of that method of approach to Madame de Cintre which Newman had found but a mockery of consolation.  As he crossed the court M. de Bellegarde recognized him; the marquis was coming to the steps, leading his mother.  The old lady also gave Newman a look, and it resembled that of her son.  Both faces expressed a franker perturbation, something more akin to the humbleness of dismay, than Newman had yet seen in them.  Evidently he startled the Bellegardes, and they had not their grand behavior immediately in hand.  Newman hurried past them, guided only by the desire to get out of the convent walls and into the street.  The gate opened itself at his approach; he strode over the threshold and it closed behind him.  A carriage which appeared to have been standing there, was just turning away from the sidewalk.  Newman looked at it for a moment, blankly; then he became conscious, through the dusky mist that swam before his eyes, that a lady seated in it was bowing to him.  The vehicle had turned away before he recognized her; it was an ancient landau with one half the cover lowered.  The lady’s bow was very positive and accompanied with a smile; a little girl was seated beside her.  He raised his hat, and then the lady bade the coachman stop.  The carriage halted again beside the pavement, and she sat there and beckoned to Newman—­beckoned with the demonstrative grace of Madame Urbain de Bellegarde.  Newman hesitated a moment before he obeyed her summons, during this moment he had time to curse his stupidity for letting the others escape him.  He had been wondering how he could get at them; fool that he was for not stopping them then and there!  What better place than beneath the very prison walls to which they had consigned the promise of his joy?  He had been too bewildered to stop them, but now he felt ready to wait for them at the gate.  Madame Urbain, with a certain attractive petulance, beckoned to him again, and this time he went over to the carriage.  She leaned out and gave him her hand, looking at him kindly, and smiling.

“Ah, monsieur,” she said, “you don’t include me in your wrath?  I had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose you could have prevented it!” Newman answered in a tone which was not that of studied gallantry.

“What you say is too true for me to resent the small account it makes of my influence.  I forgive you, at any rate, because you look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“I have!” said Newman.

“I am glad, then, I didn’t go in with Madame de Bellegarde and my husband.  You must have seen them, eh?  Was the meeting affectionate?  Did you hear the chanting?  They say it’s like the lamentations of the damned.  I wouldn’t go in:  one is certain to hear that soon enough.  Poor Claire—­in a white shroud and a big brown cloak!  That’s the toilette of the Carmelites, you know.  Well, she was always fond of long, loose things.  But I must not speak of her to you; only I must say that I am very sorry for