whirled hither and thither wildly, as autumn
leaves in the wind. The past seemed shrouded in a dark mist; yet, in
the midst of the darkness and confusion, all that concerned Mademoiselle
d'Arlange stood out clear and luminous. All his actions from the moment
when he embraced Claire appeared before him. He shuddered, and his hair
was in a moment soaking with perspiration.

He had almost become an assassin. The proof that he was restored to full
possession of his faculties was, that a question of criminal law crossed
his brain.

"The crime committed," said he to himself, "should I have been
condemned? Yes. Was I responsible? No. Is crime merely the result of
mental alienation? Was I mad? Or was I in that peculiar state of mind
which usually precedes an illegal attempt? Who can say? Why have not all
judges passed through an incomprehensible crisis such as mine? But who
would believe me, were I to recount my experience?"

Some days later, he was sufficiently recovered to tell his father all.
The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders, and assured him it was but a
reminiscence of his delirium.

The good old man was moved at the story of his son's luckless wooing,
without seeing therein, however, an irreparable misfortune. He advised
him to think of something else, placed at his disposal his entire
fortune, and recommended him to marry a stout Poitevine heiress, very
gay and healthy, who would bear him some fine children. Then, as his
estate was suffering by his absence, he returned home. Two months later,
the investigating magistrate had resumed his ordinary avocations. But
try as he would, he only went through his duties like a body without a
soul. He felt that something was broken.

Once he ventured to pay a visit to his old friend, the marchioness. On
seeing him, she uttered a cry of terror. She took him for a spectre, so
much was he changed in appearance.

As she dreaded dismal faces, she ever after shut her door to him.

Claire was ill for a week after seeing him. "How he loved me," thought
she! "It has almost killed him! Can Albert love me as much?" She did not
dare to answer herself. She felt a desire to console him, to speak to
him, attempt something; but he came no more.

M. Daburon was not, however, a man to give way without a struggle. He
tried, as his father advised him, to distract his thoughts. He sought
for pleasure, and found disgust, but not forgetfulness. Often he went
so far as the threshold of deb