“They will not use the telegraph,” said the marquise, taking her departure.
M. de Bellegarde, whose wife, her imagination having apparently taken flight to the tailor’s, was fluttering her silken wings in emulation, shook hands with Newman, and said with a more persuasive accent than the latter had ever heard him use, “You may count upon me.” Then his wife led him away.
Valentin stood looking from his sister to our hero. “I hope you both reflected seriously,” he said.
Madame de Cintré smiled. “We have neither your powers of reflection nor your depth of seriousness; but we have done our best.”
“Well, I have a great regard for each of you,” Valentin continued. “You are charming young people. But I am not satisfied, on the whole, that you belong to that small and superior class—that exquisite group composed of persons who are worthy to remain unmarried. These are rare souls; they are the salt of the earth. But I don’t mean to be invidious; the marrying people are often very nice.”
“Valentin holds that women should marry, and that men should not,” said Madame de Cintré. “I don’t know how he arranges it.”
“I arrange it by adoring you, my sister,” said Valentin ardently. “Good-bye.”
“Adore someone whom you can marry,” said Newman. “I will arrange that for you some day. I foresee that I am going to turn apostle.”
Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment with a face that had turned grave. “I adore someone I can’t marry!” he said. And he dropped the portière and departed.
“They don’t like it,” said Newman, standing alone before Madame de Cintré.