“By my faith, sir,” replied he, “I have not had the leisure to perceive my solitude.”
M. Daburon crossed the room, and seated himself, facing his agent before a small table encumbered with papers and documents relating to the crime. He appeared very much fatigued.
“I have reflected a good deal,” he commenced, “about this affair—”
“And I,” interrupted old Tabaret, “was just asking myself what was likely to be the attitude assumed by the viscount at the moment of his arrest. Nothing is more important, according to my idea, than his manner of conducting himself then. Will he fly into a passion? Will he attempt to intimidate the agents? Will he threaten to turn them out of the house? These are generally the tactics of titled criminals. My opinion, however, is, that he will remain perfectly cool. He will declare himself the victim of a misunderstanding, and insist upon an immediate interview with the investigating magistrate. Once that is accorded him, he will explain everything very quickly.”
The old fellow spoke of matters of speculation in such a tone of assurance that M. Daburon was unable to repress a smile.
“We have not got as far as that yet,” said he.
“But we shall, in a few hours,” replied M. Tabaret quickly. “I presume you will order young M. de Commarin’s arrest at daybreak.”
The magistrate trembled, like the patient who sees the surgeon deposit his case of instruments upon the table on entering the room.
The moment for action had come. He felt now what a distance lies between a mental decision and the physical action required to execute it.
“You are prompt, M. Tabaret,” said he; “you recognize no obstacles.”