“Curse this absurd point of honour, which I have obeyed,” he inwardly exclaimed.  “I have in vain attempted to reassure myself by the aid of sophisms.  I was wrong in not withdrawing.  Nothing in the world can change my feelings towards this young man.  I hate him.  I am his judge; and it is no less true, that at one time I longed to assassinate him.  I faced him with a revolver in my hand:  why did I not present it and fire?  Do I know why?  What power held my finger, when an almost insensible pressure would have sufficed to kill him?  I cannot say.  Why is not he the judge, I the assassin?  If the intention was as punishable as the deed, I ought to be guillotined.  And it is under such conditions that I dare examine him!”

Passing before the door he heard the heavy footsteps of the gendarmes in the passage.

“It is he,” he said aloud and then hastily seated himself at his table, bending over his portfolios, as though striving to hide himself.  If the tall clerk had used his eyes, he would have noticed the singular spectacle of an investigating magistrate more agitated than the prisoner he was about to examine.  But he was blind to all around him; and, at this moment, he was only aware of an error of fifteen centimes, which had slipped into his accounts, and which he was unable to rectify.

Albert entered the magistrate’s office with his head erect.  His features bore traces of great fatigue and of sleepless nights.  He was very pale; but his eyes were clear and sparkling.

The usual questions which open such examinations gave M. Daburon an opportunity to recover himself.  Fortunately, he had found time in the morning to prepare a plan, which he had now simply to follow.

“You are aware, sir,” he commenced in a tone of perfect politeness, “that you have no right to the name you bear?”

“I know, sir,” replied Albert, “that I am the natural son of M. de Commarin.  I know further that my father would be unable to recognise me, even if he wished to, since I was born during his married life.”

“What were your feelings upon learning this?”

“I should speak falsely, sir, if I said I did not feel very bitterly.  When one is in the high position I occupied, the fall is terrible.  However, I never for a moment entertained the thought of contesting M. Noel Gerdy’s rights.  I always purposed, and still purpose, to yield, I have so informed M. de Commarin.”

M. Daburon expected just such a reply; and it only strengthened his suspicions.  Did it not enter into the line of defence which he had foreseen?  It was now his duty to seek some way of demolishing this defence, in which the prisoner evidently meant to shut himself up like a tortoise in its shell.

“You could not oppose M. Gerdy,” continued the magistrate, “with any chance of success.  You had, indeed on your side, the count, and your mother; but M. Gerdy was in possession of evidence that was certain to win his cause, that of Widow Lerouge.”