“No, I want to say a few words more.  I want to say that I hope you quite understand what I’m about.  This is my revenge, you know.  You have treated me before the world—­convened for the express purpose—­as if I were not good enough for you.  I mean to show the world that, however bad I may be, you are not quite the people to say it.”

Madame de Bellegarde was silent again, and then she broke her silence.  Her self-possession continued to be extraordinary.  “I needn’t ask you who has been your accomplice.  Mrs. Bread told me that you had purchased her services.”

“Don’t accuse Mrs. Bread of venality,” said Newman.  “She has kept your secret all these years.  She has given you a long respite.  It was beneath her eyes your husband wrote that paper; he put it into her hands with a solemn injunction that she was to make it public.  She was too good-hearted to make use of it.”

The old lady appeared for an instant to hesitate, and then, “She was my husband’s mistress,” she said, softly.  This was the only concession to self-defense that she condescended to make.

“I doubt that,” said Newman.

Madame de Bellegarde got up from her bench.  “It was not to your opinions I undertook to listen, and if you have nothing left but them to tell me I think this remarkable interview may terminate.”  And turning to the marquis she took his arm again.  “My son,” she said, “say something!”

M. de Bellegarde looked down at his mother, passing his hand over his forehead, and then, tenderly, caressingly, “What shall I say?” he asked.

“There is only one thing to say,” said the Marquise.  “That it was really not worth while to have interrupted our walk.”

But the marquis thought he could improve this.  “Your paper’s a forgery,” he said to Newman.

Newman shook his head a little, with a tranquil smile.  “M. de Bellegarde,” he said, “your mother does better.  She has done better all along, from the first of my knowing you.  You’re a mighty plucky woman, madam,” he continued.  “It’s a great pity you have made me your enemy.  I should have been one of your greatest admirers.”

“Mon pauvre ami,” said Madame de Bellegarde to her son in French, and as if she had not heard these words, “you must take me immediately to my carriage.”

Newman stepped back and let them leave him; he watched them a moment and saw Madame Urbain, with her little girl, come out of a by-path to meet them.  The old lady stooped and kissed her grandchild.  “Damn it, she is plucky!” said Newman, and he walked home with a slight sense of being balked.  She was so inexpressively defiant!  But on reflection he decided that what he had witnessed was no real sense of security, still less a real innocence.  It was only a very superior style of brazen assurance.  “Wait till she reads the paper!” he said to himself; and he concluded that he should hear from her soon.