“How she loves him!” he thought, “how she loves him!”

His mind was sunk in the darkest thoughts.  All the stings of jealousy were rending him.  What would not be his delight, if he were the object of so irresistible a passion as that which burst forth before him!  What would he not give in return!  He had, too, a young and ardent soul, a burning thirst for love.  But who had ever thought of that?  He had been esteemed, respected, perhaps feared, but not loved; and he never would be.  Was he, then, unworthy of it?  Why do so many men pass through life dispossessed of love, while others, the vilest beings sometimes, seem to possess a mysterious power, which charms and seduces, and inspires those blind and impetuous feelings which to assert themselves rush to the sacrifice all the while longing for it?  Have women, then, no reason, no discernment?

Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s silence brought the magistrate back to the reality.  He raised his eyes to her.  Overcome by the violence of her emotion, she lay back in her chair, and breathed with such difficulty that M. Daburon feared she was about to faint.  He moved quickly towards the bell, to summon aid; but Claire noticed the movement, and stopped him.

“What would you do?” she asked.

“You seemed suffering so,” he stammered, “that I——­”

“It is nothing, sir,” replied she.  “I may seem weak; but I am not so.  I am strong, believe me, very strong.  It is true that I suffer, as I never believed that one could suffer.  It is cruel for a young girl to have to do violence to all her feelings.  You ought to be satisfied, sir.  I have torn aside all veils; and you have read even the inmost recesses of my heart.  But I do not regret it; it was for his sake.  That which I do regret is my having lowered my self so far as to defend him; but he will forgive me that one doubt.  Your assurance took me unawares.  A man like him does not need defence; his innocence must be proved; and, God helping me, I will prove it.”

As Claire was half-rising to depart, M. Daburon detained her by a gesture.  In his blindness, he thought he would be doing wrong to leave this poor young girl in the slightest way deceived.  Having gone so far as to begin, he persuaded himself that his duty bade him go on to the end.  He said to himself, in all good faith, that he would thus preserve Claire from herself, and spare her in the future many bitter regrets.  The surgeon who has commenced a painful operation does not leave it half-finished because the patient struggles, suffers, and cries out.

“It is painful, Mademoiselle,—­” he began.

Claire did not let him finish.

“Enough, sir,” said she; “all that you can say will be of no avail.  I respect your unhappy conviction.  I ask, in return, the same regard for mine.  If you were truly my friend, I would ask you to aid me in the task of saving him, to which I am about to devote myself.  But, doubtless, you would not do so.”