They are the feeling that, after all, though I AM a good fellow, I have been in business; the feeling that your mother's looks are law and your brother's words are gospel; that you all hang together, and that it's a part of the everlasting proprieties that they should have a hand in everything you do.
It makes my blood boil.That is cold; you are right.
And what I feel here," and Newman struck his heart and became more poetical than he knew, "is a glowing fire!"A spectator less preoccupied than Madame de Cintre's distracted wooer would have felt sure from the first that her appealing calm of manner was the result of violent effort, in spite of which the tide of agitation was rapidly rising.
On these last words of Newman's it overflowed, though at first she spoke low, for fear of her voice betraying her.
"No.I was not right--I am not cold! I believe that if I am doing what seems so bad, it is not mere weakness and falseness.
Mr.Newman, it's like a religion.I can't tell you--I can't!
It's cruel of you to insist.I don't see why I shouldn't ask you to believe me--and pity me.It's like a religion.
There's a curse upon the house; I don't know what--I don't know why--don't ask me.We must all bear it.
I have been too selfish; I wanted to escape from it.
You offered me a great chance--besides my liking you.
It seemed good to change completely, to break, to go away.
And then I admired you.But I can't--it has overtaken and come back to me." Her self-control had now completely abandoned her, and her words were broken with long sobs.
"Why do such dreadful things happen to us--why is my brother Valentin killed, like a beast in the midst of his youth and his gayety and his brightness and all that we loved him for?
Why are there things I can't ask about--that I am afraid to know?
Why are there places I can't look at, sounds I can't hear?
Why is it given to me to choose, to decide, in a case so hard and so terrible as this? I am not meant for that--I am not made for boldness and defiance.I was made to be happy in a quiet, natural way." At this Newman gave a most expressive groan, but Madame de Cintre went on.
"I was made to do gladly and gratefully what is expected of me.
My mother has always been very good to me; that's all I can say.
I must not judge her; I must not criticize her.If I did, it would come back to me.I can't change!""No," said Newman, bitterly; "I must change--if I break in two in the effort!""You are different.You are a man; you will get over it.
You have all kinds of consolation.You were born--you were trained, to changes.Besides--besides, I shall always think of you.""I don't care for that!" cried Newman."You are cruel--you are terribly cruel.God forgive you! You may have the best reasons and the finest feelings in the world; that makes no difference.
You are a mystery to me; I don't see how such hardness can go with such loveliness."Madame de Cintre fixed him a moment with her swimming eyes.
"You believe I am hard, then?"
