e night before,
bewildered with the multiplicity of charges, surprised by the rapidity
with which they were brought against him, had writhed beneath the
magistrate's gaze, and appeared ready to succumb. Innocent or guilty,
he had made up his mind how to act; his face left no doubt of that. His
eyes expressed that cold resolution of a sacrifice freely made, and
a certain haughtiness which might be taken for disdain, but which
expressed the noble resentment of an injured man. In him could be
seen the self-reliant man, who might be shaken but never overcome by
misfortune.

On beholding him, the magistrate understood that he would have to
change his mode of attack. He recognized one of those natures which are
provoked to resistance when assailed, and strengthened when menaced.
He therefore gave up his former tactics, and attempted to move him by
kindness. It was a hackneyed trick, but almost always successful, like
certain pathetic scenes at theatres. The criminal who has girt up his
energy to sustain the shock of intimidation, finds himself without
defence against the wheedling of kindness, the greater in proportion to
its lack of sincerity. Now M. Daburon excelled in producing affecting
scenes. What confessions he had obtained with a few tears! No one knew
so well as he how to touch those old chords which vibrate still even in
the most corrupt hearts: honour, love, and family ties.

With Albert, he became kind and friendly, and full of the liveliest
compassion. Unfortunate man! how greatly he must suffer, he whose whole
life had been like one long enchantment. How at a single blow everything
about him had fallen in ruins. Who could have foreseen all this at
the time when he was the one hope of a wealthy and illustrious house!
Recalling the past, the magistrate pictured to him the most touching
reminiscences of his early youth, and stirred up the ashes of all
his extinct affections. Taking advantage of all that he knew of the
prisoner's life, he tortured him by the most mournful allusions to
Claire. Why did he persist in bearing alone his great misfortune? Had he
no one in the world who would deem it happiness to share his sufferings?
Why this morose silence? Should he not rather hasten to reassure her
whose very life depended upon his? What was necessary for that? A single
word. Then he would be, if not free, at least returned to the world. His
prison would become a habitable abode, no more solitary confinement; his
fri