“Is that really true?” asked the magistrate, looking at him more searchingly. “You know no one whom this crime benefits, or whom it might benefit,--absolutely no one?” “I know only one thing, sir,” replied Noel; “and that is, that, as far as I am concerned, it has caused me an irreparable injury.” “At last,” thought M. Daburon, “we have got at the letters; and I have not betrayed poor old Tabaret. It would be too bad to cause the least trouble to that zealous and invaluable man.” He then added aloud: “An injury to you, my dear sir? You will, I hope, explain yourself.” Noel’s embarrassment, of which he had already given some signs, appeared much more marked. “I am aware, sir,” he replied, “that I owe justice not merely the truth, but the whole truth; but there are circumstances involved so delicate that the conscience of a man of honour sees danger in them. Besides, it is very hard to be obliged to unveil such sad secrets, the revelation of which may sometimes--” M. Daburon interrupted with a gesture. Noel’s sad tone impressed him. Knowing, beforehand, what he was about to hear, he felt for the young advocate. He turned to his clerk. “Constant!” said he in a peculiar tone. This was evidently a signal; for the tall clerk rose methodically, put his pen behind his ear, and went out in his measured tread. Noel appeared sensible of this kindness. His face expressed the strongest gratitude; his look returned thanks. “I am very much obliged to you, sir,” he said with suppressed warmth, “for your considerateness. What I have to say is very painful; but it will be scarcely an effort to speak before you now.” “Fear nothing,” replied the magistrate; “I will only retain of your deposition, my dear sir, what seems to me absolutely indispensable.” “I feel scarcely master of myself, sir,” began Noel; “so pray pardon my emotion. If any words escape me that seem charged with bitterness, excuse them; they will be involuntary. Up to the past few days, I always believed that I was the offspring of illicit love. My history is short. I have been honourably ambitious; I have worked hard. He who has no name must make one, you know. I have passed a quiet life, retired and austere, as people must, who, starting at the foot of the ladder, wish to reach the top. I worshipped her whom I believed to be my mother; and I felt convinced that she loved me in return. The stain of my birth had some humiliations attached to it; but I despised them. Comparing my lot with that of so many others, I felt that I had more than common advantages. One day, Providence placed in my hands all the letters which my father, the Count de Commarin, had written to Madame Gerdy during the time she was his mistress. On reading these letters, I was convinced that I was not what I had hitherto believed myself to be,--that Madame Gerdy was not my mother!”