“I thought you might,” said Newman, “and I have taken a copy.” And he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small, folded sheet.
“Give it to my son,” said Madame de Bellegarde. Newman handed it to the marquis, whose mother, glancing at him, said simply, “Look at it.” M. de Bellegarde’s eyes had a pale eagerness which it was useless for him to try to dissimulate; he took the paper in his light-gloved fingers and opened it. There was a silence, during which he read it. He had more than time to read it, but still he said nothing; he stood staring at it. “Where is the original?” asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a voice which was really a consummate negation of impatience.
“In a very safe place. Of course I can’t show you that,” said Newman. “You might want to take hold of it,” he added with conscious quaintness. “But that’s a very correct copy—except, of course, the handwriting. I am keeping the original to show someone else.”
M. de Bellegarde at last looked up, and his eyes were still very eager. “To whom do you mean to show it?”
“Well, I’m thinking of beginning with the duchess,” said Newman; “that stout lady I saw at your ball. She asked me to come and see her, you know. I thought at the moment I shouldn’t have much to say to her; but my little document will give us something to talk about.”
“You had better keep it, my son,” said Madame de Bellegarde.
“By all means,” said Newman; “keep it and show it to your mother when you get home.”
“And after showing it to the duchess?”—asked the marquis, folding the paper and putting it away.
“Well, I’ll take up the dukes,” said Newman. “Then the counts and the barons—all the people you had the cruelty to introduce me to in a character of which you meant immediately to deprive me. I have made out a list.”
For a moment neither Madame de Bellegarde nor her son said a word; the old lady sat with her eyes upon the ground; M. de Bellegarde’s blanched pupils were fixed upon her face. Then, looking at Newman, “Is that all you have to say?” she asked.