M. Daburon looked at her with an air of surprise; his eyes questioned her. “It is certain,” continued she, “that what I, a young and inexperienced girl, have failed to see, has not passed unnoticed by my grandmother. That she has continued to receive you is a tacit encouragement of your addresses; which I consider, permit me to say, as very honourable to myself.” “I have already mentioned, mademoiselle,” replied the magistrate, “that the marchioness has deigned to authorise my hopes.” And briefly he related his interview with Madame d’Arlange, having the delicacy, however, to omit absolutely the question of money, which had so strongly influenced the old lady. “I see very plainly what effect this will have on my peace,” said Claire sadly. “When my grandmother learns that I have not received your homage, she will be very angry.” “You misjudge me, mademoiselle,” interrupted M. Daburon. “I have nothing to say to the marchioness. I will retire, and all will be concluded. No doubt she will think that I have altered my mind!” “Oh! you are good and generous, I know!” “I will go away,” pursued M. Daburon; “and soon you will have forgotten even the name of the unfortunate whose life’s hopes have just been shattered.” “You do not mean what you say,” said the young girl quickly. “Well, no. I cherish this last illusion, that later on you will remember me with pleasure. Sometimes you will say, ‘He loved me,’ I wish all the same to remain your friend, yes, your most devoted friend.” Claire, in her turn, clasped M. Daburon’s hands, and said with great emotion:--“Yes, you are right, you must remain my friend. Let us forget what has happened, what you have said to-night, and remain to me, as in the past, the best, the most indulgent of brothers.” 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!”