He sent a message, asking her to wait a few minutes in one of the little drawing-rooms on the ground floor.

He did not keep her waiting long, his appetite having been destroyed by the mere announcement of her visit.  He was fully prepared for anything disagreeable.

As soon as he appeared, Claire saluted him with one of those graceful, yet highly dignified bows, which distinguished the Marchioness d’Arlange.

“Sir—­,” she began.

“You come, do you not, my poor child, to obtain news of the unhappy boy?” asked M. de Commarin.

He interrupted Claire, and went straight to the point, in order to get the disagreeable business more quickly over.

“No sir,” replied the young girl, “I come, on the contrary, to bring you news.  Albert is innocent.”

The count looked at her most attentively, persuaded that grief had affected her reason; but in that case her madness was very quiet.

“I never doubted it,” continued Claire; “but now I have the most positive proof.”

“Are you quite sure of what you are saying?” inquired the count, whose eyes betrayed his doubt.

Mademoiselle d’Arlange understood his thoughts; her interview with M. Daburon had given her experience.

“I state nothing which is not of the utmost accuracy,” she replied, “and easily proved.  I have just come from M. Daburon, the investigating magistrate, who is one of my grandmother’s friends; and, after what I told him, he is convinced that Albert is innocent.”

“He told you that, Claire!” exclaimed the count.  “My child, are you sure, are you not mistaken?”

“No, sir.  I told him something, of which every one was ignorant, and of which Albert, who is a gentleman, could not speak.  I told him that Albert passed with me, in my grandmother’s garden, all that evening on which the crime was committed.  He had asked to see me—­”

“But your word will not be sufficient.”

“There are proofs, and justice has them by this time.”

“Heavens!  Is it really possible?” cried the count, who was beside himself.

“Ah, sir!” said Mademoiselle d’Arlange bitterly, “you are like the magistrate; you believed in the impossible.  You are his father, and you suspected him!  You do not know him, then.  You were abandoning him, without trying to defend him.  Ah, I did not hesitate one moment!”

One is easily induced to believe true that which one is anxiously longing for.  M. de Commarin was not difficult to convince.  Without thinking, without discussion, he put faith in Claire’s assertions.  He shared her convictions, without asking himself whether it were wise or prudent to do so.

Yes, he had been overcome by the magistrate’s certitude, he had told himself that what was most unlikely was true; and he had bowed his head.  One word from a young girl had upset this conviction.  Albert innocent!  The thought descended upon his heart like heavenly dew.