He rose, as they entered, and took a few steps towards
them; but his throat was so dry that he was scarcely able to speak. He
asked for a moment, and, turning towards the little table, he filled and
drank two large glassfuls of water in succession.
"I am ready!" he then said. And, with a firm step, he followed the
gendarmes along the passage which led to the Palais de Justice.
M. Daburon was just then in great anguish. He walked furiously up and
down his office, awaiting the prisoner. Again, and for the twentieth
time since morning, he regretted having engaged in the business.
"Curse this absurd point of honour, which I have obeyed," he inwardly
exclaimed. "I have in vain attempted to reassure myself by the aid
of sophisms. I was wrong in not withdrawing. Nothing in the world can
change my feelings towards this young man. I hate him. I am his judge;
and it is no less true, that at one time I longed to assassinate him. I
faced him with a revolver in my hand: why did I not present it and fire?
Do I know why? What power held my finger, when an almost insensible
pressure would have sufficed to kill him? I cannot say. Why is not he
the judge, I the assassin? If the intention was as punishable as the
deed, I ought to be guillotined.
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