“And how were those eyes?” Newman asked.

“Those eyes were red with weeping, if you please!” said Mrs. Tristram.  “She had been to confession.”

“It doesn’t tally with your account of her,” said Newman, “that she should have sins to confess.”

“They were not sins; they were sufferings.”

“How do you know that?”

“She asked me to come and see her; I went this morning.”

“And what does she suffer from?”

“I didn’t ask her.  With her, somehow, one is very discreet.  But I guessed, easily enough.  She suffers from her wicked old mother and her Grand Turk of a brother.  They persecute her.  But I can almost forgive them, because, as I told you, she is a saint, and a persecution is all that she needs to bring out her saintliness and make her perfect.”

“That’s a comfortable theory for her.  I hope you will never impart it to the old folks.  Why does she let them bully her?  Is she not her own mistress?”

“Legally, yes, I suppose; but morally, no.  In France you must never say nay to your mother, whatever she requires of you.  She may be the most abominable old woman in the world, and make your life a purgatory; but, after all, she is ma mere, and you have no right to judge her.  You have simply to obey.  The thing has a fine side to it.  Madame de Cintre bows her head and folds her wings.”

“Can’t she at least make her brother leave off?”

“Her brother is the chef de la famille, as they say; he is the head of the clan.  With those people the family is everything; you must act, not for your own pleasure, but for the advantage of the family.”

“I wonder what my family would like me to do!” exclaimed Tristram.

“I wish you had one!” said his wife.

“But what do they want to get out of that poor lady?” Newman asked.

“Another marriage.  They are not rich, and they want to bring more money into the family.”

“There’s your chance, my boy!” said Tristram.

“And Madame de Cintre objects,” Newman continued.

“She has been sold once; she naturally objects to being sold again. 
It appears that the first time they made rather a poor bargain; M. de
Cintre left a scanty property.”

“And to whom do they want to marry her now?”

“I thought it best not to ask; but you may be sure it is to some horrid old nabob, or to some dissipated little duke.”

“There’s Mrs. Tristram, as large as life!” cried her husband.  “Observe the richness of her imagination.  She has not a single question—­it’s vulgar to ask questions—­and yet she knows everything.  She has the history of Madame de Cintre’s marriage at her fingers’ ends.  She has seen the lovely Claire on her knees, with loosened tresses and streaming eyes, and the rest of them standing over her with spikes and goads and red-hot irons, ready to come down on her if she refuses the tipsy duke.  The simple truth is that they made a fuss about her milliner’s bill or refused her an opera-box.”