THE AMERICAN
it appears, a marked fancy to you; she has described you as having beaucoup de cachet. My mother is therefore curious to see you."
"She expects to laugh at me, eh?" said Newman.
"She never laughs—or at least never expects to. If she does n't like you don't hope to purchase favour by being funny. I'm funny—take warning by me!"
This conversation took place in the evening, and half an hour later Valentin ushered his companion into an apartment of the house of the Rue de l'Université into which he had not yet penetrated, the salon of the dowager Marquise. It was a vast high room, with elaborate and ponderous mouldings, painted a whiteish grey, along the upper portion of the walls and the ceiling; with a great deal of faded and carefully-repaired tapestry in the doorways and chair-backs; with a Turkey carpet, in light colours, still soft and rich despite great antiquity, on the floor; and with portraits of each of Madame de Bellegarde's children at the age of ten suspended against an old screen of red silk. The dimness was diminished, exactly enough for conversation, by half a dozen candles placed in odd corners and at a great distance apart. In a deep armchair near the fire sat an old lady in black; at the other end of the room another person was seated at the piano and playing a very expressive waltz. In this latter person Newman recognised the younger Marquise.
Valentin presented his friend, and Newman came sufficiently near to the old lady by the fire to take in that she would offer him no handshake—so that he knew he had the air of waiting, and a little like
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