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"Oh! you can name them," interrupted M. Daburon with a certain degree of animation, "no matter how high he may have to strike, a French magistrate has never hesitated." "I know it, sir, but we are going very high this time.
It was past midnight when Albert left me, quieted and almost gay. He went back in the same manner, only with less danger, because I made him use the gardener's ladder, which I laid down alongside the wall when he had reached the other side." This account, given in the simplest and most natural manner, puzzled M. Daburon. What was he to think?
I have just come from M. Daburon, the investigating magistrate, who is one of my grandmother's friends; and, after what I told him, he is convinced that Albert is innocent." "He told you that, Claire!" exclaimed the count. "My child, are you sure, are you not mistaken?" "No, sir. I told him something, of which every one was ignorant, and of which Albert, who is a gentleman, could not speak.
Piece by piece, so to say, he laboured to comprehend the working of the complicated machine called society, of which he was charged to overlook the movements, regulate the springs, and keep the wheels in order. And on a sudden, in the early part of the winter of 1860 and 1861, M. Daburon disappeared. His friends sought for him, but he was nowhere to be met with. What could he be doing?
The advocate, without replying, took his seat by the side of the terrible old man, but occupied as little room as possible. He had been very much upset by his interview with M. Daburon; for he retained none of his usual assurance, none of that exterior coolness by which he was accustomed to conceal his feelings. Fortunately, the ride gave him time to breathe, and to recover himself a little.
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.
On his side M. Daburon promised to keep him advised of the least evidence that transpired, and recall him, if by any chance he should procure the papers of Widow Lerouge. "To you, M. Tabaret," said the magistrate in conclusion, "I shall be always at home. If you have any occasion to speak to me, do not hesitate to come at night as well as during the day.
I am terribly anxious about this dear child," continued the marchioness. "I confess M. Daburon, it makes me giddy when I wonder how I am to marry her." The magistrate reddened with pleasure. At last his opportunity had arrived; he must take advantage of it at once. "It seems to me," stammered he, "that to find Mademoiselle Claire a husband ought not to be difficult." "Unfortunately, it is.
"A man can only do what he can!" "Ah!" murmured Lecoq in a low tone, perfectly audible, however, "why is not old Tirauclair here?" "What could he do more than we have done?" retorted Gevrol, directing a furious glance at his subordinate. Lecoq bowed his head and was silent, inwardly delighted at having wounded his chief. "Who is old Tirauclair?" asked M. Daburon.
The lamps paled in the gray dawn of the morning; already the rumbling of vehicles was heard; Paris was awaking. "I have no time to lose," continued M. Daburon, "if I would have all my measures well taken. I must at once see the public prosecutor, whether he is up or not.
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