“Are you then sure,” said he, “of the viscount’s guilt?”

M. de Commarin gave the magistrate a look of intense surprise.

“I only arrived in Paris yesterday evening,” he replied; “and I am entirely ignorant of all that has occurred.  I only know that justice would not proceed without good cause against a man of Albert’s rank.  If you have arrested him, it is quite evident that you have something more than suspicion against him,—­that you possess positive proofs.”

M. Daburon bit his lips, and, for a moment, could not conceal a feeling of displeasure.  He had neglected his usual prudence, had moved too quickly.  He had believed the count’s mind entirely upset; and now he had aroused his distrust.  All the skill in the world could not repair such an unfortunate mistake.  A witness on his guard is no longer a witness to be depended upon; he trembles for fear of compromising himself, measures the weight of the questions, and hesitates as to his answers.

On the other hand, justice, in the form of a magistrate, is disposed to doubt everything, to imagine everything, and to suspect everybody.  How far was the count a stranger to the crime at La Jonchere?  Although doubting Albert’s paternity, he would certainly have made great efforts to save him.  His story showed that he thought his honour in peril just as much as his son.  Was he not the man to suppress, by every means, an inconvenient witness?  Thus reasoned M. Daburon.  And yet he could not clearly see how the Count de Commarin’s interests were concerned in the matter.  This uncertainty made him very uneasy.

“Sir,” he asked, more sternly, “when were you informed of the discovery of your secret?”

“Last evening, by Albert himself.  He spoke to me of this sad story, in a way which I now seek in vain to explain, unless—­”

The count stopped short, as if his reason had been struck by the improbability of the supposition which he had formed.

“Unless!—­” inquired the magistrate eagerly.

“Sir,” said the count, without replying directly, “Albert is a hero, if he is not guilty.”

“Ah!” said the magistrate quickly, “have you, then, reason to think him innocent?”

M. Daburon’s spite was so plainly visible in the tone of his words that M. de Commarin could and ought to have seen the semblance of an insult.  He started, evidently offended, and rising, said:  “I am now no more a witness for, than I was a moment ago a witness against.  I desire only to render what assistance I can to justice, in accordance with my duty.”

“Confound it,” said M. Daburon to himself, “here I have offended him now!  Is this the way to do things, making mistake after mistake?”