Madame d’Arlange signed to him to be silent; and, for five good minutes at least, she remained plunged in reflection, her forehead resting in her hands.  At length she raised her head.

“Listen,” said she.  “Had you been so bold as to make this proposal to Claire’s father, he would have called his servants to show you the door.  For the sake of our name I ought to do the same; but I cannot do so.  I am old and desolate; I am poor; my grandchild’s prospects disquiet me; that is my excuse.  I cannot, however, consent to speak to Claire of this horrible misalliance.  What I can promise you, and that is too much, is that I will not be against you.  Take your own measures; pay your addresses to Mademoiselle d’Arlange, and try to persuade her.  If she says ‘yes,’ of her own free will, I shall not say ‘no.’”

M. Daburon, transported with happiness, could almost have embraced the old lady.  He thought her the best, the most excellent of women, not noticing the facility with which this proud spirit had been brought to yield.  He was delirious, almost mad.

“Wait!” said the old lady; “your cause is not yet gained.  Your mother, it is true, was a Cottevise, and I must excuse her for marrying so wretchedly; but your father is simple M. Daburon.  This name, my dear friend, is simply ridiculous.  Do you think it will be easy to make a Daburon of a young girl who for nearly eighteen years has been called d’Arlange?”

This objection did not seem to trouble the magistrate.

“After all,” continued the old lady, “your father gained a Cottevise, so you may win a d’Arlange.  On the strength of marrying into noble families, the Daburons may perhaps end by ennobling themselves.  One last piece of advice; you believe Claire to be just as she looks,—­timid, sweet, obedient.  Undeceive yourself, my friend.  Despite her innocent air, she is hardy, fierce, and obstinate as the marquis her father, who was worse than an Auvergne mule.  Now you are warned.  Our conditions are agreed to, are they not?  Let us say no more on the subject.  I almost wish you to succeed.”

This scene was so present to the magistrate’s mind, that as he sat at home in his arm-chair, though many months had passed since these events, he still seemed to hear the old lady’s voice, and the word “success” still sounded in his ears.

He departed in triumph from the d’Arlange abode, which he had entered with a heart swelling with anxiety.  He walked with his head erect, his chest dilated, and breathing the fresh air with the full strength of his lungs.  He was so happy!  The sky appeared to him more blue, the sun more brilliant.  This grave magistrate felt a mad desire to stop the passers-by, to press them in his arms, to cry to them,—­“Have you heard?  The marchioness consents!”

He walked, and the earth seemed to him to give way beneath his footsteps; it was either too small to carry so much happiness, or else he had become so light that he was going to fly away towards the stars.