“But supposing he were of bronze,” said M. Daburon, “and did not fall at your feet, what would you do next?”
The question evidently embarrassed the old fellow.
“Pshaw!” stammered he; “I don’t know; I would see; I would search; but he would confess.”
After a prolonged silence, M. Daburon took a pen, and hurriedly wrote a few lines.
“I surrender,” said he. “M. Albert de Commarin shall be arrested; that is settled. The different formalities to be gone through and the perquisitions will occupy some time, which I wish to employ in interrogating the Count de Commarin, the young man’s father, and your friend M. Noel Gerdy, the young advocate. The letters he possesses are indispensable to me.”
At the name of Gerdy, M. Tabaret’s face assumed a most comical expression of uneasiness.
“Confound it,” cried he, “the very thing I most dreaded.”
“What?” asked M. Daburon.
“The necessity for the examination of those letters. Noel will discover my interference. He will despise me: he will fly from me, when he knows that Tabaret and Tirauclair sleep in the same nightcap. Before eight days are past, my oldest friends will refuse to shake hands with me, as if it were not an honour to serve justice. I shall be obliged to change my residence, and assume a false name.”
He almost wept, so great was his annoyance. M. Daburon was touched.