Valentin had been with her a couple of hours before, and his visit had left her with a painful impression.

He had laughed and gossiped, he had brought her no bad news, he had only been, in his manner, rather more affectionate than usual.

His fraternal tenderness had touched her, and on his departure she had burst into tears.

She had felt as if something strange and sad were going to happen; she had tried to reason away the fancy, and the effort had only given her a headache.
Newman, of course, was perforce tongue-tied about Valentin's projected duel, and his dramatic talent was not equal to satirizing Madame de Cintre's presentiment as pointedly as perfect security demanded.

Before he went away he asked Madame de Cintre whether Valentin had seen his mother.
"Yes," she said, "but he didn't make her cry." It was in Newman's own apartment that Valentin dined, having brought his portmanteau, so that he might adjourn directly to the railway.