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Updated: June 6, 2025
But, since you have mentioned the name of that unfortunate young man, let us occupy ourselves about him." The count cast a look of distrust upon Noel. "What can now be done for Albert?" he asked. "What, sir!" cried Noel with ardour, "would you abandon him, when he has not a friend left in the world? He is still your son, sir, he is my brother; for thirty years he has borne the name of Commarin.
The father who has sacrificed his legitimate son for the sake of his bastard is Count Rheteau de Commarin, and the assassin of Widow Lerouge is the bastard, Viscount Albert de Commarin!" 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. de Commarin knew all about servants from infancy. His study was, therefore, a shelter from all indiscretion. The sharpest ear placed at the keyhole could hear nothing of what was going on within, even when the master was in a passion, and his voice loudest. One alone, Denis, the count's valet, had the opportunity of gathering information; but he was well paid to be discreet, and he was so.
For a long time their hands remained clasped, without either being able to utter a word. At last, M. de Commarin resumed his seat. "I must ask you to leave me, Albert," he said kindly. "I must be alone to reflect, to try and accustom myself to this terrible blow."
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.
On this point Valerie, who was very good, reproached me severely. One thing alone interfered with my happiness. The Countess de Commarin adored him whom she believed to be her son, and always wished to have him on her knees. I cannot express what I suffered at seeing my wife cover with kisses and caresses the child of my mistress.
On the fifth of November, the Countess de Commarin will give a superb fete; all Paris will be there. On the seventh, there will be a ball at the house of the Viscountess de Bois d'Ardon. On the eleventh, there will be a concert, followed by a ball, at the superb mansion of the Baroness Trigault you know the wife of that strange man who spends all his time in playing cards."
But was he guilty? Evidently he was not. "I think," exclaimed M. Daburon suddenly, "I must speak to the Count de Commarin. Constant, send to his house a message for him to come here at once; if he is not at home, he must be sought for." M. Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty was before him. He would be obliged to say to the old nobleman: "Sir, your legitimate son is not Noel, but Albert."
The Count de Commarin would not accept me for a daughter-in-law, because I am poor, I possess nothing. It took Albert five years to triumph over his father's objections. Twice the count yielded; twice he recalled his consent, which he said had been extorted from him. At last, about a month ago, he gave his consent of his own accord.
It was, above all others, from his dear Noel, now Viscount de Commarin, that he wished entirely to conceal his connection with the police. But, on the other hand, he thirsted to know what had passed between the advocate and the count. His ignorance on this single point aroused his curiosity.
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