“To do anything else, for the next ten years, that was asked of her—anything, that is, but marry.”
“She had disliked her husband very much?”
“No one knows how much!”
“The marriage had been made in your horrible French way,” Newman continued, “made by the two families, without her having any voice?”
“It was a chapter for a novel. She saw M. de Cintré for the first time a month before the wedding, after everything, to the minutest detail, had been arranged. She turned white when she looked at him, and white she remained till her wedding-day. The evening before the ceremony she swooned away, and she spent the whole night in sobs. My mother sat holding her two hands, and my brother walked up and down the room. I declared it was revolting and told my sister publicly that if she would refuse, downright, I would stand by her. I was told to go about my business, and she became Comtesse de Cintré.”
“Your brother,” said Newman, reflectively, “must be a very nice young man.”
“He is very nice, though he is not young. He is upward of fifty, fifteen years my senior. He has been a father to my sister and me. He is a very remarkable man; he has the best manners in France. He is extremely clever; indeed he is very learned. He is writing a history of The Princesses of France Who Never Married.” This was said by Bellegarde with extreme gravity, looking straight at Newman, and with an eye that betokened no mental reservation; or that, at least, almost betokened none.
Newman perhaps discovered there what little there was, for he presently said, “You don’t love your brother.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Bellegarde, ceremoniously; “well-bred people always love their brothers.”
“Well, I don’t love him, then!” Newman answered.