ot loved; and he never would
be. Was he, then, unworthy of it? Why do so many men pass through life
dispossessed of love, while others, the vilest beings sometimes, seem to
possess a mysterious power, which charms and seduces, and inspires those
blind and impetuous feelings which to assert themselves rush to the
sacrifice all the while longing for it? Have women, then, no reason, no
discernment?

Mademoiselle d'Arlange's silence brought the magistrate back to the
reality. He raised his eyes to her. Overcome by the violence of her
emotion, she lay back in her chair, and breathed with such difficulty
that M. Daburon feared she was about to faint. He moved quickly towards
the bell, to summon aid; but Claire noticed the movement, and stopped
him.

"What would you do?" she asked.

"You seemed suffering so," he stammered, "that I----"

"It is nothing, sir," replied she. "I may seem weak; but I am not so. I
am strong, believe me, very strong. It is true that I suffer, as I never
believed that one could suffer. It is cruel for a young girl to have to
do violence to all her feelings. You ought to be satisfied, sir. I have
torn aside all veils; and you have read even the inmost recesses of
my heart. But I do not regret it; it was for his sake. That which I do
regret is my having lowered my self so far as to defend him; but he will
forgive me that one doubt. Your assurance took me unawares. A man
like him does not need defence; his innocence must be proved; and, God
helping me, I will prove it."

As Claire was half-rising to depart, M. Daburon detained her by a
gesture. In his blindness, he thought he would be doing wrong to leave
this poor young girl in the slightest way deceived. Having gone so far
as to begin, he persuaded himself that his duty bade him go on to the
end. He said to himself, in all good faith, that he would thus preserve
Claire from herself, and spare her in the future many bitter regrets.
The surgeon who has commenced a painful operation does not leave it
half-finished because the patient struggles, suffers, and cries out.

"It is painful, Mademoiselle,--" he began.

Claire did not let him finish.

"Enough, sir," said she; "all that you can say will be of no avail. I
respect your unhappy conviction. I ask, in return, the same regard for
mine. If you were truly my friend, I would ask you to aid me in the task
of saving him, to which I am about to devote myself. But, doubtless, you
would not do so."