I have spoken of you as an American of
immense wealth, and the best fellow in the world, who is looking for
something very superior in the way of a wife."
"Do you suppose," asked Newman, "that Madame de Cintre has related to
your mother the last conversation I had with her?"
"I am very certain that she has not; she will keep her own counsel.
Meanwhile you must make your way with the rest of the family. Thus much
is known about you: you have made a great fortune in trade, you are
a little eccentric, and you frankly admire our dear Claire. My
sister-in-law, whom you remember seeing in Madame de Cintre's
sitting-room, took, it appears, a fancy to you; she has described you as
having beaucoup de cachet. My mother, therefore, is curious to see you."
"She expects to laugh at me, eh?" said Newman.
"She never laughs. If she does not like you, don't hope to purchase
favor by being amusing. 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'Universite into which he had not yet penetrated, the salon of the
dowager Marquise de Bellegarde. It was a vast, high room, with elaborate
and ponderous mouldings, painted a whitish gray, 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; a Turkey carpet in
light colors, still soft and deep, in spite of great antiquity, on the
floor, and portraits of each of Madame de Bellegarde's children, at the
age of ten, suspended against an old screen of red silk.
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