman, at this last affirmation, broke into an immense, resounding laugh.  Mrs. Bread had begun to move away from the spot where they were sitting, and he helped her through the aperture in the wall and along the homeward path.  “Yes,” he said, “my lady’s respectability is delicious; it will be a great crash!” They reached the empty space in front of the church, where they stopped a moment, looking at each other with something of an air of closer fellowship—­like two sociable conspirators.  “But what was it,” said Newman, “what was it she did to her husband?  She didn’t stab him or poison him.”

“I don’t know, sir; no one saw it.”

“Unless it was Mr. Urbain.  You say he was walking up and down, outside the room.  Perhaps he looked through the keyhole.  But no; I think that with his mother he would take it on trust.”

“You may be sure I have often thought of it,” said Mrs. Bread.  “I am sure she didn’t touch him with her hands.  I saw nothing on him, anywhere.  I believe it was in this way.  He had a fit of his great pain, and he asked her for his medicine.  Instead of giving it to him she went and poured it away, before his eyes.  Then he saw what she meant, and, weak and helpless as he was, he was frightened, he was terrified.  ’You want to kill me,’ he said.  ‘Yes, M. le Marquis, I want to kill you,’ says my lady, and sits down and fixes her eyes upon him.  You know my lady’s eyes, I think, sir; it was with them she killed him; it was with the terrible strong will she put into them.  It was like a frost on flowers.”