“Oh, I see,” said Newman. “It’s for your father’s sake.” And he laughed the laugh in which he indulged when he was most amused—a noiseless laugh, with his lips closed.
But M. de Bellegarde’s gravity held good. “There are a few of my father’s particular friends for whom the knowledge of so—so unfortunate an—inspiration—would be a real grief. Even say we firmly established by medical evidence the presumption of a mind disordered by fever, il en resterait quelque chose. At the best it would look ill in him. Very ill!”
“Don’t try medical evidence,” said Newman. “Don’t touch the doctors and they won’t touch you. I don’t mind your knowing that I have not written to them.”
Newman fancied that he saw signs in M. de Bellegarde’s discolored mask that this information was extremely pertinent. But it may have been merely fancy; for the marquis remained majestically argumentative. “For instance, Madame d’Outreville,” he said, “of whom you spoke yesterday. I can imagine nothing that would shock her more.”
“Oh, I am quite prepared to shock Madame d’Outreville, you know. That’s on the cards. I expect to shock a great many people.”
M. de Bellegarde examined for a moment the stitching on the back of one of his gloves. Then, without looking up, “We don’t offer you money,” he said. “That we supposed to be useless.”
Newman, turning away, took a few turns about the room and then came back. “What do you offer me? By what I can make out, the generosity is all to be on my side.”
The marquis dropped his arms at his side and held his head a little higher. “What we offer you is a chance—a chance that a gentleman should appreciate. A chance to abstain from inflicting a terrible blot upon the memory of a man who certainly had his faults, but who, personally, had done you no wrong.”
“There are two things to say to that,” said Newman. “The first is, as regards appreciating your ‘chance,’ that you don’t consider me a gentleman. That’s your great point you know. It’s a poor rule that won’t work both ways. The second is that—well, in a word, you are talking great nonsense!”
Newman, who in the midst of his bitterness had, as I have said, kept well before his eyes a certain ideal of saying nothing rude, was immediately somewhat regretfully conscious of the sharpness of these words. But he speedily observed that the marquis took them more quietly than might have been expected. M. de Bellegarde, like the stately ambassador that he was, continued the policy of ignoring what was disagreeable in his adversary’s replies. He gazed at the gilded arabesques on the opposite wall, and then presently transferred his glance to Newman, as if he too were a large grotesque in a rather vulgar system of chamber-decoration. “I suppose you know that as regards yourself it won’t do at all.”