e of the
marquise and her son rose before him again, standing side by side,
the old woman's hand in Urbain's arm, and the same cold, unsociable
fixedness in the eyes of each, he cried out to himself that the fear was
groundless. There was blood in the secret at the very last! He arrived
at Fleurieres almost in a state of elation; he had satisfied himself,
logically, that in the presence of his threat of exposure they would, as
he mentally phrased it, rattle down like unwound buckets. He remembered
indeed that he must first catch his hare--first ascertain what there was
to expose; but after that, why shouldn't his happiness be as good as new
again? Mother and son would drop their lovely victim in terror and take
to hiding, and Madame de Cintre, left to herself, would surely come back
to him. Give her a chance and she would rise to the surface, return to
the light. How could she fail to perceive that his house would be much
the most comfortable sort of convent?

Newman, as he had done before, left his conveyance at the inn and walked
the short remaining distance to the chateau. When he reached the gate,
however, a singular feeling took possession of him--a feeling which,
strange as it may seem, had its source in its unfathomable good
nature. He stood there a while, looking through the bars at the large,
time-stained face of the edifice, and wondering to what crime it was
that the dark old house, with its flowery name, had given convenient
occasion. It had given occasion, first and last, to tyrannies and
sufferings enough, Newman said to himself; it was an evil-looking
place to live in. Then, suddenly, came the reflection--What a horrible
rubbish-heap of iniquity to fumble in! The attitude of inquisitor turned
its ignobler face, and with the same movement Newman declared that
the Bellegardes should have another chance. He would appeal once more
directly to their sense of fairness, and not to their fear, and if they
should be accessible to reason, he need know nothing worse about them
than what he already knew. That was bad enough.

The gate-keeper let him in through the same stiff crevice as before,
and he passed through the court and over the little rustic bridge on the
moat. The door was opened before he had reached it, and, as if to put
his clemency to rout with the suggestion of a richer opportunity, Mrs.
Bread stood there awaiting him. Her face, as usual, looked as hopelessly
blank as the tide-smoothed sea-sand, and