“You do not know, mademoiselle,” he resumed, “how a sudden calamity may effect a good man’s reason.  It is only at the time a thing escapes us that we feel the greatness of the loss.  God preserve me from doubting all that you have said; but picture to yourself the immensity of the blow which struck M. de Commarin.  Can you say that on leaving you he did not give way to despair?  Think of the extremities to which it may have led him.  He may have been for a time bewildered, and have acted unconsciously.  Perhaps this is the way the crime should be explained.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s face grew deathly pale, and betrayed the utmost terror.  The magistrate thought that at last doubt had begun to effect her pure and noble belief.

“He must, then, have been mad,” she murmured.

“Possibly,” replied the magistrate; “and yet the circumstances of the crime denote a well-laid plan.  Believe me, then, mademoiselle, and do not be too confident.  Pray, and wait patiently for the issue of this terrible trial.  Listen to my voice, it is that of a friend.  You used to have in me the confidence a daughter gives to her father, you told me so; do not, then, refuse my advice.  Remain silent and wait.  Hide your grief to all; you might hereafter regret having exposed it.  Young, inexperienced, without a guide, without a mother, alas! you sadly misplaced your first affections.”

“No, sir, no,” stammered Claire.  “Ah!” she added, “you talk like the rest of the world, that prudent and egotistical world, which I despise and hate.”

“Poor child,” continued M. Daburon, pitiless even in his compassion, “unhappy young girl!  This is your first deception!  Nothing more terrible could be imagined; few women would know how to bear it.  But you are young; you are brave; your life will not be ruined.  Hereafter you will feel horrified at this crime.  There is no wound, I know by experience, which time does not heal.”

Claire tried to grasp what the magistrate was saying, but his words reached her only as confused sounds, their meaning entirely escaped her.

“I do not understand you, sir,” she said.  “What advice, then, do you give me?”

“The only advice that reason dictates, and that my affection for you can suggest, mademoiselle.  I speak to you as a kind and devoted brother.  I say to you:  ’Courage, Claire, resign yourself to the saddest, the greatest sacrifice which honour can ask of a young girl.  Weep, yes, weep for your deceived love; but forget it.  Pray heaven to help you do so.  He whom you have loved is no longer worthy of you.’”

The magistrate stopped slightly frightened.  Mademoiselle d’Arlange had become livid.

But though the body was weak, the soul still remained firm.

“You said, just now,” she murmured, “that he could only have committed this crime in a moment of distraction, in a fit of madness?”

“Yes, it is possible.”