“Something told me,” he muttered, “that I was wrong to undertake this business.  I am punished for not having obeyed that inner voice.  I ought to have declined to proceed with the investigation.  The Viscount de Commarin, was, all the same, certain to be arrested, imprisoned, examined, confounded, tried, and probably condemned.  Then, being in no way connected with the trial, I could have reappeared before Claire.  Her grief will be great.  As her friend, I could have soothed her, mingled my tears with hers, calmed her regrets.  With time, she might have been consoled, and perhaps have forgotten him.  She could not have helped feeling grateful to me, and then who knows—?  While now, whatever may happen, I shall be an object of loathing to her:  she will never be able to endure the sight of me.  In her eyes I shall always be her lover’s assassin.  I have with my own hands opened an abyss!  I have lost her a second time, and by my own fault.”

The unhappy man heaped the bitterest reproaches upon himself.  He was in despair.  He had never so hated Albert,—­that wretch, who, stained with a crime, stood in the way of his happiness.  Then too he cursed old Tabaret!  Alone, he would not have decided so quickly.  He would have waited, thought over the matter, matured his decision, and certainly have perceived the inconveniences, which now occurred to him.  The old fellow, always carried away like a badly trained bloodhound, and full of stupid enthusiasm, had confused him, and led him to do what he now so much regretted.

It was precisely this unfavorable moment that M. Tabaret chose for reappearing before the magistrate.  He had just been informed of the termination of the inquiry; and he arrived, impatient to know what had passed, swelling with curiosity, and full of the sweet hope of hearing of the fulfilment of his predictions.

“What answers did he make?” he asked even before he had closed the door.

“He is evidently guilty,” replied the magistrate, with a harshness very different to his usual manner.

Old Tabaret, who expected to receive praises by the basketful, was astounded at this tone!  It was therefore, with great hesitancy that he offered his further services.

“I have come,” he said modestly, “to know if any investigations are necessary to demolish the alibi pleaded by the prisoner.”

“He pleaded no alibi,” replied the magistrate, dryly.

“How,” cried the detective, “no alibi?  Pshaw!  I ask pardon:  he has of course then confessed everything.”

“No,” said the magistrate impatiently, “he has confessed nothing.  He acknowledges that the proofs are decisive:  he cannot give an account of how he spent his time; but he protests his innocence.”

In the centre of the room, M. Tabaret stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes staring wildly, and altogether in the most grotesque attitude his astonishment could effect.  He was literally thunderstruck.  In spite of his anger, M. Daburon could not help smiling; and even Constant gave a grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a paroxysm of laughter.