“Is she unhappy?”

“I won’t say that, for unhappiness is according as one takes things, and Claire takes them according to some receipt communicated to her by the Blessed Virgin in a vision.  To be unhappy is to be disagreeable, which, for her, is out of the question.  So she has arranged her circumstances so as to be happy in them.”

“She is a philosopher,” said Newman.

“No, she is simply a very nice woman.”

“Her circumstances, at any rate, have been disagreeable?”

Bellegarde hesitated a moment—­a thing he very rarely did.  “Oh, my dear fellow, if I go into the history of my family I shall give you more than you bargain for.”

“No, on the contrary, I bargain for that,” said Newman.

“We shall have to appoint a special seance, then, beginning early.  Suffice it for the present that Claire has not slept on roses.  She made at eighteen a marriage that was expected to be brilliant, but that turned out like a lamp that goes out; all smoke and bad smell.  M. de Cintre was sixty years old, and an odious old gentleman.  He lived, however, but a short time, and after his death his family pounced upon his money, brought a lawsuit against his widow, and pushed things very hard.  Their case was a good one, for M. de Cintre, who had been trustee for some of his relatives, appeared to have been guilty of some very irregular practices.  In the course of the suit some revelations were made as to his private history which my sister found so displeasing that she ceased to defend herself and washed her hands of the property.  This required some pluck, for she was between two fires, her husband’s family opposing her and her own family forcing her.  My mother and my brother wished her to cleave to what they regarded as her rights.  But she resisted firmly, and at last bought her freedom—­obtained my mother’s assent to dropping the suit at the price of a promise.”

“What was the promise?”

“To do anything else, for the next ten years, that was asked of her—­anything, that is, but marry.”

“She had disliked her husband very much?”

“No one knows how much!”

“The marriage had been made in your horrible French way,” Newman continued, “made by the two families, without her having any voice?”

“It was a chapter for a novel.  She saw M. de Cintre for the first time a month before the wedding, after everything, to the minutest detail, had been arranged.  She turned white when she looked at him, and white remained till her wedding-day.  The evening before the ceremony she swooned away, and she spent the whole night in sobs.  My mother sat holding her two hands, and my brother walked up and down the room.  I declared it was revolting and told my sister publicly that if she would refuse, downright, I would stand by her.  I was told to go about my business, and she became Comtesse de Cintre.”

“Your brother,” said Newman, reflectively, “must be a very nice young man.”