ently behind her back. Nobody looked to her
comfort, she had to fetch the pitcher of water herself from the
kitchen. In the meantime when President Seguret returned home, he
already knew, as did the whole town, about Clarissa's confession. The
circumstance of her amorous relation to Bastide shed a sudden light
upon preceding events and wove a halo about her former silence. But
Monsieur Seguret only hardened his heart all the more, and when he
passed her as she stood on the threshold of her room, he turned away
his head with a gesture of disgust.

In the evening the President entertained a number of his friends. In
the course of the meal the door opened and Clarissa made her
appearance. Monsieur Seguret sprang from his chair, rage robbing him of
speech. "Do not dare," he stammered hoarsely, "do not dare!"

Regardless of that, Clarissa advanced to the edge of the table. A
radiant, bewitching expression lit up her countenance. She turned her
full gaze upon her father, so that he dropped his glance as if dazzled.
"Do not revile me, father," she said gently in a tone of captivating
entreaty.

She turned to one of the guests with a commonplace question. The
gentleman addressed hesitated, seemed confounded, astonished, but was
unable to resist. Her features, pallid from the prison atmosphere, had
acquired something dreamily spiritual; the most ordinary word from her
lips had a charm of its own.

The conversation became general; the guests conquered, nay, forgot,
their secret amazement. Clarissa's wit and playful humor exercised a
great fascination. Along with them, there was a sensuously pungent air
about her which does not escape men, her gestures had something
flattering, her eyes glowed with a romantic fire. Disturbed, lending
but a reluctant ear. Monsieur Seguret could, nevertheless, not wholly
evade the witchery which took his guests captive. A power stronger than
his resolve forced him to leniency; he took a timid share in the
conversation, in spite of the heavy load upon his heart. The talk
turned upon politics, books, art, hunting, the war, nothing and
everything--a sparkling interchange of polished phrases and sparkling
reflections, of smiles and plaudits, jest and earnest. At times it
seemed like a scene in a play enacted with masterly skill, or as if a
light intoxication induced by champagne had exhilarated their spirits;
each one was at his best and strove to outdo himself, and Clarissa held
and led them all,