“You are too kind, sir. I have had little or nothing to do in the matter. The discovery is due to chance alone.”
“You are modest, M. Tabaret. Chance assists only the clever, and it is that which annoys the stupid. But I beg you will be seated and proceed.”
Then with the lucidness and precision of which few would have believed him capable, the old fellow repeated to the magistrate all that he had learned from Noel. He quoted from memory the extracts from the letters, almost without changing a word.
“These letters,” added he, “I have seen; and I have even taken one, in order to verify the writing. Here it is.”
“Yes,” murmured the magistrate—“Yes, M. Tabaret, you have discovered the criminal. The evidence is palpable, even to the blind. Heaven has willed this. Crime engenders crime. The great sin of the father has made the son an assassin.”
“I have not given you the names, sir,” resumed old Tabaret. “I wished first to hear your opinion.”
“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. 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. Daburon was struck with stupor. He remained motionless, his eyes dilated with astonishment. Mechanically he repeated like a word without meaning which he was trying to impress upon his memory: “Albert de Commarin! Albert de Commarin!”
“Yes,” insisted old Tabaret, “the noble viscount. It is incredible, I know.” But he perceived the alteration in the magistrate’s face, and a little frightened, he approached the bed. “Are you unwell, sir?” he asked.