The American by Henry James (good inspirational books txt) đ
- Author: Henry James
- Performer: -
Book online «The American by Henry James (good inspirational books txt) đ». Author Henry James
Newman felt as if he had been reading by starlight the report of highly important evidence in a great murder case. âAnd the paperâthe paper!â he said, excitedly. âWhat was written upon it?â
âI canât tell you, sir,â answered Mrs. Bread. âI couldnât read it; it was in French.â
âBut could no one else read it?â
âI never asked a human creature.â
âNo one has ever seen it?â
âIf you see it youâll be the first.â
Newman seized the old womanâs hand in both his own and pressed it vigorously. âI thank you ever so much for that,â he cried. âI want to be the first, I want it to be my property and no one elseâs! Youâre the wisest old woman in Europe. And what did you do with the paper?â This information had made him feel extraordinarily strong. âGive it to me quick!â
Mrs. Bread got up with a certain majesty. âIt is not so easy as that, sir. If you want the paper, you must wait.â
âBut waiting is horrible, you know,â urged Newman.
âI am sure I have waited; I have waited these many years,â said Mrs. Bread.
âThat is very true. You have waited for me. I wonât forget it. And yet, how comes it you didnât do as M. de Bellegarde said, show the paper to someone?â
âTo whom should I show it?â answered Mrs. Bread, mournfully. âIt was not easy to know, and manyâs the night I have lain awake thinking of it. Six months afterwards, when they married Mademoiselle to her vicious old husband, I was very near bringing it out. I thought it was my duty to do something with it, and yet I was mightily afraid. I didnât know what was written on the paper or how bad it might be, and there was no one I could trust enough to ask. And it seemed to me a cruel kindness to do that sweet young creature, letting her know that her father had written her mother down so shamefully; for thatâs what he did, I suppose. I thought she would rather be unhappy with her husband than be unhappy that way. It was for her and for my dear Mr. Valentin I kept quiet. Quiet I call it, but for me it was a weary quietness. It worried me terribly, and it changed me altogether. But for others I held my tongue, and no one, to this hour, knows what passed between the poor marquis and me.â
âBut evidently there were suspicions,â said Newman. âWhere did Mr. Valentin get his ideas?â
âIt was the little doctor from Poitiers. He was very ill-satisfied, and he made a great talk. He was a sharp Frenchman, and coming to the house, as he did day after day, I suppose he saw more than he seemed to see. And indeed the way the poor marquis went off as soon as his eyes fell on my lady was a most shocking sight for anyone. The medical gentleman from Paris was much more accommodating, and he hushed up the other. But for all he could do Mr. Valentin and Mademoiselle heard something; they knew their fatherâs death was somehow against nature. Of course they couldnât accuse their mother, and, as I tell you, I was as dumb as that stone. Mr. Valentin used to look at me sometimes, and his eyes seemed to shine, as if he were thinking of asking me something. I was dreadfully afraid he would speak, and I always looked away and went about my business. If I were to tell him, I was sure he would hate me afterwards, and that I could never have borne. Once I went up to him and took a great liberty; I kissed him, as I had kissed him when he was a child. âYou oughtnât to look so sad, sir,â I said; âbelieve your poor old Bread. Such a gallant, handsome young man can have nothing to be sad about.â And I think he understood me; he understood that I was begging off, and he made up his mind in his own way. He went about with his unasked question in his mind, as I did with my untold tale; we were both afraid of bringing dishonor on a great house. And it was the same with Mademoiselle. She didnât know what happened; she wouldnât know. My lady and Mr. Urbain asked me no questions because they had no reason. I was as still as a mouse. When I was younger my lady thought me a hussy, and now she thought me a fool. How should I have any ideas?â
âBut you say the little doctor from Poitiers made a talk,â said Newman. âDid no one take it up?â
âI heard nothing of it, sir. They are always talking scandal in these foreign countries you may have noticedâand I suppose they shook their heads over Madame de Bellegarde. But after all, what could they say? The marquis had been ill, and the marquis had died; he had as good a right to die as anyone. The doctor couldnât say he had not come honestly by his cramps. The next year the little doctor left the place and bought a practice in Bordeaux, and if there has been any gossip it died out. And I donât think there could have been much gossip about my lady that anyone would listen to. My lady is so very respectable.â
Newman, at this last affirmation, broke into an immense, resounding laugh. Mrs. Bread had begun to move away from the spot where they were sitting, and he helped her through the aperture in the wall and along the homeward path. âYes,â he said, âmy ladyâs respectability is delicious; it will be a great crash!â They reached the empty space in front of the church, where they stopped a moment, looking at each other with something of an air of closer fellowshipâlike two sociable conspirators. âBut what was it,â said Newman, âwhat was it she did to her husband? She didnât stab him or poison him.â
âI donât know, sir; no one saw it.â
âUnless it was Mr. Urbain. You say he was walking up and down, outside the room. Perhaps he looked through the keyhole. But no; I think that with his mother he would take it on trust.â
âYou may be sure I have often thought of it,â said Mrs. Bread. âI am sure she didnât touch him with her hands. I saw nothing on him, anywhere. I believe it was in this way. He had a fit of his great pain, and he asked her for his medicine. Instead of giving it to him she went and poured it away, before his eyes. Then he saw what she meant, and, weak and helpless as he was, he was frightened, he was terrified. âYou want to kill me,â he said. âYes, M. le Marquis, I want to kill you,â says my lady, and sits down and fixes her eyes upon him. You know my ladyâs eyes, I think, sir; it was with them she killed him; it was with the terrible strong will she put into them. It was like a frost on flowers.â
âWell, you are a very intelligent woman; you have shown great discretion,â said Newman. âI shall value your services as housekeeper extremely.â
They had begun to descend the hill, and Mrs. Bread said nothing until they reached the foot. Newman strolled lightly beside her; his head was thrown back and he was gazing at all the stars; he seemed to himself to be riding his vengeance along the Milky Way. âSo you are serious, sir, about that?â said Mrs. Bread, softly.
âAbout your living with me? Why of course I will take care of you to the end of your days.
Comments (0)