What fatality! For I am not deceived; I am certain that--"
He did not finish. The door of M. Daburon's office opened, and the Count
de Commarin himself appeared on the threshold, as rigid as one of those
old portraits which look as though they were frozen in their gilded
frames. The nobleman motioned with his hand, and the two servants who
had helped him up as far as the door, retired.
CHAPTER XI.
It was indeed the Count de Commarin, though more like his shadow. His
head, usually carried so high, leant upon his chest; his figure was
bent; his eyes had no longer their accustomed fire; his hands trembled.
The extreme disorder of his dress rendered more striking still the
change which had come over him. In one night, he had grown twenty years
older. This man, yesterday so proud of never having bent to a storm,
was now completely shattered. The pride of his name had constituted his
entire strength; that humbled, he seemed utterly overwhelmed. Everything
in him gave way at once; all his supports failed him at the same time.
His cold, lifeless gaze revealed the dull stupor of his thoughts.
He presented such a picture of utter despair that the investigating
magistrate slightly shuddered at the sight.
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