“I have something better in mind,” he said; “come home with me and finish the evening before my fire.”
Bellegarde always welcomed the prospect of a long stretch of conversation, and before long the two men sat watching the great blaze which scattered its scintillations over the high adornments of Newman’s ball-room.
CHAPTER VIII
“Tell me something about your sister,” Newman began abruptly.
Bellegarde turned and gave him a quick look. “Now that I think of it, you have never yet asked me a question about her.”
“I know that very well.”
“If it is because you don’t trust me, you are very right,” said Bellegarde. “I can’t talk of her rationally. I admire her too much.”
“Talk of her as you can,” rejoined Newman. “Let yourself go.”
“Well, we are very good friends; we are such a brother and sister as have not been seen since Orestes and Electra. You have seen her; you know what she is: tall, thin, light, imposing, and gentle, half a grande dame and half an angel; a mixture of pride and humility, of the eagle and the dove. She looks like a statue which had failed as stone, resigned itself to its grave defects, and come to life as flesh and blood, to wear white capes and long trains. All I can say is that she really possesses every merit that her face, her glance, her smile, the tone of her voice, lead you to expect; it is saying a great deal. As a general thing, when a woman seems very charming, I should say ‘Beware!’ But in proportion as Claire seems charming you may fold your arms and let yourself float with the current; you are safe. She is so good! I have never seen a woman half so perfect or so complete. She has everything; that is all I can say about her. There!” Bellegarde concluded; “I told you I should rhapsodize.”
Newman was silent a while, as if he were turning over his companion’s words. “She is very good, eh?” he repeated at last.