Newman
was enlightened on this point later. Even Valentin did not quite seem
master of his wits; his vivacity was fitful and forced, yet Newman
observed that in the lapses of his talk he appeared excited. His eyes
had an intenser spark than usual. The effect of all this was that
Newman, for the first time in his life, was not himself; that he
measured his movements, and counted his words, and resolved that if the
occasion demanded that he should appear to have swallowed a ramrod, he
would meet the emergency.
After dinner M. de Bellegarde proposed to his guest that they should go
into the smoking-room, and he led the way toward a small, somewhat
musty apartment, the walls of which were ornamented with old hangings of
stamped leather and trophies of rusty arms. Newman refused a cigar, but
he established himself upon one of the divans, while the marquis puffed
his own weed before the fire-place, and Valentin sat looking through the
light fumes of a cigarette from one to the other.
"I can't keep quiet any longer," said Valentin, at last. "I must tell
you the news and congratulate you. My brother seems unable to come to
the point; he revolves around his announcement like the priest around
the altar. You are accepted as a candidate for the hand of our sister."
"Valentin, be a little proper!" murmured the marquis, with a look of the
most delicate irritation contracting the bridge of his high nose.
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