r gentlemen had exchanged glances which expressed unanimity as to
the timeliness of their presence. But for a long time Valentin neither
spoke nor moved. It was Newman's belief, afterwards, that M. le cure
went to sleep. At last abruptly, Valentin pronounced Newman's name. His
friend went to him, and he said in French, "You are not alone. I want to
speak to you alone." Newman looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked
at the cure, who looked back at him; and then the doctor and the cure,
together, gave a shrug. "Alone--for five minutes," Valentin repeated.
"Please leave us."

The cure took up his burden again and led the way out, followed by
his companions. Newman closed the door behind them and came back to
Valentin's bedside. Bellegarde had watched all this intently.

"It's very bad, it's very bad," he said, after Newman had seated himself
close to him. "The more I think of it the worse it is."

"Oh, don't think of it," said Newman.

But Valentin went on, without heeding him. "Even if they should come
round again, the shame--the baseness--is there."

"Oh, they won't come round!" said Newman.

"Well, you can make them."

"Make them?"

"I can tell you something--a great secret--an immense secret. You can
use it against them--frighten them, force them."

"A secret!" Newman repeated. The idea of letting Valentin, on his
death-bed, confide him an "immense secret" shocked him, for the
moment, and made him draw back. It seemed an illicit way of arriving at
information, and even had a vague analogy with listening at a key-hole.
Then, suddenly, the thought of "forcing" Madame de Bellegarde and her
son became attractive, and Newman bent his head closer to Valentin's
lips. For some time, however, the dying man said nothing more. He only
lay and looked at his friend with his kindled, expanded, troubled eye,
and Newman began to believe that he had spoken in delirium. But at last
he said,--

"There was something done--something done at Fleurieres. It was foul
play. My father--something happened to him. I don't know; I have been
ashamed--afraid to know. But I know there is something. My mother
knows--Urbain knows."

"Something happened to your father?" said Newman, urgently.

Valentin looked at him, still more wide-eyed. "He didn't get well."

"Get well of what?"

But the immense effort which Valentin had made, first to decide to utter
these words and then to bring them out, appeared to have taken his last
strengt