of wood." Newman
had taken her husband's empty chair. She made no protest, and then she
turned suddenly and laid her closed fan upon his arm. "I am very glad
you came in," she said. "I want to ask you a favor. I wanted to do so on
Thursday, at my mother-in-law's ball, but you would give me no chance.
You were in such very good spirits that I thought you might grant my
little favor then; not that you look particularly doleful now. It is
something you must promise me; now is the time to take you; after you
are married you will be good for nothing. Come, promise!"

"I never sign a paper without reading it first," said Newman. "Show me
your document."

"No, you must sign with your eyes shut; I will hold your hand. Come,
before you put your head into the noose. You ought to be thankful to me
for giving you a chance to do something amusing."

"If it is so amusing," said Newman, "it will be in even better season
after I am married."

"In other words," cried Madame de Bellegarde, "you will not do it at
all. You will be afraid of your wife."

"Oh, if the thing is intrinsically improper," said Newman, "I won't go
into it. If it is not, I will do it after my marriage."

"You talk like a treatise on logic, and English logic into the bargain!"
exclaimed Madame de Bellegarde. "Promise, then, after you are married.
After all, I shall enjoy keeping you to it."

"Well, then, after I am married," said Newman serenely.

The little marquise hesitated a moment, looking at him, and he wondered
what was coming. "I suppose you know what my life is," she presently
said. "I have no pleasure, I see nothing, I do nothing. I live in Paris
as I might live at Poitiers. My mother-in-law calls me--what is the
pretty word?--a gad-about? accuses me of going to unheard-of places, and
thinks it ought to be joy enough for me to sit at home and count over my
ancestors on my fingers. But why should I bother about my ancestors?
I am sure they never bothered about me. I don't propose to live with
a green shade on my eyes; I hold that things were made to look at. My
husband, you know, has principles, and the first on the list is that
the Tuileries are dreadfully vulgar. If the Tuileries are vulgar, his
principles are tiresome. If I chose I might have principles quite as
well as he. If they grew on one's family tree I should only have to give
mine a shake to bring down a shower of the finest. At any rate, I prefer
clever Bonapartes to stupid Bourbons."