“Perhaps a stranger one will be easier to answer,” said Newman.  “You might try me.”

“Oh, you get off very well; the old Comte de la Rochefidele, yonder, couldn’t do it better.  I told them that if we only gave you a chance you would be a perfect talon rouge.  I know something about men.  Besides, you and I belong to the same camp.  I am a ferocious democrat.  By birth I am vieille roche; a good little bit of the history of France is the history of my family.  Oh, you never heard of us, of course!  Ce que c’est que la gloire!  We are much better than the Bellegardes, at any rate.  But I don’t care a pin for my pedigree; I want to belong to my time.  I’m a revolutionist, a radical, a child of the age!  I am sure I go beyond you.  I like clever people, wherever they come from, and I take my amusement wherever I find it.  I don’t pout at the Empire; here all the world pouts at the Empire.  Of course I have to mind what I say; but I expect to take my revenge with you.”  Madame de Bellegarde discoursed for some time longer in this sympathetic strain, with an eager abundance which seemed to indicate that her opportunities for revealing her esoteric philosophy were indeed rare.  She hoped that Newman would never be afraid of her, however he might be with the others, for, really, she went very far indeed.  “Strong people”—­le gens forts—­were in her opinion equal, all the world over.  Newman listened to her with an attention at once beguiled and irritated.  He wondered what the deuce she, too, was driving at, with her hope that he would not be afraid of her and her protestations of equality.  In so far as he could understand her, she was wrong; a silly, rattling woman was certainly not the equal of a sensible man, preoccupied with an ambitious passion.  Madame de Bellegarde stopped suddenly, and looked at him sharply, shaking her fan.  “I see you don’t believe me,” she said, “you are too much on your guard.  You will not form an alliance, offensive or defensive?  You are very wrong; I could help you.”

Newman answered that he was very grateful and that he would certainly ask for help; she should see.  “But first of all,” he said, “I must help myself.”  And he went to join Madame de Cintre.

“I have been telling Madame de la Rochefidele that you are an American,” she said, as he came up.  “It interests her greatly.  Her father went over with the French troops to help you in your battles in the last century, and she has always, in consequence, wanted greatly to see an American.  But she has never succeeded till to-night.  You are the first—­to her knowledge—­that she has ever looked at.”

Madame de la Rochefidele had an aged, cadaverous face, with a falling of the lower jaw which prevented her from bringing her lips together, and reduced her conversations to a series of impressive but inarticulate gutturals.  She raised an antique eyeglass, elaborately mounted in chased silver, and looked at Newman from head to foot.  Then she said something to which he listened deferentially, but which he completely failed to understand.