"You killed your husband," he said, almost in a whisper."That is, you tried once and failed, and then, without trying, you succeeded."Madame de Bellegarde closed her eyes and gave a little cough, which, as a piece of dissimulation, struck Newman as really heroic.
"Dear mother," said the marquis, "does this stuff amuse you so much?""The rest is more amusing," said Newman."You had better not lose it."Madame de Bellegarde opened her eyes; the scintillations had gone out of them;they were fixed and dead.But she smiled superbly with her narrow little lips, and repeated Newman's word."Amusing? Have I killed some one else?""I don't count your daughter," said Newman, "though I might!
Your husband knew what you were doing.I have a proof of it whose existence you have never suspected."And he turned to the marquis, who was terribly white--whiter than Newman had ever seen any one out of a picture.
"A paper written by the hand, and signed with the name, of Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde.Written after you, madame, had left him for dead, and while you, sir, had gone--not very fast--for the doctor."
The marquis looked at his mother; she turned away, looking vaguely round her.
"I must sit down," she said in a low tone, going toward the bench on which Newman had been sitting.
"Couldn't you have spoken to me alone?" said the marquis to Newman, with a strange look.
"Well, yes, if I could have been sure of speaking to your mother alone, too,"Newman answered."But I have had to take you as I could get you."Madame de Bellegarde, with a movement very eloquent of what he would have called her "grit," her steel-cold pluck and her instinctive appeal to her own personal resources, drew her hand out of her son's arm and went and seated herself upon the bench.There she remained, with her hands folded in her lap, looking straight at Newman.
The expression of her face was such that he fancied at first that she was smiling; but he went and stood in front of her and saw that her elegant features were distorted by agitation.
He saw, however, equally, that she was resisting her agitation with all the rigor of her inflexible will, and there was nothing like either fear or submission in her stony stare.She had been startled, but she was not terrified.Newman had an exasperating feeling that she would get the better of him still; he would not have believed it possible that he could so utterly fail to be touched by the sight of a woman (criminal or other) in so tight a place.
Madame de Bellegarde gave a glance at her son which seemed tantamount to an injunction to be silent and leave her to her own devices.
The marquis stood beside her, with his hands behind him, looking at Newman.
"What paper is this you speak of?" asked the old lady, with an imitation of tranquillity which would have been applauded in a veteran actress.
"Exactly what I have told you," said Newman."A paper written by your husband after you had left him for dead, and during the couple of hours before you returned.
You see he had the time; you shouldn't have stayed away so long.
It declares distinctly his wife's murderous intent.""I should like to see it," Madame de Bellegarde observed.
"I thought you might," said Newman, "and I have taken a copy."And he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small, folded sheet.
"Give it to my son," said Madame de Bellegarde.
Newman handed it to the marquis, whose mother, glancing at him, said simply, "Look at it." M.de Bellegarde's eyes had a pale eagerness which it was useless for him to try to dissimulate;he took the paper in his light-gloved fingers and opened it.
There was a silence, during which he read it.He had more than time to read it, but still he said nothing; he stood staring at it.
"Where is the original?" asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a voice which was really a consummate negation of impatience.
"In a very safe place.Of course I can't show you that," said Newman.
"You might want to take hold of it," he added with conscious quaintness.
"But that's a very correct copy--except, of course, the handwriting.
I am keeping the original to show some one else."M.de Bellegarde at last looked up, and his eyes were still very eager.
"To whom do you mean to show it?"
"Well, I'm thinking of beginning with the duchess," said Newman;"that stout lady I saw at your ball.She asked me to come and see her, you know.I thought at the moment I shouldn't have much to say to her;but my little document will give us something to talk about.""You had better keep it, my son," said Madame de Bellegarde.
"By all means," said Newman; "keep it and show it to your mother when you get home.""And after showing it to the duchess?"--asked the marquis, folding the paper and putting it away.
"Well, I'll take up the dukes," said Newman."Then the counts and the barons--all the people you had the cruelty to introduce me to in a character of which you meant immediately to deprive me.
I have made out a list."
For a moment neither Madame de Bellegarde nor her son said a word;the old lady sat with her eyes upon the ground; M.de Bellegarde's blanched pupils were fixed upon her face.Then, looking at Newman, "Is that all you have to say?" she asked.
"No, I want to say a few words more.I want to say that I hope you quite understand what I'm about.This is my revenge, you know.
You have treated me before the world--convened for the express purpose--as if I were not good enough for you.I mean to show the world that, however bad I may be, you are not quite the people to say it."Madame de Bellegarde was silent again, and then she broke her silence.Her self-possession continued to be extraordinary.
"I needn't ask you who has been your accomplice.
Mrs.Bread told me that you had purchased her services.""Don't accuse Mrs.Bread of venality," said Newman."She has kept your secret all these years.She has given you a long respite.
It was beneath her eyes your husband wrote that paper; he put it into her hands with a solemn injunction that she was to make it public.
