M. Tabaret, like an accomplished artist, had uttered these words slowly, and with a deliberate emphasis, confidently expecting to produce a great impression.  His expectation was more than realized.  M. Daburon was struck with stupor.  He remained motionless, his eyes dilated with astonishment.  Mechanically he repeated like a word without meaning which he was trying to impress upon his memory:  “Albert de Commarin!  Albert de Commarin!”

“Yes,” insisted old Tabaret, “the noble viscount.  It is incredible, I know.”  But he perceived the alteration in the magistrate’s face, and a little frightened, he approached the bed.  “Are you unwell, sir?” he asked.

“No,” answered M. Daburon, without exactly knowing what he said.  “I am very well; but the surprise, the emotion,—­”

“I understand that,” said the old fellow.

“Yes, it is not surprising, is it?  I should like to be alone a few minutes.  Do not leave the house though; we must converse at some length on this business.  Kindly pass into my study, there ought still to be a fire burning there.  I will join you directly.”

Then M. Daburon slowly got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and seated himself, or rather fell, into an armchair.  His face, to which in the exercise of his austere functions he had managed to give the immobility of marble, reflected the most cruel agitation; while his eyes betrayed the inward agony of his soul.  The name of Commarin, so unexpectedly pronounced, awakened in him the most sorrowful recollections, and tore open a wound but badly healed.  This name recalled to him an event which had rudely extinguished his youth and spoilt his life.  Involuntarily, he carried his thoughts back to this epoch, so as to taste again all its bitterness.  An hour ago, it had seemed to him far removed, and already hidden in the mists of the past; one word had sufficed to recall it, clear and distinct.  It seemed to him now that this event, in which the name of Albert de Commarin was mixed up, dated from yesterday.  In reality nearly two years elapsed since.

Pierre-Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest families of Poitou.  Three or four of his ancestors had filled successively the most important positions in the province.  Why, then, had they not bequeathed a title and a coat of arms to their descendants?

The magistrate’s father possesses, round about the ugly modern chateau which he inhabits, more than eight hundred thousand francs’ worth of the most valuable land.  By his mother, a Cottevise-Luxe, he is related to the highest nobility of Poitou, one of the most exclusive that exists in France, as every one knows.

When he received his nomination in Paris, his relationship caused him to be received at once by five or six aristocratic families, and it was not long before he extended his circle of acquaintance.

He possessed, however, none of the qualifications which ensure social success.  He was cold and grave even to sadness, reserved and timid even to excess.  His mind wanted brilliancy and lightness; he lacked the facility of repartee, and the amiable art of conversing without a subject; he could neither tell a lie, nor pay an insipid compliment.  Like most men who feel deeply, he was unable to interpret his impressions immediately.  He required to reflect and consider within himself.