“What an iron constitution!” thought M. Daburon, when the prisoner entered his office.

Albert was no longer the despairing man who, the night before, bewildered with the multiplicity of charges, surprised by the rapidity with which they were brought against him, had writhed beneath the magistrate’s gaze, and appeared ready to succumb.  Innocent or guilty, he had made up his mind how to act; his face left no doubt of that.  His eyes expressed that cold resolution of a sacrifice freely made, and a certain haughtiness which might be taken for disdain, but which expressed the noble resentment of an injured man.  In him could be seen the self-reliant man, who might be shaken but never overcome by misfortune.

On beholding him, the magistrate understood that he would have to change his mode of attack.  He recognized one of those natures which are provoked to resistance when assailed, and strengthened when menaced.  He therefore gave up his former tactics, and attempted to move him by kindness.  It was a hackneyed trick, but almost always successful, like certain pathetic scenes at theatres.  The criminal who has girt up his energy to sustain the shock of intimidation, finds himself without defence against the wheedling of kindness, the greater in proportion to its lack of sincerity.  Now M. Daburon excelled in producing affecting scenes.  What confessions he had obtained with a few tears!  No one knew so well as he how to touch those old chords which vibrate still even in the most corrupt hearts:  honour, love, and family ties.

With Albert, he became kind and friendly, and full of the liveliest compassion.  Unfortunate man! how greatly he must suffer, he whose whole life had been like one long enchantment.  How at a single blow everything about him had fallen in ruins.  Who could have foreseen all this at the time when he was the one hope of a wealthy and illustrious house!  Recalling the past, the magistrate pictured to him the most touching reminiscences of his early youth, and stirred up the ashes of all his extinct affections.  Taking advantage of all that he knew of the prisoner’s life, he tortured him by the most mournful allusions to Claire.  Why did he persist in bearing alone his great misfortune?  Had he no one in the world who would deem it happiness to share his sufferings?  Why this morose silence?  Should he not rather hasten to reassure her whose very life depended upon his?  What was necessary for that?  A single word.  Then he would be, if not free, at least returned to the world.  His prison would become a habitable abode, no more solitary confinement; his friends would visit him, he might receive whomsoever he wished to see.

It was no longer the magistrate who spoke; it was a father, who, no matter what happens, always keeps in the recesses of his heart, the greatest indulgence for his child.