Newman stood a moment, twisting his mustache and looking at her;
then he abruptly turned away. But this was not because he was afraid
to go in--though he doubted whether, if he did so, he should be able
to make his way, unchallenged, into the presence of Madame de Cintre's
relatives. Confidence--excessive confidence, perhaps--quite as much as
timidity prompted his retreat. He was nursing his thunder-bolt; he loved
it; he was unwilling to part with it. He seemed to be holding it aloft
in the rumbling, vaguely-flashing air, directly over the heads of his
victims, and he fancied he could see their pale, upturned faces. Few
specimens of the human countenance had ever given him such pleasure
as these, lighted in the lurid fashion I have hinted at, and he was
disposed to sip the cup of contemplative revenge in a leisurely fashion.
It must be added, too, that he was at a loss to see exactly how he could
arrange to witness the operation of his thunder. To send in his card to
Madame de Bellegarde would be a waste of ceremony; she would certainly
decline to receive him. On the other hand he could not force his way
into her presence. It annoyed him keenly to think that he might be
reduced to the blind satisfaction of writing her a letter; but he
consoled himself in a measure with the reflection that a letter might
lead to an interview.
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