of them in Paris. Possibly he had thought his passion cured until Claire's presence had undeceived him! But no, for before seeing her, he had asked her in marriage.
All these questions were answered by François in his delirium. Claire, hanging on his lips; eagerly took in his lightest words; she talked them over with her mother and the doctor, who was not long in getting at the truth. To a man accustomed to disentangle the most confused ideas, and to read the minds of the insane like a partly obliterated page, the wanderings of fever are an intelligible language, and the most confused delirium is not without its lights. They soon knew that he had lost his reason, and under what circumstances, and they even made out how he had been the innocent cause of his uncle's malady.
Then began a new series of misgivings for Mlle. Auvray. François had been insane. Would the terrible crisis which she had unwittingly brought on cure him? The doctor assured her that fever had the privilege of indicating the exact nature of mental disturbance: that is to say, of curing it. Nevertheless, there is no rule without exceptions, especially in medicine. Suppose he were to get well, would there be no fear of relapses? Would M. Auvray give his daughter to one of his patients?
"As for me," said Claire, sadly smiling, "I'm
