“Rather so,” said Newman.

“So my sister tells me.”  And M. de Bellegarde watched his host for a moment through his smoke-wreaths.  “If that is the case, I think we had better let it stand.  I didn’t try to make you think I was a lunatic, at all; on the contrary, I wanted to produce a favorable impression.  But if, after all, I made a fool of myself, it was the intention of Providence.  I should injure myself by protesting too much, for I should seem to set up a claim for wisdom which, in the sequel of our acquaintance, I could by no means justify.  Set me down as a lunatic with intervals of sanity.”

“Oh, I guess you know what you are about,” said Newman.

“When I am sane, I am very sane; that I admit,” M. de Bellegarde answered.  “But I didn’t come here to talk about myself.  I should like to ask you a few questions.  You allow me?”

“Give me a specimen,” said Newman.

“You live here all alone?”

“Absolutely.  With whom should I live?”

“For the moment,” said M. de Bellegarde with a smile “I am asking questions, not answering them.  You have come to Paris for your pleasure?”

Newman was silent a while.  Then, at last, “Every one asks me that!” he said with his mild slowness.  “It sounds so awfully foolish.”

“But at any rate you had a reason.”

“Oh, I came for my pleasure!” said Newman.  “Though it is foolish, it is true.”

“And you are enjoying it?”

Like any other good American, Newman thought it as well not to truckle to the foreigner.  “Oh, so-so,” he answered.

M. de Bellegarde puffed his cigar again in silence.  “For myself,” he said at last, “I am entirely at your service.  Anything I can do for you I shall be very happy to do.  Call upon me at your convenience.  Is there any one you desire to know—­anything you wish to see?  It is a pity you should not enjoy Paris.”

“Oh, I do enjoy it!” said Newman, good-naturedly.  “I’m much obligated to you.”

“Honestly speaking,” M. de Bellegarde went on, “there is something absurd to me in hearing myself make you these offers.  They represent a great deal of goodwill, but they represent little else.  You are a successful man and I am a failure, and it’s a turning of the tables to talk as if I could lend you a hand.”

“In what way are you a failure?” asked Newman.

“Oh, I’m not a tragical failure!” cried the young man with a laugh.  “I have fallen from a height, and my fiasco has made no noise.  You, evidently, are a success.  You have made a fortune, you have built up an edifice, you are a financial, commercial power, you can travel about the world until you have found a soft spot, and lie down in it with the consciousness of having earned your rest.  Is not that true?  Well, imagine the exact reverse of all that, and you have me.  I have done nothing—­I can do nothing!”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story.  Some day I will tell you.  Meanwhile, I’m right, eh?  You are a success?  You have made a fortune?  It’s none of my business, but, in short, you are rich?”