ur first affections."

"No, sir, no," stammered Claire. "Ah!" she added, "you talk like the
rest of the world, that prudent and egotistical world, which I despise
and hate."

"Poor child," continued M. Daburon, pitiless even in his compassion,
"unhappy young girl! This is your first deception! Nothing more terrible
could be imagined; few women would know how to bear it. But you are
young; you are brave; your life will not be ruined. Hereafter you will
feel horrified at this crime. There is no wound, I know by experience,
which time does not heal."

Claire tried to grasp what the magistrate was saying, but his words
reached her only as confused sounds, their meaning entirely escaped her.

"I do not understand you, sir," she said. "What advice, then, do you
give me?"

"The only advice that reason dictates, and that my affection for you can
suggest, mademoiselle. I speak to you as a kind and devoted brother.
I say to you: 'Courage, Claire, resign yourself to the saddest, the
greatest sacrifice which honour can ask of a young girl. Weep, yes, weep
for your deceived love; but forget it. Pray heaven to help you do so. He
whom you have loved is no longer worthy of you.'"

The magistrate stopped slightly frightened. Mademoiselle d'Arlange had
become livid.

But though the body was weak, the soul still remained firm.

"You said, just now," she murmured, "that he could only have committed
this crime in a moment of distraction, in a fit of madness?"

"Yes, it is possible."

"Then, sir, not knowing what he did, he can not be guilty."

The investigating magistrate forgot a certain troublesome question which
he put to himself one morning in bed after his illness.

"Neither justice nor society, mademoiselle," he replied, "can take that
into account. God alone, who sees into the depths of our hearts, can
judge, can decide those questions which human justice must pass by. In
our eyes, M. de Commarin is a criminal. There may be certain extenuating
circumstances to soften the punishment; but the moral effect will be the
same. Even if he were acquitted, and I wish he may be, but without hope,
he will not be less unworthy. He will always carry the dishonour, the
stain of blood cowardly shed. Therefore, forget him."

Mademoiselle d'Arlange stopped the magistrate with a look in which
flashed the strongest resentment.

"That is to say," she exclaimed, "that you counsel me to abandon him in
his misfortune. All the world deserts