"In most cases," Newman answered, "your objection would have some
weight, even admitting that Madame de Cintre's present intentions make
time precious. But I have thought of what you speak of, and I have come
here to-day without scruple simply because I consider your brother and
you two very different parties. I see no connection between you. Your
brother was ashamed of you. Lying there wounded and dying, the poor
fellow apologized to me for your conduct. He apologized to me for that
of his mother."

For a moment the effect of these words was as if Newman had struck
a physical blow. A quick flush leaped into the faces of Madame de
Bellegarde and her son, and they exchanged a glance like a twinkle of
steel. Urbain uttered two words which Newman but half heard, but of
which the sense came to him as it were in the reverberation of the
sound, "Le miserable!"

"You show little respect for the living," said Madame de Bellegarde,
"but at least respect the dead. Don't profane--don't insult--the memory
of my innocent son."

"I speak the simple truth," Newman declared, "and I speak it for a
purpose. I repeat it--distinctly. Your son was utterly disgusted--your
son apologized."

Urbain de Bellegarde was frowning portentously, and Newman supposed he
was frowning at poor Valentin's invidious image. Taken by surprise,
his scant affection for his brother had made a momentary concession to
dishonor. But not for an appreciable instant did his mother lower her
flag. "You are immensely mistaken, sir," she said. "My son was sometimes
light, but he was never indecent. He died faithful to his name."

"You simply misunderstood him," said the marquis, beginning to rally.
"You affirm the impossible!"

"Oh, I don't care for poor Valentin's apology," said Newman. "It was
far more painful than pleasant to me. This atrocious thing was not his
fault; he never hurt me, or any one else; he was the soul of honor. But
it shows how he took it."

"If you wish to prove that my poor brother, in his last moments, was
out of his head, we can only say that under the melancholy circumstances
nothing was more possible. But confine yourself to that."

"He was quite in his right mind," said Newman, with gentle but dangerous
doggedness; "I have never seen him so bright and clever. It was terrible
to see that witty, capable fellow dying such a death. You know I was
very fond of your brother. And I have further proof of his sanity,"
Newman concluded.