“You may go,” said the judge, cutting the disquisition of M. Francois short; the valet retired.

During this colloquy, Guespin had little by little come to himself.  The judge of instruction, Plantat, and the mayor narrowly watched the play of his countenance, which he had not the coolness to compose, while the doctor held his pulse and counted its beating.

“Remorse, and fear of punishment,” muttered the mayor.

“Innocence, and the impossibility of proving it,” responded Plantat in a low tone.

M. Domini heard both these exclamations, but did not appear to take notice of them.  His opinion was not formed, and he did not wish that anyone should be able to foretell, by any word of his, what it would be.

“Are you better, my friend?” asked Dr. Gendron, of Guespin.

The poor fellow made an affirmative sign.  Then, having looked around with the anxious glance of a man who calculates a precipice over which he has fallen, he passed his hand across his eyes and stammered: 

“Something to drink!”

A glass of water was brought, and he drank it at a draught, with an expression of intense satisfaction.  Then he got upon his feet.

“Are you now in a fit state to answer me?” asked the judge.

Guespin staggered a little, then drew himself up.  He continued erect before the judge, supporting himself against a table.  The nervous trembling of his hands diminished, the blood returned to his cheeks, and as he listened, he arranged the disorder of his clothes.

“You know the events of this night, don’t you?” commenced the judge; “the Count and Countess de Tremorel have been murdered.  You went away yesterday with all the servants of the chateau; you left them at the Lyons station about nine o’clock; you have just returned, alone.  Where have you passed the night?”

Guespin hung his head and remained silent.

“That is not all,” continued M. Domini; “yesterday you had no money, the fact is well known; one of your fellow-servants has just proved it.  To-day, one hundred and sixty-seven francs are found in your wallet.  Where did you get this money?”

The unhappy creature’s lip moved as if he wished to answer; a sudden thought seemed to check him, for he did not speak.

“More yet.  What is this card of a hardware establishment that has been found in your pocket?”

Guespin made a sign of desperation, and stammered: 

“I am innocent.”

“I have not as yet accused you,” said the judge of instruction, quickly.  “You knew, perhaps, that the count received a considerable sum yesterday?”

A bitter smile parted Guespin’s lips as he answered: 

“I know well enough that everything is against me.”

There was a profound silence.  The doctor, the mayor, and Plantat, seized with a keen curiosity, dared not move.  Perhaps nothing in the world is more thrilling than one of these merciless duels between justice and a man suspected of a crime.  The questions may seem insignificant, the answers irrelevant; both questions and answers envelop terrible, hidden meanings.  The smallest gesture, the most rapid movement of physiognomy may acquire deep significance, a fugitive light in the eye betray an advantage gained; an imperceptible change in the voice may be confession.