“You are, perhaps, too unwell, count,” said the magistrate, “to give me the explanations I had hoped for.”

“I am better, thank you,” replied M. de Commarin, “I am as well as could be expected after the shock I have received.  When I heard of the crime of which my son is accused, and of his arrest, I was thunderstruck.  I believed myself a strong man; but I rolled in the dust.  My servants thought me dead.  Why was it not so?  The strength of my constitution, my physician tells me, was all that saved me; but I believe that heaven wishes me to live, that I may drink to the bitter dregs my cup of humiliation.”

He stopped suddenly, nearly choked by a flow of blood that rose to his mouth.

The investigating magistrate remained standing near the table, almost afraid to move.

After a few moments’ rest, the count found relief, and continued,—­“Unhappy man that I am! ought I not to have expected it?  Everything comes to light sooner or later.  I am punished for my great sin,—­pride.  I thought myself out of reach of the thunderbolt; and I have been the means of drawing down the storm upon my house.  Albert an assassin!  A Viscount de Commarin arraigned before a court of assize!  Ah, sir, punish me, also; for I alone and long ago, laid the foundation of this crime.  Fifteen centuries of spotless fame end with me in infamy.”

M. Daburon considered Count de Commarin’s conduct unpardonable, and had determined not to spare him.

He had expected to meet a proud, haughty noble, almost unmanageable; and he had resolved to humble his arrogance.

Perhaps the harsh treatment he had received of old from the Marchioness d’Arlange had given him, unconsciously, a slight grudge against the aristocracy.

He had vaguely thought of certain rather severe remarks, which were to overcome the old nobleman, and bring him to a sense of his position.

But when he found himself in the presence of such a sincere repentance, his indignation changed to profound pity; and he began to wonder how he could assuage the count’s grief.

“Write, sir,” continued M. de Commarin with an exaltation of which he did not seem capable ten minutes before,—­“write my avowal and suppress nothing.  I have no longer need of mercy nor of tenderness.  What have I to fear now?  Is not my disgrace public?  Must not I, Count Rheteau de Commarin appear before the tribunal, to proclaim the infamy of our house?  Ah! all is lost now, even honour itself.  Write, sir; for I wish that all the world shall know that I am the most deserving of blame.  But they shall also know that the punishment has been already terrible, and that there was no need for this last and awful trial.”

The count stopped for a moment, to concentrate and arrange his memory.