THE AMERICAN
Then our friend had a singular sensation; he felt his sense of wrong almost brim over into gaiety. "Come," he said, "you don't treat me well. At least admit that."
M. de Bellegarde looked at him from head to foot and then spoke in the most delicate, best-bred voice. "I execrate you personally."
"That's the way I feel to you, but for politeness sake I don't say it. It's singular I should want so much to be your brother-in-law, but I can't give it up. Let me try once more." And Newman paused a moment. "You've something on your mind and on your conscience, your mother and you—some thing in your life that you've kept as much as possible in the dark because it would n't look well in the light of day. You've a skeleton, as they say, in your closet." M. de Bellegarde continued to look at him hard, but it was a question if his eyes betrayed anything; the expression of his eyes was always so strange. Newman paused again and then went on. "You've done, between you, somehow and at some time, something still more base—wonderful as that may seem—than what you've done to me." At this M. de Bellegarde's eyes certainly did change; they flickered like blown candles. Newman could feel him turn cold; but his form was still quite perfect.
"Continue," he encouragingly said.
Newman lifted a finger and made it waver a little in the air. "Need I continue? You know what I mean."
"Pray, where did you obtain this interesting information?" M. de Bellegarde inordinately fluted.
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