ial to which
he was subjected. "You--you a nun!" he exclaimed; "you with your beauty
defaced--you behind locks and bars! Never, never, if I can prevent it!"
And he sprang to his feet with a violent laugh.

"You can't prevent it," said Madame de Cintre, "and it ought--a
little--to satisfy you. Do you suppose I will go on living in the world,
still beside you, and yet not with you? It is all arranged. Good-by,
good-by."

This time he took her hand, took it in both his own. "Forever?" he
said. Her lips made an inaudible movement and his own uttered a deep
imprecation. She closed her eyes, as if with the pain of hearing it;
then he drew her towards him and clasped her to his breast. He kissed
her white face; for an instant she resisted and for a moment she
submitted; then, with force, she disengaged herself and hurried away
over the long shining floor. The next moment the door closed behind her.

Newman made his way out as he could.

CHAPTER XXI

There is a pretty public walk at Poitiers, laid out upon the crest of
the high hill around which the little city clusters, planted with thick
trees and looking down upon the fertile fields in which the old English
princes fought for their right and held it. Newman paced up and down
this quiet promenade for the greater part of the next day and let his
eyes wander over the historic prospect; but he would have been sadly
at a loss to tell you afterwards whether the latter was made up of
coal-fields or of vineyards. He was wholly given up to his grievance,
or which reflection by no means diminished the weight. He feared that
Madame de Cintre was irretrievably lost; and yet, as he would have
said himself, he didn't see his way clear to giving her up. He found
it impossible to turn his back upon Fleurieres and its inhabitants;
it seemed to him that some germ of hope or reparation must lurk there
somewhere, if he could only stretch his arm out far enough to pluck
it. It was as if he had his hand on a door-knob and were closing his
clenched fist upon it: he had thumped, he had called, he had pressed
the door with his powerful knee and shaken it with all his strength,
and dead, damning silence had answered him. And yet something held
him there--something hardened the grasp of his fingers. Newman's
satisfaction had been too intense, his whole plan too deliberate and
mature, his prospect of happiness too rich and comprehensive for this
fine moral fabric to crumble at a stroke. The