Mrs. Bread gave him a glance somewhat more lucent. “I know at least too much, sir.”
“One can never know too much. I congratulate you. I have come to see Madame de Bellegarde and her son,” Newman added. “Are they at home? If they are not, I will wait.”
“My lady is always at home,” Mrs. Bread replied, “and the marquis is mostly with her.”
“Please then tell them—one or the other, or both—that I am here and that I desire to see them.”
Mrs. Bread hesitated. “May I take a great liberty, sir?”
“You have never taken a liberty but you have justified it,” said Newman, with diplomatic urbanity.
Mrs. Bread dropped her wrinkled eyelids as if she were curtseying; but the curtsey stopped there; the occasion was too grave. “You have come to plead with them again, sir? Perhaps you don’t know this—that Madame de Cintré returned this morning to Paris.”
“Ah, she’s gone!” And Newman, groaning, smote the pavement with his stick.
“She has gone straight to the convent—the Carmelites they call it. I see you know, sir. My lady and the marquis take it very ill. It was only last night she told them.”
“Ah, she had kept it back, then?” cried Newman. “Good, good! And they are very fierce?”