THE AMERICAN
versaries looked grossly wicked and capable of the blackest evil. "There's no mistake about it now," he reflected as they advanced. "They're a bad, bad lot; they've pulled off the varnished mask." Madame de Bellegarde and her son certainly bore in their faces the signs of extreme perturbation; they were plainly people who had passed a sleepless night. Confronted, moreover, with an annoyance which they hoped they had disposed of, it was not natural they should meet their visitor with conciliatory looks. He stood before them, and of the coldest glare they could command he had the full benefit. He felt as if the door of a sepulchre had suddenly been opened and the damp darkness were exhaled.
"You see I've come back," he said, however, with a tentative freshness. "I've come to try again."
"It would be ridiculous," the Marquis returned, "to pretend that we're glad to see you or that we don't question the taste of your visit."
"Oh, don't talk about taste!'—and Newman permitted himself perhaps the harshest laugh into which he had ever broken; "that would bring us round to yours! If I consulted my taste I certainly would n't come to see you. Besides, I 'll make as short work as you please. Give me a guarantee that you'll raise the blockade—that you 'll set Madame de Cintré at liberty—and I 'll retire on the spot."
"We hesitated as to whether we would see you," said Madame de Bellegarde; "and we were on the point of declining the honour. But it seemed to me we should act with civility, as we've always done, and I wished to have the satisfaction of informing you
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