Yes; God grant that he may be successful. My vanity and my mad
presumption will deserve the slight punishment of his triumph over me.
What would I not give to establish this man's innocence? Half of my
fortune would be but a small sacrifice. If I should not succeed! If,
after having caused the evil, I should find myself powerless to undo
it!"
Old Tabaret went to bed, shuddering at this last thought. He fell
asleep, and had a terrible nightmare. Lost in that vulgar crowd, which,
on the days when society revenges itself, presses about the Place de la
Rouquette and watches the last convulsions of one condemned to death,
he attended Albert's execution. He saw the unhappy man, his hands bound
behind his back, his collar turned down, ascend, supported by a priest,
the steep flight of steps leading on to the scaffold. He saw him
standing upon the fatal platform, turning his proud gaze upon the
terrified assembly beneath him. Soon the eyes of the condemned man met
his own; and, bursting his cords, he pointed him, Tabaret, out to the
crowd, crying, in a loud voice: "That man is my assassin." Then a great
clamour arose to curse the detective.
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