But at least he saw her, he breathed the same air with her, he heard her voice, whose pure and harmonious vibrations thrilled his very soul.

By constantly watching her eyes, he learned to understand all their expressions.  He believed he could read in them all her thoughts, and through them look into her soul like through an open window.

“She is pleased to-day,” he would say to himself; and then he would be happy.  At other times, he thought, “She has met with some annoyance to-day;” and immediately he became sad.

The idea of asking for her hand many times presented itself to his imagination; but he never dared to entertain it.  Knowing, as he did, the marchioness’s prejudices, her devotion to titles, her dread of any approach to a misalliance, he was convinced she would shut his mouth at the first word by a very decided “no,” which she would maintain.  To attempt the thing would be to risk, without a chance of success, his present happiness which he thought immense, for love lives upon its own misery.

“Once repulsed,” thought he, “the house is shut against me; and then farewell to happiness, for life will end for me.”  Upon the other hand, the very rational thought occurred to him that another might see Mademoiselle d’Arlange, love her, and, in consequence, ask for and obtain her.  In either case, hazarding a proposal, or hesitating still, he must certainly lose her in the end.  By the commencement of spring, his mind was made up.

One fine afternoon, in the month of April, he bent his steps towards the residence of Madame d’Arlange, having truly need of more bravery than a soldier about to face a battery.  He, like the soldier, whispered to himself, “Victory or death!” The marchioness who had gone out shortly after breakfast had just returned in a terrible rage, and was uttering screams like an eagle.

This was what had taken place.  She had some work done by a neighboring painter some eight or ten months before; and the workman had presented himself a hundred times to receive payment, without avail.  Tired of this proceeding, he had summoned the high and mighty Marchioness d’Arlange before the Justice of the Peace.

This summons had exasperated the marchioness; but she kept the matter to herself, having decided, in her wisdom, to call upon the judge and request him to reprimand the insolent painter who had dared to plague her for a paltry sum of money.  The result of this fine project may be guessed.  The judge had been compelled to eject her forcibly from his office; hence her fury.

M. Daburon found her in the rose-colored boudoir half undressed, her hair in disorder, red as a peony, and surrounded by the debris of the glass and china which had fallen under her hands in the first moments of her passion.  Unfortunately, too, Claire and her governess were gone out.  A maid was occupied in inundating the old lady with all sorts of waters, in the hope of calming her nerves.