assin 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.

"No," answered M. Daburon, without exactly knowing what he said. "I am
very well; but the surprise, the emotion,--"

"I understand that," said the old fellow.

"Yes, it is not surprising, is it? I should like to be alone a few
minutes. Do not leave the house though; we must converse at some length
on this business. Kindly pass into my study, there ought still to be a
fire burning there. I will join you directly."

Then M. Daburon slowly got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and
seated himself, or rather fell, into an armchair. His face, to which
in the exercise of his austere functions he had managed to give the
immobility of marble, reflected the most cruel agitation; while his
eyes betrayed the inward agony of his soul. The name of Commarin,
so unexpectedly pronounced, awakened in him the most sorrowful
recollections, and tore open a wound but badly healed. This name
recalled to him an event which had rudely extinguished his youth and
spoilt his life. Involuntarily, he carried his thoughts back to this
epoch, so as to taste again all its bitterness. An hour ago, it had
seemed to him far removed, and already hidden in the mists of the past;
one word had sufficed to recall it, clear and distinct. It seemed to him
now that this event, in which the name of Albert de Commarin was mixed
up, dated from yesterday. In reality nearly two years elapsed since.

Pierre-Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest families of Poitou.
Three or four of his ancestors had filled successively the most
important positions in the province. Why, then, had they not bequeathed
a title and a coat of arms to their descendants?

The magistrate's father possesses, round about the ugly modern chateau
which he inhabits, more t