The door was opened before he had reached it, and, as if to put
his clemency to rout with the suggestion of a richer opportunity, Mrs.
Bread stood there awaiting him. Her face, as usual, looked as hopelessly
blank as the tide-smoothed sea-sand, and her black garments seemed of
an intenser sable. Newman had already learned that her strange
inexpressiveness could be a vehicle for emotion, and he was not
surprised at the muffled vivacity with which she whispered, "I thought
you would try again, sir. I was looking out for you."
"I am glad to see you," said Newman; "I think you are my friend."
Mrs. Bread looked at him opaquely. "I wish you well sir; but it's vain
wishing now."
"You know, then, how they have treated me?"
"Oh, sir," said Mrs. Bread, dryly, "I know everything."
Newman hesitated a moment. "Everything?"
Mrs. Bread gave him a glance somewhat more lucent. "I know at least too
much, sir."
"One can never know too much. I congratulate you. I have come to see
Madame de Bellegarde and her son," Newman added. "Are they at home? If
they are not, I will wait."
"My lady is always at home," Mrs. Bread replied, "and the marquis is
mostly with her."
"Please then tell them--one or the other, or both--that I am here and
that I desire to see them."
Mrs. Bread hesitated.
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