Darkness had come, and she could not see him; but she knew he was weeping, for he was slow to answer.

“Is it possible,” murmured he at length, “what you ask of me?  What! is it you who talk to me of forgetting?  Do you feel the power to forget?  Do you not see that I love you a thousand times more than you love—­” He stopped, unable to pronounce the name of Commarin; and then, with an effort he added:  “And I shall love you always.”

They had left the arbour, and were now standing not far from the steps leading to the house.

“And now, mademoiselle,” resumed M. Daburon, “permit me to say, adieu!  You will see me again but seldom.  I shall only return often enough to avoid the appearance of a rupture.”

His voice trembled, so that it was with difficulty he made it distinct.

“Whatever may happen,” he added, “remember that there is one unfortunate being in the world who belongs to you absolutely.  If ever you have need of a friend’s devotion, come to me, come to your friend.  Now it is over . . .  I have courage.  Claire, mademoiselle, for the last time, adieu!”

She was but little less moved than he was.  Instinctively she approached him, and for the first and last time he touched lightly with his cold lips the forehead of her he loved so well.  They mounted the steps, she leaning on his arm, and entered the rose-coloured boudoir where the marchioness was seated, impatiently shuffling the cards, while awaiting her victim.

“Now, then, incorruptible magistrate,” cried she.

But M. Daburon felt sick at heart.  He could not have held the cards.  He stammered some absurd excuses, spoke of pressing affairs, of duties to be attended to, of feeling suddenly unwell, and went out, clinging to the walls.

His departure made the old card-player highly indignant.  She turned to her grand-daughter, who had gone to hide her confusion away from the candles of the card table, and asked, “What is the matter with Daburon this evening?”

“I do not know, madame,” stammered Claire.

“It appears to me,” continued the marchioness, “that the little magistrate permits himself to take singular liberties.  He must be reminded of his proper place, or he will end by believing himself our equal.”

Claire tried to explain the magistrate’s conduct:  “He has been complaining all the evening, grandmamma; perhaps he is unwell.”

“And what if he is?” exclaimed the old lady.  “Is it not his duty to exercise some self-denial, in return for the honour of our company?  I think I have already related to you the story of your granduncle, the Duke de St Hurluge, who, having been chosen to join the king’s card party on their return from the chase, played all through the evening and lost with the best grace in the world two hundred and twenty pistoles.  All the assembly remarked his gaiety and his good humour.  On the following day only it was learned, that, during the