“If you knew the proofs which I possess, mademoiselle,” he said in a cold tone, which expressed his determination not to give way to anger, “if I detailed them to you, you would no longer hope.”

“Speak, sir,” cried Claire imperiously.

“You wish it, mademoiselle?  Very well; I will give you in detail all the evidence we have collected.  I am entirely yours, as you are aware.  But yet, why should I harass you with all these proofs?  There is one which alone is decisive.  The murder was committed on the evening of Shrove Tuesday; and the prisoner cannot give an account of what he did on that evening.  He went out, however, and only returned home about two o’clock in the morning, his clothes soiled and torn, and his gloves frayed.”

“Oh! enough, sir, enough!” interrupted Claire, whose eyes beamed once more with happiness.  “You say it was on Shrove Tuesday evening?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Ah!  I was sure,” she cried triumphantly.  “I told you truly that he could not be guilty.”

She clasped her hands, and, from the movement of her lips, it was evident that she was praying.  The expression of the most perfect faith represented by some of the Italian painters illuminated her beautiful face while she rendered thanks to God in the effusion of her gratitude.

The magistrate was so disconcerted, that he forgot to admire her.  He awaited an explanation.

“Well?” he asked impatiently.

“Sir,” replied Claire, “if that is your strongest proof, it exists no longer.  Albert passed the entire evening you speak of with me.”

“With you?” stammered the magistrate.

“Yes, with me, at my home.”

M. Daburon was astounded.  Was he dreaming?  He hardly knew.

“What!” he exclaimed, “the viscount was at your house?  Your grandmother, your companion, your servants, they all saw him and spoke to him?”

“No, sir; he came and left in secret.  He wished no one to see him; he desired to be alone with me.”

“Ah!” said the magistrate with a sigh of relief.  The sigh signified:  “It’s all clear—­only too evident.  She is determined to save him, at the risk even of compromising her reputation.  Poor girl!  But has this idea only just occurred to her?”

The “Ah!” was interpreted very differently by Mademoiselle d’Arlange.  She thought that M. Daburon was astonished at her consenting to receive Albert.

“Your surprise is an insult, sir,” said she.

“Mademoiselle!”

“A daughter of my family, sir, may receive her betrothed without danger of anything occurring for which she would have to blush.”

She spoke thus, and at the same time was red with shame, grief, and anger.  She began to hate M. Daburon.

“I had no such insulting thought as you imagine, mademoiselle,” said the magistrate.  “I was only wondering why M. de Commarin went secretly to your house, when his approaching marriage gave him the right to present himself openly at all hours.  I still wonder, how, on such a visit, he could get his clothes in the condition in which we found them.”