In spite of all this delay, it was not eight o'clock when he presented
himself at the magistrate's house, begging him to excuse, on account of
the importance of his business, a visit too early not to be indiscreet.
Excuses were superfluous. M. Daburon was never disturbed by a call at
eight o'clock in the morning. He was already at work. He received the
old amateur detective with his usual kindness, and even joked with him
a little about his excitement of the previous evening. Who would have
thought his nerves were so sensitive? Doubtless the night had brought
deliberation. Had he recovered his reason? or had he put his hand on the
true criminal?
This trifling tone in a magistrate, who was accused of being grave
even to a fault, troubled the old man. Did not this quizzing hide a
determination not to be influenced by anything that he could say?
He believed it did; and it was without the least deception that he
commenced his pleading.
He put the case more calmly this time, but with all the energy of a
well-digested conviction. He had appealed to the heart, he now appealed
to reason; but, although doubt is essentially contagious, he neither
succeeded in convincing the magistrate, nor in shaking his opinion.
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