“An opinion founded on seeing me three or four times?  That is putting me off with very little.  I want something more.  I have been thinking of it a good deal, and at last I have decided to tell you.  I should like very much to marry Madame de Cintre.”

Bellegarde had been looking at him with quickened expectancy, and with the smile with which he had greeted Newman’s allusion to his promised request.  At this last announcement he continued to gaze; but his smile went through two or three curious phases.  It felt, apparently, a momentary impulse to broaden; but this it immediately checked.  Then it remained for some instants taking counsel with itself, at the end of which it decreed a retreat.  It slowly effaced itself and left a look of seriousness modified by the desire not to be rude.  Extreme surprise had come into the Count Valentin’s face; but he had reflected that it would be uncivil to leave it there.  And yet, what the deuce was he to do with it?  He got up, in his agitation, and stood before the chimney-piece, still looking at Newman.  He was a longer time thinking what to say than one would have expected.

“If you can’t render me the service I ask,” said Newman, “say it out!”

“Let me hear it again, distinctly,” said Bellegarde.  “It’s very important, you know.  I shall plead your cause with my sister, because you want—­you want to marry her?  That’s it, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t say plead my cause, exactly; I shall try and do that myself.  But say a good word for me, now and then—­let her know that you think well of me.”

At this, Bellegarde gave a little light laugh.

“What I want chiefly, after all,” Newman went on, “is just to let you know what I have in mind.  I suppose that is what you expect, isn’t it?  I want to do what is customary over here.  If there is any thing particular to be done, let me know and I will do it.  I wouldn’t for the world approach Madame de Cintre without all the proper forms.  If I ought to go and tell your mother, why I will go and tell her.  I will go and tell your brother, even.  I will go and tell any one you please.  As I don’t know any one else, I begin by telling you.  But that, if it is a social obligation, is a pleasure as well.”

“Yes, I see—­I see,” said Bellegarde, lightly stroking his chin.  “You have a very right feeling about it, but I’m glad you have begun with me.”  He paused, hesitated, and then turned away and walked slowly the length of the room.  Newman got up and stood leaning against the mantel-shelf, with his hands in his pockets, watching Bellegarde’s promenade.  The young Frenchman came back and stopped in front of him.  “I give it up,” he said; “I will not pretend I am not surprised.  I am—­hugely!  Ouf!  It’s a relief.”

“That sort of news is always a surprise,” said Newman.  “No matter what you have done, people are never prepared.  But if you are so surprised, I hope at least you are pleased.”