M. Daburon did even more.  For a moment he imagined himself in Albert’s position.  What would he have done after the terrible revelation?  He scarcely dared ask himself.  He understood the motive which prompted the murder of Widow Lerouge; he could explain it to himself; he could almost excuse it. (Another trap.) It was certainly a great crime, but in no way revolting to conscience or to reason.  It was one of those crimes which society might, if not forget, at least forgive up to a certain point, because the motive was not a shameful one.  What tribunal would fail to find extenuating circumstances for a moment of frenzy so excusable.  Besides was not the Count de Commarin the more guilty of the two?  Was it not his folly that prepared the way for this terrible event?  His son was the victim of fatality, and was in the highest degree to be pitied.

M. Daburon spoke for a long time upon this text, seeking those things most suitable in his opinion to soften the hardened heart of an assassin.  And he arrived always at the same conclusion,—­the wisdom of confessing.  But he wasted his eloquence precisely as M. Tabaret had wasted his.  Albert appeared in no way affected.  His answers were of the shortest.  He began and ended as on the first occasion, by protesting his innocence.

One test, which has often given the desired result, still remained to be tried.

On this same day, Saturday, Albert was confronted with the corpse of Widow Lerouge.  He appeared impressed by the sad sight, but no more than anyone would be, if forced to look at the victim of an assassination four days after the crime.  One of the bystanders having exclaimed:  “Ah, if she could but speak!” he replied:  “That would be very fortunate for me.”

Since morning, M. Daburon had not gained the least advantage.  He had had to acknowledge the failure of his manoeuvres; and now this last attempt had not succeeded either.  The prisoner’s continued calmness filled to overflowing the exasperation of this man so sure of his guilt.  His spite was evident to all, when, suddenly ceasing his wheedling, he harshly gave the order to re-conduct the prisoner to his cell.

“I will compel him to confess!” he muttered between his teeth.

Perhaps he regretted those gentle instruments of investigation of the middle ages, which compelled the prisoner to say whatever one wished to hear.  Never, thought he, did any one ever meet a culprit like this.  What could he reasonably hope for from his system of persistent denial?  This obstinacy, absurd in the presence of such absolute proofs, drove the magistrate into a rage.  Had Albert confessed his guilt, he would have found M. Daburon disposed to pity him; but as he denied it, he opposed himself to an implacable enemy.

It was the very falseness of the situation which misled and blinded this magistrate, naturally so kind and generous.  Having previously wished Albert innocent, he now absolutely longed to prove him guilty, and that for a hundred reasons which he was unable to analyze.  He remembered, too well, his having had the Viscount de Commarin for a rival, and his having nearly assassinated him.  Had he not repented even to remorse his having signed the warrant of arrest, and his having accepted the duty of investigating the case.  Old Tabaret’s incomprehensible change of opinion troubled him, too.