“I should have told you everything, without waiting to be questioned, sir,” answered Mademoiselle d’Arlange, “even his name. He is called Albert de Commarin.”
The marchioness at this moment, thinking she had walked enough, was preparing to return to her rose-coloured boudoir. She therefore approached the arbour, and exclaimed in her loud voice:—
“Worthy magistrate, piquet awaits you.”
Mechanically the magistrate arose, stammering, “I am coming.”
Claire held him back. “I have not asked you to keep my secret, sir,” said she.
“O mademoiselle!” said M. Daburon, wounded by this appearance of doubt.
“I know,” resumed Claire, “that I can count upon you; but, come what will, my tranquillity is gone.”
M. Daburon looked at her with an air of surprise; his eyes questioned her.
“It is certain,” continued she, “that what I, a young and inexperienced girl, have failed to see, has not passed unnoticed by my grandmother. That she has continued to receive you is a tacit encouragement of your addresses; which I consider, permit me to say, as very honourable to myself.”
“I have already mentioned, mademoiselle,” replied the magistrate, “that the marchioness has deigned to authorise my hopes.”