It's faded now, it's a very pale pink; but
there it lies. My grudge has faded, too; the red has all gone out of it;
but it lies here yet." And Mrs. Bread stroked her black satin bodice.
Newman listened with interest to this decent narrative, which seemed
to have opened up the deeps of memory to his companion. Then, as she
remained silent, and seemed to be losing herself in retrospective
meditation upon her perfect respectability, he ventured upon a short
cut to his goal. "So Madame de Bellegarde was jealous; I see. And M. de
Bellegarde admired pretty women, without distinction of class. I suppose
one mustn't be hard upon him, for they probably didn't all behave so
properly as you. But years afterwards it could hardly have been jealousy
that turned Madame de Bellegarde into a criminal."
Mrs. Bread gave a weary sigh. "We are using dreadful words, sir, but I
don't care now. I see you have your idea, and I have no will of my own.
My will was the will of my children, as I called them; but I have lost
my children now. They are dead--I may say it of both of them; and
what should I care for the living? What is any one in the house to me
now--what am I to them? My lady objects to me--she has objected to me
these thirty years. I should have been glad to be something to young
Madame de Bellegarde, though I never was nurse to the present marquis.
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