Mrs. Tristram looked at him a moment and smiled. “What did you do there? Try to scale the wall?”
“I did nothing. I looked at the place for a few minutes and then came away.”
Mrs. Tristram gave him a sympathetic glance. “You didn’t happen to meet M. de Bellegarde,” she asked, “staring hopelessly at the convent wall as well? I am told he takes his sister’s conduct very hard.”
“No, I didn’t meet him, I am happy to say,” Newman answered, after a pause.
“They are in the country,” Mrs. Tristram went on; “at—what is the name of the place?—Fleurières. They returned there at the time you left Paris and have been spending the year in extreme seclusion. The little marquise must enjoy it; I expect to hear that she has eloped with her daughter’s music-master!”
Newman was looking at the light wood-fire; but he listened to this with extreme interest. At last he spoke: “I mean never to mention the name of those people again, and I don’t want to hear anything more about them.” And then he took out his pocket-book and drew forth a scrap of paper. He looked at it an instant, then got up and stood by the fire. “I am going to burn them up,” he said. “I am glad to have you as a witness. There they go!” And he tossed the paper into the flame.
Mrs. Tristram sat with her embroidery needle suspended. “What is that paper?” she asked.
Newman leaning against the fireplace, stretched his arms and drew a longer breath than usual. Then after a moment, “I can tell you now,” he said. “It was a paper containing a secret of the Bellegardes—something which would damn them if it were known.”
Mrs. Tristram dropped her embroidery with a reproachful moan. “Ah, why didn’t you show it to me?”
“I thought of showing it to you—I thought of showing it to everyone. I thought of paying my debt to the Bellegardes that way. So I told them, and I frightened them. They have been staying in the country as you tell me, to keep out of the explosion. But I have given it up.”