“Rather so,” said Newman.
“So my sister tells me.” And M. de Bellegarde watched his host for a moment through his smoke-wreaths. “If that is the case, I think we had better let it stand. I didn’t try to make you think I was a lunatic, at all; on the contrary, I wanted to produce a favorable impression. But if, after all, I made a fool of myself, it was the intention of Providence. I should injure myself by protesting too much, for I should seem to set up a claim for wisdom which, in the sequel of our acquaintance, I could by no means justify. Set me down as a lunatic with intervals of sanity.”
“Oh, I guess you know what you are about,” said Newman.
“When I am sane, I am very sane; that I admit,” M. de Bellegarde answered. “But I didn’t come here to talk about myself. I should like to ask you a few questions. You allow me?”
“Give me a specimen,” said Newman.
“You live here all alone?”
“Absolutely. With whom should I live?”
“For the moment,” said M. de Bellegarde with a smile “I am asking questions, not answering them. You have come to Paris for your pleasure?”
Newman was silent a while. Then, at last, “Everyone asks me that!” he said with his mild slowness. “It sounds so awfully foolish.”
“But at any rate you had a reason.”