o the street. The gate opened itself at his approach; he strode over
the threshold and it closed behind him. A carriage which appeared to
have been standing there, was just turning away from the sidewalk.
Newman looked at it for a moment, blankly; then he became conscious,
through the dusky mist that swam before his eyes, that a lady seated in
it was bowing to him. The vehicle had turned away before he recognized
her; it was an ancient landau with one half the cover lowered. The
lady's bow was very positive and accompanied with a smile; a little girl
was seated beside her. He raised his hat, and then the lady bade the
coachman stop. The carriage halted again beside the pavement, and she
sat there and beckoned to Newman--beckoned with the demonstrative grace
of Madame Urbain de Bellegarde. Newman hesitated a moment before
he obeyed her summons, during this moment he had time to curse his
stupidity for letting the others escape him. He had been wondering how
he could get at them; fool that he was for not stopping them then and
there! What better place than beneath the very prison walls to which
they had consigned the promise of his joy? He had been too bewildered
to stop them, but now he felt ready to wait for them at the gate. Madame
Urbain, with a certain attractive petulance, beckoned to him again, and
this time he went over to the carriage. She leaned out and gave him her
hand, looking at him kindly, and smiling.

"Ah, monsieur," she said, "you don't include me in your wrath? I had
nothing to do with it."

"Oh, I don't suppose YOU could have prevented it!" Newman answered in a
tone which was not that of studied gallantry.

"What you say is too true for me to resent the small account it makes of
my influence. I forgive you, at any rate, because you look as if you had
seen a ghost."

"I have!" said Newman.

"I am glad, then, I didn't go in with Madame de Bellegarde and my
husband. You must have seen them, eh? Was the meeting affectionate?
Did you hear the chanting? They say it's like the lamentations of the
damned. I wouldn't go in: one is certain to hear that soon enough. Poor
Claire--in a white shroud and a big brown cloak! That's the toilette
of the Carmelites, you know. Well, she was always fond of long, loose
things. But I must not speak of her to you; only I must say that I am
very sorry for you, that if I could have helped you I would, and that
I think every one has been very shabby. I was afraid of it, you