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!"

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 absur