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.
"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.
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