He was really an upright man, as good as the best, as is proved from the fact that he trembled at the moment of unveiling the fatal truth.  He hesitated to pronounce the words which, like a whirlwind, would overturn the fragile edifice of this young girl’s happiness.  He who had been so humiliated, so despised, he was going to have his revenge; and yet he did not experience the least feeling of a shameful, though easily understood, satisfaction.

“And if I should tell you, mademoiselle,” he commenced, “that M. Albert is not innocent?”

She half-raised herself with a protesting gesture.

He continued, “If I should tell you that he is guilty?”

“Oh, sir!” interrupted Claire, “you cannot think so!”

“I do think so, mademoiselle,” exclaimed the magistrate in a sad voice, “and I must add that I am morally certain of it.”

Claire looked at the investigating magistrate with profound amazement.  Could it be really he who was speaking thus.  Had she heard him aright?  Did she understand?  She was far from sure.  Had he answered seriously?  Was he not deluding her by a cruel unworthy jest?  She asked herself this scarcely knowing what she did:  for to her everything appeared possible, probable, rather than that which he had said.

Not daring to raise his eyes, he continued in a tone, expressive of the sincerest pity, “I suffer cruelly for you at this moment, mademoiselle; but I have the sad courage to tell you the truth, and you must summon yours to hear it.  It is far better that you should know everything from the mouth of a friend.  Summon, then, all your fortitude; strengthen your noble soul against a most dreadful misfortune.  No, there is no mistake.  Justice has not been deceived.  The Viscount de Commarin is accused of an assassination; and everything, you understand me, proves that he committed it.”

Like a doctor, who pours out drop by drop a dangerous medicine, M. Daburon pronounced this last sentence slowly, word by word.  He watched carefully the result, ready to cease speaking, if the shock was too great.  He did not suppose that this young girl, timid to excess, with a sensitiveness almost a disease, would be able to hear without flinching such a terrible revelation.  He expected a burst of despair, tears, distressing cries.  She might perhaps faint away; and he stood ready to call in the worthy Schmidt.

He was mistaken.  Claire drew herself up full of energy and courage.  The flame of indignation flushed her cheeks, and dried her tears.

“It is false,” she cried, “and those who say it are liars!  He cannot be—­no, he cannot be an assassin.  If he were here, sir, and should himself say, ‘It is true,’ I would refuse to believe it; I would still cry out, ‘It is false!’”

“He has not yet admitted it,” continued the magistrate, “but he will confess.  Even if he should not, there are more proofs than are needed to convict him.  The charges against him are as impossible to deny as is the sun which shines upon us.”