“Certainly, sir, and eagerly.”

“You have been unwell these last few days?”

“Very unwell, to say the least, sir.  My body bent under the weight of a burden too great for my strength.  It was not, however, for want of courage.”

“Why did you forbid your valet, Lubin, to call in the doctor?”

“Ah, sir, how could the doctor cure my disease?  All his science could not make me the legitimate son of the Count de Commarin.”

“Some very singular remarks made by you were overheard.  You seemed to be no longer interested in anything concerning your home.  You destroyed a large number of papers and letters.”

“I had decided to leave the count, sir.  My resolution explains my conduct.”

Albert replied promptly to the magistrate’s questions, without the least embarrassment, and in a confident tone.  His voice, which was very pleasant to the ear, did not tremble.  It concealed no emotion; it retained its pure and vibrating sound.

M. Daburon deemed it wise to suspend the examination for a short time.  With so cunning an adversary, he was evidently pursuing a false course.  To proceed in detail was folly, he neither intimidated the prisoner, nor made him break through his reserve.  It was necessary to take him unawares.

“Sir,” resumed the magistrate, abruptly, “tell me exactly how you passed your time last Tuesday evening, from six o’clock until midnight?”

For the first time, Albert seemed disconcerted.  His glance, which had, till then, been fixed upon the magistrate, wavered.

“During Tuesday evening,” he stammered, repeating the phrase to gain time.

“I have him,” thought the magistrate, starting with joy, and then added aloud, “yes, from six o’clock until midnight.”

“I am afraid, sir,” answered Albert, “it will be difficult for me to satisfy you.  I haven’t a very good memory.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that!” interrupted the magistrate.  “If I had asked what you were doing three months ago, on a certain evening, and at a certain hour, I could understand your hesitation; but this is about Tuesday, and it is now Friday.  Moreover, this day, so close, was the last of the carnival; it was Shrove Tuesday.  That circumstance ought to help your memory.”

“That evening, I went out walking,” murmured Albert.

“Now,” continued the magistrate, “where did you dine?”

“At home, as usual.”

“No, not as usual.  At the end of your meal, you asked for a bottle of Bordeaux, of which you drank the whole.  You doubtless had need of some extra excitement for your subsequent plans.”

“I had no plans,” replied the prisoner with very evident uneasiness.

“You make a mistake.  Two friends came to seek you.  You replied to them, before sitting down to dinner, that you had a very important engagement to keep.”

“That was only a polite way of getting rid of them.”