“Mademoiselle,” stammered he, “Claire—­”

She turned towards him her beautiful eyes, filled with astonishment.

“Forgive me,” continued he, “forgive me.  I have spoken to your grandmother, before daring to raise my eyes to you.  Do you not understand me?  A word from your lips will decide my future happiness or misery.  Claire, mademoiselle, do not spurn me:  I love you!”

While the magistrate was speaking, Mademoiselle d’Arlange looked at him as though doubtful of the evidence of her senses; but at the words, “I love you!” pronounced with the trembling accents of the most devoted passion, she disengaged her hand sharply, and uttered a stifled cry.

“You,” murmured she, “is this really you?”

M. Daburon, at this the most critical moment of his life was powerless to utter a word.  The presentiment of an immense misfortune oppressed his heart.  What were then his feelings, when he saw Claire burst into tears.  She hid her face in her hands, and kept repeating,—­

“I am very unhappy, very unhappy!”

“You unhappy?” exclaimed the magistrate at length, “and through me?  Claire, you are cruel!  In heaven’s name, what have I done?  What is the matter?  Speak!  Anything rather then this anxiety which is killing me.”

He knelt before her on the gravelled walk, and again made an attempt to take her hand.  She repulsed him with an imploring gesture.

“Let me weep,” said she:  “I suffer so much, you are going to hate me, I feel it.  Who knows! you will, perhaps, despise me, and yet I swear before heaven that I never expected what you have just said to me, that I had not even a suspicion of it!”

M. Daburon remained upon his knees, awaiting his doom.

“Yes,” continued Claire, “you will think you have been the victim of a detestable coquetry.  I see it now!  I comprehend everything!  It is not possible, that, without a profound love, a man can be all that you have been to me.  Alas!  I was but a child.  I gave myself up to the great happiness of having a friend!  Am I not alone in the world, and as if lost in a desert?  Silly and imprudent, I thoughtlessly confided in you, as in the best, the most indulgent of fathers.”

These words revealed to the unfortunate magistrate the extent of his error.  The same as a heavy hammer, they smashed into a thousand fragments the fragile edifice of his hopes.  He raised himself slowly, and, in a tone of involuntary reproach, he repeated,—­“Your father!”

Mademoiselle d’Arlange felt how deeply she had wounded this man whose intense love she dare not even fathom.  “Yes,” she resumed, “I love you as a father!  Seeing you, usually so grave and austere, become for me so good, so indulgent, I thanked heaven for sending me a protector to replace those who are dead.”

M. Daburon could not restrain a sob; his heart was breaking.