Albert slept four hours.  On awaking his head seemed clearer than it had been ever since his interview with Noel.  It was a terrible moment for him, when, for the first time he became fully aware of his situation.

“Now, indeed,” said he, “I require all my courage.”

He longed to see some one, to speak, to be questioned, to explain.  He felt a desire to call out.

“But what good would that be?” he asked himself.  “Some one will be coming soon.”  He looked for his watch, to see what time it was, and found that they had taken it away.  He felt this deeply; they were treating him like the most abandoned of villains.  He felt in his pockets:  they had all been carefully emptied.  He thought now of his personal appearance; and, getting up, he repaired as much as possible the disorder of his toilet.  He put his clothes in order, and dusted them; he straightened his collar, and re-tied his cravat.  Then pouring a little water on his handkerchief, he passed it over his face, bathing his eyes which were greatly inflamed.  Then he endeavoured to smooth his beard and hair.  He had no idea that four lynx eyes were fixed upon him all the while.

“Good!” murmured the young detective:  “see how our cock sticks up his comb, and smooths his feathers!

“I told you,” put in Balan, “that he was only staggered.  Hush! he is speaking, I believe.”

But they neither surprised one of those disordered gestures nor one of those incoherent speeches, which almost always escape from the feeble when excited by fear, or from the imprudent ones who believe in the discretion of their cells.  One word alone, “honour,” reached the ears of the two spies.

“These rascals of rank,” grumbled Balan, “always have this word in their mouths.  That which they most fear is the opinion of some dozen friends, and several thousand strangers, who read the ‘Gazette des Tribunaux.’  They only think of their own heads later on.”

When the gendarmes came to conduct Albert before the investigating magistrate, they found him seated on the side of his bed, his feet pressed upon the iron rail, his elbows on his knees, and his head buried in his hands.  He rose, as they entered, and took a few steps towards them; but his throat was so dry that he was scarcely able to speak.  He asked for a moment, and, turning towards the little table, he filled and drank two large glassfuls of water in succession.

“I am ready!” he then said.  And, with a firm step, he followed the gendarmes along the passage which led to the Palais de Justice.

M. Daburon was just then in great anguish.  He walked furiously up and down his office, awaiting the prisoner.  Again, and for the twentieth time since morning, he regretted having engaged in the business.