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Updated: June 16, 2025
M. Nioche had brought Newman a message from his daughter, in acceptance of his magnificent commission, the young lady declaring herself his most devoted servant, promising her most zealous endeavor, and regretting that the proprieties forbade her coming to thank him in person.
"So you determined not to shoot her, after all," Newman said, presently. M. Nioche, without moving, raised his eyes and gave him a long, peculiar look. It seemed to confess everything, and yet not to ask for pity, nor to pretend, on the other hand, to a rugged ability to do without it.
"It doesn't much matter whether you forgive her or not," said Newman. "There are other people who won't, I assure you." "What has she done?" M. Nioche softly questioned, turning round again. "I don't know what she does, you know." "She has done a devilish mischief; it doesn't matter what," said Newman. "She's a nuisance; she ought to be stopped."
M. Nioche fixed his eyes upon a spot on the carpet and shook his head. Then looking up at Newman with a gaze that seemed to brighten and expand, "Monsieur knows what Paris is. She is dangerous to beauty, when beauty hasn't the sou." "Ah, but that is not the case with your daughter. She is rich, now." "Very true; we are rich for six months.
"Does one leave one's father? You have the proof of the contrary." "Yes, convincing proof," said Newman glancing at M. Nioche. The old man caught his glance obliquely, with his faded, deprecating eye, and then, lifting his empty glass, pretended to drink again. "Who told you that?" Noemie demanded. "I know very well. It was M. de Bellegarde. Why don't you say yes? You are not polite."
What led you, by the way, to make me such a queer offer? You didn't care for me." "Oh yes, I did," said Newman. "How so?" "It would have given me real pleasure to see you married to a respectable young fellow." "With six thousand francs of income!" cried Mademoiselle Nioche. "Do you call that caring for me? I'm afraid you know little about women.
And he pressed his forehead while he tried to think of something. "Oh, you have thanked me enough," said Newman. "Ah, here it is, sir!" cried M. Nioche. "To express my gratitude, I will charge you nothing for the lessons in French conversation." "The lessons? I had quite forgotten them. Listening to your English," added Newman, laughing, "is almost a lesson in French."
She reminded Newman of his friend, Mademoiselle Nioche; this was what that much-obstructed young lady would have liked to be. Valentin de Bellegarde walked behind her at a distance, hopping about to keep off the far-spreading train of her dress. "You ought to show more of your shoulders behind," he said very gravely. "You might as well wear a standing ruff as such a dress as that."
M. Nioche at last took his daughter's paint-box in one hand and the bedaubed canvas, after giving it a solemn, puzzled stare, in the other, and led the way to the door. Mademoiselle Noemie made the young men the salute of a duchess, and followed her father. "Well," said Newman, "what do you think of her?" "She is very remarkable.
Early one morning, before Christopher Newman was dressed, a little old man was ushered into his apartment, followed by a youth in a blouse, bearing a picture in a brilliant frame. Newman, among the distractions of Paris, had forgotten M. Nioche and his accomplished daughter; but this was an effective reminder.
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