"Sir," said Derues, "this case contains valuable wine which I am

commissioned to sell. To-morrow I shall receive the money for it;

to-morrow, in the course of the day, I will pay what I owe you. But I am

waited for now, do not in Heaven’s name detain me longer, and thus

deprive me of the means of paying at all."

"Don’t believe him, my good man," said the hawker; "lying comes natural

to him always."

"Sir, I promise on my oath you shall be paid tomorrow; you had better

trust the word of an honest man rather than the ravings of a drunken

woman."

The creditor still hesitated, but, another person now spoke in Derues’

favour; it was the carpenter Mouchy, who had inquired the cause of the

quarrel.

"For God’s sake," he exclaimed, "let the gentleman go on. That chest

came from my workshop, and I know there is wine inside it; he told my

wife so two days ago."

"Will you be surety for me, my friend?" asked Derues.

"Certainly I will; I have not known you for ten years in order to leave

you in trouble and refuse to answer for you. What the devil are

respectable people to be stopped like this in a public place? Come, sir,

believe his word, as I do."

After some more discussion, the porter was at last allowed to proceed

with his hand-cart. The hawker wanted to interfere, but Mouchy warned

her off and ordered her to be silent. "Ah! ah!" she cried, "what does it

matter to me? Let him sell his wine if he can; I shall not drink any on

his premises. This is the second time he has found a surety to my

knowledge; the beggar must have some special secret for encouraging the

growth of fools. Good-bye, gossip Derues; you know I shall be selling

your history some day. Meanwhile——

"The abominable history of Leroi de Valine, condemned to death at the

age of sixteen for having poisoned his entire family!"

Whilst she amused the people by her grimaces and grotesque gestures, and

while Mouchy held forth to some of them, Derues made his escape. Several

times between Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois and the rue de la Mortellerie he

nearly fainted, and was obliged to stop. While the danger lasted, he had

had sufficient self-control to confront it coolly, but now that he

calculated the depth of the abyss which for a moment had opened beneath

his feet, dizziness laid hold on him.

Other precautions now became necessary. His real name had been mentioned

before the commissionaire, and the widow Masson, who owned the cellar,

only knew him as Ducoudray. He went on in front, asked for the keys,

which till then had been left with her, and the chest was got downstairs

without any awkward questions. Only the porter seemed astonished that

this supposed wine, which was to be sold immediately, should be put in

such a place, and asked if he might come the next day and move it again.

Derues replied that someone was coming for it that very day. This

question, and the disgraceful scene which the man had witnessed, made it

necessary to get rid of him without letting him see the pit dug under

the staircase. Derues tried to drag the chest towards the hole, but all

his strength was insufficient to move it. He uttered terrible

imprecations when he recognised his own weakness, and saw that he would

be obliged to bring another stranger, an informer perhaps, into this

charnel-house, where; as yet, nothing betrayed his crimes. No sooner

escaped from one peril than he encountered another, and already he had

to struggle against his own deeds. He measured the length of the trench,

it was too short. Derues went out and repaired to the place where he had

hired the labourer who had dug it out, but he could not find the man,

whom he had only seen once, and whose name he did not know. Two whole

days were spent in this fruitless search, but on the third, as he was

wandering on one of the quays at the time labourers were to be found

there, a mason, thinking he was looking for someone, inquired what he

wanted. Derues looked well at the man, and concluding from his

appearance that he was probably rather simpleminded, asked—

"Would you like to earn a crown of three livres by an easy job?"

"What a question, master!" answered the mason. "Work is so scarce that I

am going back into the country this very evening."

"Very well! Bring your tools, spade, and pickaxe, and follow me."

They both went down to the cellar, and the mason was ordered to dig out

the pit till it was five and a half feet deep. While the man worked,

Derues sat beside the chest and read. When it was half done, the mason

stopped for breath, and leaning on his spade, inquired why he wanted a

trench of such a depth. Derues, who had probably foreseen the question,

answered at once, without being disconcerted—

"I want to bury some bottled wine which is contained in this case."

"Wine!" said the other. "Ah! you are laughing at me, because you think I

look a fool! I never yet heard of such a recipe for improving wine."

"Where do you come from?"

"D’Alencon."

"Cider drinker! You were brought up in Normandy, that is clear. Well,

you can learn from me, Jean-Baptiste Ducoudray, a wine grower of Tours,

and a wine merchant for the last ten years, that new wine thus buried

for a year acquires the quality and characteristics of the oldest

brands."

"It is possible," said the mason, again taking his spade, "but all the

same it seems a little odd to me."

When he had finished, Derues asked him to help to drag the chest

alongside the trench, so that it might be easier to take out the bottles

and arrange them: The mason agreed, but when he moved the chest the

foetid odour which proceeded from it made him draw back, declaring that

a smell such as that could not possibly proceed from wine. Derues tried

to persuade him that the smell came from drains under the cellar, the

pipe of which could be seen. It appeared to satisfy him, and he again

took hold of the chest, but immediately let it go again, and said

positively that he could not execute Derues’ orders, being convinced

that the chest must contain a decomposing corpse. Then Derues threw

himself at the man’s feet and acknowledged that it was the dead body of

a woman who had unfortunately lodged in his house, and who had died

there suddenly from an unknown malady, and that, dreading lest he should

be accused of having murdered her, he had decided to conceal the death

and bury her here.

The mason listened, alarmed at this confidence, and not knowing whether

to believe it or not. Derues sobbed and wept at his feet, beat his

breast and tore out his hair, calling on God and the saints as witnesses

of his good faith and his innocence. He showed the book he was reading

while the mason excavated: it was the Seven Penitential Psalms. "How

unfortunate I am!" he cried. "This woman died in my house, I assure

you—died suddenly, before I could call a doctor. I was alone; I might

have been accused, imprisoned, perhaps condemned for a crime I did not

commit. Do not ruin me! You leave Paris to-night, you need not be

uneasy; no one would know that I employed you, if this unhappy affair

should ever be discovered. I do not know your name, I do not wish to

know it, and I tell you mine, it is Ducoudray. I give myself up to you,

but have some pity!—if not for me, yet for my wife and my two little

children—for these poor creatures whose only support I am!"

Seeing that the mason was touched, Derues opened the chest.

"Look," he said, "examine the body of this woman, does it show any mark

of violent death? My God!" he continued, joining his hands and in tones

of despairing agony,—"my God, Thou who readest all hearts, and who

knowest my innocence, canst Thou not ordain a miracle to save an honest

man? Wilt Thou not command this dead body to bear witness for me?"

The mason was stupefied by this flow of language. Unable to restrain his

tears, he promised to keep silence, persuaded that Derues was innocent,

and that appearances only were against him. The latter, moreover, did

not neglect other means of persuasion; he handed the mason two gold

pieces, and between them they buried the body of Madame de Lamotte.

However extraordinary this fact, which might easily be supposed

imaginary, may appear, it certainly happened. In the examination at his

trial. Derues himself revealed it, repeating the story which had

satisfied the mason. He believed that this man had denounced him: he was

mistaken, for this confidant of his crime, who might have been the first

to put justice on his track, never reappeared, and but for Derues’

acknowledgment his existence would have remained unknown.

This first deed accomplished, another victim was already appointed.

Trembling at first as to the consequences of his forced confession,

Derues waited some days, paying, however, his creditor as promised. He

redoubles his demonstrations of piety, he casts a furtive glance on

everyone he meets, seeking for some expression of distrust. But no one

avoids him, or points him out with a raised finger, or whispers on

seeing him; everywhere he encounters the customary expression of

goodwill. Nothing has changed; suspicion passes over his head without

alighting there. He is reassured, and resumes his work. Moreover, had he

wished to remain passive, he could not have done so; he was now

compelled to follow that fatal law of crime which demands that blood

must be effaced with blood, and which is compelled to appeal again to

death in order to stifle the accusing voice already issuing from the

tomb.

Edouard de Lamotte, loving his mother as much as she loved him, became

uneasy at receiving no visits, and was astonished at this sudden

indifference. Derues wrote to him as follows:

"I have at length some good news for you, my dear boy, but you must not

tell your mother I have betrayed her secret; she would scold me, because

she is planning a surprise for you, and the various steps and care

necessary in arranging this important matter have caused her absence.

You were to know nothing until the 11th or 12th of this month, but now

that all is settled, I should blame myself if I prolonged the

uncertainty in which you have been left, only you must promise me to

look as much astonished as possible. Your mother, who only lives for

you, is going to present you with the greatest gift a youth of your age

can receive—that of liberty. Yes, dear boy, we thought we had discovered

that you have no very keen taste for study, and that a secluded life

will suit neither your character nor your health. In saying this I utter

no reproach, for every man is born with his own decided tastes, and the

way to success and happiness is-often-to allow him to follow these

instincts. We have had long discussions on this subject—your mother and

I—and we have thought much about your future; she has at last come to a

decision, and for the last ten days has been at Versailles, endeavouring

to obtain your admission as a royal page. Here is the mystery, this is

the reason which has kept her from you, and as she knew you would hear

it with delight, she wished to have the pleasure of telling you herself.

Therefore, once again, when you see her, which will be very soon, do not

let her see I have told you; appear to be greatly surprised. It is true

that I am asking you to tell a lie, but it is a very innocent one, and

its good intention will counteract its sinfulness—may God grant we never

have worse upon our consciences! Thus, instead of lessons and the solemn

precepts of your tutors, instead of a monotonous school-life, you are

going to enjoy your liberty; also the pleasures of the court and the

world. All that rather alarms me, and I ought to confess that I at first

opposed this plan. I begged your mother to reflect, to consider that in

this new existence you would run great risk of losing the religious

feeling which inspires you, and which I have had the happiness, during

my sojourn at Buisson-Souef, of further developing in your mind. I still

recall with emotion your fervid and sincere aspirations towards the

Creator when you approached the Sacred Table for the first time, and

when, kneeling beside you, and envying the purity of heart and innocence

of soul which appeared to animate your countenance as with a divine

radiance, I besought God that, in default of my own virtue, the love for

heavenly Truth with which I have inspired you might be reckoned to my

account. Your piety is my work, Edouard, and I defended it against your

mother’s plans; but she replied that in every career a man is master of

his own good or evil actions; and as I have no authority over you, and

friendship only gives me the right to advise, I must give way. If this

be your vocation, then follow it.

"My occupations are so numerous (I have to collect from different

sources this hundred thousand livres intended to defray the greater part

of the Buisson purchase) that I have not a moment in which to come and

see you this week. Spend the time in reflection, and write to me fully

what you think about this plan. If, like me, you feel any scruples, you

must tell them to your mother, who decidedly wants only to make you

happy. Speak to me freely, openly. It is arranged that I am to fetch you

on the 11th of this month, and escort you to Versailles, where Madame de

Lamotte will be waiting to receive you with the utmost tenderness.

Adieu, dear boy; write to me. Your father knows nothing as yet; his

consent will be asked after your decision."

The answer to this letter did not have to be waited for: it was such as

Derues expected; the lad accepted joyfully. The answer was, for the

murderer, an arranged plea of defence, a proof which, in a given case,

might link the present with the past.

On the morning of February 11th, Shrove Tuesday, he went to fetch the

young de Lamotte from his school, telling the master that he was desired

by the youth’s mother to conduct him to Versailles. But, instead, he

took him to his own house, saying that he had a letter from Madame de

Lamotte asking them not to come till the next day; so they started on

Ash Wednesday, Edouard having breakfasted on chocolate. Arrived at

Versailles, they stopped at the Fleur-de-lys inn, but there the sickness

which the boy had complained of during the journey became very serious,

and the innkeeper, having young children, and believing that he

recognised symptoms of smallpox, which just then was ravaging

Versailles, refused to receive them, saying he had no vacant room. This

might have disconcerted anyone but Derues, but his audacity, activity,

and resource seemed to increase with each fresh obstacle. Leaving

Edouard in a room on the ground floor which had no communication with

the rest of the inn, he went at once to look for lodgings, and hastily

explored the town. After a fruitless search, he found at last, at the

junction of the rue Saint-Honore with that of the Orangerie, a cooper

named Martin, who had a furnished room to spare. This he hired at thirty

sous per day for himself and his nephew, who had been taken suddenly

ill, under the name of Beaupre. To avoid being questioned later, he

informed the cooper in a few words that he was a doctor; that he had

come to Versailles in order to place his nephew in one of the offices of

the town; that in a few days the latter’s mother would arrive to join

him in seeing and making application to influential persons about the

court, to whom he had letters of introduction. As soon as he had

delivered this fable with all the appearance of truth with which he knew

so well how to disguise his falsehoods, he went back to the young de

Lamotte, who was already so exhausted that he was hardly able to drag

himself as far as the cooper’s house. He fainted on arrival, and was

carried into the hired room, where Derues begged to be left alone with

him, and only asked for certain beverages which he told the people how

to prepare.

Whether it was that the strength of youth fought against the poison, or

that Derues took pleasure in watching the sufferings of his victim, the

agony of the poor lad was prolonged until the fourth day. The sickness

continuing incessantly, he sent the cooper’s wife for a medicine which

he prepared and administered himself. It produced terrible pain, and

Edouard’s cries brought the cooper and his wife upstairs. They

represented to Derues that he ought to call in a doctor and consult with

him, but he refused decidedly, saying that a doctor hastily fetched

might prove to be an ignorant person with whom he could not agree, and

that he could not allow one so dear to him to be prescribed for and

nursed by anyone but himself.

"I know what the malady is," he continued, raising his eyes to heaven;

"it is one that has to be concealed rather than acknowledged. Poor

youth! whom I love as my own son, if God, touched by my tears and thy

suffering, permits me to save thee, thy whole life will be too short for

thy blessings and thy gratitude!" And as Madame Martin asked what this

malady might be, he answered with hypocritical blushes—

"Do not ask, madame; there are things of which you do not know even the

name."

At another time, Martin expressed his surprise that the young man’s

mother had not yet appeared, who, according to Derues, was to have met

him at Versailles. He asked how she could know that they were lodging in

his house, and if he should send to meet her at any place where she was

likely to arrive.

"His mother," said Derues, looking compassionately at Edouard, who lay

pale, motionless, and as if insensible,—"his mother! He calls for her

incessantly. Ah! monsieur, some families are greatly to be pitied! My

entreaties prevailed on her to decide on coming hither, but will she

keep her promise? Do not ask me to tell you more; it is too painful to

have to accuse a mother of having forgotten her duties in the presence

of her son . . . there are secrets which ought not to be told—unhappy

woman!"

Edouard moved, extended his arms, and repeated, "Mother! . . . mother!"

Derues hastened to his side and took his hands in his, as if to warm

them.

"My mother!" the youth repeated. "Why have I not seen her? She was to

have met me."

You shall soon see her, dear boy; only keep quiet."

"But just now I thought she was dead."

"Dead!" cried Derues. "Drive away these sad thoughts. They are caused by

the fever only."

"No! oh no! . . . I heard a secret voice which said, ’Thy mother is

dead!’ . . . And then I beheld a livid corpse before me . . . It was

she! . . . I knew her well! and she seemed to have suffered so much——"

"Dear boy, your mother is not dead . . . . My God! what terrible

chimeras you conjure up! You will see her again, I assure you; she has

arrived already. Is it not so, madame?" he asked, turning towards the

Martins, who were both leaning against the foot of the bed, and signing

to them to support this pious falsehood, in order to calm the young man.

"Did she not arrive and come to his bedside and kiss him while he slept,

and she will soon come again?"

"Yes, yes," said Madame Martin, wiping her eyes; "and she begged my

husband and me to help your uncle to take great care of you—"

The youth moved again, and looking round him with a dazed expression,

said, "My uncle—?"

"You had better go," said Derues in a whisper to the Martins. "I am

afraid he is delirious again; I will prepare a draught, which will give

him a little rest and sleep."

"Adieu, then, adieu," answered Madame Martin; "and may Heaven bless you

for the care you bestow on this poor young man!"

On Friday evening violent vomiting appeared to have benefited the

sufferer. He had rejected most of the poison, and had a fairly quiet

night. But on the Saturday morning Derues sent the cooper’s little girl

to buy more medicine, which he prepared, himself, like the first. The

day was horrible, and about six in the evening, seeing his victim was at

the last gasp, he opened a little window overlooking the shop and

summoned the cooper, requesting him to go at once for a priest. When the

latter arrived he found Derues in tears, kneeling at the dying boy’s

bedside. And now, by the light of two tapers placed on a table, flanking

the holy water-stoup, there began what on one side was an abominable and

sacrilegious comedy, a disgraceful parody of that which Christians

consider most sacred and most dear; on the other, a pious and consoling

ceremony. The cooper and his wife, their eyes bathed in tears, knelt in

the middle of the room, murmuring such prayers as they could remember.

Derues gave up his place to the priest, but as Edouard did not answer

the latter’s questions, he approached the bed, and bending over the

sufferer, exhorted him to confession.

"Dear boy," he said, "take courage; your sufferings here will be counted

to you above: God will weigh them in the scales of His infinite mercy.

Listen to the words of His holy minister, cast your sins into His bosom,

and obtain from Him forgiveness for your faults."

"I am in such terrible pain!" cried Edouard. "Water! water! Extinguish

the fire which consumes me!"

A violent fit came on, succeeded by exhaustion and the death-rattle.

Derues fell on his knees, and the priest administered extreme unction.

There was then a moment of absolute silence, more impressive than cries

and sobs. The priest collected himself for a moment, crossed himself,

and began to pray. Derues also crossed himself, and repeated in a low

voice, apparently choked by grief

"Go forth, O Christian soul, from this world, in the name of God the

Father Almighty, who created thee; in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son

of the living God, who suffered for thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost,

who was poured out upon thee."

The youth struggled in his bed, and a convulsive movement agitated his

limbs. Derues continued—

"When thy soul departs from this body may it be admitted to the holy

Mountain of Sion, to the Heavenly Jerusalem, to the numerous company of

Angels, and to the Church of the First-born, whose names are written in

Heaven——"

"Mother! . . . My mother!" cried Edouard. Derues resumed—

"Let God arise, and let the Powers of Darkness be dispersed! let the

Spirits of Evil, who reign over the air, be put to flight; let them not

dare to attack a soul redeemed by the precious blood of Jesus Christ."

"Amen," responded the priest and the Martins.

There was another silence, broken only by the stifled sobs of Derues.

The priest again crossed himself and took up the prayer.

"We beseech Thee, O beloved and only Son of God, by the merits of Thy

sacred Passion, Thy Cross and Thy Death, to deliver this Thy servant

from the pains of Hell, and to lead him to that happy place whither Thou

didst vouchsafe to lead the thief, who, with Thee, was bound upon the

Cross: Thou, who art God, living and reigning with the Father and the

Holy Ghost."

"Amen," repeated those present. Derues now took up the prayer, and his

voice mingled with the dying gasps of the sufferer.

"And there was a darkness over all the earth——

"To Thee, O Lord, we commend the soul of this Thy servant, that, being

dead to the world, he may, live to Thee: and the sins he hath committed

through the frailty of his mortal nature, do Thou in Thy most merciful

goodness, forgive and wash away. Amen."

After which all present sprinkled holy water on the body....

When the priest had retired, shown out by Madame Martin, Derues said to

her husband—

"This unfortunate young man has died without the consolation of

beholding his mother.... His last thought was for her.... There now

remains the last duty, a very painful one to accomplish, but my poor

nephew imposed it on me. A few hours ago, feeling that his end was near,

he asked me, as a last mark of friendship, not to entrust these final

duties to the hands of strangers."

While he applied himself to the necessary work in presence of the

cooper, who was much affected by the sight of such sincere and profound

affliction, Derues added, sighing—

"I shall always grieve for this dear boy. Alas! that evil living should

have caused his early death!"

When he had finished laying out the body, he threw some little packets

into the fire which he professed to have found in the youth’s pockets,

telling Martin, in order to support this assertion, that they contained

drugs suitable to this disgraceful malady.

He spent the night in the room with the corpse, as he had done in the

case of Madame de Lamotte, and the next day, Sunday, he sent Martin to

the parish church of St. Louis, to arrange for a funeral of the simplest

kind; telling him to fill up the certificate in the name of Beaupre,

born at Commercy, in Lorraine. He declined himself either to go to the

church or to appear at the funeral, saying that his grief was too great.

Martin, returning from the funeral, found him engaged in prayer. Derues

gave him the dead youth’s clothes and departed, leaving some money to be

given to the poor of the parish, and for masses to be said for the

repose of the soul of the dead.

He arrived at home in the evening, found his wife entertaining some

friends; and told them he had just come from Chartres, where he had been

summoned on business. Everyone noticed his unusual air of satisfaction,

and he sang several songs during supper.

Having accomplished these two crimes, Derues did not remain idle. When

the murderer’s part of his nature was at rest, the thief reappeared. His

extreme avarice now made him regret the expense’ caused by the deaths of

Madame de Lamotte and her son, and he wished to recoup himself. Two days

after his return from Versailles, he ventured to present himself at

Edouard’s school. He told the master that he had received a letter from

Madame de Lamotte, saying that she wished to keep her son, and asking

him to obtain Edouard’s belongings. The schoolmaster’s wife, who was

present, replied that that could not be; that Monsieur de Lamotte would

have known of his wife’s intention; that she would not have taken such a

step without consulting him; and that only the evening before, they had

received a present of game from Buisson-Souef, with a letter in which

Monsieur de Lamotte entreated them to take great, care of his son.

"If what you say is true," she continued, "Madame de Lamotte is no doubt

acting on your advice in taking away her son. But I will write to

Buisson."

"You had better not do anything in the matter;" said Derues, turning to

the schoolmaster. "It is quite possible that Monsieur de Lamotte does

not know. I am aware that his wife does not always consult him. She is

at Versailles, where I took Edouard to her, and I will inform her of

your objection."

To insure impunity for these murders, Derues had resolved on the death

of Monsieur de Lamotte; but before executing this last crime, he wished

for some proof of the recent pretended agreements between himself and

Madame de Lamotte. He would not wait for the disappearance of the whole

family before presenting himself as the lawful proprietor, of

Buisson-Souef. Prudence required him to shelter himself behind a deed

which should have been executed by that lady. On February 27th he

appeared at the office of Madame de Lamotte’s lawyer in the rue du Paon,

and, with all the persuasion of an artful tongue, demanded the power of

attorney on that lady’s behalf, saying that he had, by private contract,

just paid a hundred thousand livres on the total amount of purchase,

which money was now deposited with a notary. The lawyer, much astonished

that an affair of such importance should have been arranged without any

reference to himself, refused to give up the deed to anyone but Monsieur

or Madame de Lamotte, and inquired why the latter did not appear

herself. Derues replied that she was at Versailles, and that he was to

send the deed to her there. He repeated his request and the lawyer his

refusal, until Derues retired, saying he would find means to compel him

to give up the deed. He actually did, the same day, present a petition

to the civil authority, in which Cyrano Derues de Bury sets forth

arrangements, made with Madame de Lamotte, founded on the deed given by

her husband, and requires permission to seize and withdraw said deed

from the custody in which it remains at present. The petition is

granted. The lawyer objects that he can only give up the deed to either

Monsieur or Madame de Lamotte, unless he be otherwise ordered. Derues

has the effrontery to again appeal to the civil authority, but, for the

reasons given by that public officer, the affair is adjourned.

These two futile efforts might have compromised Derues had they been

heard of at Buisson-Souef; but everything seemed to conspire in the

criminal’s favour: neither the schoolmaster’s wife nor the lawyer

thought of writing to Monsieur de Lamotte. The latter, as yet

unsuspecting, was tormented by other anxieties, and kept at home by

illness.

In these days, distance is shortened, and one can travel from

Villeneuve-le-Roi-les-Sens to Paris in a few hours. This was not the

case in 1777, when private industry and activity, stifled by routine and

privilege, had not yet experienced the need of providing the means for

rapid communication. Half a day was required to go from the capital to

Versailles; a journey of twenty leagues required at least two days and a

night, and bristled with obstacles and delays of all kinds. These

difficulties of transport, still greater during bad weather, and a long

and serious attack of gout, explain why Monsieur de Lamotte, who was so

ready to take alarm, had remained separated from his wife from the

middle of December to the end of February. He had received reassuring

letters from her, written at first with freedom and simplicity; but he

thought he noticed a gradual change in the later ones, which appeared to

proceed more from the mind than the heart. A style which aimed at being

natural was interspersed with unnecessary expressions of affection,

unusual between married people well assured of their mutual love.

Monsieur de Lamotte observed and exaggerated these peculiarities, and

though endeavouring to persuade himself that he was mistaken, he could

not forget them, or regain his usual tranquility. Being somewhat ashamed

of his anxiety, he kept his fears to himself.

One morning, as he was sunk in a large armchair by the fire, his

sitting-room door opened, and the cure entered, who was surprised by his

despondent, sad, and pale appearance. "What is the matter?" he inquired,

"Have you had an extra bad night?"

"Yes," answered Monsieur de Lamotte.

"Well, have you any news from Paris?"

"Nothing for a whole week: it is odd, is it not?"

"I am always hoping that this sale may fall through; it drags on for so

very long; and I believe that Monsieur Derues, in spite of what your

wife wrote a month ago, has not as much money as he pretends to have. Do

you know that it is said that Monsieur Despeignes-Duplessis, Madame

Derues’ relative, whose money they inherited, was assassinated?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"It is a common report in the country, and was brought here by a man who

came recently from Beauvais."

"Have the murderers been discovered?"

"Apparently not; justice seems unable to discover anything at all."

Monsieur de Lamotte hung his head, and his countenance assumed an

expression of painful thought, as though this news affected him

personally.

"Frankly," resumed the cure, "I believe you will remain Seigneur du

Buisson-Souef, and that I shall be spared the pain of writing another

name over your seat in the church of Villeneuve."

"The affair must be settled in a few days, for I can wait no longer; if

the purchaser be not Monsieur Derues, it will have to be someone else.

What makes you think he is short of money?"

"Oh! oh!" said the cure, "a man who has money either pays his debts, or

is a cheat. Now Heaven preserve me from suspecting Monsieur Derues’

honesty!"

"What do you know about him?"

"Do you remember Brother Marchois of the Camaldulians, who came to see

me last spring, and who was here the day Monsieur Derues arrived, with

your wife and Edouard?"

"Perfectly. Well?"

"Well, I happened to tell him in one of my letters that Monsieur Derues

had become the purchaser of Buisson-Souef, and that I believed the

arrangements were concluded. Thereupon Brother Marchois wrote asking me

to remind him that he owes them a sum of eight hundred livres, and that,

so far, they have not seen a penny of it."

"Ah!" said Monsieur de Lamotte, "perhaps I should have done better not

to let myself be deluded by his fine promises. He certainly has money on

his tongue, and when once one begins to listen to him, one can’t help

doing what he wants. All the same, I had rather have had to deal with

someone else."

"And is it this which worries you, and makes you seem so anxious?"

"This and other things."

"What, then?"

"I am really ashamed to own it, but I am a credulous and timid as any

old woman. Now do not laugh at me too much. Do you believe in dreams?"

"Monsieur," said the cure, smiling, "you should never ask a coward

whether he is afraid, you only risk his telling a lie. He will say ’No,’

but he means ’Yes.’"

"And are you a coward, my father?"

"A little. I don’t precisely believe all the nursery, tales, or in the

favourable or unfavourable meaning of some object seen during our sleep,

but—"

A sound of steps interrupted them, a servant entered, announcing

Monsieur Derues.

On hearing the name, Monsieur de Lamotte felt troubled in spite of

himself, but, overcoming the impression, he rose to meet the visitor.

"You had better stay," he said to the cure, who was also rising to take

leave. "Stay; we have probably nothing to say which cannot be said

before you."

Derues entered the room, and, after the usual compliments, sat down by

the fire, opposite Monsieur de Lamotte.

"You did not expect me," he said, "and I ought to apologise for

surprising you thus."

"Give me some news of my wife," asked Monsieur de Lamotte anxiously.

"She has never been better. Your son is also to perfect health."

"But why are you alone? Why does not Marie accompany you? It is ten

weeks since she went to Paris."

"She has not yet quite finished the business with which you entrusted

her. Perhaps I am partly the cause of this long absence, but one cannot

transact business as quickly as one would wish. But, you have no doubt

heard from her, that all is finished, or nearly so, between us. We have

drawn up a second private contract, which annuls the former agreement,

and I have paid over a sum of one hundred thousand livres."

"I do not comprehend," said Monsieur de Lamotte. "What can induce my

wife not to inform me of this?"

"You did not know?"

"I know nothing. I was wondering just now with Monsieur le cure why I

did not hear from her."

"Madame de Lamotte was going to write to you, and I do not know what can

have hindered her."

"When did you leave her?"

"Several days ago. I have not been at Paris; I am returning from

Chartres. I believed you were informed of everything."

Monsieur de Lamotte remained silent for some moments. Then, fixing his

eyes upon Derues’ immovable countenance, he said, with some emotion—

"You are a husband and father, sir; in the name of this double and

sacred affection which is, not unknown to you, do not hide anything from

me: I fear some misfortune has happened to my wife which you are

concealing."

Derues’ physiognomy expressed nothing but a perfectly natural

astonishment.

"What can have suggested such ideas to you; dear sir?" In saying this he

glanced at the cure; wishing to ascertain if this distrust was Monsieur

de Lamotte’s own idea, or had been suggested to him. The movement was so

rapid that neither of the others observed it. Like all knaves, obliged

by their actions to be continually on the watch, Derues possessed to a

remarkable extent the art of seeing all round him without appearing to

observe anything in particular. He decided that as yet he had only to

combat a suspicion unfounded on proof, and he waited till he should be

attacked more seriously.

"I do not know," he said, "what may have happened during my absence;

pray explain yourself, for you are making me share your disquietude."

"Yes, I am exceedingly anxious; I entreat you, tell me the whole truth.

Explain this silence, and this absence prolonged beyond all expectation.

You finished your business with Madame de Lamotte several days ago: once

again, why did she not write? There is no letter, either from her or my

son! To-morrow I shall send someone to Paris."

"Good heavens!" answered Derues, "is there nothing but an accident which

could cause this delay? . . . Well, then," he continued, with the

embarrassed look of a man compelled to betray a confidence,—"well, then,

I see that in order to reassure you, I shall have to give up a secret

entrusted to me."

He then told Monsieur de Lamotte that his wife was no longer at Paris,

but at Versailles, where she was endeavouring to obtain an important and

lucrative appointment, and that, if she had left him in ignorance of her

efforts in this direction; it was only to give him an agreeable

surprise. He added that she had removed her son from the school, and

hoped to place him either in the riding school or amongst the royal

pages. To prove his words, he opened his paper-case, and produced the

letter written by Edouard in answer to the one quoted above.

All this was related so simply, and with such an appearance of good

faith, that the cure was quite convinced. And to Monsieur de Lamotte the

plans attributed to his wife were not entirely improbably. Derues had

learnt indirectly that such a career for Edouard had been actually under

consideration. However, though Monsieur de Lamotte’s entire ignorance

prevented him from making any serious objection, his fears were not

entirely at rest, but for the present he appeared satisfied with the

explanation.

The cure resumed the conversation. "What you tell us ought to drive away

gloomy ideas. Just now, when you were announced, Monsieur de Lamotte was

confiding his troubles to me. I was as concerned as he was, and I could

say nothing to help him; never did visitor arrive more apropos. Well, my

friend, what now remains of your vain terrors? What was it you were

saying just as Monsieur Derues arrived? . . . Ah! we were discussing

dreams, you asked if I believed in them."

Monsieur, de Lamotte, who had sunk back in his easy-chair and seemed

lost in his reflections, started on hearing these words. He raised his

head and looked again at Derues. But the latter had had time to note the

impression produced by the cure’s remark, and this renewed examination

did not disturb him.

"Yes," said Monsieur de Lamotte, "I had asked that question."

"And I was going to answer that there are certain secret warnings which

can be received by the soul long before they are intelligible to the

bodily senses-revelations not understood at first, but which later

connect themselves with realities of which they are in some way the

precursors. Do you agree with me, Monsieur Derues?"

"I have no opinion on such a subject, and must leave the discussion to

more learned people than myself. I do not know whether such apparitions

really mean anything or not, and I have not sought to fathom these

mysteries, thinking them outside the realm of human intelligence."

"Nevertheless," said the cure, "we are obliged to recognise their

existence."

"Yes, but without either understanding or explaining them, like many

other eternal truths. I follow the rule given in the Imitation o f Jesus

Christ: ’Beware, my son, of considering too curiously the things beyond

thine intelligence.’"

"And I also submit, and avoid too curious consideration. But has not the

soul knowledge of many wondrous things which we can yet neither see nor

touch? I repeat, there are things which cannot be denied."

Derues listened attentively, continually on his guard; and afraid, he

knew not why, of becoming entangled in this conversation, as in a trap.

He carefully watched Monsieur de Lamotte, whose eyes never left him. The

cure resumed—

"Here is an instance which I was bound to accept, seeing it happened to

myself. I was then twenty, and my mother lived in the neighbourhood of

Tours, whilst I was at the seminary of Montpellier. After several years

of separation, I had obtained permission to go and see her. I wrote,

telling her of this good news, and I received her answer—full of joy and

tenderness. My brother and sister were to be informed, it was to be a

family meeting, a real festivity; and I started with a light and joyous

heart. My impatience was so great, that, having stopped for supper at a

village inn some ten leagues from Tours, I would not wait till the next

morning for the coach which went that way, but continued the journey on

foot and walked all night. It was a long and difficult road, but

happiness redoubled my strength. About an hour after sunrise I saw

distinctly the smoke and the village roofs, and I hurried on to surprise

my family a little sooner. I never felt more active, more light-hearted

and gay; everything seemed to smile before and around me. Turning a

corner of the hedge, I met a peasant whom I recognised. All at once it

seemed as if a veil spread over my sight, all my hopes and joy suddenly

vanished, a funereal idea took possession of me, and I said, taking the

hand of the man, who had not yet spoken—

"’My mother is dead, I am convinced my mother is dead!’

"He hung down his head and answered—

"’She is to be buried this morning!’

"Now whence came this revelation? I had seen no one, spoken to no one; a

moment before I had no idea of it!"

Derues made a gesture of surprise. Monsieur de Lamotte put his hand to

his eyes, and said to the cure—

"Your presentiments were true; mine, happily, are unfounded. But listen,

and tell me if in the state of anxiety which oppressed me I had not good

reason for alarm and for fearing some fatal misfortune."

His eyes again sought Derues. "Towards the middle of last night I at

length fell asleep, but, interrupted every moment, this sleep was more a

fatigue than a rest; I seemed to hear confused noises all round me. I

saw brilliant lights which dazzled me, and then sank back into silence

and darkness. Sometimes I heard someone weeping near my bed; again

plaintive voices called to me out of the darkness. I stretched out my

arms, but nothing met them, I fought with phantoms; at length a cold

hand grasped mine and led me rapidly forward. Under a dark and damp

vault a woman lay on the ground, bleeding, inanimate—it was my wife! At

the same moment, a groan made me look round, and I beheld a man striking

my son with a dagger. I cried out and awoke, bathed in cold

perspiration, panting under this terrible vision. I was obliged to get

up, walk about, and speak aloud, in order to convince myself it was only

a dream. I tried to go to sleep again, but the same visions still

pursued me. I saw always the same man armed with two daggers streaming

with blood; I heard always the cries of his two victims. When day came,

I felt utterly broken, worn-out; and this morning, you, my father, could

see by my despondency what an impression this awful night had made upon

me."

During this recital Derues’ calmness never gave way for a single moment,

and the most skilful physiognomist could only have discovered an

expression of incredulous curiosity on his countenance.

"Monsieur le cure’s story," said he, "impressed me much; yours only

brings back my uncertainty. It is less possible than ever to deliver any

opinion on this serious question of dreams, since the second instance

contradicts the first."

"It is true," answered the cure, "no possible conclusion can be drawn

from two facts which contradict each other, and the best thing we can do

is to choose a less dismal subject of conversation."

"Monsieur Derues;" asked Monsieur de Lamotte, "if you are not too tired

with your journey, shall we go and look at the last improvements I have

made? It is now your affair to decide upon them, since I shall shortly

be only your guest here."

"Just as I have been yours for long enough, and I trust you will often

give me the opportunity of exercising hospitality in my turn. But you

are ill, the day is cold and damp; if you do not care to go out, do not

let me disturb you. Had you not better stay by the fire with Monsieur le

cure? For me, Heaven be thanked! I require no assistance. I will look

round the park, and come back presently to tell you what I think.

Besides, we shall have plenty of time to talk about it. With your

permission, I should like to stay two or three days."

"I shall be pleased if you will do so."

Derues went out, sufficiently uneasy in his mind, both on account of his

reception of Monsieur de Lamotte’s fears and of the manner in which the

latter had watched him during the conversation. He walked quickly up and

down the park—

"I have been foolish, perhaps; I have lost twelve or fifteen days, and

delayed stupidly from fear of not foreseeing everything. But then, how

was I to imagine that this simple, easily deceived man would all at once

become suspicious? What a strange dream! If I had not been on my guard,

I might have been disconcerted. Come, come, I must try to disperse these

ideas and give him something else to think about."

He stopped, and after a few minutes consideration turned back towards

the house.

As soon as he had left the room, Monsieur de Lamotte had bent over

towards the cure, and had said—

"He did not show any emotion, did—he?"

"None whatever."

"He did not start when I spoke of the man armed with those two daggers?"

"No. But put aside these ideas; you must see they are mistaken."

"I did not tell everything, my father: this murderer whom I saw in my

dream—was Derues himself! I know as well as you that it must be a

delusion, I saw as well as you did that he remained quite calm, but, in

spite of myself, this terrible dream haunts me . . . .There, do not

listen to me, do not let me talk about it; it only makes me blush for

myself."

Whilst Derues remained at Buisson-Souef, Monsieur de Lamotte received

several letters from his wife, some from Paris, some from Versailles.

She remarked that her son and herself were perfectly well.... The

writing was so well imitated that no one could doubt their genuineness.

However, Monsieur de Lamotte’s suspicions continually increased and he

ended by making the cure share his fears. He also refused to go with

Derues to Paris, in spite of the latter’s entreaties. Derues, alarmed at

the coldness shown him, left Buisson-Souef, saying that he intended to

take possession about the middle of spring.

Monsieur de Lamotte was, in spite of himself, still detained by

ill-health. But a new and inexplicable circumstance made him resolve to

go to Paris and endeavour to clear up the mystery which appeared to

surround his wife and son. He received an unsigned letter in unknown

handwriting, and in which Madame de Lamotte’s reputation was attacked

with a kind of would-be reticence, which hinted that she was an

unfaithful wife and that in this lay the cause of her long absence. Her

husband did not believe this anonymous denunciation, but the fate of the

two beings dearest to him seemed shrouded in so much obscurity that he

could delay no longer, and started for Paris.

His resolution not to accompany Derues had saved his life. The latter

could not carry out his culminating crime at Buisson-Souef; it was only

in Paris that his victims would disappear without his being called to

account. Obliged to leave hold of his prey, he endeavoured to bewilder

him in a labyrinth where all trace of truth might be lost. Already, as

he had arranged beforehand, he had called calumny to his help, and

prepared the audacious lie which was to vindicate himself should an

accusation fall upon his head. He had hoped that Monsieur de Lamotte

would fall defenceless into his hands; but now a careful examination of

his position, showing the impossibility of avoiding an explanation had

become inevitable, made him change all his plans, and compelled him to

devise an infernal plot, so skilfully laid that it bid fair to defeat

all human sagacity.

Monsieur de Lamotte arrived in Paris early in March. Chance decided that

he should lodge in the rue de la Mortellerie, in a house not far from

the one where his wife’s body lay buried. He went to see Derues, hoping

to surprise him, and determined to make him speak, but found he was not

at home. Madame Derues, whether acting with the discretion of an

accomplice or really ignorant of her husband’s proceedings, could not

say where he was likely to be found. She said that he told her nothing

about his actions, and that Monsieur de Lamotte must have observed

during their stay at Buisson (which was true) that she never questioned

him, but obeyed his wishes in everything; and that he had now gone away

without saying where he was going. She acknowledged that Madame de

Lamotte had lodged with them for six weeks, and that she knew that lady

had been at Versailles, but since then she had heard nothing. All

Monsieur de Lamotte’s questions, his entreaties, prayers, or threats,

obtained no other answer. He went to the lawyer in the rue de Paon, to

the schoolmaster, and found the same uncertainty, the same ignorance.

His wife and his son had gone to Versailles, there the clue ended which

ought to guide his investigations. He went to this town; no one could

give him any information, the very name of Lamotte was unknown. He

returned to Paris, questioned and examined the people of the quarter,

the proprietor of the Hotel de France, where his wife had stayed on her

former visit; at length, wearied with useless efforts, he implored help

from justice. Then his complaints ceased; he was advised to maintain a

prudent silence, and to await Derues’ return.

The latter thoroughly understood that, having failed to dissipate

Monsieur de Lamotte’s fears, there was no longer an instant to lose, and

that the pretended private contract of February 12th would not of itself

prove the existence of Madame de Lamotte. This is how he employed the

time spent by the unhappy husband in fruitless investigation.

On March 12th, a woman, her face hidden in the hood of her cloak, or

"Therese," as it was then called, appeared in the office of Maitre N——-,

a notary at Lyons. She gave her name as Marie Francoise Perffier, wife

of Monsieur Saint-Faust de Lamotte, but separated, as to goods and

estate, from him. She caused a deed to be drawn up, authorising her

husband to receive the arrears of thirty thousand livres remaining from

the price of the estate of Buisson-Souef, situated near

Villeneuve-le-Roi-lez-Sens. The deed was drawn up and signed by Madame

de Lamotte, by the notary, and one of his colleagues.

This woman was Derues. If we remember that he only arrived at Buisson

February 28th, and remained there for some days, it becomes difficult to

understand how at that period so long a journey as that from Paris to

Lyons could have been accomplished with such rapidity. Fear must have

given him wings. We will now explain what use he intended to make of it,

and what fable, a masterpiece of cunning and of lies, he had invented.

On his arrival in Paris he found a summons to appear before the

magistrate of police. He expected this, and appeared quite tranquil,

ready to answer any questions. Monsieur de Lamotte was present. It was a

formal examination, and the magistrate first asked why he had left

Paris.

"Monsieur," replied Derues, "I have nothing to hide, and none of my

actions need fear the daylight, but before replying, I should like to

understand my position. As a domiciled citizen I have a right to require

this. Will you kindly inform me why I have been summoned to appear

before you, whether on account of anything personal to myself, or simply

to give information as to something which may be within my knowledge?"

"You are acquainted with this gentleman, and cannot therefore be

ignorant of the cause of the present inquiry."

"I am, nevertheless, quite in ignorance of it."

"Be good enough to answer my question. Why did you leave Paris? And

where have you been?"

"I was absent for business reasons."

"What business?"

"I shall say no more."

"Take care! you have incurred serious suspicions, and silence will not

tend to clear you."

Derues hung down his head with an air of resignation; and Monsieur de

Lamotte, seeing in this attitude a silent confession of crime,

exclaimed, "Wretched man! what have you done with my wife and my son?"

"Your son!—" said Derues slowly and with peculiar emphasis. He again

cast down his eyes.

The magistrate conducting the inquiry was struck by the expression of

Derues’ countenance and by this half answer, which appeared to hide a

mystery and to aim at diverting attention by offering a bait to

curiosity. He might have stopped Derues at the moment when he sought to

plunge into a tortuous argument, and compelled him to answer with the

same clearness and decision which distinguished Monsieur de Lamotte’s

question; but he reflected that the latter’s inquiries, unforeseen,

hasty, and passionate, were perhaps more likely to disconcert a prepared

defence than cooler and more skilful tactics. He therefore changed his

plans, contenting "himself for the moment with the part of an observer

only, and watching a duel between two fairly matched antagonists.

"I require: you to tell me what has become of them," repeated Monsieur

de Lamotte. "I have been to Versailles, you assured me they were there."

"And I told you the truth, monsieur."

"No one has seen them, no one knows them; every trace is lost. Your

Honour, this man must be compelled to answer, he must say what has

become of my wife and son!"

"I excuse your anxiety, I understand your trouble, but why appeal to me?

Why am I supposed to know what may have happened to them?"

"Because I confided them to your care."

"As a friend, yes, I agree. Yes, it is quite true that last December I

received a letter from you informing me of the impending arrival of your

wife and son. I received them in my own house, and showed them the same

hospitality which I had received from you. I saw them both, your son

often, your wife every day, until the day she left me to go to

Versailles. Yes, I also took Edouard to his mother, who was negotiating

an appointment for him. I have already told you all this, and I repeat

it because it is the truth. You believed me then: why do you not believe

me now? Why has what I say become strange and incredible? If your wife

and your son have disappeared, am I responsible? Did you transmit your

authority to me? And now, in what manner are you thus calling me to

account? Is it to the friend who might have pitied, who might have aided

your search, that you thus address yourself? Have you come to confide in

me, to ask for advice, for consolation? No, you accuse me; very well!

then I refuse to speak, because, having no proofs, you yet accuse an

honest man; because your fears, whether real or imaginary, do not excuse

you for casting, I know not what odious suspicions, on a blameless

reputation, because I have the right to be offended. Monsieur" he

continued, turning to the magistrate, "I believe you will appreciate my

moderation, and will allow me to retire. If charges are brought against

me, I am quite ready to meet them, and to show what they are really

worth. I shall remain in Paris, I have now no business which requires my

presence elsewhere."

He emphasised these last words, evidently intending to draw attention to

them. It did not escape the magistrate, who inquired—

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing beyond my words, your Honour, Have I your permission to

retire?"

"No, remain; you are pretending not to understand."

"I do not understand these insinuations so covertly made."

Monsieur de Lamotte rose, exclaiming—

"Insinuations! What more can I say to compel you to answer? My wife and

son have disappeared. It is untrue that, as you pretend, they have been

at Versailles. You deceived me at Buisson-Souef, just as you are

deceiving me now, as you are endeavouring to deceive justice by

inventing fresh lies. Where are they? What has become of them? I am

tormented by all the fears possible to a husband and father; I imagine

all the most terrible misfortunes, and I accuse you to your face of

having caused their death! Is this sufficient, or do you still accuse me

of covert insinuations?"

Derues turned to the magistrate. "Is this charge enough to place me in

the position of a criminal if I do not give a satisfactory explanation?"

"Certainly; you should have thought of that sooner."

"Then," he continued, addressing Monsieur de Lamotte, "I understand you

persist in this odious accusation?"

"I certainly persist in it."

"You have forgotten our friendship, broken all bonds between us: I am in

your eyes only a miserable assassin? You consider my silence as guilty,

you will ruin me if I do not speak?"

"It is true."

"There is still time for reflection; consider what you are doing; I will

forget your insults and your anger. Your trouble is great enough without

my reproaches being added to it. But you desire that I should speak, you

desire it absolutely?"

"I do desire it."

"Very well, then; it shall be as you wish."

Derues surveyed Monsieur de Lamotte with a look which seemed to say, "I

pity you." He then added, with a sigh—

"I am now ready to answer. Your Honour, will you have the kindness to

resume my examination?"

Derues had succeeded in taking up an advantageous position. If he had

begun narrating the extraordinary romance he had invented, the least

penetrating eye must have perceived its improbability, and one would

have felt it required some support at every turn. But since he had

resisted being forced to tell it, and apparently only ceded to Monsieur

de Lamotte’s violent persistency, the situation was changed; and this

refusal to speak, coming from a man who thereby compromised his personal

safety, took the semblance of generosity, and was likely to arouse the

magistrate’s curiosity and prepare his mind for unusual and mysterious

revelations. This was exactly what Derues wanted, and he awaited the

interrogation with calm and tranquillity.

"Why did you leave Paris?" the magistrate demanded a second time.

"I have already had the honour to inform you that important business

necessitated my absence."

"But you refused to explain the nature of this business. Do you still

persist in this refusal?"

"For the moment, yes. I will explain it later."

"Where have you been? Whence do you return?"

"I have been to Lyons, and have returned thence."

"What took you there?

"I will tell you later."

"In the month of December last, Madame de Lamotte and her son came to

Paris?

"That is so."

"They both lodged in your house?"

"I have no reason to deny it."

"But neither she herself, nor Monsieur de Lamotte, had at first intended

that she should accept a lodging in the house which you occupied."

"That is quite true. We had important accounts to settle, and Madame de

Lamotte told me afterwards that she feared some dispute on the question

of money might arise between us—at least, that is the reason she gave

me. She was mistaken, as the event proved, since I always intended to

pay, and I have paid. But she may have had another reason which she

preferred not to give."

"It was the distrust of this man which she felt," exclaimed Monsieur de

Lamotte. Derues answered only with a melancholy smile.

"Silence, monsieur," said the magistrate, "silence; do not interrupt."

Then addressing Derues—

"Another motive? What motive do you suppose?"

"Possibly she preferred to be more free, and able to receive any visitor

she wished."

"What do you mean?"

"It is only supposition on my part, I do not insist upon it."

"But the supposition appears to contain a hint injurious to Madame de

Lamotte’s reputation?"

"No, oh no!" replied Derues, after a moment’s silence.

This sort of insinuation appeared strange to the magistrate, who

resolved to try and force Derues to abandon these treacherous reticences

behind which he sheltered himself. Again recommending silence to

Monsieur de Lamotte, he continued to question Derues, not perceiving

that he was only following the lead skilfully given by the latter, who

drew him gradually on by withdrawing himself, and that all the time thus

gained was an advantage to the accused.

"Well," said the magistrate, "whatever Madame de Lamotte’s motives may

have been, it ended in her coming to stay with you. How did you persuade

her to take this step?"

"My wife accompanied her first to the Hotel de France, and then to other

hotels. I said no more than might be deemed allowable in a friend; I

could not presume to persuade her against her will. When I returned

home, I was surprised to find her there with her son. She could not find

a disengaged room in any of the hotels she tried, and she then accepted

my offer."

"What date was this?"

"Monday, the 16th of last December."

"And when did she leave your house?"

"On the 1st of February."

"The porter cannot remember having seen her go out on that day."

"That is possible. Madame de Lamotte went and came as her affairs

required. She was known, and no more attention would be paid to her than

to any other inmate."

"The porter also says that for several days before this date she was

ill, and obliged to keep her room?"

"Yes, it was a slight indisposition, which had no results, so slight

that it seemed unnecessary to call in a doctor. Madame de Lamotte

appeared preoccupied and anxious. I think her mental attitude influenced

her health."

"Did you escort her to Versailles?"

"No; I went there to see her later."

"What proof can you give of her having actually stayed there?"

"None whatever, unless it be a letter which I received from her."

"You told Monsieur de, Lamotte that she was exerting herself to procure

her son’s admission either as a king’s page or into the riding school.

Now, no one at Versailles has seen this lady, or even heard of her."

"I only repeated what she told me."

"Where was she staying?"

"I do not know."

"What! she wrote to you, you went to see her, and yet you do not know

where she was lodging?"

"That is so."

"But it is impossible."

"There are many things which would appear impossible if I were to relate

them, but which are true, nevertheless."

"Explain yourself."

"I only received one letter from Madame de Lamotte, in which she spoke

of her plans for Edouard, requesting me to send her her son on a day she

fixed, and I told Edouard of her projects. Not being able to go to the

school to see him, I wrote, asking if he would like to give up his

studies and become a royal page. When I was last at Buisson-Souef, I

showed his answer to Monsieur de Lamotte; it is here."

And he handed over a letter to the magistrate, who read it, and passing

it on to Monsieur de Lamotte, inquired—

"Did you then, and do you now, recognise your son’s handwriting?"

"Perfectly, monsieur."

"You took Edouard to Versailles?"

"I did."

"On what day?"

"February 11th, Shrove Tuesday. It is the only time I have been to

Versailles. The contrary might be supposed; for I have allowed it to be

understood that I have often seen Madame de Lamotte since she left my

house, and was acquainted with all her actions, and that the former

confidence and friendship still existed between us. In allowing this, I

have acted a lie, and transgressed the habitual sincerity of my whole

life."

This assertion produced a bad impression on the magistrate. Derues

perceived it, and to avert evil consequences, hastened to add—

"My conduct can only be appreciated when it is known in entirety. I

misunderstood the meaning of Madame de Lamotte’s letter. She asked me to

send her her son, I thought to oblige her by accompanying him, and not

leaving him to go alone. So we travelled together, and arrived at

Versailles about midday. As I got down from the coach I saw Madame de

Lamotte at the palace gate, and observed, to my astonishment, that my

presence displeased her. She was not alone."

He stopped, although he had evidently reached the most interesting point

of his story.

"Go on," said the magistrate; "why do you stop now?"

"Because what I have to say is so painful—not to me, who have to justify

myself, but for others, that I hesitate."

"Go on."

"Will you then interrogate me, please?"

"Well, what happened in this interview?"

Derues appeared to collect himself for a moment, and then said with the

air of a man who has decide on speaking out at last—

"Madame de Lamotte was not alone; she was attended by a gentleman whom I

did not know, whom I never saw either at Buisson-Souef or in Paris, and

whom I have never seen again since. I will ask you to allow me to

recount everything; even to the smallest details. This man’s face struck

me at once, on account of a singular resemblance; he paid no attention

to me at first, and I was able to examine him at leisure. His manners

were those of a man belonging to the highest classes of society, and his

dress indicated wealth. On seeing Edouard, he said to Madame de Lamotte—

"’So this is he?’ and he then kissed him tenderly. This and the marks of

undisguised pleasure which he evinced surprised me, and I looked at

Madame de Lamotte, who then remarked with some asperity—

"’I did not expect to see you, Monsieur Derues. I had not asked you to

accompany my son.’

"Edouard seemed quite as much surprised as I was. The stranger gave me a

look of haughty annoyance, but seeing I did not avoid his glance his

countenance assumed a more gentle expression, and Madame de Lamotte

introduced him as a person who took great interest in Edouard."

"It is a whole tissue of imposture!" exclaimed Monsieur de Lamotte.

"Allow me to finish," answered Derues. "I understand your doubts, and

that you are not anxious to believe what I say, but I have been brought

here by legal summons to tell the truth, and I am going to tell it. You

can then weigh the two accusations in the balance, and choose between

them. The reputation of an honourable man is as sacred, as important, as

worthy of credit as the reputation of a woman, and I never heard that

the virtue of the one was more fragile than that of the other."

Monsieur de Lamotte, thunderstruck by such a revelation, could not

contain his impatience and indignation.

"This, then," he said, "is the explanation of an anonymous letter which

I received, and of the injurious suggestions’ concerning my wife’s

honour which it contained; it was written to give an appearance of

probability to this infamous legend. The whole thing is a disgraceful

plot, and no doubt Monsieur Derues wrote the letter himself."

"I know nothing about it," said Derues unconcernedly, "and the

explanation which you profess to find in it I should rather refer to

something else I am going to mention. I did not know a secret warning

had been sent to you: I now learn it from you, and I understand

perfectly that such a letter, may have been written. But that you have

received such a warning ought surely to be a reason for listening

patiently and not denouncing all I say as imposture."

While saying this Derues mentally constructed the fresh falsehood

necessitated by the interruption, but no variation of countenance

betrayed his thought. He had an air of dignity natural to his position.

He saw that, in spite of clear-headedness and long practice in studying

the most deceptive countenances, the magistrate so far had not scented

any of his falsehoods, and was getting bewildered in the windings of

this long narrative, through which Derues led him as he chose; and he

resumed with confidence—

"You know that I made Monsieur de Lamotte’s acquaintance more than a

year ago, and I had reason to believe his friendship as sincere as my

own. As a friend, I could not calmly accept the suspicion which then

entered my mind, nor could I conceal my surprise. Madame de Lamotte saw

this, and understood from my looks that I was not satisfied with the

explanation she wished me to accept. A glance of intelligence passed

between her and her friend, who was still holding Edouard’s hand. The

day, though cold, was fine, and she proposed a walk in the park. I

offered her my arm, and the stranger walked in front with Edouard. We

had a short conversation, which has remained indelibly fixed in my

memory.

"’Why did you come?’ she inquired.

"I did not answer, but looked sternly at her, in order to discompose

her. At length I said—

"’You should have written, madame, and warned me that my coming would be

indiscreet.’

"She seemed much disconcerted, and exclaimed—

"’I am lost! I see you guess everything, and will tell my husband. I am

an unhappy woman, and a sin once committed can never be erased from the

pages of a woman’s life! Listen, Monsieur Derues, listen, I implore you!

You see this man, I shall not tell you who he is, I shall not give his

name . . . but I loved him long ago; I should have been his wife, and

had he not been compelled to leave France, I should have married no one

else.’"

Monsieur de Lamotte started, and grew pale.

"What is the matter?" the magistrate inquired.

"Oh! this dastardly wretch is profiting by his knowledge of secrets

which a long intimacy has enabled him to discover. Do not believe him, I

entreat you, do not believe him!"

Derues resumed. "Madame de Lamotte continued: ’I saw him again sixteen

years ago, always in hiding, always proscribed. To-day he reappears

under a name which is not his own: he wishes to link my fate with his;

he has insisted on seeing Edouard. But I shall escape him. I have

invented this fiction of placing my son among the, royal pages to

account for my stay here. Do not contradict me, but help me; for a

little time ago I met one of Monsieur de Lamotte’s friends, I am afraid

he suspected something. Say you have seen me several times; as you have

come, let it be known that you brought Edouard here. I shall return to

Buisson as soon as possible, but will you go first, see my husband,

satisfy him if he is anxious? I am in your hands; my honour, my

reputation, my very life, are at your mercy; you can either ruin or help

to save me. I may be guilty, but I am not corrupt. I have wept for my

sin day after day, and I have already cruelly expiated it.’"

This execrable calumny was not related without frequent interruptions on

the part of Monsieur de Lamotte. He was, however, obliged to own to

himself that it was quite true that Marie Perier had really been

promised to a man whom an unlucky affair had driven into exile, and whom

he had supposed to be dead. This revelation, coming from Derues, who had

the strongest interest in lying, by no means convinced him of his wife’s

dishonour, nor destroyed the feelings of a husband and father; but

Derues was not speaking for him lone, and what appeared incredible to

Monsieur de Lamotte might easily seem less improbable to the colder and

less interested judgment of the magistrate.

"I was wrong," Derues continued, "in allowing myself to be touched by

her tears, wrong in believing in her repentance, more wrong still in

going to Buisson to satisfy her husband. But I only consented on

conditions: Madame de Lamotte promised me to return shortly to Paris,

vowing that her son should never know the truth, and that the rest of

her life should be devoted to atoning for her sin by a boundless

devotion. She then begged me to leave her, and told me she would write

to me at Paris to fix the day of her return. This is what happened, and

this is why I went to Buissan and gave my support to a lying fiction.

With one word I might have destroyed the happiness of seventeen years. I

did not wish to do so. I believed in the remorse; I believe in it still,

in spite of all appearances; I have refused to speak this very day, and

made every effort to prolong an illusion which I know it will be

terrible to lose."

There was a moment of silence. This fable, so atrociously ingenious, was

simply and impressively narrated, and with an air of candour well

contrived to impose on the magistrate, or, at least, to suggest grave

doubts to his mind. Derues, with his usual cunning, had conformed his

language to the quality of his listener. Any tricks, profession of

piety, quotations from sacred books, so largely indulged in when he

wished to bamboozle people of a lower class, would here have told

against him. He knew when to abstain, and carried the art of deception

far enough to be able to lay aside the appearance of hypocrisy. He had

described all the circumstances without affectation, and if this

unexpected accusation was wholly unproved, it yet rested on a possible

fact, and did not appear absolutely incredible. The magistrate went

through it all again, and made him repeat every detail, without being

able to make him contradict himself or show the smallest embarrassment.

While interrogating Derues, he kept his eyes fixed upon him; and this

double examination being quite fruitless, only increased his perplexity.

However, he never relaxed the incredulous severity of his demeanour, nor

the imperative and threatening tone of his voice.

"You acknowledge having been at Lyons?" he asked.

"I have been there."

"At the beginning of this examination you said you would explain the

reason of this journey later."

"I am ready to do so, for the journey is connected with the facts I have

just narrated; it was caused by them."

"Explain it."

"I again ask permission to relate fully. I did not hear from Versailles:

I began to fear Monsieur de Lamotte’s anxiety would bring him to Paris.

Bound by the promise I had made to his wife to avert all suspicion and

to satisfy any doubts he might conceive, and, must I add, also

remembering that it was important for me to inform him of our new

arrangements, and of this payment of a hundred thousand livres."

"That payment is assuredly fictitious," interrupted Monsieur de Lamotte;

"we must have some proof of it."

"I will prove it presently," answered Derues. "So I went to Buisson, as

I have already told you. On my return I found a letter from Madame de

Lamotte, a letter with a Paris stamp, which had arrived that morning. I

was surprised that she should write, when actually in Paris; I opened

the letter, and was still more surprised. I have not the letter with me,

but I recollect the sense of it perfectly, if not the wording, and I can

produce it if necessary. Madame de Lamotte was at Lyons with her son and

this person whose name I do not know, and whom I do not care to mention

before her husband. She had confided this letter to a person who was

coming to Paris, and who was to bring it me; but this individual, whose

name was Marquis, regretted that having to start again immediately, he

was obliged to entrust it to the post. This is the sense of its

contents. Madame de Lamotte wrote that she found herself obliged to

follow this nameless person to Lyons; and she begged me to send her news

of her husband and of the state of his affairs, but said not one single

word of any probable return. I became very uneasy at the news of this

clandestine departure. I had no security except a private contract

annulling our first agreement on the payment of one hundred thousand

livres, and that this was not a sufficient and regular receipt I knew,

because the lawyer had already refused to surrender Monsieur de

Lamotte’s power of attorney. I thought over all the difficulties which

this flight, which would have to be kept secret, was likely to produce,

and I started for Lyons without writing or giving any notice of my

intention. I had no information, I did not even know whether Madame de

Lamotte was passing by another name, as at Versailles, but chance

decreed that I met her the very day of my arrival. She was alone, and

complained bitterly of her fate, saying she had been compelled to follow

this individual to Lyons, but that very soon she would be free and would

return to Paris. But I was struck by the uncertainty of her manner, and

said I should not leave her without obtaining a deed in proof of our

recent arrangements. She refused at first, saying it was unnecessary, as

she would so soon return; but I insisted strongly. I told her I had

already com promised myself by telling Monsieur de Lamotte that she was

at Versailles, endeavouring to procure an appointment for her son; that

since she had been compelled to come to Lyons, the same person might

take her elsewhere, so that she might disappear any day, might leave

France without leaving any trace, without any written acknowledgment of

her own dishonour; and that when all these falsehoods were discovered, I

should appear in the light of an accomplice. I said also that, as she

had unfortunately lodged in my house in Paris, and had requested me to

remove her son from his school, explanations would be required from me,

and perhaps I should be accused of this double disappearance. Finally, I

declared that if she did not give me some proofs of her existence,

willingly or unwillingly, I would go at once to a magistrate. My

firmness made her reflect. ’My good Monsieur Derues,’ she said, ’I ask

your forgiveness for all the trouble I have caused you. I will give you

this deed to-morrow, to-day it is too late; but come to this same place

to-morrow, and you shall see me again.’ I hesitated, I confess, to let

her go. ’Ah,’ she said, grasping my hands, ’do not suspect me of

intending to deceive you! I swear that I will meet you here at four

o’clock. It is enough that I have ruined myself, and perhaps my son,

without also entangling you in my unhappy fate. Yes, you are right; this

deed is important, necessary for you, and you shall have it. But do not

show yourself here; if you were seen, I might not be able to do what I

ought to do. To-morrow you shall see me again, I swear it.’ She then

left me. The next day, the 12th, of March, I was exact at the

rendezvous, and Madame de Lamotte arrived a moment later. She gave me a

deed, authorising her husband to receive the arrears of thirty thousand

livres remaining from the purchase-money of Buisson-Souef. I endeavoured

again to express my opinion of her conduct; she listened in silence, as

if my words affected her deeply. We were walking together, when she told

me she had some business in a house we were passing, and asked me to

wait for her. I waited more than an hour, and then discovered that this

house, like many others in Lyons, had an exit in another street; and I

understood that Madame de Lamotte had escaped by this passage, and that

I might wait in vain. Concluding that trying to follow her would be

useless, and seeing also that any remonstrance would be made in vain, I

returned to Paris, deciding to say nothing as yet, and to conceal the

truth as long as possible. I still had hopes, and I did not count on

being so soon called on to defend myself: I thought that when I had to

speak, it would be as a friend, and not as an accused person. This, sir,

is the explanation of my conduct, and I regret that this justification,

so easy for myself, should be so cruelly painful for another. You have

seen the efforts which I made to defer it."

Monsieur de Lamotte had heard this second part of Derues’ recital with a

more silent indignation, not that he admitted its probability, but he

was confounded by this monstrous imposture, and, as it were,

terror-stricken by such profound hypocrisy. His mind revolted at the

idea of his wife being accused of adultery; but while he repelled this

charge with decision, he saw the confirmation of his secret terrors and

presentiments, and his heart sank within him at the prospect of

exploring this abyss of iniquity. He was pale, gasping for breath, as

though he himself had been the criminal, while scorching tears furrowed

his cheeks. He tried to speak, but his voice failed; he wanted to fling

back at Derues the names of traitor and assassin, and he was obliged to

bear in silence the look of mingled grief and pity which the latter

bestowed upon him.

The magistrate, calmer, and master of his emotions, but tolerably

bewildered in this labyrinth of cleverly connected lies, thought it

desirable to ask some further questions.

"How," said he, "did you obtain this sum of a hundred thousand livres

which you say you paid over to Madame de Lamotte?"

"I have been engaged in business for several years, and have acquired

some fortune."

"Nevertheless, you have postponed the obligation of making this payment

several times, so that Monsieur de Lamotte had begun to feel uneasiness

on the subject. This was the chief reason of his wife’s coming to

Paris."

"One sometimes experiences momentary difficulties, which presently

disappear."

"You say you have a deed given you at Lyons by Madame de Lamotte, which

you were to give to her husband?"

"It is here."

The magistrate examined the deed carefully, and noted the name of the

lawyer in whose office it had been drawn up.

"You may go," he said at last.

"What!" exclaimed Monsieur de Lamotte.

Derues stopped, but the magistrate signed to him to go, intimating,

however, that he was on no account to leave Paris.

"But," said Monsieur de Lamotte, when they were alone, "this man is

indeed guilty. My wife has not betrayed me! She!—forget her duties as a

wife! she was virtue incarnate! Ah! I assure you these terrible

calumnies are invented to conceal double crime! I throw myself at your

feet,—I implore your justice!"

"Rise, monsieur. This is only a preliminary examination, and I confess

that, so far, he comes well out of it, for imagination can hardly

understand such a depth of deceit. I watched him closely the whole time,

and I could discover no sign of alarm, no contradiction, in either face

or language; if guilty, he must be the greatest hypocrite that ever

existed. But I shall neglect nothing: if a criminal is allowed to

flatter himself with impunity, he frequently forgets to be prudent, and

I have seen many betray themselves when they thought they had nothing to

fear. Patience, and trust to the justice of both God and man."

Several days passed, and Derues flattered him self the danger was over:

his every action mean while was most carefully watched, but so that he

remained unaware of the surveillance. A police officer named Mutel,

distinguished for activity and intelligence beyond his fellows, was

charged with collecting information and following any trail. All his

bloodhounds were in action, and hunted Paris thoroughly, but could trace

nothing bearing on the fate of Madame de Lamotte and her son. Mutel,

however, soon discovered that in the rue Saint Victor, Derues had

failed—three successive times, that he had been pursued by numerous

creditors, and been often near imprisonment for debt, and that in 1771

he had been publicly accused of incendiarism. He reported on these

various circumstances, and then went himself to Derues’ abode, where he

obtained no results. Madame Derues declared that she knew nothing

whatever, and the police, having vainly searched the whole house, had to

retire. Derues himself was absent; when he returned he found another

order to appear before the magistrate.

His first success had encouraged him. He appeared before the magistrate

accompanied by a lawyer and full of confidence, complaining loudly that

the police, in searching during his absence, had offended against the

rights of a domiciled burgess, and ought to have awaited his return.

Affecting a just indignation at Monsieur de Lamotte’s conduct towards

him, he presented a demand that the latter should be declared a

calumniator, and should pay damages for the injury caused to his

reputation. But this time his effrontery and audacity were of little

avail, the magistrate easily detected him in flagrant lies. He declared

at first that he had paid the hundred thousand livres with his own money

but when reminded of his various bankruptcies, the claims of his

creditors, and the judgments obtained against him as an insolvent

debtor, he made a complete volte-face, and declared he had borrowed the

money from an advocate named Duclos, to whom he had given a bond in

presence of a notary. In spite of all his protestations, the magistrate

committed him to solitary confinement at Fort l’Eveque.

As yet, nothing was publicly known; but vague reports and gossip,

carried from shop to shop, circulated among the people, and began to

reach the higher classes of society. The infallible instinct which is

aroused among the masses is truly marvellous; a great crime is

committed, which seems at first likely to defeat justice, and the public

conscience is aroused. Long before the tortuous folds which envelop the

mystery can be penetrated, while it is still sunk in profound obscurity,

the voice of the nation, like an excited hive, buzzes around the secret;

though the magistrates doubt, the public curiosity fixes itself, and

never leaves go; if the criminal’s hiding-place is changed, it follows

the track, points it out, descries it in the gloom. This is what

happened on the news of Derues’ arrest. The affair was everywhere

discussed, although the information was incomplete, reports inexact, and

no real publicity to be obtained. The romance which Derues had invented

by way of defence, and which became known as well as Monsieur de

Lamotte’s accusation, obtained no credence whatever; on the contrary,

all the reports to his discredit were eagerly adopted. As yet, no crime

could be traced, but the public presentiment divined an atrocious one.

Have we not often seen similar agitations? The names of Bastide, of

Castaing, of Papavoine, had hardly been pronounced before they

completely absorbed all the public attention, and this had to be

satisfied, light had to be thrown on the darkness: society demanded

vengeance.

Derues felt some alarm in his dungeon, but his presence of mind and his

dissimulation in no wise deserted him, and he swore afresh every day to

the truth of his statements. But his last false assertion turned against

him: the bond for a hundred thousand livres which he professed to have

given to Duclos was a counterfeit which Duclos had annulled by a sort of

counter declaration made the same day. Another circumstance, intended to

ensure his safety, only redoubled suspicion. On April 8th, notes payable

to order to the amount of seventy-eight thousand livres, were received

by Monsieur de Lamotte’s lawyer, as if coming from Madame de Lamotte. It

appeared extraordinary that these notes, which arrived in an ordinary

stamped envelope, should not be accompanied by any letter of advice, and

suspicion attached to Madame Derues, who hitherto had remained

unnoticed. An inquiry as to where the packet had been posted soon

revealed the office, distinguished by a letter of the alphabet, and the

postmaster described a servant-maid who had brought the letter and paid

for it. The description resembled the Derues’ servant; and this girl,

much alarmed, acknowledged, after a great deal of hesitation, that she

had posted the letter in obedience to her mistress’s orders. Whereupon

Madame Derues was sent as a prisoner to Fort l’Eveque, and her husband

transferred to the Grand-Chatelet. On being interrogated, she at length

owned that she had sent these notes to Monsieur de Lamotte’s lawyer, and

that her husband had given them her in an envelope hidden in the soiled

linen for which she had brought him clean in exchange.

All this certainly amounted to serious presumptive evidence of guilt,

and if Derues had shown himself to the multitude, which followed every

phase of the investigation with increasing anxiety, a thousand arms

would have willingly usurped the office of the executioner; but the

distance thence to actual proof of murder was enormous for the

magistracy. Derues maintained his tranquillity, always asserting that

Madame de Lamotte and her son were alive, and would clear him by their

reappearance. Neither threats nor stratagems succeeded in making him

contradict himself, and his assurance shook the strongest conviction. A

new difficulty was added to so much uncertainty.

A messenger had been sent off secretly with all haste to Lyons; his

return was awaited for a test which it was thought would be decisive.

One morning Derues was fetched from his prison and taken to a lower hall

of the Conciergerie. He received no answers to the questions addressed

to his escort, and this silence showed him the necessity of being on his

guard and preserving his imperturbable demeanour whatever might happen.

On arriving, he found the commissioner of police, Mutel, and some other

persons. The hall being very dark, had been illuminated with several

torches, and Derues was so placed that the light fell strongly on his

face, and was then ordered to look towards a particular part of the

hall. As he did so, a door opened, and a man entered. Derues beheld him

with indifference, and seeing that the stranger was observing him

attentively, he bowed to him as one might bow to an unknown person whose

curiosity seems rather unusual.

It was impossible to detect the slightest trace of emotion, a hand

placed on his heart would not have felt an increased pulsation, yet this

stranger’s recognition would be fatal!

Mutel approached the new-comer and whispered—

"Do you recognise him?"

"No, I do not."

"Have the kindness to leave the room for a moment; we will ask you to

return immediately."

This individual was the lawyer in whose office at Lyons the deed had

been drawn up which Derues had signed, disguised as a woman, and under

the name of Marie-Francoise Perier, wife of the Sieur de Lamotte.

A woman’s garments were brought in, and Derues was ordered to put them

on, which he did readily, affecting much amusement. As he was assisted

to disguise himself, he laughed, stroked his chin and assumed mincing

airs, carrying effrontery so far as to ask for a mirror.

"I should like to see if it is becoming," he said; "perhaps I might make

some conquests."

The lawyer returned: Derues was made to pass before him, to sit at a

table, sign a paper, in fact to repeat everything it was imagined he

might have said or done in the lawyer’s office. This second attempt at

identification succeeded no better than the first. The lawyer hesitated;

then, understanding all the importance of his deposition, he refused to

swear to anything, and finally declared that this was not the person who

had come to him at Lyons.

"I am sorry, sir," said Derues, as they removed him, "that you should

have been troubled by having to witness this absurd comedy. Do not blame

me for it; but ask Heaven to enlighten those who do not fear to accuse

me. As for me, knowing that my innocence will shortly be made clear, I

pardon them henceforth."

Although justice at this period was generally expeditious, and the lives

of accused persons were by no means safe-guarded as they now are, it was

impossible to condemn Derues in the absence of any positive proofs of

guilt. He knew this, and waited patiently in his prison for the moment

when he should triumph over the capital accusation which weighed against

him. The storm no longer thundered over his head, the most terrible

trials were passed, the examinations became less frequent, and there

were no more surprises to dread. The lamentations of Monsieur de Lamotte

went to the hearts of the magistrates, but his certainty could not

establish theirs, and they pitied, but could not avenge him. In certain

minds a sort of reaction favourable to the prisoner began to set in.

Among the dupes of Derues’ seeming piety, many who at first held their

peace under these crushing accusations returned to their former opinion.

The bigots and devotees, all who made a profession of kneeling in the

churches, of publicly crossing themselves and dipping their fingers in

the holy water, and who lived on cant and repetitions of "Amen" and

"Alleluia," talked of persecution, of martyrdom, until Derues nearly

became a saint destined by the Almighty to find canonisation in a

dungeon. Hence arose quarrels and arguments; and this abortive trial,

this unproved accusation, kept the public imagination in a constant

ferment.

To the greater part of those who talk of the "Supreme Being," and who

expect His intervention in human affairs, "Providence" is only a word,

solemn and sonorous, a sort of theatrical machine which sets all right

in the end, and which they glorify with a few banalities proceeding from

the lips, but not from the heart. It is true that this unknown and

mysterious Cause which we call "God" or "Chance" often appears so

exceedingly blind and deaf that one may be permitted to wonder whether

certain crimes are really set apart for punishment, when so many others

apparently go scot-free. How many murders remain buried in the night of

the tomb! how many outrageous and avowed crimes have slept peacefully in

an insolent and audacious prosperity! We know the names of many

criminals, but who can tell the number of unknown and forgotten victims?

The history of humanity is twofold, and like that of the invisible

world, which contains marvels unexplored by the science of the visible

one, the history recounted in books is by no means the most curious and

strange. But without delaying over questions such as these, without

protesting here against sophistries which cloud the conscience and hide

the presence of an avenging Deity, we leave the facts to the general

judgment, and have now to relate the last episode in this long and

terrible drama.

Of all the populous quarters of Paris which commented on the "affaire

Derues," none showed more excitement than that of the Greve, and amongst

all the surrounding streets none could boast more numerous crowds than

the rue de la Mortellerie. Not that a secret instinct magnetised the

crowd in the very place where the proof lay buried, but that each day

its attention was aroused by a painful spectacle. A pale and

grief-stricken man, whose eyes seemed quenched in tears, passed often

down the street, hardly able to drag himself along; it was Monsieur de

Lamotte, who lodged, as we have said, in the rue de la Mortellerie, and

who seemed like a spectre wandering round a tomb. The crowd made way and

uncovered before him, everybody respected such terrible misfortune, and

when he had passed, the groups formed up again, and continued discussing

the mystery until nightfall.

On April 17th, about four in the afternoon, a score of workmen and

gossiping women had collected in front of a shop. A stout woman,

standing on the lowest step, like an orator in the tribune, held forth

and related for the twentieth time what she knew, or rather, did not

know. There were listening ears and gaping mouths, even a slight shudder

ran through the group; for the widow Masson, discovering a gift of

eloquence at the age of sixty, contrived to mingle great warmth and much

indignation in her recital. All at once silence fell on the crowd, and a

passage was made for Monsieur de Lamotte. One man ventured to ask—

"Is there anything fresh to-day?"

A sad shake of the head was the only answer, and the unhappy man

continued his way.

"Is that Monsieur de Lamotte?" inquired a particularly dirty woman,

whose cap, stuck on the side of her, head, allowed locks of grey hair to

straggle from under it. "Ah! is that Monsieur de Lamotte?"

"Dear me!" said a neighbour, "don’t you know him by this time? He passes

every day."

"Excuse me! I don’t belong to this quarter, and—no offence—but it is not

so beautiful as to bring one out of curiosity! Nothing personal—but it

is rather dirty."

Madame is probably accustomed to use a carriage."

"That would suit you better than me, my dear, and would save your having

to buy shoes to keep your feet off the ground!"

The crowd seemed inclined to hustle the speaker,—

"Wait a moment!" she continued, "I didn’t mean to offend anyone. I am a

poor woman, but there’s no disgrace in that, and I can afford a glass of

liqueur. Eh, good gossip, you understand, don’t you? A drop of the best

for Mother Maniffret, and if my fine friend there will drink with me to

settle our difference, I will stand her a glass."

The example set by the old hawker was contagious, and instead of filling

two little glasses only, widow Masson dispensed a bottleful.

"Come, you have done well," cried Mother Maniffret; "my idea has brought

you luck."

"Faith! not before it was wanted, either!"

"What! are you complaining of trade too?"

"Ah! don’t mention it; it is miserable!"

"There’s no trade at all. I scream myself hoarse all day, and choke

myself for twopence halfpenny. I don’t know what’s to come of it all.

But you seem to have a nice little custom."

"What’s the good of that, with a whole house on one’s hands? It’s just

my luck; the old tenants go, and the new ones don’t come."

"What’s the matter, then?"

"I think the devil’s in it. There was a nice man on the first

floor-gone; a decent family on the third, all right except that the man

beat his wife every night, and made such a row that no one could

sleep—gone also. I put up notices—no one even looks at them! A few

months ago—it was the middle of December, the day of the last

execution—"

"The 15th, then," said the hawker. "I cried it, so I know; it’s my

trade, that."

"Very well, then, the 15th," resumed widow Masson. "On that day, then, I

let the cellar to a man who said he was a wine merchant, and who paid a

term in advance, seeing that I didn’t know him, and wouldn’t have lent

him a farthing on the strength of his good looks. He was a little bit of

a man, no taller than that,"—contemptuously holding out her hand,—"and

he had two round eyes which I didn’t like at, all. He certainly paid, he

did that, but we are more than half through the second term and I have

no news of my tenant."

"And have you never seen him since?"

"Yes, once—no, twice. Let’s see—three times, I am sure. He came with a

hand-cart and a commissionaire, and had a big chest taken downstairs—a

case which he said contained wine in bottles....

"No, he came before that, with a workman I think.

"Really, I don’t know if it was before or after—doesn’t matter. Anyhow,

it was bottled wine. The third time he brought a mason, and I am sure

they quarreled. I heard their voices. He carried off the key, and I have

seen neither him nor his wine again. I have another key, and I went down

one day; perhaps the rats have drunk the wine and eaten the chest, for

there certainly is nothing there any more than there is in my hand now.

Nevertheless, I saw what I saw. A big chest, very big, quite new, and

corded all round with strong rope."

"Now, what day was that?" asked the hawker.

"What day? Well, it was—no, I can’t remember."

"Nor I either; I am getting stupid. Let’s have another little

glass-shall we? just to clear our memories!"

The expedient was not crowned with success, the memories failed to

recover themselves. The crowd waited, attentive, as may be supposed.

Suddenly the hawker exclaimed:

"What a fool I am! I am going to find that, if only I have still got

it."

She felt eagerly in the pocket of her underskirt, and produced several

pieces of dirty, crumpled paper. As she unfolded one after another, she

asked:

"A big chest, wasn’t it?"

"Yes, very big."

"And quite new?"

"Quite new."

"And corded?"

"Yes, I can see it now."

"So can I, good gracious! It was the day when I sold the history of

Leroi de Valines, the 1st of February."

"Yes, it was a Saturday; the next day was Sunday."

"That’s it, that’s it!—Saturday, February 1st. Well, I know that chest

too! I met your wine merchant on the Place du Louvre, and he wasn’t

precisely enjoying himself: one of his creditors wanted to seize the

chest, the wine, the whole kettle of fish! A little man, isn’t he?—a

scarecrow?"

"Just SO."

"And has red hair?"

"That’s the man."

"And looks a hypocrite?"

"You’ve hit it exactly."

"And he is a hypocrite! enough to make one shudder! No doubt he can’t

pay his rent! A thief, my dears, a beggarly thief, who set fire to his

own cellar, and who accused me of trying to steal from him, while it was

he who cheated me, the villain, out of a piece of twenty-four sous. It’s

lucky I turned up here! Well, well, we shall have some fun! Here’s

another little business on your hands, and you will have to say where

that wine has got to, my dear gossip Derues."

"Derues!" cried twenty voices all at once.

"What! Derues who is in Prison?"

"Why, that’s Monsieur de Lamotte’s man."

"The man who killed Madame de Lamotte?"

"The man who made away with her son?"

"A scoundrel, my dears, who accused me of stealing, an absolute

monster!"

"It is just a little unfortunate," said widow Masson, "that it isn’t the

man. My tenant calls himself Ducoudray. There’s his name on the

register."

"Confound it, that doesn’t look like it at all," said the hawker: "now

that’s a bore! Oh yes, I have a grudge against that thief, who accused

me of stealing. I told him I should sell his history some day. When that

happens, I’ll treat you all round."

As a foretaste of the fulfilment of this promise, the company disposed

of a second bottle of liqueur, and, becoming excited, they chattered at

random for some time, but at length slowly dispersed, and the street

relapsed into the silence of night. But, a few hours later, the

inhabitants were surprised to see the two ends occupied by unknown

people, while other sinister-looking persons patrolled it all night, as

if keeping guard. The next morning a carriage escorted by police stopped

at the widow Masson’s door. An officer of police got out and entered a

neighbouring house, whence he emerged a quarter of an hour later with

Monsieur de Lamotte leaning on his arm. The officer demanded the key of

the cellar which last December had been hired from the widow Masson by a

person named Ducoudray, and went down to it with Monsieur de Lamotte and

one of his subordinates.

The carriage standing at the door, the presence of the commissioner

Mutel, the chatter of the previous evening, had naturally roused

everybody’s imagination. But this excitement had to be kept for home

use: the whole street was under arrest, and its inhabitants were

forbidden to leave their houses. The windows, crammed with anxious

faces, questioning each other, in the expectation of something

wonderful, were a curious sight; and the ignorance in which they

remained, these mysterious preparations, these orders silently executed,

doubled the curiosity, and added a sort of terror: no one could see the

persons who had accompanied the police officer; three men remained in

the carriage, one guarded by the two others. When the heavy coach turned

into the rue de la Mortellerie, this man had bent towards the closed

window and asked—

"Where are we?"

And when they answered him, he said—

"I do not know this street; I was never in it."

After saying this quite quietly, he asked—

"Why am I brought here?"

As no one replied, he resumed his look of indifference, and betrayed no

emotion, neither when the carriage stopped nor when he saw Monsieur de

Lamotte enter the widow Masson’s house.

The officer reappeared on the threshold, and ordered Derues to be

brought in.

The previous evening, detectives, mingling with the crowd, had listened

to the hawker’s story of having met Derues near the Louvre escorting a

large chest. The police magistrate was informed in the course of the

evening. It was an indication, a ray of light, perhaps the actual truth,

detached from obscurity by chance gossip; and measures were instantly

taken to prevent anyone either entering or leaving the street without

being followed and examined. Mutel thought he was on the track, but the

criminal might have accomplices also on the watch, who, warned in time,

might be able to remove the proofs of the crime, if any existed.

Derues was placed between two men who each held an arm. A third went

before, holding a torch. The commissioner, followed by men also carrying

torches, and provided with spades and pickaxes, came behind, and in this

order they descended to the vault. It was a dismal and terrifying

procession; anyone beholding these dark and sad countenances, this pale

and resigned man, passing thus into these damp vaults illuminated by the

flickering glare of torches, might well have thought himself the victim

of illusion and watching some gloomy execution in a dream. But all was

real and when light penetrated this dismal charnel-house it seemed at

once to illuminate its secret depths, so that the light of truth might

at length penetrate these dark shadows, and that the voice of the dead

would speak from the earth and the walls.

"Wretch!" exclaimed Monsieur de Lamotte, when he saw Derues appear, "is

it here that you murdered my wife and my son?"

Derues looked calmly at him, and replied—

"I beg you, sir, not to add insult to the misfortunes you have already

caused. If you stood in my place and I were in yours, I should feel some

pity and respect for so terrible a position. What do you want me? and

why am I brought here?"

He did not know the events of last evening, and could only mentally

accuse the mason who had helped to bury the chest. He felt that he was

lost, but his audacity never forsook him.

"You are here, in the first place, to be confronted with this woman,"

said the officer, causing the widow Masson to stand opposite to him.

"I do not know her."

"But I know you, and know you well. It was you who hired this cellar

under the name of Ducoudray."

Derues shrugged his shoulders and answered bitterly—

"I can understand a man being condemned to the torture if he is guilty,

but that in order to accomplish one’s mission as accuser, and to

discover a criminal, false witnesses who can give no evidence should be

brought a hundred leagues, that the rabble should be roused up, that

divers faces and imaginary names should be bestowed on an innocent man,

in order to turn a movement of surprise or an indignant gesture to his

disadvantage, all this is iniquitous, and goes beyond the right of

judgment bestowed upon men by God. I do not know this woman, and no

matter what she says or does, I shall say no more."

Neither the skill nor threats of the police officer could shake this

resolution. It was to no purpose that the widow Masson repeated and

asseverated that she recognised him as her tenant Ducoudray, and that he

had had a large case of wine taken down into the cellar; Derues folded

his arms, and remained as motionless as if he had been blind and deaf.