“No,” she said, after a moment; “they don’t like it.”
“Well, now, do you mind that?” asked Newman.
“Yes!” she said, after another interval.
“That’s a mistake.”
“I can’t help it. I should prefer that my mother were pleased.”
“Why the deuce,” demanded Newman, “is she not pleased? She gave you leave to marry me.”
“Very true; I don’t understand it. And yet I do ‘mind it,’ as you say. You will call it superstitious.”
“That will depend upon how much you let it bother you. Then I shall call it an awful bore.”
“I will keep it to myself,” said Madame de Cintré, “It shall not bother you.” And then they talked of their marriage-day, and Madame de Cintré assented unreservedly to Newman’s desire to have it fixed for an early date.
Newman’s telegrams were answered with interest. Having dispatched but three electric missives, he received no less than eight gratulatory bulletins in return. He put them into his pocket-book, and the next time he encountered old Madame de Bellegarde drew them forth and displayed them to her. This, it must be confessed, was a slightly malicious stroke; the reader must judge in what degree the offense was venial. Newman knew that the marquise disliked his telegrams, though he could see no sufficient reason for it. Madame de Cintré, on the other hand, liked them, and, most of them being of a humorous cast, laughed at them immoderately, and inquired into the character of their authors. Newman, now that his prize was gained, felt a peculiar desire that his triumph should be manifest. He more than suspected that the Bellegardes were keeping quiet about it, and allowing it, in their select circle, but a limited resonance; and it pleased him to think that if he were to take the trouble he might, as he phrased it, break all the windows. No man likes being repudiated, and yet Newman, if he was not flattered, was not exactly offended. He had not this good excuse for his somewhat aggressive impulse to promulgate his felicity; his sentiment was of another quality. He wanted for once to make the heads of the house of Bellegarde feel him; he knew not when he should have another chance. He had had for the past six months a sense of the old lady and her son looking straight over his head, and he was now resolved that they should toe a mark which he would give himself the satisfaction of drawing.