“Oh! enough, sir, enough!” interrupted Claire, whose eyes beamed once more with happiness. “You say it was on Shrove Tuesday evening?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Ah! I was sure,” she cried triumphantly. “I told you truly that he could not be guilty.”
She clasped her hands, and, from the movement of her lips, it was evident that she was praying. The expression of the most perfect faith represented by some of the Italian painters illuminated her beautiful face while she rendered thanks to God in the effusion of her gratitude.
The magistrate was so disconcerted, that he forgot to admire her. He awaited an explanation.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“Sir,” replied Claire, “if that is your strongest proof, it exists no longer. Albert passed the entire evening you speak of with me.”
“With you?” stammered the magistrate.
“Yes, with me, at my home.”
M. Daburon was astounded. Was he dreaming? He hardly knew.