Madame de Bellegarde held up her tapestry and pointed to a little white flower. “Don’t ask me to leave this. I am in the midst of a masterpiece. My flower is going to smell very sweet; I am putting in the smell with this gold-colored silk. I am holding my breath; I can’t leave off. Play something yourself.”
“It is absurd for me to play when you are present,” said Madame de Cintré. But the next moment she went to the piano and began to strike the keys with vehemence. She played for some time, rapidly and brilliantly; when she stopped, Newman went to the piano and asked her to begin again. She shook her head, and, on his insisting, she said, “I have not been playing for you; I have been playing for myself.” She went back to the window again and looked out, and shortly afterwards left the room. When Newman took leave, Urbain de Bellegarde accompanied him, as he always did, just three steps down the staircase. At the bottom stood a servant with his overcoat. He had just put it on when he saw Madame de Cintré coming towards him across the vestibule.
“Shall you be at home on Friday?” Newman asked.
She looked at him a moment before answering his question. “You don’t like my mother and my brother,” she said.
He hesitated a moment, and then he said softly, “No.”
She laid her hand on the balustrade and prepared to ascend the stairs, fixing her eyes on the first step.
“Yes, I shall be at home on Friday,” and she passed up the wide dusky staircase.
On the Friday, as soon as he came in, she asked him to please to tell her why he disliked her family.
“Dislike your family?” he exclaimed. “That has a horrid sound. I didn’t say so, did I? I didn’t mean it, if I did.”
“I wish you would tell me what you think of them,” said Madame de Cintré.