The American by Henry James (good inspirational books txt) đ
- Author: Henry James
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âDo you remember,â she asked, âthe promise you made me three weeks ago?â And then, as Newman, vainly consulting his memory, was obliged to confess that the promise had escaped it, she declared that he had made her, at the time, a very queer answerâan answer at which, viewing it in the light of the sequel, she had fair ground for taking offense. âYou promised to take me to Bullierâs after your marriage. After your marriageâyou made a great point of that. Three days after that your marriage was broken off. Do you know, when I heard the news, the first thing I said to myself? âOh heaven, now he wonât go with me to Bullierâs!â And I really began to wonder if you had not been expecting the rupture.â
âOh, my dear lady,â murmured Newman, looking down the path to see if the others were not coming.
âI shall be good-natured,â said Madame de Bellegarde. âOne must not ask too much of a gentleman who is in love with a cloistered nun. Besides, I canât go to Bullierâs while we are in mourning. But I havenât given it up for that. The partie is arranged; I have my cavalier. Lord Deepmere, if you please! He has gone back to his dear Dublin; but a few months hence I am to name any evening and he will come over from Ireland, on purpose. Thatâs what I call gallantry!â
Shortly after this Madame de Bellegarde walked away with her little girl. Newman sat in his place; the time seemed terribly long. He felt how fiercely his quarter of an hour in the convent chapel had raked over the glowing coals of his resentment. Madame de Bellegarde kept him waiting, but she proved as good as her word. At last she reappeared at the end of the path, with her little girl and her footman; beside her slowly walked her husband, with his mother on his arm. They were a long time advancing, during which Newman sat unmoved. Tingling as he was with passion, it was extremely characteristic of him that he was able to moderate his expression of it, as he would have turned down a flaring gas-burner. His native coolness, shrewdness, and deliberateness, his life-long submissiveness to the sentiment that words were acts and acts were steps in life, and that in this matter of taking steps curveting and prancing were exclusively reserved for quadrupeds and foreignersâall this admonished him that rightful wrath had no connection with being a fool and indulging in spectacular violence. So as he rose, when old Madame de Bellegarde and her son were close to him, he only felt very tall and light. He had been sitting beside some shrubbery, in such a way as not to be noticeable at a distance; but M. de Bellegarde had evidently already perceived him. His mother and he were holding their course, but Newman stepped in front of them, and they were obliged to pause. He lifted his hat slightly, and looked at them for a moment; they were pale with amazement and disgust.
âExcuse me for stopping you,â he said in a low tone, âbut I must profit by the occasion. I have ten words to say to you. Will you listen to them?â
The marquis glared at him and then turned to his mother. âCan Mr. Newman possibly have anything to say that is worth our listening to?â
âI assure you I have something,â said Newman, âbesides, it is my duty to say it. Itâs a notificationâa warning.â
âYour duty?â said old Madame de Bellegarde, her thin lips curving like scorched paper. âThat is your affair, not ours.â
Madame Urbain meanwhile had seized her little girl by the hand, with a gesture of surprise and impatience which struck Newman, intent as he was upon his own words, with its dramatic effectiveness. âIf Mr. Newman is going to make a scene in public,â she exclaimed, âI will take my poor child out of the mĂȘlĂ©e. She is too young to see such naughtiness!â and she instantly resumed her walk.
âYou had much better listen to me,â Newman went on. âWhether you do or not, things will be disagreeable for you; but at any rate you will be prepared.â
âWe have already heard something of your threats,â said the marquis, âand you know what we think of them.â
âYou think a good deal more than you admit. A moment,â Newman added in reply to an exclamation of the old lady. âI remember perfectly that we are in a public place, and you see I am very quiet. I am not going to tell your secret to the passers-by; I shall keep it, to begin with, for certain picked listeners. Anyone who observes us will think that we are having a friendly chat, and that I am complimenting you, madam, on your venerable virtues.â
The marquis gave three short sharp raps on the ground with his stick. âI demand of you to step out of our path!â he hissed.
Newman instantly complied, and M. de Bellegarde stepped forward with his mother. Then Newman said, âHalf an hour hence Madame de Bellegarde will regret that she didnât learn exactly what I mean.â
The marquise had taken a few steps, but at these words she paused, looking at Newman with eyes like two scintillating globules of ice. âYou are like a peddler with something to sell,â she said, with a little cold laugh which only partially concealed the tremor in her voice.
âOh, no, not to sell,â Newman rejoined; âI give it to you for nothing.â And he approached nearer to her, looking her straight in the eyes. âYou killed your husband,â he said, almost in a whisper. âThat is, you tried once and failed, and then, without trying, you succeeded.â
Madame de Bellegarde closed her eyes and gave a little cough, which, as a piece of dissimulation, struck Newman as really heroic. âDear mother,â said the marquis, âdoes this stuff amuse you so much?â
âThe rest is more amusing,â said Newman. âYou had better not lose it.â
Madame de Bellegarde opened her eyes; the scintillations had gone out of them; they were fixed and dead. But she smiled superbly with her narrow little lips, and repeated Newmanâs word. âAmusing? Have I killed someone else?â
âI donât count your daughter,â said Newman, âthough I might! Your husband knew what you were doing. I have a proof of it whose existence you have never suspected.â And he turned to the marquis, who was terribly whiteâwhiter than Newman had ever seen anyone out of a picture. âA paper written by the hand, and signed with the name, of Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde. Written after you, madam, had left him for dead, and while you, sir, had goneânot very fastâfor the doctor.â
The marquis looked at his mother; she turned away, looking vaguely round her. âI must sit down,â she said in a low tone, going toward the bench on which Newman had been sitting.
âCouldnât you have spoken to me alone?â said the marquis to Newman, with a strange look.
âWell, yes, if I could have been sure of speaking to your mother alone, too,â Newman answered. âBut I have had to take you as I could get you.â
Madame de Bellegarde, with a movement very eloquent of what he would have called her âgrit,â her steel-cold pluck and her instinctive appeal to her own personal resources, drew her hand out of her sonâs arm and went and seated herself upon the bench. There she remained, with her hands folded in her lap, looking straight at Newman. The expression of her face was such that he fancied at first that she was smiling; but he went and stood in front of her and saw that her elegant features were distorted by agitation. He saw, however, equally, that she was resisting her agitation with all the rigor of her inflexible will, and there was nothing like either fear or submission in her stony stare. She had been startled, but she was not terrified. Newman had an exasperating feeling that she would get the better of him still; he would not have believed it possible that he could so utterly fail to be touched by the sight of a woman (criminal or other) in so tight a place. Madame de Bellegarde gave a glance at her son which seemed tantamount to an injunction to be silent and leave her to her own devices. The marquis stood beside her, with his hands behind him, looking at Newman.
âWhat paper is this you speak of?â asked the old lady, with an imitation of tranquillity which would have been applauded in a veteran actress.
âExactly what I have told you,â said Newman. âA paper written by your husband after you had left him for dead, and during the couple of hours before you returned. You see he had the time; you shouldnât have stayed away so long. It declares distinctly his wifeâs murderous intent.â
âI should like to see it,â Madame de Bellegarde observed.
âI thought you might,â said Newman, âand I have taken a copy.â And he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small, folded sheet.
âGive it to my son,â said Madame de Bellegarde. Newman handed it to the marquis, whose mother, glancing at him, said simply, âLook at it.â M. de Bellegardeâs eyes had a pale eagerness which it was useless for him to try to dissimulate; he took the paper in his light-gloved fingers and opened it. There was a silence, during which he read it. He had more than time to read it, but still he said nothing; he stood staring at it. âWhere is the original?â asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a voice which was really a consummate negation of impatience.
âIn a very safe place. Of course I canât show you that,â said Newman. âYou might want to take hold of it,â he added with conscious quaintness. âBut thatâs a very correct copyâexcept, of course, the handwriting. I am keeping the original to show someone else.â
M. de Bellegarde at last looked up, and his eyes were still very eager. âTo whom do you mean to show it?â
âWell, Iâm thinking of beginning with the duchess,â said Newman; âthat stout lady I saw at your ball. She asked me to come and see her, you know. I thought at the moment I shouldnât have much to say to her; but my little document will give us something to talk about.â
âYou had better keep it, my son,â said Madame de Bellegarde.
âBy all means,â said Newman; âkeep it and show it to your mother when you get home.â
âAnd after showing it to the duchess?ââasked the marquis, folding the paper and putting it away.
âWell, Iâll take up the dukes,â said Newman. âThen the counts and the baronsâall the people you had the cruelty to introduce me to in a character of which you meant immediately to deprive me. I have made out a list.â
For a moment neither Madame de Bellegarde nor her son said a word; the old lady sat with her eyes upon the ground; M. de Bellegardeâs blanched pupils were fixed upon her face. Then, looking at Newman, âIs that all you have to say?â she asked.
âNo, I want to say a few words more. I want to say that I hope you quite understand what Iâm about. This is my revenge, you know. You have treated me before the worldâconvened for the express purposeâas if I were not good enough for you. I mean to
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