al in the way Newman's thoroughly
contemporaneous optimism was confronted with this dusky old-world
expedient. To see a woman made for him and for motherhood to his
children juggled away in this tragic travesty--it was a thing to rub
one's eyes over, a nightmare, an illusion, a hoax. But the hours passed
away without disproving the thing, and leaving him only the after-sense
of the vehemence with which he had embraced Madame de Cintre. He
remembered her words and her looks; he turned them over and tried to
shake the mystery out of them and to infuse them with an endurable
meaning. What had she meant by her feeling being a kind of religion? It
was the religion simply of the family laws, the religion of which her
implacable little mother was the high priestess. Twist the thing about
as her generosity would, the one certain fact was that they had used
force against her. Her generosity had tried to screen them, but Newman's
heart rose into his throat at the thought that they should go scot-free.

The twenty-four hours wore themselves away, and the next morning Newman
sprang to his feet with the resolution to return to Fleurieres and
demand another interview with Madame de Bellegarde and her son. He
lost no time in putting it into practice. As he rolled swiftly over
the excellent road in the little caleche furnished him at the inn at
Poitiers, he drew forth, as it were, from the very safe place in his
mind to which he had consigned it, the last information given him by
poor Valentin. Valentin had told him he could do something with it, and
Newman thought it would be well to have it at hand. This was of course
not the first time, lately, that Newman had given it his attention. It
was information in the rough,--it was dark and puzzling; but Newman was
neither helpless nor afraid. Valentin had evidently meant to put him in
possession of a powerful instrument, though he could not be said to
have placed the handle very securely within his grasp. But if he had not
really told him the secret, he had at least given him the clew to it--a
clew of which that queer old Mrs. Bread held the other end. Mrs. Bread
had always looked to Newman as if she knew secrets; and as he apparently
enjoyed her esteem, he suspected she might be induced to share her
knowledge with him. So long as there was only Mrs. Bread to deal
with, he felt easy. As to what there was to find out, he had only one
fear--that it might not be bad enough. Then, when the imag