THE AMERICAN
"And how were those intense mild eyes?" Newman asked.
They were red with weeping—neither more nor less. She had been to confession."
"It does n't tally with your account of her," he said, "that she should have sins to cry about."
"They were not sins—they were sufferings."
"How do you know that?"
"She asked me to come and see her. I went this morning."
"And what does she suffer from?"
"I did n't press her to tell me. With her, somehow, one is very discreet. But I guessed easily enough. She suffers from her grim old mother and from the manner in which her elder brother, the technical head of the family, abets and hounds on the Marquise. They keep at her hard, they keep at her all the while. But I can almost forgive them, because, as I told you, she's simply a saint, and a persecution is all that she needs to bring out what I call her quality."
That's a comfortable theory for her. I hope you'll never mention it to the old folks. But why does she let them persecute her? Is n't she, as a married woman, her own mistress?"
"Legally yes, I suppose; but morally no. In France you may never say Nay to your mother, whatever she requires of you. She may be the most abominable old woman in the world and make your life a purgatory; but after all she's ma mére, and you've no right to judge her. You've simply to obey. The thing has a fine side to it. Madame de Cintré bows her head and folds her wings."
109
