coachmen pretends to have driven you there at least ten times.”
“The man is mistaken. But what matters the number of visits?”
“Do you recollect the arrangements of the rooms? Can you describe them?”
“Perfectly, sir: there were two. Claudine slept in the back room.”
“You were in no way a stranger to Widow Lerouge. If you had knocked one evening at her window-shutter, do you think she would have let you in?”
“Certainly, sir, and eagerly.”
“You have been unwell these last few days?”
“Very unwell, to say the least, sir. My body bent under the weight of a burden too great for my strength. It was not, however, for want of courage.”
“Why did you forbid your valet, Lubin, to call in the doctor?”
“Ah, sir, how could the doctor cure my disease? All his science could not make me the legitimate son of the Count de Commarin.”
“Some very singular remarks made by you were overheard. You seemed to be no longer interested in anything concerning your home. You destroyed a large number of papers and letters.”
“I had decided to leave the count, sir. My resolution explains my conduct.”
Albert replied promptly to the magistrate’s questions, without the least embarrassment, and in a confident tone. His voice, which was very pleasant to the ear, did not tremble. It concealed no emotion; it retained its pure and vibrating sound.
M. Daburon deemed it wise to suspend the examination for a short time. With so cunning an adversary, he was evidently pursuing a false course. To proceed in detail was folly, he neither intimidated the prisoner, nor made him break through his reserve. It was necessary to take him unawares.
“Sir,” resumed the magistrate, abruptly, “tell me exactly how you passed your time last Tuesday evening, from six o’clock until midnight?”
For the first time, Albert seemed disconcerted. His glance, which had, till then, been fixed upon the magistrate, wavered.
“During Tuesday evening,” he stammered, repeating the phrase to gain time.
“I have him,” thought the magistrate, starting with joy, and then added aloud, “yes, from six o’clock until midnight.”
“I am afraid, sir,” answered Albert, “it will be difficult for me to satisfy you. I haven’t a very good memory.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that!” interrupted the magistrate. “If I had asked what you were doing three months ago, on a certain evening, and at a certain hour, I could understand your hesitation; but this is about Tuesday, and it is now Friday. Moreover, this day, so close, was the last of the carnival; it was Shrove Tuesday. That circumstance ought to help your memory.”
“That evening, I went out walking,” murmured Albert.
“Now,” continued the magistrate, “where did you dine?”
“At home, as usual.”
“No, not as usual. At the end of your meal, you asked for a bottle of Bordeaux, of which you drank the whole. You doubtless had need of some extra excitement for your subsequent plans.”
“I had no plans,” replied the prisoner with very evident uneasiness.
“You make a mistake. Two friends came to seek you. You replied to them, before sitting down to dinner, that you had a very important engagement to keep.”
“That was only a polite way of getting rid of them.”
“Why?”
“Can you not understand, sir? I was resigned, but not comforted. I was learning to get accustomed to the terrible blow. Would not one seek solitude in the great crisis of one’s life?”
“The prosecution pretends that you wished to be left alone, that you might go to La Jonchere. During the day, you said, ‘She can not resist me.’ Of whom were you speaking?”
“Of some one to whom I had written the evening before, and who had replied to me. I spoke the words, with her letter still in my hands.”
“This letter was, then, from a woman?”
“Yes.”
“What have you done with it?”
“I have burnt it.”
“This precaution leads one to suppose that you considered the letter compromising.”
“Not at all, sir; it treated entirely of private matters.”
M. Daburon was sure that this letter came from Mademoiselle d’Arlange. Should he nevertheless ask the question, and again hear pronounced the name of Claire, which always aroused such painful emotions within him? He ventured to do so, leaning over his papers, so that the prisoner could not detect his emotion.
“From whom did this letter come?” he asked.
“From one whom I can not name.”
“Sir,” said the magistrate severely, “I will not conceal from you that your position is greatly compromised. Do not aggravate it by this culpable reticence. You are here to tell everything, sir.”
“My own affairs, yes, not those of others.”
Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone. He was giddy, flurried, exasperated, by the prying and irritating mode of the examination, which scarcely gave him time to breathe. The magistrate’s questions fell upon him more thickly than the blows of the blacksmith’s hammer upon the red-hot iron which he is anxious to beat into shape before it cools.
The apparent rebellion of his prisoner troubled M. Daburon a great deal. He was further extremely surprised to find the discernment of the old detective at fault; just as though Tabaret were infallible. Tabaret had predicted an unexceptionable alibi; and this alibi was not forthcoming. Why? Had this subtle villain something better than that? What artful defence had he to fall back upon? Doubtless he kept in reserve some unforeseen stroke, perhaps irresistible.
“Gently,” thought the magistrate. “I have not got him yet.” Then he quickly added aloud: “Continue. After dinner what did you do?”
“I went out for a walk.”
“Not immediately. The bottle emptied, you smoked a cigar in the dining-room, which was so unusual as to be noticed. What kind of cigars do you usually smoke?”
“Trabucos.”
“Do you not use a cigar-holder, to keep your lips from contact with the tobacco?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Albert, much surprised at this series of questions.
“At what time did you go out?”
“About eight o’clock.”
“Did
