quickly. He was standing before the fireplace, seeking
for an address in a small china plate filled with visiting cards. At
the sound of the opening of the door, at the rustling of a silk dress
gliding by the window, he did not take the trouble to move, nor deign
even to turn his head. He contented himself with merely casting a
careless glance into the mirror.

But he immediately started with a movement of dismay, as if he had seen
a ghost. In his confusion, he dropped the card-plate, which fell noisily
on to the hearth, and broke into a thousand pieces.

"Claire!" he stammered, "Claire!"

And as if he feared equally either being deceived by an illusion or
actually seeing her whose name he had uttered, he turned slowly round.

It was truly Mademoiselle d'Arlange. This young girl, usually so proud
and reserved, had had the courage to come to his house alone, or almost
so, for her governess, whom she had left in the ante-room, could hardly
count. She was evidently obeying some powerful emotion, since it made
her forget her habitual timidity.

Never, even in the time when a sight of her was his greatest happiness,
had she appeared to him more fascinating. Her beauty, ordinarily
veiled by a sweet sadness, was bright and shining. Her features had an
animation which he had never seen in them before. In her eyes, rendered
more brilliant by recent tears but partly wiped away, shone the noblest
resolution. One could see that she was conscious of performing a great
duty, and that she performed it, if not with pleasure, at least with
that simplicity which in itself is heroism.

She advanced calm and dignified, and held out her hand to the magistrate
in that English style that some ladies can render so gracefully.

"We are always friends, are we not?" asked she, with a sad smile.

The magistrate did not dare take the ungloved hand she held out to him.
He scarcely touched it with the tips of his fingers, as though he feared
too great an emotion.

"Yes," he replied indistinctly, "I am always devoted to you."

Mademoiselle d'Arlange sat down in the large armchair, where, two nights
previously, old Tabaret had planned Albert's arrest. M. Daburon remained
standing leaning against his writing-table.

"You know why I have come?" asked the young girl.

With a nod, he replied in the affirmative.

He divined her object only too easily; and he was asking himself whether
he would be able to resist prayers from such a mouth. What