e would never undertake another investigation.
His profession henceforth inspired him with an unconquerable loathing.
Then his interview with Claire had re-opened all the old wounds in his
heart, and they bled more painfully than ever. He felt, in despair, that
his life was broken, ruined. A man may well feel so, when all women are
as nothing to him except one, whom he may never dare hope to possess.
Too pious a man to think of suicide, he asked himself with anguish what
would become of him when he threw aside his magistrate's robes.

Then he turned again to the business in hand. In any case, innocent
or guilty, Albert was really the Viscount de Commarin, the count's
legitimate son. But was he guilty? Evidently he was not.

"I think," exclaimed M. Daburon suddenly, "I must speak to the Count de
Commarin. Constant, send to his house a message for him to come here at
once; if he is not at home, he must be sought for."

M. Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty was before him. He would be
obliged to say to the old nobleman: "Sir, your legitimate son is not
Noel, but Albert." What a position, not only painful, but bordering on
the ridiculous! As a compensation, though, he could tell him that Albert
was innocent.

To Noel he would also have to tell the truth: hurl him to earth, after
having raised him among the clouds. What a blow it would be! But,
without a doubt, the count would make him some compensation; at least,
he ought to.

"Now," murmured the magistrate, "who can be the criminal?"

An idea crossed his mind, at first it seemed to him absurd. He rejected
it, then thought of it again. He examined it in all its various aspects.
He had almost adopted it, when M. de Commarin entered. M. Daburon's
messenger had arrived just as the count was alighting from his carriage,
on returning with Claire from Madame Gerdy's.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Old Tabaret talked, but he acted also.

Abandoned by the investigating magistrate to his own resources, he set
to work without losing a minute and without taking a moment's rest.

The story of the cabriolet, drawn by a swift horse, was exact in every
particular.

Lavish with his money, the old fellow had gathered together a dozen
detectives on leave or rogues out of work; and at the head of these
worthy assistants, seconded by his friend Lecoq, he had gone to
Bougival.

He had actually searched the country, house by house, with the obstinacy
and the patience of a maniac hunting f