It was impossible, that, on an evening when so many
people were about, no one had noticed the original of the portrait
either at the railway station at Rueil or upon one of the roads which
lead to La Jonchere, the high road, and the path by the river.
These arrangements made, the investigating magistrate proceeded to the
Palais de Justice, and sent for Albert. He had already in the morning
received a report, informing him hour by hour of the acts, gestures, and
utterances of the prisoner, who had been carefully watched. Nothing in
him, the report said, betrayed the criminal. He seemed very sad, but not
despairing. He had not cried out, nor threatened, nor cursed justice,
nor even spoken of a fatal error. After eating lightly, he had gone to
the window of his cell, and had there remained standing for more than an
hour. Then he laid down, and had quietly gone to sleep.
"What an iron constitution!" thought M. Daburon, when the prisoner
entered his office.
Albert was no longer the despairing man who, the night before,
bewildered with the multiplicity of charges, surprised by the rapidity
with which they were brought against him, had writhed beneath the
magistrate's gaze, and appeared ready to succumb.
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