(We are obliged to
believe that he was wrong, inasmuch as she had obviously not yet had
time to become a member of the invisible sisterhood.) The chant kept
on, mechanical and monotonous, with dismal repetitions and despairing
cadences. It was hideous, it was horrible; as it continued, Newman felt
that he needed all his self-control. He was growing more agitated; he
felt tears in his eyes. At last, as in its full force the thought came
over him that this confused, impersonal wail was all that either he or
the world she had deserted should ever hear of the voice he had found
so sweet, he felt that he could bear it no longer. He rose abruptly
and made his way out. On the threshold he paused, listened again to the
dreary strain, and then hastily descended into the court. As he did
so he saw the good sister with the high-colored cheeks and the fanlike
frill to her coiffure, who had admitted him, was in conference at the
gate with two persons who had just come in. A second glance informed him
that these persons were Madame de Bellegarde and her son, and that they
were about to avail themselves of that method of approach to Madame
de Cintre which Newman had found but a mockery of consolation. As he
crossed the court M. de Bellegarde recognized him; the marquis was
coming to the steps, leading his mother.
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