After his dinner with Bellegarde, on the occasion I have mentioned,
he demurred to his companion's proposal that they should go again and
listen to Madame Dandelard describe her sorrows and her bruises.
"I have something better in mind," he said; "come home with me and
finish the evening before my fire."
Bellegarde always welcomed the prospect of a long stretch of
conversation, and before long the two men sat watching the great blaze
which scattered its scintillations over the high adornments of Newman's
ball-room.
CHAPTER VIII
"Tell me something about your sister," Newman began abruptly.
Bellegarde turned and gave him a quick look. "Now that I think of it,
you have never yet asked me a question about her."
"I know that very well."
"If it is because you don't trust me, you are very right," said
Bellegarde. "I can't talk of her rationally. I admire her too much."
"Talk of her as you can," rejoined Newman. "Let yourself go."
"Well, we are very good friends; we are such a brother and sister as
have not been seen since Orestes and Electra. You have seen her; you
know what she is: tall, thin, light, imposing, and gentle, half a grande
dame and half an angel; a mixture of pride and humility, of the eagle
and the dove. She looks like a statue which had failed as stone,
resigned itself to its grave defects, and come to life as flesh and
blood, to wear white capes and long trains.
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