Every now and then, having
learned from Newman that he had been through the museums of Europe, he
uttered some polished aphorism upon the flesh-tints of Rubens and the
good taste of Sansovino. His manners seemed to indicate a fine, nervous
dread that something disagreeable might happen if the atmosphere were
not purified by allusions of a thoroughly superior cast. "What under
the sun is the man afraid of?" Newman asked himself. "Does he think I am
going to offer to swap jack-knives with him?" It was useless to shut his
eyes to the fact that the marquis was profoundly disagreeable to him.
He had never been a man of strong personal aversions; his nerves had not
been at the mercy of the mystical qualities of his neighbors. But here
was a man towards whom he was irresistibly in opposition; a man of
forms and phrases and postures; a man full of possible impertinences
and treacheries. M. de Bellegarde made him feel as if he were standing
bare-footed on a marble floor; and yet, to gain his desire, Newman felt
perfectly able to stand. He wondered what Madame de Cintre thought of
his being accepted, if accepted it was. There was no judging from her
face, which expressed simply the desire to be gracious in a manner which
should require as little explicit recognition as possible. Young Madame
de Bellegarde had always the same manners; she was always preoccupied,
distracted, listening to everything and hearing nothing, looking at
her dress, her rings, her finger-nails, seeming rather bored, and yet
puzzling you to decide what was her ideal of social diversion.
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