“They made a distinction. They said it was to hold good only until Madame de Cintré accepted me.”
Valentin lay staring a while, and his flush died away. “Don’t tell me any more,” he said at last. “I’m ashamed.”
“You? You are the soul of honor,” said Newman simply.
Valentin groaned and turned away his head. For some time nothing more was said. Then Valentin turned back again and found a certain force to press Newman’s arm. “It’s very bad—very bad. When my people—when my race—come to that, it is time for me to withdraw. I believe in my sister; she will explain. Excuse her. If she can’t—if she can’t, forgive her. She has suffered. But for the others it is very bad—very bad. You take it very hard? No, it’s a shame to make you say so.” He closed his eyes and again there was a silence. Newman felt almost awed; he had evoked a more solemn spirit than he expected. Presently Valentin looked at him again, removing his hand from his arm. “I apologize,” he said. “Do you understand? Here on my death-bed. I apologize for my family. For my mother. For my brother. For the ancient house of Bellegarde. Voilà!” he added softly.
Newman for an answer took his hand and pressed it with a world of kindness. Valentin remained quiet, and at the end of half an hour the doctor softly came in. Behind him, through the half-open door, Newman saw the two questioning faces of MM. de Grosjoyaux and Ledoux. The doctor laid his hand on Valentin’s wrist and sat looking at him. He gave no sign and the two gentlemen came in, M. Ledoux having first beckoned to someone outside. This was M. le Curé, who carried in his hand an object unknown to Newman, and covered with a white napkin. M. le Curé was short, round, and red: he advanced, pulling off his little black cap to Newman, and deposited his burden on the table; and then he sat down in the best armchair, with his hands folded across his person. The other gentlemen had exchanged glances which expressed unanimity as to the timeliness of their presence. But for a long time Valentin neither spoke nor moved. It was Newman’s belief, afterwards, that M. le Curé went to sleep. At last abruptly, Valentin pronounced Newman’s name. His friend went to him, and he said in French, “You are not alone. I want to speak to you alone.” Newman looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at the curé, who looked back at him; and then the doctor and the curé, together, gave a shrug. “Alone—for five minutes,” Valentin repeated. “Please leave us.”
The curé took up his burden again and led the way out, followed by his companions. Newman closed the door behind them and came back to Valentin’s bedside. Bellegarde had watched all this intently.
“It’s very bad, it’s very bad,” he said, after Newman had seated himself close to him. “The more I think of it the worse it is.”
“Oh, don’t think of it,” said Newman.
But Valentin went on, without heeding him. “Even if they should come round again, the shame—the baseness—is there.”
“Oh, they won’t come round!” said Newman.